The Bell Between Worlds

by Ian Johnstone

  As he followed her, he looked about him with new interest, trying to picture her in the dingy backstreets and squalid homes. The more he allowed himself to see, the more he believed that it might be true. The people were not so different from Simia after all: beneath their matted hair and grimy skin they had faces like any other, some with bright, lively eyes and others whose expressions betrayed intelligence and humour. He saw children playing with a ball made of rags, laughing gleefully as one of them swept at it with her bare foot and missed completely, falling unceremoniously on her back. Some of the old people lying in doorways returned his gaze, occasionally showing interest as they passed. One of them turned his head to watch him go, craning his shrivelled neck, seemingly unable to move his tired old limbs.

  And then Sylas saw something familiar. They had just crossed a low bridge made of pieces of wood and hard-packed earth, blocking their noses against the stagnant drain below, when he saw a symbol scratched crudely into a broken wall.

  A feather.

  For a moment he was unsure, but as he drew nearer, he became more and more certain that he knew it.

  He turned to Simia, who had paused further up the lane, and pointed at the symbol.

  “Filimaya was wearing this,” he whispered. “It was on her gown.”

  “Shhhh!” hissed Simia, rushing back and taking him by the arm. “Don’t use her name here! There are spies everywhere!”

  “But what is it?” he pressed, pulling his arm away. “What does it mean?”

  “It’s the mark of the Suhl,” murmured Simia, looking about her warily as they walked.

  “Here?”

  She looked a little surprised. “We’re everywhere,” she whispered, “but especially here. These are some of the unlucky ones – those who didn’t get away after the war. You’ll find the Suhl in every slum of the world. Slums are safe – no order, no guards, nobody checking your papers or collecting your taxes. This whole place is one giant sanctuary. Problem is, it’s almost as bad as what they’re hiding from.”

  “So the others at the mill – they were the lucky ones?”

  She nodded. “The stronger ones – the ones who still had some fight in them, some hope. There are a few places like the mill, but not many. The rest are in places like this, or out there–” she gestured towards the Barrens – “in the wilderness.”

  They rounded a corner and entered a broader street in which there were a few sparse stalls selling a few limp vegetables and cheap offcuts of meat. Sylas paid them scant attention, for above them loomed the gigantic silhouette of the Dirgheon, now clearly visible between the clouds and smoke.

  He saw for the first time that its vast sloping sides were made up of thousands of blocks of stone placed together in perfectly straight rows, like a giant staircase rising on all sides towards a distant point high above the clouds. He saw too that they were not entirely black, for a vast red banner had been hung from the very centre of each. They trailed over the black steps like rivers of blood, widening as they descended. In their very centre was depicted the now familiar image of a giant skeletal face: the face of Thoth glowering down over his city as though watching everything, scrutinising everyone. Beneath his imposing visage were three symbols: the hunched bird; two circles, one within the other; and a scroll. The effect of the banners was just as his creator had intended: a show of absolute, terrifying power.

  As they moved further down the lane, Sylas saw that it was not the only vast structure in the city. Just to their right and a little nearer, a great stone tower loomed over the shambolic skyline. Unlike the dark, brooding form of the Dirgheon this was an elegant building, constructed entirely of exquisite white stone. Its smooth sides bowed inwards until they almost met in the middle, before they broadened at the top like the branches of a vast tree to support two gigantic circular platforms, one above the other, with a series of arches between. Around these archways was carved a breathtaking collection of human figures in poses that Sylas could not quite make out, gathered round myriad symbols and shapes.

  Sylas’s eyes moved between this and the Dirgheon. It was hard to imagine two more contrasting buildings.

  “The Temple of Isia,” whispered Simia at his side, breaking into a run. “Come on, and stop staring!”

  They jogged down lane after lane, street after street, passage after passage. The character of the buildings began to change, becoming far more substantial than any they had seen in the slums, made out of wattle and daub or even stone, some constructed over two storeys. They were clearly entering the heart of things, the centre of Thoth’s great city. The lanes became narrower and darker, the light blocked out by the towering structures that leaned in above them, using up every last bit of space.

  Then they turned a corner to see the lane opening out, the final buildings giving way to an entirely new scene. They walked out of the alleyway and into the light.

  A broad view of the river opened up in front of them. Like at the mill the vast body of water swept in a wide arc, turning almost back upon itself in a perfect meander. But that was the extent of the resemblance. Instead of the cool, blue-grey waters at the mill, these were brown and opaque; instead of the lively current was a rolling, sluggish churn that swallowed and regurgitated an endless flow of sewage and detritus. The sloping banks heaved with litter and filth and even the ravenous birds that circled above seemed to peer down with distaste. When they dared to descend, they swooped and snatched up their mouldy prize without touching down.

  Sylas covered his nose and mouth. “It’s disgusting,” he mumbled.

  Simia said nothing. She was not cringing but smiling. She was not looking at him but staring out across the river.

  He followed her eyes. “What are you looking at?”

  “Paiscion’s home,” she said.

  The snap of the lock woke Bowe in an instant. He recoiled as the great iron door of his cell flew open and a giant figure appeared in the doorway.

  It was like no Ghor he had ever seen: taller, broader, its head less stooped, its posture more human. The feeble light from the corridor illuminated the beast’s great mane of hair, the gold collar around its neck and the fine armour covering its muscular chest, arms and thighs. At the centre of the breastplate a single symbol was picked out in gold: a skeletal face, devoid of all expression, empty and dark. It was the livery of Thoth’s personal guard.

  Before Bowe could react, the guard took two athletic bounds, reached down and grasped his neck in a vice-like grip, then slammed him up against the wall. It leaned forward, bringing its short, half-human muzzle and canine teeth within inches of his face.

  It growled a deep, slow and murderous growl. The stench of its breath made him turn his face away. The grip tightened instantly, and the growl became fierce. He turned back to look the guard in its pale, human eyes.

  “Listen to me, Scryer,” it said contemptuously, its voice clear and man-like. “I am to take you to the Master. Few things please the Master, but many things displease him. I never, never displease the Master.” It pushed Bowe further up the wall, his feet now far off the ground. “So we will do this quickly. We will do it silently. We will enter his presence with reverence. Do you understand?”

  Bowe managed a half-nod.

  He was dropped to the ground, coughing and spluttering, gasping for breath. Before he could even reach for his throat, the guard’s claw grasped the back of his neck and he was thrust forward, out of the cell and into the flickering light of the passageway. Despite the Scryer’s considerable size, he was propelled forward with such force that his feet barely touched the ground. They moved down the corridor at speed, passing door after door set deep into the stone walls.

  Bowe tried to struggle, kicking out at the walls to try to set the guard off balance. The grip around his neck tightened again. This time he felt as though he might black out.

  “Don’t make me repeat myself, Scryer,” growled the guard at his ear.

  It lashed out with its teeth, gashing his cheek and shr
edding part of his ear. Bowe cried out in pain. Instantly the guard threw him with huge force against the damp, cold wall. His head struck with shattering force and he reeled backwards, already feeling the blood pouring from his temple.

  “Quick. Silent. Reverent,” growled the guard, its claw closing round his neck. “Obey.”

  Bowe felt himself slip gratefully into unconsciousness.

  33

  The Sound of the Moon

  “How is it that music captures what cannot be caught: the sound

  of night and shooting stars, of darkness and the rising moon?”

  “WELL, I HAVEN’T ACTUALLY seen it before, no,” said Simia defensively.

  Sylas frowned. “But you brought us here,” he muttered. “I thought you knew where you were going.”

  “I do know where I’m going!” she snapped, putting her hands on her hips and glaring up at him. “It’s exactly where Filimaya said it would be. I’m telling you – this is it!”

  Sylas looked doubtfully over her shoulder towards the river. “Well, it doesn’t exactly look like the home of a–” he lowered his voice to a whisper – “of a Magruman, does it?”

  “Well, no. It is a bit disappointing.”

  “Disappointing…” murmured Sylas.

  He gazed despairingly ahead of him, feeling his body give in to a crushing weariness. He had so wanted this to be an end to his journey – an answer to all his questions. He thought back to the fall of the mill and the terror of the chase, to the cold, bleak days on the Barrens, to Bayleon’s capture and their desperate, exhausting flight from the Circle of Salsimaine. All of that – for this?

  His eyes passed slowly over shattered decks, a broken mast that leaned precariously against another; tattered, forlorn-looking sails that hung by threads from the frayed, tangled rigging. The hull of the ship carried the colourful insignia and intricate carvings of grander days, but now the paint was faded and peeling, the proud designs around the fittings were almost unrecognisable and the lovingly chiselled wood was rotting and falling away. Indeed the only ornament that remained almost intact was a faded, lopsided nameplate, whose forlorn letters spelled: the Windrush.

  But what was least impressive about this decrepit ship was its positively muddled attitude towards holes. There were no holes where there should have been, for the portholes had been blocked with crudely nailed planks and the entrances on the decks were covered with piles of broken timber and discarded canvas. And yet, most alarmingly, there were very many holes where holes ought not to be, giving the sad vessel the appearance of a capsized Swiss cheese.

  There were holes in the deck timbers and holes in the sails, there were holes in the forecastle and there were holes in the hull. Indeed this utterly wrong-headed approach to holes made the ship something of a miracle, as despite the water lapping round its many dark cavities, it remained above the waves. The entire hulk leaned threateningly towards the bank, but nevertheless it rocked and rolled with the gentle motion of the putrid river. It was quite implausibly, but quite undeniably, afloat.

  Sylas’s musings were suddenly brought to an abrupt end. With a loud clatter of chains, a section of the hull fell open and landed with a thump on the muddy bank.

  They both slithered several paces backwards. They stared fearfully at the wooden ramp, leading to a dark, square doorway.

  “It’s a door,” whispered Sylas.

  “No kidding,” muttered Simia, glancing at him with narrow eyes.

  They stared at it for some moments, waiting for someone to emerge from the shadows within, but no one came.

  Sylas took a few steps forward, looking with interest at the ramp. “Do you think we should go in?”

  “Maybe. You first.”

  Simia stayed well back, poised to run, but Sylas continued to creep forward, still staring at the ramp. His eyes were trained on something carved into the surface – gouged out of the rough, damp wood. The nearer he came to it, the more certain he was that it was a symbol: a collection of strange lines and dashes that shifted a little even as he looked at it.

  A Ravel Rune.

  He stared at it for some moments until it began to change before his eyes, its many lines turning and contorting until they formed a perfect letter P.

  “P!” said Sylas excitedly. “P for Paiscion!”

  Simia scowled, peering with some interest over his shoulder.

  “Where?”

  Before he could reply, the symbol had started to change again, its strokes curling about themselves until something new started to form, something different but just as familiar. Somehow the many markings in the timber of the ramp had morphed before his very eyes until they formed a perfect, delicate shape.

  “A feather!” exclaimed Sylas, taking another few steps down the stinking, slippery bank and feeling new hope stirring inside him.

  Simia joined him. She peered over his shoulder at the ramp. “A feather? Where?”

  “There!” said Sylas, pointing at the symbol.

  “That’s not a feather! It’s just a load of scratches!” “It’s not! You’ve got to look at it right – it’s a Ravel—” Are you coming inside, or not?

  Sylas stopped, startled.

  “Did you hear that?”

  “Hear what?” said Simia irritably. “Stop being so weird.” He turned to look at her. How could she not have heard it? You’re wasting time. My time. Come inside, or go away. “There! There it was again!”

  Simia stared at him, suddenly looking a little frightened. “Stop it!” she said reproachfully. “Now you’re scaring me.”

  He turned and peered into the dark doorway of the vessel. The more he thought about it, the more certain he became that he had not heard the voice either – it had been inside his head, just like Mr Zhi’s voice had been when Sylas was standing outside the Shop of Things.

  “Come on,” he said firmly. “He wants us to go inside.”

  “Oh, really, and he just told you that?” mocked Simia.

  Sylas slithered the last few steps down the bank and she realised that he was serious. Her face straightened.

  “How… How do you know?”

  He stepped on to the ramp and turned to face her, giving her an encouraging smile. “I just do. I’ve seen this magic before. With Mr Zhi.”

  Simia looked at him doubtfully, twirling a strand of her red hair round a finger. Reluctantly, she followed him down.

  As they stepped into the shadows, the first thing to strike them was the astonishing smell. The foul stench of sewage gave way to the incongruous fragrance of grass and fresh flowers lightly flavoured with woodsmoke. It was as though they had suddenly been transported out of the ship and away from the city to some distant mountain meadow. Almost straight away they started to feel calmed and refreshed. Sylas took a deep breath and felt sweet, wholesome air fill his lungs. He heard Simia step up the ramp behind him and she too gasped as she crossed the threshold.

  Watch your backs!

  Sylas jumped. The voice was louder and clearer than ever: a sharp, male voice that had the tone of someone who was used to being obeyed.

  Without warning, the chains rattled above their heads and the ramp was drawn closed behind them. There was a loud clank as a latch was drawn into place and suddenly they were plunged into pitch-blackness.

  “Sylas?” hissed Simia. “Are you there?”

  “Yes.”

  “This was your idea.”

  “I know…”

  Down the steps, please.

  A torch suddenly burst into flame above their heads and then another ahead of them, followed by more beyond. They cast an orange, flickering light on a narrow passageway that led to a staircase just a few paces in front of them.

  “Come on,” said Sylas, turning to Simia’s wide eyes. “He wants us to go down.”

  She arched her eyebrows in the half-light. “Oh. Right. Good then.”

  He stepped forward and, feeling for the broken banister, started to lower himself down.

  They d
escended towards a roughly hewn door at the bottom of the steps, the fresh fragrance becoming even stronger as they went. But they hardly noticed the scent any more; instead they were entranced by the faint sound of music. It seemed to be coming from beyond the door.

  As they clambered down the final uneven steps, the beautiful sound became louder and louder, echoing between the faded wooden panels of the walls and reverberating within the timber of the door.

  “What is that?” whispered Simia at his ear. “It’s beautiful…”

  “I think it’s a piano,” he said.

  She frowned. “Never heard of it. But it sounds amazing…”

  He hesitated for a moment with his hand on the door handle and his face pressed against the wood, listening to the doleful, haunting notes of the piano.

  It was beautiful, and yet also unutterably sad. A deep, resonant note chimed every few beats like a call to mourning while above, a triplet of notes repeated over and over, sometimes rising and falling, but always in time with the irregular, heartbreaking chime, like the sound of loss or regret. A simple lilting melody laced the music, but while it was at times light and always gentle upon the ear, it carried tidings of sadness.

  The music was washing over Sylas when, to his horror, he heard the creak of the hinges. The door swung open under the gentle pressure of his cheek, and he found himself staring into the open space beyond.

  He blinked at the shaft of dusty light that bisected the gloomy room, zigzagging between a number of mirrors about its edge, illuminating a bare, featureless, cold chamber. On the opposite wall, below the single porthole, a series of crooked bookshelves offered the room’s only decoration: a vast collection of papers and books. The sole covering on the rough floorboards was a threadbare rug at one end of the chamber, upon which rested a wooden rocking chair and a low table. The table bore three objects: a tall, fluted glass of wine; a pair of spectacles; and a large wooden box from which rose a graceful, curving brass tube that opened wide at its mouth like the bell of a horn.