The Way to Babylon

by Paul Kearney

  Ratagan’s grin faded.

  THERE WAS NO light in the room save that of the fire. It was a large fire, the mantle above it the height of Riven’s shoulders, and it was as long as a bed. The flames licked up round thigh-thick logs and made the iron firedogs into burning icons. The fire filled the room with a tawny, saffron light and poured pools of impenetrable shadow in the far corners. Its light revealed a high-ceilinged room barred with black rafters, a flagged floor, and a long, heavy table set with unlit candles and piled with clothing and weapons of one sort or another. Before the fire, Ratagan and Riven sat on two high-backed wooden settles. The big man had a full flagon tilting in his fist and a tense cast to his face. They had both changed into dry clothes. Ratagan cocked his head to listen to the race of the wind outside that creaked the rafters.

  A door opened, and Isay entered with a tray of platters of food. The woman followed him. There was a scrape as she brought a taper forth from a tin box and leaned towards the fire to light it. Ratagan took it from her wordlessly and held it in the flames till it had caught. She smiled at him, but he buried his nose in his beer.

  The candles were lit and the room brightened, suddenly becoming bare as the high walls leapt into view.

  ‘What news?’ Ratagan asked the firedogs.

  ‘The beasts have drawn off,’ the woman said. She had a high voice, and there was something of a shake in it. ‘Murtach and the others are going round some of the outlying tenants now, to ensure they came to no harm.’

  ‘It was a fine fight,’ Isay said, and his eyes were shining in the candlelight.

  Ratagan grunted. ‘Would have been finer still had the invalids but been allowed to stay in it. I’ll have words with Murtach when he returns.’

  ‘It was a running fight, at the last,’ Isay said. ‘Your leg—and the Teller’s weakness—would not have let you stay with it.’

  ‘The Myrcan speaks truly, Ratagan,’ the woman said. She set a hand on one huge shoulder. ‘Must you always be straining at the leash to bloody your blade?’ She was small, slim, with the pale-gold hair plaited behind her head, and steady blue eyes. Aelin. Ratagan’s wife.

  ‘It is one of the few things in which I excel,’ Ratagan said. ‘Another is drinking.’ He emptied his flagon, and after a minute’s hesitation she took it over to the table to refill it.

  Riven shifted uneasily. Aelin had brought them inside and the battle had restarted, Murtach attacking the grypesh still outside. But now it was over, and Isay had rejoined them, along with a trio of wounded Hearthwares who were being tended in the hall below with their armour stripped off beside them. And Murtach was out with the others, harrying the defeated pack on foot and doing the rounds of the surrounding farms.

  And since then, Ratagan had hardly said a civil word to his wife, though she looked at him almost imploringly at times, and Riven had seen him gaze at her when her head was turned, brow creased in pain. It was a side of Ratagan that he had never guessed at. Riven was not sure he wanted to know the reason. He had had enough experience of strangers probing his own hurts without wanting to pry into those of others.

  Aelin brought them food on wooden platters. It was good, wholesome fare: rye bread and cheese, apples and meat. But the apples were wrinkled from long storage, and the meat had been salted to preserve it.

  ‘How are things?’ Ratagan asked her quietly, slicing into his cheese.

  She joined him on the settle. ‘Fair enough, for the times. We have had losses, but not so many as some. The patrols pass here as regularly as always. We have had a few of Lionan’s men here once or twice, some wounded. It is worse in the north, they say. Something will have to be done.’ She flicked a quick look at Riven, taking in his scarred forehead and the Teller badge on his breast, its thread shining in the firelight.

  ‘There are rumours of people in the mountains...’

  ‘What people?’ Ratagan asked sharply.

  ‘The Hidden Folk. Some say it is they who are bringing about these times that are upon us. Lionan’s men said that the Dales needed to be purged and united. They said there was evil walking the hills in many guises—that there are witches in the high places, and warlocks who seek the fellowship of men.’ Again, she looked at Riven.

  Abruptly, Ratagan threw the chunk of bread he had been gnawing into the fire. ‘Horseshit!’ He hobbled upright and put his back to it. ‘These are Lionan’s people who say this, and Lionan consorts with Bragad now. These tales are to suit the aims of Garrafad and Carnach. Times are bad enough without men running up old horror tales of the Hidden Folk in the mountains.’

  ‘Then what is doing it?’ she asked, her face tilted up to him and her throat a fine line in the firelight.

  ‘I...’ he faltered. ‘I don’t know. No one does. Not even Guillamon.’

  ‘He of all people should know, being what he is.’ There was something of a sneer in her voice. Ratagan’s brow contracted.

  ‘I did not come here to wrangle with you.’

  ‘Why did you come here, then—when I have not seen your face this six months?’

  ‘Moon and stars, woman! Do you think I want to be here?’ And then he shut his eyes. She stood up, and spun away.

  ‘Aelin—no. Wait!’

  But she had left the room on silent feet, and the door had closed without a sound behind her. Isay set to drying the weapons on the table, though they were already dry. Riven chewed bread which had turned to sand in his mouth.

  The big man sat down again. ‘I did not make a great job of that, did I?’ he asked.

  Riven handed him his flagon. ‘Nope,’ he replied.

  ‘Always, Bicker and Murtach try to get me out here, and always it is the same.’ Ratagan shook his head and smiled, but there was an odd brightness about the eyes. He knuckled them quickly, and addressed the beer again. Behind them, Isay left, bearing an armful of equipment, and banged the door behind him.

  ‘Ratagan—’ Riven began.

  ‘I got her with child,’ Ratagan said. ‘When she was nothing but a child herself. The child died, and she never had another. All innocence and sweetness it was, when she became my lady. She is lovely still. But now there is that between us. And the fighting. And the drinking. There is no help for it.’ He gulped at the beer again. ‘A running fight indeed! I’ll tan Murtach’s hide when he creeps back.’ He filled Riven’s flagon for him. ‘I’ll tell you a tale,’ he said. ‘And a fine, funny one it is too, if you’ve the patience to take it in...’

  The wind howled outside, battering the heights of the western mountains and bringing winter in its wake.

  ELEVEN

  THEY DID NOT linger in Ivrigar. Murtach and most of the company came in late that night, and by early the following afternoon, they were preparing to go on their way again. Over thirty grypesh had been slain, and the rest of the pack had dispersed in the western hills. Little damage had been done to the surrounding farms, since the beasts had concentrated their efforts on following the patrol and striving to enter Ivrigar. Riven, remembering the Rime Giant’s attempt on his life in Ralarth Rorim, wondered how many more times he was to be the focus of a battle.

  Aelin wished them goodbye, members of her household helping the injured Hearthwares to mount their steeds. She kissed her husband dutifully, and for a moment Riven saw her and Ratagan exchange a look which had in it something of despair. Then they were formal again, and the company was trooping out of the courtyard and into the cold breeze that billowed down from the distant mountains, their faces set towards the east.

  They rode through the stink of pyres where local men were burning the bodies of the beasts killed the night before, and then the land dipped and they were back in the Dales proper, with the hills behind them and some of the chill wind cut off. Riven pulled his cloak up about his neck, his bones aching and stiff and his legs still complaining about the horse between them. But he would have a drink and a warm bed awaiting him when he got rid of it. And Madra there, also, he suddenly remembered, and groaned aloud as he thoug
ht of the complications ahead. This world was more complex than his stories had ever made it.

  Because it is real. It is not a story. It never was.

  Then why Jenny, and Hugh? Why the spillover from his own life? He thought of his books. If anyone knew the answers in this country, it was the Dwarves. But how to get hold of them? There were none in Ralarth, none in the south. The only place they lived was in the northern mountains, the Greshorns. He shivered, remembering a dream where he had been riding north into the mountains with a woman who was not his wife.

  Time to move on, maybe, to search for some answers before the whole thing comes down around my ears.

  ‘Riders ahead,’ Tagan, the black-bearded scout, said up front. ‘Half a dozen. ’Wares, I think.’

  ‘Not Ralarth’s ’Wares, though,’ Murtach said, his blue eyes narrowed against the wind that watered them.

  They rode on at an easy trot, eating up the ground, until finally Murtach said in disgust: ‘Bragad’s lady—out for a ride, it seems, with five of her husband’s escort for company.’ And he spat over his mount’s shoulder.

  The small group of riders spied them and altered their course to meet the patrol. In minutes, they stood facing each other across a few feet of upland grass, the fresher horses of Jinneth’s escort stamping impatiently. She was dressed in black, as always, making Riven wonder sourly if she were mourning someone, but there was a bright smile on her face as she took in the battered condition of Murtach’s patrol; the bandaged Hearthwares, the clawed mounts and the weary eyes of them all.

  ‘My lords Murtach and Ratagan,’ she said gaily. ‘You have been sorely missed from the council chamber. My husband was eager to meet the axe man and the shapeshifter of Ralarth once more.’

  Murtach scowled, but said nothing.

  ‘Surely your errand was urgent, to take you away from such an important gathering in your own Rorim. And you have the foreign Teller with you also, I see.’ Her gaze flicked over Riven cursorily, and he stiffened as though he had been struck. ‘But here! I notice you have been fighting, so maybe your errand was not so slight. I trust you were the victors of whatever engagement you became embroiled in?’

  ‘We were,’ Murtach said succinctly. A low growl from Fife was silenced by his glare. ‘It might be better, though, my lady, if you were not to wander the open Dale with such a small escort. There are evil beasts abroad in great numbers, and even a well-armed group such as ours has its difficulties.’

  ‘My husband’s Hearthwares are equal to any task he sets them,’ she replied, her smile becoming frosty, like brittle icing on an old cake.

  There was a low derisive murmur from the Ralarth ’Wares at this. Bragad’s men in their red sashes set hands on sword hilts.

  Jinneth ignored them. ‘And we will be moving on now, if you don’t mind. The day wanes, and if your words are to be believed, then I had best be back in the security of your Rorim before nightfall.’ She gathered up her reins, but Murtach’s voice stopped her.

  ‘What of the council—is it yet over?’

  She checked, irritated. ‘No. It continues, and will for another day or so at least. Your Warbutt and his son prove intractable, though their own lords disagree with them.’

  Murtach cocked a brow. ‘Indeed? But then there are strange bedfellows about in these times, are there not?’

  She whitened, and Riven saw the knuckles bunch on her riding whip. But then she jerked her horse around savagely, and wheeled off with her escort in pursuit. The Ralarth ’Wares grinned at her receding figure, but Murtach was sombre.

  ‘The council goes on too long,’ he said. ‘There is something here that smells bad.’ And he led them in a weary canter down to the Rorim.

  THEY ENTERED THE Circle by the South Gate, the Hearthware lieutenant Dunan greeting them as they arrived, and walked the tired horses with their injured riders up alongside the Rorim’s stream to the Inner Circle, and the Manse with its blue pennants snapping in the brisk wind. There were many people about working at the common land between the walls, and more than a few seated outside the few inns they passed. Everyone acknowledged the Ralarth ’Wares and Myrcans with nods or bows, and someone, recognising Ratagan, swung him a tankard of beer. He drained it at a draught and threw it back, the dark mood that had kept him silent from Ivrigar falling away.

  They rode through the market, with its gaudy awnings and crammed stalls, its pens of bawling sheep. Many of the pens were empty, however, and the shepherds who lounged on the rails there had a hopeless look. The big horses shouldered passersby aside, for which Murtach courteously apologised, and the wounded ’Wares, bloodstained and tired, drew stares from everywhere. There were concerned looks from burly matrons, and longing admiration from boys.

  They caught a brief glimpse of the struggling figures on the practice grounds, the clash of their weapons on the wind. Then they entered the barbican of the Rorim itself, and clattered on the cobbles of the Inner Court where Riven had battled Giants. They came to a halt before the doors of the Manse and grooms ran out to take their horses, unarmoured Hearthwares helping their comrades from the saddle. Bicker was there, looking as tired as if he, and not they, had been riding and fighting in the past three days. And Madra was with him, the worry clear on her face a hundred feet away. Her eyes ran over the company for a moment, and then she turned away to go inside again. Riven and Ratagan exchanged a look, and Riven realised that the big man knew everything. Ratagan thumped his shoulder lightly, a crooked smile playing in his beard.

  ‘Women, eh?’

  And they shared a laugh, dismounting together in the clatter of the crowded court.

  LATER, AS NIGHT crept over the Rorim, they met in Riven’s room and shared a few pitchers of ale. Guillamon and Bicker were there, as well as Ratagan and Murtach, and Isay took up his usual post at the door. Fife and Drum sprawled contentedly on the floor. There was no sign of Madra, Riven noticed with a pang, and the beer was brought up to them by a serving maid he did not know.

  Well done, Riven; another good deed done.

  They sat savouring the malty brew for a while, with the darkness silent outside the windows. Both Bicker and Guillamon were preoccupied and frowning, and Ratagan’s attempts at jokes fell flat.

  ‘How is Aelin?’ Guillamon asked hopefully at last. Murtach shot his father a warning glance, but the big man merely shrugged, his deep eyes becoming shrouded by the overhanging brows.

  ‘Much as she was before. And so am I. There is no profit to be made there, Guillamon, not any more. I wish my friends would take that to heart. And my mother, also.’ He sipped at his beer. A savage look flitted across his face and was gone.

  Guillamon grimaced. ‘Fair enough.’

  They fell silent again. Murtach had already told Bicker of the fight at Ivrigar, and a strong patrol was being sent out in the morning under Ord. There were reports of other attacks to the north and west, but still no word had come in of Lionan or Mullach, and Murtach’s patrol had not sighted them. They and their forces seemed to have vanished from Ralarth.

  ‘But these talks, Bicker,’ Murtach was saying. ‘Why do they continue so long? Why does Bragad not give in? What does he hope to gain?’

  The dark man looked harassed. ‘He has the support of three of Ralarth’s lords—a fair foothold, I would say. Theoretically they should follow the lead of the Warbutt if he commands them; they are his vassals. But you know, Murtach, that in the past the Warbutt has waived a point when a majority of the lords were against it.’

  ‘Not with this one, he won’t,’ Ratagan snorted.

  ‘I know, but the precedent is there.’

  ‘Well,’ the big man declared, ‘I see two lords sitting here who will not change their minds.’

  ‘The axe man and the shapeshifter,’ Murtach murmured. He appeared uneasy.

  ‘Bragad wants the pair of you present at the council. It is one of the reasons he has been delaying us these three days, I think,’ Guillamon put in.

  ‘He thinks he can change
our minds?’ Ratagan asked derisively.

  ‘I don’t know. He wants to canvass every one of Ralarth’s lords.’

  ‘He is killing time,’ Bicker grated, ‘and I would like to know why.’ No one answered him. Ratagan refilled their flagons from the pitcher on the table.

  ‘One more day,’ Guillamon said. ‘Two, perhaps. Then we’ll give him another feast and send him on his way.’

  ‘And maybe have a word or two with the more bothersome of our lords,’ Murtach said darkly. ‘I’m thinking it’s no bad thing that we’ve Druim training a militia and extra Hearthwares for us. A small show of strength might be called for, to teach men like Marsco who is overlord in Ralarth.’

  Guillamon nodded. ‘The very thing he feared he may well have brought upon himself anyway. We cannot have the lord of a place such as Ringill intriguing with the likes of Bragad.’

  ‘Or Bragad’s lady,’ Bicker added, and he darted a look of apology at Riven. Riven said nothing. He was becoming used to the idea that Jinneth was not Jenny, that Bragad was not Hugh. But it reminded him of what he wanted to say.

  ‘I’ve been here in Ralarth a fair while now,’ he began, and the others stared at him. ‘There are things and people here who were in my books—whom I created, in a manner of speaking. There are people here from my own world who have somehow been translated into Minginish. And there are people, places, history in this country I’d never even guessed at, though I sometimes feel I know them anyway.’ He met their eyes steadily. Fife and Drum lifted their heads off their paws and seemed to sniff the air.

  ‘It is here, in Ralarth, that the thing begins—here that the main characters come from, just as they did in the book. But it doesn’t end here, and the answers will not be found here in the Dales. I’m sure of that now. Staying here, I’m just the target for further attacks, with the Rorim between me and what’s trying to kill me. But the story has to move on.’