got this lot to deliver, there's two midwives, three joiners, a ruptured mason and god knows how many other folk out here with a living to earn.’ He banged again. There was some laughter among the crowd at his manner, and voices were raised in support of his plaint.
'And there's a fortune-teller who's beginning to look decidedly worried,’ the man went on, rising to the crowd. He winked at Arwain. ‘And now the posh folks are starting to arrive. That's how late it is. Shift yourselves!'
Arwain lifted his hands to his face to disguise his amusement at the man's antics. Ryllans laughed openly.
Suddenly there was an angry rattling of bolts and chains, and the wicket was slammed open noisily. A guard emerged, catching his pike on the lintel and nearly tripping as he struggled to release it. He was quite short and he looked decidedly harassed. He was also unimpressed by the applause that greeted his ungainly arrival.
'All right, all right. Stop all this row,’ he said in a voice full of command and indignation until it cracked into a squeak.
'You get this sodding gate open and we'll stop, Erryk,’ said the burly man. ‘Some of us have got jobs to do, you know. Can't sit around the guard house brazier all day.'
The guard cleared his throat. ‘It's not my job to open the gate,’ he said, hoarsely. ‘The gateman's not turned up. And neither's the Exac.'
There was a spontaneous cheer from the crowd.
'You can't come in without paying your Gate Tax,’ the guard protested.
'Nothing to do with us, Erryk,’ the man continued. ‘If he's not here, that's his problem. If he had an honest job he wouldn't be so reluctant to get up in the morning and do it.’ He flicked a thumb towards the sun. ‘Gate's supposed to be open at sun-up, not sun-down. That was the law before taxes were even thought of; part of the Ancient Rights, you know that. Come on, stop messing about, get this gate open.'
The crowd, though good-humoured, grew noisier in support of their impromptu leader, shouting and cheering with increasing vigour. Someone started to bang an iron pot, and others soon followed suit.
The guard dithered for a moment, then with an extravagant gesture of resignation, struggled back through the wicket gate. A moment or two later, after further bumping and rattling, the gate began to swing slowly open. Led by the burly man and his donkeys, the small crowd quickly surged forward into the widening opening. It was a rare event for the Gate Exactor to be absent, and not an opportunity to be missed.
'Thanks, Erryk,’ the burly man shouted as he disappeared through the gate. He pointed to his donkeys. ‘First egg that one of these lays today is yours.'
The guard drove the gate's large bolt into its housing with some venom then looked up at the retreating figure. Waving his fist, he shouted something that was too fast and too colloquial for Arwain to understand, though it was patently not complimentary. Without turning, the burly man raised his hand in friendly acknowledgement.
'And stop calling me Erryk,’ the guard managed irritably, as a parting shot, adding futilely, ‘my name's…'
'Oi!'
Arwain had dismounted and was approaching the guard as this cry rang out. He started, thinking it was addressed to him.
'What d'you think you're doing? You can't do that,’ the voice continued, laden with disbelief and righteous indignation.
Arwain identified the speaker. It was a short, stout individual, running, with some difficulty, towards the gate, and waving his arms. He was panting heavily when he eventually arrived.
'Can't do what?’ the guard said crossly.
'Open the gate,’ the stout man spluttered. ‘Open the gate. You can't do that. That's a gateman's job. I'll … I'll have to report this…'
'Report your over-sleeping while you're at it,’ the guard snapped peevishly. The stout man's chin came out defiantly, but the guard was not to be gainsaid. He levelled an angry, prodding, finger at the gateman. ‘I had half the countryside outside here, threatening hell and all, because you couldn't shift out of your bed. What was I supposed to do? I'm responsible directly to the Council for the peace here, you know, not some sodding Guild contractor. If anyone's reporting anything here, it's going to be me.’ He was beginning to warm to his subject. ‘And that lazy Exac's no better. He…'
Arwain cleared his throat loudly. ‘Excuse me, gentlemen,’ he said, stepping forward.
The guard stopped and looked up at him.
'You haven't heard the last of this,’ the gateman said spitefully, slipping this blow into the sudden silence, before scurrying off, grumbling to himself.
The guard snarled something after him then turned back to Arwain. ‘Yes?’ he said, frowning a Whendrak welcome at this newcomer.
With an effort, Arwain forced himself to remember Aaken's instructions.
'I'm Arwain, son of Ibris, Duke of Serenstad,’ he said formally. ‘I have letters patent confirming this, and matters that I need to discuss with the leaders of your city. May I have your permission to enter with my escort?'
The guard's mouth slowly sagged open during this speech and, when it was finished, he began to execute a small, agitated dance, shifting his weight from foot to foot, his pike from hand to hand, and turning his head from side to side as if searching for help or escape.
He accompanied this dance with rhythmic stutterings that eventually merged into fairly coherent speech indicating that he didn't know what to do.
And his officer was late … and … the Exactor … and the gateman … and he shouldn't be doing this duty really … he was supposed to be off sick …
He was rescued by the appearance of another guard; the tardy officer, Arwain judged. With a nod the new arrival dismissed the floundering guard into a nearby sentry post, then turned to Arwain inquiringly, at the same time casting a rapid glance over his escort.
Arwain repeated his introduction and request to enter the city.
This time he was successful.
Shortly afterwards, while the rest of the platoon waited in the forecourt of the Council's Meeting House, Arwain and Ryllans were being escorted by a group of guards into the presence of Whendrak's Maeran, the leader of the city's council, and its most powerful citizen.
As was allowed under the treaty, both men were still armed, but the waiting platoon had been obliged to leave its weapons at the city's gate.
Somewhat to Arwain's surprise, the Maeran was quite a short, inconsequential-looking man who exuded none of the power that Arwain had come to expect from leaders of men. Indeed his first impression was that the man looked more like a successful merchant than a politician.
'Sit down, gentlemen,’ he said affably, indicating two chairs. Arwain noted that they faced the window, while the Maeran sat facing them with his back to it. He began to reconsider his first impression of the man.
He bowed. ‘I have letters patent here for your inspection, Honoured Maeran,’ he said, before he sat down. As he pulled out the documents, a large guard quietly appeared in front of him, his hand extended to receive them.
'They'll not be necessary, Lord Arwain,’ the Maeran said, giving the guard a reassuring nod. ‘I recognize you well enough. And this, if memory serves me right, is Commander Ryllans of the Duke's Mantynnai, seconded to your own personal bodyguard.'
Arwain's surprise showed.
The Maeran smiled. ‘I've been to Serenstad many times, Lord,’ he said. ‘I'm well acquainted with the city, the palace, and, at least by sight, your father, yourself and your brothers.'
Arwain looked disconcerted. ‘Honoured Maeran. I'm afraid I've no recollection of a visit by Whendreachi dignitaries ever,’ he said, awkwardly.
The Maeran made a conciliatory gesture. ‘Please, my title's a little cumbersome. My name's Haynar. I'm just a humble merchant,’ he said. ‘I go to Serenstad and many other places simply on matters of trade and business.’ He nodded to himself. ‘It's a marvellous, bustling place. Full of vigour and opportunities, for those who can seize them. Besides, formal receptions aren't to my taste, if I'm honest about it.’ Then he shrugged. ‘And as a neutral city, we like to avoid any actions that could be construed, however wrongly, as being partisan.'
