by Roger Taylor
Rinter was shaking his head as Atlon remounted. ‘You’re wasting your time trying to help half-wits like that,’ he said. ‘The city’s full of them.’
A combination of the old woman’s unexpected response and fear of losing his only guide to the city kept Atlon silent, but it was an effort and his horse stamped its foot and shook its head, sensing his inner tension. He leaned forward and spoke to it softly.
Rinter had watched the incident with concern. Keeping a good fighting animal as a pet he could just about understand, but stopping in the middle of the road to tend to some old fool who hadn’t the wit to look where she was walking, was beyond him. What kind of a man was this? From his general manner and conversation, he didn’t seem to be weak in the head, but something must be wrong with him. In some ways he behaved like a foolish child, yet he must be in his thirties and there was a hint of care in the lines on his face which belonged to a much older man, so he had had troubles in his time. And too, he could not have travelled this far without being able to fend for himself effectively.
Unnervingly, the image of Atlon as a deceiving killer slipped once again into his mind. Vividly. His hands tightened involuntarily about the reins. Atlon might not be simple, but that did not mean that he wasn’t crazy. Rinter had heard of people whose minds were incompletely formed and who belonged to a long gone and darker age. People who could mimic normality to perfection until the opportunity came to slip from behind the mask and reveal their true selves – to their victims. His mouth went dry. How would you recognize such a person? He watched Atlon talking to his horse, as if some clue might lie in his demeanour. As he did so his eye fell on Atlon’s sword. It was well crafted and had a used and practical look about it. Probably cuts firewood with it, he forced himself to think, but the thought did not convince and the idea that Atlon might be a murderer refused to fade as it had before. Rinter reached a crisis. Perhaps he should walk away from this man now, forget about him, his strange animal and his even stranger ideas. But the felci had made too deep an impression on him when it had intimidated Ghreel’s dog into retreat, and the lure of success at the fighting pits after years of dealing with mediocre animals was irresistible. He rationalized. Atlon had done nothing untoward to warrant such a judgement, and after all, hewas a foreigner – he was bound to be peculiar. In any event, he reassured himself, there was no reason why he should ever find himself alone with the man. He cheered up. It helped in reaching this conclusion that he was in the middle of a crowded street.
Curses from other riders halted by Atlon’s abrupt stop brought both Rinter and Atlon back to the moment. Atlon raised a hand in apology but Rinter returned the verbal assault in kind and they set off again. Rinter adopted a fatherly manner. ‘If you don’t mind my saying so, Atlon, you’ll have to learn to be a bit more… forthright, dealing with people around here. The strong shall inherit the world, as they say. If you don’t stand up for yourself, people here will take you for a fool, and will take everything else you have as well.’
‘Yes,’ Atlon replied enigmatically, leaving Rinter with nothing else to say.
As they rode on, the character of the buildings changed in that they became generally taller, though the plethora of different styles was still bewildering. Great piles of ornately carved masonry jostled with austere straight lines and seductive, arching curves. And crooked ramshackle buildings, obviously of great age, squinted out from between them all defiantly. All the older buildings and many of the new bore signs of movement. Street traders too, began to abound: some with fixed stalls, some with outrageously decorated carts, and others who carried their stock in their hands and accosted passers-by. All were shouting and none could be heard. Rinter, in common with most other riders, Atlon noticed, was fairly free with his foot in dismissing any who came too near.
‘It’s a vigorous place at least,’ Atlon said to Dvolci.
‘So’s a weed patch,’ Dvolci muttered back. ‘This place isn’t vigorous, it’s running wild.’
Rinter turned to Atlon with a look of pride. ‘I’ll wager you’ve never seen anything like this before,’ he said.
‘That’s true,’ Atlon replied. ‘My country’s much flatter. It’s an odd feeling, walking either up or down at every turn. And our buildings are not quite so… varied, nor so crowded together. We also usually build down rather than up, so the buildings are not so high, but often quite deep.’
Rinter pondered this revelation, then thrust his city forward again.
‘Deep!’ he exclaimed, prodding a finger downwards. ‘This whole city’s underlain by tunnels. Level after level. Some you could get two carts side by side down, they say. And so many that no one’s ever managed to draw a map of them.’ He laughed. ‘Mind you, no one’s ever managed to draw a map of the streets yet, there’s always so many people building and changing things.’ The finger prodded again, with even greater pride. ‘And under the tunnels are the caves.’
Atlon inclined his head to acknowledge this laudation then said, ‘Tell me about the caves. I’d be interested to see them. And Dvolci’s a cave animal. He likes to spend time underground whenever he can. Too much sky for too long upsets him.’
Rinter’s joviality faltered. ‘Nobody goes down there unless they have to. There’s people and things down there that you don’t want to meet, believe me.’ He laughed again, but the sound was forced. ‘There’s queer enough things live in the tunnels, let alone the caves.’
‘Nobody goes into them?’ Atlon repeated. ‘I thought you said the Kyrosdyn found animals down there for the Loose Pits.’
‘Nobody normal,’ Rinter emphasized. ‘A few cracked miners, maybe – outcasts, fugitives from the Guild of Thieves and the like. As for the Kyrosdyn, no one really knows how they come by their animals, but they’re capable of anything – that’s why you don’t want to be working for them.’ He waved the uncomfortable thoughts aside. ‘I wouldn’t worry about what fights in the Loose Pits. The felci might be tough but he’s not tough enough for there. You take my advice, I know this business; with the right kind of handling there’s a lot of money to be made from the ordinary pits. You’ll be staying at better than The Wyndering before we’ve finished.’
‘I’d like to see the Loose Pits though. They sound interesting.’
Rinter turned away casually to hide the smile he felt he could not contain. Coming round to the idea, are you? he thought. Things were starting to move his way. ‘It might be possible,’ he said. ‘But they don’t happen as often as the ordinary pits and they’re expensive to get into.’ He was pleased he had managed to drag in a reference to Atlon’s need for money. ‘Still, I’ll make some inquiries.’
Atlon gave a nod of thanks. ‘Have we much further to go?’ he asked.
Rinter shook his head then pointed. ‘This way.’
The street he led them into was only marginally less busy than the road they had just left, and Atlon had to ride in file behind him. They had not gone far when their surroundings changed radically. The buildings they had passed through hitherto had been unfamiliar to Atlon and widely varied, but they were nevertheless evidence of some prosperity. Now he was riding through all manner of sheds and makeshift buildings which sprawled, seemingly at random, over the undulating terrain, transforming the path he was following from a simple thoroughfare into part of a maze of ill-defined alleyways. He looked back to see at what point this change had occurred, but all he could see were shacks and hovels. It was as though the city had never been. The squalor of the place was almost palpable and the atmosphere was not improved by such people as he could see. All of them looked surly and unwelcoming and they were everywhere – leaning out of windows, sitting on steps, asleep on the ground, standing in groups or just wandering about with varying degrees of purposelessness. Worse, Atlon felt that every one of them was turning and examining him with cold, judging stares.
The noises filling the place were as inseparable as the tangled alleys. Everyone seemed to be talking at once, as though they were all invo
lved in a desperate debate. Everyone talking, no one listening, he thought. Not good. This conclusion was confirmed as from time to time he heard outbursts of violent cursing and shouting. Even such laughter as he heard was jarring and unpleasant.
Weaving through the clamour were unidentifiable bangings and clatterings as of tradesmen working, though Atlon could see little sign of anyone doing anything useful. And there was livestock, he realized, though this he noticed because of his horse’s gait as it delicately stepped between the hens that were wandering about, seemingly indifferent to the passers-by. Other sounds, and scents – and there were many scents hanging in the still, warm air, most of them unpleasant – told him that there were also pigs and even cows nearby, but these he could not see. Several times he caught sight of incongruous splashes of green – a bent and twisted tree growing in a tiny, improbable space between two buildings and straining towards the light, a small garden full of weary-looking herbs and vegetables, grass-choked gutters, and creepers clambering over broken and stained walls.
And it was unpleasantly hot. Atlon made to loosen the collar of his tunic but it was already undone.
Even more disturbing than the heat, the noise, and the general demeanour of the citizens was the feeling that he was riding through people’s homes as his horse, following Rinter, picked its way through lines of washing and other patently domestic paraphernalia that littered the place. He felt it most acutely when, ducking to avoid jutting eaves, he several times found himself staring in through open windows.
‘Not much different inside than outside,’ Dvolci said to him softly, echoing his thoughts.
‘Spare me one of your lectures on the failings of humanity,’ Atlon said. ‘I’m having trouble enough with this myself.’ Dvolci did not reply.
Rinter, by contrast, seemed to be very much at home – a gesture here, a nod there, the occasional reply to a shouted greeting – but all with the air of a busy man dealing with people who, for the most part, were his inferiors. Atlon, filling with questions at every stride his horse took, found it difficult to stay silent. Just as he had not been able to gain an overall impression of the city as they approached it, so now he hesitated to extrapolate from what he was seeing. Nevertheless, when the winding pathway became wide enough he pulled alongside his guide and asked, quite unable to keep the incredulity from his voice, ‘Is the whole city like this, away from the main streets?’
Rinter turned to him, puzzled. ‘Like what?’
‘Like this,’ Atlon replied, with a small but encompassing hand movement. He searched for words that he hoped would not cause offence. ‘Disorganized, crowded. It’s… it’s no place for anyone to live.’
Rinter’s expression showed no enlightenment. He looked about him, following Atlon’s gesture, then shrugged. ‘Everywhere’s different, if that’s what you mean,’ he said. ‘There’s other places like this, of course – Spills, they call them, I don’t know why. Some are better, some are worse – much worse. They get cleaned out from time to time.’ He leaned forward and spoke confidentially. ‘You have to understand. These people here – they wouldn’t know how to live any other way. It’s what they’re used to. It’s all most of them are fit for.’
Atlon frowned at the response and seemed inclined to pursue the subject, but another turn in the path had brought them to a place where the shacks and huts were replaced by blackened facades and scorched timbers. Some areas had been completely levelled. A faint smell of burning hung about the place, catching at the throat and adding a subtle menace to the scene which the sound of a few unseen children playing nearby deepened rather than alleviated. It took Atlon a moment to realize that what he was looking at were the remains of dwellings similar to those he had just ridden through. Rinter reined his horse to a halt. He looked worried.
‘What’s happened here?’ Atlon asked, affecting not to notice his concern.
‘I’ve no idea,’ Rinter said softly. ‘It wasn’t like this a week or so ago. I’d have come another way if I’d known. It might’ve been a dispute between families. That happens from time to time.’
‘And the people who lived here?’
Rinter shrugged.
Atlon’s eyes narrowed angrily, but before he could speak, Rinter was urging his horse forward. ‘Come on,’ he shouted back. ‘We’ll take a chance. It’s not far now. It’s not worth going all the way back.’
Atlon was not reassured by his tone, but he had little choice other than to follow. For a few minutes they cantered through the bleak, dead landscape, Rinter obviously ill-at-ease travelling on a horse at speed, Atlon alert.
As they rounded a bend, a figure stepped out in front of them, sword in hand.
Chapter 10
Rinter reined his horse to a clattering halt, nearly tumbling from his saddle in the process. Atlon, by contrast, while remaining slightly to the rear of Rinter, moved quietly to one side, positioning himself to the left of the man standing in the centre of the pathway. It was an innocuous movement, intended to provoke no response, but it was also one that placed him where the man would need to take a backhand stroke if he wished to attack, thus allowing the horse enough time to retreat or to lash out with its forelegs and end the matter. It had been trained thus, but so had its countless sires and dams through the ages, and the movement to protect both itself and its rider was almost instinctive. As was Atlon’s complete trust in it. It was the way of his people. He knew that the horse was in a place of its choosing and that it would wait until he instructed it or until the man offered a real threat.
Dvolci’s head emerged discreetly from Atlon’s pack but he did not speak. Atlon reached up and gently touched the sleek head, though whether to reassure the felci or himself, he could not have said. Dvolci retreated.
As Rinter struggled to quieten his horse and regain his seat, Atlon took in the swordsman’s appearance. His manner was authoritative and confident and he was wearing a uniform of some kind; dark brown, almost black trousers and a tunic of the same colour with insignia on the arms and shoulders. It was clean and well-tended, a marked contrast to the dress of the people Atlon had been seeing since they entered the Spills, or, for that matter, to both he and Rinter. His initial alarm eased. Despite Rinter’s claims that no civic authority existed in Arash-Felloren, this could only be a representative of such a body.
‘What are you doing here?’ the man demanded of Rinter.
Rinter attempted an ingratiating smile. ‘Just passing through, Weartan,’ he said, rather too heartily and with a hint of a stammer.
The man waved an arm across the charred remains of the buildings all about them. ‘Are you blind or something? Can’t you see this area’s being renewed?’
Rinter’s stammer worsened. I… I… saw no marker, Weartan, or we’d have turned back. Just rode straight into it. I thought it was perhaps a feud… a private clearance.’
The Weartan raised his eyebrows in weary disbelief. ‘Name?’ he intoned with heavy patience.
‘Irgon Rinter.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘We were going to the pits – the Jyolan pits.’ He pointed vaguely, then indicated Atlon. ‘We’ve come down from The Wyndering – this was the shortest way.’
The gesture drew the Weartan’s attention to Atlon.
‘He’s a stranger here, a traveller,’ Rinter volunteered. ‘He…’
The Weartan waved him silent and began a close scrutiny of Atlon. Atlon met his gaze calmly.
‘That’s a fine horse you’re riding,’ the man concluded. ‘Where did you steal it from?’
The question startled Atlon and he was not able completely to keep an edge from his voice as he replied. ‘The horse is mine, sir. Has been since it was a foal. It’s not an exceptional animal where I come from. My people take a pride in their horses.’
The Weartan looked unconvinced.
‘It’s got an eye I don’t care for.’
‘He’s nervous,’ Atlon said. ‘The smell of smoke’s disturbing him.’ Then, a
pologetically, ‘And I’m afraid your sword’s frightening him.’
Atlon had taken control of his voice and his quiet manner caused the Weartan to hesitate and glance down at his sword. For a moment it seemed that he might sheathe it, but in the end he simply lowered it to hang by his side. His voice was less harsh when he spoke again. ‘I can tell from your accent that you’re not city bred. What’re you doing here?’
‘I’m looking for work to pay my way so that I can carry on my journey south.’ Atlon gave a disarming shrug. ‘I’m afraid I didn’t know how expensive everything was here. I’ve nothing left. I met this gentleman at The Wyndering and he kindly offered to help me find something.’
The Weartan’s expression announced that he considered Rinter’s altruism to be extremely improbable. ‘Well, all he’s found you so far is trouble.’ He studied Atlon thoughtfully for a moment, then flicked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘On your way. Don’t come back here, and if you see anything like this, keep out of it or you might find yourself losing your horse and the coat off your back if you’ve no money to pay a fine.’
Atlon bowed. ‘Thank you, sir. I’ll do as you say,’ he said. ‘But I’ve no idea where I am, or even how to get back to the city. And if Rinter has offended, perhaps I can speak for him. He wouldn’t be here but for me.’
The Weartan looked at him as Rinter had done on several occasions: as though he were a rare and improbable animal. Then he thrust his sword into its sheath and pointed along the path, impatient again. ‘Go that way, slowly. This… gentleman… and I have matters to discuss about his offence. He shouldn’t be too long.’ He glanced at Rinter significantly. ‘If he’s sensible.’
Atlon gave his guide an inquiring look, but Rinter urgently motioned him to do as he was told.
‘I didn’t realize you could be such a sycophant,’ Dvolci said softly, when they were some way from the two men.
