Beyond the Hanging Wall (22 page)

Unlike its existence in the dream world, the Pavilion was carved from solid yet curiously translucent white stone. Its columns, twelve in all, soared to support a domed roof of emerald enamel that cast a deep shadow over the circular floor.

Calm and sure, Maximilian stepped into the very centre of the floor, then he sank to his knees, his head bowed in prayer for a long moment.

Raising his head and taking a deep breath, Maximilian slipped the ring of his forefathers from his finger and leaned down to the mosaic floor. Not hesitating, he grasped the ring so that its black gemstone was turned downwards, then he carved into the stone floor, tracing the lines already laid out in translucent blue gems.

Cavor was taking his afternoon leisure in the parlour of the Ladies House in Myrna. Despite the soldiers
lack of progress in finding Lot No. 859, Cavor seemed curiously unworried. Later that afternoon, he had assured Egalion (who waited patiently outside), he would order the royal guard to a new destination—one that would almost certainly yield results.

Then, just as the youngest and most delectable of Anya’s girls leaned her sweet lips towards his, Cavor let out a most unloverlike shriek and shoved the girl aside.

Fire was slowly tracing through the lines of his mark.

Slowly, but with fierce concentration, Maximilian traced through the patterns on the floor. Expelling his breath in relief as he completed the pattern, he stepped back, not taking his eyes from the stone floor.

The floor was laid out in deep green tiles, but with a slightly raised pattern of blue insets that outlined the same mark that stood out on Maximilian’s arm.

As Maximilian watched, the green shimmered, then the blue lines wavered and his own mark burned fiercely.

He hardly noticed it.

Slowly the blue shape set in stone bulged into the room as lines quivered into life, and stone into bone.

Cavor staggered outside onto the verandah, brushing aside Anya’s concerns, and grabbed Egalion by the shoulder as the commander snapped to surprised attention.

“Get my horse,” the king whispered hoarsely, “and get those damned units of yours moving. We ride to the forests.
Now!
”

The Manteceros sighed and shook himself, regretting—as always—the transfer from the dream world into this. This world only contained soreness and problems, and the Manteceros had every expectation that it had just materialised into one of the greatest problems it was ever likely to face.

The creature gazed about the Pavilion, its face mournful, its eyes sorrowing, then it rested its eyes on the man who stood before him. “Who comes to claim?” it asked. “Who dares the Dream?”

“I do,” the man said quietly, and the Manteceros did not fail to note the unconscious pride in his bearing.

“And you are…?”

Maximilian stood straighter, wondering at the strange beast that now stood before him. Yet he was not frightened, nor even overawed. For fourteen years he had been trained for this very moment.

“I am Maximilian Persimius, Prince of Escator, Warden of Ruen, Lord of the Ports and Suzerain of the Plains,” he replied, giving the Manteceros his full titles, “and I am heir to the throne of Escator.”

“Oh I don’t know about that,” the Manteceros mumbled
sotto voce
, shifting its weight from leg to leg. “Why have you summoned me forth?” it asked in a louder although no less doubtful voice.

The Manteceros knew why—but all the formalities had to be observed.

“I claim the throne of Escator.”

The Manteceros’ agitation increased. “You dare to claim? You—”

“I dare,” Maximilian interrupted softly, and the Manteceros’ eyes narrowed. “
I
dare to claim.”

“This is very unfortunate,” the Manteceros said. “
Very
. The throne does not lie vacant.”

Maximilian was silent, his blue eyes steady on the beast before him.

“Well,” the Manteceros said, and blew air through its nostrils in a deep sigh, “why now? Why wait all this time?”

“I was deceived and kept from making my claim at the rightful time.” Maximilian paused. “The wrong man sits the throne.”

“He made a good claim,” the Manteceros justified.

“Nevertheless,” Maximilian said, refusing to back down, “he is the wrong man.”

The Manteceros pursed its lips, remembering what Garth had told him. “I have heard tell you think yourself a changeling,” it challenged.

“It was a lie to keep me chained and silent. I am true-blooded and bred, and I am first-born.” Maximilian’s tone hardened. “The throne is mine.”

Now the Manteceros’ tail swished and the skin along its back twitched. It snorted. “You know I shall have to administer the ordeal.”

Maximilian held the beast’s eyes, but did not speak.

“You are very confident,” the Manteceros observed, and a strange light filled its eyes. “But are you confident enough to dare the ordeal? Do you have the strength and fortitude to see you through?”

“I have no choice,” Maximilian replied. He paused, wondering at the expression in the Manteceros’ eyes. “Will you accept my claim?”

“
I
have no choice,” the Manteceros said tersely.

“And the ordeal? When will you administer that?”

The Manteceros stared at the man. “Cavor sits the throne. When you challenge him with your claim, then will I administer the ordeal.”

Then, in a flash of blue light so bright that Maximilian was forced to close his eyes and step back, the Manteceros vanished.

“Too late!” Cavor hissed as he pulled his horse to an abrupt halt on the road eastwards. “I lingered in that black sinkhole too long!”

“Sire?” Egalion mumbled, confused. Behind them the column of soldiers were milling to a halt.

Cavor turned furious eyes on his commander. “Take three squads and ride for the forests, Egalion. Seek any who might harbour the escapee. I…” his voice dropped and Egalion had to lean close to hear him, “I shall ride for Ruen. Home. Guard the throne. Wait. He must appear eventually.”

Guard the throne?
Egalion wondered, but he did not voice his question. “As you wish, sire,” and, shouting orders, he formed three squads behind him.

They stayed that afternoon and the next day in the stone hut, Maximilian silent and introspective, the others waiting for some sign of what he wanted to do.

On the evening of the day after he had claimed, Maximilian raised his eyes from the fire, glanced at the four sitting quiet about him, and said one word, “Ruen.”

They left the next morning, the forest still and secretive about them. Even the bird calls were muted, yet none, all caught to some extent by Maximilian’s introspection, thought to question why.

Garth and Joseph led the small column, riding the horses. Some fifteen or twenty paces behind them stepped Ravenna, wrapped in mysteriousness as thick as her cloak, and some further eight or nine paces behind her came Maximilian and Vorstus.
Maximilian had abandoned the clothes he wore to claim, and was now dressed in drab woodsman’s clothes—but Garth thought that even in their rough weave he exuded both dignity and destiny. None seeing him could ignore him.

Maximilian and Vorstus conversed in low tones, discussing the safest route to Ruen (through the forests for as long as they could, then across the plains by the stealth of night) and the knottier problem of what they should do when they got there. If Maximilian needed to challenge Cavor’s right to sit the throne he would undoubtedly have to get into the palace. How best to do that? Vorstus took Maximilian’s arm and his tone sank even lower.

The morning was clear and, as far as Garth could see through the interlacing branches of the forest, relatively bright. He relaxed on his horse, refusing to worry until they were closer to Ruen. Joseph glanced at him, sharing a smile with his son, then turned his eyes back to the path; light dappled prettily across the leaf-strewn ground and Joseph wondered at the sense of peace that enveloped the forest.

There was a slight noise to the right, and Joseph turned his head slightly, expecting to see a badger snuffling through the undergrowth.

Instead he saw a glint of steel.

And the peace of the forest shattered.

Scouts had reported movement ahead of them ten minutes before and Egalion, experienced campaigner that he was, had no trouble setting the trap well before the two riders emerged from a pool of particularly shadowed forest light. Having been
at court when Joseph Baxtor had treated Cavor almost two weeks previously, Egalion recognised them instantly.

He also knew them to be the prime suspects in the escape.

Egalion gave a smooth, economical hand signal and the attack was launched—neither the physician nor his son had a chance. Within heartbeats they were ringed with steel, their faces pale with shock, their horses’ heads tossing in alarm.

Too late Egalion realised that there were several other people on foot some distance behind the Baxtors.

There was a girl—he saw her first—and saw her wheel about to place restraining hands on the chest of a tall, dark-haired man who had stepped forward the instant he saw the riders encircled.

The man’s face was pale, his eyes wide pools of blue anger, and he opened his mouth to shout something.

Another man, older and tonsured like a monk, had grasped the man’s arms from behind and, like the girl, was similarly restraining him.

Egalion spurred his horse past the milling soldiers about the Baxtors, intent on seizing the man before he could escape. He must be the prisoner—who else would the Baxtors attempt to secrete in these woods?—and the capture of the Baxtors would be incidental if the prisoner were to escape.

Egalion was not worried about either the girl or the monk; the girl was slight and the monk too old to seriously perturb an armoured man on horseback. None were armed.

Yet even as he hefted his sword in his hand something made Egalion hesitate.

The man’s face—the
prisoner’s
face—seemed familiar, and Egalion did not understand it. The prisoner’s bearing and his startling anger when he should have been afraid gave him the demeanour of a noble, not a man who by rights should have scuttled to cower in the shadows at the first sign of trouble.

Egalion was a man several years past fifty, and he remembered the past king well.

He also remembered—and why this memory now?—the young prince, lost in this very forest.

“
Maximilian!
” the girl screamed, and wrapped her arms about him. “
No!
”

Tendrils of mist appeared from nowhere and wrapped themselves about the monk and the girl, both still struggling to keep the prisoner from rushing down the forest path to rescue the Baxtors.

Maximilian? Egalion’s confusion grew.

His horse, sensing his hesitation, faltered in its rush, and gave Ravenna the vital seconds she needed to get Maximilian away from the trap. She hugged Maximilian to her, enveloping both him and Vorstus in rapidly thickening mist, and dragging them through to the dream world with every last ounce of power that she had.

Behind him Egalion could hear horsemen spurring to his aid, but it was too late…far too late. One moment the three figures had been struggling in the middle of the shadowed path before him, all three—even the girl now—staring at him with a mixture of anger and defiance, then strange mist had enveloped
them and, in enveloping them, spirited them away in a manner that was beyond Egalion’s understanding.

In the next instant his horse strode through and beyond the spot where they had stood, and Egalion reined him back and wheeled him about, his eyes frantically searching the shrubbery and trees.

But neither his eyes nor the efforts of his men could flush anything out of the surrounding forest save a dozen birds and a scuttling lizard, and Egalion was forced to ride for Ruen with only the Baxtors to assuage Cavor’s need for satisfaction.

And as they rode, Egalion thought only one thing.

Maximilian?
Maximilian?

The Chamber of Justice was cold, and Joseph thought that the coldness emanated not only from the stone walls and flagging, but also from the fear and retribution that had been meted out in the chamber through the centuries.

He had been here on several occasions, twice to observe a trial, once to give evidence, but never had he thought to sit in the prisoners’ dock himself.

Despite the warning growl from one of the guards behind the dock, Joseph risked a glance to Garth, sitting still and tense beside him.

The youth’s face was pale but composed, and Joseph turned his eyes back to the chamber before him. He would cheerfully give his own life if it meant saving his son’s, but he did not think Cavor would let either of them live.

From the forest Egalion had hastened them with all haste due south to Ruen. Although closely guarded, they were not treated with any measure
of harshness, and both Garth and Joseph wondered sometimes at the strange looks Egalion threw their way.

He’d given the guards strict orders not to speak with the prisoners, nor allow them to exchange words between themselves. Egalion himself spent most evenings brooding silently about his camp fire.

If Egalion had treated them firmly but fairly, their treatment had altered harshly once they were under the direct control of Cavor in Ruen. Joseph and Garth were thrown into separate cells, where they lingered for two cold and dark days. No-one spoke to them and no-one entered their cells, although Joseph wondered if occasionally Cavor himself came down to the dungeons to stand outside their iron doors and peer through the peepholes.

Sometimes he’d thought he could feel such venomous anger seeping from the other side of his cell door that Joseph had shuddered and turned his back.

Silence surrounded them, even here in the Chamber of Justice, for Cavor doubtless wanted no-one to hear
who
it was that the Baxtors had helped escape.

Yet the chamber was packed.

Immediately below the dais where Cavor would sit to pass judgement, the prisoners’ dock to one side, were a veritable horde of scribes, eyes sharp and yet curiously still, their quills sharpened and held at the ready, pots of ink full and easily to hand.

Behind them ranged several hundred observers. Nobles mostly, although Joseph could pick out a score of Ruen’s most important townsmen and
merchants, and behind them a goodly collection of the shopkeepers and workmen of the city. Even further to the rear lurked three or four pickpockets and cutpurses—here to witness or to enrich themselves? Joseph did not know and cared even less.

Ringing all were at least four squads of Egalion’s most experienced soldiers, faces blank, bodies tense. Egalion himself stood to one side of the dais, as silent as all the rest, waiting for Cavor’s entrance.

Joseph was not heartened by the empty jury box directly opposite the dock; but then, treason was always tried and judged without the benefit of a jury.

Surreptitiously he dropped a hand to one side and touched Garth on the hip, gently, reassuringly, and was rewarded by a slight relaxing in his son’s muscles. Quickly, before the guard could see and intervene, Joseph sent as much love through the Touch as he could.

More than anything else, he regretted that Garth had been caught in this trap. The boy was far too young to die.

Whatever reflections those within the silent chamber were engaged in ceased the next moment as Cavor emerged from a rear door and stepped crisply to the dais. He was dressed in the blue bearskin-trimmed robes of the highest Justice in the realm; Joseph saw that he wore armour beneath them, the Manteceros gleaming from a brightly burnished chest plate.

Joseph’s mouth twisted wryly; did Cavor need to hide behind armour from the inevitability of Maximilian’s return?

The smile died, and Joseph wondered if Maximilian, even if aided by the powers of Ravenna and Vorstus, could rescue them from this predicament.

Unlike Joseph, Garth harboured no doubts that Maximilian would rescue them. Right was on their side, and if judgement was to be served here today, then Garth believed that it would be passed on Cavor, not on himself or his father.

Garth’s face hardened slightly as he watched Cavor take his place. The man had carefully avoided looking at them, and he arranged his robes scrupulously as he sat in the Seat of Judgement—a high-backed and heavily carved wooden throne. When he raised his head Garth saw that Cavor had just as scrupulously arranged his features; sadness and betrayal shone from his face in equal amounts. Here was a king who had trusted, and who had been betrayed vilely by those he had every reason to trust. Garth had to admire him; few present could have seen beneath the exterior to the lies and secrets kept for seventeen years.

Far to the rear, the mouth of one of the street thieves, his hands uncharacteristically in his own pockets for a change, twisted in a humourless smile. These past days rumours had swept the streets, and the thief had collected them as assiduously as he collected the earnings of other men. Unlike the coin he hoarded, however, the thief had passed the rumours on.

But Garth did not notice the reactions of men in the rear of the chamber. Behind him a guard poked him in the back, and he rose to his feet with his father.

Cavor raised his head to speak, his face composed and grave, his voice ringing with the sadness of betrayal. “My people. It troubles me greatly to request your presence here this day to witness. In the dock,” he did not look their way, “stand two I had once counted among my friends. I trusted them, with my secrets—”

Not all, Garth thought cynically.

“And even with my life.” Cavor shuddered theatrically, and closed his eyes for a moment. “Why they did not slip the knife into my ribs when they had me alone, I do not know. Perhaps they did not have the courage.” He paused. “But I digress.”

His tone strengthened and he sat straighter in his chair. A faint blush stained his cheeks, as if the enormity of the Baxtors’ treason cut to his soul. “Physician Joseph Baxtor, of Narbon, and his son and apprentice, Garth, are charged with treason of the most reprehensible and highest degree. They did knowingly conspire to effect a mass escape of the prisoners justly condemned to the Veins—”

A polite shiver ran through the front ranks of the nobles, although Garth noticed it did not spread to the back of the chamber where stood the ordinary people of Ruen. Undoubtedly many had lost husbands, sons and brothers to the gloam.

Garth’s eyes switched to Egalion. The man’s face was as unreadable as blank stone.

Cavor continued, encouraged by the reaction of the nobles. “Once they had their disorderly rabble freed into the sunlight, they meant to stir a general revolt against the throne of Escator. I have no doubt, my friends,” and Cavor’s tone dropped, as if the
words hurt him as badly as the death of a friend, “Baxtor meant to put himself on the throne in order to satisfy his base instincts for power.”

Both Garth’s and his father’s mouths dropped open and Joseph stirred, as if he would say something, but Cavor forestalled him.

“Silence!” he hissed venomously, and the hand he had wrapped about his orb of state trembled violently. “I will hear none of your perfidious and warped words! Your actions judge you, and words will only condemn you deeper into the everlasting fire pits of the afterlife.”

Garth’s chest constricted, almost unable to bear the enormity of the lies Cavor spoke against them.

But then, Cavor had a lot to hide.

To one side, a hint of consternation flickered across Egalion’s face, but he controlled it quickly. Within the back ranks of observers there was a moment of restless movement, but it stilled quickly.

Cavor passed a hand over his eyes, then continued in a quieter and more controlled voice. “They did not succeed—their ineptness resulted in the escape of only one prisoner.” He glossed over the issue of the prisoner. “But I must judge them on their intentions, not their ineptitude, and so,” he took a deep breath and sat back in the Seat of Judgement, “I do so pass judgement. Egalion?”

Egalion jumped, as if his thoughts had been far away.

“Egalion. The covered axe, if you will.”

Despite his determined optimism, Garth shuddered. The covered axe would reveal his and his father’s fate, and Garth had no doubt what it would be.