Harvest (16 page)

What Blut discovered was that Emperor Slaeke Sinistral’s source of strength and startling recoveries to youthfulness and vigour while all around him aged and died like normal hydden was
that he possessed the gem of Summer, the second of the ‘lost’ gems that the Mercian CraftLord Beornamund so fatefully made in the sixth century.

He also discovered that Sinistral came by the gem by dint of removing it from its possessor and mentor, ã Faroün, famed architect, lutenist, philosopher and genius. Whether Sinistral
did this through murder or some other means, foul or fair, had been a matter of debate since the nineteenth century.

That Blut had worked this out was remarkable, but it was nearly fatal. He was only rescued from sentence of death by Sinistral himself. He recognized in the eighteen-year-old a talent of a very
remarkable kind.

Instead of having him executed, he trained him and later elevated him from miserable Hamburg to glorious Bochum and there put him in charge of his office on Level 18.

It was a stroke of brilliance.

As the power of the gem of Summer had worn off once more, Sinistral began to age very rapidly and he realized that this sleep might be the longest of all, perhaps terminal. In the event, he
slept for eighteen years, during which, having been duly instructed by Sinistral himself, Blut held the reins of power and managed them masterfully.

Through that time he matured, he married, he had two children and he got to know the ins and outs of the Empire better than anyone alive, bar Sinistral himself. As for his loyalty, it never
wavered, not for a moment. It even increased as he understood Sinistral’s flexibility in imposing the harsh rule of the Fyrd so necessary in founding a great enterprise, and then relaxing it,
little by little, as the different parts of the Empire matured.

Sinistral’s judgement had been sound. Niklas Blut was the perfect servant: he had a grasp of details, a subtle, clever mind that saw the warp and weft of people and situations, and
absolutely no interest in being master.

What Sinistral had gambled on before he retreated to his Chamber of Sleep was that, during his absence, the prophecy concerning Beornamund’s lost gems would come true. Simply stated, this
was that a group of honest and rather ordinary hydden would somehow find the lost gem of Spring, the first of the four, because it would be needed to save the world.

Sinistral was not sure of that, but he felt certain that if he was to continue his long reign, which he was sure he would wish to do when he woke up, he would need to add to his arsenal of
self-recovery the gem of Spring, as well as that of Summer.

What he did not reckon with at all when he awoke was that he himself might have changed fundamentally during his time of sleep, so much so that he might lose all interest in notions of an
eternal life, but desire at last to age as mortals do.

In his case, the ageing was rather rapid, for his body had taken youth into itself artificially and, once he eschewed further contact with Beornamund’s gems and their power, the years
would catch up with him very swiftly indeed.

But that was now of no consequence to him.

He knew the reason for this change of heart, this acceptance of death. His long years of sleep had taken place to the eternal, ever-changing
musica
of the Universe. It had entered his
being, his soul, and so sensitized him to life and death, to the Earth and the Universe, that he understood as others could not that his time of rule was over. Like an eastern mystic, or one who
has dwelt in the desert and seen the truth, Sinistral had seen the truth of things.

All is illusion.

All is but a reflection which, for the hydden, is made in that infinitesimally thin Mirror-of-All, that fragile shifting plane, on whose near-non-existent surface all things seem to be, yet
nothing is at all.

In his remaining months, for he knew that was all the time he had, Sinistral wished to journey into the
musica
, to understand the nature of the gems and the fires that had sustained him,
and discover how illusions cease to be and what there is, if anything, once they are no more.

Perfect peace?

Utter chaos?

Endless silence?

No-thing?

Sinistral did not know but he wished to find out.

Which Blut understood, deeply and well.

His master must be master no more if he was to be free to follow where the
musica
led him. To a place, Blut guessed, where illusion ceased to be and all was truth.

To Blut, whose admiration for Sinistral had turned to a nearly filial love, this final decision in the great hydden made him respect him even more.

But he had naturally always feared what might happen after Sinistral’s demise. It came as a shock to discover that he wished to abdicate his position, but after they had discussed the
reasons why, and Blut fully understood them, he knew what he must do and did it.

He took control and claimed the Emperor’s throne for himself, coolly and calmly, without bloodshed or rancour, doing his best to behave, as Sinistral had taught him to, as if he was born
for it.

He was clever and assured enough to stake his claim in the presence of the most likely contenders for the office on the military and civilian side and to have them acknowledge his ascendancy
over Sinistral.

The primary weapon he therefore had to sustain him in office was legitimate title.

The second was subtler and more powerful by far if only he could act on it decisively. He was greatly feared for what he knew and might do to those who challenged him.

Feared as well for what he knew about every individual in the Imperial Court, the records of whom he had himself compiled.

Feared for the access he had had to Sinistral and all that meant in terms of his knowledge of Imperial governance, law and the strategy of power. Even if Blut was not plotting, it would always
be assumed that he was, and that was enough, for the time being, to keep his enemies at bay.

He was feared for the obvious speed of his thought and the eclectic power of his mind. He not only appeared to know more than anyone about the Empire, in detail and depth; he actually did so. He
had the power of recall of almost every decision taken over the past twenty years in terms of the pros and cons and the outcomes. It was hard to pull the wool over Blut’s eyes.

Though he did not look Imperial close-up, that intelligence shone through and gave him a charisma that he was inclined to underestimate.

Court satirists, when making mock of Blut, had recourse to the same physical characteristic every time to convey the hydden himself: his round gold-rimmed spectacles. These were of flat glass
which he kept spotlessly clean. They sent disconcerting oval reflections all about the place as he spoke, which occasionally shone directly into the eyes of those talking to him, leaving the
uncomfortable feeling that Blut had glimpsed their soul and laid it bare.

Then, when someone saw past the glass, they found themselves staring into discomfiting pools of a grey, unwavering kind, as unyielding as ice.

This was not to say that Blut himself was hard. Far from it. He had a sentimental side, the wife he loved, the children he cherished, the modest lifestyle that suited him. True, his office had
always demanded a discretion that prevented him forming close friendships, but there was no evidence that he had ever abused his position of power and trust, and never had been.

More than that, no one who ever witnessed the robust nature of his conversations with Slaeke Sinistral could doubt for one moment that he had felt for his former Emperor anything but abiding
respect and deep love. Nor could anyone think that he had plotted Sinistral’s sudden abdication or that the fact of it caused him anything but disappointment and pain.

Blut might well be called the most reluctant Emperor who ever lived.

But that did not make him unmindful of the danger he was in. Feared he might be – for now. He did not underestimate how quickly that fear might turn to simple dislike; dislike to
disrespect; and disrespect to that dangerous other place of secret meetings, shadowy conferences and private cabals which, if not nipped in the bud, turned in a few moments to revolt and
overthrow.

In short, Blut knew that his new position rested on shaky and fragile foundations which needed attention – and fast.

The question that he immediately began to ponder was to where the people’s energies should be directed.

After that, he knew, the next question would be when.

The answer to that was easy: sooner than later and sooner than his enemies expected.

Surprise was of the essence, as Sinistral had also taught him.

But there was a difficulty and it was a grave one.

Blut assumed power towards the end of July, following the departure of Jack and the others from Bochum, where by courage and outrageous good fortune they recovered the gems of Spring and Summer.
He knew very well that Sinistral regarded the loss of the gems with relief rather than horror. The bold act by the hydden from Englalond had given him the liberty he needed to give up his
dependence on the gems.

But the Court and the Fyrd were a different matter. To them, and especially the intransigent and unpleasant Commander-in-Chief of the Fyrd, Quatremayne, the theft of the gems was an affront to
pride and threat to their positions they could not let go unchallenged.

Blut was forced at once to make a difficult and dangerous decision. He knew his history well enough to realize that the first thing he ought to do was to consolidate his power and elevate
individuals who would owe their loyalty to him rather than themselves, now that their former Emperor had been taken out of the picture.

The trouble was that before his departure Sinistral had put in place an Imperial visit to Brum, the city of his birth. Was it a purely social call? No one at the Imperial Court now thought
so.

Two years before, the city of Brum, under the leadership of Igor Brunte, formerly a Fyrd, and Lord Festoon, the High Ealdor of the City, had renounced its fealty to the Empire. Brunte had gone
further and massacred the Empire’s representatives for reasons of personal vengeance. The two leaders had then taken up the governance of their city for themselves.

At the time it had taken all Blut’s political skills to stop Quatremayne and his colleagues from mounting an invasion to crush Brunte’s insolent insurrection.

Now that Sinistral had gone, but a state visit was agreed, it was impossible for Blut to impose his will to stop it without his authority being undermined. He therefore had no choice but to
sanction what amounted to an invasion even though he disagreed with it. He knew that if he stayed behind in Bochum he would lose credibility but if he went, he put himself and his security directly
in the hands of Quatremayne and his people.

His only ally among the Fyrd was Witold Slew, the Master of Shadows, one of the greatest fighters in the Hyddenworld and loyal to the office of Emperor. But Blut had reservations about him, and
about using him. He had another task in mind for Slew.

So Blut’s agreement to the invasion of Englalond was reluctant and his decision to journey with Quatremayne more reluctant still.

No wonder that he had crossed the North Sea in the third week of August with great trepidation, knowing that he left his power base behind, was travelling with no allies he could trust and would
have no easy way to combat revolt against him if it came.

Which, he knew, it shortly would.

So now he sat, a stylo in hand, a pad upon his desk, his door guarded by two Fyrd, ostensibly for his safely but, as he well knew, really for Quatremayne’s
satisfaction.

Blut was now doing what he did best: planning a strategy.

He was in a foreign country, without support, in the hands of his enemies.

His list of wants and needs was short – very short.

His spectacles flashed as he wrote down four simple words:
I need a miracle . . .

Yet he smiled, because he knew that that is exactly what Slaeke Sinistral would have said before adding, as Blut now did, ‘Miracles happen.’

A
rthur came back to consciousness after his escape from RAF Croughton not knowing what time it was or where he was. One thing he did know, he was
hungry. Very.

But first things first.

He needed to know that he was in one piece and that his life was not under threat.

He had not immediately opened his eyes but he did not need to do so to know that he lay on a wet, uncomfortable, slimy surface and that it sloped down towards the water which he could hear
lapping at his feet. He wiggled his fingers, which squelched in mud. He half-raised his head and realized that his cheek and ear, and bearded chin, were in rank mud as well. So he was on the edge
of a filthy river.

Heaving himself into an upright position, he established two things simultaneously.

The first, which he immediately disregarded, was that he was sitting in a bundle of wet rags.

The second was that he was beneath a very large bridge which soared above him and across the grey waters of the river. There was the sound of water falling behind him which, when he turned, he
saw came from a wide pipe set high above in a block of granite, one of many that formed a sheer wall to right and left.

The sound of heavy traffic bounced and echoed all around.

So he was in a city and one that, judging from the buildings on the far shore, the river and the embankment, looked like London.

It took him only seconds to confirm that his passage into the Hyddenworld was complete. The detritus embedded in the slimy, stony shore contained enough items whose size he knew well. An empty
bottle of Merlot wine, a rusted sparking plug and, final proof, a shoe, size ten, his own size. Except it was huge, and the other things were huge, about twice their normal size.

He hesitated to use the word ‘shrunk’ but that is precisely what had happened to him.