by Roger Taylor
‘You did well yesterday, Pinnatte,’ Barran said, breaking it. He leaned forward and began pushing the coins around idly while still watching Pinnatte. ‘Apart from saving me a great deal of difficulty with the Prefect’s people and the families of those who’d have been killed, there were friends of mine in that crowd.’
He turned one of the coins over. Though he had been trying to meet Barran’s gaze, Pinnatte had been unable to keep his eyes from the money. The coins were large and he knew exactly what they were, even though he had never actually handled one. Despite trying to concentrate on what Barran was saying, he had done a quick calculation and worked out that there was more money on the desk than he could look to earn in three or four years – good years at that.
‘I won’t ask you why you did it – I shouldn’t think you know, really. It’s enough for me that you acted when everyone else was panicking. It’s a trait I value in my people. A good battlefield trait.’
Pinnatte started at the word ‘my’ and remembered to stand straight again. With a swift gesture, Barran spread out the coins. There were nine in all. Pinnatte increased his estimate to five or six years. ‘I can give you these now and you can go on your way with my thanks,’ Barran said off-handedly. He threw a smaller coin on to the desk. ‘Or you can work for me and get one of these a month.’
‘I’ll work for you, sir,’ Pinnatte said, without calculating and without hesitation, though he added quickly, ‘If Lassner will release me.’
Barran’s expression was unreadable.
‘I’ve little call for street thieves, Pinnatte. What else can you do?’
Suddenly on the point of tumbling into abject panic, Pinnatte was rescued by an inspiration. ‘I can learn, sir.’
Barran looked down at the coins, then swept them up and, again using only one hand, dropped them back into the bag and tightened the lace. He stood up. ‘You enjoyed the Loose Pit last night?’
It took Pinnatte a moment to register the question. ‘Very much, sir. Exciting. I’ve never seen anything like it before.’
‘And the Jyolan – what do you think of that?’
Pinnatte’s eyes lit up. ‘I’d never seen anything like that either. It used to be just… another hall… dismal really. But last night it was alive.’ The elation he had felt the previous night began to return.
Barran looked at him intently. ‘Would you like to work here?’
Something leapt inside Pinnatte. He was filled with a sense of something growing, blooming. ‘Yes,’ he said eagerly.
Barran continued looking at him, then reached a decision. ‘Come with me,’ he said.
Pinnatte was vaguely aware of Rinter trying to catch his attention as he followed Barran out of the room, but he could only keep his eyes fixed on his new master. As they walked along, Pinnatte wanted to dance and shout, to seize Barran’s hand and thank him profusely. At the same time he was castigating himself for such folly, reminding himself that Barran had not actually said he would employ him yet, and that he was a dangerous and much-feared man who must be watched and listened to very carefully at all times. He reminded himself also to mention his bond with Lassner again. Too open a disloyalty to a previous master was unlikely to endear him to the next one.
Eventually they arrived at the door to the Mirror Room. Barran unlocked it and ushered Pinnatte inside. For the first time since he had rushed, gasping for breath, into the Jyolan, he felt a frisson of alarm as Barran followed him and closed the door. He had been alone with this powerful man at their first meeting, but there had been guards by the door and he had been aware of people moving to and fro outside. There had been no safety in that, he knew, but here there were no guards, no people pursuing their business – no one. Indeed, Pinnatte realized, he had not seen anyone for the past few minutes. This entire part of the Jyolan seemed to be deserted.
‘Push that panel to one side.’
Barran’s businesslike voice cut across Pinnatte’s half-formed fears. At first he did not understand the command, then Barran motioned him towards the decorated timber panel and indicated what he wanted with a wave of his hand. It took Pinnatte some effort, but after a brief struggle the panel creaked aside to reveal the mysterious mirrors.
Pinnatte took a step back and looked at the uneven rows uncomprehendingly. Then he bent forward and examined one closely. ‘That’s a picture of the arena,’ he said. He made to wipe the dust from the mirror, but a sharp ‘Don’t touch’ from Barran snatched his hand away and made him turn to see what wrath he might have brought down on himself with the carelessness. Barran however, impassively indicated that he look at the mirror again. As he did so, two figures moved across the scene.
Pinnatte gasped and stepped back in alarm. Barran’s hand arrested him.
‘These are the Eyes of the Jyolan, Pinnatte,’ he said, maintaining his grip. ‘This is an ancient building, full of things that perhaps couldn’t even be built today. Precious things, that must be tended carefully. Tending these will be your task until I get to know you better.’
‘I’ll do whatever you ask, sir,’ Pinnatte said, trying to affect a man-to-man attitude, but failing. The sudden movement in what he had taken to be nothing more than a picture had shaken him badly. Only Barran’s grip on his shoulder had stopped his hand from circling his heart in the old sign of protection. The grip tightened. It was not painful, but Barran’s hand felt heavy and immovable – it was not something to be disputed with.
‘Clean this room, make it more comfortable. Then polish each of these mirrors. I’ll show you how to do it – it needs care. Each morning, come to me, wherever I am, for the key. See that all’s well here, and return the key to me. No one else is to enter this room under any circumstances. No one is to be told about it, it is no one else’s concern. Should anyone ask you about it, you will tell them to speak to me.’
The hand became heavier and Barran’s voice became softer. ‘Understand, Pinnatte. This is no slight thing. The trust I’m placing in you is greater than you know. How well you do this task will decide what happens to you next. If you do well, there’s a good fortune waiting for you. Should you disappoint me…’
The conclusion was unspoken and the grip was gone. A reassuring pat replaced it briefly but there was a menace in it that no amount of threatening and abuse could have conveyed. It brought home to Pinnatte what he already knew about Barran, albeit only by repute. Now, as the soft impact of the pat on his shoulder vibrated through him, he felt it. He had developed ways of coping with Lassner over the years, but even he could present problems – and Barran was no Lassner. Barran would support and protect him, but he would also kill him – or have him killed – without a moment’s hesitation if he offended or disobeyed. He must cling to this knowledge at all times. He must watch and listen and learn as never before. It was a frightening and cruel lesson, but Pinnatte learned it instantly. Indeed, it seemed to resonate with something deep in his own nature, giving him a fleeting vision of himself in Barran’s position passing down the instruction to some young hopeful. He cradled his injured hand and, turning, for the first time he looked his new master squarely in the eye. ‘I won’t disappoint you, sir,’ he said. ‘I gave Lassner good service and, if he’ll release me, I’ll give you the same.’
There was a brief flicker of something in Barran’s eyes but his usual impassivity closed over it before Pinnatte could interpret it. ‘Lassner will release you, Pinnatte,’ Barran said. ‘He’s a reasonable man.’
As they were walking away from the Mirror Room, Pinnatte noticed several other rooms, apparently empty. Though he was elated at the prospect of working for Barran, the problem of accommodation was troubling him. He could no longer stay at Lassner’s Den, he had no desire to return to Heirn’s to face Atlon’s relentless prying and, fine weather or not, the street was no place for him. Better Lassner than that. He’d have to risk it.
‘Can I use one of these for a while?’ he asked. ‘I’ll have nowhere to stay if I’m leaving Lassner.’
&n
bsp; Barran stopped and looked at him, then at the open door he was pointing to. He took a lamp from the wall and peered into the room. It was bare and empty like most of the others he had bothered to examine. And the Jyolan seemed to be full of rooms and halls. He sniffed. ‘Better than nothing, I suppose,’ he replied. ‘Pick whichever you want – there doesn’t seem to be much to choose between any of them.’ He pursed his lips and nodded as if warming to the idea. ‘Yes, make the place yours. I’ll tell Fiarn you’ll be staying here for the time being. I doubt we’ll be able to find a bed for you tonight, but we should be able to manage some blankets. Will that be all right?’
Pinnatte nodded an awkward, ‘Fine, thank you.’ The sudden note in Barran’s voice of concern for his personal comfort had taken him by surprise. As it had many before him. For Barran was far too subtle a leader to motivate solely by fear. He constantly showed an interest in the well-being of his followers, some of it quite genuine, some contrived, but all of it effective. It bred strong loyalty, and when it was necessary to deal harshly with someone, that, and his invariably swift and ruthless action, usually brought condemnation on the victim rather than himself.
Later, Pinnatte related the news of his acceptance by Barran to Rinter. The animal trainer was scarcely less elated, seeing what he perceived to be a continuing improvement in his own prospects. First had come his encounter with Atlon and the felci and the possibilities that stemmed from the quietly ferocious little animal. Then, his random meeting with this young street thief which, having started by saving him money at the Loose Pit, had ended with him having a contact direct to Barran himself.
‘Such is the way of Arash-Felloren, eh Pinnatte?’ he said expansively as they walked idly along the busy night street. ‘One moment a bound Den-Mate, the next a hero and working for one of the richest and most powerful men in the city. What’ll you be doing for him?’
The memory of Barran’s hand on his shoulder returned to Pinnatte. ‘I don’t know yet,’ he replied. ‘I’ll find out tomorrow.’ He looked earnestly at Rinter. ‘But I mightn’t be allowed to talk about it,’ he said.
Rinter nodded knowingly. ‘I understand,’ he said. ‘Besides…’ He lowered his voice. ‘I don’t think it would be in my interests to know anything of Barran’s business that I wasn’t supposed to.’ He drew a finger across his throat. Pinnatte did not respond.
‘Are you going back to Heirn’s tonight?’ Rinter asked as casually as he could, anxious, despite his euphoria, not to lose his contact with Atlon.
‘No, I’ve got a place in the Jyolan,’ Pinnatte replied. ‘Well, a room and three blankets at the moment, until I can get a bed and some bits of furniture.’
Rinter tried to look pleased but it was not easy and he stammered a little when he spoke. ‘Oh. That’s lucky. Are you going to tell Heirn and Atlon about your good fortune?’
Pinnatte hesitated. The blacksmith had been decent enough to him – offered him a home, albeit temporary, and a bed – and kindness was not a common thing in his life. But his thoughts about Atlon were buffeting to and fro. He too had been kind and helpful, yet he had also been intrusive – prying into matters that did not concern him. Why did he want to know what the Kyrosdyn had done to him? Why did he want to know about the dream?
He prevaricated. ‘Not tonight. I told them I mightn’t be back, depending on what happened.’ But mention of Atlon and the memory of his dream had unsettled him again. What would happen tonight when he went to sleep in his spartan new quarters? Would he wake covered in sweat, perhaps crying out? It was a disturbing thought – the new boy having bad dreams like some hapless child, shouting for his mother. Hardly something to make a good impression on Barran’s men. Yet even as it occurred to him, he realized that he was no longer really concerned. As soon as he had entered the Jyolan, the aura of the place had wrapped itself about him – steadied him – told him that here was his true home. And when Barran had asked him about the Jyolan, he had answered truthfully. He wanted to be there desperately, wanted to see the animals fighting again, wanted to feel the deep reverence for the happenings in the arena that he had felt the previous night…
Wanted to feel himself part of the creature again – hunting prey, lusting for the terror and the screaming.
He wiped his hand across his forehead. The prospect was making him sweat.
‘It is warm, isn’t it?’ Rinter said, misinterpreting the movement. ‘Makes you think that the winds and the rain and the snows we had only a few months ago will never come again.’
Pinnatte nodded absently. He should be rid of this jabbering oaf. He should be back at the Jyolan, learning about it, communing with its ancient secrets. His life as a Den-Mate – a thing of the streets – was now over. He did not belong here any more. It was surely no mere chance that he had fallen in with the man who now owned the Jyolan. No mere chance that he was actually staying there. Powers were conspiring to bring him where he should be – in his rightful place – the place from which his influence would spread forth, carrying with it the majesty of the Jyolan and the sacred events that happened there. He would…
Someone bumped into him, jolting him from his vaulting fantasy.
‘Watch where you’re going, you dozy sod.’
The rebuke cut through Pinnatte. Furiously he lashed out. His blow struck the offender in the chest with such force that two other passers-by were knocked to the ground before he finally crashed into a street-trader’s cart and overturned it. Rinter gaped, but moved immediately when it seemed that Pinnatte was going to pursue the man further.
‘Come on,’ he said urgently, taking Pinnatte’s arm. ‘A certain person wouldn’t like you being involved in a street brawl, would he?’
Pinnatte had taken two steps forward, almost dragging Rinter, before the words sank in. He did not speak but levelled a menacing finger at the fallen man, now being disentangled from the remains of the cart by its cursing owner, then turned away.
‘You don’t know your own strength,’ Rinter said, looking nervously over his shoulder to make sure that no irate pursuit was under way.
‘He should have been more respectful,’ Pinnatte retorted.
Rinter frowned. Respectful was an odd word for a street thief to use – even one who was going up in the world. He was about to remind Pinnatte that it was he who had bumped into the man, wandering along in a trance, but he decided against it. If Barran had decided he could use this young man, it was highly likely that there was more to him than met the eye. Perhaps he had just seen an indication of it.
The outburst however, had caused Pinnatte’s mood to shift again. Generally, a quick kick or punch to startle rather than injure, followed by flight, had been the most violence he had ever had to use. The punch he had just delivered he would not have thought himself capable of, either physically or emotionally. The power of it seemed to have come from some hitherto hidden well within him. It had surged up along with his rage and simply burst out of him. He had felt the harm it had done even as he struck. The man’s entire frame had shuddered with the impact and he knew that he had broken bones and hurt him badly.
Part of him revelled in the thought. Such would be the fate of those who opposed him; they must learn their place, learn respect. Yet another part of him was sickened. The violence had been unnecessary. Taking purses was one thing, but damaging people, perhaps depriving them of their livelihood, throwing them into the hands of healers and physicians and all that that could lead to, was another entirely. It broke the rules he had always lived by. He shouldn’t have done it.
The inner conflict brought him to a halt, swaying and wide-eyed. His whole body was shaking.
‘You really don’t look well,’ Rinter said, greatly alarmed by Pinnatte’s increasingly strange behaviour.
For a moment, such was the turmoil inside him that Pinnatte thought he was going to vomit, but then came the feeling that should he do so, he would never stop: his entire insides would burst forth in a scalding stream, leaving him an empty shell fill
ed with darkness. Desperately he reached out and seized Rinter. The animal trainer yanked his arm free from the powerful grip, but put a supporting arm around Pinnatte.
‘Shall I take you to Heirn’s? Perhaps Atlon can help. He seemed to know what he was doing.’
The mention of Atlon redoubled Pinnatte’s conflict. Atlon’s presence returned to him. It was full of deep and genuine concern, and a willingness to enter into his pain and tear out the torment that had come into his life. Ellyn’s words hovered in the background: he should run away from all this and find an honest life somewhere in this vast city. There would be such a place, surely? Everything was possible in Arash-Felloren. This was the way he must go. The rightness of it was beyond any dispute. Yet at the same time, the Jyolan was all about him, dark and blood-streaked, infinitely alluring – redolent with power, and the satisfying of desires he had no names for. A myriad tiny barbs tore at him. Then Atlon and Ellyn were gone, swept away by the Jyolan’s ancient lure. The inner wracking faded rapidly to become little more than a vague unease. Carefully, Pinnatte breathed out, and the street formed itself around him again.
‘No,’ he said hoarsely. ‘I’ll go back to the Jyolan. I’m just tired, that’s all.’
Rinter made one or two half-hearted attempts at conversation as they returned, but they all foundered on Pinnatte’s preoccupation.
* * * *
That night, Pinnatte left the lamp burning in his new room. He lay for a long time staring up at the dust-stained ceiling, uncertain about what might greet him should he fall asleep, yet knowing that he could not avoid it.
Then he was sitting upright, wide awake and alert. It took him a moment to remember where he was then he lay back in relief. He was safe at the Jyolan, away from Lassner, away from his old life, and under the protection of Barran. And whatever had wakened him, it was no dream. He had no recollection of falling asleep or being asleep, which was the way it normally was for him – night and morning separated only by the blink of an eye. Yet something had wakened him. He looked around, puzzled. The door was bolted and he could hear nothing from the passageway outside. Then he became aware of a faint, high-pitched sound, like a small, irritating fly. But it was not a fly. There was a persistence to it – an urgency – that caught his attention. Quietly he stood up and began moving about the room, listening intently. It was some time before he discovered the source of the noise. It was coming from one of the small openings that pocked the walls of his room, as seemingly they did in every part of the Jyolan. It was barely the width of two fingers. Hesitantly he bent forward and placed his ear by it.
