Cheilin Saga ~ 22

 Cheilin Saga ~ 22 Further Developments

By Len Morgan

  Bector entered the Wheelwrights Arms, on his rounds of likely meeting places for local rabble-rousers and disaffected local activists.   Though a clandestine member of the Tylywoch, he looked and talked like a dissident.   He would drink protest and fight alongside and against the worst of them.   He gained a lot of useful information by doing so, and heard a rumour, earlier in the evening, that Aldor would be drinking there later on.   So he made a point of staying around, even though he doubted anything would come of it.   It was getting late, towards the end of the evening when he left the Inn.   He knew the fellow was an impostor and that he never appeared when Tylywoch were around but, what they needed to know was how good a match was he?   Was he a passing resemblance, or closer to a double, could he pass conversation with casual acquaintances only, or could he pass more intimate inspection?   He had covered half a block on his way home when a man called out to him.

“Bector!   Why so impatient, you should have waited a while longer,” he called breathlessly.  “I told the man about you and your expertise with weapons.   He is interested in meeting you, he thinks we may have a job for you, and there is something big going down.”

“When?”

“All in good time, don’t be impatient, you will have to meet the man first,” he placed an arm around Bector’s shoulder conspiratorially guiding him back towards the Inn.   “Let’s just say it will be happening soon and will put a stave in the spokes of the 13^th Clan, the devil’s spawn,” he made a reflexive sign, to ward off evil, as he voiced the name.

   Efelel sat in an out of the way corner of the Inn quietly scanning the minds of those gathered in the main room.   She viewed their thoughts with a mixture of disdain and boredom.   Half the men could think only of drowning their sorrows, the others of bedding a sympathetic and compliant woman.   In contrast, women’s thoughts were the more interesting.   They displayed both industry and aplomb; ranging from the simple need of a warm bed to the prospect of emptying some poor cove’s pockets, into her own.  Then of course there was always the fun of the chase, selecting, stalking, snaring, and finally leading her victim around by the nose…   Her mind was brought back sharply to awareness by the sudden appearance of a controlled mind.   She looked from one face to another seeking a fit.   But, all she could identify were self indulgent drunks…   Then the door opened and in came one of their contacts accompanied by a clear eyed, sharp-minded man.

‘We have one of the accursed, on the premises, over by the door’ she threw a sharp warning into Mawld’s mind.

‘Odrek?’ he thought in disbelief.

‘No, the heavy set cove with the unruly black hair…’ 

“Hello sweetie, you’re a new face in here, recon I’d remember you.   Here have a beer on the house, then mayhap you’ll come more often,” she greeted Bector with a friendly smile.   Her familiar manner suggested she would like to see a whole lot more of him, as soon as possible.   He took a mouthful of the beer, it was good, he took several more long pulls and smiled.   A few moments later he had difficulty focusing and shook his head.

“Are you alright sweetie?   Come over funny have you?   Come to my room and you can have a lie down for a while.” She said. 

Odrek responded immediately by offered to help Bector to the young woman’s room.

.-…-. 

   Bector was not the first member of the Tylywoch to go missing on a mission, but when he appeared two weeks later none the worse for his experience, aside from a loss of memory.  He could not say where he had been, or what he’d been doing.

   He was questioned long and hard but nothing came to mind.   So, he was more or less sidelined.   To his chagrin, he was re-deployed as a messenger.   He had been dealing with a very dangerous group, and if he could not explain what had happened, maybe he had been compromised in some way.   The Emperor was always at risk, and there was no more likely suspect than the Bluttland sect, of Bedelacq. 

   Bector knew, in his heart, they were right to be cautious.   Yet he couldn’t help displaying his impatience and dissatisfaction with the current state of affairs, even though he was more than perturbed by the implications of the lost weeks.   If he were brutally honest he would admit he was worried sick, but couldn’t stand inactivity, or the continual promises of support, and understanding received from the other members of his quad.   He didn’t want personal recommendations.   He wanted things to be as they always were as if it had never happened, but it had. 

   He became obsessed with the Aldor look alike.   He started plotting sights and dates where the phantom appeared, looking for a pattern, in vain because there seemed to be none.   He had seven confirmed sightings spread all over his map.   He stuffed it into the breast pocket of his coat in disgust.   He needed to get some rest anyway, so he lay on his cot, it helped him think.   He smiled, recalling that most of his best thinking was done on his back.   This time however nothing came and he was forced to put the problem from his mind or he would be unable to sleep at all.   He snuffed out the candle, rolled over, and visualised the sea, and in seconds, he was asleep. 

   In the morning he discovered there had been another sighting.   At the first opportunity, he opened out his map, searching his pockets for the red wax pencil he had been using to mark each sighting.   At some time it must have fallen out of his pocket.   He asked if anybody had found it or could loan him a drawing implement.   In desperation, he accepted a pin from a young woman and pricked a hole.   It would have to suffice until he could obtain another pencil.   He was angry with himself for losing it; he had liked its distinctive red mark.   As he refolded his map he noted the pinhole and a patch of the red shining through it, mocking him.   He shook his head and returned it to his pocket, fifteen minutes later in the act of making a routine delivery he stopped with a jolt.   He re-examined the map and, on impulse, pushed the pin through the existing hole and out the other side.   He unfolded it and discovered he had pierced through three of his red marks.   He pierced another hole through another of the red spots, when this was continued through all pages of the map it pierced two more.   There were still three sightings unaccounted for.   He worked out where these would be on the top sheet and made a third piercing…   All eight marks were now holed and he had a good idea where the next sighting would be.   The map of the City was a common one sold by vendors on street corners.  By tradition, it was folded twice, and Bector had seen no reason to mess with this.   Therefore, the impostor had stabbed his pin through the map thrice which meant he had marked twelve locations.   But, had he visited the locations in random order the sequence would have been obvious after five or six.   Therefore he had been consciously avoiding a sequence so the next visit had to be…

From that moment, all the unused locations were covered day and night.   This was done for a full week when nothing happened.   Then another week passed without incident and Captain Tyse was obliged to pull his scarce manpower from their OP’s and put them back on other investigations.   Bector was disappointed; he knew it was just a matter of time before his lead would produce results.   In his off time, he took to haunting what he considered to be the most likely site for the next appearance.   He repeated his vigil for three days and on the fourth, whilst he was still on duty, the Aldor impostor appeared again.   But of course, Bector was not there.   He went to see the Captain.  

“You pulled us off surveillance and he appeared at the very place I predicted.”

“That is correct, but there are other leads to be followed up, and I don’t have the manpower to chase them all.   Aldor knows of your lead, he said to tell you it is a good one, and it will be dealt with.   Just be patient and it will become clear.   There is currently a plot to assassinate the Emperor at the games and of course, his safety is our top priority.   We need to secure all areas close to the Emperor's box.

It was the morning of the ‘C17’ Games.   Dan needed help in selecting an appropriate outfit for the starting ceremony; he was never good with such things…

“Hestor!” he yelled, instantly remembering his steward was missing.   ‘Curses’ he thought, ‘He would have known exactly what would be appropriate for the occasion.’    “Where in Thund’s are you man,” he cried out in frustration, ‘I really miss you old friend’ he thought, realising the truth of the words even as they entered his mind.   ‘What did I do to turn you against me.   I swear if you return unharmed, I will issue a full pardon and reinstate you with an increased stipend.   I can’t believe what they say…’

“This is a vow!” he said.

“Sir?”

“Nothing,” he replied turning to look at the young fresh faces steward.   “Does this go?” he asked, holding up a matt black silk robe with gold trimmings and a pierced gold ornamental breastplate.

“Pardon my impertinence ‘Light of the World’ but had you considered this?” he lifted up a deep purple robe, “It is a warmer colour, and better compliments the breastplate & of course your chain of office,” said the steward.

“Ah!   But, of course, you are correct young man.   What is your name?”

“I am called Rhynor ‘Light of the World’” he said “I have been delegated to stand by you, in Hestors absence.   I shall stay, until his return if you approve, or until you are able to choose a suitable replacement.”

“I’m afraid that Hestor is irreplaceable.   He has been with me since we were children, but I’m sure you will prove to be a perfectly adequate stand-in if you would only stop continually admonishing me!” 

“Light o…?”

“You see?   There you go again!   Hestor only ever calls me that when he is unhappy about something I have said or done.   A simple ‘sir’ will suffice between us.”

“Of course sir, you had only to ask,” said Rhynor.

“Well Rhynor, now we have dispensed with formalities, we have an event to attend, you are to accompany me of course.   Let’s pick you an outfit, and we can dress each other.”

“Yes Ligh… sir!” he stammered, and Dan beamed with delight. 

.-...-. 

At that precise moment, Tyse, Captain of the Emperor's bodyguard was in conference with Aldor and Major Meredin of the Red Guard who was responsible for the overall security of the Emerald Palace.   The major commanded a body of five hundred troops, from all parts of the Empire.   All had distinguished themselves in some way, in order to even be eligible for selection as a member of the Red Guard.   They would be lining the route to the Emperor's box, when the royal party were seated they would fan out in all directions to deal with any contingency.   They were reviewing the arrangements for the third time, to ensure nothing had been left to chance.   The Guard would be combing the route for several hours before the Emperor even left the palace.   Tyse and the bodyguard of thirty-six men and women would accompany the Emperor, ever watchful being as unobtrusive as possible.   The Melitia would keep law and order, patrolling quietly but ever present, quelling civil disorder was their remit.   Only at the very last moment would they decode if the Emperor or one of his many doubles would be in the royal coach.   But, it was generally understood that where he goes, the majority of his bodyguard follow.   They would never leave him unprotected, and Dan would never miss the games.

“I will be on the rooftops with the other external quads,” said Aldor.   “We will precede the coach, on either side, or follow behind seeking anyone suspicious, anything unusual happening at open windows or, in the crown close by the Emperor's party.   Is there anything further we need to discuss?”   He asked, taking their silence as a no.   “Thank you for your attention, I know you both still have final details to attend to, so I will bid you good day.”

(To be continued)

Copyright Len Morgan