Storms Over Open Fields (Life of Riley Book 2)

by G. Howell

  “Thanks, kid,” I murmured and tossed the coin to a figure lurking behind me. The gold was snatched out of the air like a minnow being taken by a shark and then the urchin was gone. I waited a bit to be sure, then nodded and leaned a shoulder against the damp brick wall, surveying the plaster and beam facade of the big building across the way. That was the place I was interested in. Chriét had pointed it out on one of my tours of the city, giving me a brief history that’d been lost in all the other information I’d been trying to process at the time and telling me I’d was supposed to attend a function held there. Looked like I was going to miss that party. Can’t say I was sorry: I’d attended a similar one in Shattered Water and had found the whole thing quite embarrassing.

  Now the big place was dark, save for a single lantern burning at a postern gate in the big wooden doors sealing the entryway. Banners hung limp from the second-story eaves, their colors washed out in the darkness. As usual, the only windows were the narrow slits up on the second floor. The place was closed and locked up, but there was always a way in.

  I found it around the back in a narrow back street. Scaling a wall there let me into a small muddy area cluttered with debris. The doors there were closed, but it was easy to slip a sliver of wood in between the door and jamb and lift the basic latch. Inside it was pitch black and musty, with a lingering trace of the heat of the day. A short hall followed the outside wall for a few meters then opened into another dark area that simply felt big. Tangles of ropes and pulleys and other paraphernalia hung from dark heights. Beams and ladders and scaffolds rose and vanished back into those same heights. A few glimmers of moonlight found their way in and caught peeling gilt and gold and the air smelled of dust and paint and moldy canvass. An incredible jumble of stacked furniture, wheels, brooms, poles, statues and carvings, buckets and barrels, paintings, door frames... stacks of assorted junk of all description catching my shins while low overhead beams threatened to concuss me. I ducked my way through them, past hanging racks of painted canvasses, then up steps and into echoing open space.

  Wan light peeped through dirty little windows spaced high around the circumference of the auditorium, illuminating everything in shades of grey and shadow. There was a framework overhead; from my perspective a flimsy construction of wood and canvass, with ropes and bits of furniture scattered here and there. Seen from another perspective, I knew it’d take on the semblance of a building - a cross section of house or a business or whatever was needed for the moment.

  As quietly as I could I crossed the stage, pausing once to look out into the gloom of the theatre. Below the stage, the space was open flagstones. Further back were a few tiers of benches. Above that were the private balconies. I’d sat in a booth like that once, eating cheese and wine with a good friend while she laughed at my reaction to what was onstage. That had been for pleasure. This was business.

  I chased those memories away with a shake of my head and moved on across the boards, beneath the multistory framework of the set.

  The theatre was dark and still, but doubtless it wasn’t deserted. Rris couldn’t commute so easily and in this society actors and performers aren’t overly paid, so there would probably be at least a few living here. Probably upstairs, in the lofts and attics I guessed, up where it’d be warm and cheap. But there was at least one down in the flys, burning the midnight oil. Literally. A flicker of orange lamplight glimmered past a half-open door of heavy timber painted rust-red. There was a name scratched in chalk on a black slate alongside: Res’hat and something else indecipherable. And under that a Rris crosshatch that I worked out was telling people Quiet.

  Inside was a small, cluttered room that stank of burnt lamp oil and other, stranger scents. A single lamp flickered, illuminating a wall that was a pantheon of garish colors and textures and staring eyes. I blinked and the jumble resolved into a wall of masks. Hundreds of masks, hanging in neat rows. The orange light glittered from slivers of polished metal and glass and tiny mirrors fashioned into caricatures of Rris and animals, staring at me. The overall effect was... creepy, to say the least.

  There was a living creature in there as well. A Rris was seated on a cushion at a low desk, muzzle creased over papers that spread across the workspace. A charcoal stub clutched in stubby fingers was busy scratching characters, occasionally crossing them out and then trying again. The Rris didn’t even glance up as I pushed the door open and stood in the doorway.

  “Excuse me,” I said. “I’d like to ask you some questions.”

  The Rris just glanced up for a split second before returning to work. That wasn’t quite what I’d been expecting. “Rot you, Herth, take that rotted costume off or I’ll shave you for real. But the voice is much better.”

  I blinked, somewhat taken aback. “Um, Herth couldn’t be here tonight.”

  The pencil faltered, and then stopped. There was a quiet crack as the sharpened tip snapped and charcoal smeared across the paper, forgotten as the head slowly came up again. Ah, that was more like it.

  “Hi,” I grinned slowly and ducked my head to pass through the doorway. “As I said; I’ve a few questions I’d like to ask you.”

  The Rris gaped, eyes pure black pools, those tufted ears tipping back. I couldn’t be sure of gender, a ‘he’... possibly. Whatever this individual was, it was a scraggly Rris, with matted fur and a marked squint in one amber eye. “You’re... you’re really him, aren’t you,” the Rris squeaked.

  “No, I’m his evil twin,” I retorted, leaning against the wall in a handy position to block the door.

  “Huhn...? I thought there was only one.” The Rris just looked confused and worried. “Why’re you here? What’d you want?”

  I sighed. For the third time... “I’d like to ask you some questions, about Mediators. They were here the other night?”

  I saw the expression flicker as the fellow remembered something and then the look was one of sudden panic. “Ai, they demanded we make those changes! Please, I’m sorry. I know it’s not true but we don’t have any choice!”

  Changes? I wasn’t about to blurt out that I didn’t know what the hell that was supposed to mean. “Anything else they demanded?” I asked. “Anything that wasn’t entirely... usual?”

  Those eyes were rims of amber circumnavigating pools of black. A dirty hand scrubbed at a cheek tuft, smearing charcoal into the speckled grey fur. Male, I decided, though I still wasn’t entirely sure. “They said I wasn’t supposed to...”

  He trailed off and watched as I crossed over to the wall of masks. I picked out an emerald green one, made of felt with hundreds of little beaten squares of polished green metal sewn to it. I held it up to my own face, but the eye holes were positioned for Rris eyes, with a flared space for the muzzle. No way it would fit me. “Weren’t to tell anyone?” I suggested. “Mediators were playing with costuming and paints?”

  He started, his ears pricked in surprise. “You know?”

  “They required that someone be made up to look like someone else?” It was a guess, actually. She’d said the dye was expensive. And the mediators would want an expert to do a good job. A theatre with royal patronage would be the best choice, and there was only one of those. So it was a guess, but it seemed like it was a good guess. A bit of luck for once.

  I saw his gaze flicker, perhaps looking for a way out. “A. It was Shirc. She was supposed to keep...” he faltered, his ears laying back.

  I gazed down at the mask in my hand, turning it over and over. So, she was right. She was telling the truth. It hadn’t been Chaeitch I’d killed. But it’d been someone who’d been intent on killing me.

  “It’s not true, is it?” the Rris at the desk ventured in a small voice.

  “Hmm?” I looked up. “What isn’t?”

  He shrank back, his ears going down flat against his furry skull. “What they said about you. What they want me to say,” he gestured va
guely at the papers on the desk. All things considered, he was taking this surprisingly well. He hadn’t screeched for help or even made a break for the door. And he was obviously more concerned about those changes he’d mentioned than the Mediators’ makeover party.

  “And what’s that?” I asked quietly.

  He glanced at the door, then back to me. “That you’re dangerous. Unpredictable.” He ducked his head, “a ‘vicious animal’ they said. That you’ve killed people.”

  I stared, then slowly said, “Now, just pretend I haven’t heard about this and tell me: what exactly do they want you to change to say that?”

  He looked a little taken aback then touched the paper in front of him. “This! The whole script will have to be re-written,” he snorted, then slapped a hand down on it. “But I’ve heard tell about you. There are descriptions, other writings that say while you look grotesque and fearsome...” he realized what he was saying and looked alarmed. “Ah, no offence.”

  “None taken,” I shrugged.

  There was another uncertain look, then he coughed and continued, “But they say you’re also personable and intelligent; more like a normal person than you look.” He picked up a sheet of paper and looked from it to me. “I don’t understand why the Mediators now say you’re dangerous.”

  I squatted at the low desk and picked up a page: the paper was the cheapest available, covered with errant inkblots and the perceptual cross-hatch that was closely-spaced Rris writing. That in turn had bits crossed out, notes in the margins, scrawls and addendums and amendments... And the handwriting itself was idiosyncratic, to say the least. I could only make out a few words. “This is a script?” I asked. “For a play?”

  “A,” he looked at me as if I were asking if water were wet.

  “It’s popular?”

  “Quite.” His ears pricked up a bit.

  “Huhn,” I let the paper float back down to the desk. It wasn’t too difficult to see what the motive behind that move was. Propaganda. Making me seem to be a threat. But why? What would that do? Would Rris be more likely to go to the Mediators? Less likely to help me? Or would they just be more likely to go after me themselves. Either way, it’d make things difficult for me.

  “You’re going to do this?” I asked.

  “Mediator decree,” he said, as if that explained everything. And thinking back to what I’d heard the other night, perhaps it did. But it was an unusual move... I grimaced as I tried to figure out the ramifications of this.

  “You’re... angry?” he asked.

  I sighed and shook my head. He just looked worried again. I amended the gesture to a Rris-style tip of my hand and then kicked a threadbare floor cushion over against the wall. He was watching as I sat and leant back.

  “No, not angry,” I said. “Not at you, anyway. These Mediators, who was in charge? Did he have a name?”

  “Hai, no. I mean, they didn’t introduce themselves. I heard the others though. They called him Shyia.”

  A leaden weight dropped into my guts. “Shyia,” I echoed.

  “A. I think...”

  “Shit!” I thumped my fist against the wall, the boom reverberating through the building. He shut up, fast. Shyia. It would be him. Someone who knew me well enough to try a ploy like that disguise gambit. It’d never have worked on a Rris, but he knew me well enough to know I might make a mistake like that. And as for the propaganda he was having that Rris write...

  The Rris in question was looking absolutely petrified, with those tufted ears flattened so they were practically molded to his skull. “And you’re actually going to write that?” I asked.

  His jaw chattered and muscles in his muzzle spasmed as he obviously tried not to bare teeth.

  I sighed again. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to scare you... Did you ever have one of those days? Sorry, I mean it’s been a long and tiring day and that was a bit of bad news I wasn’t expecting. He insisted you write that?”

  He waved a cautious affirmative.

  Shit. I slowly knocked my head back against the planks behind me. On the wall opposite, the masks stared mutely back. I had killed, several times. They’d been Rris. Back when I’d first arrived perhaps it hadn’t been... No. That wasn’t right. It’d been a big deal, it’d always been that, but perhaps there’d been the subconscious feeling that they weren’t human, they aren’t real people... That was two years ago. Now, of course that’d changed, but could a Rris look back on the last two years and determine I was a ruthless killer? Character assassination as well as physical. It’d mean I’d be a lot less likely to find help from the populace if they wanted to shoot first and ask questions later.

  “What would it take for you not to?” I asked.

  “Not to?” His ears flickered back again. “Going against the word of the Mediators?”

  “A, how much?”

  His expression would’ve probably been the same if I’d asked him to drink the ocean. “That’s just... not possible,” he choked.

  I swore under my breath and slumped back. I could threaten him, but that would probably just compound my problems. If he thought I actually was a psychotic thug...

  “But perhaps...” he ventured. That shocked expression had changed to something a little more calculating. It was an expression that made him vaguely resemble a scruffy, ink-stained weasel.

  “That much?” I growled. At this rate of bribery the moderate fortune I as carrying would be gone in no time.

  “Huhn,” his ears flagged down and up again. “I have to do as they said. Ah, I will do that. But I might be able to do that in a way that profits the both of us?”

  Now I stared. Surprised, and not more than a little suspicious. “How?”

  “The stories I’ve heard... They’ve been very popular, but I must confess I don’t know what is true and what isn’t. Perhaps if you could tell me your story, I could do what the Mediators require and also tell your side of the tale. If you did these things they say you did, it would explain why. If you had a good reason for those acts, if they were justifiable, then how can they be wrong?”

  I opened my mouth, then paused and closed it again and frowned. It was an... interesting proposition. “Not money,” I prodded at the idea. “Just my story?”

  “A.”

  “That would appease the mediators?”

  “A.”

  “And you wouldn’t portray me as... some sort of animal?”

  There was a flicker of nervousness. “That... it depends on your account. It depends if it is true.”

  “How can you be sure what I tell you is the entire truth?”

  “Stories are my business. I like to think I can tell when people are embellishing. It happens often enough.”

  Despite myself, I felt a wry smile twitch my face. “I think my story is probably a fair bit different from most of the ones you’ve heard. I think it’s pretty hard to believe, even without... embellishment.”

  Carefully he inclined his head. “No doubt,” he said and then his gaze flicked up, past me.

  I twitched around and found my hand was already inside my rain cloak, touching the lethal assembly of wood and metal tucked into the bandolier there. There were Rris just outside the door, right on the edge of the shadows. Three of them I could see, three pairs of eyes shimmering with reflected candlelight. “We heard voices,” one said uncertainly. “Res’hat, you’re alright?”

  They weren’t Mediators, that was obvious. Two were undressed, their fur looking rumpled and matted from sleep, while the third was wearing a pair of paint-spattered breeches. That one was carrying a bit of wood, clutched like a cudgel. How long had they been there? How much had they heard?

  “It’s alright,” the Rris I’d been talking to quickly said to them and me. “It’s fine. I’m fine. They’re friends. Not dangerous, right?”


  “This,” one of them gestured, “It’s really him?”

  “Come to complain about your costumes a, Shirc?” I caught the whispered aside from one of the newcomers to the one in the breeches. She glared back.

  “He was about to tell me his story,” Res’hat said. “I don’t know if he’s willing to do so before an audience,” he said, cocking his head toward me.

  I hesitated, evaluating. Had they already sent for help? From the looks of them they were just as startled to see me, so probably not. I carefully tipped my hand in a careful acknowledgment. “I don’t mind, but I don’t have a lot of time. I have to be gone before light.”

  “A,” Res’hat acknowledged and I looked from him to the others and took a breath:

  “I suppose the best place to start is at the beginning, and I think that was a bit over two years ago, back where I come from. It was a place like this - a world like yours. There are villages and towns and cities bigger than you can imagine. But there the people look like me.

  “I don’t really know what happened. It was in the countryside, far to the east of Shattered Water. One moment I was walking through familiar and safe land, the next there was a flash of light, like lightning all around me and a feeling... it was like... every part of me was falling into the universe, I suppose. It was like nothing else I can describe and then the next thing I know I woke up somewhere completely different. I’d been in the middle of a field; I woke up in a forest by a stream.”

  For a while Res’hat sat and listened with the others, his ears pricked up. Then he started scratching a few notes. Before long he was scribbling furiously as I talked and talked into the night.

  ------v------

  At four o’clock in the morning back home there was always noise of some description: the occasional car passing, sirens, distant aircraft. Here, in the Rris world, even in the middle of a city it’s almost silent in the small hours. I slipped out the back of the theater into the strange silence of a sleeping city. Somewhere an owl hooted, but that was the only thing I could hear.