Arash-Felloren

by Roger Taylor

  The old man stepped back and held the lamp high. For a moment, the wall looked like the many-faceted eye of a huge insect as row upon row of dusty mirrors – or what appeared to be mirrors – sparkled in the lamplight. The Kyrosdyn, who had followed them, hissed audibly and stepped back quickly into the doorway. Placing the door between himself and the mirrors, he lifted a hand to the collar of his robe and pressed, almost as though he were testing his pulse.

  Then, looking constantly over his shoulder at the door, the old man was softly explaining something to Barran. There was a grille by each mirror. The old man clicked his fingers and demanded, ‘Keys, keys!’ of his increasingly wide-eyed companion. Barran hurriedly retrieved them from the Kyrosdyn and watched in continuing amazement as the old man showed him how the grilles worked. He moved very close to Barran. ‘I might be old, but I’m not stupid. I know what a man like you can do with a place like this.’ He became almost inaudible as he directed a discreet but scornful finger towards the figure hovering behind the door. ‘Me, you and them. We’re the only ones who know about this place. They won’t say anything. Look at him – I told you, the place scares them witless. I won’t say anything – I’m just glad the Jyolan’s in good hands again…’

  ‘I won’t be saying anything either,’ Barran said, anticipating the advice he was about to be given. His mind was reeling with the impact of what he had just seen and heard. Opportunities upon opportunities were unfurling one within another in a great confusion. But the background to this ferment was simple and clear – this room must be his and his alone. ‘And I won’t forget who showed it to me.’

  The remark was wilfully ambiguous, for even as he was speaking he was considering having the old man and those who had opened the door killed. The thought was a natural one for him, but he did not consider it for long. Killing the men would cause far more problems than it solved, and who could say what else this old man knew about the Jyolan? He placed a defending arm about the frail shoulders and drew him close. ‘I’m in your debt,’ he said. ‘What do you want?’

  As he had refused money earlier, so the old man gave a dismissive wave. ‘I told you, I’m just happy to see the place waking up again. And now you’ve got it, you’ll really look after the Jyolan, won’t you?’

  Barran looked at him doubtfully. ‘You want nothing?’

  ‘Well, a good place, Pitside, regular, would be nice,’ the old man conceded.

  ‘It’s done.’

  The old man beamed.

  ‘And come to me if you find you want anything else.’

  * * * *

  The pressures of organizing the Loose Pit had obliged Barran to leave the room after this declaration, though he had found it far from easy. It was not until much later that he had been able to return and reflect on what he had been shown.

  He looked at the array in front of him, tapping his lips with the key that the old man had given him. Leaning forward, he inserted the key into a hole in one of the grilles, and turned it. It was very stiff, but eventually it moved and voices began to float into the room. They were echoing and strange, but they were clear enough. He listened for a moment, then closed the grille, and his normally immobile face was briefly split by a smile which was full of both childlike wonder and cunning anticipation.

  On each of the mirrors could be seen not a reflection of himself, but some part of the Jyolan Pits. And from the grilles could be heard the sounds from that same place. He sat back and took in the scene as though he were an emperor viewing his domain from a mountain top. Some of the mirrors were still and dark, others were alive with activity. But from here he knew that he would be able to watch and listen to almost everything that happened in the Jyolan in complete secrecy. He could ensure that the Master and the Judges were doing as they had been instructed, note the trends in the wagering, see who was there with whom, especially who was there with someone they shouldn’t be with, and he would hear what they were talking about – all the fragments of information that would be so important to him in his expanding business. His early career as a mercenary had taught him the importance of good intelligence not only in fighting, but in making deals, and he had put that knowledge to considerable effect since coming to the city.

  He had heard that there were supposed to be devices in some of the older buildings which enabled scenes to be viewed and overheard from a distance and in complete secrecy. Arash-Felloren, however, was full of such nonsensical tales, and he rarely gave any of them credence. The people here were greatly given to exaggeration about the wonders of their precious city and, in his experience, it gave them at times a gullibility remarkably at odds with their normally sharp and shrewd nature. It was no great surprise to him that they would find it easier to accept that some of the major political changes which had swept the city through its long history were due to these fantastical mirror and echo ways rather than the patient treachery and convoluted cunning of their own kind. But here were those self-same devices, just as the gossips and tale-tellers had always declared.

  Briefly he wondered how many other of the city’s wild tales might prove to be true – precious few, he trusted, since some of them were extremely alarming. Though the thought was almost immediately swept aside by the many other matters vying for his attention, it twisted a tiny cold knot of fear deep in the pit of his stomach before it left. There were so many strange things in this city! However, even this chilling acknowledgement could not survive long in the heat of Barran’s elation. Not now that this incredible room was all his!

  But he must clean the place up. The mirrors were covered with a film of dust. He reached out and made to wipe one of them with his sleeve. To his horror it quivered then moved, and the view it was reflecting blurred and vanished. He snatched his hand away fearfully and, for an instant, saw his new future crumble in the wake of his careless destruction of this incredible acquisition. But the mirror slowly sighed back to its original position. He let out the painful breath he had been holding and pressed his hands together to stop them shaking. Then, very carefully, he took the surprisingly thick edge of the mirror between his thumb and forefinger and supported it while gently cleaning it with a kerchief. It misted as his breath touched it and the image faltered slightly, revealing a faint reflection of his anxious face, but it steadied almost as soon as he released it.

  He made a note that one day he would have to find out how these things worked. He was never comfortable with things whose workings he did not understand, particularly if he was relying on them for anything important. Once he had been given charge of an elaborate siege engine and, full of youthful pride and believing the claims of the inventor, had made wild claims about its value in a forthcoming assault. ‘What’ll you do when the string breaks?’ an old sapper had sneered to general amusement at the height of one such peroration. Stung, he had sneered back, and in the subsequent melee had killed the sapper. Subsequently, the machine proved to be not only useless, but dangerous to its operators, and the mocking comment had returned to bite deep into him. Like a barbed arrow, it had stayed with him ever since. He rarely relied on anyone absolutely. Even now he always carried several knives and, though he had had little cause to carry a bow for many years, he still had two spare bow strings secreted in different pockets.

  Yet, unusually, he could think of no one to whom he might turn with such a problem, save perhaps the old man, though he suspected that he knew only that the Ways were there and what they did. Indeed, he suspected that the strange irregular mirrors and their grilles were perhaps beyond anything that the craftsmen of today’s city could even aspire to. His doubts broadened into certainty. There would be no one. He could not even think of anyone who could construct the building, with its innumerable twisting tunnels and passages and alarming balconies. And if there were someone who understood the mirrors, there was the problem of secrecy – whoever learned of this device would have valuable information – too valuable. Grim amusement bubbled up within him. That was probably the very reason why no one
knew how to make such devices now!

  He set the problem aside with all the others that the day had brought. It was not important at the moment. He could clean the mirrors himself, and it was encouraging that, even though they had probably not been used for many years, they seemed to work perfectly.

  He relaxed and once again admired his new dominion. Several of the mirrors showed the arena from different angles. After a little searching, and more careful cleaning, he found the old man, incongruous amid the conspicuous wealth that stood around him, but smiling happily. Barran chuckled as he saw an attractive young woman engaging him in conversation. Probably thinks he’s a rich eccentric, he thought. He had a suspicion that the old man was not as frail as he made out and that he was going to get more than a good Pitside place for his efforts. Barran reached out to open the grille by the mirror, then changed his mind.

  He turned to the other mirrors showing the Pitside. Even though he knew that he was both too excited and too tired to make rational plans, he could not stop himself from speculating and scheming as he looked at the wealth and power that was gathered around his arena. He let the ideas come and go for a while, though he deliberately avoided dwelling on any of them. Then, reluctantly, he drew the timber panel over the mirrors and left the room, carefully locking the door and placing the key in a safe pocket.

  As he walked along the dimly lit passages his physical fatigue began to take its toll and his thoughts reverted to more immediate concerns. Not least was the matter of why the Kyrosdyn had suddenly decided to sell. Why had they not used the place to its full? Surely they must know what they had given him! They must want him to become even richer and more powerful than he already was. But why?

  He stopped and straightened up, and made an attempt to dismiss these unanswerable questions once and for all. Just get through this day successfully – go and check the animals in the basement – go and check the takings. As he paused, the sound of cheering from the arena floated along the passageway. As it passed, it left a lingering echo like a low moan. It was like the sound that could sometimes be heard in the Thlosgaral, and the old memory made Barran shiver. He looked around at the many dark orifices pocking the walls and the ceiling and even the floor. They looked like so many eyes.

  Could it be that someone, somewhere, was watching and listening tohim?

  Chapter 17

  Pinnatte pointed. ‘Who are they, down there? And why’ve they all got their hoods forward?’

  Rinter followed Pinnatte’s hand then peered through his seeing glass. ‘I’ve no idea,’ he said after a moment. ‘They’re rich, though. Look at their clothes – simple, but very expensive if I’m any judge. I doubt they even noticed tonight’s Pitside prices. As for keeping their faces hidden…’ He shrugged. ‘Some of these rich folk are a bit odd, that’s all. They don’t like their friends knowing that they come to the Pits, especially the Loose Pits – mixing with the common herd and all that. It’s not all that unusual. Why?’

  ‘That one there – the woman in the centre – she looked straight at me, just then.’

  Rinter laughed lecherously and nudged him with his elbow. ‘Heard that some of these young ladies get worked up in more ways than one when they’re watching a good fight, have you? Fancying your chances?’

  Pinnatte was flustered. ‘Why not?’ he stammered, eventually managing to muster some indignation at the implied slur on his manliness in Rinter’s tone. It passed Rinter by.

  ‘Well, for two reasons,’ the older man said. ‘First, it’s unlikely she was looking at you at this distance. She could just as well have been looking at me.’ He laughed again. ‘And second, how do you think you’re going to find her in this crowd? Not to mention the fact that she might have her hood forward for a good reason.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘She could be ugly as sin – or three times your age.’ Rinter’s face became suddenly thoughtful. ‘Mind you, that’s no…’

  A cheer from the crowd ended Rinter’s exposition. One of the Judges had stepped forward and raised his staff to announce the next fight.

  ‘Give me your seeing glass,’ Pinnatte said. Rinter handed it over with a leer. Pinnatte focused on the figure that had looked up at him. The robe she was wearing was indeed simple, but even he could tell that it was expensive. Though he could see nothing of the wearer, he felt drawn to her. It was no ugly old woman, he knew. As if acknowledging his observation, the woman inclined her head slightly. The movement cut through him, and she seemed to be so close that he wanted to reach out and touch her. The Judge’s voice and the noise of the crowd faded to a distant, background rumbling.

  Then she moved forward suddenly, slipping from his view, and Rinter was shaking his arm. ‘Come on. Wake up. You don’t want to miss this.’

  ‘This’ was the entry into the arena of a large dog and an equally large cat, black and muscular. Both had two leash-holders who were wearing thick gauntlets and leggings and who were already finding their task an ordeal as the two animals strained to reach one another. A third man accompanied each animal, carrying a staff with two prongs at one end and a loop at the other. These individuals pranced and strutted about the arena, swinging and waving their staffs in an elaborate and acrobatic drill as if it was they who were there to entertain the crowd. Their true function became apparent almost immediately however, as the cat suddenly twisted round and lashed out at one of the leashmen. A loop closed deftly about its neck and dragged it to one side before it could pursue its attack. There was some applause from the crowd.

  Rinter was slapping his purse. ‘The dog doesn’t stand a chance,’ he said, bouncing up and down. ‘Look at that cat. It’ll open it up with one blow as soon as they close.’

  ‘What are the blues saying?’ Pinnatte asked, pointing to the flurry of arm-waving breaking out on the terraces, the object of his desire forgotten for the moment.

  ‘The same,’ Rinter said after a brief study through his seeing glass. ‘I should bet now before the odds drop.’ He screwed his face up in indecision. Pinnatte was reminded of a time when he had discreetly watched Lassner debating about a wager. It had given him an insight into wagering which was subsequently confirmed by observation. No one beat the blues! He also felt a distaste, he realized. What was important here was the quality of the fighting, not this sordid scrabbling for money.

  ‘Don’t do it,’ he said calmly. Rinter looked at him sharply, surprised by the authority in his voice. ‘Don’t do it,’ Pinnatte repeated. Then he smiled. ‘Enjoy the evening, remember? Save your money until you’ve found your man with the rat. The cat looks strong, but…’ He ended the sentence with a shrug. Rinter, not altogether happily, took his advice.

  For the first three or four circuits he seemed to be regretting it as the dog cowered away from the cat’s angry, spitting attacks. But as the leashes were let out, the dog began to show an unexpected fleetness of foot and an ability to move in very quickly, wreak damage with a tearing bite, and retreat. It was not always quick enough though, and in the end, both animals being seriously hurt, the Master declared no winner. It was not a popular decision either with the crowd or the cat’s owner, who strode forward, waving a clenched fist at the red figure. The Master looked at him coldly, but made no reply other than partly to lower his staff. The owner sobered abruptly, and with an apologetic bow, retreated.

  ‘Well, at least the blues seemed to appreciate that decision,’ Pinnatte said.

  Rinter nodded knowingly. ‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘I’m glad we met. That’s twice you’ve saved me money.’

  Pinnatte gave a disdaining shrug. He was beginning to feel strange. He had never had any great love for the Pits, but now he was finding himself utterly engrossed. In future – in his new future – he would come here much more, and find the money somehow to buy a place at the Pitside where he could watch events more closely. Even from high above the arena he could feel the animal ferocity of the conflicts as never before. He searched for a word.

  Purity.


  That was it.

  There was a purity about the hatred that the animals expressed. A perfection. A totality of focus that, to Pinnatte, neither he nor any other human could begin to possess. No doubts, no vagueness, no troublesome distractions of conscience or fear of hurt. He looked up at the solitary crystal seemingly floating in the thickening air like a distant, watching star – it was another glittering perfection.

  This place must have been a temple once. A holy place. The thought flooded through him like a revelation and he could do nothing but stand motionless, scarcely daring to breathe for fear that the moment might just as quickly vanish.

  As it was, the feeling faded gradually, but the memory of it remained with him for the rest of the evening as a parade of animals in various combinations were brought to the arena to fight one another. Sometimes they had to be goaded, sometimes they had to be restrained, but in every case, under the watchful tutelage of their caring owners and the Clerks, there was an inexorable climax, savage and rending, which left blood and sometimes entrails splattered across the dusty floor.

  Pinnatte shouted and cheered with the rest of the crowd but, increasingly, only because he felt the need to keep hidden his true, inner responses – his growing empathy with the fighting animals. He seemed to feel each move they made, to taste as they did, scent the air as they did, feel his muscles and sinews quicken and dart as theirs did. And both the ecstasy of victory and the terror of defeat became one to him, as though they were merely different aspects of a common need which now he had the insight to understand. But even as he revelled in this vision, some part of him knew that the clarity which he now had was like that found in a dream and that, when all was over, he would have no words for it – just a lingering desire.