by Paul Kearney
This is all real, as real as me. I am inside it, breathing, touching, tasting it.
But how?
Brief snatches of physics he drew before his wandering mind, but nothing resembled an explanation. He was not in some well-disguised pantomime. The people were real.
For some reason he remembered Gwion, the Steward, and felt an absurd pleasure at recalling the character from his books. The same. The same, by God, down to the fussy manner and the beaming smile.
I know these people.
Something like logic hovered just out of his grasp as he recalled the night before, the faces of Ratagan and Murtach vivid with wine and candlelight. He had the sense of recognition, almost of deja vu; but it was hopeless for his conscious mind to try and batten it down, to draw lines around it.
He lay in the bed. His feet became warm and he breathed in the beautiful, impossible air; and something like a smile appeared on his face, so that for a moment he looked like a boy.
Soon after there was a tap at the door, and a young girl entered carrying a tray. She kept her eyes on her burden as she came in, but darted a quick glance at him to wish him a good morning. Riven wished her one back, again conscious of his scarred face.
She set the tray on the table and began arranging the breakfast things. ‘My name is Madra,’ she said shyly. ‘Ratagan told me to bring you your breakfast, sir, and ask if’—she smiled involuntarily—‘if your head is on speaking terms with your stomach. He says you will find him in the hall later, if you have a mind to go there.’ She straightened. ‘You had better eat before it gets cold.’ Then she went out, closing the door behind her.
Riven got up and dressed swiftly, bolting the steaming porridge and buttermilk that was breakfast, and leaving his room straight afterwards. He wondered what Bicker was doing, then remembered Murtach’s hot eyes from the night before.
‘It is something out of a book—your book.’
My book. Maybe. But there’s more to it than that.
The Manse was a maze of panelled corridors and sudden windows, stairs and arches, doors and alcoves. Riven met several of the attendants on his way to the hall—or, at least, he assumed they were attendants. And once he passed a blue-sashed Hearthware who was so lost in thought he did not even notice him.
A shout of welcome told him that he was at last in the right place. The hall was empty except for Ratagan and a short, spider-thin woman who stood beside him, dressed in rich, dark wool and with many rings on her fingers. The big man sat by the firepit with a jug at his side, whittling a stick. The only sound was the rain on the high windows.
‘Michael Riven! Madra tells me that you are alive and well this wet morning. I thought you might like to provide an injured man with company.’
The eyes of the woman switched to Riven then. They were dark and bright as a bird’s, uncomfortably sharp, but the deep worry lines around them dimmed their effect.
‘Indeed,’ the woman said. ‘So this is the Teller from the foreign land beyond the sea.’ Her voice was as reedy as a young girl’s. ‘Will you not introduce us, Ratagan?’
The big man seemed chagrined. ‘Of course. Mother, you know who Michael Riven is.’ He flapped one large hand, his whittling knife flashing as he did. ‘This is the Lady Ethyrra, my mother.’
Riven bowed awkwardly, unsure what to say or do. The woman nodded primly, the grey in her hair plain against the darkness of it.
‘I will leave you both, then,’ she said. ‘I am sure you and my son can do without me leaning over your shoulders. Perhaps, Michael Riven’—she laboured over the unfamiliar name—‘you can persuade my son to be more careful with himself when he goes out roaming the country with the beasts.’ Then she left them, her skirts a long whisper on the flagged floor. Ratagan looked unmistakably relieved, and there was a pause in the silence she left behind her.
Riven sat down, and Ratagan’s knife scraped thinly at his stick.
‘Where is everybody?’ Riven asked the big man at last.
Ratagan tapped the stick on one hand, his brow clearing. ‘There’s a question. Today all is a hurry and a scurry, for they are out after a large pack of grypesh that raided the flocks last night, and it is said it was led by a Rime Giant. I believe it to be farmer’s fears, myself—but they are on the hunt, nonetheless: Bicker, Murtach, Dunan and six other Hearthwares, plus Luib and Ord of the Myrcans. My father is doing his harried best to calm down the other herdsmen.’ He made a sudden, vicious swipe at the floor with the stick. ‘Whilst I, and you, are stuck here.’ He threw up his hands. ‘So we forgo the fun, it seems. The only consolation’—he peered at the windows—‘is that they are getting wet. Guillamon has threatened to stop supplying me with beer if I so much as poke an unwashed toe outside and everyone in the Manse is busy with something or other, so we are left, ourselves to amuse ourselves.’
Riven was disappointed. He had hoped to talk to Bicker this morning, and perhaps see some more of Ralarth.
‘Murtach doesn’t like me,’ he said by way of conversation.
Ratagan barked a laugh. ‘Ably put. But you are wrong, Michael Riven. It is not that he does not like you; he does not like the world you come from, and he does not like his land to be at the mercy of someone who is from that world. It makes him unsure. Murtach resembles a cat: he likes to know where he is putting his feet, and you have strewn his path with pitfalls. Is it any wonder the poor lad does not take kindly to you?’
‘What about you, then—and everybody else, come to that? Is the whole Rorim secretly after my blood?’
‘You do us a grave disservice,’ Ratagan answered. ‘Myself, I will place my shoulder next to anyone I like, whether they have the fate of worlds on their shoulders or they shovel dung for a living. A man is a man, whatever he does. That is how I judge.
‘As for the rest of the Rorim... my dear fellow, the serving maids are in mortal awe of you, the Knight from the Isle of Mists. Murtach and I had to give you some sort of title, so we settled on that one. At any rate, they were arguing this morning over who would bring you breakfast, so I told Madra to take it, for she is prettier than most and has more than thistledown between her ears.’
They both laughed, though Riven could not recall what the girl that morning had looked like. He remembered her voice, though. Low. And the smile.
‘Besides,’ Ratagan went on, scraping again at his stick, ‘you are a guest here, invited by the heir of the Warbutt. Hospitality is an unwritten law in this land, though from what Murtach tells me, it is not in yours. For the time being, at least, you are a member of this household as much as I am.’ He began to whistle through his teeth as the slivers of white wood fell to the floor and the rain drummed away on the window panes.
Then he stood up surprisingly swiftly, though he still leaned on the stick. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘I can see you are in no mood to pass the time in light banter, Teller of Tales. And me, I have yet to eat this morning, so we’ll make our way to the kitchens and annoy Colban, then find a window to watch Ralarth in the rain. What say you?’
Riven agreed readily, and followed him out of the hall. He disliked sitting in the great emptiness; he half expected to find the Warbutt in their midst at any moment.
The kitchens were a cluster of large and small rooms at the back of the Manse, littered with wooden chopping tables and freestanding hearths, supporting several huge pots. There were iron-doored ovens set in the walls, joints of meat hanging from the rafters, and shelves around the walls piled high with every conceivable form of vegetable, herb, spice, fruit and seed. Dishes of wood and clay were scattered around, along with utensils of every shape and size. The air was pungent with the smell of cooking meat, underlain by a hint of cinnamon. A bald, fat man was working over a steaming pot, whilst others were chopping, washing, stirring or mopping, talking amongst themselves as they did so. It was a warm, busy place, far from the lofty emptiness of the hall.
‘Colban!’ Ratagan cried as they entered. ‘I am here to make your life difficult.’
‘You misjudge me, Colban. I’ve brought the Knight from the Isle here to see where his breakfast came from, and to procure some more of the same for myself.’
Colban did look up then, as did many of the others in the kitchen. ‘Well, why didn’t you say so, you great bear?’ He came forward, cleaning his hands on a cloth. ‘Greep!’ he barked. ‘Keep an eye on that broth, will you?’ An aproned figure ran to take over where Colban had left off.
‘The Knight is a prince in his own land, a great leader of men,’ Ratagan went on, nudging Riven. ‘He has come to examine the layout of your kitchen, as the cook in his own keep is sadly lacking in inspiration.’
Colban wiped his brow. ‘We are in a bit of a mess at the moment, you must realise; these raids are so unsettling, and the whole thing has interrupted supplies. What fresh vegetables we have at the moment are grown within the Circle, and the recent snows have ruined much of them. We are not smoking as much beef as we have in past years, for the herdsmen are all but driven from the higher pastures, you know.’
Ratagan was scooping himself a bowl of broth, nodding wisely. Riven was dumb, but fortunately Colban seemed eager to talk about his responsibilities. He took Riven’s arm and propelled him through the kitchen.
‘We have our plots of barley and wheat within the Circle, of course, though they will not be harvested this autumn, what with the weather. But we have a good store set by, and bake our bread here to supply the whole Rorim. Sometimes we even have enough left over to sell to the herders of the hills.’ He gestured to a long row of heavy glass jars. ‘Enough spices here to last a year, which is just as well; the caravan route from Nalbeni is just about closed. Our herbs, we grow ourselves; the garden is one of my successes, even if it is I who say it. Goats and the milch cows are in the west of the Circle, and we trade game for the occasional cheese with the hunters. All in all, we try to be self-supporting.’ His face darkened. ‘Which is as well, in times like these.’
Madra walked into the kitchen with a stack of wooden plates. Riven waved at her, but she did not see him.
‘The storerooms are built on to the back of the kitchens, and there is living space there also for the maids and the servers. We all pull on the one rope here.’ He smiled broadly at Riven. ‘What exactly is your cook’s problem, if you don’t mind me asking, Lord? I could perhaps advise you on that score.’
Ratagan was grinning, but Riven ignored him. ‘Oh, that’s all right. I have seen enough here to set him straight. I’ll show him the error of his ways.’
The fat man beamed. ‘You are too kind, my lord. We do only our humble best here. I shall inform Gwion of your approval.’
‘You do that, Colban; he’ll appreciate it, I’m sure,’ Ratagan interrupted. ‘But for now, the Knight and I must leave you. Matters of import call.’
They left the kitchen with Colban’s invitation to visit him at any time ringing in their ears. Ratagan chuckled.
‘You have made a friend there at any rate, Lord Riven.’
‘You’ll get me into trouble with all this “Lord” and “Knight” business, you know.’
Ratagan shrugged. ‘Who in Minginish is to say what you really are, Michael Riven? If what Bicker and Murtach believe is true, then you are more important to this land than any lord who ever walked.’
‘And what do you believe?’
The big man looked at him gravely. ‘I believe in a full belly, a warm hearth and a willing horse. Those, and the edge of my axe. I choose not to concern myself with the whys and wherefores of this life, for there are always plenty of others willing to do so.’ Then he smiled once more. ‘But see here: I have brought a counsellor out of the kitchen with me.’ He pulled aside the neck of his tunic to reveal the dark, slim neck of a wine bottle. ‘So let us find a quiet spot and consult with him.’
They found a window seat that looked south to the hills of Ralarth. In front of them the land within the Circle was barred by the silver of the brimming stream and patched with distant flocks of sheep and herds of cattle. There were the wrecked expanses of flattened crops also, and men at work in the quietly falling rain.
‘They’re building something there, inside the Circle.’ Riven pointed. He could see men rearing thick timbers and moving heavy stones in the middle distance.
‘Ah,’ Ratagan rumbled, swigging wine from the bottle. ‘Those are the new longhouses for the herders who have fled the hills. The Warbutt is building them homes within the Circle, and in turn, Luib trains them to fight in its defence. A few of them may even become Hearthwares.’
‘They do training with weapons?’
‘Yes, staves and spears, mostly. Few have swords, though there are some bowmen.’
‘I’d like to do that. Could I join in?’
Ratagan stared at him. ‘I see no reason why not. But for what reason?’
Riven shrugged. ‘I was a soldier once, in my own world. I’d like to know something about soldiering in this one. Besides, it may come in useful one day.’
‘Very well,’ Ratagan said. ‘I will have a word with Luib as soon as he gets back. If you show promise, we can always get one of the Myrcans to teach you along with the other would-be Hearthwares. Do you have a weapon?’
‘I have a knife, and I can cut myself a staff if I have to.’
‘Then it is settled. I would teach you myself, but this forbids.’ He held up his bound leg. ‘Besides, I was never one of Luib’s most apt pupils.’
‘What is the rest of Minginish like?’ Riven asked.
‘Not all like this. To the north are the cities of Minginish: Idrig-ill, Talisker and Avernish. Up there, the land is flatter, and it is possible to see that the country is truly but one great valley. Ralarth is but a dip in its slope. The Great River wanders about the land, and the soil is rich—the people are richer, too. Farther north, beyond Avernish, the land of Minginish ends in the steep hills that the northerners call Ullinish. Farther north still are the mountains proper: the Greshorns, and in their midst is the Red Mountain which we call the Staer, the Dwarves called Arat Gor and you call Sgurr Dearg.’
‘Tell me of the cities. How big are they?’
Ratagan made a face. ‘Talisker is the biggest. The Rorim could fit into it thirty times without being noticed. It does a great trade in hides and stock. The people of Drinan mine iron and copper in the hills nearby, and barter for what they have not the time to grow themselves. They are great ones for the mining, the Drinan, and their swords are the best in the land. Drinan smiths often wander Minginish offering their services to the lords.
‘The eastern caravans pass into Talisker, so there is spice to be had there, and silk, and fine horses which can gallop for ever. They are from Nalbeni, the land of the Khans, away across the eastern desert. Only a few know the secret paths across the waterless places to Nalben itself, and the Guild of Merchants in Talisker guards its secrets jealously.’
Ratagan sighed. ‘It is a long way from our rainy Dale. And now the roads are made unsafe by the beasts that maraud the land. Only a strongly armed band would travel with impunity these days.’
The rain grew heavier, rattling off the window. Outside, those who had been building the new longhouses gave up and sought shelter, and the animals stood patiently, rumps to the wind.
Is she in the rain, or has she found her way into the bothy again? Which world is she in—this, or the other?
He shivered at the thought of that dark girl huddling in the downpour, and was filled with restlessness. It was important—she was important. His Jenny was the alpha and the omega to this, he felt; but he wished he knew why.
To hold her, just once more.
IN THE AFTERNOON, the hunters returned, walking their horses patiently through the mud to the Rorim. Leatherclad attendants ran into the rain to take the
ir mounts, and Bicker led his people inside, dripping. There were no injuries, and the tired group went straight to their rooms to wash and change. Gwion fussed over them like a woman, but Guillamon, after a few brief words with Bicker, retired grim-faced.
Ratagan and Riven went to the hall, which was already bustling with maids and servers who set up trestles, lit the fire, and began carrying in plates of food and jugs of drink. They sat down, and Ratagan automatically poured himself some beer.
‘There’ll be much talk tonight,’ he forecast, ‘if I know that look on Guillamon’s face. But why, I wonder? None of our people is hurt, as far as I can see.’
Bicker came and took a seat beside them, leaning back with a sigh.
‘A long day, that was.’ He accepted a beer gratefully. ‘Greetings, my lord Knight of the Isle of Mists. How has your day been?’ he asked Riven with a smile and a raised eyebrow.
Ratagan laughed. ‘News travels fast from the kitchen. I thought it no bad idea to bestow a title on our guest, so blame it on me if the Warbutt disapproves.’
Bicker shrugged. ‘As you say, it is no bad thing.’ Then he looked at Ratagan, his face suddenly pained. ‘And you—you’ve been raiding the kitchen for wine again!’
Ratagan took another gulp of his beer, and wiped his mouth. ‘I have, and I am unrepentant.’
Murtach entered, followed by two Myrcans and half a dozen Hearthwares in leather jerkins. They took their seats and began to eat whilst a buzz of talk rose up and the servers brought in more food and refilled mugs.
‘Well,’ Ratagan said impatiently, ‘are you going to tell us what happened, or aren’t you?’
‘We’re eating,’ Murtach protested, his teeth around a chicken leg.
