Of Weft and Weave (Dica Series Book 2) Page 6

  It didn’t matter a jot, however, for all they needed was an icon, a figurehead and focus, an embodiment of their own subversive hopes through which to bolster their lessened self-esteem.

  Whatever he did or said, he couldn’t budge their beliefs nearer the truth, couldn’t unseat the epithet ‘hero’ from its incorrigible mantle about his shoulders. In the interest of pragmatism he finally gave in, reluctantly, and let them believe of him what they would.

  The hint of hostility that Nephril’s Dican accent had fostered was finally expunged when it came to light how crucial he’d been in Pettar’s early days with the Ambecs. They’d all listened intently as Pettar had described Nephril’s help and assistance, the protection he’d afforded from the Royal Court. It was all news to them, but was already fast becoming the latest weft and weave of the legend.

  When it sank in how instrumental he’d been, Nephril quickly gained the status of a turncoat, a defector to their very own camp. And so it was that they were both lauded and praised, fed and watered, and in all practical senses, taken very much to Yuhlm’s heart. It appeared the lion was replete, and now intent only on grooming them.

  In fact, that grooming was beginning to unsettle Pettar, although Nephril rather basked in it. Not only did Pettar prefer anonymity, but the more flagrant flights of fancy the Bazarran were inclined towards fair rankled with his respect for, and love of the truth. It wasn’t so much embarrassment but more the way they made free with fair Maiden Truth’s own honour. His growing ire would almost certainly have been his undoing, and Nephril’s come to that, had it not been for the tavern door being thrown open.

  The gust of cold and damp air that swirled into the stiflingly hot and smoky pall heralded an even colder assembly of cloaked and armed men. They quickly pressed in, bringing a chill that quietened the topers and made them shrink back into the deeper shadows. The half dozen newcomers soon arrayed themselves inside the entrance, instantly stilling the place. Even Tad’s hand lost its compulsion to grasp at his blade’s haft.

  In that pregnant silence Pettar quickly appraised them. At their head, the point of their formation’s triangle, stood a veritable wall of a man. He was as broad as he was high, dark-skinned, one good eye sparkling in the candlelight, long curly hair cascading from a morion-shielded head and his right hand firmly resting at the hilt of a sheathed falchion. Even in the dim light, Pettar could plainly see their uniformed attire; the same rough helms, the same scabbards, the same black and white shard-patterned hauberks, with black knee-length boots and twilight blue capes.

  Not only were they all dressed alike but each boasted an emblem badge at their breast, a bright silver anchor set against a gold radiant sun. Pettar knew the design, but its current use was quite lost on him. Strangely enough, it reminded him of one of the old tales, one that told of the ancient Bazarran first landing at Foundling Bay, and the ships that had brought them so relentlessly into the east. Before Pettar could remember much more, though, the wall-like man boomed out, “Don’t any o’ thee move a muscle, d’ya hear? Don’t even think o’ blinking.”

  His good eye scanned the gloom and immediately came to rest on Pettar. However, when Nephril started to down his next sleeve of ale, it drew that eye’s gaze his way. The wall-like man was accustomed to obedience, not only from his own men but from all those of Yuhlm, and so Nephril’s flagrant disobedience plainly vexed him.

  The drinkers caught that look and they too saw the transgression. They all watched in disbelief as Nephril slowly and smoothly tilted his head back and finished quaffing. With the sleeve’s thumped return to the counter, and Nephril’s satisfied sigh, every one of them switched back to the one eye and noticeably cringed.

  They cringed the more when Nephril turned on his stool, to look directly at the wall-like man, and calmly opined, “Best dark stout I have had in many a long day, and even better now after the last. Would thee gentlemen care to join me in another?”

  Although Pettar was already strung like a bow, the speed of things now far outstripped even his keen reactions. Before he could do little more than flinch, he was already firmly and disarmingly grasped by two of the watchmen. There then seemed to be a hurricane of moving bodies, Nephril and himself caught up in it all, but in the sudden squall of clanking and flapping garments there wasn’t a single newfound Yuhlm acquaintance.

  Pettar caught glimpses of their shocked expressions in the few moments the smoke- and beer-stained walls and stalls flashed by. Each face spoke plainly of concern and fear, each enthralled, stunned and hesitant in equal measure, but it was their clear wish to be invisible that worried Pettar the most. Despite having so readily taken the pair to their hearts, the people of Yuhlm were suddenly far too keen to be distanced.

  No one came to their aid. None of their newfound friends made even the slightest effort to intervene, to plead their case or vouch for their standing. They were left to their abductors who were by now smartly marching them across the street before the tavern.

  Oddly enough, and through it all, Pettar had time to feel his face become speckled by cold raindrops, ones that fell from a heavy sky now bringing false nighttime over the great wall. Before him, the wall-like man led them briskly to a low, arched entrance at the very foot of the Graywyse Defence. Two of his cohort were at Pettar’s sides, their arms urgently propelling him along, and behind he could hear Nephril’s own escort.

  The remaining watchmen, and more who must have remained without, hurried to flank their group, their eyes darting this way and that. They were quite understandably left well alone, but then a hand briefly pressed down on Pettar’s head as they were swallowed by the arch, sucked into its hoarded blackness. A few paces in and they came to an abrupt halt.

  The place smelt musty and dank, but to Pettar’s relief his arms were released. Before him he could smell something else, something huge and pungently close. He heard a short intake of breath that heralded a surprisingly considerate voice. “I don’t know which o’ thee be Lord Nephril, or who t’other ‘ne ‘d be, but me words’ll do for thee both.”

  There was a short pause before the voice added, “Steward Melkin’s sent us to rescue thee, although I ‘ave to say it didn’t seem to me like thee needed much rescuing, but be that as it may, our actions were to thee good.”

  Pettar may have been stoutly built, strong and bold, but the past few minutes had put real fear into him, more so than all his time with the Ambecs. All he could really find to say was, “Thank the Certain Power for that!”

  The passageway filled with subdued laughter, but the voice quietened it before saying, “I’m sorry, but we ‘ad to make sure we got you out without harm and so we ‘ad to take t’place be storm, if ya get me drift. Quick enough to forestall any skulduggery anyway.”

  Nephril’s voice drifted through the darkness. “There was no need for concern, I do assure thee. We were both perfectly safe in the Three Tuns. Most companionable a place it was, and the stout there more than enjoyable. Why should Melkin be so worried he had to have us snatched away?”

  Pettar felt the body before him turn to Nephril’s voice. “Yuhlm ain’t t’best place fer a Dican, ‘owever happy thee felt. No, Drainspoiler shouldn’t ‘ave left you there, but I suppose he’d little choice.”

  In a restrained bark, the voice issued a command and the darkness was soon lifted by a pale green light, leaking from a crystal phial a watchman soon held aloft. Pettar could now see the wall-like man again, standing close before him, Nephril blinking in confusion away to his left. Around them were four or five others, a few more positioned along the passageway and at the arched entrance.

  The wall-like man turned to Pettar. “Which one o’ thee’s Lord Nephril then?” Pettar nodded towards Nephril who was by then smiling one of his disarming smiles. “I’m sorry, m’Lud, but I ‘aven’t introduced missen. Watchmaster Oakum at yer service.”

  He nodded, curtly, and then issued a few more quiet orders before explaining, “We’d best be getting thee ta t’Steward, so if
thee’d follow me, I’ll take thee there before we draw any more attention.” Nephril simply nodded.

  As they set off along the passageway in disciplined order, Watchmaster Oakum explained that his men could keep them safe from the inquisitive, or more likely the acquisitive, and deliver them quite quickly to the Steward, at the college where he was now awaiting them. That brought two surprising revelations for Pettar.

  The first was the epithet Steward, a term long since fallen into disuse. The second was the allusion to a college, something only ever previously allied to Dican practice, certainly never to Bazarran. As the walls of the passageway swept from blackness, through a brief jade exposure and back to darkness again, Pettar’s mind toyed quite unprofitably with the two ideas.

  It was the sudden loss of their echoing footsteps that made him realise their surroundings had changed. They’d come out onto the same road that the Three Tuns stood on, but a mile or so further along to the east. There, the road ran at the bottom of a cutting sided by the wall, now behind them, and a steep stone rampart ahead. What appeared to be another street cut a sharp, slanting rise across it, its course hinted at by a metal fence.

  Directly opposite, and to where the Watchmaster hurried them, a zigzag flight of steps climbed through a series of landings to the road above. Each landing hosted an arched alcove with a bench, now almost in darkness, the sky having already grown leaden. The earlier specks of rain Pettar had felt had by now gained far more weight and impact. His bare head was quickly cooling, as rivulets coursed down his neck, whilst the sky flashed brilliantly white and thunder bellowed into his ears.

  What little he’d been able to see was now obscured by curtains of rain that swept across the erratically lightning-lit sky. They all hunkered their heads down into their necks, leant forward against the press of water rods and ran up the steps to the first landing. They pressed into its alcove and sheltered from the deluge.

  It wasn’t that large a space and so forced an intimacy just a little too premature. Pettar again breathed in the pungent presence of the Watchmaster, made the more intense by his suddenly soaked garments, as they both peered dejectedly out at the lashing rain.

  The Watchmaster’s voice grumbled against the cacophony. “Bugger it, but we’re out in t’open too much to be in this shit. At least it’ll keep t’locals confined to t’ale and whore ‘ouses. Don’t think we need worry too much ‘bout guildsmen right now, though, despite word no doubt ‘aving got around.”

  Another puzzle, thought Pettar, as he took in the mention of guildsmen, but his question didn’t broach it. “How long will it take to get to the Steward’s college then, Watchmaster?”

  Oakum grunted as he peered out at the continuing rain. “Not above half an hour when this lot clears up, but until then I think we’ll stay ‘ere.”

  There was an enforced silence as yet another crack thundered into the shelter, but when it abated Oakum’s musing voice took its place. “Water! Yargh! A nuisance and a boon, depending on its confines, I suppose. Who’d ‘ave thought what changes could’ve come about from summat that once did nowt much more than wet yer ‘ead, eh … oh, an’ water t’crops, to be fair.” Although Pettar hung on Oakum’s words no more came, no more bricks to add to an already obscuring wall of intrigue.

  It wasn’t long before the rain eased enough for them to venture forth again. They filed out quickly into the stilling evening, splashing their way up the remaining steps to the street above, where the watchmen once more fanned out. They followed its steep climb until they were about half the height of the opposing Graywyse Defence, and where the street levelled off at the top of the rampart. It turned sharply away from the great wall and in towards Yuhlm, becoming wider and more open.

  It was bordered on one side by modest single-storeyed properties, each surrounded by carefully clipped hedges. All had spacious gardens, some host to tall white posts and others littered with tables and chairs. On the opposite side it was open to a large park with winding paths and small reflecting ponds, and here and there domed buildings surrounded by terraced seats.

  The view was hardly engrossing, but even if it had been, it would have palled against the clear and startling sight that now met their distant gaze. Rising high above the street, above its park and gardens and away in the far distance, there were three gigantic, pewter-coloured towers.

  What made them even more momentous was the way in which they were slashed scarlet by a stray gash of unquenched setting sunlight, lifting them proud of the dark-grey sky behind. Their watchman escort had to halt, as Pettar and Nephril both slipped between, stunned to stillness, each further awed when the last of the sun’s light arced a huge double rainbow above the towers.

  For a moment, a brief but exhilarating heartbeat, Pettar vividly imagined a phoenix. He could see it rise from the old city, its breast aflame, its wings arched and iridescent, with eyes that flamed their gaze to his very heart. Nephril too stood rigid, slack-mouthed, and together they watched their conjured visions slowly dissolve into the encroaching twilight shadow.

  The earth had shaded the day’s remnant shafts and lent dull dusk into which their phantoms could flee, the fast chasing nighttime casting black veils before the towers. It made of them little more than coaly columns against an ebony sky. Pettar distantly heard the Watchmaster’s words, but they only seemed to slide through him unheeded.

  When the words came again, the magic had diminished, enough for their sense to impinge. “Quite a sight ain’t they, never mind ‘aving ‘em lit so? Don’t think I’ve ever seen ‘em so well set afore.” The Watchmaster’s one eye shone and glinted, catching what little light still crept past the mantle cloud and shadowing horizon.

  Coronation Avenue, for that was the broad way upon which they were now set, bordered the park with its wide and unencumbered pavement. Despite its name, it had little in the way of trees. This was fortunate, for it was unlit and the rain sodden clouds obscured what little light the new moon granted. The avenue’s smoothly worn slabs sluiced the rain well clear to its gutters and so conspired, fortuitously, to make their passing less fraught.

  Silently, they hurried along its empty length, away from the wall-defended seaboard, towards the steadily rising ground upon which the night-hidden towers distantly stood. The towers, however, were well beyond the reach of the avenue, well beyond where it eventually petered out to the pockmarked and uneven Smiddles Lane that then sharply carried them uphill towards the east.

  The much older lane meandered up the east side of Yuhlm’s cupping brow, and staggered more drunkenly as the rise got steeper. It threaded its way along easier contours until it brought them above the height of the Graywyse Defence Wall itself, now away to the south.

  It was the sound of water that first gave notice of Yuhlm College, for the lane’s convoluted habit, the meagre light of the watchman’s lamp and the closely confined way all hid it from sight. It was only when they’d turned the last abrupt corner that it came directly before them.

  The rhythmic and playful sound of falling water sang to them more loudly now, its rolling, loose beat spilling out over a newly built brick wall. In its music there was an accompaniment of gurgling eddies and spume filled cascades that rattled and knocked against hardwood boards. A harmonious bass of seesawing rumbles gave weight to its canon of off-beat squeaks, adding highlights to its theme of fast-paced splashes.

  They’d come so quickly upon it in that close knit warren of ways, of homely buildings, of quaint gable ends and drunkenly leaning chimneys, that they were already coming through its open gates before the great instrument itself appeared.

  Between the fresh brick wall and an inner, far more ancient stone gable, a great waterwheel creaked and cranked in subjugation to the fluid force long cascading from its oaken duct. It turned slowly but irresistibly as it harnessed nature’s great gift of water, conveying the potency of its weight to hidden tasks within. Its shaft rumbled on, forever turning, driving purpose and goal then unknown, then obscured within th
e old mill it faithfully drove.

  More watchmen welcomed them in, quickly securing the great gates, making them safe again from whatever threat they thought or knew could come at them from without. It was only when the gates finally clanked shut that the air softened and the watchmen relaxed, that amiable banter and companionable jibing began.

  Their guard dismissed, Oakum led them through a small door set within the corner of a much larger pair, and on into the old mill itself - into the college building. They were brought into a cobbled barn of sorts, with wooden partitions open to the mill’s ranging roof.

  The unobstructed view gave sight of a vast and complex framework of beams and purlins, of rafters, joists and headers, trimmers and spindles, of shafts and shanks, and a great many cranks and mandrels. It was a limited and intermittently lit prospect of an altogether far greater affair, extending well beyond their blinkered vantage into the sprawling, lofted space.

  They could still see enough to fill them with wonder, enough that it was some while before Nephril let his gaze lower and so find cause to speak. “Ah, Drainspoiler! Now, how fares thee?”

  Drainspoiler’s face showed relief. He unfroze and moved forward to meet them, far more amiable than when last they’d met. “Welcome, mi Lud, and thee, Master Garradish. Am I glad to see thee both so obviously safe an’ sound.” He stared at them for some moments, unmoving, before beckoning them to follow him.

  As he led them into a warmly lit but closely confined corridor, drawing them further into the college, he thanked the Watchmaster but then said no more, not to Pettar or Nephril, nor any of the occasional figures they passed.

  At the corridor’s end, a flight of steps took them up to the next storey and another corridor, but one with doors set at regular and short intervals. As they passed, some would open, disgorging distracted and busy figures clutching books or papers. Some absently bumped into them whilst others narrowly missed as they squeezed past, all seemingly engrossed.