by Alys Clare
‘I’m sorry.’ I reached for his hand again.
He managed a thin smile. ‘For what?’
‘For being the means by which you have to see it, or at least think about it, again.’
‘Child, it is never far away,’ he said sadly.
‘And it – what it depicts – is why we’re here?’ I asked timidly.
He was silent for a long time. Then he said, ‘There is a power, and it is alive and growing stronger.’ Briefly I heard the hum again. ‘It comes out of the past, and I have long known of it. Known it, once,’ he added, the words more to himself than to me.
I wasn’t sure what he meant. He knew it, once? In the past, then? In this place? But surely nothing so frightful could emanate from the City of Pearl?
‘You’re not – you can’t be saying that this evil comes from here?’
The faint smile creased his face again. ‘No, it did not have its origins here, for it is far more ancient than the first occupation of this city. And you are wrong to name it evil, although I understand that what was put into your mind would make you think so.’
I shook my head in confusion. He noticed – of course he did – and his grip on my hand tightened. ‘Child, power in itself is neither beneficial nor harmful; it just is. It is what men and women do with it when they learn how to access it that results in what we call good and evil. And few who gain that access can claim always to have acted for the good.’ He released me and put his hands up to his face, so that when he spoke again the words were muffled.
But what I thought he said was, ‘Myself included.’
I saw that he was tired and I let him rest. I lay back in my chair, fluffed up my pillows, drew the soft blanket over my knees and closed my eyes. When I opened them a short time later, he was asleep.
A white-clad servant brought us food some time around midday, then left us alone. The meal seemed to refresh Gurdyman and when we had finished, he spoke to me of the City of Pearl, of its varied peoples, of its traditions of tolerance and its belief in the sharing and the dispersal of knowledge. He told me of the wonderful things that had been invented here and in the wider region; of how they advanced learning and made life so pleasant and comfortable. By the time dusk began to fall and Hanan appeared to take me away, he was tired again and so was I.
I bade him goodnight and wished him a sound, restorative sleep. He nodded his response. Then Hanan took my hand and we left.
Back in my little room, the sheets on the bed had been invitingly turned down and the lamp with the intricate metal cover was burning, sending pretty patterns dancing on the white walls. My clothes, I noticed, had been returned, and lay across a wooden chest at the foot of the bed. The garments had been beautifully laundered, and some kind hand had expertly repaired the various tears, holes and worn patches acquired through the weeks of travel. I picked up the white linen cap that I usually wear over my braids, and it felt slightly stiff. I didn’t think I’d ever seen it so bright.
‘I am very grateful,’ I said, indicating the clothes.
Hanan nodded. ‘You may wear them tomorrow if you wish.’
I looked down at the sea-green robe I’d been lent. ‘Might I also keep this for a little longer?’
Hanan smiled, clearly pleased. ‘Of course. It is a gift, for you to wear or not as you choose.’
‘Thank you.’
She nodded again, already backing out of the room. ‘Now I wish you goodnight,’ she said, and softly she closed the door.
I had thought that, after my lazy, self-indulgent day and the long nap I’d taken after Gurdyman and I had eaten, I wouldn’t sleep. I was wrong. Perhaps the hardships, the worry and the fear of the long journey had taken more out of me than I realized. I remember getting between the smooth, cool sheets, putting my head down on the blissfully soft pillow and blowing out the lamp. I remember someone – a man – laughing softly in the street below, and someone else hushing him. I remember the smell of jasmine. Then I fell asleep.
The days passed. Lazy days of convalescence to begin with, when Gurdyman and I rested in the sunny courtyard in our comfortable chairs, ate, slept, talked. Then, as I recovered my strength and began to get restless, one morning Salim asked hesitantly if I would like to meet some of his townspeople.
I almost cried Yes! there and then.
‘What about Gurdyman?’ I asked; he was dozing in his chair, and I kept my voice down.
Salim looked at his old friend.
‘I think he should rest for some more days yet,’ he replied. Then, as if he had sensed my sudden anxiety, he added, ‘Both of you have suffered an ordeal. You who are young naturally recover more swiftly.’
I wanted to ask for reassurance; I wanted to hear Salim say that Gurdyman would definitely get better, in time. But I was a healer and I knew it wasn’t wise to make such promises.
‘Should I not stay with him?’
Salim shook his head. ‘No need,’ he said. ‘He will be watched over and cared for.’ Then he held out his hand and I took it.
On that first day he took me to meet a doctor. He had realized, I suspect, where my main interests lay and he could not have chosen better. The doctor was a small, wizened man with very dark skin and immaculate white robes, his rooms were shiny-clean and smelt sweetly of herbs, and he opened my eyes to a world I had barely imagined. Using beautifully-coloured images, he took me on a tour through the interior of the human body, and so many things that had been a mystery to me suddenly became clear.
When we stopped to eat a simple meal – warm bread, olives, goat’s cheese and a lemon-flavoured drink – he sat looking at me, gently smiling. ‘You like to learn,’ he observed. ‘You are like a …’ He paused, searching for the word. ‘A sponge,’ he said.
A sponge.
Yes, that was exactly what I was. And I went on being it for the rest of that day and the one that followed. When my small doctor had to turn me away and see his patients, Salim took me instead to a large, cool room where there were more scrolls, manuscripts and books than I’d imagined could exist in the world and left me in the charge of a handsome young man with perfect manners who did his best to describe the motion of the planets. In numerous successive sessions up in that cool room I was taught the rudiments of mathematics, geometry, something called algebra, and as the days and then weeks went by I began to feel that the sponge had absorbed all it could for now.
Then I spent a day with Hanan, who took me to her house to meet her family. After the endless hours of study, it was good to chatter and laugh. Hanan’s ancient grandmother showed me how to cook some of their favourite dishes.
That evening, as I did every evening, I went to see Gurdyman before bed. His colour was better, I thought, although he wasn’t improving as quickly as I’d have liked.
‘You look well, child,’ he said with a smile.
‘I am well,’ I replied.
‘You like it here in the City of Pearl?’
‘I love it,’ I said with total honesty. ‘But—’ I stopped, for even as I’d said the word, I saw a shadow pass over his face. It was surely not right to worry him, when he was still recovering his strength.
He watched me, still smiling faintly. ‘Always questions,’ he murmured.
He was quite right. The questions I very much wanted to ask him just then were, What are we doing here? and How long are we staying?
The same questions, really, that I’d been so anxious to ask since our journey had begun.
He leaned back in his chair, his eyelids drooping. ‘Goodnight, Lassair,’ he said. ‘Sleep well.’
I tiptoed away.
It was dark when I woke up.
I was afraid, although I didn’t know why because the moonlight was sufficient to show that nothing in the room had changed: I was in my bed, safe, warm, and all was quiet.
No it wasn’t.
I had heard something, and now I strained to hear it again.
Shouting, some way off. And a crackling sound.
I leap
t out of bed and ran to the window. I leaned out, and some stray breeze from the valley far below brought the smell of smoke. Even as I stood there peering out, trying to see its source, it grew stronger; now I could see white clouds billowing up from an area on the fringes of the city, where a road came curling up from the vale.
Then there was a loud bang, and a great shower of sparks flew up into the night sky. There were screams, more shouting, the sound of voices calling and crying out in horror.
The sparks had turned to flames; wild fire, roaring so loudly that I could hear its menace as it leapt up in a high arc above whatever building was its source.
The flames were bright, brilliant blue.
ELEVEN
The dreary days of a cold fenland winter were slowly passing. Jack had made no progress in his search for any word about the vagrant Gurdyman discovered dead outside his house with a pearl in his hand and, as the weeks passed and the beggar’s death faded further into the past and the back of people’s memories, he began to believe he never would.
Although he had assumed Gurdyman took the pearl, he hadn’t managed to discover what had happened to the body. He guessed its presence had eventually come to the notice of those lowly men whose job it was to dispose of the city’s refuse, and that it would have been loaded onto a cart and tipped into some common grave, perhaps with a few words muttered over it by a priest with more important things on his mind. That was what usually happened.
None of which was any help whatsoever in tracing the dead man’s last movements …
Jack had been optimistic at first, methodically visiting all the places where the poor gathered for succour and shelter, from the clean but basic refuges run by the monks to the filthy hovels at the far end of the quayside that were the haunts of the truly desperate, and that most people avoided as if they feared some frightful sickness or a knife in the guts. He had spoken with thieves and pickpockets, following up the vague thought that the vagrant had stolen the pearl and might therefore be known to other men who lived by the same uncertain and dishonest craft. He had called on the women and the men who ran the taverns and the brothels beside the river; in particular, he had briefed his friend Magnus, who with his pretty young wife ran the tavern Jack had always used as an unofficial meeting place for his group of loyal and trustworthy lawmen, telling him who he was looking for and asking him to pass the word and keep his ears open.
The problem was that he was only able to give such a loose description of the dead vagrant that it could have fitted almost any male from fifteen to fifty. Gurdyman could have provided helpful details about the man, but Gurdyman was far away. The only distinguishing feature about this particular vagrant was that his body had been found in the alleys off the market square and he had stolen a pearl.
The paltry description was proving to be useless. After all the endless trudging and the countless questions, Jack had discovered precisely nothing.
Now it was some weeks since he had seen Hrype, and as he trudged off through ankle-deep snow towards the castle, he wondered if he was faring any better. On an impulse, he decided not to report to the guardroom – there wasn’t any real need for him to pay a visit, since the bad weather was keeping most people indoors and had apparently frozen any criminal tendencies out of those who did venture out, and he’d only been going for the company – and instead headed over the Great Bridge, turning off the road towards the market square and diving into the warren of passageways within which Gurdyman’s house was hidden away.
He had little hope of finding Hrype there; it would have been far too much of a coincidence. He had a vague idea of leaving a token of some sort that might prompt Hrype into coming to see him next time he was in town, but he was already dismissing it as he approached the house. For one thing, Hrype would undoubtedly seek him out anyway if he had anything to report and probably even if he hadn’t, and for another, Jack had nothing on him which could be spared to serve as such a token.
As he reached Gurdyman’s house, with its shallow stone steps leading up to the stout wooden door, all thoughts of leaving messages and talking to Hrype were driven out of his head.
The snow on the steps had been disturbed; it looked as if something like a wing had passed over it in a narrow arc, and there was one small footprint.
And the door was fractionally open.
Standing in the alley so as not to disturb the marks in the snow, Jack leaned over and very gently pushed the door. Silently it opened further, then it caught on something. When there was a clear space for his feet, he leapt over the steps and landed with a thump in the dark passage. His elbow banged into the door, sending it crashing back against the wall.
So much for not alerting whoever was inside.
Glancing down, Jack saw a shattered lantern lying on the floor.
He advanced down the passage, one hand on the hilt of the large and very sharp knife that he kept in a thick leather sheath attached to his belt and concealed under his outer garments in the small of his back. In the enclosed space, it was a handier weapon than his sword.
Whoever was within, he was sure it wasn’t Hrype. The footprint was far too small.
He went on, light from the enclosed court at the far end of the passage now illuminating his way, for a door had been left ajar. He looked in the small room to the left that served as a kitchen, and went up the first few rungs of the ladder in order to peer into the attic room above.
The bed had been turned on its side, the wooden frame cracked, the mattress ripped open and the bedding, torn and shredded as if with giant talons, scattered all over the floor. It was as if whoever had done it had, in Lassair’s absence, taken out on her bed the violence they would have hurled at her.
Descending, very shaken, Jack went out into the courtyard. There was nobody to be seen, and the house was too sparsely furnished to afford places of concealment behind cupboards or beneath elaborate beds and chairs.
He turned, gathering his courage, for now he had to check the crypt.
He had been down there briefly a couple of times before, when he and Lassair had been searching for Gurdyman. He had not got much further than the steps, but even there he had sensed something about the deep, dark space. It smelt odd, and the shelves and benches had borne a selection of strange objects and heavy leather-bound tomes, but it had been the sensation of quiet power thrumming steadily from some unknown source that had most set his senses on alert.
Now, as he descended the second flight of steps and jumped down into Gurdyman’s workroom, he felt the power again.
But this time it was subtly altered.
He had a sensation of someone, or something, suddenly very close – far too close – behind him. In a heartbeat he smelt something sharp but quite pleasant and refreshing – he didn’t know what it was – and he felt the whisper of breath as someone muttered soft words just below the level of hearing. Before he could do anything to defend himself – before he could even turn round – he found himself breathing in a different smell, one that wasn’t in the least pleasant and that, far from being refreshing, instantly made his head reel and nausea rise in his throat.
He said, the words no more than a choked hiss, ‘I can’t breathe!’
He felt small hands on him, supporting him with surprising strength as his legs gave way, lowering him carefully so that his head did not crash against the stone floor.
As his eyes began to close and consciousness fled, he thought he heard the soft whispering voice again. ‘Do not come here,’ it said now. ‘This is not your concern.’
Then his head filled with pain and he blacked out.
It was Hrype who found him. Hrype who was there, some unknown time later, when he opened his eyes and woke to pain, puzzlement and an urgent need to empty his bladder.
He muttered this most immediate need to Hrype, who helped him along to the rear of the house and waited, then took his arm and guided him back to the crypt. ‘Lie on the bed,’ Hrype commanded.
Jack did so. He
felt slightly better when he was lying down. He looked up at Hrype. ‘How long have I been here?’
‘When did you arrive?’
Jack thought. ‘This morning.’ But which morning? he wondered. As if the same thought had occurred to Hrype, he raised an eyebrow, arms folded as he stood before Jack. ‘Er – two days have passed since the last heavy snowfall.’
‘Ah.’ Hrype nodded. ‘That was in fact yesterday morning, then.’
‘How did you know I was here?’
Hrype studied him for a long moment before answering. ‘If I said I sensed it you probably wouldn’t believe me, but in fact I can offer no other explanation.’ As if he knew it wasn’t enough, he added, ‘There was a good friend of mine who lived nearby, close to the sacred well. I use the old house when I have occasion to stay here in the town overnight, for I no longer care to remain in Gurdyman’s house after darkness falls.’
‘I know what you mean,’ Jack muttered fervently. Then the sense of what Hrype had just said penetrated his dazed mind, and he said, ‘I’ve been to the place by the sacred well.’ He could have added, Lassair and I discovered two recently dead bodies there, but he decided not to. Hrype would know only too well what happened to the house’s occupants, and there was enough to worry about in the present situation without dragging up the horrors of the past.
‘The friend of whom I speak,’ Hrype was saying, ‘remains in some form within the house. I cannot say how, only that I have evidence of this. Thoughts have been put into my head; again, I do not explain, only to tell you what I have experienced. On the first occasion, I had just come from here – from this house – and I was afraid. The thought that arose in my mind then was that there was indeed a threat, but that it was not to me. The second time was soon after dawn today. I woke from a dream, and I knew I must come to Gurdyman’s house.’ He paused. ‘Of course, it might have nothing to do with any outside agency, and merely my own conscience telling me it was high time I checked on my old friend’s dwelling again.’ The expression in his light eyes seemed to say, I know what I believe, and am not much concerned with your opinion.
