‘Who is he?’
Djukta turned his head. ‘Akros,’ he called, ‘come here and tell our colleagues here about Ayachin.’ He shrugged and spread his hands. ‘I’m not too well-versed in ancient history,’ he explained. ‘Akros used to be a teacher before he got caught stealing from his employer. He may not be too coherent. He has a little problem with drink.’
Akros was a shabby-looking fellow with bloodshot eyes and a five-day growth of beard. ‘What was it you wanted, Djukta?’ he asked, swaying on his feet.
‘Sort through what’s left of your brain and tell our friends here what you can remember about Ayachin.’
The drunken pedagogue smiled, his bleary eyes coming alight. He slid into a chair and took a drink from his tankard. ‘I’m only a little drunk,’ he said, his speech slurred.
‘That’s true,’ Djukta told Stragen. ‘When he’s really drunk, he can’t even talk.’
‘How much do you gentlemen know of the history of Astel?’ Akros asked them.
‘Not too much,’ Stragen admitted.
‘I’ll touch the high spots then.’ Akros leaned back in his chair. ‘It was in the ninth century that one of the Archprelates in Chyrellos decided that the Elene faith ought to be re-united – under his domination, naturally.’
‘Naturally,’ Stragen smiled. ‘It always seems to get down to that, doesn’t it?’
Akros rubbed at his face. ‘I’m a little shaky on this, so I might leave some things out. This was before the founding of the Church Knights, so this Archprelate forced the Kings of Eosia to provide him with armies, and they marched through Zemoch. That was before Otha was born, so Zemoch wasn’t much of a barrier. The Archprelate was interested in religious unity, but the noblemen in his army were more interested in conquest. They ravaged the kingdom of Astel until Ayachin came.’
Talen leaned forward, his eyes bright. It was the boy’s one weakness. A good story could paralyse him.
Akros took another drink. ‘There are all sorts of conflicting stories about who Ayachin really was,’ he continued. ‘Some say he was a prince, some that he was a baron, and there are even those who say he was only a serf. Anyway, whoever he was, he was a fervent patriot. He roused such noblemen as hadn’t yet gone over to the invaders, and then he did something no one had ever dared do before. He armed the serfs. The campaign against the invaders lasted for years, and after a fairly large battle that he seemed to lose, Ayachin fled southward, luring the Eosian armies into the Astel marshes in the south of the kingdom. He’d made secret alliances with patriots in Edom, and there was a huge army lining the southern fringe of the marshes. Serfs who lived in the region guided Ayachin’s armies through the bogs and quicksand, but the Eosians tried to just bull their way through, and most of them drowned, pulled under by all that muck. The few who reached the far side were slaughtered by the combined forces of Ayachin and his Edomish allies.
‘He was a great national hero for a time, of course, but the nobles who had been outraged because he’d armed the serfs conspired against him, and he was eventually murdered.’
‘Why do these stories always have to end that way?’ Talen complained.
‘Our young friend here is a literary critic,’ Stragen said. ‘He wants his stories to all have happy endings.’
‘The ancient history is all well and good,’ Djukta growled, ‘but the point of all this is that Ayachin’s returned – or so the serfs say.’
‘It’s a part of the folk-lore of Astel,’ Akros said. ‘Serfs used to tell each other that someday a great crisis would arise, and that Ayachin would rise from the grave to lead them again.’
Stragen sighed. ‘Can’t anyone come up with a new story?’
‘What’s that?’ Djukta asked him.
‘Nothing, really. There’s a similar story making the rounds in Eosia. Why would this concern us if we decided to go into business around here?’
‘Part of that folk-lore Akros was telling you about is something that makes everybody’s blood run cold. The serfs believe that when Ayachin returns, he’s going to emancipate them. Now there’s a hot-head out there stirring them up. We don’t know his real name, but the serfs call him “Sabre”. He’s going around telling them that he’s actually seen Ayachin. The serfs are secretly gathering weapons – or making them. They sneak out into the forests at night to listen to this “Sabre” make speeches. You should probably know that they’re out there, since it might be dangerous if you happened upon them unexpectedly.’ Djukta scratched at his shaggy beard. ‘I don’t normally feel this way, but I wish the government would catch this Sabre fellow and hang him or something. He’s got the serfs all worked up about throwing off the oppressors, and he’s not too specific about which oppressors he means. He could be talking about the Tamuls, but many of his followers think he’s talking about the upper classes. Restless serfs are dangerous serfs. Nobody knows how many of them there really are, and if they begin to get wild ideas about equality and justice, God only knows where it might end.’
Chapter 10 (#ulink_ade48249-d85c-58e4-853f-78d9ac4f1448)
‘There are just too many similarities for it to be a coincidence,’ Sparhawk was saying the following morning as they rode northeasterly along the Darsos road under a lowering sky. He and his companions had gathered around Ehlana’s carriage to discuss Djukta’s revelations. The air was close and muggy, and there was not a breath of air stirring.
‘I’d almost have to agree,’ Ambassador Oscagne replied. ‘There’s a certain pattern emerging here, if what you’ve told me about Lamorkand is at all accurate. Our empire is certainly not democratic, and I’d imagine that your western kingdoms are much the same; but we’re not really such hard masters – either of us. I think we’ve become the symbols of the social injustices implicit in every culture. I’m not saying that people don’t hate us. Everybody in the world loathes his government – no offence intended, your Majesty.’ He smiled at Ehlana.
‘I do what I can to keep my people from hating me too much, your Excellency,’ she replied. Ehlana wore a pale blue velvet travelling cloak, and Sparhawk felt that she looked particularly pretty this morning.
‘No one could possibly hate someone as lovely as you, your Majesty,’ Oscagne smiled. ‘The point though, is that the world seethes with discontent, and someone is playing on all those disparate resentments in an effort to bring down the established order – the empire here in Tamuli and the monarchies and the Church in Eosia. Somebody wants there to be a great deal of turmoil, and I don’t think he’s motivated by a hunger for social justice.’
‘We’d go a long way toward understanding the situation if we could pinpoint just exactly what he is after,’ Emban added.
‘Opportunity,’ Ulath suggested. ‘If everything’s all settled and the wealth and power have all been distributed, there’s nothing left for the people coming up the ladder. The only way they can get their share is to turn everything upside down and shake it a few times.’
‘That’s a brutal political theory, Sir Ulath,’ Oscagne said disapprovingly.
‘It’s a brutal world, your Excellency,’ Ulath shrugged.
‘I’d have to disagree,’ Bevier stubbornly asserted.
‘Go right ahead, my young friend,’ Ulath smiled. ‘I don’t mind all that much when people disagree with me.’
‘There is such a thing as genuine political progress. The people’s lot is much better now than it was five hundred years ago.’
‘Granted, but what’s it going to be like next year?’ Ulath leaned back in his saddle, his blue eyes speculative. ‘Ambitious people need followers, and the best way to get people to follow you is to promise them that you’re going to correct everything that’s wrong with the world. The promises are all very stirring, but only babies expect leaders to actually keep them.’
‘You’re a cynic, Ulath.’
‘I think that’s the word people use, yes.’
The weather grew increasingly threatening as the morning progressed. A thick bank of purplish cloud marched steadily in from the west, and there were flickers of lightning along the horizon. ‘It’s going to rain, isn’t it?’ Tynian asked Khalad.
Khalad looked pointedly toward the cloud-bank. ‘That’s a fairly safe bet, Sir Knight,’ the young man replied.
‘How long until we start to get wet?’
‘An hour or so – unless the wind picks up.’
‘What do you think, Sparhawk?’ Tynian asked. ‘Should we look for some kind of shelter?’
There was a far-off rumble of thunder from the west.
‘I think that answers that question,’ Sparhawk decided. ‘Men dressed in steel don’t have any business being out in a thunderstorm.’
‘Good point,’ Tynian agreed. He looked around. The next question is where? I don’t see any woods around.’
‘We might have to set up the tents.’
That’s awfully tedious, Sparhawk.’
‘So’s being fried in your armour if you get struck by lightning.’
Kring came riding back toward the main column with a small, two-wheeled carriage following him. The man in the carriage was blond, plump and soft-looking. He wore clothing cut in a style which had gone out of fashion in the west forty years ago. ‘This is the landowner Kotyk,’ the Domi said to Sparhawk. ‘He calls himself a baron. He wanted to meet you.’
‘I am overwhelmed to meet the stalwarts of the Church, Sir Knights,’ the plump man gushed.
