The Knight: A Tale from the High Kingdom (24 page)

4

The following day, very early, when the city was barely waking, Sibellus found someone waiting for him in the street in front of the Royal Archives. He was astonished at first. Then he wondered who this man was, dressed in grey linen and leathers … before noticing the dark glasses that hid his eyes in the gentle morning light.

Then he understood.

Lorn was sitting on a stone bench, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees. Looking thoughtful, he raised his nose when he heard the archivist take out his keys, and he straightened up.

‘I am Lorn Askarian. The Count of Argor advised me to come and see you.’

Sibellus nodded.

‘The count warned me of your visit by letter. But come in.’

He opened three locks with three different keys and pushed open the heavy door carved with the arms of the High Kingdom. Lorn followed him inside and as he shut the door, remarked:

‘No guard? No one to watch the place at night? What if a fire broke out?’

The archivist gave a small resigned laugh.

‘No, there’s no one. And if a fire broke out, there would be some parties who’d rejoice at seeing this place go up in smoke.’

‘Some parties?’

‘At the Palace. There are certain people who find that all this old paper is quite expensive to preserve. They are perhaps not entirely wrong … It’s this way.’

Lorn trailed Sibellus through corridors and a series of rooms where chests and shelves overspilled with bound books and scrolls of parchment. Everywhere there was the same dust, the same odour of wood and ink, the same impression of neglect. The floor creaked beneath the soles of the knight’s boots. Paint was peeling from the walls and slabs of plaster threatened to fall from the ceilings.

‘You came quickly,’ said the archivist as he showed the way. ‘The count’s letter arrived by wyverner only a few days ago. How long have you been in Oriale?’

‘Since yesterday.’

‘If you don’t have somewhere to sleep, I will gladly put you up until you find—’

‘Thank you. But I’ve already taken possession of the Black Tower.’

Sibellus halted and turned towards Lorn.

‘Already?’ he asked in surprise. ‘You have every right, but …’

He let his sentence go unfinished.

‘Why wait?’ asked Lorn.

The archivist thought for a moment, then shrugged his shoulders with an uncertain expression.

‘After all …’ he said, and then resumed walking.

He invited Lorn to enter his private study, at the top of a rickety wooden staircase. Without knowing exactly why, Lorn expected to see a room crammed with papers, piles of documents and pyramids of scrolls. Instead it was tidy, although dust motes danced in the light, here as elsewhere. Hanging from a stretched cord, a curtain separated a small cot from the rest of the space.

‘Sometimes I’m too tired to go home,’ explained Sibellus, seeing Lorn’s gaze. ‘Old age.’

He seemed to be sixty to sixty-five years old. Of medium height, he was slightly stooped from the weight of time, but his eyes remained alert and no doubt his mind likewise. Very modestly dressed, he boasted a perfectly trimmed collar of beard which was joined at the temples to a crown of short white hair. The fingers of his right hand were stained with ink. A knife was tucked into a sheath that hung from his belt on two small chains.

‘I must give you something.’

He turned towards an iron cupboard, opened it with a key tied around his neck and took out a small round purse which he handed to Lorn.

‘For you,’ he said.

Lorn took the purse while the archivist closed up the cupboard – which did not seem to contain much besides some documents sealed with black wax. The purse, on the other hand, was full of gold langres.

A small fortune.

‘From the Count of Argor,’ Sibellus explained. ‘He asks only that you make good use of it.’

‘I’ll see to it.’

Lorn slipped the purse into the inner pocket of his doublet. And as he was removing his spectacles, they heard, coming from a nearby room, the sound of many books falling from a considerable height.

The archivist sighed, excused himself with a glance, and went to open the door to his study slightly.

‘Is that you, Daril?’ he called.

‘It’s me,’ a youthful voice answered him. ‘It’s all right, master. I’m unharmed.’

Sibellus sighed again.

‘Put it all back in its proper order, will you?’

‘That’s what I was doing when—’

‘Just be careful. Have the others arrived?’

‘The others, master?’

‘Who do you think I’m talking about? Cam and Lerd.’

‘Umm … I don’t know.’

The archivist shut the door.

‘That,’ he said in a murmur, ‘means “no”. But Daril isn’t one to rat on the others.’ Another sigh. ‘Why is the only one who is punctual also the clumsiest of the lot?’

He sat down and invited Lorn to do the same.

‘ “Master”?’ enquired Lorn.

Sibellus nodded.

‘I’m the master archivist,’ he said.

‘And to help you, you only have—?’

‘Two archivists and an apprentice, yes.’

‘For the entire Royal Archives?’

‘Two years ago there were twenty of us. But you see, my funds have melted away like snow in the sun. And without money … That doesn’t stop documents, laws, decrees, treaties and whatnot from continuing to pour in here. And since we can’t deal with it all, it accumulates. In ever-growing piles, which will end up burying poor Daril one day,’ added Sibellus with a smile. ‘But what can I say? The kingdom is on the verge of ruin and no one knows what tomorrow holds. So who has the time to be interested in the past? And isn’t that what we are, here? The past?’

Lorn did not reply. He simply looked calmly at the archivist with his mismatched eyes. Sibellus returned his gaze, wondering what to make of this man who seemed both attentive and strangely detached from everything. The archivist knew his story from Teogen. He knew that Lorn had lost everything and spent three years in the dungeons of Dalroth for a crime he had not committed. What had he endured there? And how had he survived?

Summoning his wits, Sibellus said:

‘So, you’re a man of means now. Is there anything else I can do for you?’

‘The count said I could rely on you.’

‘It all depends for what.’

‘I have come to restore the High King’s authority.’

Dumbfounded, the archivist fell silent and stared for a long moment at Lorn, who did not blink.

Restore the king’s authority?

When the queen had seized all power and excluded, bought, broke, or eliminated anyone who resisted her? When the king, stricken by his mysterious illness, had locked himself away and was dying in a distant citadel? When he was said to be mad? Or at least guilty of having abandoned the High Kingdom and its people? With the exception of a few who struggled in secret at risk to their lives, Erklant’s last supporters remained silent and in hiding.

But perhaps they were just waiting for a man who would stand up and guide them.

Could Lorn Askarian be that man?

Teogen seemed to believe so, thought Sibellus.

He granted himself a few more instants of reflection beneath Lorn’s impassive gaze, and then said:

‘For that, yes, you can rely on me.’

Lorn nodded gravely.

They did not swear an oath. They did not even exchange a handshake. But from that moment, a pact united them and Sibellus felt a curious shiver of excitement and hope run up his spine.

‘I want to know everything about the rights conferred by this ring,’ said Lorn, showing him his onyx signet ring. ‘Rights and duties, according to the law. But also according to custom.’

‘Very well.’

‘Find me all the documents. The most minor decree. The slightest decision. The most obscure ruling rendered by the High King’s justice.’

‘I understand.’

‘I also want to know everything about the Onyx Guard. Its history. Its organisation. Its prerogatives.

‘So be it. But you know what means are at my disposal. It will take a while.’

‘I will read everything as and when you find it. Send the documents to me at the Black Tower. Fear not, I’ll take good care of them and return them to you as soon as I have studied them.’

Sibellus flinched inside at the idea of some of his most precious documents leaving these walls. Two years earlier, such a release of rare documents would have been impossible. Or it would have been difficult and certainly drawn attention. But at present … The master archivist told himself that since practically no one cared what might become of the High Kingdom’s memory, he was free to do with it as he pleased.

As long as it remained intact.

‘Where do you want me to start?’

‘With the rights and duties of the First Knights of the Realm. I must learn them in order to remain above reproach, unimpeachable. Or at least know when I’m overstepping the bounds, as the case may be.’

Sibellus raised an eyebrow.

‘As the case may be?’

Lorn looked him straight in the eyes.

‘I am going to accomplish the mission assigned to me by the High King. Whatever the cost. But you don’t need to concern yourself with that.’

The archivist felt trepidation rising within him, but said nothing. All he could utter was:

‘Be … careful, knight.’

After Lorn’s departure, Sibellus ordered that he not be disturbed and spent a long moment thinking.

Then he called out:

‘Daril!’

An adolescent of sixteen years soon poked his head through the half-opened door.

‘Yes, master?’

‘Come in, Daril. And close the door. I’m going to be needing you.’

Upon returning from his meeting with Sibellus, Lorn immediately set to work. He started to clear the debris and the filth from the ground floor of the tower, as well as the earth and the weeds and the brush that obstructed it. He spent the day doing this, without making much headway. Of course, Teogen’s gold would have allowed him to hire workers and no doubt he would do so for the structural repairs. But he needed to toil alone, even if it meant being taken for a madman. And he also needed his efforts to be seen.

When evening came, Lorn decided he had sweated enough.

Without even washing, he went into the first inn he found and bought bread, wine, pâté, cheese and grapes, ignoring the deep silence that fell upon those present when they saw him arrive. He paid, promised to bring the basket back and returned to the tower at a brisk pace. He installed himself inside the keep, straddling a bench, his victuals placed before him, while Yssaris chased a mouse on the floors above.

And he was about to tuck into his supper when someone cleared their throat on the doorstep. He was a rather scrawny adolescent, with tangled hair and protruding ears, who was carrying a small chest and seemed not to know what to do with it.

Lorn looked at him and waited.

The boy swallowed and did not dare to speak.

And the longer Lorn waited, the shyer the boy became. A mouse in his jaws, Yssaris came to see and sat down on a step at the top of a stairway.

‘Well?’ asked Lorn, losing patience.

The boy gave a start.

‘My name is Daril,’ he said. ‘I was sent by Master Sibellus. I’ve brought some documents for you. At least …’

He hesitated to continue.

‘Yes?’ Lorn prompted.

‘You are the knight Lorn Askarian, aren’t you?’

As far as knights went, Daril found himself facing a dirty man in shirtsleeves, with his hair full of dust and a disagreeable expression, who was grabbing a quick bite and drinking from the neck of a bottle inside a ruin.

‘That’s me,’ said Lorn.

‘Then these documents are for you,’ said the boy with visible relief.

‘Put them where you like. Thank you.’

Daril searched around for a likely spot to deposit the chest, did not find one, and finally put it down at his feet. Lorn then thought he could dine in peace, but the boy did not seem in any hurry to leave. He stood there, idly gaping about at the place, the disorder, the old furniture, the tattered tapestries, the exposed timbers and the wrecked floors.

He seemed fascinated.

‘Anything else?’ asked Lorn.

‘No, no,’ answered the boy.

But still he did not leave.

His attitude intrigued Lorn, who turned towards Yssaris. The cat had let go of its dead prey but remained on the highest step of the stone stairway that climbed along one wall. It waited, curious to see what would happen.

Lorn hesitated, and surprised himself:

‘Are you hungry?’

Daril was one of those gangly adolescents who were always hungry.

‘I’ll say …’

With a wave of his hand, Lorn invited Daril to join him. The boy did not wait to be asked twice. He hurried over to straddle the bench and drew a penknife from his pocket. His eyes shining and full of gratitude, he then displayed a ferocious and joyful appetite. He was too busy eating to speak, but smiled cheerfully between mouthfuls. Lorn dined with less enthusiasm, but could not help grinning too.

At last full, Daril wiped his knife on his thigh, folded it and stood up.

‘Thank you, my lord. But I’d best be going now.’

And as Lorn simply looked at him while finishing the cheese, he added:

‘Master Sibellus said that you would be returning the documents.’

‘Since that was what we agreed, yes.’

‘Because I could come back to fetch them, if you like …’

Lorn considered the boy with a mixture of stupefaction and amusement.

‘Good night, Daril.’

‘Good night, my lord.’

Daril started leave, reluctantly, but turned back just before he passed the tower’s threshold.

‘My lord?’

‘What?’ asked Lorn, forcing himself to recall that patience was a virtue much prized by philosophers.

‘If I were you, I wouldn’t place much trust in these timbers.’

Lorn looked at the beams overhead.

‘Because in my opinion,’ the boy continued, ‘if they don’t kill you by collapsing beneath you, it will be because they have already fallen on top of you … If I may say so myself, my lord.’

‘They don’t look to me to be in such a bad state as all that …’