Part 24 (1/2)

Dan-Tor did not reply.

'Who would do such a thing?' Sylvriss asked, turning away from the window.

Dan-Tor allowed himself a small sigh of resignation, just sufficient to reach but not overstep the bounds of insolence. 'Majesty,' he said. 'The Geadrol was suspended because enemies within were weakening us. We have the leaders of those enemies in our hands, but their followers, those they've deceived, are still at large, working their will.'

'Surely the Lord Eldric and the others wouldn't sanction such . . .' She gestured to the window, 'such destruction?'

Dan-Tor gathered some doc.u.ments together. 'Majesty, my evidence tells me so.'

For a moment the Queen considered arguing the point, but changed her mind. Conflict with Dan-Tor at this point would serve no useful purpose, and he was in an odd mood. With a distressed look on her face, she turned back to the window and stared out again at the rising column of smoke. Then, looking down, she saw large numbers of Mathidrin, mounted and on foot, in the courtyard below. A faint spark of an idea formed in her mind. It threw its dim light on plans that she and Dilrap had laid. Plans laid mainly to allay the frustration of their impotence, but thorough for all that.

'What are the Mathidrin doing?' she asked.

Dan-Tor put his hand to his head. 'Majesty, I'm afraid the disturbance is a large one. I suspect that there may be disaffected High Guards involved. It will have to be stamped out quickly and effectively or we may have serious and widespread violence to deal with.'

Before Sylvriss could speak, there was an urgent knocking at the door.

'Enter,' said Dan-Tor. The door opened immediately and a young Mathidrin trooper marched in. His face was blackened and a livid red graze above his right eye glistened painfully. His uniform was scuffed and crumpled, and he was breathing heavily. Saluting, he handed two notes to Dan-Tor whose face darkened as he read them.

Bad news, I trust, thought Sylvriss. Then, aloud, 'Lord Dan-Tor. I can see you've the matter well in hand. I must return to the King. I'll not disturb you further.'

Dan-Tor looked up. 'Majesty,' he acknowledged offhandedly.

Sylvriss turned and walked to the door ignoring the slight implicit in his tone. An odd mood indeed. As she pa.s.sed the young Mathidrin she said, 'Young man, when the Lord Dan-Tor has finished with you, go and have that gash attended to.' The Mathidrin saluted smartly and there was a brief look of grat.i.tude in his eyes.

Once outside the room, Sylvriss moved quickly to one of the upper rooms of the Palace. Throwing open a window, she leaned out and listened. Alongside the column of dense black smoke, another, equally dense, but of a deathly white hue, was rising. She could both hear and feel m.u.f.fled concussions in the distance. What in the world has he got in those workshops? she thought. The man pollutes everything hetouches.

Faintly, she could hear another sound coming from the same direction. Eventually she identified it as people shouting. Not in fear or alarm, but in anger. A great many people shouting. Dan-Tor's disturbance must be a full-blown riot, she realized, though she found it almost impossible to conceive the Fyordyn, with their painstaking patience, resorting to such indiscriminate violence.

The tainted summer breeze blew her hair across her face and she swept it to one side. At the same time, the spark of the idea she had had flared up brightly, filling her mind with an uneasy mixture of excitement and fear. She craned further out of the window and peered down into the courtyard far below. It was seething black with Mathidrin, as were most of the streets she could see.

She looked intently at a marching column and then superimposed the image on those gathered in the courtyard. A quick calculation confirmed her earlier, more subjective impression formed in Dan-Tor's room. Almost the entire City garrison was being committed to deal with thisminor disturbance.

Her informants in the City had mentioned nothing of any planned disruption, but she was inclined to agree with Dan-Tor's a.s.sessment that this was not a spontaneous outburst.

'It doesn't matter,' she whispered to herself. Any Mathidrin remaining in the Palace would probably be guarding the gate. The Westerclave would be virtually empty.

She took a deep breath to quieten her racing pulse, but it had little effect. Reaching into her pocket, her moist hand closed around the cold key which she had kept with her since Dilrap had given it to her. Two images merged in her mind. One, of the Mathidrin officer she had knocked over for maltreating a horse, and the other, that of her father's face smiling anxiously when, unusually for one so young, she had been made a junior messenger towards the end of the Morlider War. 'Nothing worth doing's easy, girl, and some chances only come once.' The memory tipped the scale for her.

She waited a little longer, carefully watching the comings and goings below. The sounds in the distance grew louder, and eventually the courtyard below became still except for a few guards by the gates and the arrival of the occasional messenger. Now, she thought. Now.

Clattering along corridors and down stairs, it came to her suddenly that even if she were able to release the Lords, they would have difficulty in escaping the Palace. She swept the thought away. There was no time for detailed planning. This was pure risk and dependent on speed above all. Besides, there was havoc out there. Who knew what other opportunities might arise? And the Palace was a big place.

Gently she opened the door of her chamber. Rgoric was still asleep, an open book on his lap. Softly she tiptoed across the room to an alcove where she kept some of her outdoor cloaks.

'Sylvriss.'

She froze. It was the King's voice. Oh no, my love, she sighed inwardly, not now. He would want to talk. Sometimes he needed rea.s.surance when he was awakened suddenly. She screwed her eyes tight shut and bit her lip, torn between his need and the opportunity that fate had placed in her hands.

Composing her face into a smile, she turned round and looked at him.

He was still asleep. 'Sylvriss,' he said again, s.h.i.+fting slightly in the chair. The heavy book on his lap started to slide. Without thinking, she strode forward and scooped it up just before it hit the floor. She dared not breathe as she placed the book gently on a nearby table and walked back to the alcove. Minutes later, she was moving silently along the lower corridors of the Palace towards the Westerclave.

Dressed in the plain grey cloak and hood that she sometimes used when she wanted to pa.s.s unnoticed in the City, she flitted through the shadows, walking as normally as she could to avoid attracting attention.

Just one of the maids, she repeated to herself. Just one of the maids. But the hiss of her clothes and the m.u.f.fled pad of her soft shoes sounded like thunder to her.

Eventually she came to a door which would lead into the cellars. For a moment she hesitated with her hand on the latch. The Palace was deafeningly quiet. She had seen no Mathidrin, and such servants and officials as were about seemed for the most part to be gathered in the upper rooms watching the distant fire, but once through this door she would have no excuse for being where she was. Each step forward from now would be a step nearer to exposure. Then, gripping the latch tightly, she pushed the door open and stepped into the cool stillness of the cellar.

She had never been in the Palace's extensive cellars before, but she had studied plans found for her by Dilrap and had frequently travelled this route in her mind, never realizing that it might actually come to pa.s.s. The difference between the flat sketches and the solid reality, however, gave her a frightening jolt, and it took her a little while to relate the images she had seen to the gloomy array of walls and pa.s.sages now facing her. With an effort she forced herself to be calm and, after agonizing minutes, she reached the door she wanted. The door through into the cellars of the Westerclave.

Now, Dilrap, she thought, let's see if you've kept your promise. The promise that this door, lurking in an unused part of the cellar, would be unlocked against the possibility of this plan being put into operation.

Tongue protruding between her teeth, she gently eased the latch and pushed the door.

It did not move. A reproach formed in her mind but she dismissed it guiltily. Please let it open, she prayed, then, grimacing anxiously, she put her shoulder against the door and pushed harder. It moved abruptly and the bright light of the Westerclave burst through the narrow crack. She closed the door quickly and leaned her forehead against it nervously. Spreading out Dilrap's sketches in her mind she went over the final part of her route again. First right, second left, first left, third door on the right. Each step taking her nearer to the more used parts of the cellar.

Then, cautiously opening the door again and s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up her eyes against the increased brightness, she peered down the long pa.s.sage in front of her.

It was empty.

She reached into her pocket and felt the two objects there. The key to the Lords' cell and her old Muster knife. Whether either of them would be of any use to her remained to be seen. She had few illusions about her ability to use the knife against a Mathidrin guard if she were caught and could not talk her way out, but . . .

With a last deep breath, she stepped out of the gloom and into a final commitment.

Heart racing, she walked her memorized route in long, quiet strides. Just one of the maids. Just one of the maids. It kept other thoughts at bay a little but offered little real solace. No maids ever came to the Westerclave cellars.

At each junction she paused and listened before turning the corner. No echoing voices or sounds of movement added to her terror. What can be happening in the City to have emptied this place so totally?she thought.

Then she was at the door to the Lords' cell. Carefully she eased back the two heavy bolts and, with trembling hands, fumbled the precious key from her pocket. Her hand was shaking so much that she had to seize it with the other to still it sufficiently to insert the key in the lock. The clatter of the key against the keyhole seemed to be deafening. As she was about to turn the key, a shadow fell across her. She felt the blood drain from her face and instinctively she jerked her hood further forward. Turning round she found herself looking into the cold, grim eyes of three Mathidrin.

Chapter 34.

Hawklan and his escort rode at full gallop after the main body of the patrol. The huge column of smoke loomed over the whole City, ominous and bloated, dwarfing even the towers of the Palace. Then, like a sinister giant raising its h.o.a.ry head, a second column, white in colour, began to rise beside it. Strange sounds drifted towards them and a foul smell began to mar the summer scents. Hawklan reined Serian to a halt, his nose wrinkling.

'What unholy creation could make such a smell?' he said, largely to himself.

Isloman's face was stony. 'It has the feel of that tinker's work,' he said. 'No natural thing would die like that.'

Hawklan turned to the nearest Mathidrin. 'What buildings are burning? Can you tell from here?'

The man looked uncertain and then spoke briefly to his friends. 'It's difficult to say, sir,' he replied. 'But the Lord Dan-Tor has many workshops in that part of the City.'

Hawklan nodded and then spurred his horse forward.