The Sword Of Erren-dar (Book 2) (7 page)

 Bethro gulped. “The sword of Erren-dar.”

 “What!”

  The one word, issued in thunderous accents, was enough to
cast the Keeper of Antiquities into panic again. Excuses tumbled out of him.

 “It wasn’t my fault. I swear it wasn’t. The door was
locked. I don’t know how it happened.”

 “Compose yourself, Bethro,” the King said gently. “Start at
the beginning and tell us what happened.”

 The calm words had more effect than all the younger man’s
anger. Bethro visibly mastered his panic and took a deep breath.

 “When I went to the tower this morning to check on the
sword, I found the outer door of the tower locked securely and everything
seemed normal. The inner room where the sword was kept was also locked and
seemingly undisturbed, but when I lit the lantern I had brought with me – the
room has no windows you understand – the table where the sword should have been,
was empty. The two velvet cushions were in their usual place – they even bore
the imprint of the sword, but of the sword itself there was nothing to be seen.
Even the scabbard was gone. At first I couldn’t believe my eyes. I looked under
the table, I searched the stairs and the other rooms in the tower, I even
checked the doors for sign that they had been forced, but I found nothing. Even
the dust in the room seemed undisturbed. It was as if it had simply vanished
into thin air.”

 “When did you last see the sword?” Prince Enrick asked.

 “Er….several months ago,” replied Bethro looking sheepish.

 “Several
months
!”

 “Well, I mean, there is no reason to go to the tower more
often,” Bethro prevaricated. “I have the only key and as long as I do, no one
can get near the sword. Also, anyone wishing to reach the tower has to pass the
guards at the palace walls. They are not, I believe, in the habit of permitting
access to strangers.”

 “You still have the key?” Vesarion asked.

 “Yes,” nodded Bethro. “Look.” He withdrew the beautiful and
ancient object from his pocket still attached by its silver chain to his belt.
“As you see, it has never left me.”

 “What did the guards at the palace gates have to say? Have
they noticed anything unusual lately?”

 “I …I don’t know. I didn’t ask them. All I could think of
was that I must report my findings immediately to the King. You see, the sword
must not leave Eskendria. Its importance cannot be over-estimated, for it is
our talisman, our shield. As long as the sword stays within this kingdom, our
borders will never again be invaded by a hostile force.”

 The Prince flung away from him. “Ha! Stories! Fairy tales!
Little better than nonsense.”

 “Not quite,” Vesarion amended dryly. “The people believe it,
and that is what is important. It matters not whether there is any truth in the
legend. If the people believe that the presence of the sword keeps them safe,
then knowledge of its absence could be catastrophic, and as we know, there may
be those who would profit from such a situation.” He turned once more to the
librarian and asked Bethro the one question he had been dreading. “Why did you
go to look at the sword today?”

 “I thought…I…er…” The few disjointed words soon fizzled out
under the accusing stare of the three most powerful men in the Kingdom. As the
strained silence began to stretch a little, the King took pity on his afflicted
servant. “I think you had better tell us everything, Bethro.”

 “I… er…. promised to show it to someone later today. I was
going to make sure it was polished and looking its best.”

 The Prince’s eyes narrowed. “You are not permitted to show
it to anyone without the King’s permission.”

 Bethro hung his head. “I know,” he mumbled. “I have never
done anything like this before. It was just that he had come such a long way
and seemed so disappointed at the thought that he would never get to see it.”

 Vesarion frowned. “Who?”

 “The boy…the one from Kelendore. He knew all the old
legends – indeed better than most Eskendrians – and had come all this way to
see it.”

 “What boy? What are you talking about?”

 Slowly and painfully, like pulling teeth, they extracted
the story of how Bethro had met the boy the previous evening at the Moat Inn.

 “He seemed such a pleasant young lad,” he concluded lamely.
“He had travelled all the way from the Isles just to see the sword and hear the
story of Erren-dar from the foremost expert on the subject. I was to meet him
at noon today.”

 Enrick and Vesarion exchanged significant glances, the
matter explained to them in an instant.

 “Did you show him the key?” inquired the King.

 “Well…er…yes.”

 “You didn’t let him handle it, I trust,” exclaimed Vesarion
in some alarm.

 “Just briefly – and it remained on its chain attached to my
belt the whole time. It was never out of my sight – not even for an instant.”

 Vesarion was not appeased. “Do you not know, you idiot, of
the old thieves’ trick? He could have had a piece of wax hidden in his palm and
taken an impression of the key!”

 Bethro, if possible, looked even more crushed.

 “Some Keeper you have turned out to be,” Enrick railed,
“you fall victim to the crudest flattery, you are deceived by a very simple
trick and now the sword has gone.”

 The King intervened. “We are getting ahead of ourselves. We
do not know yet whether the boy is involved at all. He could very well be
awaiting Bethro at the inn, unaware of all this.”

 “That is something that can soon be ascertained,” snorted Enrick,
turning on his heel towards the door.

 But the King halted him. “Wait, Enrick,” he commanded. “It
is vital that we keep this affair quiet and if the Crown Prince turns up at a
common inn asking a lot of suspicious questions, I think it unlikely that the
truth would remain hidden.”

 He turned to Vesarion, waiting patiently, well aware of
what was coming next. “My dear Vesarion, once again I must trespass on your
kindness by asking you to investigate this affair. No one beyond this room must
know of this matter. I know I can rely on your discretion.”

 Vesarion bowed slightly. “You may safely leave the matter to
me, sire.” He then turned to the librarian, still impotently wringing his
hands, and said somewhat less courteously: “Show me the room where the sword
was kept.”

 Vesarion held the lantern higher to allow its light to fall
into every corner of the bare, stone room. The dark wood of the table gleamed,
casting back the reflection of the light. The blood-red cushion still bore the
imprint of the sword, just as Bethro had said, as clearly as a footprint in
damp sand. Almost against his will, Vesarion stretched out his hand and gently
traced the outline of the hilt on the velvet, captured in a prism of the past,
unaware that Bethro still babbled inanely behind him.

 “You see? All is as I told you. The door to the tower has
not been forced and the lock has not been tampered with. I remember well on my
last visit thinking how rusty it has become and that I really must get it
oiled.” Unaware that Vesarion wasn’t listening to him, he turned and indicated
the small door behind them standing open to the corridor. “The door to this
chamber was also locked. I know you think that I was careless when I was last here,
and left without securing the tower, but I didn’t… I swear I didn’t. I….I
confess I have not attended to my duties quite as…er… assiduously as I might
have, but I swear that when I last left it, the sword was secure.”

 Vesarion heard nothing of this, but remained stock-still
studying the imprint of the sword, reflecting that he had not seen the original
since he had been brought to Addania by the King as very young boy. He had
asked to see his grandfather’s sword the very day he had arrived, and the King,
mindful of the lad’s recent loss, was inclined to be indulgent and had taken
him personally to the old tower. He remembered his youthful disappointment when
he had first beheld it. He had heard all the legends, drinking in the stories,
captured by the sense of adventure, but reality had proved less than the sum of
his imaginings. He had expected it to be more impressive, glittering with
jewels and gold, and was consequently deflated by its plainness. It would not
have attracted attention if left in any armoury. Except for the finely incised
chalice flowers below the hilt, it differed little from any other well-made
sword. Yet strangely the image had stayed with him over the course of time with
such clarity that all these years later he could recall it in the minutest
detail. He could almost see the flash of light on the shining, elegant blade.
And even though he had not been permitted to touch the sword, for some peculiar
reason, he could almost feel the satisfying firmness of the leather-bound hilt
in his hand, almost sense its fine balance and hear the hiss of its keen blade
slicing the air.

 Mentally, he shook himself. This was nonsense. He was no
longer an impressionable boy, led astray by myths. A little irritated with
himself, abruptly he stepped back from the table and collided with Bethro who
had been peering over his shoulder, wondering why his silent companion had been
staring at the cushions so intently, as if he had been expecting the sword to
re-materialise before his eyes.

 Vesarion frowned in annoyance. Bethro had a remarkable
talent for being in the wrong place at the wrong time and the seriousness of
his failure seemed to have rendered him more clumsy than ever.

 “Very well, “ he said. “Let us assume, for the sake of
argument, that the last time you were here you did indeed lock the doors. What
about the windows?”

 “Closed. Rusted shut,” said Bethro despairingly. “No signs
of having been forced. The ivy has covered most of them and it has not been
disturbed. Moreover, the lowest one is half-way up the tower. One couldn’t
reach it without a ladder and I…er…assume the guards would have noticed such strange
activity.”

 “The guards maintain that they have seen and heard nothing
unusual,” responded Vesarion shortly. “So we are back to the theory that
someone must have obtained a copy of the key, and as you are certain it has
never been out of your sight, it is looking increasingly likely that the boy at
the inn must have taken an impression of it when you let him hold it. Now, tell
me again how you met him - and Bethro,” he added warningly, “leave nothing
out.”

 The boy had awoken early that morning, unable to contain a certain
restless excitement at the prospect that he was actually going to see the
sword. Even though he was not due to meet Bethro until noon, he arose early,
too tense to lie any longer in bed. He was also enticed by the prospect of
exploring the city. So after the landlord provided him with a fine breakfast in
the taproom, which he scarcely touched,  he headed out into the busy streets.

 It was all very different to his home. Not here, the grand
avenues and palatial buildings set out in an orderly pattern that he was
accustomed to. No, in comparison with his home city, Addania was chaotic. The
place was a rabbit-warren of narrow cobbled streets, densely overhung by embellished
wooden balconies that in places almost cut out the light. The streets twisted
their way up the hill, turning corners and doubling back until even those who
prided themselves on an excellent sense of direction, were completely lost. Yet
it was a vibrant, bustling place, alive with activity and colour. To his
delight, he found that many of the streets were arranged according to trade and
were named accordingly. The Street of the Armourers was ringing with the din of
hammers striking the red-hot metal fresh from the glowing depths of the forges.
Outside a smithy, he watched as a burning horseshoe was dipped into a barrel of
water to cool, with a hissing explosion of steam.

 The Mercer’s Street was quieter, the tiny shop fronts hung
with billowing fabrics, from fine silks and velvets in jewel-like hues, to more
humble bales of woollen cloth in rustic browns and greens. He wandered along a
lane of perfumers awash with heady scents of lavender, and lingered in the Street
of the Goldsmiths, where artisans kept a careful eye on their glittering wares.
However, it was the irresistible smell of bread, fresh from the oven, that drew
him to the Street of the Bakers. He discovered a shop that sold pastries, and by
now regretting that he had eaten so little of his breakfast, he proceeded to
demonstrate to the fascinated owner, just how many pastries one thin lad could
pack away.

 But his enjoyment came to an abrupt end when, with a shock,
he heard from high up on the citadel, the trumpet call that signalled noon.
Snatching up an uneaten pastry and stuffing it hastily in his pocket, he got
directions from the shopkeeper and sped along the cobbled streets, almost
running in his haste. Twice, frustratingly, he took a wrong turn, but at last
he arrived at the large square where the inn was situated, hot, slightly out of
breath and most definitely late.

 What he saw, however, caused him to instantly recoil back
into the shadow of the laneway.

 There was obviously some sort of commotion taking place at
the inn. A detachment of palace guards was drawn up in the square, engaged in making
sure that no one either entered or left the hostelry. From the open windows,
could be heard voices raised in protest. He distinguished the landlord’s voice
loudly remonstrating with some unseen person. An interested crowd was gathering
in the square, all craning their necks and keen to enjoy the fun. Using them as
cover, the boy edged closer. A crash could be heard from within the inn
accompanied by another howl of protest.

 “I tell you, he’s not here,” bellowed the landlord. “He
left this morning and has not been seen since – no, he is not in that cupboard!
Leave it alone! What has Eskendria come to when a respectable landlord cannot
run his tavern in peace?”

 Someone appeared to respond in a quieter tone that the listener
could not distinguish.

 “No! That is not good enough! I don’t care what the young
brat has done! Whatever it is, it has nothing to do with me.” The landlord and
a guard emerged into the square, carrying on their argument. “I demand to speak
to my lord of Westrin,” the outraged proprietor insisted.

 “He’s gone round to check the stables,” was the casual
reply. “He’ll be back soon – but take a word of advice and moderate your tone
with him. My lord does not brook insolence.”

 “He won’t find the boy in my stables,” pronounced the
innkeeper, disregarding the last piece of advice.

 A tall man, clearly in authority, rounded the corner of the
inn at that moment followed by two soldiers and one flustered-looking
librarian. He appeared to have overheard the landlord’s last remark, for
looking at him directly, he said dryly: “You are quite correct. He is not in
the stables but his horse is, so he can’t have gone far. He was due to meet
Bethro at noon but has failed to turn up.”

 “I know nothing of that, my lord,” said the landlord, suddenly
deeming it prudent to be respectful. “All I can tell you about the lad is that
he arrived yesterday, telling me that he had travelled alone from Kelendore and
that his father had sent him here to finish his education by studying
Eskendrian history. Naturally enough, I pointed him in Bethro’s direction, I
mean, no one knows more about our history than he.”

 The listener, who had been filtering unobtrusively closer
through the throng, suddenly noticed Bethro casting his eye across the crowd.
Quickly, he pulled up the hood of his jerkin and turned his face away.

 “I’m not blaming you,” said Westrin calmly. “But it is
imperative that this boy be found, so you must tell me all you know about him.
I have been through his belongings and can find nothing of any significance –
certainly nothing to indicate who he is, or where he came from. The clothes are
foreign in design but I can’t identify them. If you can give me any information
that would assist in his apprehension, I would be grateful. If my men have
been…ah…a little enthusiastic in their search, I will pay for any damage
caused.”

 These magic words caused the scowl to leave the landlord’s
face in a flash. “Well, my lord,” he began ingratiatingly, clearly cudgelling
his brains to find something of use. “I’m keen to assist you but it’s little
enough that I can tell you. I have given a detailed description of him to
Captain Seldro here, but the only other thing I can say is that although he
told me he was from Kelendore, I was not convinced. Many merchants from the
Isles stay here when they are trading in Addania, but his accent was not the
same as theirs, nor, as you have already pointed out, was his style of dress.
Although we get people from all parts passing through, I could not place him.
There was just something….something
different
about him. However, as he
seemed a respectable enough young lad and paid for two night’s stay in advance,
I didn’t question him further. I got the impression he didn’t much like
answering questions.” He rubbed his chin reflectively, before adding: “The only
other thing which, with hindsight, was a bit odd was that he was completely
fascinated by a sketch I have hanging on the wall of the back corridor.
Absolutely mesmerised, he was. I mean, it’s just an amateur thing, of no value,
but he couldn’t tear his eyes from it.”

 Vesarion, who had been listening a little impatiently to
this recital, suddenly stiffened to attention.

 “Show me this sketch,” he commanded.

 When they had all disappeared into the inn in the wake of
the landlord, the boy realised that he had only a short breathing space to get
out of the city before he was discovered. He wondered if the guards at the city
gate had already been alerted, already primed with his description. He would
have to take that chance, for speed was the only thing that might save him now.
Once the city gates were closed, even the rabbit-warren of streets would offer
no hiding place. They would hunt him down, street by street, house by house until
they found him. And once they discovered where he came from, he could expect no
mercy.

 To add to his troubles, there was a detachment of guards in
the stable yard which meant that access to his horse was out of the question.
His brain whirled. What to do? All he had was the clothes he stood up in, the
uneaten pastry and a couple of small coins.

 Discreetly, he extricated himself from the crowd and
selecting a street at random, disappeared into its reassuring anonymity. Away
from the noise and excitement of the square, he tried to think. He had to get a
horse – to try to escape on foot was madness. Even if he succeeded in getting
beyond the city walls, they would overtake him in an instant. He counted his
money gain. No use. Not enough to hire one. He leaned back against the cold
wall of a house and took a deep breath. He had to get a horse, and quickly. Much
as it went against the grain, he was going to have to steal one. He thought his
best chance was a livery stable or a large inn with lots of coming and going
where he might find one unattended for just long enough to serve his purpose.

 Cautiously, ears pricked for sound of pursuit, he began to
work his way down the winding streets towards the city wall. After travelling
in a downwards direction for a few moments, he came across a livery stable that
offered some possibilities. He loitered outside its gateway, watching all that
went on within and was forced to admit after a short while, that all was not
going to plan. He had thought that in a quiet moment he could slip into the
stables, select the fastest-looking horse, saddle up and escape. It had all
seemed so straightforward in his head,  but in reality the unpredictability of
humanity was frustrating his plans. The stable yard was relentlessly busy, with
people returning horses or collecting them. Ostlers and stable lads were grooming
horses, mucking out stables, or bringing in straw. In short, it was as busy as
a disturbed ant heap. He watched this activity from the shadow of a doorway,
getting more and more desperate by the minute. Soon the search for him would
leave the inn and spread throughout the town. The whole place would be in an
uproar and his anonymity – the only thing still protecting him – would be gone.