by Roger Taylor
Barran shook his head and held out his hand. ‘Yours isn’t the only key,’ he said casually. ‘But give it to me now and come back in a couple of hours. I need to be in here for a while.’ He looked at the mirrors. Pinnatte had cleaned four rows.
‘You’re not working very quickly,’ he said with a frown. ‘I’d like this finished today.’
Pinnatte performed the demonstration he had prepared earlier, showing conclusively the difficulties he was dealing with and eventually wringing a grunt of acceptance and approval from Barran. He decided to risk taking advantage of it and pointed to the ring on which Barran had put the key.
‘That’s not a good idea,’ he said.
Barran looked at him quizzically. Pinnatte stepped close to him, pointed to one of the mirrors and said, ‘Look.’
‘What?’ Barran demanded irritably as he glanced at the mirror and back again.
‘This,’ Pinnatte replied, handing him the ring of keys. Before Barran could respond, Pinnatte was giving him sterling advice about how he should best carry the keys, and anything else that he valued, so that they would be safe from such as himself.
As he finished his lecture, Barran nodded knowingly. Then he snapped his fingers and said, ‘Look.’
Pinnatte started and turned even as he realized he was being caught by his own trick. Except that Barran’s trick was different, for as Pinnatte turned, it was into the edge of a knife against his throat. ‘Good advice for good advice, Pinnatte,’ Barran said quietly, bringing his face close. ‘I like your enthusiasm and your ideas. Don’t be afraid to tell me about them. But tell me softly and more circumspectly. And be very careful how close you come to people around here.’ He nodded towards the door. ‘Two hours,’ he said.
Pinnatte leaned against the door after he had closed it, breathed out noisily and put his hand on his chest as though to stop his heart pounding. Not for the first time, Barran’s simple purposefulness had terrified him, more by its mundane ordinariness than by any overt menace. He could see that he had indeed been given good advice for good advice, and it had taught him several lessons about life in this new world, not the least of which was to be more careful with his new master. But something else had happened, for even as Barran had released him, a manic rage had welled up inside him – a rage that had almost made him lash out at Barran for his insolence in handling him thus. It was unlike anything he had ever felt before, and it terrified him to think how close to being expressed it had come.
He moved unsteadily away from the Mirror Room. Cold thoughts formed to quell the heat of the rage as he walked, though they were no less alien to him. Some other time, they said. Patience is everything. Great forces are gathering within you.
With nothing specific to do, he began occupying himself by continuing to find his way about the Jyolan. In the course of this he succeeded in finding a bed and a couple of chairs which he dragged to his room. He also found a better room, nearer to both the Mirror Room and Barran’s quarters – the Jyolan was awash with vacant rooms – but he made no attempt to occupy it. It would be better to wait until a suitable opportunity presented itself for him to ask for it. He had no desire to walk inadvertently into any more ‘lessons’.
After a while, his room ordered to his satisfaction, he headed for the entrance with a view to buying food from one of the street traders. As he entered the main entrance hall, the scene of the events which had so advanced his fortunes, he began to feel uneasy. The feeling grew as he passed through the gates and moved towards the arch which opened on to the street. He lifted his hand to shield his eyes.
When he reached the arch, the light became intolerable and the heat struck him like a physical force. He could not move out into the street. Every part of him cried out for the subdued lighting of the Jyolan passages and its cold, enclosing stonework. If he moved forward, he knew the sunlight would burst into him, searing through to his very heart. And the air would be torn from his lungs, escaping into the vast, unbearable open sky – the sky which would ring mockingly with the echoes of his dying cries. As he stood there trembling, he sensed the creature somewhere, howling, lost.
Someone bumped into him. ‘Come on, shift yourself, there’s people with work to do here.’
The impact propelled him out into the street. He tried to cry out, but no sound came. Someone else bumped into him and cursed him. Then something made him open his eyes despite the awful daylight. The face carved into the keystone of the arch met his gaze, calm and serene, yet full of terrible power and purpose. His trembling began to fade. The Jyolan was his place, but then so was the whole city. From the Jyolan he would derive his strength so that, in the fullness of time, he would remake the city in its image. And until that time, he must walk in it, in its flawed, imperfect state. He had nothing to fear. He was awakening. Power was growing within him.
Slowly his breathing grew quieter and the street – his street – formed itself about him.
A hand took his elbow.
He spun round angrily, his hand raised to strike.
A Kyrosdyn stood in front of him. At his back were three bodyguards. Pinnatte held the man’s gaze and did not lower his hand. The Kyrosdyn faltered, as did the bodyguards before they remembered their duty. When they moved forward however, the Kyrosdyn raised his own hand to stop them.
Pinnatte felt the other man’s fear and his weakness. It both surprised and did not surprise him.
Then he recognized the Kyrosdyn who had placed the mark on his hand.
Chapter 28
Rostan felt as though all life had been suddenly emptied from him and that he was now nothing more than an ice statue awaiting the sun’s deathly kiss. What was standing in front of him, what appeared to be the young man that he had Anointed, was an abomination. There was Power coiling within him unlike anything he had ever encountered, Power which was without any of the form or control which, by everything he knew, was intrinsic to its existence. Such a thing was not possible. Yet it was there. And it was about to be released at him.
Harsh experience gained over the years he had spent with Imorren rose up to tell him that he must stand firm here, that to flee would be certain to bring destruction down upon himself. But the warnings were unnecessary, he could not have fled even if he had wanted to, so terrified was he.
Yet even through the terror, questions clamoured at him. How could such an impossibility have come about? What could have gone wrong? Nothing he had done by that fountain should have produced this, even if Pinnatte had been totally unsuitable for the Anointing. He might have gone mad, and probably died, but no calculation, no theory, nothing in the long history of the Kyrosdyn’s searching and experimenting could have foretold this!
The anticipated blow did not come, but Pinnatte’s gaze was relentless.
What was this creature seeing, with those wide, angry, black eyes? No more than he could flee, could Rostan tear his eyes away from Pinnatte’s. It seemed to him that he was looking into the shifting, empty void in which this and all other worlds flickered endlessly in and out of existence. Vertigo mingled with his terror, telling him that should he move or speak, those black pools would expand until they encompassed him utterly and he would be lost for ever, tumbling through the dark nothingness where even time did not exist and where lay creatures and powers beyond any imagining.
Pinnatte lowered his hand and turned away slowly to look at the face on the arch. When he turned back, the brief release had given Rostan some of his wits back. He forced his mouth into an apologetic smile.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, suddenly grateful that his many years serving Imorren had also given him some control over his voice. ‘I startled you.
He felt the strange Power in Pinnatte retreating. It gave him only slight encouragement however. The Power had appeared as suddenly as though a curtain had been flung aside, and it might well do so again. His mind was racing. Since Imorren’s command, he and the Lesser and Higher Brothers had been searching for this man. It had not taken him long to de
tect the sign of the Anointed – it had grown markedly – but that had given him no inkling of what he was going to face. And now that he had found him he realized that he had walked blithely to the edge of a precipice. To use the Power in such a public place, even subtly, would have been a great risk at any time, but it was completely out of the question now. Who knew what response this thing might make? As for getting the mercenaries to capture him, that would be even more foolish. Imorren’s statement that this man’s role was too uncertain for any rashness had proved to be both a timely warning and a considerable understatement. Nevertheless, he would still have to be taken back to her somehow.
Even as he was thinking, he was aware of Pinnatte’s Power continuing to recede. It gave him the opportunity to look at his erstwhile victim with calmer eyes. What he saw puzzled him. Had it not been for the sign of the Anointed which surrounded him, he doubted he would have recognized the man. He had been a scruffy street thief only days before; now he was clean, and though his clothes were ill-fitting, comparatively well dressed. Some change in his fortunes had occurred other than the Anointing. Rostan gathered enough resources to resort to normal diplomacy.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said again. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you.’
Pinnatte cocked his head on one side, as if Rostan were speaking an unknown language. The Kyrosdyn, in his formal robes, was obviously a high-ranking Brother of some kind and, with the three mercenaries at his back, he should have been an intimidating sight… someone whom, under normal circumstances, he would have diligently avoided. Yet now, though elements of his former existence tugged at him anxiously, he felt at ease and in command of affairs. The Kyrosdyn was nothing. In fact, for some reason, the man was afraid. And Pinnatte knew that this was how it should be – that, if necessary, he could dispatch this irritation into oblivion at a mere touch. The thought made no sense to him, a small voice somewhere was crying out that he was being a fool and that he should not trifle with such people, but he knew that his new insight was true nonetheless.
And now the Kyrosdyn was being polite. Politeness was not something Pinnatte was used to, and to receive it from a Kyrosdyn both stilled such doubts as he still had and triggered a feeling of dark amusement. He did not reply, but continued staring at Rostan.
Rostan shifted uncomfortably, then held out his hand and introduced himself. Pinnatte looked down at the hand and then back at Rostan, without taking it. One of the mercenaries, Gariak, who had been at the fountain, made to step forward, eyes narrowed, but a slight gesture from Rostan stopped him.
Though far from being relaxed, Rostan was feeling easier now. No blow had been struck and the strange Power seemed to have faded almost completely. What it had been, whether it might erupt again, were questions which along with many others he set firmly aside. All that mattered now was that this man be kept at his ease and lured to the Vaskyros. He brought his hands together in an attitude of prayer and affected a look of contrition. ‘I understand,’ he said, lowering his eyes. ‘Our meeting the other day was…’ He shrugged regretfully. ‘Ill-judged, to say the least.’ Pinnatte making no response, he pressed on, mustering all the sincerity he could find. ‘I’m afraid you caught me at a particularly difficult time and sadly, my temper got the better of me. I can assure you I regretted my behaviour almost immediately. In fact I’ve been looking for you ever since so that I could apologize.’ He became fatherly. ‘My name’s Rostan. I appreciate that you didn’t realize who I was when you took my purse. I know the Guild of Thieves has great respect for our Order. It was my fault for walking the streets in ordinary clothes. It’s not something I’ll do again quickly.’
Pinnatte was beginning to feel awkward. This Rostan seemed quite different from the angry individual who had confronted him the other day. Indeed, he seemed to be genuinely upset at the trouble he had caused. And, after all, not only had no harm come of it, but a great deal of good. Had it not been for that stormy encounter, he would not now be working for Barran nor have discovered the true Jyolan. The thought of the Jyolan made him feel good. At the same time, Rostan seemed to shrink into a cringing underling. Pinnatte looked at him. The man deserved something for what he had inadvertently wrought. He thrust out his hand. ‘A misunderstanding,’ he said. ‘You needn’t have concerned yourself, but I thank you.’
Rostan took the hand hesitantly. The strange Power had returned, suddenly and without warning, and even though he felt no threat in it this time, it was still frightening. As he touched Pinnatte, it seemed momentarily to swarm through him, possessing him utterly, then just as suddenly withdrawing. He pulled his hand away as quickly as he dared. Again he wanted to flee, but again he knew he could not. While the Power did not actually threaten him he must continue to try to lure this abomination back to the Vaskyros where Imorren could deal with him.If she could deal with him, he thought heretically.
‘You’re very generous,’ he said. ‘Imorren will be most relieved.’
‘Imorren?’ Pinnatte echoed, suddenly curious. ‘The Ailad? The head of your Order?’
‘Yes.’
Pinnatte frowned. ‘Why would she be relieved? Why would she know anything about me?’
Rostan noted the response. It showed him the way. So Imorren was the bait that would reel this one in. Bite, little fish, he thought.
‘I told her about it,’ he said. ‘She saw I was upset about something and, being the person she is, she asked me about it. It was her suggestion I should look for you and apologize if I was to have any peace. She said she was sure you’d understand if I found you. And she was right, wasn’t she? She usually is. She takes a great interest in everything that happens in the city. And she has such wisdom. It’s an honour just to be near her.’ He became wilfully hesitant. ‘I’m uncertain about how to ask this – you’ve been very kind already – but I’m sure she’d like to meet you.’ He leaned forward confidentially. ‘She was quite angry at me in her way. She’s very concerned about how the people think of us. There’s a great deal of misunderstanding about. It would be a kindness both to her and me if she could hear from you herself that all’s well.’ He held out an arm as if they might leave right away.
Pinnatte looked at him uncertainly. In two days, he had been released from Lassner and placed with Barran, fulfilling an ambition he scarcely knew he had. Now, chance was offering him the opportunity to meet with another of the city’s most powerful figures. Who knew what might come of such a meeting? Just to have it known that he had caught the attention of Imorren would make him someone to be feared, to be respected. It would be folly to refuse such an opportunity. But old cautions caught up with his bounding thoughts. The Kyrosdyn weren’t to be trusted. Imorren was even more powerful and ruthless than Barran. He should keep away from her, and the Vaskyros. It was an article of faith amongst Den-Mates that no one went into the Vaskyros voluntarily; ‘things’ happened to people there – no one ever came out. But that was part of his old life. He wasn’t a mere street thief any more. Scorn crept into his thinking. What would any Den-Mate know about the Kyrosdyn? Nothing, other than idle gossip. He, for one, had never even met a Kyrosdyn until the other day, and now here was this Rostan seeking him out and apologizing for what had happened, and offering him an opportunity to meet Imorren. It was time for him to set his old ways aside. There would be many other things to learn in his new life than just finding his way about the Jyolan.
Yet, the caution lingered. A lifetime of distrust, misplaced or not, was not to be set aside lightly. ‘I’m one of Barran’s men now,’ he said, indicating the Jyolan. ‘I have to be back in a few minutes. He’ll be waiting for me.’
Rostan could not keep the surprise from his face, but he managed to make it look appreciative. Barran had little use for street thieves; why would he take this one on? And ‘He’ll be waiting for me’ no less, so he was working directly for Barran. He must be special in some way, was the obvious answer. It was another puzzle hanging about the shoulders of this slight figure. A small conundrum, compared with
that of the seemingly flawed Anointing, but one not to be ignored. Still, he could not allow it to deflect him from fetching this man to the Vaskyros.
‘Your star is rising, young man,’ he said heartily. ‘Imorren will be even more pleased to hear of that.’ He risked laying a hand on Pinnatte’s shoulder. ‘I know Barran very well. I can have a word with him, if you like. I’m sure there’ll be no problem – he values Imorren’s good opinion.’ He considered shepherding Pinnatte towards the Jyolan, then thought better of it. Instead, he released him and stepped back a little to give him a sense of freedom.
Pinnatte’s uncertainties dwindled under the combination of Rostan’s affable assault and his own rekindled, if vague, ambition.
He smiled. ‘I think I know where he is,’ he said, and motioned Rostan to follow him.
As they neared the main arch, it was Rostan who began to be uncertain. The Jyolan was an unsettling place for those who could use the Power. He had been there many times, discreetly, to watch the Fighting Pits, as had most of the Kyrosdyn, but there always seemed to be an unspoken consent amongst them not to speak about what they felt – that the building itself was aware of them, watching, waiting.
The origins of the Jyolan were long-lost, though the Kyrosdyn believed it had been built at the behest of Sammrael Himself at the very beginnings of Arash-Felloren. Nothing was known of its purpose, although ancient writings held by the Kyrosdyn referred to it as being built upon one of the Places of Great Power, though what this meant, none now knew. What was known was that the Jyolan had existed before the Order of the Kyrosdyn, and it had always been in their hands. Yet it, too, had always been an uncomfortable possession, with successive Ailads reluctant to use it for anything of consequence and frequently letting it to others. Though there had been surprise expressed at Imorren’s releasing it almost unconditionally to Barran, there had also been a general feeling of relief, albeit, as ever, largely unspoken.
