Of Weft and Weave (Dica Series Book 2)

by Clive S. Johnson

  It was as Pettar looked at him that Nephril began to clear his throat, patently about to speak, so Pettar quickly shushed him with a finger to his lips, just before Drainspoiler stopped and turned to them both. It seemed he’d missed the gesture, or was quick-witted enough not to show it. “We’re just ‘round t’corner from Three Tuns. I’ll tek thee in there and get thee settled afore I let Mudark know.”

  Before Pettar could thank him he’d already turned and forged ahead, leading them further into the artificial gloom cast by the wall now filling half their sky. It was impossible not to keep staring up at it, and so they tended to miss the sideways glances, the askance looks and dormant hostility thrown their way from the growing crowd.

  Like innocents straying into the lion’s den, they hurried after Drainspoiler’s shiny heels. The streets he led them through steadily began to draw their eyes from the pull of the wall. Civic elevations gave way to more mundane frontages; shops and forges, meagre eating houses and taverns, labour booths and more taverns, doss houses, clothes menders, cobblers, and yes, yet more taverns. In fact, it seemed the taverns quickly outnumbered everything else, especially as they came onto the broad street that formed hem to the colossal wall now looming over them.

  It was as though dusk had already fallen, although it was still only late afternoon. What had appeared to be just stones in a wall from afar were now, but yards from it, patently massive house-sized boulders of slate-grey granite. They were so cleanly and precisely laid that their joints would have thwarted the insertion of even the thinnest of papers, their edges glittering with the sheen of once molten rock.

  Pettar would have remained transfixed had Nephril not pulled at his sleeve. As Pettar absently turned to him, and followed his nod, he saw Drainspoiler step into the porch of a large tavern across the street, one that stared defiantly at the wall’s very feet. Drainspoiler briefly turned and looked after them, before vanishing through its doorway.

  There seemed nothing for it but to follow, yet Pettar was wary. When they reached the tavern’s door and were about to enter, it swung open and disgorged a throng of boozy men. As they spilled past Nephril and Pettar, their jocular faces quickly turned suspicious, the high banter dwindling to hushed comments, although they only pushed on by, leaving behind the stench of cheap ale.

  Pettar caught the door before it swung to, and pushed it open once more. Although the light in the street had been poor, it was poorer still within. Until his eyes could adjust, all they saw were pools of guttering candlelight, mostly hidden between stalls from which thick plumes of tobacco smoke coiled up to join the layers now hanging from a low ceiling.

  The hubbub of cackling voices, of laughter and jeering and the occasional oaths that had seeped out into the street now abruptly stopped. As more detail emerged from the gloom, Pettar soon saw that the stained and musty darkness was alive with stilled and staring eyes.

  Pettar had stopped at the threshold, but when Nephril bumped into him it evinced, “Urgh! Err, well, erm, good afternoon to you all.”

  The silence not only remained but cooled appreciably. When Pettar saw the glint of what he took to be a knife’s blade suddenly dart from a belt to a hand, the hand of a surly chap hunched over a nearby table, he could do no more than turn and stare hard and threateningly.

  His own hand opened in empty readiness, but instead of the flash of metal, it was the flash of Drainspoiler’s voice that came between them. “Narthen, Tad! Settle thesen darn, d’ya hear? We’ll ‘ave none o’ that, thas understand?”

  A reluctant growl came from Tad’s direction and his hand quickly emptied as he spat on the floor at Pettar’s feet. Just then, though, Nephril peeped around Pettar’s broad back, blinked quite a few times and called out, “Tidings, good folk,” then smiled broadly at everyone.

  Pettar swallowed hard and quietly cursed as an outbreak of murmuring closely followed a chorused intake of breath, but Pettar was too slow to hold Nephril back. He’d slipped past and wandered up to the bar, behind which a one-eared landlord towered above even Pettar’s unusual height.

  Nephril smiled up at him. “Be this the Three Tuns that had Ursid the Headsplitter as landlord?” Again, the Three Tun’s customers reacted in unison, but this time with an intake of surprised breath, followed by hushed attentiveness.

  Pettar was becoming even more worried. Why couldn’t Nephril have remembered to keep quiet? Of all places to find his voice. Pettar was already planning their escape when a frail old voice piped up from somewhere at the back of the gloom. “Aye, t’were indeed ‘im that were t’ale keeper ‘ere. Aye, I remember ‘im well, tho’ I were only a nipper then, but once seen never forgotten.”

  Nephril’s face beamed as he turned to the unseen assenter. “The greatest of all wrestlers was Ursid,” he announced. “A legend in his own time, and one well earned. Never saw him bettered in all his time. A tough and powerful man he was indeed, but a gent with it, gentle and most peaceable outside the ring.”

  The voice again called back. “Aye, t’were certainly so, ‘cept if ya overstepped t’mark in ‘ere, and then thee were for it.” The voice quickly broke into laughter, which dwindled to a cackle as those about him cheered and laughed.

  Another voice sprang up from the same dark corner. “Never got beat by anyone, though, not ‘im, no, ‘specially not by any Dican.”

  The lifting tension was stymied, but laid bare a persistent undercurrent of menace into which another voice came, although from a different dark corner. “No, weren’t never beat by any o’ thy sort.”

  Pettar moved protectively nearer Nephril, although further from their escape, and tried to spot who’d thrown that last comment. Before he could lift any features from the gloom, a nearby voice added, “Ursid couldn’t abide bastard Dicans, nar could ‘e? No! Hated such scum wi’ a vengeance, and damned right ‘e were. Pity we couldn’t do to ‘em all what he only ever did in t’ring.”

  Men had risen with the rising heat, the discordant sound of chair legs being scraped back across the ancient, flagged floor. The smell of beer-baited breath closed in on Pettar and Nephril, the poor light of the candles vanishing behind the growing press of ranked bodies, but Nephril seemed unperturbed. He again smiled disarmingly at the landlord. “Master Drainspoiler hath brought us here to await our meeting with an old acquaintance of mine, if he can find him that is.”

  At the mention of Drainspoiler, the press held back, and many of their faces turned towards the far end of the bar. There sat Drainspoiler himself, but instead of the confident assurance his face had previously worn, it now displayed uncertainty and fear. He started to stammer, “I didn’t know he were a Dican, honest I didn’t. T’old un never spoke ‘til nar. How were I ta know?”

  The wall of drinkers turned back to Pettar and Nephril, their press again pushing nearer when Drainspoiler plaintively added, “Said they wanted to see Mudark. Didn’t want to run risk o’ upsetting ‘im so I just agreed ta ‘elp, as ya would.”

  As though Pettar and Nephril had been declared bearers of plague, a space rapidly grew around them and the landlord stepped away from the bar and began wiping grubby glasses, as though the muck could be brought to a shine.

  So ignored did they suddenly become that Pettar now felt awkward, standing with Nephril before an empty counter, and so looked about for some retreat. It was then that he caught proper sight of Drainspoiler, still sitting on his stool at the end of the bar, and so caught Nephril by the arm and took them both to sit by him.

  Drainspoiler looked uncomfortable but no longer worried, and stared silently at the array of dusty bottles crammed onto the shelves at the back of the bar. He stayed that way even when the landlord finally spoke up and engaged them.

  His voice was gruff and low, far lower than Pettar’s, as though trying to fight its way out of a deep well. It held nothing more than the mundane, no warmth or welcome, just a guarded duty. “What would you two gents be awanting to drink then?”

  Pettar was about to explain that they c
arried no money when Drainspoiler finally spoke up. “Put whatever they wants on me tab, Warren, including any food. I’ve an errand to run that I want art o’ way as soon as.”

  He turned to Pettar. “Sooner Mudark knows of thee, sooner we can all get back to where we were, withart threat o’ nasties an’ t’like. Order what thee wants. Shouldn’t be more than an hour. Should gi’ thee time fer ya tup and fodder.”

  At that, he briefly gave Warren a look before sliding from his stool, and was about to leave when he turned back and asked, “An’ what name should I give fer thee, to Mudark that is?”

  Pettar was just about to offer his own name when Nephril instructed, “If thou would inform Melkin that the hermit of the seven white pillars wishes to renew his acquaintance, Master Drainspoiler, I would be much obliged to thee.” He giggled quietly to himself as Drainspoiler nodded, looked at them both, then left the tavern in haste.

  By the time Pettar had seen the door swing to behind Drainspoiler, and had turned back to Warren, Nephril was already making himself at home. He was pointing at the various beer pumps between them. “I do not know many of the names, Landlord, so would appreciate thy guiding me away from any swipes. Something dark and fulsome would be in order; a stout or the like.”

  The landlord smiled nervously, his eyes flicking out to the gathered gloom as he brought a passably clean sleeve under the tap of Palmaeppel Porter, as its sign proclaimed, and began pulling with careful and measured strokes.

  As the sleeve neared filling, its expertly measured head beginning to bow at the rim, he proffered, “Should be to thee liking. Palmaeppel’s t’best we ‘ave, though there’s better. If thee likes it dark and full, wi’ an edge o’ grit, then this’ll do thee well enough.” By now he was placing it on the counter before Nephril, turning it almost ceremoniously on the mat to remove any non-existent spills, his gaze keenly held to the task.

  Nephril reached forward as he thanked him, thoughtfully raised the sleeve to his lips and drew the ale into his mouth through its already creamy, brown-tinged head. His eyes closed as his Adam’s apple bobbed rhythmically, and as the ale slipped lower and lower in the levelling sleeve.

  As Nephril placed it back on the counter, Pettar awed by how smoothly it had slid down, a menacing voice came between them. They both turned on their stools to confront Tad, he of the ready knife.

  He wasn’t tall but he was wide, a stocky man with one eye slightly lower than the other. Pettar noticed his right hand was hidden in his jerkin and suspected he knew why.

  His own disquiet at being unarmed wasn’t helped by the cocked-eyed leer on Tad’s face, nor the aggressive stance he held. When he spoke it didn’t in any way lessen that tangible threat. “Bit out o’ t’way, aren’t thee? Down in t’bile o’ Bazarral’s belly.”

  He studied them closely, especially Pettar. “Seems we ‘ave to tek thee at face value … fer t’time being, anyroad.”

  His leer drifted to a smirk before he began fishing. “Strikes me thee ‘ave me at a disadvantage. Ya know, ‘aving had Drainspoiler let slip me own name, like.” He shifted back slightly, to prop his broad backside on the back of another drinker’s chair, someone who clearly had no intention of complaining.

  He half looked back to either side as he beseeched his attentive audience, “Does thee all think it right, like, that these two…” he sneered openly, “…fish out o’ water should ‘old back their own names?” He turned fully to Pettar and drilled into his eyes with his own tight gaze.

  Pettar was relieved to see that Nephril had returned to quaffing his ale, his mouth fortunately still full of it, but he noticed the sleeve was fast emptying. Before Nephril could draw breath and answer, Pettar said, “Indeed, I know you to be Tad, though little else do I yet know of you, other than your sleight of hand with a blade.” Tad tensed. “I know you should have no quarrel with Galgaverre, though.”

  Tad found an even more belittling sneer. “Galgaverre! Galgaverre, bi ‘struth! Bloody ‘ell. D’ya ‘ear that, mates. Thinks we owe owt to Galgaverre.”

  Rippling grumbles passed back and forth through the dark confines of the stalls, accompanied by the sounds of shuffling feet and scraping tankards. When it only slowly subsided, it eventually left a pregnant silence that weighed heavily on Pettar to answer, but he held his tongue.

  Tad’s words once again filled the hushed tavern, but now lower and more confidential, heartfelt and somehow strangely wistful. “We don’t see much benefit o’ Certain Power ‘ere, not ‘ere in t’forgotten corner o’ Bazarral. No, don’t seem t’Galgaverrans ‘ave much time for t’likes of us.”

  His sentiments found fertile ground amongst his fellow drinkers, chiming easily with their own tenets. Every last man of them seemed to be lost in his own quiet thoughts, Nephril and Pettar briefly forgotten.

  Their ready acceptance of Tad’s words began to infect Pettar, his own thoughts seeming to follow a similar drift. This seemed to be yet another indication of the lessening of Leiyatel’s largess, of Baradcar’s influence having steadily waned.

  “So, what’s thee name then, eh, Galgaverran?” Pettar flicked his eyes up to find them held tight in Tad’s own gaze, almost prising an answer from him.

  He could hear the silence of the tavern, could feel the many eyes held fast to his face, and before he knew it, his words came tumbling out. “I’m Pettar Garradish, of the Guardian line of Galgaverre, though I’ve long lived away from its hoarding walls and ramparts, lived far from its stifling grasp.”

  For some reason an anger had risen in Pettar. He felt affronted, as though his origins spoke little of who he really was, as though he was being wronged for something he wasn’t. His words seemed to gain a life of their own as he towered menacingly over Tad. “And what do you want to make of it, eh? What blame do you want to offload on me that should rightly reside elsewhere?”

  He didn’t quite understand where his words had come from, nor what they really meant, but Tad somehow seemed to know. He noticeably lessened, averted his eyes and let his hand slip from his tunic. In its distraction, it grasped at his long forgotten tankard and absently lifted it to his mouth. Tad didn’t drink from it, though, only stared firstly into the distance across the tankard’s rim before flicking his eyes back to Pettar’s simmering face.

  He gulped. “Pettar Garradish? No! Can’t be. Not ‘ere, not in t’Three Tuns it can’t.”

  The voice that had readily remembered Ursid the veritable Headsplitter now cackled across the silent heads, cut erratically through the thick pipe smoke and fetid body odour to strike Tad’s ears. “It is, tha knows, I bloody well reckon ‘tis.”

  The whole tavern now stared mutely at Pettar, whilst Nephril surreptitiously took the opportunity to have his sleeve of ale refilled. Whereas the air had previously been charged with a tangible tension, now it was filled with expectancy, the only movement the slow swirling of smoke hanging between the blackened joists. It was only the chink of Nephril’s glass, absently swung against the tap by the distracted landlord, that finally unfroze the scene.

  People were now on their feet, pressing forward to take a closer look, but holding back in a kind of reverential awe. Pettar had no idea what to think, found his sight blurring as he futilely sought out any threats, finding only a mixture of unexpected emotions.

  There were a lot more Bazarran there than Pettar had even half guessed at, maybe fifty or perhaps more. The tavern’s darkness had obscured its size. A slight parting in the press snaked its way towards Pettar. When it reached the front of the crowd, it spat out a wizened old man of slight mien.

  He was dark brown and very wrinkled, like a prune; so dark in fact that his ivory white eyes fair leapt from his head. As he drew near Pettar it became clear his eyes did indeed bulge, that they fair strained to escape their sockets. When he spoke, his teeth also jumped starkly to the fore, whitely protruding from his mouth. “Well, stuff me,” he lisped, “but I never thought I’d see t’likes o’ thee in t’flesh an’ blood, like, ya know, before me v
ery own eyes.”

  To make sure, he reached out and tentatively touched Pettar’s arm, but then pulled back sharply. He looked up Pettar’s towering height and quietly asked, “Be thee t’Pettar doing service to t’Ambecs? Be thee that un?” Pettar was still very much at a loss, but the old man’s gentler approach softened his heart enough to relax his own tense wariness, for him to look down with a smile onto the tanner’s leather-like face.

  Pettar felt far too intimidating towering above him, so sank back onto his stool and leaned forward, looking the tanner in the face. “I am that Pettar, old man, but why you should know of me I can’t fathom.” He didn’t get a chance to find out for the tavern suddenly erupted with cheers and whoops.

  The press of folk who had so warily hung back before now avalanched forward and engulfed him. There were handshakes and backslaps, offers of drink and tobacco, in fact every conceivable manner of welcome. Even Tad bore a broad grin and no sign of sharp edges, more interested now in clapping Pettar on the arm and lauding him loudly. Somehow, Pettar and Nephril had found the lion of Yuhlm at ease in his den, and clearly far from hungry.

  4 Lion or No

  Folk like nothing more than a rebel, somebody who can show those in power a thing or two, who can tweak their noses and make them appear at least in part to be less than who they think they are. Yes, rebels are greatly valued amongst those who aren’t actually in power themselves, and their greatest worth is in removing the need to be a rebel oneself; full time, out in the open, exposed, vulnerable.

  Those who aren’t empowered always need their rebels-by-proxy but, in their uneasy dereliction, invariably add gloss, enlarge the image or worth and generally enjoy building their own fair castles in the air. All folk are prone to the same, are wont when drowning to flail their arms and grasp at any old flotsam.

  Pettar, though, didn’t really feel like just any old flotsam. He was unprepared for what unexpectedly appeared to be his own notoriety. They all obviously knew of him, of his deeds and stance, of his obstinacy in the face of royal displeasure, and his loyalty to the beleaguered Ambecs. They knew everything about him and his acts but one thing, and that was the truth.