The Way to Babylon (Different Kingdoms)

by Paul Kearney

  ‘But Riven had never been to Minginish when he wrote these stories. They came out of his head.’ Bicker shook his own head, grave again. ‘And there is more. You know how the first door opened, and when; how it is connected with the events of the Teller’s life. And you know also of the fate that befell Minginish after—the snow and the mountain beasts.

  ‘Now think on this. There has been a thaw. When, Ratagan?’

  The bearded giant raised his eyebrows. ‘It began two days before you met us south of Scarall. And uncommon swift it was, too. The snow fled as quickly as it had arrived—the space of an afternoon, almost.’

  Bicker nodded grimly. ‘The same time we left Riven’s home on the Isle and began to make our way around the coast.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ Riven demanded.

  ‘Only this: that Minginish’s winter ended when you left the home you had shared with your wife—the first respite this land has had since she died eight months ago. It is you, Michael Riven; it is your mind, your emotions, that are directing the fate of our world.’

  A blaze of argument broke out amongst them, with even the Warbutt pitching in. It was absurd, they protested. A coincidence. How could such a thing happen? It was Riven who cut through the talk.

  ‘What about my wife?’ he shouted.

  The noise fell.

  ‘She’s dead. I watched her die. And now she’s walking around again. Explain that, Bicker!’

  The dark man spread his hands. ‘I can’t,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t believe in ghosts,’ Riven said savagely.

  ‘Do you believe in magic?’ Murtach asked in an odd voice, and when Riven looked at him he saw that the little man’s eyes were a lambent yellow, glowing in the last light of day that filtered down from the hall’s high windows.

  ‘Enough,’ Guillamon said. He seemed annoyed. ‘Talk goes around biting its own tail after a while.’

  ‘Indeed,’ the Warbutt assented. He looked tired, haggard. The shadows had begun to creep into the hollows of his face. Outside, the day was dying. Night was pouring down out of the eastern hills.

  ‘I want my captains and my son about me for a time,’ he said. ‘The rest may leave. The Steward will accommodate you. You will all sleep in the Manse tonight.’

  They stood up in silence. Riven felt unwanted and out of place, Bicker’s words echoing in his head. Murtach took Ratagan’s arm and helped him out, whilst Riven trailed behind. He wanted to stay and talk some more, hammer out some logic from the madness; but he was an outsider here, without rights. And if Bicker was correct, then he was killing this world.

  EIGHT

  GWION THE STEWARD was a small, stout man with a good-natured face. He had been the innkeeper of Riven’s daydreams in Beechfield, a minor character in one of his books. In this world, however, he had a wife called Ygelda, a tall, bronzed woman with masses of coppery hair bound up at the back of her head and a wide, matronly figure. She took one look at Riven with her hands on her hips, making him feel like a schoolboy caught in mischief, and ordered her husband to escort him to the quietest room he could find, since ‘the poor man looks about done.’ Gwion obeyed without demur, a sheepish smile on his face—a smile Riven had seen him wear in his dreams. He was staring at the steward almost as intently as he was being stared at as he was led to his room.

  He found he had been given a small guest room on the first floor that faced north. The walls were a mixture of stone and dark wood panelling. There was a bed spread with soft, gaudy rugs, and a table laden with a washing basin, a large jug of beer and a plate of fresh fruit. On the bed also there was a change of clothes. It was luxury itself after the nights sleeping out.

  Riven poured himself some of the malty beer and stood sipping it, looking out of the window at the Circle and the Dale beyond. The sunset was flushing the sky pink and orange, and the room was becoming gloomy. Riven wondered absently if he was supposed to sleep with the sun when the door was knocked and Gwion came in with two wooden candlesticks and a handful of pale candles.

  ‘Been so much on my mind today I nearly forgot,’ he said breathlessly. ‘I am sorry; what is it coming to? Letting guests sit alone in the dark. What will you think of us?’ He set the candles in their holders and produced a flint and steel and a small iron box. ‘There.’ He looked at Riven, who was sipping his beer moodily. ‘Now, sir, is there anything else you want or need? I’m at a loss as to what a foreign knight would be needing for himself.’

  Riven smiled despite himself. ‘No, everything is fine. It couldn’t be better.’

  ‘Well, we do our best,’ Gwion said, obviously pleased. He went out again. ‘A pleasant night to you, sir,’ and was gone.

  Riven continued to smile to himself as the gloom deepened in the room and he could watch the lights start up in the Dale, twinkling like gems in a mine. He poured himself some more beer, feeling in need of a good wash and a change of socks, but delayed getting them, knowing that they were possible now. There were too many things in his head, like silt in a stirred stream, and he wanted some of them to settle in the quiet of the room.

  He finished his flagon, checking that the jug was not empty, and then undressed, his legs complaining to him now they could make themselves heard over the impossibilities. But he was glad to bother only about physical ache, beer in the belly, the prospect of a soft bed under him, the encroaching darkness; glad to switch off his mind for a while.

  The water in the basin was lukewarm as he splashed in it, and scrubbed himself from head to foot. Then, hair dripping in his eyes, he examined the clothes that had been set out for him. He had a suspicion that they were Bicker’s, for he and the dark man were not unalike in size. A pair of breeches which seemed to be made of suede, and a linen shirt with no collar and wide sleeves. He donned them, and hummed as he set to lighting the candles. The box contained shredded rags that smelt vaguely inflammable, and he clicked a few sparks on to them warily. They caught at once and he lit a candle, snuffing out the tinder by closing the box.

  Immediately the world outside became invisible, and there was only the candlelit room and himself. He lit three candles, positioning them around the room, and then lay back on the bed with the beer at his side.

  The candles had hardly burned down an inch when he was woken from a doze by a heavy knock on the door. He started, jumped up, and opened it to find Murtach and Ratagan standing there clutching bottles and glasses.

  ‘We thought we could hardly leave you alone on your first night in Ralarth Rorim,’ Murtach said as he let them in. There was a dark movement as Fife and Drum entered behind him, the candlelight kindling their eyes briefly.

  ‘And we’ve not come empty-handed,’ Ratagan added. His face was flushed and he leaned heavily on a stick, but his eyes were bright.

  The bottles and glasses were placed on the table, and Murtach set about opening the wine.

  ‘Let the great ones discuss matters of import downstairs,’ he said. ‘We have better things to do, like tasting this twenty-year-old Drinan which Gwion will probably not even notice is missing.’ The cork popped, and he sniffed the neck of the bottle and closed his eyes. ‘Nectar.’ Then he poured three glasses of the deep, red liquid, ruby in the candlelight.

  ‘Some say a wine should be left to breathe,’ he said, handing round the glasses. ‘Myself, I think that the poor thing has waited long enough and deserves to have its suspense ended at once. To the fire in your loins! May it never burn your fingers.’ And he tossed down a gulp of wine.

  Riven did likewise. It was sweet, fruity, but very strong. It made the candles in the room sparkle and his throat glow.

  ‘Well, Michael Riven,’ Murtach said with sudden gravity. ‘What do you think of Ralarth Rorim—and, indeed, of all Minginish?’

  ‘There’s a question.’ Riven took another drink of his wine. He was not sure he wanted to talk to Murtach on this subject, but the shapeshifter spoke first, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.

  ‘When I was in your world,
acting my part, I saw your books displayed in windows. I bought them, and read them—even your world’s writing is not a problem for the people of this land, once they have crossed over—and I was shaken. I was frightened, Mr Riven, because I was in them, and so was Ratagan here, and Bicker, and the Warbutt and Ralarth Rorim itself. And do you know—can you remember what the story of your books was?’

  Riven did not meet his eyes. ‘I remember.’

  Murtach nodded. ‘Of course you do. You are the creator of the story. You are the Teller of the tale.’

  ‘What does the story say?’ Ratagan interrupted brusquely. He sounded impatient.

  Murtach smiled. ‘The story chronicled the history of this land, through wars and intrigue, battle and strife—and into winter. The story takes place in winter, a winter that destroys the land, bringing the beasts down out of the mountains until three heroes go on a quest to save their world, travelling north into the teeth of the blizzards.’

  ‘And?’ Ratagan asked, cocking one thick eyebrow.

  ‘And nothing, my beer-swilling friend. The story remains unfinished. It awaits a third volume to chronicle the redemption—or destruction, I suppose—of the world.’ Murtach paused, a diabolical grin illuminating his face. ‘We are the three heroes, Ratagan: Bicker, you and I.’

  Ratagan’s glass paused in midair. He gazed at Riven. ‘I see,’ he said mildly.

  Riven knocked back his wine, feeling it leap to his brain, but he held out the glass for a refill and Ratagan obliged him. The big man’s face was troubled, but he said nothing more.

  ‘So,’ Murtach went on, ‘maybe now you can appreciate why we brought you to Minginish, Michael Riven. We must work out how exactly you and your stories interact with this land. In the hall you said you had created us. Maybe that is even true.’

  ‘Don’t be absurd,’ Riven snapped.

  The smaller man merely looked at him. ‘You sit here in the company of characters you had thought you had drawn out of your imagination, in a world which the laws of your own place say cannot exist. The word “absurd” had best not be bandied about too lightly.’ Murtach smiled again, but the smile did not reach his eyes.

  ‘I agree with Bicker when he believes that the turning point in this was your wife’s death. That triggered off the changes in Minginish which correspond to your story. It opened the first door, tearing a hole in the fabric between your world and ours.’

  ‘What about before?’ Riven asked. ‘What about your history?’

  ‘The same as you have drawn it,’ Murtach admitted. ‘Some things are different—the name Minginish itself, for instance—but for the most part your portrayal of this place, its people, its politics, is accurate.’

  ‘Whoopee,’ Riven muttered.

  ‘What was your wife like, Michael Riven?’

  He seemed to have heard the question before, somewhere else. He shook his head. That was one train of thought he was not going to follow. Not tonight.

  ‘Forget it.’

  Murtach gazed at him soberly. ‘She may be here.’

  ‘She’s dead!’ Riven rasped in reply. He gulped more wine. The candles burned like yellow stars in the room, the night looming like a cloud outside the window. Jenny was out there now, in the darkness. He felt the familiar bite of grief and anger. A Jenny who had not recognised him, who had run from him at the bothy. But his wife, nonetheless.

  ‘I agree also with Bicker, when he observes that our unnatural winter here ceased as soon as you had left your old home—as soon as you were leaving your memories behind, and who knows? Perhaps even gaining some contentment. So there we are. Your mood improves, and suddenly we have sunshine. But our crops are still ruined. We still face famine this winter. And the beasts still harry the land, killing where they will. When the cold weather arrives in its proper place—if it does—then the old and young will be the first to die. For the Dales, at least, the damage is already irreparable.’

  Riven’s face twisted. ‘What do you expect me to do? All I did was write some stories, and then my wife was killed. I can’t help the way I feel. I can’t stop any of this... it’s just so hard to believe,’ he ended plaintively.

  ‘Hard to believe!’ Murtach repeated. ‘You’re sitting here in the middle of it! How can you not believe?’

  ‘Because it’s like something out of a book.’

  ‘It is something out of a book—your book! And when you tell stories, our people die!’

  They glared at each other, Murtach’s wolves tensed and expectant on the floor between them, ears stiff. Then Ratagan’s deep voice broke the silence.

  ‘Ye gods, my belly feels as though it’s a butter churn in full swing. Strong stuff, this little vintage. Maybe I should stick to beer.’ They both switched their eyes to him with something like relief. He patted his broad stomach and frowned. ‘I’ll survive, though.’ He looked at Murtach and Riven and grinned. ‘Interrupt something, did I?’

  Murtach laughed, and thumped him on the shoulder. ‘You are more shrewd drunk than sober, you great bear.’ Then he stood up and bowed formally to Riven. ‘As the Warbutt said, manners and courtesy are sadly lacking these days. You are a guest here. Forgive me. I am an ill-mannered sot for trying you so. I will say no more on weighty subjects—it will ruin the wine.’ He sat down again and emptied the first bottle. ‘Ask me any question you will, and I will try to answer it. I am sure there is much you would yet like to know about the Rorim, and about Minginish.’

  Riven was suspicious for a second, but the small man seemed sincere. He sipped his wine.

  ‘The Rorim—there are others like it, aren’t there?’

  Murtach nodded. ‘Our closest neighbours are Carnach Rorim to the east, under Mugeary, and Garrafad to the north, under Bragad. Carnach is higher up in the hills, and has suffered even more than we from the depredations of the beasts—the Giants, especially. Garrafad has been more fortunate. Bragad has mobilised its people into militias and organised regular patrols of his entire Dale. He has fought pitched battles against veritable armies of wolves and grypesh, the rat-boars; but we do not have many dealings with him. He is a deep man, a man with many hidden corners to his mind. And he speaks well. I do not trust him.

  ‘There are other Rorim, of course, farther to the east and west. Tulm and Gruamach, Pollagan and Moonen. All face the same problems. We have not enough trained warriors to safeguard the Dales and the surrounding hills.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. You can’t do much with two dozen men.’

  ‘Hearthwares are Myrcan-trained,’ Ratagan broke in, touching for a moment the sash around his middle. ‘And then we have the Myrcans themselves, eight of them here in Ralarth. Each one is worth a company of any other soldiers. Formerly, in times of need, we would have enlisted the services of the Free Companies—Sellswords who auction their skills to the highest bidder. But none has been seen here in the south for almost a year. It must be that the cities have taken them all into employ, to protect the fiefs beyond their walls. Bragad has been trying to persuade the Rorim to combine their forces and launch a campaign of sorts into the mountains to exterminate as many of the Dale’s attackers as is possible, but that is not the answer.’

  ‘Why not?’ Riven asked. ‘Seems like a good idea to me.’

  ‘It is not, for several reasons,’ Murtach said. ‘Firstly, these animals cannot be brought to bay as though they were an organised army, even if at times they act like one. Secondly, Bragad insists that such a combined force should be under his own command, since he is experienced in dealing with large numbers of men through his militias. And thirdly, our friend the Lord of Garrafad has always wanted to wear a pair of boots several sizes bigger than those he presently owns.’

  ‘What are you going to do, then?’

  Murtach fondled Fife’s ears. ‘Organise our own people, after a fashion. Increase the numbers of the Hearthwares, as the Warbutt said earlier. There is nothing much else we can do.’

  Except speculate about me, Riven thought. He wondered
if he was to be nothing more than a pawn in this, his own story.

  Not if I can help it.

  But it was so odd. So damned weird to be here, doing this. Drinking this wine with the candles glowing and a pair of wolves dozing on the floor at his feet. To be dressed in tunic and breeches, to watch the night gather over the far hills that had nothing to do with the world he called his own. He felt a twisting regret that his grief had to overshadow everything, and immediately loathed himself for it. How could he sit here enjoying this, submitting himself to it, whilst—

  No. Enough.

  They drank on for a while, until the first words began to slur and the candles had burned low. But the wine ended. It was Ratagan who poured the last drop of it into his glass and then kissed it away.

  ‘Time to leave,’ Murtach said, standing up and swaying. Then he grimaced. ‘I could do with some air.’

  The three made their way to the window, Ratagan humming happily and supporting himself on Riven’s shoulder. The window swung open on protesting hinges and cold night air seeped into them, clearing their heads.

  Below them, Ralarth spread out in the darkness of a starlit night, lights peppering the Dale here and there, the darker shapes of the hills rearing up beyond them. An owl hooted nearby, and they could hear the stream babbling to itself in the quiet. Sheep bleated, far off, and a dog barked, then was silent.

  Ratagan breathed in deeply, and Murtach leaned on the sill, his eyes lost in the night. Softly, he said:

  ‘I love this place.’

  Then they turned away, wished Riven a good night and a better morning, and left, closing the door soundlessly behind them.

  IT WAS RAINING when Riven awoke, and the room was full of a fine spray from the open window. He lay still for a moment, wondering where the hell he was, then got up, hopping with cold, and closed the window. He clambered into bed again, wondering what time breakfast was. To his relief, his head was clear. He drank some water from a pitcher by the bed, and listened to the weather. His hands bunched into fists, crumpling the rough linen of the bed, and he felt the texture rub on his palms, on his back, the side of his face. He felt the cold air from the window, and his feet tingled from the remembered contact with the stone floor.