"Caddoran" - читать интересную книгу автора (Taylor Roger)

Chapter 8

Vellain’s slender nose followed the line of her forehead, giving her a stern profile. She had a rather small mouth with lips that were so clearly defined they might have been shaped by a master carver. They were more voluptuous than they tended to seem at first glance. Her dark brown hair was short, immaculately groomed and unmoving. It never changed. She was not particularly tall for a woman, but the way she carried herself made others think of her so. Yet it was not just a straightness of posture or a carriage of the head; she had some other quality that sustained this illusion, perhaps aided by her brown, searching eyes. But whatever it was it remained with her even when she was in the presence of her husband, despite the fact that he was conspicuously taller than she was.

As she came into the room, her glance dismissed a hovering servant. Neither she nor he made any concession to the deep silence pervading the room and the purposeful sound of their intersecting footsteps on the polished wooden floor echoed unashamedly through it as the servant left and she moved straight to a chair at the side of the wide fireplace. Though upholstered and comfortable, the chair nevertheless had a spartan, utilitarian look about it, as did almost everything in Vashnar’s house.

On his appointment to the position of Senior Commander of the Arvenshelm Wardens – the highest position in the Service, Vashnar had declined the official residence that went with the post. As was his way, he had given no explanation, though Hyrald, who had been his aide on the day he had taken possession of the building, had noted a slight movement of his mouth which said everything.

‘Didn’t like it one bit,’ he told his colleagues authoritatively when he returned to his own district. ‘I didn’t think he would. All that luxury the old man used to go for. Plush chairs, carpets you have to part with your hands to get through, paintings, statues, tapestries, fancy furniture littering the place. Not for Vashnar at all. Mind you…’ He allowed himself a significant pause and a knowing expectation lit up his audience. ‘He seemed more interested in the mirrors in the master bedroom than I’d have thought.’ Applause and loud laughter greeted this revelation. Then, ‘“I shall remain in my present house. This place isn’t suited to my needs. It’ll serve for official functions, guest accommodation and the like.”’ Amongst his near equals and well away from his Commander, Hyrald could safely imitate Vashnar’s voice and the characteristically curt gesture that accompanied his pronouncement.

Vashnar did not move as Vellain sat down and silence returned. He was sitting directly opposite the wide, empty grate, staring at the stark, heat-marred ironwork, unhidden by any decorative summer screen. He had been there since he returned home.

Vellain did not speak. She was waiting for a sign which would tell her the reason for his unusual silence. Instinct told her that it was probably something to do with Thyrn and the Death Cry, though what it might be she could not hazard. There were many questions that she needed to have answered about that business, but it was no longer a major topic of the moment and she had already made her own resolution to wait patiently for an opportunity to ask them.

Not that she was too concerned about this present silence. She had complete faith in her husband. Not blind faith by any means, for Vellain was not a woman to follow anyone. More correctly, her faith was in her husband and herself. She had assessed the rising young Warden from their first meeting as being one who could go far, with the right kind of guidance. At the same time she had determined that she was the only one who would provide that guidance. And she had. Moulding his stiff, ambitious character, discreetly sustaining him on the rare occasions when he had looked like faltering, and generally making good in her own image such faults as manifested themselves as they grew together.

And too, she loved him. That part of herwas blind. The sight of him at that same first meeting had been like a physical blow. One which had redirected her life and from which, for all her clear eye and calculating nature, she had never fully recovered.

Nevertheless, the past weeks had been more difficult than any other time she could remember. The proclaiming of the Death Cry had surprised and shocked many people, but it had disturbed Vellain badly. There was an arbitrariness about the act which was quite unlike her husband, but worse by far was the explanation she had eventually forced out of him on the night of the deed.

‘He was in my mind, Vellain. Inside it. And more. He seemed to take possession of me. I could feel thoughts being drawn out of me. Thoughts I didn’t even know I had. He must know everything. Everything!’

As the words had stumbled out she had felt the foundations of her life shudder. This pillar of a man, her creation, the centre of her life, had gone insane. Kneeling beside him, she gripped the arm of his chair as though that might somehow hold back her rising panic. Condemnation of her husband’s unbelievable folly rose up inside her like vomit. Then, on the verge of voicing her disbelief and fury, a saving image formed amid the turmoil and stopped her. An image of Thyrn.

The young Caddoran had routinely brought her personal messages from Vashnar and whenever she had listened to him, she had always had the feeling that it was her husband addressing her directly. That was the art and skill of the Caddoran, of course, a matter for applause and appreciation, though with Thyrn the sense of her husband’s presence was far more intense than anything she had ever experienced before. With most Caddoran there was always some element of studied mimicry; subtle inaccuracies in gesture, posture, facial expression that distanced the sender from his messenger, albeit only slightly. But not with Thyrn. She had always felt uneasy about the way he brought the totality of her husband to her. His youth served only to compound this disturbing impression.

The recollection of Thyrn’s strangeness brought calmer thoughts in its wake, reminded her of the certainties in her life. Vashnar had the qualities of a great leader, but even in madness he would not have had the imagination to think of something like this. And his manner now was not, after all, hysterical, still less deranged. Then too, he had said what he had said, knowing what it must sound like, when he could equally well have fabricated some plausible lie to explain what had happened. He had turned to her with the truth, or with what he perceived to be the truth, knowing he could rely on her support absolutely. He needed her.

Her anger vanished. She must be strong for him now. She must be strong for both of them. Looking at him as she reached this conclusion, it came to her, entwined around the image of Thyrn, that her husband was the way he was now not because of some sudden inner failing but because he must be struggling with something he had never known before.

Something had happened which was not only frightening but which he did not begin to understand. His obsessive nature would not respond well to that.

Threads of clarity began to form in the confusion. Obviously, they told her, whatever had occurred had been deeply strange, and Vashnar had misinterpreted it; grievously so, by the sound of it. Exactly what it had been she would have to discover, but that would need a quieter time. For now, it would probably be better for her to focus on the action he had taken, and its likely consequences, and determine how these could best be turned to advantage.

Forcing herself to calmness, she spoke to him like a parent seeking clarification of a serious misdeed from a normally well-behaved child. ‘And you’ve proclaimed the Death Cry against Hyrald and the others as well?’ Vashnar seemed grateful for the tone of the question.

‘No choice, Vellain. No choice. It was a mistake to send them after him in the first place. I realized that almost as soon as I’d done it.’

That was good. He had never been afraid to admit an error to her; he was rational and at least trying to take command of himself.

‘The look on his face, Vellain…’ He shook his head. ‘No, not just the face. More than that. His thoughts. They swept over me in a great rush. I felt them, just as if they were my own, but I could tell they weren’t. Don’t ask me what was happening, but that’s what it was. And he’d seen something he shouldn’t have and he knew it. He even knew I was going to kill him – then and there – at the very instant I was thinking about it.’

He fell silent.

Vellain was staggered by this last revelation. She knew her husband was capable of extreme violence, it had been a necessary part of his job in the early years. Indeed, she found it not unattractive. But even to have contemplated so public an assassination was more startling than the proclamation of the Death Cry itself.

‘But?’ she prompted after a moment, controlling her voice with difficulty.

Vashnar frowned. ‘Something stopped me. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t move! As though part of me were terrified.’

Vellain waited.

‘Then he was gone.’ The events having been forced into words, Vashnar was slowly becoming his normal self. ‘Fortunately there was no one in the outer office, because I don’t think I could have moved if they’d come in. And I don’t know how long I sat there.’

‘So you sent Hyrald and the others after him?’

Vashnar grimaced. ‘Yes. They were the nearest. Handle it quietly, I thought. I don’t know what possessed me. I mustn’t have been thinking properly.’ He straightened up. ‘Iwasn’t thinking properly. I knew he was going to blurt out what had happened to anyone he met – Caddoran Oath or not. I knew it. Rhavvan wouldn’t be a problem. He’s just a plodding Warden, he’ll do as he’s told. But Hyrald would have been suspicious at the least, and you know him, he never gives up. Too much of a street Warden. It’s a shame, but we’d have had to deal with him sooner or later – and that sister of his.’ Vellain nodded; it was a matter they had discussed in the past.

‘Hence the Death Cry for all of them.’

‘For all of them,’ Vashnar confirmed. ‘There wasn’t time to have them dealt with discreetly. I’d no one immediately to hand who could’ve done it. The idea of the Death Cry just came to me out of nowhere.’ He gave a bitter grunt. ‘One of the advantages of my assiduous study of our history, my dear. Ideal, I thought. The mob would do the job before Thyrn or the others had a chance to be heard.’

But while none of the fugitives had apparently spoken out, the mob hadn’t done the job, Vellain mused as she sat watching her silent husband staring into the dead grate. Hyrald was not only able, he was popular. Almost certainly someone had warned him, and more than a few would have helped him. The only redeeming factor of his escape was that he was now probably far from both Arvenshelm and help. The latest rumours were that the group was fleeing north. All in all, it was a better conclusion than it had promised to be, not least because it removed Hyrald from any opportunity to oppose Vashnar’s plans. And too, she reflected, the resurrection of this ancient form of justice had brought an uneasiness – a tension – to the streets, which she was sure could be used as an excuse for Vashnar to recruit new Wardens and increase his already considerable power.

It concerned her a little however, that since that day she had been unable to persuade her husband to discuss in more detail what had happened during his encounter with Thyrn. Something told her that it could not be allowed to lie, to fester unseen. Who knew what harm might come of it, mouldering in the darkness? But a range of approaches, from the oblique to the very direct, had failed to elicit anything other than an offhand dismissal.

‘Some other time, my dear.’

In the end, sensing that further effort might serve only to build up resistance, she had resolved to retreat and to watch and wait. Sooner or later, an opportunity would present itself and she must be ready.

Could it be now? she wondered. Vashnar had arrived home unexpectedly and had been unusually silent. Something bad had happened, she could sense it, and though the only outward sign of anything out of the ordinary had been a bloodstained kerchief, she could not shake off the feeling that Thyrn was involved in some way.

‘Trouble with a prisoner?’ she had asked as casually as she could, though she knew that Senior Wardens rarely had anything to do with prisoners. Her concerns were confirmed when she received only a cursory shake of the head by way of reply.

Now, long into his silence, she tried again.

‘Reading the coals?’ she asked with a smile.

Vashnar turned to her blankly.

‘Reading the coals?’ she repeated, still smiling. It was a game they played in the winter months: watching the progress of the flames hissing and spitting through a landscape of glowing coals; wagering which crag would be the first engorged, which valley filled and choked, which sheer face would suddenly spall and crash to fill the black air with bright fleeing sparks. The whole like a distant and terrible battlefield where weapons beyond imagining were being used, and where all led inexorably to a great levelling and a dull grey death.

He glanced back at the dead grate, but did not respond to her irony. It gave her the opportunity she needed. She reached forward and laid a hand on his arm. What’s the matter?’ she said simply.

Vashnar met her gaze. It urged him on. He patted her hand then placed the ends of his fingers against his forehead. ‘Thyrn,’ he replied.

‘Has he been caught?’ Vellain asked urgently, torn between exhilaration and fear that perhaps the errant Caddoran had made public what he had discovered.

Vashnar frowned and closed his eyes. ‘No. I’ve no idea where he is, except that Hyrald’s still with him – and presumably the others – and that he wants to flee, to hide.’

Vellain’s brow furrowed. ‘How do you know?’ she asked, suddenly anxious. ‘Has someone seen them, spoken to them?’

Vashnar pressed his fingers into his forehead again, harder, as he shook his head. ‘No. He… touched… me again. Got into my mind.’ His face was angry when he turned to her but she could tell that the anger was not directed at her. ‘Everything we know tells us they’re somewhere up north by now, but somehow he reached out and got into my mind – just as he did when he was sitting opposite me.’

His eyes hardened and his jaw set. ‘I think, in due course, we’ll have to curtail the entire Caddoran Congress as well. We don’t want to risk anymore like him.’

Vellain’s original concerns for her husband’s sanity returned to full force at this further alarming revelation, and it was only with a desperate rehearsal of her previous reasoning that she managed to keep her voice calm. ‘That’s a detail,’ she said quickly. Shocked though she was, she had sufficient presence of mind to note that, whatever had happened it had brought the subject out into the light again, and it must not be allowed to slip away, as well it might if her husband retreated into the reassuring practicality of his future intentions. She must concentrate on the simple, immediate reality. ‘That’s for later. Much later. Let’s deal with the present, now. Tell me exactly what happened. All of it.’

Her manner jolted the tale out of him, but his voice became increasingly clipped and dismissive, as if the words were an offence to him. He fell silent for a moment when he had finished, then added hesitantly, ‘I wonder if I’m going mad.’

Without hesitation, Vellain spoke the answer she herself had reached before. ‘No. You haven’t the imagination. You’re as sane as I am. What happened, happened, however strange it might seem – trust in that. And you’re right, we’ll have to deal with the Caddoran Congress eventually. They’re a peculiar crowd at the best and there was always somethingvery odd about Thyrn. Having him here, reciting your messages, was like having you here in person. As if he’d stolen part of you – trapped you in his body.’ She shuddered. It was a genuine reaction. ‘But from what you’ve just told me, it seems all he wants to do is run away. Probably he doesn’t want this… linkage… any more than you do. But perhaps he has no control over it.’ She felt calmer. Her voice became authoritative and confident. ‘He won’t come back. In fact, I can’t see any of them trying to come back. Not in the immediate future anyway. And if they do come back in due course, it won’t matter, will it? It’ll be too late. I think you should just forget about him. Either they’ll leave the country or they’ll be found, and if they’re found they’ll probably be killed.’

‘And if they’re not?’

Vellain’s hand tightened around his arm. ‘If they’re not, then who’s going to believe Thyrn? A demented Caddoran, given too responsible a position at too young an age. Encouraged to breach his Oath by a doting relative and three corrupt Wardens.’ She brightened, ideas flowing now. ‘It may even be better if he does come back. It’ll give you a first-class opportunity to start discrediting all the Caddoran. They’ve been grossly negligent, after all, putting so frail a creature in so sensitive a position. They did virtually thrust the lad on you.’ She slipped out of her chair and knelt by him conspiratorially. ‘They might even have done it as a deliberate act to discredit you, or spy on you, for who can say what sinister motives? They’re such strange creatures, aren’t they?’

Vashnar freed his arm and put it around her head, drawing her close to him.

‘We do well, you and I,’ he said.

‘Indeed we do,’ she replied.

They were silent for a while. Then Vashnar leaned back and closed his eyes. ‘But why did this happen? How did he do it? It can’t be possible to just… get into someone’s head, take their thoughts like that.’

‘Why does a cat land on its feet when you drop it? How does a fly land on a ceiling? Who knows?’ Vellain was witheringly dismissive. She abandoned her prayer-like attitude and dropped back into her chair. ‘Who cares? There’ll always be more questions than answers. Leave them to the academics, the teachers; it’ll stop them worrying about other things. You live in the real world – a world in desperate need of the order you can bring as Dictator. Morlider off the coast, menace from Nesdiryn, the Moot in decay – that’s all you need to concern yourself about.’

‘But if it happens again?’

Vellain shrugged. ‘It happens. What’s a headache and a nose bleed? You’ve had worse than that in your time. If anything like it happens again, just tell me. We’ll talk about it for five minutes – see if anything’s to be learned from it – then get on with more important matters. Tell me what Bowlott wanted.’

But Vashnar was not prepared to let the subject go so easily. ‘No. It’s not that simple. You don’t know what it was like – you can’t. Lost, floundering in the dark, not knowing who I was, where I was, evenif I was. What if it happens when I’m out on some public duty or in the middle of a meeting?’

It was a difficult question but Vellain bounced back an answer before she even thought about it. ‘Why should it? It hasn’t happened before.’ She paused. ‘And I don’t think it will. Not while you’re busy, your mind occupied. I think you had to be alone and quiet, and maybe he had to be the same, wherever he is.’

‘But…’

Vellain was dismissive again. ‘But if it does, if you pass out in the middle of something, so what? We’ll say it’s something you ate. Even a Senior Commander of the Wardens isn’t immune to a stomach upset, is he?’ She became intense. ‘This is all working our way. Tension on the streets, Hyrald and his sister – always a potential problem – gone, Senators beginning to scuttle about. All to the good. Now tell me about Bowlott.’

Her manner lifted Vashnar out of the lingering remains of his dark reverie.

‘Nothing much,’ he said. ‘Impertinent little goat actually ordered me to come and see him, then blamed it on some Page.’ He screwed up his face in distaste. ‘He’s a wretched creature. And that office of his – it’s appalling. I thought I was going to choke to death with the dust. There must be things in there that haven’t been moved since Marab’s time. And not a vestige of daylight. Dreadful place – typical of the whole Moot. The sooner the torch is put to the lot, the better.’

‘But what did he want?’

‘Just being nosy, that’s all. The Death Cry’s none of his business but he wanted to know if he – the Moot – could help.’ Vellain chuckled unpleasantly. ‘Help! As if they could. I’m surprised any of them can even get dressed without a committee to tell them how. They’ve had people coming in and wanting to talk to their Senators, that’s all. You know how that upsets them – reality washing around their feet.’

Vellain smiled then laughed. All was well. Thyrn and his strange connection with her husband was disturbing, but there were bigger clouds in the sky and while Vashnar could tell her about it, she deemed it unimportant. As for Bowlott’s sudden interest, that was no problem. The man was a cipher like all of them, a relic of times long gone – and not even a quaint relic at that. Soon they’d all be gone. Every last one of them.