by Roger Taylor
The man nodded and said something. This time it was Ibryen who leaned forward, frowning, to catch the words.
The man noted the movement and repeated his name.
Ibryen shook his head as the sound eluded him again.
'You're not Dirynvolk,’ he announced with finality. ‘I'll call you Traveller.'
'As you wish.'
'What are you doing here?’ Ibryen returned to his earlier brusqueness. ‘Who sent you? How did you get here?'
A flicker of irritation passed over the little man's face. ‘I don't think I wish to be spoken to like that,’ he said. ‘Least of all at the end of a sword. I'll go on my way if my presence offends you so.’ He made to move away. Ibryen stepped forward and placed the point of his sword on the man's chest.
'You'll go nowhere until you answer my questions,’ he said starkly. ‘This is my land and strangers in it are not welcome.'
The Traveller looked down at the sword and then up at Ibryen. ‘I'd never have guessed,’ he said acidly. He waved an arm around the towering sunlit peaks that surrounded them. ‘This all belongs to you, does it, swordsman?’ He met Ibryen's stern gaze squarely. ‘A wiser person might have been more inclined to say that he belonged to the land, don't you think?'
Ibryen almost snarled. ‘A wiser person might perhaps be more inclined to avoid philosophy and answer my questions, in your position.'
The Traveller snorted disdainfully. ‘What I am doing here is a fundamental question of all philosophies, is it not?’ he said, even more acidly than before. ‘As to who sent me. Ha! Well! A still deeper question. Though I presume you are posing it in the sense that I might be here at the behest of some employer, or even a powerful lord—doubtless one such as yourself who owns many great mountains ...’ He flicked the sword-blade contemptuously with his middle finger. ‘... and a big sword with which to menace lesser fry.’ Ibryen winced inwardly before this verbal onslaught but his expression did not change. ‘However, avoiding the greater question, to the best of my knowledge I am here at my own free will, as presumably are you. And how I came here? I used these!’ He lifted one leg off the ground in a dance-like movement, and slapped his thigh loudly. ‘Now may I go?'
There was such authority in the voice that, for a moment, Ibryen almost acceded to the request. ‘No, you may not!’ he shouted, recovering.
The Traveller grimaced and shook his head. ‘Not so loud,’ he said, almost plaintively. ‘I'm not used to people and I've very sensitive hearing.'
'I'm sorry,’ Ibryen heard himself saying. The shock of the Traveller's sudden appearance was still unsettling him, and his mind was awash with conjecture about Gevethen treachery, but holding his sword at the chest of someone who was both older and patently no match for him physically was distressing him. His confusion was not eased by the fact that, despite his position, the Traveller did not seem to be in the least afraid. Ibryen lowered his voice when he spoke again.
'Only a few hours ago I checked the vigilance of my guards,’ he said. ‘It isn't possible that you came past them other than with great stealth. And stealth equals treachery in these mountains. You can only be a Gevethen spy and that means your death unless you can show why we should let you live. Now tell me who sent you and why, and how you came here. And spare me any more of your sarcasm.'
Ibryen's quieter manner seemed to have a greater effect than his previous bluster. The Traveller screwed up his face pensively and the rancour had gone from his voice when he replied.
'No one sent me, swordsman. I know nothing of these Gevethen you speak of, though there are ancient resonances in the word which are rather unpleasant.’ He pointed. ‘I came here on foot across the mountains. It's the way I always travel. Fewer people, less noise. And my ancestors were mountain folk.'
Ibryen followed the extended arm. He was unable to keep the surprise and disbelief from his face when he turned back. ‘You came from the south?’ he exclaimed. His sword began to falter, but he steadied it quickly. ‘There are supposed to be lands to the south, but the mountains are impassable even in summer. No one even attempts to go there. And certainly no one ever comes from there.'
The Traveller gave a disclaiming shrug. ‘There are many lands to the south,’ he said, as if stating the obvious. ‘All rather noisy, I'm afraid, but that's the way it is with most people these days. As for the mountains being impassable, that's obviously not so. Though, in all honesty, I am well used to mountains.'
Ibryen looked at the Traveller narrowly. There was nothing about him that suggested he was lying. But to travel from the south! That wasn't possible, surely?
'You're lying,’ he said.
The Traveller shrugged again, but did not speak.
'Tell me the truth,’ Ibryen said, forcing an interrogator's concern into his voice. ‘The Gevethen have lured good men to their cause before now. What have they told you about us? What have they told you to do? How are they paying you? Or are they threatening you, or your family?'
The Traveller frowned. ‘I've told you once. I know nothing of these Gevethen. I know nothing of you. Not even your name.’ He became indignant. ‘It may offend your lordly dignity, owner of these hills, but you're nothing more than a chance encounter on a long journey. A possible companion with whom I might have whiled away a little time—learned a little, perhaps taught a little—before going on my way again.'
Ibryen stared at him in silence for some time, then, for no reason that he could immediately fathom, he lowered his sword. The Traveller looked at him intently, but did not move. ‘If there's such danger from this enemy of yours, why are you lounging in the sunshine like a noon-day lizard?'
Some quality in his voice insinuated itself deep into Ibryen and forced out an answer that he had never expected to hear uttered. ‘I thought I ... heard ... something,’ he said uncertainly.
The Traveller let out a long sigh of understanding. He took a pace backwards and crouched down. He motioned Ibryen to sit. ‘You heard something,’ he echoed softly. He glanced down into the valley. ‘Heard it in the night, I'd judge, from the distance to your village.’ He began to rock to and fro on his haunches, humming to himself, seemingly oblivious to Ibryen, though from time to time he looked at him shrewdly.
'What could you have heard that would bring you from your bed and make you climb up here in the darkness?’ The question was not addressed to Ibryen, it was simply voiced. Then one eye closed and the other opened wide and stared directly at Ibryen. ‘A call, perhaps? A distant cry carried on the underside of the wind, clinging to the rustling of the leaves and the hissing of the grasses? Bubbling in the chatter of the streams?'
The Traveller's voice brought vivid images into Ibryen's mind and a profound curiosity that over-mastered his concern at the sudden appearance of this stranger. He stepped forward and knelt down by the man's side.
'You heard it too,’ he whispered. ‘What is it?'
'I heard what I heard. The question is, what did you hear?'
Some of Ibryen's caution began to return. ‘Enough to draw me here as you guessed,’ he replied.
The Traveller's face became unreadable. ‘Indulge me, lord. Tell me what you heard,’ he said after a moment. ‘It may be important.'
Ibryen hesitated, then, ‘I'm not sure that I heard anything, although sound is the only word that can describe what I ... felt. It was as though something were calling out ... for help.'
The Traveller looked out across the valley. ‘Help,’ he said softly, turning the word over thoughtfully. ‘You could be right. How strange. You seem to hear more keenly than I do.’ Then he frowned as if at the deep foolishness of such a remark. ‘Or ... perhaps you hear beyond where I can. Perhaps you're ...’ He left the sentence unfinished. ‘I think I'd like to know more about you, swordsman. May I impose on your hospitality for a little while? I can work—or entertain the children with stories. And I'm an interesting cook.'
Ibryen started at this sudden appeal. Despite his curiosity about the Traveller, there had never
been any doubt in his mind but that the little man would be experiencing their hospitality for a while, whether he wanted to or not. Probably much longer than he intended. Whatever this man might be—spy or innocent traveller—his knowledge of the village's location made him a threat and he could not be allowed to leave the valley. Ibryen kept this from his face however, as he stood up and sheathed his sword. ‘You may indeed,’ he replied.
* * * *
They had attracted considerable attention by the time they reached the lower slopes of the mountain and a growing crowd was emerging from the village. The Traveller paused and furrowed his brow unhappily. ‘A moment,’ he said, laying a hand on Ibryen's arm. Ibryen stopped, wondering briefly whether the little man was at last about to flee. He had been a pleasant, if silent, walking companion during their descent, with a keen eye for the easy way and, Ibryen noticed, a feeling for the right pace for his companion. But that had been just another puzzle, for though he seemed to be an old man, the Traveller was quite untroubled by the descent. ‘I'm not used to so many people,’ he went on. He was anxiously searching in the pockets of his tunic. ‘Do forgive me. Ah!’ Two small rolls of material appeared from somewhere and, after kneading them briefly between his thumb and finger, he put one in each ear. ‘That's better,’ he announced, with conspicuous relief, and strode out again.
Two riders were heading towards them. ‘I'm afraid I'm causing a bit of a stir,’ the Traveller said, manipulating the material in one ear. ‘Your people are very alarmed.'
'You'll understand why when you've been here a little while,’ Ibryen told him.
The riders, a man and a woman, reached them and dismounted in a great flurry. Both were red-faced and flustered.
'Count ...'
Ibryen waved them silent. ‘No fault of yours that I can see, cousins. The Traveller here has a tale to tell that should be worth listening to. He's come some distance and he's asked if he might stay with us for a while. I've offered him our hospitality.’ Neither of the two arrivals made any attempt to keep the surprise from their faces, but Ibryen ignored the response and turned to the Traveller. ‘Hynard is the son of my father's brother, and Rachyl the daughter of my mother's sister. They'll look after you while you're with us.'
The surprised expressions became indignant, then confused, as the Traveller advanced on them, hands extended in greeting. Rachyl's hand flickered uneasily about a knife in her belt, but before it could decide what to do the Traveller encased it in both of his and smiled at her. ‘A delight to meet you,’ he said. His tone forced a hesitant smile on to Rachyl's grim face but she looked at Ibryen unhappily as the Traveller turned to Hynard and greeted him similarly.
'If you'll allow me a moment, I must give my cousins their instructions,’ Ibryen intervened, motioning the Traveller to stay where he was while he moved Hynard and Rachyl some distance away.
'How the devil...?'
Ibryen beat down Hynard's voice with a furious gesture. Hynard continued in an equally furious whisper. ‘How the devil did he get through the passes?’ he hissed.
'And why didn't you kill him right away?’ Rachyl added, grasping his arm.
'I'd neither inclination nor justification for killing him,’ Ibryen snapped back angrily.
'That he's here is justification enough!'
'That he's here is justification enough for keeping him alive, Rachyl. Use your head.’ Rachyl's jaw came out fiercely, but Ibryen ignored the challenge. ‘He's got a wild tale to tell and I think we should listen to it. If it transpires he's lying, then we need more than ever to know how he came here, don't we? Especially if there are ways to this place that even we don't know about. For pity's sake, we can kill him any time. He's hardly a fighting man, is he?’ The two cousins cast a glance at the Traveller standing patiently some way away, apparently looking round at the mountains. Ibryen's reasoning was impeccable, but a stranger in the valley was nerve-wracking for all that.
'What do you want us to do with him?’ Rachyl conceded surlily.
For an instant, Ibryen's face bore the expression of a man facing insurmountable odds as he looked at his glowering cousin.
'Be pleasant. Be polite,’ he said, with an effort. ‘Watch him all the time. And watch what he watches. Listen to what he says and take note of everything he asks you. Tell him as little as possible but remember what you do tell him. And tell everyone else to keep away from him.'
'And if he tries to escape?’ Rachyl asked expectantly.
'Don't let him!’ Ibryen's tone was final. ‘I hold you responsible for his well-being until we decide what to do with him. Is that clear?’ Rachyl nodded curtly.
Ibryen returned to the Traveller. ‘You have my protection, but there's no point pretending you're welcome here. We're under siege from a terrible enemy and have been for many years now. People who appear from nowhere strike a deep fear into us all.'
'I understand.'
'I doubt it,’ Ibryen retorted. ‘Go with Rachyl and Hynard, they'll find somewhere for you to stay.'
'And they'll keep an eye on me.'
Ibryen nodded. ‘And they'll protect you until we can talk further.'
'I'm grateful,’ the Traveller replied.
'Do whatever they tell you to do and don't wander away from them.'
'I will. They both look very ... determined.'
Ibryen looked down at the Traveller. It would have needed no great perception to read the expressions on the faces of Hynard and Rachyl when they first arrived, for all they were now endeavouring to appear civil, and, in his brief acquaintance he had not found the Traveller to be anything other than very astute. He must know the danger he's in, he thought, yet his last remark was almost flippant. Either he's a complete fool, or he has greater resources than he appears to have.
He abandoned his debate and without further comment took Rachyl's horse and turned it towards the approaching crowd.
* * *
Chapter 4
Every part of Jeyan cried out for continued flight. She wanted to run and run until Hagen's corpse, the Guards, the city, this whole damned land was far behind her. But, well away from the scene of the murder now, she forced herself to slow to a walk as she emerged from an alleyway into the busy street. The two dogs, Assh and Frey, who had been running ahead, slowed without turning round. Long-developed habit made Jeyan slouch and lower her head to take on the semblance of one of the many indigent street-dwellers that littered the city. But it was difficult. Her whole body was shaking violently and she felt as though her inner turmoil must surely be resounding through the afternoon crowd like a clarion, drawing all eyes towards her. Grimly she made herself stand still for a moment while she stared at the ground, nudging a mound of rubbish with her foot, as though searching for something. Her passion and hatred had done their part in giving her the courage to stare into the face of that creature, Hagen, and slay him—her shaking increased at the recollection—but now her wits must ensure her escape. And running was not the way. Running was the way that would indeed draw all eyes, and hencethe Guards, to her. She allowed herself to start walking again, carefully maintaining her slovenly posture. At the same time she signalled to the dogs to move away. They obeyed immediately, Assh surreptitiously trotting ahead and busying himself sniffing amongst the piles of refuse that lined the street, and Frey dropping back and crossing to the other side to do the same. Though they were soon weaving casually through the passers-by, Jeyan knew they would be watching and listening, waiting for her least signal. She, in her turn, was listening for the sounds of pursuit or, worse, for the sounds of the street purging that must surely follow what she had done. In the shivering chill that followed the heat of her slaughter of Hagen, colder counsels were emerging from time to time. Much more than a street purging would follow on such a deed. How many innocent people had she condemned with her act? What trials had she unleashed on the city?
She gritted her teeth. No more than the city deserved, she thought. Hadn't the city stood by, timid and compliant, when
her parents were hounded with lies and petty persecutions before finally being selected for trial and execution? Trial—the word made her want to spit—what an obscenity! All the forms and procedures, full of dignity and pomp, glibly displayed to cover and at once reveal the Gevethen's grinding cruelty. But that was the way they ruled—paying obsessive attention to the superficial details of the Law, while wilfully corrupting its very heart. Turning it into just another subtle instrument of torture and so tainting it that even if the Count should return, he would find its ancient face disfigured beyond repair.
There would be plenty of trials after today's work. Jeyan had known this from the moment she began to contemplate it, but it was of no concern to her. Only by the merest chance had she been absent from her parents’ home when the Citadel Guards came ... and it was the cowardly response of her erstwhile ‘friends’ that had set her on the inexorable way to today's deed. One after another, once welcoming doors had remained implacably shut against her tearful pleadings as, frantic, she had gone searching for help. Angry voices had spurned her, threats had been made to hold her for the Guards, dogs had been set upon her. The greatest kindness she had received that day had been a loaf of bread thrust through a briefly opened shutter, and even that had been accompanied by a fearful, whispered injunction to go at once, to flee the city.
And there had been little kindness or help since, so frightened were the people. For once the Count had been swept aside and his remaining followers silenced, the secret denunciation had become the Gevethen's most insidious weapon. So pervasive had it become that spouse feared spouse, parents feared children, each feared his neighbour. Where there had been debate and laughter, there was now sullen silence. Where there had been warm and open faces there were now suspicious, uneasy glances. Even the least whisper seemed to reach the ears of the Gevethen, and the whisperer would be pursued and brought to account. There would be a well-rehearsed public trial, or the offender would simply be no more...
Those who saw the Guards marching at night turned their faces away.
