by Roger Taylor
‘It’s only a graze,’ came a man’s voice from somewhere behind her. She made no response but motioned to someone to bring a lamp closer, then raised Pinnatte’s hand close to her face.
‘Nasty,’ she said, very quietly. She shot a quick inquiring glance at Pinnatte as if expecting to see something she had missed. ‘It looks almost like a crystal stain.’
A large, heavy individual eased her to one side and a battered face bent down to examine the hand curiously. ‘You worked in the Thlosgaral, lad? In the mines?’ he asked, returning the hand to the woman. His expression was a mixture of puzzlement and concern.
‘No,’ Pinnatte replied. ‘Never been out of the city.’
The man shook his head. ‘Couldn’t be,’ he said emphatically. ‘Look at him. He’s a bit skinny, but he looks fit enough. He’s a Den-Mate or I’m a donkey – city through and through. Half a day’s walk from here and he’d be lost. There’s no way he’d learn to do that or even get the opportunity, for that matter.’ He looked at the hand again. ‘Besides, it looks almost green to me. No one but a lunatic would do that.’
The woman looked doubtful. ‘Yes,’ she began, ‘but…’ She shrugged. ‘Couldn’t be, as you say.’ She stared at the hand pensively. ‘Still, I’ll put some drawing salve on it. It won’t do any harm, and the cut needs cleaning anyway.’ She lifted a loose cloth bag on to her lap and, after some fumbling, produced a small jar. ‘Long time since I’ve needed this,’ she said, wrestling briefly with the lid. Then a clean, pungent smell assailed Pinnatte and she was liberally pasting something on to the back of his hand.
A violent burning ran up his arm. With it, powerfully, came the knowledge that he must not allow this to happen!
He gave a loud yell and tried to snatch his hand back, but the woman was too strong and the action simply drew him upright. The pain in his arm was replaced by an even greater one in his head which suddenly felt as though it were about to burst. He slumped back, banging down on a cushion that was serving as a pillow and making the pain in his head even worse. He could do no other than lie still and moan until the pounding began to ease. As it did, he became aware of laughter around him. Very hesitantly he opened his eyes. Even his nurse was smiling a little.
‘Some hero,’ someone was saying. There was more laughter.
‘The ointment will deaden it for a while and draw anything out that shouldn’t be there,’ the woman said. ‘It’s old-fashioned, but it’s good.’ She was bandaging his hand. The burning had stopped now and the hand felt cold. Still he had the feeling that this should not have been allowed, but it was much weaker now – and the tightening bandage was reassuring.
Cautiously he looked slowly around as far as he could, without actually moving his head. Apart from Rinter, the woman and the big man with the battered face, there were Pitguards milling about. He was lying in a room which, unusually for the Jyolan, had a plain, flat ceiling and four straight walls. It retained however, the Jyolan’s long-neglected appearance, walls and ceiling being decorated with anonymous stains and peeling paint.
The Pitguards were coming and going at the far end of the room, attending to some kind of business with a man sat at a table. Almost all of them looked across towards the small group and one or two came over to look at Pinnatte curiously.
The events that had brought him here returned to Pinnatte as his vision continued to clear and the pain in his head settled into a comparatively tolerable throb. After a little while, he began to feel not only at ease, but very pleased with himself. He had no idea what had prompted him to clamber over the crowd, but it had turned him into an object of some admiration by men of whom he stood in awe. Even though his thoughts were occupied almost totally with his present circumstances, a small part of him was registering the fact that the esteem of these people could prove very useful in the future.
‘You’d be best advised to rest for a while,’ the woman said.
‘I don’t think I can do anything else,’ Pinnatte replied. ‘Is it all right if I stay here for a while?’
‘Stay as long as you like, lad,’ the big man said. ‘Barran will see you get more than a bed for what you’ve done. A few minutes later opening that gate and there’d have been a lot of people killed for sure.’ He shook his head. ‘We’d have been up to our necks in Prefect’s men, Weartans and lawyers for months, all looking for their share. Business would’ve gone to hell. As it is, it’s only half a dozen or so got killed. We can soon pay them off.’
Pinnatte had little idea what the man was talking about and just looked at him blankly.
‘This is Fiarn, Pinnatte.’ It was Rinter. ‘I told you about him earlier. We were talking to you when you passed out.’
Despite his general weakness and confusion, Pinnatte’s thoughts soared. Meeting Fiarn was worth even more to him that the goodwill of a score of Pitguards. He lifted his bandaged hand to take Fiarn’s. It was still cold and although he saw Fiarn’s fist envelope it, he could feel nothing. It was as if it no longer belonged to him. He left it hovering for a moment when Fiarn released it then tried to move his fingers. Nothing happened.
‘It’s the ointment,’ the woman said, sensing his concern. ‘I told you, it deadens. You could chop a finger off and not feel it. Don’t worry, it’ll be back to normal in a few hours.’
Fiarn nodded knowingly. The woman thrust the jar and various bandages back into her bag and spoke to him. ‘I’ve done all I can here. I’ll get back to Barran downstairs and see what I can do there.’
Somewhat to Pinnatte’s surprise, Fiarn’s posture in front of the woman was politely deferential, as though she were in some way his superior. He even bowed slightly when she left. The impression was confirmed when she signalled to the Pitguards and they set off after her.
‘Who was that?’ he asked when she had gone.
‘Ellyn, Barran’s wife,’ Fiarn replied, looking at him in some surprise. ‘You’re lucky she was here. She knows a lot about wounds.’ He pulled up a chair and sat down. ‘Now, young man.’ He waved a hand in front of Pinnatte’s face. ‘Are you with us?’
Pinnatte blinked in lieu of a more hazardous nod. ‘Yes, I think so,’ he said. ‘But I wish she’d put some of that ointment on my head.’
Fiarn laughed and slapped his shoulder, both actions shaking Pinnatte bodily and making him wince. Fiarn did not seem to notice. ‘Barran was impressed by what you did – that’s why he got Ellyn to look after you. I told you, you saved us all a lot of problems, and he’s known for paying his debts. He’s busy now, tidying up the mess, otherwise he’d have been here himself, but he’ll speak to you later. In the meantime he’s told me to talk to you – see whether there’s anything we can do for you.’
Rinter, standing slightly behind Fiarn, gave Pinnatte a massive, knowing grimace. It was not necessary, Pinnatte was sufficiently recovered to appreciate fully the opportunity that was being presented. He opted for honesty.
‘I’m a Den-Mate,’ he said. ‘Cutpurse, mainly – and good at it. Work on my own, or with a team, it doesn’t matter.’ Both men instinctively checked their belts and pockets. Pinnatte raised a hasty hand. ‘I never worked the Pits, though. You can ask the Pitguards about that – the old ones, that is.’ Fiarn was watching him narrowly now, but was secretly pleased that his own estimate of Pinnatte had been correct. Pinnatte looked at him squarely. ‘It’s not enough. I want more. Could I work for Barran?’
Even as he heard himself speaking, he could scarcely believe what he had done. So blunt, so direct. What was he doing here? How could his whole world have changed so utterly in one day? He felt suddenly disorientated, as if at any moment he might wake to find himself lying in his old room at Lassner’s and this all a vivid dream.
But though looking doubtful, Fiarn was nodding. ‘That, I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Barran picks his people very carefully. But he might be able to find something for you. I’ll tell him. Who’s your Den Master?’
‘Lassner.’
‘I’ve heard of him
. What can you do apart from steal purses?’
‘What do you want?’ Pinnatte put his hand to his head and frowned. His head was not hurting particularly but he contrived this small piece of theatre to distract Fiarn from answering the question.
It worked. Fiarn stood up. ‘You take it easy for a while. I’ll have to get back downstairs and help now you’re all right. I’ll ask Barran about you when I get the chance, but be prepared to ask for something else if he says he can’t use you.’ He leaned forward. ‘And don’t argue with him if that’s what he says. He’ll look after you for what you’ve done – he always looks after those who look after him – but he doesn’t tolerate fools or impudence. Do you understand?’
‘Yes,’ Pinnatte said, with a careful nod.
When Fiarn had gone, Rinter took his chair. ‘If Barran can’t use you, I’ll try to help you find something,’ he said. He drew his hand across his mouth. ‘It won’t be the same, of course, but I owe you more than he does. I’ve never been so frightened in all my life. As soon as you’d climbed up those two in front, the whole crowd just tightened around me.’ He hunched his arms tight into his sides and shivered. ‘And when you dropped out of sight…’ He hesitated. ‘I thought for a minute you’d just saved yourself… run away. I’m sorry.’
Pinnatte was beginning to doze off. ‘It’s all right,’ he mumbled. ‘I don’t know what I was thinking myself. Just the little lad’s face… had to do something…’
He was asleep.
And he was moving through the darkness again. Only this time, it was different. This time, he was who he was, and… what?
Deep, animal urgings filled him as they had before, drawing him on. They were both repellent and desirable, but where before they had been a measure of him, now something was keeping him apart from them, something cold and heavy. Yet he was bound to them. He could not escape. He must go wherever they led. Be a part of whatever happened.
On through the darkness he was carried, following the strange trails that he knew and did not know. Then there was stillness. His nostrils filled with an ancient perfume.
Prey was near, very near.
An image formed, vague and unsteady in the gloom, yet etched vividly by his other senses. It was a man, sitting on the ground, leaning with his back against a rocky wall. He was asleep.
Prey was chosen.
Something fearful was about to happen. Pinnatte began to struggle. But to no avail. He belonged here. This was his destiny.
No! he shouted out, though no sound came.
He tried again. His cry became a low rumbling growl – not a warning, but an announcement. The figure stirred and Pinnatte was aware of bleary eyes searching into the darkness. He was drawn nearer. The growl came again and something from within, something that was at the heart of his purpose, reached out and touched the man.
The bleary eyes were suddenly wide and terrified. Beneath them, a mouth formed into a gaping hole. Ancient memories consumed Pinnatte – an endless, overlapping line of such sights – filling him with desire.
Then came the screaming.
Chapter 20
Heirn woke more easily than he had anticipated after his fretful night. ‘Probably feel it later,’ he growled to himself, but his complaint was unconvincing. He felt good. The light coming through the open window told him that it was going to be another hot day, and while the continuing heat presented its own problems, on the whole it was preferable to the grey dampness, raw winds and driving snow that would inevitably arrive in a few months.
As he washed himself, the events of the previous day, with their fateful and fatal conclusion, rolled through his mind again. They concerned him still, concerned him greatly – a man had died and all manner of strange, frightening things had been revealed to him – but he did not feel burdened by them. It was not the response he would have expected. He paused and looked at himself in the mirror as if expecting to see some change in his appearance that might account for this calm.
Unfamiliar noises attracted his attention through the general clamour from the street. One was the rapid clicking of small feet. Atlon and Dvolci were about. Perhaps it was the presence of these two that accounted for his lack of agitation, he thought. Strange couple though they were, there was an openness, an honesty, about both of them. And a quietness. As if they had known far worse and survived it. Faced their worst fear and walked through it.
Atlon’s greeting when he emerged from his room was a smile, and, ‘Are you well?’
Heirn could do no other than blurt out his thoughts. ‘I am,’ he replied, ‘but I don’t know why. I was awake much of the night and I’m surprised I got any sleep at all after what happened yesterday.’
Atlon nodded sympathetically. ‘Sometimes our bodies have more sense than our minds. And, in all conscience, there’s little to be gained from trying to run away from things like this. We spent most of the night talking and thinking, deciding what to do.’
‘Which was?’
‘Which was that we must find out much more about the Kyrosdyn and the crystal trade. We must find out what they’re doing. Are they just an old cult that’s fallen into corruption, or are they something more dangerous? Are they just blundering about, dabbling with things they don’t understand, or do they have a focus, a clear end they’re trying to achieve?’
Heirn looked uncomfortable. He gesticulated vaguely. ‘Like bringing… Sammrael… back,’ he said, still half-expecting to be laughed at.
Atlon turned away from him quickly. He opened his mouth to reply twice before he managed, ‘No,’ stammering slightly and with a weak smile. ‘It couldn’t be that. It wouldn’t be possible, not so soon. No. I’m sure.’ But his words carried no conviction and he moved hastily to another conclusion. ‘If they’re doing anything, they’re probably using the crystals and their knowledge of the Power to make weapons.’
‘Weapons? Hardened swords and spear – that kind of thing? There’s nothing new there.’
Atlon looked straight at him. ‘Don’t ever forget the force that held you against the wall in that alley. There was nothing that you could see, or hear, or feel – yet, strong though you are, you were helpless. And that was the casual effort of a comparatively unskilled novice. And you saw the damage it did to him in the end. The hurt that the Power can do is beyond your imagining, Heirn. Swords, shields, whole armies, even castle walls, are useless against it.’
Atlon’s unexpected passion took Heirn by surprise. All he could ask was, ‘Why would they want such weapons?’
Atlon shrugged. ‘You know your own city, your own people. You tell me.’
Heirn opened a cupboard and a small gust of cold air seeped into the room. He took out a loaf and jug of milk and various items of food then closed the door quickly. ‘Most of the serious jostling for power is done quietly, behind the scenes – bribery, blackmail, assassination – that kind of thing. Those of us with any sense keep clear of it – get on with our lives. Sometimes there’ll be a riot stirred up by one faction or another, but there hasn’t been any serious armed conflict – a war – just to gain power, in generations.’
‘Could there be?’
‘No, no.’ Heirn was categorical. He was rattling through a drawer in search of a knife to cut the bread. ‘The city’s too big, too crowded, too full of independently minded people, for any one group to hold sway over it for any length of time, if at all. History’s full of failed attempts.’ He found the knife he wanted and began to slice the loaf.
‘I can believe that, from what I’ve seen of the place,’ Atlon said. ‘Even so, a weapon that used the Power would give them great sway here. It would be infinitely more powerful than any number of swords and spears. One man could hold – even destroy – whole crowds, just as the Kyrosdyn held you last night.’
Heirn frowned as he tried to reject the idea, but Atlon’s reminder about the Kyrosdyn’s Power held him as helpless as the Power itself had. He reverted to practicalities again. ‘But why? What would be the point?’
/>
‘I’ve no idea,’ Atlon said, shaking his head. ‘But it’s in the nature of powerful people always to accumulate more power. They need no reason. And, as I said last night, I fear they could all be slaves to the crystals – who knows where that will have led them?’
Heirn motioned Atlon to help himself to the food, then paused. ‘I don’t know what I’m doing, talking about such things, and eating!’ he said through a mouthful of bread. He shook his head as if that might re-order his thoughts. ‘All of which leaves you where?’ he mumbled, spraying crumbs.
‘All of which leaves us with our need to find out more about the Kyrosdyn and, specifically, what they’re up to,’ Atlon replied.
Heirn looked at him intently. ‘And when you’ve found out, what’re you going to do?’
‘Go back home. Tell the senior Brothers of my Order.’
‘What will they do?’
Atlon sensed his concern. ‘It depends what we find, obviously. But they won’t come marching in with a great army, if that’s what you’re worried about. We’ve neither the men nor the inclination for more war and, in any case, it’s far too far away for us to be mounting a campaign.’
‘But they’ll do something, won’t they?’
‘It depends what we find,’ Atlon said again. He leaned forward insistently. ‘But listen, Heirn. From what I’ve seen so far from that one man, if he’s typical – and you seem to think he is – your city’s in far greater danger from the Kyrosdyn right now than from anything my people might do at some vague time in the future.’
Heirn let out a short sigh then looked at a timepiece on the wall. ‘Do you still want a job?’ he asked.
It was sufficient to end the inconclusive discussion, and shortly afterwards they were heading for the forge. Heirn led them the way he normally went, keeping well away from the more secluded route they had taken the previous night.
‘I’m still not happy about leaving that body, but I suppose someone will have found it by now,’ he whispered to Atlon. ‘We’ll see if there’s any gossip about it.’
