“He looks sad,” he said, thinking aloud.
Simia sucked a breath through her teeth. “He has plenty to be sad about. He’s lost more than most of us: his wife and all his brothers... even his daughter. They say she was taken on the last day of the war.”
“Taken prisoner?”
She nodded. “Her name was Naeo. She’s probably dead, like everyone else.”
Sylas shook his head. So that explained the tattoo on the back of Bowe’s head.
His eyes travelled back to Bowe and, to his surprise, he saw that the Scryer was still looking at him. His gaze had the same strange intensity as in the Mutable Inn, his expression quizzical, as though he saw in Sylas something he could not quite understand, or perhaps believe.
A loud clunk reverberated through the hall followed by a metallic rattle.
The many speakers fell silent. All eyes turned to the centre of the chamber, where the two great circular doors in the floor were already sliding back to reveal the darkness of the shaft below. As they shuddered to a halt, a lone figure rose slowly out of the shadows on the platform. Sylas recognised Filimaya’s flowing silver hair straight away, looking even more beautiful in the shifting lamplight. As she ascended, she turned and nodded politely to various people in the room and all smiled warmly and bowed in greeting. The weave of purple strands in her hair shimmered and glistened, lending her an ethereal appearance.
Simia followed his eyes. “They say those are the last threads of the Suhl standard – the flag carried by Merimaat herself.”
The platform came to a sudden halt with a sharp clank. Filimaya paused for a moment while the sound died away and then raised her head to speak.
“Come close and hear me,” she said in a strong but lilting voice.
There was a general commotion as those still standing made their way to various parts of the hall to sit down, jostling one another for the best positions.
Simia leaned over. “That’s how all Say-Sos start. When someone says that, everyone has to shut up and listen.”
She rifled through her coat and brought out a tatty-looking notebook, a pot of ink and a quill.
“What’s that for?” whispered Sylas.
“It’s where I write important things,” said Simia, turning through pages of handwritten scrawl to a clean page. “And this is going to be important.”
Gradually the great hall came to order and Filimaya moved for the first time, turning on the spot so that she could see everyone in the congregation. Seeming satisfied that they were ready to listen, she cleared her throat and began.
“First of all, my good friends, an apology for my dramatic entrance,” she smiled and pointed down to the platform. “I was outside because I had to be sure that we are not being watched. I fear that we now face a greater threat from our enemies than ever before.”
There was a general murmur in the hall, but Filimaya continued without pause.
“By now you will all know my reason for gathering you here. The Passing Bell has brought us a visitor. A Bringer.”
There was another rumble of excitement and a general nodding of heads. Filimaya waited until the hall had fallen silent.
“But that is not all. This Bringer is a boy.”
Suddenly the congregation erupted with cries of disbelief.
“A child Bringer – surely not!” shouted one woman.
“A boy? Nonsense!” bellowed another.
Sylas shifted nervously and glanced at Simia, who muttered something under her breath.
“If I might finish!” boomed Filimaya suddenly, her voice surprisingly resonant in the large hall. “It seems certain that this boy is a Bringer and perhaps even more special than that. He was aided in his journey not only by the Merisi, but by Mr Zhi himself.”
At this the clamour in the hall rose to a new pitch despite Filimaya’s raised hands and calls for calm.
“You can’t believe children’s stories!” cried a man with a shiny bald head and flame-red beard. “Not on matters of this importance!”
“Well, I disagree,” said Filimaya calmly. “But it isn’t just what he says. He wears the Merisi Band.”
There was a collective gasp. The man stared at her long and hard. “And I suppose you know that it’s not a fake?”
“I do.”
“How exactly?”
“Because, Salvo, I can tell that he is a boy who speaks the truth,” said Filimaya. “But if we need proof, I think this will suffice.”
She reached down to a small bag almost hidden beneath her cloak and stood holding her hand aloft. Between her fine fingers she held the Samarok. The entire gathering gasped.
Sylas felt a surge of panic – an overwhelming fear that the book had been taken from him and that he had been foolish to tell these strangers that he had it. The blood was draining from his face as he heard Simia’s voice in his ear.
“She’s only borrowed it. She needed to see it for herself – and she knew that the others would have to see it too.”
Salvo was back on his feet. “Well, all of these Merisi trinkets are very impressive, but he could have been given them by anyone! If this boy really is a Bringer, surely he should be here, now, speaking for himself!” Sylas looked anxiously at Filimaya, praying that she would not look up at him. But already the room was mumbling its agreement and Filimaya seemed to be considering the proposal.
She hesitated, then glanced up with an expression of apology.
“Very well,” she said. “I had hoped to avoid this, but I can see why you need to meet him. Just remember this: he is a boy, and he is our guest.” She looked meaningfully round the room until her eyes rested upon Salvo and then, apparently satisfied that everyone had heard her, she raised her hand and beckoned to Sylas.
“Come down, Sylas,” she said with an encouraging smile. “I’m sure that everyone will make you very welcome.”
The creature lay entirely still, its body pressed against the smooth grey stone with limbs spread wide, its face against the glass. The only movement was the slow opening and closing of the gills beneath its angular jaws. Its slimy body had taken the colours of the mill wall – granite-grey with a speckled, slightly bluish pigment– making it almost invisible from below. The black orbs of its eyes peered down into the chamber, watching contemptuously as the assembled Suhl talked and gesticulated, rose and retook their seats. It paid Filimaya scant attention, instead searching among the faces, peering into the shadows.
Only when Filimaya looked up into the gallery did it turn back to her, pausing on her for a moment and then following her gaze. It saw the wide circle of the balcony, the banisters and, just visible to one side, a small shaggy-haired boy climbing to his feet. It flicked its tongue across its yellowed, pointed teeth and shifted its head slightly to one side, letting out a low, rasping purr. Its brow furrowed as it took in every detail of its quarry, who now walked nervously to the staircase and began to descend into the chamber.
The creature lifted its reptilian head and sucked in a triumphant breath, turning its eyes to the sprawling town below. For some moments it watched the smoke curling up from chimneys to the evening sky, forming layers of murky bronze in the dying light. Then it looked down to the bank and along the riverside path, checking for prying eyes. There was no movement nearby, but its attention was drawn to a gathering of figures walking along an alley some distance away. It recognised their smooth, effortless gait at once: it was a small group of Ghor, their necks swinging from side to side as they searched doorways and peered in windows. Then it saw another group in the street beyond, moving slowly and deliberately, scouring every alcove and porch, window and opening.
Gradually it became aware of the same silent, creeping motion in every lane and alley, every street and square: hundreds, perhaps thousands of Ghor stealing through the shadows of twilight, swarming through the town. Its frown deepened as it looked up to the hills, to the winding roads, and saw that they were black with a flow of dark figures streaming towards the lights.
/> Fluttering high above the distant hordes was a regular line of gigantic flags glowing blood-red in the failing light. At their centre, a black, empty face glowered across the open fields and huddling homes. The eyes were hollow and skeletal, but they seemed to see all. As the fabric snapped in the wind, so the deathly visage seemed to flicker with life, scowling at the final glimmer of day.
“Thoth,” gurgled the creature, a shiver running down its protruding spine.
16
The Chosen Path
“The well-lit path so often leads us to what we already know. We
must have the courage to turn from the light – to choose the darker,
more dangerous path...”
THE HALL REVERBERATED WITH excited voices as Sylas took his place next to Filimaya and everyone retook their seats. He looked out at the sea of faces and for the first time he realised just how many there were. There was not a space free in the entire chamber, and the congregation were pressed in upon one another, sitting with their shoulders hunched forward to give themselves more room in the upturned boats. But the most disconcerting thing of all was that, no matter how he stood, the largest number of them was always behind him. He could feel their eyes burning into his back and he heard many making comments about his strange, filthy clothes and his shaggy, unkempt hair. When he turned, that part of the hall would fall silent and nod at him politely, but at the same moment similar discussions would strike up behind him. It was an odd and humbling arrangement.
No doubt that was the idea, he thought.
To his dismay Salvo rose from the crowd a little in front of him and stood stroking his ginger moustache, waiting for silence. Eventually the hall became silent and he turned his flushed face to Sylas.
“Welcome,” he said in a dry, abrasive voice.
“Thank you,” said Sylas, rather more loudly than he had intended. The words echoed alarmingly around the hall and they seemed to cause a great buzz of excitement among the onlookers.
“Rather bold, isn’t he?” muttered a woman behind him.
“I am Salvo, son of Salasar,” said the man in a beguilingly amiable tone. “Might I ask you who you are and where you’re from?”
He cleared his throat. “My name is Sylas Tate. I’m from here – this town, but in… in the Other. I live in a building called Gabblety Row with my uncle. It’s not far from the town centre, on the junction of Via Road and Grebe Street.”
Salvo continued to nod when Sylas fell silent, as though wishing more words from his lips. When the boy said nothing further, he frowned and scratched the glistening dome of his head.
“You know Mr Zhi?”
Sylas nodded. “I do. But I only met him a couple of days ago,” he said.
Salvo began shaking his head and looked at his colleagues as if for support. “This is quite ridiculous… a boy Bringer who only met the Merisi a few—”
“Whatever it is, it’s his story!” barked another man at the far side of the hall. “Let him tell it in his own words!”
Salvo hesitated, then threw his hands in the air and returned to his seat.
Filimaya placed a hand on Sylas’s shoulder and whispered in his ear. “Go on now, Sylas, just tell them what you told me.”
And so he told his story. His voice was dry and hesitant at first, but the more he spoke, the stronger it became. As it unfolded and he heard murmurs of excitement and interest from his audience, he gained confidence. The crowd were attentive, particularly when Sylas mentioned Mr Zhi (when they seemed fascinated by every word the old man had spoken) and when he pulled up his sleeve and showed the Merisi Band. It was at this moment that the majority of the Suhl seemed to be convinced of his story.
From that point onwards many of them sat back in their seats, turning their minds to the mysterious matter that now lay before them. As Sylas finished his tale, the great gathering of the Suhl was entirely silent.
Sylas breathed a quiet sigh of relief, not only because he had reached the end of his long narrative without faltering, but also because his audience seemed to have believed him. Even Salvo was subdued and sat hunched forward, with his bristled chin resting in his hands and his head shining with perspiration.
Filimaya stepped forward and put her hand on his shoulder. “Thank you, Sylas,” she said. “You have given us all a lot to think about.” She turned to the gathering and raised her fine eyebrows. “Perhaps there are some questions?”
The entire congregation rose to its feet at once.
There was a brief silence while everyone looked at everyone else, and then someone started laughing.
“By the time you answer all these, Sylas, the bell will have rung again and it’ll be time for you to go home!” shouted someone in the front row to another peal of laughter.
Sylas smiled. Looking around him, he saw for the first time how amiable and friendly the faces in the crowd were: no longer fearful, but open and warm.
Gradually they all came back to order and everyone took their seats, with the exception of one man with a large grey forelock and a pencil moustache, who remained standing, puffing prodigious quantities of smoke from his pipe. Soon all eyes were turned on him.
“Might it be helpful if one of us takes the lead?” he enquired of the crowd, peering over his glasses. When there was no objection, he turned to Sylas.
“Sylas, my name is Grayvel: I am honoured to meet you,” he said with a low bow. “Yours is a remarkable story, and it was even more remarkable for the excellence of its telling.”
“Quite so!” shouted some others among the crowd.
“But now we find ourselves in a tricky spot. You see, you are not at all what we have come to expect from a Bringer.”
“But I’m not a Bringer – I don’t even know what a Bringer is!” objected Sylas.
Grayvel’s grey eyebrows furrowed and he breathed forth a torrent of smoke. “Yes, so you say… so you say. But that is part of what makes you so – if you will forgive me for saying it – so peculiar. While we were not expecting the Passing Bell to ring, we cannot ignore the fact that it was forged for the sole purpose of summoning Bringers – or at least that is all it has ever done until now. Therefore, to us, the very fact that you came here as you did makes you a Bringer. And then, to add to our confusion, you are carrying the very things we would expect a Bringer to carry: the Samarok and the Merisi Band.”
“I know – none of it makes sense,” said Sylas, “but surely, if I was a Bringer, somebody would have told me that I was one?”
“Quite! It really is very confusing! Not only have all other Bringers been quite aware that they were Bringers, they have been prepared by the Merisi over a period of many years. When they arrive, they know exactly what they are here for and precisely what to expect.”
“I don’t know who the Merisi are either,” objected Sylas.
“But you do, Sylas, you do!” cried Grayvel, throwing his arms wide. “You have met the most eminent of them all – Mr Zhi himself!”
Sylas shook his head and sighed. “But he said he was a shopkeeper! He didn’t even mention the Merisi!”
Grayvel frowned thoughtfully while taking his spectacles off to rub them on his sleeve. “Yes, as I say, it is quite inexplicable. Given all that Mr Zhi knows as leader of the Merisi, it is hard to understand why he would allow one so young to make this journey so ill prepared.”
“Unless he had no time, Grayvel,” boomed a new voice from a different part of the hall. It was a giant bear-like figure with a voluminous mantle of bushy brown hair that gathered about his face in a prodigious beard. But it was his sheer physical size that was most impressive: broad, slightly rounded shoulders; a mighty chest that strained at the confines of his tunic and a slightly bulging waist that was clearly not as lean as it once had been. The impression of strength was heightened by leather armour strapped around his torso and shoulders, emblazoned with buckles and buttons of brass that had been polished to a shine.
“I think we just have to accept what Sylas ha
s told us,” he continued. “He is no Bringer, nor was he intended to be. Look at the facts: Bringers have always been accomplished scholars with a knowledge of the runes and the Samarok. They’re schooled in at least Essenfayle and one of the Three Ways. Most importantly, they know exactly what their purpose is: they have information to share with us and they’re ready to learn what we teach them. Sylas may carry the Samarok and the Merisi Band, but he’s no Bringer. He’s something different. Perhaps something more... After all, even as a boy, he’s worthy of Mr Zhi’s protection and the call of the Passing Bell. I agree with our sister, there’s something miraculous in this!”
There was a mumble of agreement from many in the crowd.
“With respect, Bayleon,” protested Salvo, rising quickly from his seat, “you speak of miracles when the circumstances demand facts.” He spread his arms out to the chamber. “We all need to ask who summoned the boy. You assume he is here for our benefit, but without knowing who brought him, how can we be sure? What if Mr Zhi was deceived? Remember the Ghorhund near his home – and Scarpia herself is here in town! Thoth has his hand in this!”
“Salvo,” implored Filimaya, “you must remember that the beasts were trying to kill Sylas, not help him!”
“Yes! And they nearly killed us good and proper on the way from the bell!” shouted Simia, standing up so that she could glare at Salvo over the heads of the crowd.
“Sit down AT ONCE, young Roskoroy!” hissed Filimaya. Simia opened her mouth, but then thought better of it and threw herself down into her seat.
A silence fell across the great hall as everyone retreated into their own thoughts. Sylas turned slowly on the platform, seeing expressions of apprehension and concern. Some smiled at him as he glanced in their direction, but they soon passed back under a shadow when his eyes had moved on. He could sense that these people feared something terrible, something he could not even imagine – like Simia when they had first seen the Ghor on the hill.
The Bell Between Worlds Page 16
