Abbalar Tales ~ 26

 Abbalar Tales ~ 26 The Palace 1

By Len Morgan

“Mistress, they have escaped from the cellars.”

“Fools, how did you let it happen; Harby…”

“There is a low ventilation grill in each of the cells, on the outside there is an expanse of underground tunnels…”

‘Fazeil, what know you of tunnels beneath the city?’ she asked using mind speak.

‘There are extensive tunnels circling the inside walls of the city, they have remained unused and empty, ever since they were discovered some five-six hundred years ago.   There is access from the palace but no other known way in or out.’ He replied.

‘Harby has discovered a number of exits, through the cellars of the outer rim houses.’

‘I caution you that they should not become common knowledge lest our own designs be compromised.   Those access routes must be disguised.   The security of the city is at stake, only the Caliph and a few of his closest advisers, currently, have access.’

‘Four of the intended offerings have got loose and fled into those tunnels.’ She warned.

.-…-. 

He stepped through the portal, surrounded by mist, the missive to Asba Dylon still in his hand.   As the mist cleared he carefully consigned it to his pouch.   He found himself standing at the hub of a lightning-struck tree whose shards spread out, parallel with the ground, like the spokes of a giant wheel.   He sprang from the stump, bending his knees for what he judged to be a hop of several feet only to find, to his dismay, that he'd completely misjudged the distance.   It was in fact nearer six feet and he had to roll ungracefully to avoid a bad landing.   He stood up and turned to memorise the location of the portal for when he needed to return.   He only had four days and may need to find it in a hurry, before their dreams turned to dark terror and consumed them both as surely as they would had they been reality.   He turned slowly through a complete circle mapping his surroundings and committing them to memory.   He experienced a rush of excitement as he realised where he was.   These woods were the private hunting reserves of the first family of Corvalen.   He had spent many happy hours here as a child, hunting small game rabbits, pigeon, grouse, deer and other game.

"Hey, you!   What are you doing here?" a familiar voice demanded.  

He turned with a broad grin on his face expecting to see Elroed, the master woodsman, who managed these woodlands.   Thirty yards separated them; he noted Elroed held a partially flexed bow pointing menacingly in his direction.   No smile or look of recognition showed on the man’s face.  

"Good day master woodsman, I was passing and thought to see for myself the fabled Northern Reserve of Corvalen," He said.    "You are Elroed?" he questioned squinting into the morning sun.   "I have been very interested in the reports I have heard about your crop rotation theories, your coppicing practices, and methods of animal husbandry.   I decided long ago that if ever I found myself in this area I would look you up and see them for myself.   I am very impressed."  As he spoke he skimmed the surface of Elroed's mind.   He was surprised to find a deep sadness underlying his thoughts.   His father had disappeared just prior to the last conjunction.   He sensed tenderness, deeply underpinned by strength and a burning sense of commitment to the work and to destiny.   He was potentially far greater than his father.   He had chosen to plough a lone furrow, and Aldor felt a great affinity with the man.  

"My father is gone; he was a pioneer, his methods inspired, and years before their time."  It was no boast, just a simple statement of fact.  "I will continue in his stead as best I can, and seek to emulate him, it will be a labour of love."

"Forgive me but, you are so like the description I was given of him," in truth he had seen them both a scant seven month earlier.   The son a tall spindly youth, his father the same height but as broad again, rangy with a face filled with strength and purpose.   Each head topped off with a mop of wild unruly copper locks.   On closer inspection his youth became obvious, but at a distance, they could have been twins.   It was only fitting he should be appointed to continue his father's forestry programs and bring them to fruition.

"You are trespassing.   Who be you stranger," he asked in an easy drawl with portents of menace, "your words infer awareness of our ways so you must know these woodlands are private, now I must ask you to leave sir…"

"They call me Aldor, I am here to seek out a member of your court, an Asba Dylon by name, do you know of him?"

"Asba is a good friend; he lives on the fringes just outside the walls.   He is a true character.   When chided about his humble home he will explain it allows him to keep in touch with common people and therefore with public opinion.   In reality, he uses the generous stipend he is paid, as leader of the High Council of Corvalen, to educate and support most of the talented waifs and strays that abound in this city.   They would otherwise all wind up in prison.   He has them indentured and bound to local craftsmen tradesmen and businessmen.   If you are a friend of Asba's you will find plenty who will sing his praises with you.   I myself have two bright young prentices, keen and willing to learn woodcraft, animal husbandry, and good farming techniques.  There are a number of farms eager to take young men with their skills.   There are others indented to blacksmiths, sword-smiths, jewellers, and the local tannery.   I hear he has even pressed a number of young strays into service at the palace under the master armourer; others are working as pages, scullions and cooks.   Many are supporting adopted families, Asba is not a wealthy man but his heart is filled with riches and, he is rich in the hearts of the local communities all around the outskirts of the city.   Walk with me and I will guide you to his home."

They entered a dimly lit house, in no way reflecting the status of its owner.   "This is the house of Asba Dylon," Elroen said, "I must leave now, I have pressing business."    He tapped a seemingly random pattern on the roughly painted blue door and was gone.

The door opened silently, revealing an overweight man in his mid-forties, his hair black but thinning, his lower face covered by a greying beard encircling his broad lips.   He scrutinised Aldor inquisitively through his bright intelligent green eyes.   His serious visage broke into a warm welcoming smile.  

"Well met young prince," he said, "come on inside."

"You know of me?" Aldor asked, unable to hide his surprise.

"The brat who thought I would let him win at Kingdoms?" Asba asked.

"Damnation, the world continues to shrink."   He said recognition shining in his eyes.

"But, how did you recognise me?"

"Well you see, there is a computer under this city." Asba winked.   "It was a test," he said, a knowing grin on his face. 'You didn't fare too well from that one as I remember.   Potential revisionists are not exactly common, one in a thousand we are, it takes a rare talent to commune with control.'

'You are mind speaking.' Aldor said in amazement.

"Relax, you’re with friends. And the HM has been tuned out of your mind." Asba said.

"But you serve Fazeil…"

"I serve the Regent or Caliph, whoever that may be, I serve the ideal of what might come to pass, I serve the people" said Asba Dylon.

'My Brother…'

"Fazeil?   He is Jazim's creature."

"You mean…"

Asba nodded sadness in his eyes.

"I do not know if I could perpetuate the carnage that has gone on in the past" Aldor began.

"Spoken like a true patriot.    None would believe your genealogy now anyway," he grinned and made a sweeping gesture stepping back to fully take in his guest.  "You have changed too much and too fast for 'standards' to credit your claims."  

"Then it should be one of the others" Aldor replied at once.

"That is for you to decide, you will need to make the best selection.   It will take all your newly acquired skills and then something extra.   You are of course familiar with the palace and its intrigues.   You should know those who must be ruled out immediately, so we have confidence you will make the right choice.   You have less than half a year to shatter old traditions that have stood for thousands of years" Asba summed up his predicament far too succinctly for his liking.

'I will never become Caliph' he thought sadly, slowly coming to terms with the reality.

'Of course not, you are destined for much greater things.   The net you cast must be wider by far than Corvalen' said Asba.    "But, where are my manners, sit you down Aldor.   Yasmin!   Please bring tea and cakes for our young guest.   He is to be my right hand at court; from this moment he will be my scribe."

(to be Continued)

Copyright Len Morgan