Arash-Felloren

by Roger Taylor

  ‘Diplomat is the word you’re looking for,’ Atlon replied, looking back anxiously over his shoulder. ‘What are they doing?’

  ‘Just talking, by the look of it.’

  Then the path carried them around a bend and down a slope, and Rinter and the Weartan vanished from view behind the charred landscape. Atlon reined in his horse and waited.

  ‘See if there’s anyone else about,’ he said. ‘This place has given us too many surprises already.’

  Dvolci clambered out of the pack and disappeared into the remains of a nearby house. Uncomfortably, Atlon half drew his sword, pondered it for a moment, then dropped it back into its scabbard and took hold of a heavy staff that hung from his saddle. Hefting it familiarly, he swung an arcing blow first to one side and then the other. This was what he would use if necessary, he thought. Not as casually deadly as a sword, and at least he could use it properly.

  Dvolci returned. ‘He’s coming,’ he said as he dropped back into Atlon’s pack. ‘And there’s no one else about. That Weartan seems to be leaving as well.’

  Rinter came trotting around the bend. Despite his obvious discomfort at having to ride at even modest speed, he looked relieved.

  ‘Luck’s with us today, Atlon,’ he said, wiping a soiled kerchief over his flushed face. ‘Let’s get out of here before it changes.’

  ‘Who was that?’ Atlon asked as they moved off. ‘And what were we doing wrong?’

  ‘That was one of our blessed Prefect’s guards. One of the virtuous souls charged with the task of keeping order in the city.’ There was considerable irony in Rinter’s voice. ‘Fortunately for us, he was on his own, and he was one of the more honest ones.’ Rinter’s brow furrowed as a thought occurred to him. ‘Or perhaps that was just because he was on his own.’ He shrugged the possibility aside. ‘Anyway, it doesn’t matter. It’s enough that he was content with only a small payment.’

  ‘Payment? What for?’

  Rinter’s expression became weary again. ‘It must be very difficult, being a teacher,’ he said. ‘Explaining the obvious all the time.’

  Atlon’s eyes narrowed. The squalor of the Spills, the sudden transition to this ravaged area and, finally, despite the calmness he had affected, the encounter with the Weartan had all conspired to shake him badly, and his willingness to be treated as a foolish relative from the country was deserting him rapidly.

  ‘It is,’ he agreed, though there was a menace in his tone that made Rinter glance at him nervously. ‘But you do it anyway – it’s the safest in the long run. You never know who you might be instructing.’ He urged his horse to move a little faster and, reaching across, took the reins of Rinter’s horse. It was a swift and expert movement. ‘We’ll be quicker if you let me do the riding. You just hang on and tell me which way to go. You can explain the obvious to me while we ride.’

  Naked fear appeared on Rinter’s face as his horse quickened, first to a canter and then to a modest gallop. It was no cavalry pace, but it was faster than Rinter had ever travelled and, after an initial fumbled failure, he made no further attempt to stop Atlon’s assumption of command, concentrating instead on following his advice, and hanging on. Nor did he make any attempt to ‘explain the obvious’ to his companion – partly because his sarcasm now seemed inappropriate, but mainly because he was holding his breath. A stern demand from Atlon made him release it sufficiently to gasp out a direction whenever a fork appeared in the road, in time to ensure that the pace of the charge did not falter. Rinter closed his eyes as well as held his breath as the two horses galloped around a corner.

  The path wound and undulated through the blackened wreckage, and where the two riders passed, the horses’ hooves stirred up a cloud of black ash which lingered behind them in the heavy air. At one point they encountered two Weartans, but though Atlon deftly steered the horses past them, his appearance was so sudden and his progress so relentless that they leapt to one side instinctively. When they recovered, coughing in the dust, the riders had vanished from view.

  Then, as abruptly as they had entered the destroyed area, they were out of it and riding through squalor and disorder different only in its details from the one they had passed through previously. Atlon reined back the horses to a walk, returned Rinter’s reins to him, and motioned him to lead on. ‘You did want to get away quickly, didn’t you?’ he said pleasantly. ‘I thought it was the least I could do after you’d been so helpful bringing me here.’

  Rinter was patting his chest with one hand and gesticulating vaguely with the other. It was some time before he could speak coherently. His opinion of Atlon had undergone a drastic change during the brief chase. Whatever else this stranger might be able to do, he could ride like no one he had ever seen before. And when he was riding he was a very different person from the one who had just politely returned his reins to him.

  ‘There won’t be a problem with those two officers, will there?’ Atlon was asking. ‘I don’t want to break any of your laws, but I presumed you didn’t want to speak to them.’

  Rinter shook his head. Seeing the two Weartans brushed casually aside was the one part of the ride that he could recall with relish. ‘No, no. You did right. We were lucky with the first one; we mightn’t have been with those two.’

  ‘You must explain to me about these people. They wore the same uniforms and the one who stopped us was obviously used to people accepting his authority. Who are they? And why were all those houses – those shacks – burned? And what did he mean, the area’s being renewed?’

  Rinter raised a hand to stem the questions; when he spoke it was with the embarrassed air of someone explaining about a crazed relative kept in the attic. ‘They’re Weartans, the Prefect’s Guards. They…’

  ‘You told me that – who’s the Prefect?’

  Rinter frowned, though only because he was trying to order his thoughts. ‘The Prefect is head of the city, or at least is supposed to be.’

  ‘Like a king, or a Ffyrst?’

  Rinter was still struggling. ‘I don’t know what a Ffyrst is, but the Prefect’s not really like a king. He’s appointed by the Council.’

  ‘And the people appoint the Council,’ Atlon offered.

  Rinter looked as blank as he had at the mention of a Ffyrst. ‘No, of course not. The Prefect appoints the Council.’

  This time it was Atlon who frowned. ‘But…’

  Rinter wanted to be free of the subject. He was recovering from his enforced gallop and was anxious to get back to the business of luring Dvolci into the pits. ‘It’s very complicated,’ he said. ‘Everyone has fingers in everything – the Noble Houses, the Trading Combines, the Congress of Artisans, mercenary groups, the Kyrosdyn.’ At the last moment he managed to mumble the word Kyrosdyn, loath to risk turning Atlon’s thoughts back in that direction. ‘Even the Guild of Thieves has a say, one way or another,’ he added heartily. ‘Then there’s the Weartans and the hordes of clerks and scribes and jumped-up little jacks-in-office running round, making their own rules up. They’re always there, no matter who the Prefect is or who’s on the Council.’

  Atlon was screwing his eyes up as if that might clarify matters for him. ‘It is complicated, as you say. And, with all due respect, it doesn’t seem to be a very good way of looking after a place like this.’ He looked around at the makeshift shacks and the surly people they were passing, but Rinter did not notice.

  ‘It’s the way it’s always been,’ he said. ‘Different groups all jostling for power and influence.’ He sneered. ‘And for what?’ He turned to Atlon and looked at him squarely. ‘This place is just too big, too full of too many opinionated people, to be ruled by anyone. You might as well say you rule a river because you stand in it and fill a bucket. These people do more harm than good, meddling with things that’ll work themselves out anyway. Everyone’s only looking to survive, that’s all. I don’t know why they can’t leave things alone.’

  There was a passion in his voice that took Atlon by surprise. And Rinter had not
finished. His fist beat the air. ‘Too big. They say that in the old days, when the Great Lord built the city, His enemies lost an entire army trying to occupy it – literally lost it – just disappeared without trace. It’s that big. And these fools think they can take charge of it as though it were a market stall.’ He spat. ‘You want to keep clear of people like that. You stick with me. Simple folks like you and me have got to look after each other. There’s always a living to be made here if you’re sharp enough.’

  Atlon however, was still having difficulty with the seeming lack of civic order that Rinter was describing. ‘But there must be laws, surely? And courts of some kind where people can settle disputes or where criminals can be examined.’

  ‘Oh, there’s laws enough to choke every street twice over. And courts and tribunals and assizes and boards and benches and all manner of grey-hearted “servants of the city” looking to separate you from your money. That’s if you get that far, if all your money’s not gone in buying off the Weartans. Personally, I’d rather take my chance against the Guild of Thieves. At least they’re honest robbers.’

  Atlon decided to leave the subject. It was more than possible that Rinter’s view of the matter was jaundiced for some reason, but it would contain an element of truth for sure. He renewed his earlier resolve to be watchful and to be careful about whom he trusted.

  As they talked, they left the Spills and they were now making their way along a paved street, bounded by high brick and stone buildings. Atlon was glad to feel something of permanence about him after the aura of transience and decay which had pervaded the ramshackle constructions of the Spills.

  He was pleased also, to be amongst people of a less overtly surly demeanour, for the street was quite busy. He looked back, but once again the city’s curved and sloping streets had removed the Spills from view. It was as if they and the burned buildings and the Weartans had never existed.

  Like a dream.

  The thought was fleeting but vivid and peculiarly unnerving, and Atlon hastily turned back to the solid reassurance of his present surroundings.

  The upper floors of the buildings were distinguished by barred and shuttered windows, though many of these were thrown open, as if greeting the bright sunlight. At street level, many of the frontages were brightly decorated and there were all manner of shops, interspersed amongst what Atlon took to be warehouses and other commercial premises. Looking round, Atlon identified a dozen trades almost immediately, and noted many more that meant nothing to him. And there were the inevitable stalls and pedlars hawking their goods.

  Dvolci was at his ear again, whispering softly. ‘I think your little run through the Spills has improved our guide’s attitude,’ he said. ‘But his account of how this place is governed was disconcerting, to say the least. It verges on anarchy. You really must be very careful.’

  ‘I realize that,’ Atlon replied, a little testily.

  ‘No, you don’t,’ Dvolci countered coldly. ‘Your people – in fact, all the people you know – live free but within a framework of order of some kind. These people seem to be unfettered – theyare running wild. And you’re too immature a species to cope with it, especially crowded together like this. This place is as dangerous as a battle front, even without people fooling around with crystals and the Power.’

  Exposing the follies of humanity was one of Dvolci’s many amusements and he frequently delighted in proving his point by rousing his antagonists to fist-clenching fury. Now however, his voice was level and calm; the voice of someone bearing the ancient wisdom of his kind. It was a timely reminder and Atlon nodded in acknowledgement.

  ‘I understand,’ he said.

  ‘Here we are.’ Rinter’s voice ended the soft exchange. He dismounted.

  They had stopped outside a tall, solid-looking building which, insofar as Atlon was able to judge, seemed to be much older than its immediate neighbours. Flanked by two narrow alleyways, it stood alone. Carved figures, weathered and featureless, stood guarding the corners of the roof, lichen stains running down the walls from their feet. And where most of the other buildings had plain bars sealing the upper windows, this one had elaborately worked metal frames, some portraying strange and sinister-looking animals, others gaunt and malevolent faces. By contrast, it was a face of remarkable beauty that decorated the massive keystone of a circular arch which spanned the entrance. Unlike the rest of the building it appeared to have been untouched by time, and the rough-hewn stones of the arch rose up to it as if in homage.

  Dvolci nudged Atlon and pointed to it discreetly. Atlon drew in a sharp breath and circled his hand over his heart. Then he coloured and drew his hand down his tunic awkwardly as though to wipe the gesture away.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Dvolci said. ‘More than a few of your learned elders would have done the same under the circumstances. It’s a frightening piece of work.’

  ‘I’ve never seen…’ Atlon looked at the face again.

  ‘No. Leave it. It’s only a piece of stone – a skilled piece of carving. There’ll be more potent manifestations of Him about this place to be dealt with, if I’m not mistaken. Let it go!’

  Dvolci had to repeat his last instruction to make Atlon tear his gaze from the face. With an effort he forced himself to look at the gate sealing the entrance. This was a heavy timber, two-leaved contrivance, obviously newer than the rest of the building. In crude lettering across the top, it bore the legend ‘The Jyolan Pits – The Oldest Fighting Animals Arena in the World’, while the rest of it was covered with notices in varying states of decay, and garish, ill-drawn pictures of blood-stained animals fighting one another.

  ‘Delightful workmanship,’ Dvolci said acidly.

  By now, Rinter was in earnest conversation with someone through a grille in a wicket-door. Atlon dismounted and walked to the gate. Though he made a deliberate effort not to look at it, he felt as though the face on the keystone was watching him intently. He studied the many notices littering the gate. They meant little to him. Times, prices, special appearances of named animals, cancellations, were displayed indiscriminately, along with a wide variety of extravagant claims about the ‘unbridled ferocity’ of ‘specially selected’ animals, and more than a few sentimental eulogies for recently deceased ‘fighters’. On a small and very old notice, partly hidden behind another, Atlon found the fighting rules. They were very simple, while on a much larger notice, the wagering rules were displayed. Atlon studied them intently for a little while – they were in an extremely fine print – but was obliged to give up after only a few lines.

  ‘I think they mean, give us all your money and go away,’ Dvolci summarized. ‘Or else.’

  Rinter was with them again. He was agitated. ‘There’s a problem, I’m afraid. I’d hoped you’d be able to get in right away and see what happens, but there’s a special fight tonight and they’re closed until then.’ He fidgeted and looked up and down the street anxiously. ‘And I’ve got other matters to attend to before tonight.’

  Atlon hid his relief. ‘We… I’ll… look around the city until then,’ he said, his tone conciliatory. ‘Find somewhere where I can water the horse. Find my way about.’

  Rinter fidgeted a little more while he debated this proposition before reluctantly accepting it. ‘Go that way,’ he said, pointing. ‘Otherwise you might end up in the Spills again. Keep to the main streets, don’t go wandering off down any alleyways.’ He nodded towards the mouth of the alley by the side of the Jyolan building. ‘And remember where this place is so that you can find your way back.’

  Atlon smiled. ‘You sound like my mother,’ he said.

  Rinter grinned weakly, made a tentative start at a couple of sentences, then shrugged. ‘You’ve no timepiece, I suppose?’ he said. Atlon shook his head. ‘About sunset, back here, then,’ Rinter said, looking at him earnestly.

  ‘Sunset,’ Atlon confirmed.

  As he prepared to mount, Rinter snapped his fingers. ‘Walk your horse,’ he said knowingly. ‘You’ll be less consp
icuous. And don’t leave it with anyone. In fact, don’t leave it at all. And keep where it’s busy. And…’ The words faded, leaving Rinter tapping his foot nervously. He had been about to tell Atlon to avoid any of the crystal marts, but decided at the last moment that it was probably wiser not to remind him about them, now that he had got him at least as far as the door of the pits.

  But he was not happy at seeing his future prospects wandering off unguarded into the city, and he stood staring after them even when they disappeared from view.

  He would have been even less happy had he been privy to their conversation.

  ‘A fortunate parting of the ways,’ Atlon said. ‘I think he would have been more than a little persistent about your fighting if that place had been open. Now let’s see if we can find someone who deals in crystals.’

  Chapter 11

  Imorren could scarcely contain her fury. It was many years since she had known emotions, of any kind, so strong that she had had to struggle to master them, and the knowledge that such traits still lurked within her unsettled her profoundly, adding to her anger.

  The room in which she sat, upright and still, was a coldly glittering place of polished white stone and elaborate crystal constructs. It was the Hall of Endings and Beginnings – the Chamber of the Ways – and it lay deep within the Vaskyros. Nine domes formed the ceiling, borne on carved walls and slender, many-sided columns that seemed at once to reach up in fearful praise and to hang like moonlit icicles. Rare, tinted crystals swept out intricate, abstract patterns over the entire Hall; patterns within patterns, endlessly, smaller and smaller, drawing the eye into unknowable depths. Full of subtle complexity they tumbled from the domes, down walls and columns, to spill across the floor like frozen tributaries to a silent ocean – an ocean which lapped, motionless at the feet of crystal towers whose surfaces and edges drew light from an unseen source to cut and shape yet more patterns. Jagged and bewildering symmetries formed in every direction.