Arash-Felloren

by Roger Taylor

  He changed direction abruptly and careened into a narrow alley. It was a dangerous thing to do, as he could be trapping himself there, where his manoeuvrability would be of little avail, but he needed a moment to force himself to stop and gather his scattered senses. As it was, it took him twenty paces before he could slow down to a walk, and a further twenty before he really began to take command of his thoughts – and stop his head from twitching. Belatedly checking that the alley was empty, he pulled off his jacket, turned it inside out and put it on again. A dirty yellow kerchief was dragged out of a pocket, wiped across his perspiring face then wrapped about his neck. Then his trousers were tugged out of his boots and, finally, his unkempt hair was swept into some semblance of tidiness. It was thus a markedly different Pinnatte who emerged from the other end of the alley and, with studied casualness, sauntered into the busy traffic.

  It was as well he stopped his reckless career when he did, he realized. Even here he could feel a tension in the passers-by. Somewhere that screeching Kyrosdyn and his guard might still be looking for him – making more din than a mother looking for a lost child! He’d like to choke the creature on his damned crystals! He’d got them back, hadn’t he?

  Then, as if unleashed by this near-disaster, for the first time ever he wondered why the Kyrosdyn were the way they were. The crystals were valuable, some much more than others, with their many tints and hues, and valuable things made some people very strange. But why should the Kyrosdyn – to a man – have such fanatical regard for them?

  It was rumoured that in the Vaskyros they had a great hoard, even of the most precious of all – those with that faint and subtle green glow at their heart. He had seen few worthwhile crystals in his life, and he had never seen one of those – very few had. Occasionally, in some drinking hole frequented by his own kind, boastful tales would emerge of green crystals won and lost, but such stories were usually worth no more than the ale that was creating them. Only once had he felt himself on the edge of the truth when, in the middle of such a yarn, an old man, sullenly silent until then, had suddenly snarled out a drunken oath and accused the teller of being a fool and a liar. By way of emphasis, he slapped his hand down on the table, palm upwards. It was withered and dead and the fingers were curled into a painful grasp.

  ‘That’s green crystals for you, lad,’ he said. ‘That, and nightmares for the rest of your life.’ He tapped his head and sneered. ‘You’ve seen nothing. Still less touched.’

  The outburst had won him only a measure of his length in the street, yet Pinnatte had never forgotten the despair and pain that had shone briefly through the old man’s bleary eyes. The memory returned to him whenever green crystals were spoken of. It was with him now. And in a way he could not define, it chimed with the cry that The Kyrosdyn had uttered when his purse was snatched – there had been a fearful despair in it.

  He shook his head to dispel these thoughts. This was no time to be daydreaming. He must pay attention to what was happening about him. Was he still being sought? Had his flight and the pursuit been sufficient to let loose the Cry?

  He paused momentarily, ostensibly looking at the fruit on a stall but, in reality, listening, and debating his next move. The Street was noisy, but the tension he had sensed when he emerged from the alley was no longer there. The pursuit had either ended or gone off in another direction. He let out a long, silent breath. He’d been lucky there. Luckier than he deserved. He resolved to be more careful in future – it was the third time that month he had made such a resolution. Even as he was reaffirming this oath however, he saw his hand about to slip an apple into his pocket. With an effort he stopped it and conspicuously replaced the apple on the stall. He’d have to steal something else to eat, later.

  ‘Don’t maul ‘em if you’re not buying,’ the stall-holder barked by way of acknowledgement. Pinnatte bit back a retort, but could not avoid curling his lip at the man as he rejoined the crowd.

  Still a little unnerved by his escape, he wandered aimlessly for some time. Although he was calmer now, scenes kept playing themselves through his head, showing him talking his way out of the clutches of the Kyrosdyn and his bodyguard with ingenious and quite convincing excuses, or somehow dashing them both aside and escaping with the purse to become the most famous of Arash-Felloren’s thieves. In the wake of these came endless, wilder variations and, even though he tried to dismiss them as so much foolishness, Pinnatte could not help himself but rehearse each to a nicety.

  Gradually, more prosaic needs began to impose themselves. The combination of terror and his frantic run through the afternoon’s heat had made him thirsty – very thirsty. And, too, he would have to find something for his Den Master, Lassner, if he was to eat properly tonight. He dismissed this last concern for the moment. Unlike his fantasy about the Kyrosdyn, if the worst came to the worst he could talk his way around Lassner for at least one night’s credit. Far more pressing now was his thirst.

  He came to where several streets met, or rather collided, to form a wide and ragged square. Arash-Felloren was replete with charters, statutes, laws, by-laws, and all manner of rules and regulations dealing with the movement of goods and people, the conducting of business, marrying, burying, begging, borrowing, stealing, and every form of social and commercial intercourse in which waywardness of some kind had occurred since anyone had bothered to record such matters. Sadly, while they were both extensive and comprehensive, they were also, for the most part, either incomprehensible or mutually contradictory. They had one thing in common, however. They were almost universally ignored. True, there were several large areas of the city where order and prosperity prevailed, but the greater part of it was subject only to one law – the oldest of laws – survival.

  The square that Pinnatte now entered was a frenzy of confusion and disorder as faltering skeins of wagons, riders and walkers struggled to cross it, weaving around and through a random sprawl of stalls and tents and gaudy handcarts at its centre. The dust-filled air was thick with oaths and clamour as travellers and shifty-eyed traders each vied for attention.

  Pinnatte entered the fray. The jostling and buffeting in a place like this made it ideal for snatching purses and picking pockets, especially working with a team of like-minded souls, but, apart from his thirst, his luck having turned so sour today, he was in no mood for it. A good yarn about today’s events should serve to keep Lassner satisfied tonight, he decided. The old man was a realist, he’d do nothing impetuous because of one night’s rent. Pinnatte took a perverse pride in his integrity as a thief… amongst his own kind, his word was good and he settled his debts promptly – he was a model Den-Mate.

  Towards the middle of the square, where the traders outnumbered the travellers, was a raised fountain – a remnant of the time when the square had been more prosperous. The carved figures that formed it had long been mutilated – fine features rendered pugilistic by the breaking of noses and ears, stout stone shields and swords shattered and split, then weathered and decayed. But the water had always flowed. With its source far from the city, it was too good to be hazarded by the reckless damaging of its supply and outlet conduits, and a general awareness of its value by the locals had always protected it from complete destruction.

  Pinnatte reached it with some relief. There were two or three groups of people, mainly men, lounging on the steps that led up to the fountain’s basin. He stepped through them with a studied combination of assuredness and inoffensiveness that he had cultivated over the years, meeting gazes clearly where unavoidable, though without challenge.

  At the top of the steps, he leaned over the low parapet to catch a handful of water tumbling from one of several spouts. As ever, it was as cold as the mountains it came from, quite unaffected by the weeks of humid heat that had been pervading the city. He drank noisily, relishing the chill that marked out a route inside him. When he was sated, he scooped both hands deep into the basin and splashed his face luxuriously. The strains of the day faded almost immediately. He began to prac
tice his tale for Lassner. It would be a good one and, if he told it well, he might get more than one night rent-free. There could even be extra food – Lassner liked a good tale.

  As the thought came to him, a powerful grip closed around his neck and plunged his head under the water.

  Chapter 3

  The same powerful grip that had thrust Pinnatte’s head beneath the water eventually withdrew it, but he was retching and struggling frantically for some time before he realized that it was air entering his lungs and not freezing water. For a moment he hung limply, then he made a desperate attempt to free himself. It was to no avail however, for though he was much stronger than his wiry frame indicated, the grip was unyielding and merely tightened painfully until he became still again.

  Then the sound of laughter penetrated the booming in his ears and a vague shape formed through his blurred vision. Reaching up cautiously, for fear of antagonizing his captor, he wiped the water from his face until the shape became clearer.

  It was the Kyrosdyn.

  A chill filled Pinnatte that was far colder than the water he had just been immersed in and he began struggling again. The grip on his neck tightened mercilessly, making him cry out this time, and a stinging blow struck him across the face.

  Ironically, the blow cleared his mind and once again he became very still. The grip eased slightly. Pinnatte glanced around rapidly to assess his predicament. He saw that the laughter was coming from a gathering crowd and that the Kyrosdyn’s hand was raised to strike him again.

  The crowd offered him a glimmer of hope. It was unlikely that they would intervene if he was about to receive a beating. He himself had stood by and watched while others had been beaten, even killed – interfering in such matters was rarely wise. But the Kyrosdyn were loved by no one and, with luck, the crowd might perhaps be swayed to his side.

  If he got the opportunity to speak.

  But whatever else happened, he must stay here, in public view. He was lost if the Kyrosdyn managed to take him to the Vaskyros.

  ‘What did you do that for?’ he spluttered, mustering all the injured innocence he could find.

  The Kyrosdyn paused, tilted his head on one side, then brought his face close to Pinnatte’s. ‘I think you know,’ he said softly. Pinnatte’s insides tightened. It was as though the man’s gaze was burning through him. He wanted desperately to look away, but the grip on his neck prevented him from moving and all he could do was screw up his eyes.

  ‘No, I don’t,’ he managed to protest.

  The Kyrosdyn moved a finger in front of his unblinking eyes. The strange gesture was made slowly and with a deliberateness that frightened Pinnatte far more than any angry fist-clenching could have done. He could do no other than focus on the man’s hand, turning the staring eyes into a glinting blur in the background. As if in some way he might hide from what was happening, he found himself noting that the hand was long and delicate – like a woman’s, almost – and it was clean. Very clean. However the Kyrosdyn practised their craft, it involved nothing that would coarsen and harden the hands.

  ‘Look at me,’ came the command. Pinnatte could not disobey and, once again, he was staring into the Kyrosdyn’s eyes. The soft, high-pitched voice continued. ‘We who study the crystals have a vision which you could not begin to imagine. We look into the very heart of all things.’ The voice dropped almost to a whisper. ‘Even into the worlds between and beyond. So when you sought to steal from us, your every line and shadow was etched into our mind on the instant. Your flight was a mere irritation – one which will worsen your punishment. It is not possible to hide from us – the echo of your stunted, shrivelled soul shone in the air itself. Nor is it possible to avoid the consequences that your desecration has set in train.’

  The last three words were pronounced with great deliberation and each was accompanied by a slap across the face. Once again the blows served only to bring Pinnatte’s mind into sharp focus. Though the Brotherhood of the Kyrosdyn never seemed to vie for power over the city themselves, their influence was avidly sought by those factions that did, for it was a commonplace that they possessed dark and mysterious powers and whoever could win them to their side would prosper. The malign influence they had in the endless political manoeuvring that plagued the city had little or no effect on the lives of such as Pinnatte, and he affected to hold it in disdain. Yet he was well aware of its potency. Thus, suddenly finding himself confronted by one of these sinister manipulators, his reaction was coloured by the superstitious fear that street gossip had imbued in him. And each word the man spoke brought this fear closer and closer to the surface, until it threatened to unman him. Now, however, the blows to his face somehow reduced the Kyrosdyn. Now he was just another street bully. For an instant, Pinnatte experienced two opposing emotions – a sudden elation mingled with an unexpected and indefinable sense of loss. But he was freer now.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he replied angrily. ‘Are you touched in the head, or something? Half-drowning a man for just having a quiet drink. And let go of me, will you.’ He swung a fist vaguely backwards but it bounced impotently off a solid, muscular frame. He appealed to the crowd. ‘Get him off me,’ he shouted, catching the eyes of as many people as he could. ‘He’s a lunatic. I’ve never seen him before and I certainly haven’t stolen anything from him.’

  The Kyrosdyn struck him again. Pinnatte reached up with both hands and managed to seize the wrist of his captor. Then, supporting himself on the extended arm, he kicked wildly with both feet at the Kyrosdyn. The man holding him tottered forward under this unexpected burden and Pinnatte used the movement to bounce his feet off the ground and kick again. None of the kicks found a target, but the Kyrosdyn was obliged to jump back hastily and the whole escapade was greeted by the crowd with a cheer. The second attack further disturbed the balance of the guard and Pinnatte tightened his awkward grip on the man’s wrist, and began to struggle desperately. Abruptly he was on his knees and the man was tumbling over. Then the grip vanished and Pinnatte stood up.

  Quite unaware of how he had achieved this, he turned round to see the Kyrosdyn’s guard staggering down the steps of the fountain, his arms flailing to catch his balance. He was fully as large as Pinnatte remembered and now his face was alight with rage. Pinnatte reflected briefly that humiliating some ox of a mercenary in front of his employer was almost as bad as trying to rob the Kyrosdyn in the first place, but he did not dwell on the comparison. With the instinct of a fleeing animal and the cunning of a life-long street thief, he glanced round and, where others might have seen an impenetrable crowd, he saw a score of openings through which he could make an escape. He selected one that lay in the opposite direction to the Kyrosdyn and, scarcely hesitating, made for it.

  ‘No!’

  The Kyrosdyn’s voice, penetrating and shrill, seemed to Pinnatte to wrap itself around him like the claws of innumerable tiny creatures and, abruptly, his legs stopped moving. The superstitious fear of the Kyrosdyn that had only just left him returned in full force and burst openly into his mind as he tried to continue his flight, only to find that his legs would not respond. Several hands caught him as he tumbled forward.

  ‘He’s done something to my legs,’ he heard himself saying in an echoing distance. ‘I can’t move them.’

  ‘Bring him here,’ the Kyrosdyn’s voice raked through him again.

  There was doubt in the supporting hands, some holding him protectively, others pushing him away anxiously, as though he were suddenly contaminated.

  ‘Bring him here!’ The command was repeated.

  Part of Pinnatte was telling him that he should be trying to sway the crowd to his side, but it could make no headway against the torrent of fears breaking over him at the loss of the use of his legs.

  Someone turned him round to face the Kyrosdyn. The man was standing with his hand extended towards him, the centre, Pinnatte thought, of a strange disturbance. For an instant he thought he saw something green and baleful flicke
ring on the man’s hand, but he blinked, and it was gone. He screwed up his eyes but the disturbance did not change. It was as though the air about the Kyrosdyn were dancing and twisting, and too, as though he was somehow standing by the fountain and, at the same time, somewhere else. Pinnatte felt a cold awfulness possess him at the sight, and movement leaving his limbs with each bursting heartbeat. He could do nothing. He was nothing. He was prey held captive by the gaze of a predator. All that remained now was a timeless time before he was no more.

  But even as the thought formed, a faint cry of denial began to make itself heard through Pinnatte’s terror. This was not his time. He would not fall to this miserable creature, who squealed like a pig just because his purse was snatched, and who needed a guard just to walk the streets. From somewhere, he found a voice. ‘Help me,’ he said faintly, forcing himself to look round at the crowd. ‘He’s doing something to me. He’s killing me.’

  The disturbance about the Kyrosdyn faltered a little and Pinnatte felt the bonds about him easing in response. And his sense of the mood of the crowd began to return. It held hope. Where before there had merely been excited curiosity, now, mingling with it, was concern and alarm – and anger.

  Pinnatte saw the guard move to his master’s side as if in confirmation. The Kyrosdyn inclined his head as the man whispered something.