The Palace (Bell Mountain Series #6) (15 page)

In Durmurot, Prester Jod had set his people to making copies of the Old Books for distribution all around the country. There were already more copies coming out of Durmurot than Obann. Undisturbed by the war, which had never reached so far into the west, Durmurot’s famous herds of sheep grazed in peace. Most of the wool used in Obann came from Durmurot’s well-watered meadows—and most of Obann’s sheepskin vellum, too. With no more need to pay the Temple tax to the city of Obann, Jod diverted that money to the production of books.

Today he puzzled over news from Gurun.

“A coronation?” he said, when she told him. “I can hardly believe it! How did you come by those tidings?”

“There is someone in Obann who sometimes writes to me,” Gurun said. “This is a person who would rather not be named, even to you.” She had received a secret message from Gallgoid, to which it would be dangerous to reply: dangerous to him. “I remember the coronation of King Kai in the Book of Thrones. This is what the council in Obann means to do. The whole city is already talking about it.”

“But this is the first word I’ve had of it,” Jod said. They were alone in his office in the seminary, where Gurun had come to see him. “It’s hard for me to believe the council even wants a king, let alone a coronation. We brought the king to Durmurot, Gurun, because you didn’t trust those men.”

“We would not be wise to trust them,” Gurun said. “So far I have only told Uduqu about this. But my friend in Obann says we will soon receive a formal invitation from the council.”

She hadn’t told Fnaa because she knew that he would want to go. “I’ll keep on pretending to be the king until I meet King Ryons and he tells me to stop,” Fnaa said. His mother, Dakl, had lately pleaded with him to give up the masquerade, but he wouldn’t listen to her. “As long as all those people think that I’m the king,” he said, “the real king will be safe from them. Besides, it’s nice to be the king!”

He was as much a favorite in Durmurot as he’d been in Obann, where he used to take the council’s tax money and toss it to people in the street. Every few days he liked to ride around Durmurot, with Uduqu leading his horse, and wave back to all the people who waved at him and cheered him.

“We’re stuck with it for now,” Uduqu always said. He had more to say when Gurun told him about the coronation, after first having to explain what a coronation was.

“Ha, ha! They’ve got more tricks than a traveling juggler.” He grinned at her. “And we’ll all have to go back to Obann, won’t we? Otherwise they can get the people wondering what kind of king won’t come to his own coronation. Maybe someone like that shouldn’t be king—and so Ryons winds up being king of Obann, without Obann.”

“I’ve thought of that, too,” said Gurun. “If the king does not go to the coronation, he will lose the city. Merffin Mord will make sure of that.”

And in the city, as Gurun and Uduqu spoke, Orth surprised Preceptor Constan with a strange request.

“King Ozias’ scrolls,” he said, “that the children found in the ruins of the Old City—I would like those to be sent to Prester Jod in Durmurot, secretly, as soon as may be.”

Constan, sitting like a boulder at his desk, turned his head to face Orth. “I was wondering when you’d ask me that,” he said.

“The scrolls aren’t safe in Obann,” Orth said. Constan permitted his mouth to twitch with the ghost of a smile and said, “Neither are we.”

“I would like you to go with the scrolls, Preceptor.”

“I was going to say the same to you. If you order me to go, I will, First Prester,” Constan said. “But I’d prefer to stay here, at the seminary.”

Orth had already told him of Merffin’s plans for a coronation. At the time, Constan absorbed the news without comment. But he must have been thinking about it and what it meant, Orth thought. Neither of them knew that Goryk Gillow had been invited to the coronation. Gallgoid knew, but hadn’t told them yet.

“I fear for this great city,” Orth said. “The people are slow to come to repentance. When I speak to them, I think they listen. But they listen to the council, too.”

Orth sighed. He had no desire to return to the kind of life he’d had when he was a prester in the Temple under Lord Reesh, and no desire to bring Obann back to those days. The age of the Temple was over. The way the Lord would have the people take was forward, not backward.

“God will not let us go back,” he said. “This is what I preach, and yet my words are like water in a sieve.”

“We need more time,” said Constan. “But for the time being, I’ll send the scrolls to Durmurot. We’ve made enough copies; we can work from those.”

By now most of the chamber houses in Obann had received a new copy of the Old Books, all the Scriptures, along with the First Prester’s command to preach from these at every assembly and instruct the people in God’s word. Copies of the Book of Ozias—that was the name they gave the scrolls—were not yet available in any great number. The scrolls had to be translated into present-day language, a task that demanded the best efforts of Constan and his scholars.

“See that they travel under a strong guard,” Orth said.

“I’ll attend to it personally,” Constan said.

CHAPTER 16

Heralds from Silvertown

King Ryons’ scouts ranged widely, covering all the approaches to Lintum Forest. The Attakotts patrolled the northern plains between the forest and the river, with poisoned arrows and bare feet, and a gift for not being seen. They’d learned not to shoot at Obannese militia who carried the king’s messages to Ninneburky. The plains to the west, the south, and to the east of the forest, up to the hills that led to Silvertown, the Wallekki horsemen guarded. From time to time they captured small bands of their countrymen, remnants of the mighty Heathen host destroyed before the walls of Obann. Most of those now served the king, knowing they had only death to look forward to if they fell into the hands of the Thunder King.

One of the Attakotts’ patrols caught two mounted messengers coming out of the east from Silvertown and brought them back to Carbonek. The pair, both Obannese, made no resistance.

“We have a safe-conduct from the ruling council in Obann,” they told the king’s chieftains, when questioned. “We are heralds, and it’s not lawful to harm us.” And they displayed their pass, which bore the old seal of the Oligarchy.

“There is no ruling council in Obann,” Obst said to them. “There is a group of men who call themselves a ruling council, but that’s not the same as being one.”

At this the two men exchanged nervous glances. “Nevertheless,” said one, “we are heralds, and we claim heralds’ rights under the laws of Obann.”

Ryons sat on an ancient, carved stone that served him as a throne, with his formerly heathen chiefs around him. Shaffur, chief of the Wallekki, pointed to Ryons with a fly whisk.

“Here is the law of Obann—King Ryons!” he said. “You may deliver your message to him and thank the God we serve that you aren’t put to death as traitors.”

“What is your message?” Obst asked. He alone of the king’s chiefs was standing. The others sat on folding stools, as befit their rank.

“Our message is for the councilors in Obann,” said the bolder of the two heralds, “and as it concerns the prospects of peace between Obann and the Master of the World, our lord King Thunder, you would do well to let us deliver it as planned.”

Ryons said nothing. This was the first he’d heard of any ruling council in Obann. He’d left his chieftains in charge of the city when God called him to return to Lintum Forest. His chiefs and his army had followed him there—except for General Hennen, who had been left in command of the city as the king’s deputy.

“Where is General Hennen?” Ryons asked. “Has something happened to him?”

“He’s gone west to Durmurot, Your Majesty,” Obst said. “He left the city in the hands of a city council. But those councilors—” he turned back to the heralds—“have no authority to speak for Obann.”

“You won’t honor a safe-conduct, then?” The heralds were beginning to sweat.

“I’m only telling you that those men in Obann have no authority to make peace or war,” Obst said. “These men you see here are the king’s councilors. State your peace proposals to them and to King Ryons.”

Before the discussion could proceed any further, Abgayle came running up with her hair flying loose around her face and Jandra’s purple bird trotting stiff-legged after her, squawking harshly.

“Your pardon, my lords!” she panted. “I don’t mean to interrupt—but you must let these men go. The Lord says so.”

“Jandra?” said Obst.

“Asleep.” Abgayle was almost out of breath. “The Lord spoke through her, ‘Let the men go at once, and have nothing to do with any man who journeys to Obann from Silvertown.’ And then she fell asleep, you know how she does. Anyway, I’ve brought you the Lord’s word.”

This confused the heralds, but the chieftains understood. Looth, chief of the Attakotts, commanded his scouts to take the men back to where they’d found them and send them on their way. Before the heralds could speak another word, the Attakotts briskly ushered them out of the presence of the chiefs.

Ryons wondered what it all meant. He wished Helki had been present, but Helki was off in the forest somewhere with his rangers.

“I’d like to know what’s going on between Silvertown and those rats we left behind us in Obann,” Shaffur said.

“I’m sure they would have told us, if we’d asked persuasively,” said Chief Buzzard of the Abnaks, which made the other chieftains laugh. One look at the Abnaks’ scalping knives would have loosened the messengers’ tongues.

“It doesn’t matter, my lords,” Obst said. “God has said He will establish the king’s throne here, in Lintum Forest, not in the city of Obann anymore. Whatever those men in Obann do, I doubt it concerns us.”

But it did concern Gallgoid, who was paying very close attention to the doings of the council.

“We have raised a sum, so far, of two thousand gold pieces to pay for the coronation,” his agent on the council told him, when they met secretly at midnight in the cellar beneath the councilor’s home. “Most of that is for the crown, of course. We expect to raise at least five thousand more—a feast for every man and woman in Obann. And sometime during that glorious celebration, the king will die. Merffin hasn’t said so, but we’re all sure that’s his plan. We’re all pretending not to know.”

“With the whole city reveling and rejoicing, the king will have an accident,” Gallgoid said. “It should be easy to arrange. But what I want to know is where Goryk Gillow will be.”

The councilor shook his head. “We haven’t yet received his answer to our invitation. If he won’t come, then we’ll have to make do with Lord Orth as First Prester. Merffin says he can handle Orth.”

“Don’t ask too many questions, my friend, nor voice too many doubts,” Gallgoid said. “In the king’s service, there’s no one who can replace you. Don’t make Mord suspicious of you.”

The councilor smiled weakly. “Don’t worry about me!” he said. “I’ve no desire to seek an early grave.”

Now, as the next day drew on to evening, Gallgoid sat in his tiny office in the palace, pondering his next move.

He knew, as the councilors did not, that the king in Durmurot was an imposter. Luring Fnaa to Obann and killing him would gain them nothing, with the real King Ryons safe in Lintum Forest: unless, of course, they could convince the people that the real king was dead and the one in Lintum Forest was a cheat. They would certainly try to do that.