CASTAN
by
Peter Robert Scott
SMASHWORDS EDITION
* * * * *
PUBLISHED BY:
Peter Robert Scott on Smashwords
Castan
Copyright © 2010 by Peter Robert Scott
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Smashwords Edition License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.
* * * * *
CASTAN
being the second part of
TALES OF HONOUR
As told by Aspian Savakin in his youth and age,
arranged in four books, entitled:
Nicovar
Castan
Valeric
Aspian
Book Two
The Tales of Castan
The actual site of Pengartel, despite the best guesses of the archaeologists, remains unknown to us, as does the exact sum of generations since its burning. The nordragons settled every forest region in Bryggne and many great centres grew up in after times of which Pennor was but one; and although Pennor is again reckoned to be the largest city in the world there is no actual evidence to prove that it was once Pengartel. However, the romantics will have it so, and there seems to me to be little harm in letting them have their way.
As to dates, I have used the Margorian Calendar throughout the subsequent tales as being the least erratic of all historical reckonages. I’ve had to lop off the odd year or two every now and again, and stretch some known life-spans to make the sums come out right, but I’ve kept the fluctuations below a ten year maximum in most cases. It’s uncertain of course exactly how long after Aldragon the darig Margor ruled, and the hundred generations he mentions in his memoirs seem suspiciously well-rounded, but it was certainly in the region of three thousand years for Margor was the thirty-second darig after Aldragon.
The name Savakin first appears during the darign of Garafoc, who was acclaimed five hundred and seventy-four years after Margor, and I shall begin the lower tales at about that time.
* * * * *
Concerning Garafoc and the rigour of the law
Pennor was the wonder of the world and dragons of every nation flocked to marvel at it. No other country could boast such a place and all tribes regarded it as home. The River Ipp ran wide through its centre, and for a distance of seven miles along the river banks broad treeless avenues could be seen stretching in all directions. There were temples and shrines in every street and in the city centre there were many great nests and fine gardens. Farther out the orchards were tended with loving devotion by the dywiverns, and there were vast herds of domestic oor guarded by the egyrn.
On the broadest avenue of all stood the Nest of Fire, the ceremonial home of the darigs since the time of Margor, and the most beautiful building on Earth. Its main pit could seat a hundred dragons in full council with room for servants besides, and there were chapels and banqueting halls and reception rooms all of an equal grandeur. The darig’s own apartments could sleep fifty guests and their retinues, and there were bathing streams running through every wing.
Opposite the Nest of Fire was the Temple of the Sun, and a thousand dragons could worship at once beneath its high vault. These two buildings were the hub of Pennor, and around them radiated other temples and palaces, pleasure gardens, and all the various offices of municipal affairs. The population of Greater Pennor was nearly a million at that time, and was doubled in high summer by visitors from all over the world.
*
The words of fire had been passed in an unbroken line of honour since the days of Aldragon, and although dragons of all nationalities had become darigs they had resided mostly in Bryggne and most recently in Pennor. The darig Refirod had taken the secret to wild Fagran with him and been mortally wounded in battle, and he begged his successor to keep the secret safe in Bryggne for all dragonkind and not hazard it pridefully as he had done. Thereafter darigs had become less warlike and the words were seldom used in anger.
Indeed, such was their power that they did not need to be used, for the mere existence of them kept all creation in awe of the Sun. But that was the spiritual power of the darigs; their temporal power was more often manifest.
Whatever the wisdom of the darigs, however selfless they were in the service of others, however much they deplored the pursuit of personal interest, considerable power attached itself to them and through them to their families. Most darigs accepted the inevitability of pomp and wore their majestic robes with becoming modesty; but the reflected honour which was cast upon their families was often less judiciously worn.
It was Hovordo himself who decreed soon after the death of Nicovar that the darig’s own choice as heir should be ratified in full council before the secret was passed. Thus the heir apparent should be the best choice of all the dragons, and no darig should be able to pass on the words unwisely. The council had gone by many names over the centuries, but since the days of Margor it had been called the Argonsey and had met in the clearing called Sprille. There were a hundred argonsayers, elected by the city elders from among themselves, and they came mostly from the great families.
In domestic affairs the power of the Argonsey was virtually absolute, and only very infrequently would the judgement of the darig be consulted. But it must not be assumed that because they were enormously powerful they were also enormously corrupt. Corruption there was, certainly, but it was generally countered by an abundance of public zeal. It’s worth remembering that one of the qualifications for election to the Argonsey was the donation of a thousand head of livestock or a hundred slaves to the public wealth, and that few could meet such a cost alone; therefore argonsayers reflected the opinions of their benefactors as well as themselves, and were unwilling to undergo the process of re-election that was necessary if they were found involved in some dubious dealing.
Nevertheless as an instrument of government the Argonsey was far from being perfect. All public appointments were made by it, and all public bodies were accountable to it alone. No other voice, military, civil or religious, ranked with it in the darig’s council except in matters of holy law, and there was no gainsaying any of its decisions. And while it represented the strong brand of government beloved by all dragons, it gave rise in some instances to much petty abuse.
*
Namor the Great ruled for one hundred and forty years, and towards the end of his darign he chose a nordragon of his own family to be his successor. This dragon was called Garafoc, and a day was appointed for his presentation to the Argonsey to be acclaimed as heir; these Acclamations were occasions of great splendour, almost as splendid as the Feasts of Accession themselves, and the whole city was decked out in celebration of it.
Garafoc was then fifty-seven years old and had served for many years with the jadragons in the distant east. He had never sought public office and was virtually unknown in Pennor except by the fame of his exploits. When Namor drew him into private council and told him that he wished him to be next darig, Garafoc wept and begged to be spared such a weighty ordeal; but as Aldragon had persuaded Melivar so Namor persuaded Garafoc. As the time of acclamation drew near Garafoc walked often through the city streets, unrecognized and alone, pondering his dreadful charge.
The night before the ceremony he stopped at an inn in one of the poorer parts of Pennor, where the air was heavy with the scent of sacaco and cheap black wine. The place was full, mainly with nordragons and wyverns, and Garafoc stood jostled at the bar waiting for a perch. Eventually he managed to slip into a dark corner where he drank quietly amid the din.
There were some trollopish looking dywiverns gathered around one trunk, laughing shrilly at each good-natured pass made by the drunken nordragons and whispering crude jokes to one another about the wyverns. Garafoc pretended not to be listening, but eventually his silence caught the dywiverns’ attention and he too became the object of whispered hoots and squeals. He smiled despite himself and the dywiverns chortled foolishly and turned their attention elsewhere.
One of the nordragons, a squat, broad-nosed little fellow, was in high spate, jabbing the air emphatically with his claw. Garafoc listened hard to catch what he was saying, but the others were either hooting derisively or banging their branches to drown him out, and the nordragon eventually threw up his arms in despair and returned to his drink. ‘What does it matter anyway?’ yelled a voice. ‘Any excuse is good enough for a drink.’
‘That may be,’ said the first dragon, and he leapt up as if to begin his argument all over again, but the others pushed him good-humouredly back into his place and thrust his drink under his snout.
‘What’s he on about now?’ asked one voice.
‘Yoal knows,’ said another.
‘Let me just say this,’ persisted the nordragon, ‘and then I’ll shut up...’
‘Oh, let him get it off his chest,’ said another dragon, ‘or he’ll be going on all night.’
The others barracked somewhat less riotously as the nordragon went on: ‘Look, I wish him every happiness in the world, just like all of you. All I’m saying is what the blazes have we got to be so happy about? It’s not as if it’s going to change anything for us, whoever’s darig. Things just go on as before, unless they get a little worse; it’s only the darig and his family and all their kyn friends who get anything out of it, and why the hecol we oronoms should celebrate that I simply don’t know.’
‘You’ve got class on the brain,’ said an elderly dragon.
‘Old misery guts,’ piped in one of the dywiverns, ‘can’t you just celebrate without having to get anything out of it? What’s everybody have to be so blooming greedy for?’
‘My point exactly,’ said the nordragon, ‘why indeed? But they are. I am, I’ll admit it. I’ve had seven flasks of wine this evening and that’s greedy even for me, but that’s about as greedy as I’m ever allowed to get. Whereas this new darig, wodgermacallim, down he flies from up north somewhere...’
‘East.’
‘... east then, straight into the best nest in town, feet up for the rest of his life, his family all running around buying up slaves on the cheap, himself getting all the choicest food and
drink and having nothing to do in return for it except belch, and I expect he’s got half a dozen chamberlains doing that for him, and there’s us spending good money getting drunk to celebrate his good fortune. It makes me sick.’
‘And you make us sick,’ shrilled the wittiest dywivern to the delight of her cronies. ‘Why don’t you go and do something useful, like drown yourself?’
‘He’s trying to,’ said a dragon. ‘Get him another wine.’
‘It just amazes me,’ said the nordragon, ‘there you’ll all be tomorrow morning, cheering yourselves silly over someone you’ve never set eyes on before and you’re never likely to set eyes on again, and there he’ll be nodding and smiling at you, just like all the nodders and smilers before him, and you’ll all say, ‘Ah, isn’t he lovely?’, and off he’ll go to a slap up feast and off you’ll go to a bit of cold fleen and pickle, and you’ll all think you know him as well as your next-nest-neighbour, whereas he wouldn’t know any of you from Aldragon.’
‘What’s it matter?’ cried another dragon. ‘Good luck to him, I say. Sooner him than me.’
‘Certainly,’ said the nordragon, ‘I wouldn’t want his job either. But I wouldn’t mind being around when all the loot’s being carved up.’
‘Come off it, Eremos, that’s ridiculous,’ snapped the elderly dragon. ‘What loot?’
‘Well, not loot maybe; but I wouldn’t mind a soft little apartment in the Nest of Fire with no rent to pay, that I wouldn’t.’
‘It’s just jealousy, that’s what it is,’ said a dywivern. ‘He’s jealous.’
‘Of course I’m jealous,’ said Eremos, ‘of course I am. If I see someone living in the pit of luxury and doing damn all for it, and there’s me having to work all hours just to scrape a living, haven’t I every right to be jealous?’
‘Oh, leave him be,’ said a dywivern, ‘he’s not worth talking to.’
‘Well, I’ve said my bit,’ said Eremos. ‘I wish him luck, with all sincerity, but you’ll pardon me if I’m not there tomorrow morning to wish it him to his face.’
‘You’ll be there,’ said a dragon; ‘once in a lifetime this - you’ll not miss it.’
‘The amount he’s drunk he won’t wake up for it,’ yelled another, and the whole company laughed aloud.
‘I’ll tell you one thing, Eremos,’ said the elderly dragon, ‘there is something you can get out of this. How do you fancy a nice ripe chulby?’
‘What are you talking about?’ asked Eremos.
‘Well, it’s the eve of Acclamation, isn’t it? Anyone can go into one of the darig’s own orchards and pick the best chulby he sees, so long as he picks only one, and the wandors can’t do anything about it. That’s the law.’
‘The law?’ scoffed Eremos. ‘Don’t be soft, Salbo, I’ve never heard of that.’
‘Of course you haven’t,’ said Salbo, ‘you’re not old enough. But I was alive for Namor’s Acclamation and that was the law then. Namor pronounced it himself.’
‘Anyway,’ said Eremos, ‘what do I want to go and pick a chulby for? I don’t even like chulbies.’
‘That’s not the point,’ said Salbo. ‘You said nobody but the darig and his family get anything out of this, and I’m just telling you you’re wrong. Anybody can do it, right under a wandor’s nose if he likes, and they can’t touch him for it.’
‘Anybody?’
‘Yes. You should have seen us all last Acclamation Eve. Stripped the orchards bare we did, between us.’
‘Well, if that’s the law why haven’t we been told about it?’
‘Likely they don’t want the same thing happening again. You know what these bureaucrats are. Still, doesn’t affect you, does it? You don’t like chulbies.’
Eremos looked tart with indignation. ‘Marvellous, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘One evening every hundred and fifty years or so you’re allowed to pick one miserable chulby, if it happens to be worth the picking, and get away with it. Any other time three days in gaol. And as a sauce to this munificence they don’t even bother to tell us about it. Marvellous.’
‘Pity you don’t like chulbies,’ said Salbo, ‘you could’ve grabbed the opportunity of getting a bit of your own back otherwise.’
‘Do you know, I reckon I will anyway,’ said Eremos. ‘I reckon I’ll pick the ripest chulby I can see. And do you know what I reckon I’ll do with it? I reckon I’ll go along to the Acclamation tomorrow and chuck it right back in wodgermacallim’s face, that’s what I reckon.’
‘You wouldn’t dare,’ sneered one of the wyverns.
‘Wouldn’t I?’
‘No, you wouldn’t. It’s all talk with you.’
‘We’ll see,’ said Eremos, leaping from his perch.
‘Where are you going?’ asked Salbo.
‘There’s an orchard just a few glades down,’ said Eremos. ‘We’ll see who dares do what.’
‘But you can’t,’ said Salbo.
‘Yes I can,’ said Eremos, ‘you told me so yourself. And if that’s what they reckon I’m worth, one miserable chulby, I’ll show them where they can stick it!’ He struggled out of the bar between the press of laughing on-lookers and vanished into the night.
‘Salbo, you old pecol,’ said another dragon, ‘fancy telling him that.’
Salbo was clutching his tail with mirth. ‘Well, I never thought he’d fall for it,’ he said.
‘Isn’t it true, then?’ asked a slow dywivern.
‘What’s going to happen to him?’ asked one of the wyverns.
‘I’m going to follow him and see,’ said another.
‘So am I,’ said a third.
The dywiverns were laughing as loudly as Salbo now, the tears rolling happily out of their eyes. ‘Serve him right,’ they cried, ‘miserable old tickspittle.’
‘He’ll end up in gaol for this,’ said a worried dragon. ‘Three days, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ said Salbo, ‘but even if he’s caught he’ll be all right. They open the petty gaols on Acclamation day. Now that really is the law. They’ll have to let him go as soon as he’s sentenced.’
‘Really?’ said one of the dywiverns. ‘Pity.’
‘Ah,’ said Salbo, ‘Eremos is all right. He’s all mouth, but he means well. And there’s something in what he says.’
‘Now don’t you start,’ said a dragon. ‘We’ve had enough of politics for one night.’
The wyverns came running back a short while later, hardly able to speak for laughter. ‘They got him,’ said one. ‘There were two of them creeping up on him all the time, but he was too drunk to see them. He just marched up to the nearest tree and tried to catch hold of the first chulby he saw, but he was swaying around so much that when he did grab it he squashed it all to bits; and then the wandors leapt out at him and dragged him off to gaol. It wasn’t half a croak!’
Salbo chuckled impishly. ‘Poor old Eremos,’ he said. ‘I shall have to go along to court in the morning, make sure he’s all right. But I can’t wait to see his face.’
*
Garafoc returned that evening to the Nest of Fire where one of the chamberlains led him through a rehearsal of the next day’s ceremony. When it was done Garafoc retired to bed and slept until just before dawn. Then he rose quietly and flew back over the city towards the inn. It was more than an hour before he was missed.
He waited outside the local trundor’s court and was first to take his place on the public benches when it opened. He was joined by several whom he recognized from the previous evening, including Salbo and a few of the dywiverns. There were two cases called before Eremos and the trundor dealt with them both swiftly, imposing nominal fines and brief remonstrances, for both he and the wandors were anxious to be away to the day’s festivities.
When Eremos came before the court he looked very sorry indeed, with a face on him not unlike the squashed chulby that was produced in evidence. But when the trundor asked, ‘Do you repent this foolishness?’, Eremos merely looked at him and snorted in defiance.
‘What does that mean?’ asked the trundor.
‘Repent? Foolishness? Pah! I’d do it again a thousand times, only a thousand times better.’
‘Come, come,’ said the trundor, ‘this is a holiday; let’s be done with this silly business as soon as possible and be off to the celebrations.’
‘I don’t give a damn for the celebrations,’ said Eremos, ‘I demand my proper rights!’
‘Oh?’ asked the trundor. ‘And what rights are those?’
‘The right to pick chulbies on the eve of the Acclamation. It’s a tradition and a law. I demand my release, and my chulby.’
‘It’s not a law I’ve ever heard of,’ said the trundor, ‘nor is it one I would be anxious to uphold. Be silent, hear your sentence with respect and then you may be off.’
‘Be off?’ echoed the truculent Eremos. ‘Be off? Pray, what do you think I am that you may say to me Be off?’
‘What do I think you are?’ snapped the trundor. ‘A trouble-maker, that’s what I think you are. A pestilent oronom and a fool.’
‘Aha!’ said Eremos in triumph, ‘an oronom!’ He glared around the court. ‘Did you all hear?’
The trundor sighed vexedly. ‘What is the matter now?’
‘You called me an oronom.’
‘But that is what you are. Do you deny it?’
‘How can I? It’s what my betters tell me that I am.’ He struck a dramatic pose. ‘Eremos the oronom. An oronom among oronoms. I spring from oronoms. My full acquaintanceship comprises only oronoms. I live among, eat among, work among, starve among oronoms. And yet it is a word I find little occasion to use. I don’t go up to my old friend Salbo and say, ‘Hello Salbo, you old oronom, how’s the world with you?’ Nor do I expect to be called oronom in that offensive way. Trouble-maker, yes; fool, yes; oronom, by thunder no!’
‘You are hardly behaving genteelly enough to be termed kyn.’
‘Absolutely,’ said Eremos with a little mock bow. ‘I shudder to think you would so misuse such a respectable word. And what would the kyn themselves think? Why, I don’t suppose half of them have ever met anything as vulgar as an oronom.’
‘Oronoms are not necessarily vulgar,’ said the trundor, ‘but you most certainly are.’
‘Then call me vulgar,’ shouted Eremos, ‘don’t call me oronom in that vulgar way!’
The trundor’s lips were pinched and thin. ‘I’m not going to quibble any further with you,’ he said. ‘I could sentence you for drunkenness, theft, insolence and subversion. As it is I shall sentence you only for theft. Three days. Take him away.’
The wandors looked at the trundor in surprise. ‘But sir,’ said one, ‘it’s Acclamation day.’
‘I know,’ said the trundor. ‘What of it?’
‘It’s traditional to free all petty prisoners for the Acclamation. Besides, who’ll have to guard him?’
‘You will,’ said the trundor. ‘It’s what you’re paid for. I am the embodiment of the law and I cannot allow it to be insulted. Take him away.’
‘Oh, we can’t insult the law, can’t we?’ asked Eremos. ‘But we can insult oronoms all right. Well, this is for the dignity of the law,’ he cried, and he scooped up the remains of the chulby and hurled it at the trundor.
‘Take him away!’ cried the splattered magistrate, ‘and bring him before me again in three days for further sentencing!’
‘But sir, the holiday...’ pleaded the wandors.
‘Take him away!’
Eremos was led protesting from the court as the trundor wiped the wet pips from his face. Salbo rose timidly and said, ‘May I speak, sir?’
‘What is it?’ snapped the trundor.
‘I know poor Eremos is an aggravating soul,’ said Salbo, ‘but it was I who put him up to this business, just for the fun of it, and I should hate to see him go to gaol for my foolishness. Can’t you release him, sir?’
‘No, I can’t,’ said the trundor, ‘and he goes to gaol for his own foolishness, not yours.’
‘But, begging your pardon sir, it is Acclamation day and there is a law which says... ’
‘Do you come here to tell me the law?’ asked the trundor indignantly.
‘No,’ said Salbo, ‘but while there is such a law, surely... ’
‘You’ll pardon me, I hope, if I correct you in this matter? The law you refer to is the Act of Discretion, under which I am expected to open the petty gaols on Acclamation day. Expected, mark you, not required. I do not choose to use such discretion in this case, and I will hear no more of the matter.’
‘If that is the law it is a hard interpretation of it... ’ began Salbo.
‘I said I will hear no more! I was appointed justice over the oronoms of this district for my clear-headedness and my great stretch of patience; well, my patience has been over-stretched today. Your friend will lie in gaol, and if you raise another word in his defence you will lie alongside him.’
Salbo looked at him in astonishment. ‘It is no part of your authority,’ he said, ‘to inhibit reasonable defence...’
‘You dare tell me the law? You dare tell me what is my authority and what is reasonable? You dare show me such contempt?’
Salbo looked ashen. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I suppose I do.’
‘You will go to prison for seven days,’ said the trundor. ‘Come into the centre of the court and await the wandors’ return.’ Salbo stepped forward as the other onlookers murmured in astonishment. ‘Now,’ said the trundor, ‘does anybody else wish to raise their voice on these miscreants’ behalf?’
There was a short silence, and then Garafoc said, ‘Yes.’
*
He was led alongside Salbo to the common gaol where Eremos already languished with his head pressed between his claws. ‘Hello,’ he moaned, ‘what’s all this?’
‘Here’s two of your chums come to share your straw with you, and to give you a hand in ruining our holiday,’ said the wandor. ‘May all three of you rot.’ He locked the door on them and slumped moodily onto a bench outside.
‘Oh, Eremos,’ said Salbo, ‘you and your mouth. Why do you always have to be so bloody-minded?’
‘Well, somebody has to be,’ said Eremos. ‘How dare he call me an oronom?’
‘It’s what you are.’
‘But who is he to tell me so? Who is anybody? What makes anyone kyn enough to call anyone else oronom? Oh, my head.’
‘Oh, your mouth!’ said Salbo.
‘What are you doing here, anyway,’ asked Eremos, ‘and who’s he?’
‘I was just an onlooker,’ said Garafoc, ‘but when I saw your friend sentenced for defending you I somehow found myself defending him.’
‘We both got seven days,’ said Salbo.
Eremos looked at them chumpishly. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘it’s just that I get so vexed.’
‘Don’t we know,’ said Salbo. ‘But fancy letting things get so out of proportion.’
‘You did too, it seems,’ said Eremos. ‘I bet you wish now you’d held your tongue.’
‘No,’ said Salbo, ‘funnily enough I don’t. Besides,’ he smirked, there never was any such law as I told you about last night.’
‘I know,’ said Eremos. ‘I may be a fool, but I can spot a lie as clumsy as that one.’ He laughed loudly. ‘But you know me, any excuse for a bit of a barney.’
*
They languished quietly for the rest of the morning with one of the wandors standing gloomy guard. At about lunchtime his fellow officer returned to relieve him. ‘You saw the Acclamation I suppose?’ asked the first.
‘No,’ said the other grumpily, ‘there’s been some sort of hold-up. If you run you may be lucky and catch the start of the procession.’
Eremos sat groaning as his seven flasks of wine filtered brackishly through his liver, and Salbo dozed in a corner while the afternoon Sun spread wide through the barred window. Garafoc rose and went to the window and gazed out over the town.
‘We won’t be missing much,’ said Eremos; ‘just a crowd of silly sightseers cheering for goodness knows what, and a bunch of overfed argonsayers pandering to the old darig and flattering the new. Who needs to see that?’
Garafoc smiled and came to sit by him. ‘If you could meet the new darig,’ he asked, ‘what would you say to him?’
‘What would I say to him? What would I not say to him? It would take me a month to say the things I have to say to him.’
‘Well,’ said Garafoc, ‘if you could say just one thing, just one thing and no other, what would it be?’
‘Just one thing?’
‘And no other.’
‘That’s a pretty problem,’ said Eremos. ‘The hecol of a problem for a loudmouth like me.’
‘Take your time.’
‘Yes, well we’ve both got plenty enough of that.’ He fell silent for a long while, staring now at the ground, now up at the rafters, now at the back of his claw. Eventually he punched the air in aggravation. ‘Fancy asking me to think before I speak,’ he cried. ‘That’s no way to handle genius.’
‘So you wouldn’t say anything to him?’ asked Garafoc.
‘Oh, I would. I just wouldn’t think about it, that’s all.’
‘Would it be much worth saying then?’
‘Better worth saying, I’d say, than most of the things that do get said to him. Anyone can say things they think he’ll like to hear. How do you think all those fat old dragons in the Argonsey got to be so sleek? Flattery, jammery and flannel! That’s what thinking leads to. No, I’d say to him exactly what I felt like saying, however foolish it was. The only question is, would he listen?’
‘You’re sure that’s how it would be? You’re sure you wouldn’t be like all the others and just say the things you thought he wanted to hear?’
‘I’m sure,’ said Eremos.
‘Then I’m sure he would listen to you,’ said Garafoc.
‘Are you?’ said Eremos. ‘Then I’ll tell you another thing I’m sure of: you’re as big a damned fool as I am.’
*
In the mid afternoon the first wandor returned in high excitement. ‘They’re all leaping up and down like yappes out there,’ he said. ‘They can’t find Garafoc anywhere.’
‘What?’ cried the other, ‘has he been done in?’
‘Done in? Done in? You’ve got a really morbid imagination, you have. Why should anyone want to do him in?’
At that moment a third wandor came into the cell block. ‘What in the name of Ganel are you two doing?’ he asked.
‘Guarding the prisoners, sergeant,’ chorused the other wandors.
‘But you’re supposed to be on leave.’
‘We know,’ said one of the others, ‘but the trundor imprisoned this lot, despite the Acclamation, and he told us we’d have to...’
‘I tell you what to do, not the trundor, and I told you to go on leave, didn’t I?’
‘Yes, sergeant.’
‘Then that’s what you are, on leave. I’ll speak to the trundor in the morning.’
‘Thank you, sergeant.’
‘Right, all leave’s been cancelled. Get out there and round up anyone suspicious. If they can’t prove what they’re doing or where they’re living you haul them in, especially if they’re foreign.’
‘What for?’
‘Looks like the new darig’s been done in.’
‘Told you,’ said one wandor.
‘Blimey,’ said the other.
They were about to dash off when Garafoc called out to them, ‘Wait.’ His tone was so imperative that the three wandors almost snapped to attention. ‘There’s no need to arrest anyone.’
‘Oh?’ said the sergeant, recovering swiftly. ‘Well, that’s a relief, I must say. Hear that, lads? This chap here says we needn’t pull anyone in after all. How about a nice thank you for the kind gentlekyn?’ The others sniggered as the sergeant waddled menacingly forward. ‘And just for the record,’ he asked, ‘on whose authority might I announce that the search has been called off?’
‘On mine,’ said Garafoc.
‘On yours? Oh lovely. That’ll put everyone’s mind at rest, that will.’ He sneered loftily. ‘And who the black Abeen might you be, then?’
‘Garafoc,’ came the confident reply.
There was a slight silence as the others looked blankly at him, and they gradually began to laugh. ‘Garafoc!’ they chortled. ‘Garafoc!’ they hooted. ‘Garafoc!’ they shrieked. When their laughter subsided the sergeant looked at him in amiable despair. ‘Well, you’ve got a sauce, I’ll say that. Garafoc, indeed!’
‘But that’s who I am,’ said Garafoc, ‘and I’m commanding you to call off these arrests.’
‘You? Commanding me?’ asked the sergeant. ‘Look, if you’re Garafoc what the blazes are you doing in my gaol?’
‘I was sent here by the trundor,’ said Garafoc.
‘And now you expect me to let you out, just on your say so?’
‘No, not at all. I only expect you to call off the arrests.’
Only Eremos was laughing now, rolling about in an agony of hangover and joy, while all the others smiled uncertainly. ‘Impersonation is a very serious offence,’ said the sergeant. ‘Take care I don’t haul you up before the court again.’
‘I’m not impersonating anyone,’ said Garafoc. ‘I am who I say I am.’
Still Eremos laughed and the sergeant snapped at him, ‘What’s so funny?’ But Eremos was too hysterical to reply.
*
He was still laughing by the time the trundor arrived. ‘What’s this the sergeant’s been telling me?’ he asked. ‘How dare you impersonate your betters? Tell me who you are at once.’
‘I am Garafoc,’ came the reply. Eremos’s laughter rose to a squeal.
*
‘The trundor tells me you’re guilty of high insolence,’ said the alderkyn. ‘Retract at once. Come, tell me who you are.’
‘Garafoc,’ said Garafoc. Eremos gasped for air.
*
‘I don’t think you appreciate the seriousness of your offence,’ said the argonsayer. ‘If they get to hear of this at the Nest of Fire you’ll have the hecol to pay. Now, what’s your name?’
‘Garafoc,’ he replied. Eremos’s laughter had degenerated into long periods of silence punctuated by guttural squalks.
*
Even the squalks were silent by the time the kanellor arrived. ‘Sublimity,’ he said, ‘who is responsible for this outrage?’ He turned to the argonsayer and cried, ‘Release him at once!’
‘Of course,’ said the argonsayer, ‘just my initial intention, I assure you.’ He turned to the alderkyn and cried, ‘Release him, do you hear?’
‘Immediately,’ said the alderkyn, ‘I was all for releasing him on the spot.’ He turned to the trundor and cried, ‘Open this door.’
The wandors flinched, expecting the blame to trickle on down to them, but the trundor lowered his head and said, ‘Certainly, at once. Sergeant, release the prisoner.’
‘Yes sir,’ said the sergeant, fumbling for his keys.
‘Wait,’ said Garafoc. ‘I have served less than a day of my sentence. Is it lawful for me to go?’
‘Oh, indeed it is sir,’ said the alderkyn, ‘please take it on my authority... ’
‘Never mind his authority,’ said the argonsayer, ‘according to the Act of Discretion I am empowered... ’
‘Bother the Act of Discretion,’ said the kanellor, ‘in the name of the darig himself... ’
‘Peace,’ said Garafoc. ‘We need not consult any of these authorities. I am here under the authority of this trundor, and he shall say what is lawful.’
‘But the Acclamation,’ said the kallenor, ‘there might still be time... ’
‘Would you place the Acclamation before the law?’ asked Garafoc.
The officials looked helplessly at one another and then glared in fury at the trundor. ‘Sublimity,’ said the wretched magistrate, ‘you have been properly if badly sentenced and I cannot in law unsentence you; but I beg you to allow me to suspend that sentence. I have done the law more offence than you ever did, and I crave the full rigour of it at your hands.’
Garafoc regarded him in silence, then nodded to the sergeant who ran forward with the keys.
*
The Acclamation lasted well into the evening even though the procession was much curtailed, and the feasting went on until dawn.
Some days later Garafoc sat in the council pit where Eremos, Salbo and the trundor had been brought. The trundor was low-spirited and dishevelled and he dared not look into Garafoc’s eyes. ‘What is your name?’ asked Garafoc.
‘Ednael,’ said the trundor.
‘You did not ask me my name before you sentenced me. If I were a trundor now and you were an oronom how should I deal with you?’
‘According to the law,’ said Ednael, ‘in its full rigour.’
‘Not in equity?’
‘Not for me.’
‘Why?’
‘Because when I thought I was upholding the dignity of the law in truth I was defending my own vanity. I am no longer worthy to administer the law, and I deserve its fullest censure.’
Garafoc turned to Salbo. ‘How should I deal with this wretch?’ he asked.
Eremos chimed in: ‘Let his ears be bitten in the public square!’
‘I was not asking you.’
‘It seems a pity to deal harshly with him,’ said Salbo. ‘He looks sorry enough already, and he’s not been a bad sort over the years.’
‘Well,’ said Garafoc, turning once more to Ednael, ‘this is your doom: you are no longer a trundor of this city,’ Ednael lowered his head still further, ‘because your vanity has led you to abuse the common law; but you are better than the best of those other officials, for when you saw your fault you did not try to deny it. So I shall place you above all other magistrates in this realm, and you shall judge their judgements and be accountable to me for any errors in their justice, and where they are inflexible you must teach them flexibility, as you have learned it yourself.’ Ednael said nothing, but when he tried to look into Garafoc’s eyes he found himself beginning to weep.
‘And you,’ said Garafoc to Salbo, ‘you have shown more honest concern than any other dragon I ever met, and you have spoken up for those who could not or would not speak up for themselves. I shall find a post for you where you can always be so judicious, and your family shall bear a noble name.’ Salbo was utterly abashed and shook his head in wonder.
Garafoc then turned to Eremos and said, ‘You see how I reward these honest fellows? Now, how should I reward you?’
‘Handsomely, I hope,’ said Eremos. ‘Lord High Chief Justice at the very least, or perhaps a crate of wine.’
‘No,’ said Garafoc, ‘but you shall have what you wished for when you were in wine.’
‘What I wished for?’
‘A soft little apartment in the Nest of Fire with no rent to pay.’
‘Oh?’ said Eremos. ‘And what job goes with it?’
‘No job,’ said Garafoc, ‘at least not one worthy of the name. You shall be an adviser whose advice I shall probably never heed, a counsellor whose counsel I shall never seek and an arbiter whose wisdom shall always go untested; but your voice will be as free as the greatest argonsayer in the land, and you shall be at liberty to say whatsoever you like to me whensoever you please, and I shall be at liberty to have you beaten for it.’
‘Only a fool would take such a job,’ said Eremos. ‘I accept.’
‘That,’ said Garafoc, ‘is just what I wanted to hear.’
*
And so Ednael became the first sanag of Pennor, and Garafoc dubbed his nest Spekrey in honour of his repentance; and Salbo was the first of the orsayers who spoke with an equal voice to the argonsayers in the darig’s new council, and his nest was named Savakin because he sought to aid his fellows; and Eremos, though he was never sober enough to squire a nest, was given the name Chulby in memory of his indiscretion, and he always took care never to think before he spoke.
The end of the Tale of the Chulby.
* * * * *
Concerning the days of change
During Namor’s last years Garafoc made a solemn study of the state, pondering the reforms he wished to see in it. The old darig attended council less and less often after his successor’s acclamation, yet out of deference to his patron’s prestige Garafoc was sparing in his authority. There was time enough, he reasoned, after Namor was gone to implement his new ideas, and by then the ideas might not seem so new nor be taken so unreadily. But none of the great dragons of that time was in any doubt that when Namor did pass over to the stars then there would be a mighty shifting in the world.
So for almost forty years the new world crept in upon the old. Salbo was the first of many orsayers whom Garafoc brought into council, and although they had no legal standing none of the argonsayers dared object to them, in public at least. All objected to Eremos, however, and he was often beaten for his more outrageous insolences; but this did nothing to improve his discretion, and his quick words were more often echoed than abhorred. Ednael was a jewel in office, tireless in pursuit of bad justice, being ever-mindful of his own failure. And over all this Namor nodded benignly, just as he had nodded over every measure ever put to him, supposing, half-rightly, that nodding was the better part of wisdom.
In the year 611, when Garafoc was ninety-four, Namor died peacefully in his nest and preparations were put in hand for the Accession. Many had supposed that Garafoc would do away with the Accession altogether, for his dislike of pomp was widely known, but in the event he did nothing to inhibit any of the ceremony and oversaw many of the arrangements himself. Eremos went at him roundly, but was surprised to find himself answered with smiles rather than blows, and eventually he fell silent like the others.
The main ceremonials took place in the public square outside the Nest of Fire in the brilliance of early autumn. Garafoc stepped forward to the mounting roar of the crowd to be invested with the state regalia; but when the kanellor offered to pin the Wardoc to his cloak Garafoc raised his arm and the vast crowd fell silent as he asked, ‘What is the name of this jewel?’
The kanellor was astonished, and replied, ‘The Wardoc, sublimity, our chief treasure.’
‘Let me see it,’ said Garafoc, and he walked forward with the jewel to the edge of the dais, holding it high for all to see. ‘You all know this brooch,’ he said. ‘It has been the sign of the darig since mighty Refirod first made battle for it, and like all our treasures it betokens bravery and pride. Well, I will not wear it... ’ the crowd murmured in dismay, ’... not because I undervalue bravery and pride but because I value them too well. Refirod is secure in our memory, as is Miredot who gave him freely what he had hoped to steal. Let us keep this token of their memory safe, and all these other tokens too, but I shall wear none of them. I have a greater treasure than all these, and I shall wear that if it is your will.’ He drew from the pocket of his cloak a plain pebble set in a simple metal clasp strung through with vine. ‘Here is better regalia,’ he said. ‘While our father Ganel was in the uttermost depth of his despair and the waters were rising to drown him and his valiant son, this pebble lay unnoticed on the shore. But he found his way back into honour and this pebble was part of that way, for which it is called the Waystone, for it is one of the many hundreds he swallowed that fearful night, and it helped save Nicovar for us and helped shape his wisdom. Aldragon kept this pebble in remembrance of his son, and it was the chief treasure of all the early generations. So it should be still, for however much we prize all acts of courage there is none in history to match beloved Ganel’s. I tremble to ask you this, for no dragon could be worthy of such an honour, but for the honour of all dragons I would wear this stone around my neck as Ganel wore the burning stone round his, as a remembrance not only of our honour but of how easily it may be lost, and how hard once lost it is to find again. Tell me, may I wear the stone?’
The crowd was tumultuous in reply, slapping their wings together in delight and hugging one another, weeping and laughing, stamping in approval. Every dragon of whatever degree seemed pleased, from the humblest oronom to the wealthiest argonsayer, and the kanellor too was all smiles as he stepped forward to complete the investiture.
But again Garafoc raised his arm. ‘You will forgive me, I know,’ he told the kanellor, ‘for one more tiny alteration.’ He beckoned Eremos forward from the back of the dais and said, ‘You are the sternest critic of such ceremony. Do you approve of this?’
Without uttering a word Eremos took the pendant and thrust it unceremoniously about the darig’s neck. The crowd cheered and Eremos grinned hugely. ‘So there is something to celebrate after all,’ he said, ‘even for us.’
*
Garafoc continued to be gradual in his reforms, so forestalling any concerted opposition from those whose privileges were steadily being eroded. It was many years before the Argonsey granted legal status to the orsayers, even though the Orsey had been meeting since shortly after the Acclamation. When the Bill of Entitlement was read to them the orsayers replied with a short bill of their own, somewhat whimsically worded, implying a reciprocal recognition of the Argonsey by themselves. This ruffled not a few feathers in the senior assembly and paved the way for much subsequent mistrust.
Election to the Orsey was open to anyone and all adult dragons were eligible to vote. Admission to the Argonsey was theoretically open to all, but the election remained the privilege of the other argonsayers and the entrance fee was prohibitively high. Yet although it was still a mark of great distinction to be chosen for the Argonsey, its voice became ever less paramount in the darig’s council.
When in 642 the kanellor died a list of possible successors was drawn up by the elders of the Argonsey and passed to Garafoc for his choice. The post was a purely ceremonial one and went traditionally to an argonsayer of deep learning but little spark; yet for all its lack of influence the position was hungered after by many and the darig’s choice was eagerly awaited.
Garafoc made no mention of the list for many weeks, and finally the leader of the Argonsey had to ask him in open council who was to be his choice. ‘I have considered this deeply,’ he replied, ‘and I cannot for the life of me find any reason to appoint anybody to this post, nor any reason for the post itself. If you insist on such an appointment I will make it, but not necessarily from among those names submitted.’
The Argonsey went into closed council after this and, fearful that Garafoc might appoint an orsayer or, worse, the dreadful Eremos as kanellor, they withdrew their list and let the matter drop.
Over the years the whole concept of privilege came under scrutiny, and to their intense irritation the argonsayers found their very status being discussed openly by the orsayers. In 675 matters came to a head.
*
The leader of the Argonsey, called the arig, was the foremost minister of state. In day to day matters his power was greater even than the darig’s, for he had none of the titular constraints of that post and enjoyed full control over all the civil offices. Given a strong and righteous arig this was no bad thing, but the present incumbent, possibly because of the uncertainty of the times, was a wayward and petulant soul. His name was Sobor, and he brooked opposition badly.
But opposition there was and it grew ever more vocal. One voice in particular was always raised in question of the arig’s decisions: Almard’s, a descendant of Salbo Savakin, and the acknowledged leader of the Orsey. He was youthful and unafraid and could argue logic out of doors. In debate he would make for his opponent’s strongest point, for if that fell all else fell with it. He bitterly resented the power that went with wealth, yet rather than attack the power itself he attacked the wealth that underlay it. ‘How is it right,’ he argued, ‘for any dragon to own another dragon? There are creatures enough fitted to be our slaves, but no dragon, howsoever base, should be numbered among them.’ It was rare of course that any dragon was ever reduced to slavery, but even those rare cases gave weight to Almard’s argument. But when it was enacted that no dragon should henceforth be made a slave Almard’s opposition still did not cease. ‘Are not our cousins, the wyverns and griffins, to be afforded the common dignity of all draganity? Must they number so largely among the slaves? And our beloved dywiverns and egyrn, progenitors of our blood, must they be bought and sold by us like oor? Are there not sufficient mogoots to serve our needs?’ In truth there were not sufficient mogoots, for if worked too hard they were past eating, and even had there been they were not of sufficient intelligence to work unsupervised by the higher slaves. Garafoc began to sense that the draught of justice was at the point of turning sour.
He summoned a special council and said, ‘We have reached a clearing in our history. For more than a hundred years I have heard new voices rise to complement the old, and it is now time to regulate those voices. It is right that the high officers of state should be subject to close question, but those who question should also comprehend the responsibility of power. Therefore I shall appoint a second arig, from among the orsayers, to share the experience of leadership with Sobor, for those who seek to alter things should first know what it is they are altering.’ And he named Almard as the second arig, thinking only to temper his radicalism, and unconscious of the deep offence he caused.
*
‘I have been arig for seventy years, since before old Namor died. I’ve years left in me yet. I’ve not gone unnoticed, have I? I have done the darig some small service. How can he repay me in this manner? To be yoked with a slave-lover who is little above a slave himself!’ Unable to find expression deep enough he roared in bitter anguish, dashing his wine flask to the floor where it split and ran red. ‘My dear young friend,’ he said, ‘forgive me. I’m an old scratcher. Take no notice.’
His companion smiled and said nothing.
‘And to be harnessed to a dragg!’ Sobor all but wept with rage. ‘I was into my hundreds before I was chosen, and I was the youngest for centuries. This Almard, what is he, thirty, forty, fifty? No older than you, I dare swear. I’m old enough to be his grandsire’s grandsire! I will not share my office with such a tike! I’d rather resign and see the whole world run mad.’
Still his companion only smiled.
‘Ilnaso, am I at fault in this? Tell me, my dear young friend, for I have always tried to face up to my faults. But I have searched and searched, and there is but one fault that I can see: the darig’s fault that he should have done this to me.’
‘There is another fault,’ said Ilnaso, ‘Almard’s fault, for rising so far above himself. And who is to say it will end here? When you are gone and he is sole arig in the high strength of his years, will he permit another to be yoked with him? The world is on its ears already, and Almard will turn it upon its head if he can.’
They were alone in Sobor’s chamber. The old dragon was overwits in wine and the young griffin’s eyes were bitter green.
Sobor grasped his ears and rolled his head in fury. ‘If he had done the service I have done, if he had spent a life as long as mine in honour of the state, then he might question the decree of age. But simply to give voice to the rabble’s envy, simply to throw sand on the sacred flames, that I will not abide!’ He gave a groaning sigh and let his head fall heavy into his hands. ‘And yet I must abide it, for the darig will have it so. Oh, Ilnaso, what is to come of this?’
Again the griffin smiled.
‘It’s easy enough when you’ve no slaves of your own to carp at those who have,’ said Sobor. ‘Let him wait until he has a little wealth and someone tries to rob him of it, let him see how he feels. He’ll wriggle with the best of them, mark my words.’
‘I fear not,’ said Ilnaso. ‘I’ve seen within his eyes. There’s a fanatic in him, as there is in Garafoc. They will both live by their words.’
‘And die by them too, I trust!’ Sobor checked himself. ‘I shouldn’t say that. It’s the wine. Pay me no heed.’ He lay his head against the wall and wept loudly, and Ilnaso sat deep in contemplation at his side. When at last his tears subsided Sobor asked, ‘If you can see into dragons’ souls look into mine. What is to become of my lost honour?’
‘It is to be found again,’ said Ilnaso, ‘by some means.’
‘What means?’
‘That we must think upon.’
*
During each Long Council, which ran for seven or eight days each winter, the guest apartments of the Nest of Fire were full to overflowing, and the Honour Guard had to take on special recruits to help usher the guests through the confusion of passages into their proper rooms. But the specials themselves were often as confused as the guests, and many an orsayer wound up in a room fit for an argonsayer, and vice versa. But after the first evening or two things sorted themselves out.