Ambition and Alavidha (37 page)

Not yet then
but they can’t stay here
. She considered asking the other
Guildmasters for their advice but rejected the option.
Instinctively she knew that the fewer people who knew about these
print-outs the better.

The only person
I can really trust is my brother Leiso.

Leiso worked
the farm where Rilla had been brought up, It was situated some
fifty miles south of Stewarton on the southern shore of Lake
Stewart. It was an old farm with an old stone farmhouse. Underneath
the farmhouse were cool, dry cellars that had once been used for
storing fruit.

Rilla spent
what remained of the day making arrangements to visit her brother.
The arrangements included the hire of a sturdy cart and pony in
which she would transport the boxes.

* * * * *

-55-

STEWARTON –
ARGYLL

Francis Durand
was as was usual in recent months working late when the Under
Secretary appeared at his door and entered without knocking, a
protocol almost unheard of within the government circles of
Argyll.

“Yes?” he
queried, looking up.

“I have a
Message from Secretary de Groot sir,” the young man said, “he asks
that would you please come to his office sir? At once.”

“Why, what is
it?” asked Francis, wondering why the normally unflappable
Secretary of the Interior would send such a request.

“He has not
seen fit to inform me sir,” the Under Secretary answered, “but I’ve
to go next and find the Secretary of War and get him as well.”

The Secretary
of War! Francis Durand was tense in an instant. This sounded
serious, very serious indeed.

He left his
office at a run.

* * * * *

Three bells
later and Francis was drawling long slow breaths of relief. War had
been averted; but their discussion had certainly left them with a
conundrum or should he say many?

Why had the
Vada gone back to Vadath? And not just the Ryzcks either. The
Lind-Human duos who manned the Supply Stations had also gone,
leaving behind skeleton staffs and those mostly made up of local
men and women. When questioned they had told the government
officials that they had been instructed to keep the stations
running but that the Vada would be coming back once the present
crisis was over. The three in the Secretary of the Interior’s
office were yet to realise that those Argyllian staff left behind
in the Express offices would have a similar story to tell.

What the crisis
was Francis Durand had no idea. He didn’t think it would be a
pestilence affecting the Lind, there were no reports of sicknesses
or deaths but if it wasn’t that then what was it?

Francis had not
yet heard back from the two agents he had sent to Vadath.

Another item of
information he would not find out about until much later was that
the two had prepared messages to send to them. They had taken them
to the Express facility in the town of Vada itself, paid the coin
due for their delivery and left. The two were still in Vada,
waiting for further instructions, in blissful ignorance of the fact
that the messages had not been sent. They were also in ignorance
that Susa Malkum had closed the border to outgoing traffic (an
archaic term that the Susa had found in a book he had read as a
boy).

Francis Durand
went over the last three bells-time in his head.

The Secretary
of War had been convinced that the Vada were returning to Vadath to
gather together an army with which they were going to invade
Argyll!

The civilians
at the Supply Stations (those at the station outside Stewarton had
been brought in and questioned) had laughed at that suggestion,
every one of them saying that the Vada would never, not in a
million years, consider such a step. They took solemn oaths to
protect they had insisted and why, one of them had asked, if they
were, would they have advertised the fact with a full-scale and
noticeable exodus and also leave all their spare weapons
behind?

Even the
bombastic Secretary of War had been unable to think of an answer to
that one.

Francis had
managed to persuade him, with the Interior Secretary’s calm help,
that there was no immediate threat to Argyll and had barged through
his arguments to the contrary.

“We must wait,”
Francis repeated, “I refuse to believe that the Vada, the
Vadathians and the Lind could ever do us intentional harm. A
preventative strike is a suggestion premature. We must instead send
more people into Vadath to find out what is going on and to make an
assessment of their intent. I have already sent some men but they
have not yet reported back to me with their findings.”

“Civilians!”
exploded the Secretary of War, “what would
they
know about
it?”

“Quite a lot as
a matter of fact,” Francis answered in as a mild a manner as he
could manage and trying to keep his temper in check. He had never
had much time for the man, “but I agree with you, in part. I
propose we send a battalion of infantry to the border, to assess
the situation.”

“But no
further,” insisted the mild, peace-loving Secretary of the
Interior.

The Secretary
of War was shaking his head but Francis had the initiative here and
intended to keep it.

“No further,”
he agreed, “unless the officer commanding deems it necessary and I
think we have just the man for the job. Romul Durand commands the
Sixth Foot and I know for a fact that his battalion is stationed
along the southern coast, a few days march from the border. He’s
resourceful and intelligent …”

“He is also
your cousin,” interrupted the Secretary of War.

“That fact is
irrelevant,” said the Secretary of the Interior in a very firm
voice. “I agree with Francis. We don’t need some young hothead down
there making decisions we might later regret. Romul Durand’s
battalion it is.”

The Secretary
of War subsided. At least, he consoled himself, he had achieved
some military involvement in the situation.

“I’m going to
put the Garda on alert,” he contented himself with saying, adding,
“no matter what arguments you come up with.”

“As you think
advisable,” the Secretary of the Interior said, pleased with the
way the meeting had gone.

“Good idea,”
concurred Francis in a pleasant voice, “with the Vada temporarily
unavailable, for whatever reason, our coastlines are vulnerable
anyway.”

“I hope we’ll
not regret this,” said the Secretary of War, unable to let things
lie.

“I am confident
that we shall not,” responded Francis, still using his best
political voice. He was thinking,
the Lind aren’t looking for a
fight. You are and for political gain. I’m going to make sure that
you never become Head Councillor of our country, even if I have to
run for office myself. I wonder where Katie is?

He’d known for
a while that the Secretary of War was an ambitious man, eager to
make a name for himself, he’d never thought of him as a stupid one
too, but there was always a first time.

He snuck a look
at the Secretary of the Interior. Was it his imagination but he was
pretty sure that his thoughts were running along identical lines to
his own.

* * * * *

-56-

THE STRONGHOLD
- VADA

The only way to
describe it was a wagon train. To those watching it leave it was as
if it was a mile long. It was a train of wagons and carts filled to
overflowing with goods and chattels. There were three wagons
dedicated to the contents of the Vada library alone. These ones
were so heavy that each needed three jezdic to pull them.

A separate cart
was carrying the copies of the Vada records which were kept in the
Inner Sanctum. It had been decided that the originals should be
left and bell upon bell sterling work had been done by the copyists
and scribes to get it all down in time.

Out through the
Stronghold gates the line trundled through the morning haze. From
time to time one wagon would stop and another from a side street
would slip into place in front of it.

It was as if
the entire population of the Vada township as well as those of the
Stronghold was on the move. About three quarters of the town’s
people and a good few from the surrounding countryside had decided
to go; whole families, fathers, mothers and children (and their
pets), grannies and grandpas. Age was no barrier; the oldest was
over ninety and the youngest but a few days old.

These were the
people who did not wish to remain in a place where there were no
Lind. For eight hundred years they had lived with and worked with
them. Some of those leaving had family in the Vada, others did not.
It didn’t matter. Susa Malkum had decreed that all who wanted to
go, could.

The children
perched on the wagon seats thought it was some sort of fabulous
holiday. The faces of the adults were more serious. They were
leaving their homes. Some were leaving relations behind.

The dust clouds
from the wheels hung in the air. The dust could be seen for
miles.

* * * * *

The two agents
sent to Vada by Francis Durand watched and took note. The older
looked at the younger and shrugged his shoulders. They knew that
the border between Vadath and Argyll was closed and that in all
likelihood their reports had not been delivered.

“There’s not a
blessed thing we can do about it,” the younger man said, “what do
you say we go get a snifter, there are some inns still open.”

“Up to you but
I think I’ll stop a while and watch. It’s not often that you see
history being made.”

“Wonder where
they’re going,” mused his fellow agent.

“All I think we
can assume my friend is that they don’t seem to be intending to
ever be coming back.”

* * * * *

Another who was
watching was a distraught Tara Josensdochter.

* * * * *

-57-

THE PALACE AT
FORT – KINGDOM OF MURDOCH

The palace was
in an uproar.

Prince
Crispin’s men had burst out of their dungeon hide-out in a seething
mass of violence, expecting little opposition, sure of their
surprise.

They were
doomed to disappointment.

Lord Prince
Marshall Pierre was, unfortunately for them, a very efficient man.
Strategically placed members of the Royal Guard along with others
in whom he had absolute trust were waiting.

A series of
short but bloody fights were the result of Prince Pierre’s trap.
Blood was spilled and much of it. Many on both sides were wounded
and many on both sides were killed. Nowhere in the palace was
entirely safe except for the royal apartments, the abode of the
Queen’s Grace.

When she had
been informed of her son-in-law’s plot by Prince Pierre, Queen
Antoinette had made not a few instant and decisive decisions and
had ordered that the vulnerable should be brought to her apartments
and a sizeable detachment of guards detailed to guard them under
the command of her cousin Prince Xavier.

Her ladies, the
pages, her more frail and elderly retainers, the little midden boys
and her family, including her daughter and grandson had all been
escorted to the rooms, some protesting but all complying. Prince
Xavier and his men had been most insistent.

The rooms were
very crowded and uncomfortable, especially with the heat emanating
from the many bodies crammed in.

Prince-Heir
Elliot was especially fretful. His young mother, Crown-Princess
Antoinette had taken him from his nurse. She was pacing up and
down, patting his back. It wasn’t helping because his mother was
really really tense and he was picking up on it.

“Antoinette,”
said her mother, “for goodness sake
will
you sit down? This
pacing is most unnerving and go have a wash and a brush up, do.
This endless crying is not good for your complexion.”

* * * * *

“But what’s
happening out here?” the twenty year old heir to the throne
demanded in a voice close to a scream. “Where’s Crispin? Where’s my
husband? He may be in danger. Don’t you understand?”

The last
sentence emerged from her lips as a high and volatile howl.

Many others in
the room screamed too, believing that the conspirators had won the
day and were breaking in.

Crown-Princess
Antoinette stood, holding her son in hands that were white to the
fingertips and shaking. Prince-Heir Elliot protested at this
treatment even louder.

“Give him to
his nurse,” Queen Antoinette commanded, her voice like a whip,
“then come over here and sit beside me.”

“Mother,” cried
her reproachful daughter but she allowed the nurse to take Elliot
and went to her mother’s side where she collapsed into a veritable
storm of weeping.

The Queen
ignored her. Instead of putting her arms round her daughter she
rose from the chaise-longe, indicating with a wave of her hand that
one of her ladies should take her place and try to calm her.
Margravessa Madeleine Smith and the Queen’s sister-in-law, Katie,
the Duchess of North Baker got up from the settle opposite and
hurried over.

The Queen went
over to the door, where Baron Peter Taviston was standing anxiously
listening to the sounds from without.

“How’s it going
out there Peter?” she asked. Baron Peter Taviston was one of her
most loyal officials and an old friend too. He had been a friend of
her father, King Elliot the Sixteenth and had transferred both
affection and loyalty to Antoinette when she had ascended the
throne in AL 793, already a widow and in dire need of people she
could trust. He had never failed her.