by Paul Kearney
‘Fighting Giants.’
Her brow cocked. ‘So. A warrior after all, perhaps.’ The finger touched the scar on his forehead, making him flinch. ‘You are much marked by injury, some of it not so recent. Are you a Sellsword, then?’
‘A what?’ He hardly heard what she was saying. He was losing himself in the grey surf of her eyes, his heart threatening to smother him with its frenzied pounding.
‘A mercenary. A paid soldier.’
‘I was, once.’ Lieutenant Riven.
‘Ah.’ Her gaze sharpened. ‘And you are not now?’
‘No. No more.’ There were warning bells tolling in his head. This woman was not his wife, and she had not come out here to seek conversation. Wheels within wheels were moving, and he wanted no part of them. ‘I must go back,’ he said. ‘I’m expected.’
‘By whom? The frowning girl who stood by your side in the hall? She is only a child, surely.’
He pushed her aside suddenly, roughly, and saw her face grow sallow with anger, but she did not protest. His collarbone throbbed. A groan burst from his lips as he mounted his horse, and for a second the world swam before his eyes. When he focused again, she was staring at him intently. But there was no concern upon her face—only curiosity.
‘We’ll meet again,’ she called after him, but he dragged his mount’s head around without replying and kicked it into a gallop back to the Rorim.
LATE THAT AFTERNOON, before the banquet was due to begin, he told Bicker, Ratagan and Murtach everything. They sat in his room whilst the wind whistled about the eaves of the Manse, and listened to him in silence. When he had finished, Bicker strode to the window and looked out at the tumbled clouds of the late day and the gathering darkness of the deserted hills.
‘I know now why you did what you did in the hall,’ Murtach said. He fondled Fife’s ears until the wolf emitted a growling sing-song of pleasure deep in his throat. ‘I am sorry.’
‘It’s nobody’s fault,’ Riven told him. ‘Except maybe mine. I should have known that she’d be here. I put her here, after all. In the story.’
‘But not in quite the same way, I take it,’ Bicker said over his shoulder.
‘No. Not quite.’
‘I should have realised myself,’ the dark man continued. ‘There was a resemblance between her and the girl wandering the Isle of Mists.’ He turned away from the window. ‘But it is not perfect. They are different, somehow. Why? Why should this happen? Two images of your wife in this land, one a wanton, the other a waif. It beggars deciphering.’
‘Guillamon’s territory, I think,’ Ratagan put in. There was a flagon of beer forgotten in his vast fist.
‘And this man you knew in your own world—the one who helped you with your stories. He is Bragad.’ Bicker shook his head. ‘My friend, no wonder you wanted to be alone this afternoon. It is enough to drive a man to distraction.’
‘Maybe Riven should not be seen at the feast tonight,’ Murtach suggested. The dark man disagreed.
‘That would raise more suspicions than it would allay. Bragad knows he is here now, that he is a stranger. There is no point in fuelling speculation.’
‘We need an identity—a harmless counterfeit for our ex-Sellsword here to cling to,’ said Ratagan. He sat a hand on Riven’s good shoulder and rocked him slightly. ‘How are you at playing a part?’
‘I’m dressed for it,’ Riven replied in a disgruntled tone, and the big man laughed. Some of the tension went out of the room.
Bicker smiled. ‘What would you like to be, Michael Riven?’
‘Well, she said I looked no warrior.’ He was surprised at the bitterness in his voice.
I was a soldier once. Once upon a time. Maybe not in this world—but a soldier nonetheless.
‘If she had seen you the night of the Giants, she might have thought differently,’ Ratagan said gently.
‘A merchant, then,’ Murtach suggested.
‘He does not know the reality of the country well enough,’ Bicker returned. ‘And besides, he wears a Ralarth sash. Whatever he is, it must be of the Dale itself.’
‘A Teller!’ Ratagan said, thumping a fist down on to the table so that the two wolves started.
‘What?’ Riven was aghast.
‘By all that’s holy, why not use your true profession? A Teller from the west come to take service in Ralarth and learn a few more tales from the Dales people. Yes!’
Bicker nodded. ‘The nail hit on the head. What say you, Michael Riven?’
‘I can’t do that. I can’t tell bloody stories any more.’
‘You won’t have to, with luck.’ Ratagan grinned. ‘Just sit in a corner and appear thoughtful. If someone asks you for a tale, tell them you’re learning the story of the Dwarf and the Firewood. It goes on for ever. They’ll leave you alone, then, in case you decide to start telling it to them.’
Bicker chuckled. ‘He speaks from experience, I fear. But, yes, I think that will suffice. I will tell Gwion to warn off our own people. Half of them think Riven is some sort of magical warrior from across the southern sea. They must be enjoined to remain silent. He is simply a Teller, come to seek new stories.’
And maybe that is not so very far from what is true.
Ratagan swigged at his beer and swallowed gratefully. Bicker rubbed his nose, deep in thought.
‘It might not be a bad notion, though, to spirit the Teller out of the Rorim soon after the feasting is over. That way he will not be bumping into the Lady Jinneth again in such a hurry. Her husband had obviously told her to find out who and what he is.’
‘None of us can accompany him without arousing suspicion,’ Murtach pointed out.
‘We could if it was a patrol,’ the dark man said. ‘You and Ratagan could take one out tomorrow, stay for a few days and have a look around at the western fiefs. You could visit home, my red-bearded friend.’
‘Ivrigar, eh?’ Ratagan took another long pull at his beer, an unaccustomed frown flitting on to his face. ‘Home. I don’t think that—’
‘Aelin would be glad,’ Bicker said gently, and Ratagan’s frown deepened.
‘She’d be glad,’ he repeated. ‘For a while.’
Bicker thumped him lightly on the shoulder. ‘It is settled, then. After the feasting tonight, you three will leave the Rorim with an escort on a few days’ patrolling. It is only prudent, with most of the Dale’s ’Wares tied up here at the fortress. No suspicions will be aroused. Stay at Ivrigar for a time, or until I deem it safe to return.’
‘Bragad will miss us from the negotiations,’ said Murtach.
‘Let him,’ Bicker replied promptly. ‘It will keep him on his toes. Besides, you will not be the only ones. Both Mullach and Lionan are departing directly after the banquet is over, leaving Marsco to plead their case for them—so thick, it seems, these three have become. They have the excuse of securing their northern borders. Apparently things are getting a little hot up there. We had a messenger from Drynoch this evening. There are grypesh out in force to the north.’
‘A convenient point for Bragad to push home,’ Murtach murmured.
The dark man nodded, exasperated. ‘Marsco emphasises his own side in this way, sending two lords back to secure their fiefs in the middle of a council. Dramatic, but effective.’
‘And true, I take it?’ Murtach asked.
Bicker shrugged. ‘We have no way of knowing. But it is a good excuse for us to send out a patrol of our own. A strong one. And it explains your absences from the council quite nicely. That leaves us only tonight to get through.’
‘I take it I can get drunk as a lord should on such an occasion?’ Ratagan said, smiling; but Riven was sure he was only half in jest.
‘Mind what you say, and who you say it to,’ Bicker warned. ‘The same goes for you, Michael Riven. If Bragad guesses at your real identity, it could cause us a world of difficulties with some of the lords.’
‘Another stick to beat the Warbutt with,’ Murtach said in disgust. ‘You had best impre
ss upon the household the need for discretion. There are a few feather-brains about who know too much as it is.’
‘Not Madra,’ Riven said, startled out of a reverie.
‘No.’ Murtach’s face was oddly savage. ‘Not Madra.’
THE RORIM WAS busy with scores of preparations. In the Manse, the household occupied themselves with the task of preparing a feast fit for the assembled lords. The kitchen was a chaotic babble of activity, with Colban issuing orders in all directions and striving to keep an eye on those attendants who were entrusted with the care of vital sauces and gravies. Several animals of various sizes were roasting entire on slow-spinning spits, basted by anxious boys, whilst a stream of young people ferried foodstuffs from the pantries to the Great Hall above until the trestles set up there creaked under their load. A rumbling filled the air also, as casks of beer were trundled from the depths of the cellar, the barrels thumping on the stones and resounding like the indigestion of Giants. Others brought to light with more care slim, dark bottles of wine with the dust and cobwebs thick upon them. In a corner quieter than most, a knot of musicians tuned their strings and tightened their drumskins. Through it all, Gwion paced with his pate shining in harassment and a gaggle of attendants in his wake seeking instructions, advice and permission. Some were sprinkled with pine needles, having just been engaged in decking out the hall with fresh sprays of evergreen. Others reeked of herbs or were powdered with flour. A few Hearthwares, stalking the corridors of the Manse, backed away hurriedly when they met them, for fear of grubbing their highly burnished armour. More than one was caught by a pair of squealing girls, who gleefully anointed them with kitchen grease and then fled with the warriors clanking in pursuit.
Walking through the Rorim was like living a medieval pageant. Riven was enchanted. He, Ratagan and Isay were wandering the fortress and taking in the holiday atmosphere for want of something else to do before the feast began. Ratagan had procured beer for them from somewhere with magical ease, and they were supping the malty liquid from brimming tankards as they went. The big man had a word for everyone he met, and produced blushes and laughs from the serving maids in equal measure. Even Isay unbent a little, and grinned at a raven-haired wench when she made a lewd pluck at his staff.
Riven received many odd looks, and was the subject of much behind-hand whispering, but it seemed in awe more than anything else. And the more beer he drank, the less he thought about it. He was content to give himself up to the occasion, similar to others he had described in his own books, but none of which had ever seemed to possess the colour, the noise, the smell, the sheer vibrancy that was before him now. He was seeing the Rorim as it should be, without the threat of ruin hanging over it—though tomorrow, these same people would be stinting themselves to eke out their supplies through the winter. But for now they were as careless as swallows. Riven realised with no surprise that he could love this world and its people, despite the heartbreak it had wrought on him. Which was fitting, since in one sense he had created it, had made these folk to people it. He had chosen this world, Minginish, out of all the others he could have thought up, because it had seemed good to him. And it was, despite the black-garbed temptresses and ambitious warlords who walked it. It was worth saving for its own sake, not just to give Jenny the peace she deserved.
He smiled at his own thoughts.
Maybe I’ll write them down some day, if I get the chance.
They ran into Madra, nearly upsetting the jugs she held in her fists. Ratagan relieved her of one of them whilst she looked on with an eyebrow arched.
‘For our health,’ he explained, refilling their three tankards. ‘It’ll be a long night, with much talk, and we must fortify ourselves beforehand as best we may...’ He winked at her, and her mouth twitched.
‘Will you be at the feast tonight?’ Riven asked her.
‘I am to be your server,’ she said.
‘Mind you don’t neglect him,’ Ratagan told her with mock severity. But she did not take her eyes from Riven.
‘I won’t.’ The rare, grave smile winged her face, then she reclaimed her empty jug with a reproachful glance at the red-beard, and continued on her way. They watched her go, silent for a second.
‘She was not in your story, was she?’ Ratagan asked.
Riven started. ‘No. No, she wasn’t.’ But again, there was that odd feeling that they had met before. Ratagan gripped his good shoulder for a second, and then tipped back his tankard with a deft movement.
‘Ah,’ he sighed, wiping froth from his upper lip. ‘Life is not wholly unattractive.’
ISAY HELPED HIM dress for the banquet that evening, showing no resentment at having to double as valet as well as bodyguard. Riven found that a set of finer clothes had been left out for him, probably by Madra. The sleeveless tunic looked to be made of doeskin, supple as linen, and worked into the left breast was a flame symbol, picked out in scarlet and yellow thread. He asked the Myrcan about it, and was told that it was the badge of a Teller. The fact that it lacked heraldry around it was a sign that he belonged to no particular lord, though the blue sash announced he was attached to the Household of Ralarth.
The tunic fitted over a loose linen shirt and was belted snugly by the sash that Riven was coming to see as his own. He did not put on his sword, for no weapons were permitted at such occasions, though Ratagan had told him a gory tale of a banquet where a certain disagreement had been settled with eating knives, which the victors had subsequently continued eating with.
Riven took a place halfway down the hall from the high seats where the lords clustered and the Lady Jinneth adorned her husband’s elbow. Ratagan and Murtach were close by whilst Isay was at his side, as usual. Riven caught Bicker’s eye as he had that afternoon, and the dark man threw him a rueful grin. He would no doubt be fending off the polite questioning of Ralarth’s lords throughout the meal. Tragically, this meant he had to stay relatively sober. Ratagan had promised to quaff Bicker’s portion of ale for him, to make sure none was wasted in these frugal times.
Jinneth was looking at him. Riven was caught by her eyes, grey as shingle. Her hair was down, making a black foam about her shoulders and setting off her silver circlet. Her gown was low cut, exposing creamy shoulders and the shadow between her breasts, and there was a slim chain about her white neck from which a single gem hung like a firelit star. Desire kindled in Riven like a coal, and he remembered times when he had held that body’s twin in his arms and searched out all its secrets.
But the woman he had held was dust in a sea-girt grave, his love buried with her. He met Jinneth’s gaze steadily, until her smile faltered and she turned away to speak into her husband’s ear. He listened to her intently, even with deference, and Riven, remembering Hugh on the occasions when he had met Jenny, thought that perhaps there was a twisted sort of logic to this world after all.
Music began with the beating of a tabor and the whistle of pipes, and then the servers began trooping in in their dozens, with great platters of heaped food and jugs of ale. Riven blinked, and realised he had been staring at nothing for a long minute. Ratagan was leaning across the table and pouring him some of the dark, malty beer, but he could make no sense out of the big man’s words. The beer he had already consumed that evening fogged his brain, and the brightness of the torches and the tall candles daggered his eyes. For a second he felt like retching. But then there was a calm hand on his shoulder, and Madra was leaning past him to set a tray on the table, her hair swinging over his arm. He could have buried his face in it, seeking darkness, but she set her cool fingers on the back of his neck and his head seemed to clear. And she left him with a quick glance from her eyes, dark as an otter’s pelt, and a smile that was like a gift.
A cold nose nuzzled his knee, and he reached under the table with a scrap of venison for Fife—or Drum, he was not sure which. The wolf took it from his hand as delicately as a cat, and licked his palm. He met Murtach’s eyes across the table, and the shapeshifter grinned like a gnome.
‘Don’t spoil him,’ he said. ‘Half the hall will be feeding my friends tonight.’ He raised a tankard which condensation had jewelled. ‘Here’s to life, health and happiness, and the time to enjoy them.’
Half the board raised their own flagons in answer—most of them seemed to be Hearthwares—and they answered him thunderously, Ratagan loudest of all. Riven downed a great gulp of the cold beer and felt it alternately chill and warm his gullet. His brain cleared.
Slainte.
It grew warmer in the hall, and noisier as beer and wine loosened throats. The feasters attacked great joints of beef and mutton and venison, picked at pheasant and partridge, munched apples and pears and sweet onions, nibbled at cheese and rye bread, and washed it down with more beer. The few ladies present were given the privilege of drinking out of goblets, some of pewter, some of glass, some of wood. Wine bottles began to cluster at tables like sentries. Bones were flung to the floor and quarrelled over by the hounds, who gave way to Murtach’s wolves when Fife and Drum desired some particularly meaty scrap. Hearthwares argued over past skirmishes and hunts, the lords over family history and precedence, the arguments becoming more fantastic as they put away more ale. Riven saw Bragad gesticulating at Bicker, who sipped wine reflectively. Marsco’s cold gaze was fixed on Jinneth as she leaned forward to speak to him, her hand on his amid the clutter of the table. Lionan, the dandy, was talking behind his hand to the brutal Mullach, who was gulping his beer moodily and staring at the serving maids as they passed him in a bustling procession. He sucked one corner of his black moustache absently. Guillamon’s eyes were icy fires in the haze. He smiled at Riven’s roving stare and raised his goblet in salute. Riven did the same, unsmiling. He remembered a steel-eyed wizard from his second book, and wondered if Guillamon were he. It was hard to tell, sometimes, which of these people he had written about, now that they sat down yards from him.
