Penumbra - Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Seventeen
Once again in the whisper room they had chosen for their covert conferences the three conspirators gathered to assess the progress of their plans. The first man threw his dark cape back from his shoulders, revealing the colorful robes that he had not taken the time to change. “So, he has applied to join your little army and you didn’t even have to ask?”
Caffolas nodded, “Yes, and I sent a message right back telling him he was welcome in the Zealots. I don’t know why he hasn’t responded yet - he seemed so eager to join us I expected an immediate answer. I may have to go to the plan I mentioned last time and publicly challenge his courage. I’m trying to get the Council to back me on using him and don’t want to do too much ‘til they agree. It looks like Naufrage is mixed up in this whole thing in some way; that promise he screwed out of Anjh at the meeting was very curious... I wonder what it was all about, all that talking about things known. Did it feel to you like there were undercurrents in that conversation?”
“Well, naturally. Naufrage loves a good conspiracy and tries to tie strings to everybody he meets. But something else has come up since we talked,” the second man was, as usual, impatient with long meetings. “My agents in the house tell me that the mechar’ hand has turned out to be more lethal than we thought it would be. There’s a better than even chance he can get into that cave, kill the thing in there and come out intact - or as intact as he was when he went in.”
“So, what’s your suggestion this time?”
“You might consider sending a companion with him, somebody you can trust, who can wait in the chamber nearest the entrance and take him down if he comes back.” The first man was careful to couch the order as a tentative thought.
“That’s not a bad idea; I’ll take it under advisement. You know, I’m always open to your ideas.” Caffolas stroked his chin. “Was there anything else you’ve learned from your sources?”
“Nothing of any importance. Just that Anjh and Jaithlym seem content enough with their arrangement and that the Prydain Brisevant is in town. Nothing really new.”
Caffolas stood and moved to the door, “Well then, we’d better get back to our duties before we’re missed. Keep an eye on that Brisevant; he might try to derail our plans and spirit Anjh back to Ban Khatour. Good day, gentlemen.” He slipped out and was gone.
The two remaining men turned to one another and smirked. “God! He’s such an idiot!” the second man could no longer contain himself. His companion slapped him on the back and answered, “Yes, but think happy thoughts - we can get rid of him just as soon as he fetches the prize for us. We agreed after the resurrection ploy that it would be necessary to either get rid of Anjh or co-opt him before we can topple Naufrage. And Caffolas is still the best tool to do it. Our problem now is to make sure he succeeds before the whole thing collapses. I’ve noticed the populace getting more restive every day and it’s questionable how much longer Naufrage can keep the lid on. They’re about ready to claim their new god and they’re not all that particular about who it is.”
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In the expanses of the therapy floor, Anjh was raging again. “When will that forever damned Council respond? It’s been days since they promised me an answer and where is it? What do I have to do to convince them?” He considered a kick at the rack of weapons and changed his mind lest his balance betray him and land him on his back in front of the trainers and therapists. Even discounting the humiliation involved, falls resulting from injudicious moves had already supplied him with enough bruises and scrapes to make him wary.
The attendants carefully pretended to be doing other things. It was not the best idea to further upset the master of the house. In spite of his disabilities, he remained a powerful man and had a way of demonstrating his irritation that was somewhat less than comfortable. It was the wise man or woman who arranged to be elsewhere when that volatile temper flared.
Anjh tore the spectacles off his nose, glared at them and flung them across the room, “Damn these things; they won’t stay put. Can’t anything be done right around here?”
One of the servants retrieved the lenses and timidly handed them to Harad.
“Get out!” Anjh spun around awkwardly and motioned the aides away. “No, you stay!” He indicated Harad and Sandro. “I’ve got some questions for you two.”
When the floor was clear save for the three of them, Anjh led them into the meditation room and threw himself into the big chair behind the desk, gesturing for the other two to seat themselves where they would.
“Now, let us have a serious conversation about this matter of ours,” he softly and precisely enunciated. “My control over this - this revolting object they call a leg is not improving; I still have to use the cane for more than a few steps and rough terrain is impossible. No more hedging; give me the prognosis. The true one.”
Sandro cleared his throat and, being very careful with his aspirants, began “Sir, I’m a good engineer and this is the best I can do with this model. I ‘ave, have, made every adjustment I can think of. There just isn’t much more to try until an entirely new design is ready. We’re testing a new kind of lock on the knee joint which will disengage automatically but there are difficulties.”
“Yes, there are always difficulties, aren’t there?” Anjh's voice remained deceptively calm. “When is this new design likely to be available?”
“Well, sir, not for a couple of years...”
“Years! I don’t have years! I don’t have months,” he shouted. “Go back to your people and chivvy them along. Threaten them with the Lamasoni; do anything, just get them moving.”
“Yessir.” With a sense of relieved gratitude, Sandro sprinted for the door.
“What do you want me to tell you, captain?” Harad stood his ground as a good Prydain should.
“I want to know why you and Jaithlym are conspiring to impede my efforts to get to the Feneralia. I’m aware that you’ve been sharing your surreptitiously made discs with her and that the two of you have your heads together more often than is strictly necessary for the running of the household. Why are you both trying to get in my way?”
“Your lady and I have only your welfare at heart and any conspiracy we’re engaged in is for your benefit. We don’t want you to die again.”
“How many times do I have to insist that I am not a puling infant, that I am a man capable of doing a man’s work, that I don’t want, that I reject this so-called help from you meddlers?”
Harad wrinkled his brow, “Use your head, captain. You’re smarter than you’re acting these days. You know damned well you can’t go back the way things are now. We both know what’s likely to happen if you try.”
“Do we? I’m not so certain. I want you to carefully and exactly tell me what you think will happen when I return to the battlefield.” Anjh stared past him as he spoke.
Harad took a deep breath and looking steadily at his friend said, “You will go out as you always have, at the head of a unit. You will plot a course for the center of the battle, where the fighting is hottest, as you always have. You will kill a certain number of the enemy and then - you will stumble or you will be overrun or you will fail to see the Feral targeting you from the distance... whichever happens doesn’t matter for you will fall, this time for good. Your troops will try to save you but instead will fall at your side. And you will be dead at last. Men do not return from death twice.”
“So my chances...?”
“Are none; you will not survive the first encounter.” Harad spoke bluntly.
“Thank you, Harad. You may go now.”
“Captain, believe me - I would do anything in my power to make it different, make it like it used to be,” Harad's voice was choked with emotion as he gently closed the door.
Anjh sat motionless in his chair, his mind churning. He absently picked up the spectacles Harad had left there on the desk and fit them on his face. Nothing he had heard surprised him but it had been a blow to hear his worst suspicions confirmed so flatly, without the soft leavening of hope. He had expected to meet death on his feet, his sword in his hands, planted in the midst of the fray. Now, it would appear that he was destined to keep that final appointment disarmed like a tyro, taking with him one or more of his comrades. No, that wouldn’t do; he would have to cast about for a way to go alone. He wanted no companions on that path.
Now that his anger had spent itself for the moment, he was also able to admit that the Council was unlikely to accede to his request for the resumption of his position in the Cadre. Naufrage was saving him for something else, just what was yet unknown. With deep frustration, Anjh faced his inability to alter the course of the events impacting him at this time. Bound as he was by the coerced promise he had given the Ombrios, he couldn’t even make too much of an issue of it. The old Lamason had played the game of politics for more than three-quarters of a century and had acquired great skill, skill that a neophyte could not hope to match, much less counter.
He remained slouched behind the desk for a long time, concentrating on the dilemma before him. The strictures imposed by both Harad and the Council closed off most doors so a new exit must be found. If he could only leave this house and find a private place from which to act, he might have a chance. Might as well say if only he had been left on Mount Nothscar; if only the attempt in the hospital had succeeded... With a disgusted snarl, he pushed back in the chair and closed his eyes, shutting out an increasingly hostile world.
It had been a distressing day from the first, one he would like to forget quickly and completely.
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The servants had opened the two glass doors that led to the balcony so that the cool morning air could freshen the staleness of the room and had placed the table just inside. They had covered the surface with a starched white linen cloth and put matching napkins, folded in the shapes of flowers by the brightly glazed china that marked the place settings. A newly polished teas service was at the lady’s position and a rack held slices of breakfast breads toasted a golden brown. She lifted the pot and with a graceful bend of her wrist poured the steaming brew into his cup and placed it in front of him before pouring her own.
They had sat down for breakfast together in the common room, he dressed for the day and she still in the informality of her morning gown - its color reflecting that of her eyes - and were just taking the first sips of their tea when he made a sudden jolting move and uttered a truncated cry. She looked up questioningly.
“What’s ...?” She broke off her query at the sight of his face. He was as white as the napkin that lay crumpled under his black-gloved left hand. His eyes focused past her, staring deeply into some unknowable distance. From his tightened lips to the right hand pressed flat against the table surface, he was tensed as though to resist some approaching attack or to brace for an unavoidable blow. Before she could reach for him, he shoved away from the table and, gripping the cane which had been propped against his left leg, stood shakily.
“Please excuse me.” He turned and made his way toward the door of his bedroom, moving like a half-broken automaton.
She watched the door close behind him and heard the snick of the lock before she could gather herself to move. There was another entrance through the dressing room and she, without hesitation, took that path, softly turning the knob as she entered.
He was sitting in the chair between the bed and the window, bent forward, his hands clutching the armrests with whitened knuckles, the cane on the floor at his feet. He was looking at nothing, his pupils dilated until his eyes were as dark as his hair, his attention focused fiercely inward and his body as still as he could hold it as though he was being very careful not to jar anything or upset a most fragile balance. The curtains were closed and, squinting in the dim light, she could see that his face was smooth ivory with no sign of the inner battle he must be fighting to maintain that mask of serenity.
He saw her out of the edge of his eye and without moving even his lips more than was necessary hissed softly, “Get out!”
“No. I won’t go. I’m going to take care of you.” She knelt by the chair, placing a hand on his right thigh.
He did not seem to notice, his full attention riveted on maintaining his self-discipline in the midst of the tsunami of pain that inundated his senses and resisting the impulse to fall to the floor, howling in agony. She could feel the constant small tremor in the muscles as he fought to hold himself quiet.
“My love, let it go. You don’t have to hold so tight. You don’t have to prove anything. Scream if you need to.” She gripped his clenched fist with her other hand. “You don’t have to keep it in.”
“Yes. I do,” his voice was harsh and broken. “I will.” He dropped his head lower and tried to even his ragged breathing. The intensity of his concentration was palpable. He seemed to have somehow grown smaller, shrunken, with tension drawing his body into distorted shapes and lines.
The two remained locked in their positions until finally, she perceived a minute thawing in the hand and thigh frozen beneath her hands. He started to to pull himself up, letting his head fall against the high back of the chair, his eyes closing and his breath coming less roughly.
She rose to her feet, hurrying to dampen a cloth with which to wipe his face and hand. She did not speak but let her touch do the comforting as she caressed him with light strokes, wary of abrading his already lacerated nerves. Twice more she returned to the basin to refresh the cloth, continuing to pat his forehead and throat as he slumped unmoving in the chair, numbly accepting her attentions.
“It’s easing,” he murmured almost too softly to be heard. He slowly began to shift the fingers that had gripped the armrest of the chair, flinching as he forced the cramped muscles to move. “It’s better now; I have control again. Don’t be disturbed. This is what I was telling you about last night. It comes without warning and I haven’t yet learned how to defend against it. But I will.”
She continued her ministrations, wiping each finger separately and tenderly with the moist cloth. He did not resist, lying loosely in the chair, exhausted from the efforts he had expended. His legs sprawled out before him like the appendages of an abandoned puppet. He had released his rigid control of his body and was now centered on the barriers he was repairing in his mind.
“I’m losing my skills; I used to be able to hold onto the physical and the mental at the same time. Maybe I’m getting too old for this sort of exercise.” It was a somewhat feeble attempt at a joke.
“Nonsense, my love. Have you spoken to the Healers about this? It can’t be the normal thing to have happening.” She rocked back on her heels, still holding his hand. When he tugged it away, she stood and held out her arm for his support.
“When has anything having to do with me been normal? No, I haven’t told them anything about this; it has just lately become a serious problem.” He pushed himself up from the chair and took his cane in hand. “I’m all right now and I’m going on down to the second floor. I must get this leg functioning better if I’m ever to get even close to what I was. I’m extremely sorry you had to be a witness to this. I’ll try not to subject you to this sort of thing in the future.”
Sinking down in the chair which still held his warmth, she pressed the still moist cloth to her own mouth as she watched him make his way to the lift, the awkwardly dragging prosthetic leg making a scraping sound on the floor.