From Across the Clouded Range (80 page)

Ipid nodded. Defours turned and put as
much distance between himself and his former captives as possible.
The captain had always been an ambitious, political animal.
Clearly, he saw this as a no-win situation and wanted as little
involvement with it as possible. That was fine with Ipid as long as
he did what was asked.

Ipid turned, explained the situation
to Härl, then looked to Lieutenant Nuffield. The young man just
stared at him slack-jawed. “Don’t worry, lieutenant,” Ipid assured.
“Theirs is a language like any other. I am certain that you too
could learn it in time . . . and very well may. Now, can you please
show us to our quarters?”

Chapter 35

An authoritative knock on the door of
Captain Defours lavish apartment almost sent Ipid from his skin. He
was pacing across the thick wool rug that covered the tile floor
silently rehearsing his statement to the city directors and had to
place his hand over his chest to calm his suddenly thumping heart.
A glance at the ornate clock on the wall showed that his two hours
were up. He drew a deep breath, scanned Defours’ rooms to be sure
he was not forgetting anything, and marched to the door.

Despite his nerves, Ipid felt reborn.
He was amazed at the good a hot bath and new clothes could do. He
felt like he had his dignity back. He was dressed in his normal
attire – a starched cotton shirt, black woolen suit, and scarf of
blue silk. The suit did not quite fit him and was too gaudy for his
usual taste, but it was adequate. He donned the conical hat sitting
on the table by the door, took another deep breath, and pulled the
latch.

Waiting outside the door
was a boy of not more than ten. He was dressed in the deep-green
suit of a director’s pages though the clothes looked as if they had
been recently, roughly altered to fit his small frame. With a
falling heart, Ipid realized that the older boys who normally
filled the post had enrolled to defend the city, leaving lads such
as this in their places.
What a horrible,
heartbreaking waste.
“The Thoren City
Directorate will hear you now.” The boy bowed deeply, holding a
conical hat to the side. “Please, follow me.” It sounded as if he
had been practicing those simple words for hours, and he said them
without a quaver.

Ipid smiled at the boy. “Thank you.
But first we need to get my companion. He is just across the
hall.”

The boy looked like he might protest,
but Ipid did not give him the opportunity. He strode out of the
room and stuttered to a stop when he saw the lowered spears waiting
for him. He counted six guards in the livery and armor of the
Thoren Directorate. When they saw that Ipid posed no threat, they
raised their spears. Two of them took positions as if to escort
Ipid. The others arrayed themselves around the room where Härl was
housed.

Ipid ignored them. He strode between
them to the door and knocked. The guards stepped back and brought
their spears to the ready as the door swung open. Still wearing his
leather vest and tight-fitting hide pants, Härl looked like a giant
from a children’s tale. He examined the guards without any seeming
concern. He raised an eyebrow at Ipid’s clothes then glanced back
at the simple but comfortable room. “How do you expect to know
honor living like this? No wonder you are te-adeate.”

Ipid bowed. “Great teacher, I am sorry
that we are not all strong enough to be Darthur. That is why we
need you to guide us through your example. Only by seeing your
great honor will we understand how weak our beds, walls, and
clothes have made us.” He tried to keep the sarcasm from his words
though he intended every bit of it. One of Ipid’s lone joys was in
finding ways to seemingly honor his masters while actually striving
to confuse and insult them. He had to admit that he had become
quite good at it.

Härl did not seem to notice. He
grunted then looked at him with the same indifference he’d give a
dog.

“
I believe we are ready,”
Ipid said to the page. “Please, lead the way.”

The boy gawked at Härl but, with some
prodding, remembered his job. He led them down the hall puffed up
like he was escorting the Emperor. Ipid suppressed a laugh as he
fell in behind the boy’s short-strided, but quick, walk and ran
through his statement one last time. The guards, spears at the
ready, followed.

The fact that Ipid was on the
Directorate and knew its members was a great help, but the truth
was that he was rarely in Thoren these days. His business and work
with the Chancellor kept him away for long stretches, such that his
seat was most often filled by a proxy. Via correspondence he tried
to keep up with the politics of the city, but he had to admit that
he barely knew some of the new directors and had done a poor job of
maintaining his relationships with the veterans. Given his wealth
and standing with the Chancellor, he did not normally have to
bother with political subtlety, but these were not normal times,
and his wealth and connections meant nothing with an invading army
outside the city. He wished that he could consult with Roger, his
proxy, but there was no time. His best hope was that he was with
the Directorate. But even then, there would be little that Roger
could do. Ipid was on his own with little ability to predict how
the directors would react.

The boy led them from the upper
floors, down a series of staircases, then through a side passage to
the heart of the city’s administration. They walked through a large
hall that was typically buzzing with couriers, pages, bureaucrats,
and long lines of those seeking their services. To Ipid’s surprise,
the room was as busy as ever. Men huddled around tables, pages ran
back and forth between them, couriers delivered documents and
waited impatiently for replies. The difference was that the
bureaucrats had been replaced by soldiers. The room was awash with
green and white such that Ipid and Härl looked like a rock
outcropping at the edge of a prairie.

And their entrance brought all the
activity to a sudden halt. Every eye rose. Hands fell instinctively
to weapons. Maps and charts were covered. Junior officers formed
barriers around their superiors. Conversations conducted in shouts
a minute before fell to whispers. Seeing the sudden change, the
page froze such that Ipid had to take his shoulder and guide him
through the room.

As he went, Ipid spoke words of
encouragement to the officers, “They are men like you and me. We
can beat them. You are not alone. The whole world will soon rise up
to fight by your side. Keep going. Keep fighting.” He knew that
these phrases meant nothing, that these men already knew the truth
about their situation, but he also knew the power of hope and how
easily it could be fed or snuffed.

What surprised him, however, was how
the men responded to his attention. They retracted, pulling back as
if he were diseased. They shrugged off his touch, refused his
handshakes, turned their backs to his sentiments. He could not
understand. Surely he had not paid the city the attention he once
had, but it was still his home. He was still its richest man, one
of its most important benefactors and employers. He had always been
respected. So what had changed?

Before he could decipher it, they
arrived before the huge double doors that led to the Hall of the
People where the Directorate held its sessions. The ornately carved
and inlaid oak doors already stood open, showing the huge chamber
on the other side, and Ipid felt his pulse skip as he looked
through the door at the directors in the distance.

He pulled the page back before he made
the error of proceeding them into the room and bent to his level.
He began handing him some papers – the courier he had requested had
never arrived – when he realized he knew the lad. “You are Lord
Thickery’s boy, aren’t you? You have grown so much since I last saw
you that I didn’t even recognize you.”

“
Yes, sir. George, sir.”
The boy smiled wide at the attention.

“
Where’s your brother,
George?” Marcus was a couple of years younger than Dasen and a
usual directorate page.

“
He joined up with the
defenses.” George beamed. “Dad didn’t want ‘im to, but he said he’s
old enough to make his own decisions. They had a ruckus of a fight.
I wish I could . . . “

“
Don’t wish that, George,”
Ipid interrupted. “You don’t want to be anywhere near this fight.
Now, I need to go talk to the directors. Could you see that these
messages are delivered to my estate? In fact, take them there
yourself, and then go see your mother. I am sure she misses you.”
The Thickery’s owned the estate next to Ipid’s. He hoped that the
boy would stay there, on the other side of the river, far away from
what was about to happen. He was already mourning for Marcus, a
vivacious boy who should be preparing to finish his schooling and
take a place alongside his father.

Ipid sighed as he motioned George away
then spent a long moment watching him run back through the
soldiers, who were slowing regaining their fervor. Finally, he
turned to the room before him. He took a second to gather himself
then strode confidently through the doors with his head held high
and his chest puffed out like the lord he had been rather than the
slave he had become.

As he entered, a man beside the door
in a dark-green suit with a lacy shirt looked at him and declared,
“First Advisor to the Chancellor and Director of the City of
Thoren, the honorable lord, Ipid Ronigan.”

The fellow’s eyes popped when he saw
Härl, but Ipid whispered in his ear, and with just a bit of tremble
in his booming baritone, he announced, “Official Envoy of the
Darters and Chief of the Cäthum Clan, Härl Cäthum.” Härl was not
even close to being the chief of the Cäthum Clan – the Darthur did
not use surnames, but often noted their clan membership with their
names – but he would not have the slightest idea what title he had
been given, and it would seem more impressive to the directors if
they thought the representative was an important member of the
invading army.

Ipid took another deep breath and
continued his bold progress into what had once been the throne room
of the Grand Duke. Stark stone walls encased the circular room with
only a few bleak tapestries and high slit windows breaking their
expanse. The small windows did not allow much light into the room,
so a huge iron-rot chandelier made up the difference with hundreds
of candles spread across its utilitarian simplicity. The floor was
no more impressive, made of worn tiles in a simple pattern of
green, white, and black.

That left the semi-circular dais with
a long table of nearly black, polished walnut as the showpiece of
the room. Behind the dais, two white and green flags of Oscante
District hung on either side of and slightly below a larger flag of
eighteen blue stripes that were woven across a black background,
the banner of the Unified Kingdoms. Facing the table were an empty
row of stout, cushioned chairs and several equally empty sets of
backless wooden benches. The chairs were reserved for the
landowners and other wealthy citizens who were allowed to vote in
the semi-annual elections to select council members. All others
were consigned to the benches until called upon to present their
petitions. Running down the wide aisle between the seats was a
well-trampled green and black rug that led to a short podium where
speakers stood to address the directors.

Along the walls, spaced ten feet
apart, were the guards. They wore knee-length green and white
tunics over their heavy chain mail. Their features were obscured by
the faceplates of their conical helmets with only their eyes
peering out of the metal encasement. As they entered, Ipid saw
those eyes grow wide then narrow in anticipation. Bodies beneath
the armor went rigid and the tips of their long spears swayed above
their heads as the men tightened their grips. In all, there were a
dozen guards, two by the doors, eight along the walls, and one on
each side of the table. Though they saw little action beyond
subduing the occasional outburst, Ipid had no doubt they could
handle a single unarmed Darthur warrior, no matter how skilled he
may be.

To one side of the table,
a small desk sat with a pot of ink built into its surface and a
substantial ledger open across it. The directorate scribe was
already scribbling at the top of a page, noting the speaker and the
nature of his petition. When he was finished, he adjusted his
glasses with ink-smudged fingers and watched Ipid approach with
what could only be curiosity. Mr. Smalters – Ipid realized he did
not even know his first name – was a wiry middle-aged fellow with
even less hair than Ipid. He took very seriously his role as a
non-entity in the room – Ipid was not sure he had ever heard him
talk beyond reciting back records – so any reaction from him was a
surprise.
Obviously, the directors already
knows why I’m here. Even Smalters is curious.

Finally, behind the table
sat the directors. There were ten of them present with only Ipid’s
own seat two down from the center on the right remaining
conspicuously empty.
Where by the Order is
Roger? I pay him to be here representing my interests not to run
off at the first sign of trouble?
Ipid
considered the implications of it for only a moment before turning
his eyes to the other directors. Their similarities far outweighed
their differences. Every one of them wore a dark suit, white shirt,
embroidered vest, and silk scarf. They wore conical black hats of
only slightly varying heights. Their fingers sparkled with gold and
jewels where they universally gripped the equally resplendent
representations of their crests that were used to vote or signal a
desire to speak. They ranged from their middle years to ancient,
and their faces were all dour, ranging from wariness to malevolence
to, oddly enough, disappointment as they watched Ipid
approach.