by Paul Kearney
‘Twice I have failed you, Michael Riven. Third time pays for all. It will never happen again.’
Ratagan stalked over the bodies towards them with his clothes in shreds. ‘Is she alive?’
Riven nodded, but could not speak. He took off his bloody tunic and wrapped it around her, smoothed the hair away from her face.
There was a lurch and a bump. A grinding noise started from the hull, then was still. They looked up, and saw that the boat had drifted against an islet in the river. The current held it fast there, and it drifted no farther.
‘OVER HALF MY crew are dead,’ Finnan said. The firelight flickered over a face as grim as stone. He poked the embers with a stick. ‘I am not even sure they will be enough to crew the boat upriver.’
‘We will take the place of some of them,’ Bicker said, ‘though our people have suffered also. Three of our company were lost, Darmid, Rimir and Tagan, and the maid is grievously hurt. That leaves six to man the poles along with your eight. It should be enough.’
‘Most of our gear has been lost, and all your horses,’ Finnan went on as if he had not heard him. ‘But why they attacked in such numbers and with such determination is beyond my ken. They even took to the river. Why would they behave in such a fashion?’
Bicker shrugged, but his eyes flicked over the fire for a second to Riven. And Riven sat beside Madra as she lay on most of the bedding they had left, with strips of cloak bound about the wounds which bit into her, and Ratagan on her other side with his face twisted in concern. She was conscious, but could not speak because of the gash at her throat. She smiled for Riven, though, and that smile was like a sword blade thrust in his chest. He gripped her hand with white knuckles, and could say nothing, to her or to anyone else. He felt he had finally been given the spade to bury himself with.
‘How many days to Talisker?’ Bicker was asking Finnan.
‘Just over a week,’ the pilot replied. ‘Maybe somewhat longer for us, now, with everything.’
‘Too long,’ Bicker said with quiet savagery, burying his eyes in the fire.
They buried the bodies of those who had died on the boat, but had to leave the others where they were, for grypesh could be seen prowling on the bank. There were scores of the animals. They were all set to poling now, and it was hard work navigating the flatboat upstream. For Riven, it was agony. He seemed to have cracked bones complaining all over his body, and when they stopped at night, he ate, stayed by Madra for a while, and usually fell asleep beside her.
They moored in the evenings to various of the islets dotting the river. They did not dare camp on the western bank where the attack had been; the eastern bank showed no signs of life, but the tangled strips of trees continued along it and they mistrusted what they might hide. Even so, Bicker and Luib had to hunt on the eastern bank to supplement what food they had left. They found deserted houses, sometimes whole hamlets left lying empty with mutilated cattle in the fields around them. The land was dead and uninhabited, and the carrion birds were never out of the sky.
A week went past, and the picture did not change. Madra’s wounds began to heal, but her voice did not come back. The rest of the crew and the company poled doggedly on, and most days the silence was broken only by the plop of the water and the odd cry of wild fowl. It grew warmer, and the mosquitoes that shimmered over the water began to plague them incessantly. They lit smoky fires at night to keep them at bay, but were soon itching with bites.
After nine days, they sighted Talisker through the haze. The river curved in wide sweeps through the flat of the Vale, with hedged fields surrounding it, and in the middle of one great meander there was a steep-sided hill on which the city was built. It was like a mountain of walls and houses and streets rising out of the Vale with the river curling round its feet, lapping at the high walls. The light glinted off a white tower at the very summit of the hill, and Riven caught the glitter of metal on the battlements as a helmet or spear blade caught the sun. In the river around the walls were crowds of boats filled with a multitude. Their noise could be heard even at this distance, and a hint of the smell drifted down the wind.
‘And here we are,’ said Finnan. All his gaiety was gone now. ‘That is the river market you see before you in the water. On those boats you can buy anything from a loaf to a life. I have kept my half of the bargain, though I never guessed how costly it would be for me. Beyond the river market is the Rivergate. We shall pass through there to the city docks.’ For a moment his eyes turned away from the city to the sleeping form of Madra. ‘What will you be doing for her?’
‘We must find a leech,’ Bicker replied. ‘In that great city it should not be hard.’
‘I know one,’ said Finnan. ‘I will take you.’
After a while they were poling through crowds of anchored boats that teemed with people. The craft were tied together, and there were mazes of decks and gangways. It was almost like a second, floating city in the shadow of Talisker itself. Hundreds of voices were crying out their wares. There were drunken brawls that rolled from one vessel to another and ended with a splash in the cloudy river, and there were glimpses of painted female faces, bodies barely concealed by thin silk shafts. Invitations and threats, bargaining and cursing filled the air, coming from the mouths of men, women and ragged children and mingling with the sound of dogs barking, chickens fussing, mules braying. The surface of the water was littered with scraps of cloth, pieces of rotten fruit, mouldy vegetables and human detritus, and the air was as crowded, with the smell of excrement, rotting meat, unwashed bodies and a thin sting of strong spice. To try and take it in was like drinking too strong a wine. Riven turned his attention to Madra, and brushed the flies away from her face.
Somehow Finnan made sense of the tangled labyrinth, and brought them through the lanes and alleys of boats until they could see looming ahead of them the solid sunwashed stone of the city wall. It reared high above their heads and made the river market into a town of ants, the meaningless scurryings of insects. A great dark arch appeared, and then they passed into shadow, with the sounds of water glooping as echoes in the high tunnel and the light playing along the sides like silk in the wind. The splashes of their poles bounced round them, and when they spoke their voices bounced with them. Rats criss-crossed the water like caterpillars, their tiny screes a mocking reminder of grypesh.
Then the sun burned on the water ahead and they were dazzled by the sudden brightness. They came out into a wide waterway that ended in docks. The buildings of the city arced up steeply on all sides, covering the docks in shadow. There were large boats there that could have been called ships; they were webbed with a confusion of lines and ropes, and had the spider figures of men clinging to them. Cargoes were offloaded on to the stone docks, and again they caught the sharp pungency of unknown spices. Hoarse cries busied the air, and Riven heard the gulls screaming as they fought for odd fish on the quay and whirled round the masts of the ships, speckling the docks with guano.
Finnan knew the harbour master well, and found a berth for the flatboat. The company helped make her fast, and then gathered what was left of their things together. Luib carried Madra off the boat, and stood with her in his arms as they completed the formalities of berthing. Two of the crew stayed to oversee the unloading of the meagre cargo, and the rest were paid by Finnan with the same silver knuckles that Bicker had purchased the company’s passage with. Then the sailors dispersed, shouting bawdy welcomes to others they knew who were busy at the bigger ships. Finnan led the company through the curious stares of many to the end of the docks, and the steep climb up the hill to the city proper. The streets were narrow, dirty and cobbled, and the gutters were clogged with all forms of evil-smelling filth. Pails were emptied from upper windows, making their way hazardous. More than once, they saw a passerby, soaking wet, shout threats and curses at an open window. The city was a vast maze of narrow alleys pocked with ale houses and middens, shops and smithies, brothels and moneylenders. Armed men stood in groups at many of the st
reet corners. They would start to jeer at the company, but stopped when they saw the Hearthware sashes and the Myrcan staves and whispered amongst themselves.
‘Sellswords,’ Finnan said ominously. ‘They have been hired in droves to police the lower city.’
They climbed ever more steeply, and the streets broadened, became cleaner. Stone began to replace the wood of the lower city, and there were fewer ambushes from above. They encountered taverns with painted signs hanging outside, and shops with their wares displayed in the windows. The people were better dressed, but just as curious. At last, Finnan stopped before a high stone house that had as its sign a serpent twisted round a staff.
He glanced at Madra, but she was asleep. Riven fidgeted and glowered beside Luib as the Myrcan cradled her. The river pilot turned to Bicker.
‘We are here. Phrynius is a friend of mine.’ He laid an odd emphasis on the word. ‘Some folk in the city see him in a different light. It is said he is one of the Hidden Folk—a wizard of sorts—and as such he is not always popular. I stopped his neighbours burning his house once, and for that he owes me. I know not what you people think of his kind, but he has never harmed a soul that I know of. You have my word he will do his best to help the maid here.’
‘Not all people shun the Hidden Folk,’ Bicker told him quietly. ‘I see no reason to doubt you, or your friend.’
Finnan nodded and smiled, then he hammered on the door with his fist. ‘Open up, father greybeard. It is I, the river pirate, come to say hello!’
There was a long pause, then finally a rattle of bolts, and the door opened a fraction; in the crack appeared one bright black eye. The door was opened fully, and they saw a little dark man with a pointed grey beard and eyes like black pebbles. He beamed broadly at Finnan’s grinning face, showing pink, empty gums.
‘My dear boy, how good to see you! Come on in!’ Then he seemed to squint and. see the others standing there. ‘Company? Finnan, has there been trouble?’
‘That could be said.’ The pilot sighed. ‘Your help is needed, your way with hurts. We have a patient.’
The little man stood back. ‘My task in life. Come in, and bring your friends with you.’
They trooped inside and followed Phrynius down a shabby hall, then through another door to a larger room where the shutters were pulled down against the sun and which smelled slightly of ammonia and sulphur. There was a fire burning in a brazier, shelves of dusty books and a large table littered with papers, vials, bottles and jars. A threadbare rug covered the stone of the floor, and a human skull grinned to itself in the corner. Riven half-expected to see a crocodile hanging from the ceiling, but instead there were bulbs of garlic and bunches of other herbs which he could not identify. Their tang permeated the room along with the chemical smells, making him blink. He stared at the rows of glass jars below the books on the walls—and saw an eye staring back at him from one of them, and what could have been a human foetus in another.
Luib had laid Madra down on a faded red couch. She was awake now, and looking about her in bewilderment. Riven sat beside her and took her hand whilst Finnan introduced the company and told Phrynius something of what had befallen them.
The old man shook his head. ‘What times! What times are upon us!’ He shuffled across to where Madra lay and shooed Riven out of the way. Then he took his place and touched here and there with his thin, liver-spotted hands. She flinched, but made no sound. The old man spoke to them without looking round, and with surprising authority in his voice.
‘Finnan, heat some water and rip some bindings in the kitchen. The rest of you must leave; no good in crowds. The poor girl doesn’t want you staring at her. Get out. Have a drink, polish your swords. Go!’
They left, somewhat sheepishly, and followed Finnan into a tiny, grubby kitchen where he was setting a water-filled pot over the fire.
‘He’s a funny old goat,’ the pilot said, ‘but he has more goodness in him than the rest of the city put together. She’s in excellent hands.’
‘All right,’ Bicker said. ‘I believe you. So we wait.’ He glanced about him. The company were crammed into the kitchen like a limpet in its shell. He laughed suddenly. ‘But not here. There’s not enough room to scratch our heads.’
‘Beer,’ said Ratagan suddenly. ‘Beer! By all that’s holy, I’d almost forgotten we were in a place where they sell beer. Our problem is solved. We’ll go and wet our throats.’
‘There is an inn, the Blackbird, just down the street,’ Finnan put in. ‘It has good ale, and the landlord has never cheated me yet.’
‘Then we are off,’ said Bicker.
‘I will stay,’ Luib said quietly.
The others trooped out of the healer’s house on to the sunlit street, glad to breathe fresh air and to feel the breeze on their faces. They almost ran down the road, drawing looks from the passersby. But they did not care. They were glad to be free of the flatboat and the smell of death that had been with them ever since the battle. Even Riven laughed with the rest as they piled into the inn Finnan had told them of, and Ratagan wished the landlord good day in a roar that made the poor man cower. Soon they were kicking the bar with their toes, their noses buried in cold beer. Only Corrary was still subdued, remembering his brother lying in a makeshift grave far from his home Rorim. He had given Darmid’s sword to Riven, to replace the one lost.
When the first beer had gone, they ordered another, and turned to survey the inn. It was quiet, but perhaps that was because their entrance had been so noisy. A scattered crowd of locals was eyeing them in silence. The landlord cleaned a tankard with nervous twists of his hand.
Ratagan belched, raised his mug to the other customers, then turned to lean on the bar again. Isay was the only one not drinking. He stood beside Riven, fingering his staff thoughtfully.
‘So here we are,’ Ratagan said, ‘in Talisker, biggest city of the north, and the last before the mountains. What now, Bicker?’
The dark man sipped his beer, then rubbed his finger in the condensation dripping on the outside of the metal mug. ‘The hardest part of the journey lies before us.’
‘The mountains,’ Riven murmured.
‘And no horses,’ said Corrary.
‘That is no great thing. They would not get us far in the heights of the Greshorns anyway,’ said Bicker.
‘How far?’ Riven asked.
‘To the Staer, perhaps three weeks if the weather is kind. That is what it took me in the spring of last year, at any rate. It is a roundabout route we have to take to the mountain, avoiding the horseshoe of high peaks that arc out from it. If we leave the city by the north gate, we will travel through the fief of Armishir before coming to the foothills of the mountains themselves. Quirinus is lord there, and he knows me, for it is with he and his Myrcans that I took up service over a year ago. We can find help there...’ He frowned. ‘Though no doubt Quirinus would be more than slightly curious as to our errand in the Greshorns. He has a mind like a blade, does the Lord of Armishir.’
Familiar names were going through Riven’s mind as he tried to tie in what was real in this Minginish and what was in his stories. Quirinus—the name rang in his head, and he remembered red wine and rich robes, a bald head and eyes like rain-scoured granite. A laugh with an edge in it. Quirinus.
‘There are many Myrcans up here, around Talisker,’ he said, making it half a statement and half a question.
Bicker looked at him in surprise, and then nodded. ‘Talisker is not so far from Merkadale, and it is the largest population centre in Minginish. There are fifty of the Soldier-folk here in the city itself, under Odhar, and twice as many more in the surrounding fiefs. And Talisker boasts at least five hundred Hearthwares.’
‘They have a job before them, in a place this size,’ Corrary remarked, but he sounded impressed nonetheless. Riven saw him touch his sash unconsciously. The Hearthware was dressed in a plain hide jerkin; most of their armour had been lost in the flight north and was at the bottom of the river by now. There,
or rusting around the bones of the dead. The company had the appearance of hunted refugees, travel-stained and weary. Only the faded sashes they wore, and the weapons they carried, marked them as anything but ordinary folk fleeing the marauders. Those, and Myrcans in their midst.
‘Who rules here?’ Corrary asked. ‘I know nothing of this part of the world, except for the tales sometimes told in the hall about the mountains.’
Bicker gulped at his beer. ‘Duke Godomar is head of the city council, and in theory has the last word when it comes to governing Talisker. But the council is made up of powerful men—Saffarac, Valentir and others. They head the guilds within the city itself, and control its trade. The Duke must compromise with them in order to keep his own authority. In the end, though, his Myrcans and Hearthwares are more than enough to overawe the retainers of the city lords, so there is a truce of sorts.’
‘A fine-balanced arrangement, if I’m not mistaken,’ Ratagan said absently, and downed more of his beer.
Conversation had started up among the customers in the tavern again, although two had left while the company had been talking amongst themselves. The landlord was still looking a little ill-at-ease, however, and he flinched when Ratagan banged his tankard down on the bar with a grin and demanded a refill.
‘You’re jumpy, my friend,’ the big man told him. ‘Why so nervous? We’re not brigands—merely men who appreciate a fine ale when it hits our throats.’
The landlord filled up the tankard from a keg below the bar. As he straightened, something like resolution crept into his florid face.
‘You’re Sellswords, are you not, sir? You’ve come here to take up with Sergius?’
Ratagan’s face clouded, but Bicker laid a hand on his arm.
‘When did you last see a Myrcan Sellsword?’ he asked lightly, nodding towards a frowning Isay.
