by Roger Taylor
Then, almost childishly, he slid perilously down the roof on to the top of the dormer, leaned over and, seizing the edge of the window, swung slowly out over the street, taking his weight on his arms until his feet gently touched the sill. As he usually did, he paused for a moment and peered straight down defiantly into the tapering perspective of the building to the crooked pavement below. Then he was inside again, the attic of the Den closing about him familiarly, at once sheltering and oppressive.
A little later, he was eating and listening to the noisy chatter of his Den-Mates and Lassner’s regular harangue about the failings of modern Guild members in comparison with their predecessors. He found that he had to struggle to prevent old routines from brushing his new ambitions aside and, from time to time, he glanced down at the mark on his hand. The sight of it brought only a hint of fear now. It was as if the Kyrosdyn had written a subtle sign for him that would keep him reminded of this violent day, and of Imorren and her relentless will, for ever.
After he had eaten, he set off for the nearest of the fighting pits. He strode out as if the simple act of walking would carry him to his new future. Hitherto, his visits to the pits, perhaps everything he had ever done, had been without any truly clear purpose. But no longer. Now he was going to watch and learn as never before.
Now he would look continually for anything that would lead him to that place that was his.
As he marched through the ill-lit streets, a figure, drifting from shadow to shadow, moved silently after him.
Chapter 9
The road from The Wyndering to the city was a well-trodden one, and Atlon and Rinter were soon part of a steady stream of travellers. There were as many travelling away from the city as towards it.
Atlon looked about him constantly, taking in such as he could of the busy scene. He would have questioned Rinter about many of their fellow travellers, but his new found guide sat his horse with a preoccupied air that did not invite interrogation. Their silent progress puzzled Atlon somewhat. Rinter had, after all, shown an enthusiastic interest in Dvolci, conceding even that he had never seen a felci before, yet now he asked nothing about him. Nor did he ask about Atlon’s homeland or the nature of his journey. In similar circumstances, Atlon was sure that he would not have been so restrained.
Rinter’s silence, in fact, had two causes. Firstly, he had little interest in where Atlon had come from. In common with most of the citizens of Arash-Felloren, he knew that while a world existed beyond the city, it was an inadequate and inferior place, and held nothing that could not be found in excess in the city itself. Secondly, in answer to Atlon’s unspoken question, he was indeed thinking very hard about Dvolci, though solely with a view to luring Atlon into placing the felci in the pits. He had been quite truthful when he claimed to be a good judge of fighting animals, and Dvolci’s demonstration with Ghreel’s dog had impressed him greatly. Furthermore, an unusual creature like that should prove to be a considerable attraction. Not many chances such as this came a man’s way, and he mustn’t let it slip away. He had been less truthful about his contacts and organizing ability.
Atlon unsettled him. It didn’t help that the man kept the damned animal as a pet, of all things, but there was more to it than that. The horse he rode, for example, was splendid – well muscled, well proportioned and with a look in its eye that Rinter could scarcely meet. It occurred to him that it might have been some kind of a war-horse – a cavalry mount, perhaps? But how would someone like Atlon come by such an animal? He didn’t look like a soldier, and he certainly didn’t behave like one. Then, for a moment, Rinter found himself teetering on the edge of panic. Was he the one who was being lured here? Was Atlon’s seeming naivety merely a device to instil confidence? He had a brief vision of some mercenary, once sure and alert, lying dead in the mountains, treacherously murdered while he slept. He cleared his throat and cast a side-long glance at his companion. Nothing Atlon had said or done had given any indication that he was anything other than what he claimed to be – a teacher looking for funds to continue his journey. But that meant nothing. Rinter knew enough violent characters to be aware that smiles and affability were not always what they seemed. What was he getting himself into, meddling with this stranger? Should he just slip into the crowd and leave him while he could?
But to lose the chance of getting that felci in the pits…
Easing his horse back a little, he studied Atlon carefully. Senses heightened by his instinct for self-preservation, he noticed almost immediately that Atlon sat his horse as though he were part of it, so much so that the horse was responding to signals that Rinter could not even see. Neither Atlon nor the horse were disturbed by the increasing clamour of the traffic as they drew nearer to the city. No, Rinter decided with some relief, this was no stolen animal. Wherever Atlon had come from, he had been riding all his life and he had been with that horse for a long time. His initial assessment of the man had been correct. He may or may not be a teacher, but he was harmless. The image of the murdered mercenary faded and Rinter urged his horse forward again.
Thus far, Dvolci had remained on Atlon’s shoulder, also looking about himself curiously, although occasionally he would disappear into Atlon’s back-pack and reappear, chewing.
‘If it wasn’t for all these hills, this would be like one of the roads to the Great Mart,’ he said softly into Atlon’s ear.
The reference to his homeland gave Atlon a momentary spasm of homesickness. He looked around. ‘Not really,’ he said, a little more harshly than he had intended. ‘The horses are a poor lot on the whole, ill-tended and ill-controlled. And there’s little or no semblance of line discipline on the part of riders round here.’ He shot an angry glance at a large, heavily laden cart as it swayed past him very closely, obliging his horse to step sideways. ‘This road’s in an appalling state, too.’ He slapped his hand on his sleeve, sending a cloud of dust billowing into the sunlight. ‘Why in the world it’s not paved, with this amount of traffic using it, I can’t imagine. I suppose people round here must like choking on dust in the summer and sinking in mud in the winter.’
‘What?’
Rinter’s voice made Atlon start. Dvolci chuckled and jumped down from the horse. As he ran off, a dog on a nearby wagon barked furiously after him, provoking a stream of abuse from its owner.
‘I’m sorry,’ Atlon said. ‘With travelling so much alone, I’m afraid I’m in the habit of talking to myself.’
But Rinter was not interested. The sight of Dvolci’s brown sinuous body scurrying into nearby rocks shattered the vision of a lucrative future that he had already invested in the animal.
‘It’s running away,’ he cried out in alarm, standing in his stirrups and pointing frantically. His horse protested, making him drop heavily back into the saddle.
Atlon smiled. ‘He’ll be back when he’s had a good look round,’ he said reassuringly. ‘It’s just that he’s not too keen on crowds.’
Rinter massaged his behind. ‘He’s not going to like the city, then,’ he said, affecting a heartiness he did not feel.
Atlon laughed. ‘He’ll be all right. He mightn’t like crowds, but he’s been in busier places than this, and he’s extremely curious.’
‘You seem very easy about it.’
‘Felcis are intelligent and resourceful – Dvolci more than most. And he knows I need him more than he needs me.’
You’ve been far too long on your own, Rinter thought, though he managed to keep it from his face.
Atlon turned his attention to the people around him again. Despite his slightly irritable response, Dvolci’s remark had been accurate; apart from clothes and accents, the crowd in essence was little different from that which could be seen any day travelling to and from the great market in his homeland. With the exception that is, of the number of wagons and riders that were being escorted by groups of armed men. It took no soldier’s eye to see that these men were not formal escorts for the purposes of decoration or for declaiming their master’s st
atus, but men ready and used to action, albeit only street-fighting in many cases. He asked Rinter about them.
Rinter seemed surprised. ‘No disrespect, but you must come from a very sheltered place,’ he said. ‘They’re just for protection, that’s all. None of the bigger merchants will risk sending goods across the Thlosgaral without one.’
‘There are a great many robbers there, then?’
Rinter gave a strange laugh and shook his head as he replied. ‘Yes and no.’ He looked around then nodded discreetly towards a rider being escorted by four men on foot. ‘Those men, for instance, belong to Barran. They’re there to protect that merchant, as I said.’ He lowered his voice conspiratorially and gave Atlon a knowing wink. ‘But the person who controls most of the robbers in the Thlosgaral is Barran himself.’
Atlon frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’
Rinter’s expression became that of a man faced with the need to climb a large hill. The last remnants of his concern about Atlon as a secret assassin faded utterly. ‘The merchant has a choice. He can try to cross alone, in which case he risks being robbed. Or he can employ some of Barran’s men and be substantially guaranteed a safe passage.’
‘Against… Barran’s robbers,’ Atlon said slowly, his frown deepening. Rinter nodded then waited for Atlon to grasp what he was being told. In a moment there would doubtless be an indignant outburst from this naive newcomer.
It did not come, however. Instead, Atlon grimaced and blew out a long breath. ‘There’s much wrong with this city of yours, I fear,’ he said quietly, as though to himself.
Rinter felt suddenly indignant. Who was this man, this teacher, to criticize his city – the finest city in the world? He was about to give voice to his outrage when he remembered why he was here. The prospect of the felci as a source of income intervened to soften his response, though his tone was still heavily sarcastic when he spoke. ‘You have no robbers in your land, I suppose. That’s why you wear a sword.’
Atlon paused before he replied. ‘My remark was out of place,’ he said quietly. ‘I apologize. Yes, sadly we do have robbers – and worse than yours by far. The darkness in each of us emerges in any community.’ His eyes became distant. ‘No matter from how far or how near you look, there’s always darkness and light mingled. Always.’ He laid a hand on the hilt of his sword. ‘And you’re correct, we do go armed – a duty and a tradition. Each of us must be prepared to defend his neighbour as well as himself, mustn’t he?’ He slapped the hilt and smiled. ‘Be prepared to bring a little light into matters if necessary.’ He made a mock sword thrust with his hand.
Rinter returned the smile involuntarily, even though he was not sure he understood what Atlon was talking about. Suddenly, and uncharacteristically, he wanted to know more about this newcomer. What kind of land was it he came from? What had brought him so far from home? Where did he get that horse from, and where had he learned to ride like that? And, not least, what did ‘and worse by far’ mean?
His curiosity did not last long however, as his dominant concern returned in full force. They were drawing ever nearer to the city and he had still not thought of a strategy that would put Dvolci in the pits – if the damned animal hadn’t got itself lost! He could improvise as circumstances allowed, if necessary, but he preferred not to do that. Things could go wrong even when you had a plan, but without one…
He would have to force the issue.
‘How much money have you got?’ he asked bluntly. The words were no sooner uttered than he was wishing them back, but Atlon did not appear to be offended.
‘Enough for a few days at The Wyndering,’ he replied.
Rinter decided not to overreach himself by asking how many were a few, but in the absence of any better inspiration, pressed on with his direct approach. He nodded significantly. ‘You really should give some serious thought to putting the felci into the pits.’ Despite himself, he glanced anxiously around to see if Dvolci was anywhere in sight. ‘Even with a few minor fights, you’ll make at least enough money to give yourself a month at The Wyndering.’ This was not true, but he embellished it anyway. ‘And have some left to carry you on your journey.’
Atlon used this abrupt return to Rinter’s main concern to reiterate his own. ‘I’ll have a look at them,’ he conceded, anxious not to alienate his guide with too resolute a refusal. ‘But I think I’d rather be looking for a more conventional way of earning something. There must be schools, places of learning, surely? Or families that want tutors?’
Rinter was beginning to feel helpless. He lied. ‘You’ll have to be in one of the Learned Guilds to get that kind of work, and you can only join those if you’ve been educated in the city.’
Atlon frowned. ‘I’ve never heard of anything like that before,’ he said.
‘You’ve never been to anywhere like Arash-Felloren before.’
As though falling back on a poor alternative, Atlon moved to his real interest. ‘Well, I’ve worked with crystals in the past – I’m quite good at it actually. Surely I wouldn’t need to be in a Guild to get a job in a crystal workshop, would I?’
Caught unawares by Atlon’s casualness, Rinter had shaken his head before he realized it. He resorted quickly to dark warnings. ‘You’ll not get paid much. The Kyrosdyn didn’t get rich by paying well. And they’re hard masters.’ His concern became genuine. ‘In any case, you don’t want to be near people like that. They’re very odd – dangerous even.’
Atlon refused to be cast down. ‘I’m sure you’re exaggerating,’ he said cheerily. ‘All the crystal workers I’ve known in the past have been welcoming once they see your interest is sincere. They tend to be preoccupied, I’ll admit, but it’s a delicate job and needs a lot of concentration.’ Seeing from Rinter’s gloomy expression that the warnings were about to be renewed, he offered a compromise. ‘Let’s have a look at your fighting pits, then you can show me where the crystal dealers trade and I’ll find out for myself.’ He looked at Rinter earnestly. ‘I’ll pay you what I can for your time, of course. You’ve been very patient and helpful.’
Rinter made a vague, half-accepting, half-rejecting shrug, accompanied by a grunt. This man kept catching him off-guard.
Atlon put his fingers to his mouth and whistled. After a moment, a brown shape appeared as if from nowhere, and nimbly threaded its way through the wheels and hooves grinding the dusty highway. Atlon casually dipped low out of his saddle, held out a hand, then swung back equally effortlessly as the felci clambered up his arm and on to his shoulders. There was a small burst of spontaneous applause and cheering from a group of men in a cart moving in the opposite direction, but Atlon did not even realize that it was for him. Rinter too, found that he could do no other than applaud the action.
‘You ride very well,’ he said. ‘Been doing it all your life, I’d say. Are you sure you’re a teacher and not a cavalryman?’
Atlon, uncertain what to do with a compliment, stammered, ‘Everyone rides in my country. It’s a… tradition.’ Adding weakly, ‘We like horses.’
Equally uncertain what to do now he had given a compliment, Rinter coughed awkwardly and turned his attention back to his problem. He felt much more relaxed now that Dvolci had returned. It seemed that the thing was well-trained, after all – that would doubtless be useful. And the way it had moved through those wagons and horses! It hadn’t faltered once. The road might as well have been empty. Every time he looked at the animal he felt its potential as a pit fighter more and more. But, he realized resignedly, he was going to have to direct events as they happened. Any more attempts to persuade Atlon and he might just turn away and pursue his own search for employment.
The two men rode on in silence.
* * * *
Atlon had not known what to expect of Arash-Felloren but, there being many hills on the journey, he had hoped that at one turn in the road he might find himself on a high vantage overlooking the city. That would have enabled him to compare it with the hyperbole that marked such descriptions as Rinter
had offered him, and hence give him a measure of the worth of the man’s words. But Arash-Felloren was built on, and surrounded by hills, and this, coupled with its sprawling size, ensured that no place existed anywhere, save the clouds, from which it could be viewed as a whole.
Thus it took Atlon a little time to realize that he had actually entered the city. They had passed through two small villages on the way and, on reaching another untidy cluster of buildings lining the road, Atlon had assumed that this was a third. After a few minutes however, it dawned on him that the traffic about them was becoming more confused and that they were encountering many more side roads than previously. Glancing along some of them, he saw houses and other buildings in far greater numbers than might be expected in a village.
‘We’re here?’ he asked tentatively.
Rinter pursed his lips. ‘Sort of,’ he replied dismissively. ‘This is just the outskirts really. There’s nothing much to see around here except houses.’
‘Nothing to see! The man’s blind,’ Dvolci whistled softly into Atlon’s ear. ‘Look at the buildings. They’re fascinating. All manner of styles. No two of them the same.’
Atlon nodded. ‘But the people, Dvolci. Look at them. There must be… one in ten of them who seems to be in need of some kind.’
Rinter’s angry voice intruded. He was cursing an old woman who was trying to make her way across the road. She was struggling under the weight of a large bundle clutched in her arms and she staggered as Rinter’s horse reared slightly.
‘Be careful!’ Atlon shouted, angry in his turn. He jumped down from his horse and ran across to the old woman.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked, taking her arm. She did not reply, but just looked at him with a mixture of alarm and bewilderment. ‘Can I help you with that?’ he tried again, indicating the bundle, but the only response she gave was to wrap her arms more tightly about her burden and edge away from him. Then, without a word, she turned and scurried away.