by Paul Kearney
The landlord swallowed. ‘No offence was intended, sir, I assure you. It’s just that in these times...’
‘What times?’ Riven asked him with a snap. He was suddenly tired and the beer was going to his head, making him think of Madra lying in the house they had left, and of the long journey ahead of them through the mountains. He wanted no more adventure at present.
The landlord’s eyes flicked to the dirty remnants of the Teller’s badge on Riven’s breast. ‘Forgive me. I see you have come far, gentlemen.’ His voice steadied. ‘It is just that we are wary of strangers in the city these days, with so many folk seeking safety behind the walls, and the... the Sellswords flocking to Sergius’s banner, whether the Duke condones it or no. There are so many of them in the city at present, and you are armed...’ He trailed off again.
Bicker sighed, and flipped a few coins on the bar. ‘Intrigue. Politics. Have we not enough problems?’
‘They say the Hidden Folk have come out of the mountains and attacked the Rorims to the south, in league with the beasts,’ the landlord whispered confidentially. ‘There are rumours that the Rorims have been overrun.’
Bicker and Ratagan leaned on the bar, eyes blazing.
‘Who says this?’ Bicker demanded.
The landlord quailed. ‘It is a rumour—no more, sir. Some people fleeing from the south brought the news with them.’
‘What people?’ Ratagan asked, his red beard bristling.
‘I don’t know. Nobles. A lord, or a lady. Some say the Duke has a new bedfellow—a southern lady. I don’t know.’
Bicker swore viciously. ‘Jinneth.’
‘A coincidence, maybe?’ Ratagan suggested, but the dark man shook his head.
‘It is her, I am sure of it. Talisker may not be a healthy place for us. I think it is best if we leave as soon as we can.’
Jinneth. Here. Riven felt somehow that it was fitting—Jenny’s facsimile had come ahead of them. He remembered the black foam of hair, the grey eyes, the ivory shoulders with torchlight playing on them, and grimaced. No profit lay in that line of thinking.
A new bedfellow.
Oddly the thought still writhed within him—the thought of other men using the body he had loved himself, being given wholesale what he had been offered as an inestimable gift.
It’s not the same.
But it writhed within him, nevertheless.
The door of the tavern banged open and a crowd of men entered with rain sheening their steel helms and the mail shirts under their cloaks. They looked rough and ready. They were unshaven or bearded, and dressed in leather and woollen breeches that were held together by scraps of hide with remnants of furs decorating their cloaks and the rims of their helms. Each had also a band of black linen with a white stripe running through it, tied round their upper arms, wound round their helmets or dangling from their sword hilts.
‘The Free Company,’ the landlord said in a whisper.
The newcomers spread out across the floor of the tavern, whilst customers dodged hurriedly out of their way. None of them spoke, but Riven could feel their eyes taking in the strength of the group—Ratagan’s size, Bicker’s wiry frame, Corrary’s longsword and Isay’s staff. They looked at each other, but still none said a word. Finally one of their number stepped forward. His black hair curled under the edge of his helmet and fell to his eyes, and there was a gap between his teeth.
‘Who are you and whence come you?’ he asked in a harsh rasp. Ratagan stiffened and Isay brought his staff up into the ready position with a small, bleak smile adorning his face. But it was Bicker who responded.
‘Who wants to know?’
The gap-toothed mercenary frowned. ‘I ask the questions here, and you answer them. I say again: who are you and where are you from?’
‘Who gives you the authority to disturb honest men having a beer?’ Ratagan asked reasonably, his metal tankard grasped in one vast fist. He grinned. ‘Would it not be better if you were asking us such questions with a beer in front of yourself and the taste of it warming your throat? We could go about it in a friendly manner, then—like people who have just met. Would that not be better?’ Abruptly, his fist tightened and the tankard crumpled in his grip like clay. Behind him, the landlord backed away as far along the bar as he could.
Riven became exasperated. It’s like the fucking Wild West.
‘We’re from the south,’ he said in the cracking silence. ‘We’re fleeing the beasts from the mountains. We came here seeking refuge.’
The mercenary leader’s eyes did not leave Ratagan’s. ‘Where in the south?’
Riven blinked, and shared a glance with Bicker. The dark man shrugged slightly. ‘Ralarth Rorim.’
The gap-toothed man nodded grimly. ‘Then you will come with us.’
‘Where?’
‘To where we will take you.’
Ratagan threw the buckled tankard on to the stone of the floor with a clang, making the mercenaries jump. He was still grinning, but there was no humour in his eyes.
‘Now this is hardly a courteous way to welcome visitors to your city. Why not explain to us why we must perforce accompany you, and where to and suchlike, and mayhap things will be a little clearer. That is the way for civilised men to behave, surely.’
‘We are in the employ of the City Council,’ the mercenary leader said in a strangled tone, ‘tasked with the policing of this city and the investigation of all unusual strangers—especially those from the south and the southern Rorims in particular. Does that satisfy you?’
‘Almost entirely,’ Bicker said. ‘You have investigated us, and now you can go. We are staying here to finish our drinks.’
‘You will come with me.’
The dark man smiled. ‘I think not.’
The mercenary looked them up and down once again, saw the almost joyful light in Isay’s eyes, and then glanced at his own men behind him. There were five of them, and they appeared none too happy at the prospect of battling a Myrcan.
‘I will return,’ he snarled. ‘And when I do, you will do my bidding.’ Then he spun around and strode out of the door, his men following after without a word.
Bicker groaned. ‘Isn’t life difficult enough without Sellswords on our backs?’ He spoke to the others. ‘Time to leave. We’ll go to... where the others are. It is not a great idea for us to be split up at this time.’
‘It isn’t. Talisker may not be too healthy for the likes of us at the moment, I’m thinking,’ Ratagan said.
‘And I’m thinking we need a talk with Finnan’s healer friend,’ Bicker told him. ‘Come.’ And they filed warily out of the tavern in his wake.
The street was busy as they made their way to Phrynius’s house, and they had to push folk aside to make headway. The crowd was shouting and gesticulating, parents lifting children on shoulders to keep them out of the crush, fists punching the air, workmen’s tools being waved like weapons.
The company had to halt as it became impossible to make any progress through the press of bodies. They stood in a tight bunch and craned their necks to see what was causing the commotion. It was Ratagan, with his great height, who saw first, and outrage and fury flooded his eyes.
‘What is it?’ Riven demanded of the big man.
Ratagan growled deep in his throat. ‘Something I had thought the people of this land had done with. You’ll see, soon enough.’
The roadway had cleared, the people packing themselves against the wall of the buildings that lined it. Armoured men were pushing the crowd back with the shafts of their spears. They were mercearies, wearing the black and white linen bands of the Free Company, but there were two or three others in full Hearthware armour who seemed to be in charge. Around their waists were black and white sashes, and swords were naked in their hands.
A ragged and halting procession made its way down the street, and the voices of the crowd rose into a single roar. Spittle flew into the air and hit the cobbles. A surge of people had to be thrust back by the Sellswords. Ri
ven stood on tiptoe to try and see what was going on.
A group of people was being alternately shoved and pulled down the roadway, the shafts of Sellsword spears hastening them on their way. Their clothes were in tatters, and there was blood on their limbs. When they stumbled, a spear shaft was poked into their ribs.
There were both men and women there. The women were only half-dressed, and clutched rags in a pitiful attempt to cover themselves, but a grinning mercenary ripped away the scant tatters of one girl to send her sprawling nude on the cobbles. The crowd was delighted, and the Sellswords again had to push back those who tried to lean forward and seize her. She scrambled to her feet, sobbing, and continued on her way with her arms clamped around her breasts.
‘What is this?’ Riven asked in a daze.
Ratagan did not look at him. ‘This is the clearance,’ he said, his voice vicious with anger. ‘The Hidden Folk are being sought out once again, and driven from the city.’
Riven shook his head. This was not the world of his books. This was not the land he had created. There was something terribly wrong here. Beside him, Ratagan was quivering like a nervous horse, his eyes on fire under the bristling brows, his hand clenched on the shaft of his axe.
‘Ratagan!’ Bicker said in a warning voice, and he reached across Riven to set a hand on the big man’s arm.
A young blonde woman who had tripped against a Sellsword was shoved by him and sent flying across the roadway. There was an audible crack as her head connected with the cobbles, and the mercenary swore and drew his foot back to kick her. There had been something familiar about her, Riven realised.
‘Ratagan!’ Bicker shouted. But the red-beard had already let out a roar of fury, and launched himself forward.
Oh, shit. Now we’re in trouble.
There was a desperate look on Bicker’s face, though Isay’s eyes were, oddly, as bright with anger as Ratagan’s had been, and the Myrcan staff was out of his belt and cocked in his fists. Corrary’s face was white, eyes blazing.
The big man powered forward like a train, flinging people out of his way as though they were dolls, that terrible roar coming from his throat. The mercenaries on the street looked up for one moment, eyes wide, and then he was upon them.
There was a confusion of bodies, a wave of pushing and shoving as the crowd recoiled. Riven was almost plucked from his feet, but Isay kept him upright. The air thickened with screaming. He pushed forward frantically, and together with Bicker, Isay and Corrary managed to force a path through the scrum to the roadway.
They almost tripped over the body of a Sellsword, his neck tilted at a weird angle; and then saw Ratagan. He towered over his foes, and was flailing at them two-handed. One fist gripped his axe, the other a mercenary sword, and together they wove a silver net of carnage around him. Already bodies littered the ground at his feet, but the mercenaries were pressing in and he was backing away, the mad fury still burning in his eye, but something else there now as well: a realisation of defeat.
Two Hearthwares, huge in their armour, lumbered over to join in the fray. Bicker cursed, then he swept out his sword.
‘Ratagan!’ he yelled, making it into a battle-cry, and he pelted forward.
Isay followed, his staff upraised. To his surprise, Riven found that he had joined them, and Darmid’s sword was naked in his hand.
The two Hearthwares turned to meet the new foes, but Bicker’s blade had already slid into the throat of one, and Isay’s staff had split the skull of the other like a bruised apple. They crashed to the ground.
The four ran on, and the Sellswords became aware that they were being attacked in the rear. They split and retreated, Ratagan following them without respite. Riven held back as Bicker, Corrary and Isay piled into them. The crowds were peeling away from the fight in terror, and most of the ragged people of the procession had disappeared, been engulfed. The blonde girl lay as motionless as a corpse on the ground, a thread of blood ribboning her temple. Riven started towards her instinctively, but halted to check on the battle.
It was all but over. The last of the mercenaries were running, flinging away their weapons as they went. At least half a dozen of their comrades lay on the ground behind them.
Bicker spoke first, his eyes alight with anger.
‘You damned fool!’ he shouted at Ratagan. ‘We’ve got to get away from here—now! There will be Sellswords crawling these streets in minutes.’ He paused for breath. ‘You fool!’ he exclaimed again.
Ratagan said nothing, though fire still smouldered in his cavernous eyes. He dropped the mercenary sword, tucked his axe in his belt and then strode over the cobbles to the unconscious girl. He lifted her into his arms and straightened swiftly.
‘Come on, then,’ he said quietly, and began to jog down the bloody street. The crowd of people who remained there stared at him as though he were a ghost. No one hindered him.
The rest of the company followed, Bicker’s face ugly with ire. Behind them they heard horns blowing the alarm in the upper city, but did not look back.
FOURTEEN
EVEN LUIB’S NORMALLY impassive face seemed dubious when they returned to Phrynius’s house bearing another injured girl. They piled in through the narrow doorway, breathing hard, and Corrary sighed audibly with relief when the door was closed, cutting off the curious stares that had been following them through the streets from the scene of the fight. Bicker’s eyes were hard with worry, however.
‘They’ll have no trouble trailing us here. We do not have much time. Take her to the old man. Isay, Corrary, guard the door.’
They clattered into the dim chemical-smell of Phrynius’s main room to find Finnan feeding Madra a bowl of soup and the old healer muttering over a thick tome in the corner. Madra smiled at Riven as he entered, but he could not return it. He was angry with himself for the sudden stab of jealousy that had pricked him on seeing Finnan there.
The river pilot’s face lost its usual mocking cast as Ratagan bent to lay the blonde-haired girl on the thick rug by the brazier. The big man gazed at her for a second, and pushed the blood-matted hair from her face. It was then that Riven saw the resemblance that had tugged at him earlier. The girl was so similar to Ratagan’s wife that they might have been sisters.
Phrynius put down his book with a thud and made his slow way to the centre of the room.
‘We have brought you more trouble, Phrynius,’ Bicker said. ‘There has been fighting. We have slain Sellswords, and doubtless they will be able to trace us here.’
Finnan swore. ‘What in heaven did you want—’
But Phrynius cut him off. ‘You know what to do, Finnan. I want the usual things.’ He had knelt down on the floor, creaking and hissing with discomfort, and was now examining the wound on the girl’s head. Madra made to get up and help Finnan in the kitchen, but the old man stopped her with a glare. ‘You are a patient yet, not a nurse, so bide where you are.’ And she sank back down on the couch.
They could hear Finnan swearing to himself as he clattered pots in the kitchen, but paid him no heed. Phrynius appeared unperturbed by the thought that a dozen mercenaries might break down his door at any moment, and Bicker seemed irritated by his composure.
‘Did you hear what I said?’ he asked. ‘We will have the city around our ears at any moment.’
Phrynius looked up, the dark eyes like black stones set in his head. ‘I heard you. I know also these things: first, the people of this part of the city will not aid the Sellswords in their enquiries if they can help it, for there is no love lost there. Second, this is not the first time I have had people in here who were fleeing Sergius’s men. The Hidden Folk of this city know me, and know what I am.’ His old, lined face hardened. ‘They know also who I once was—personal physician to the Duke. Once upon a time, that is, but it still carries some weight here. And third, there are ways out of this house that cannot be seen by anyone but me, of which these mercenary scum know nothing. So seat yourself, and do not hinder me at my business for a while.�
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The sharpness of his voice was at odds with his appearance. The withered, disreputable man had suddenly been invested with startling authority, and Bicker sat down wordlessly. Riven joined him. Ratagan kept his post at the senseless girl’s head. His huge paws enveloped one of her hands, but Phrynius did not tell him to move away.
Finnan came in with a basin of steaming water, and the old healer began washing the blood away from his patient’s face. There was silence in the room. Riven glanced at Bicker, and could see that the dark man expected the Sellswords to be hammering on the door in moments.
‘How long has this been going on?’ Ratagan broke the quiet unexpectedly. The old man did not pause in his work.
‘I assume you mean the clearance. There have been rumours of it for weeks. Folk have been unsettled by the wreck of the seasons and the attacks of the beasts, as well they might be. It beggars my understanding. The Hidden Folk have been leaving the city quietly since it began, but now it seems’—he gestured to the prone girl—‘they have little choice in the matter any more.’ He paused, and then real venom seeped into his voice. ‘It is the fault of that she-wolf from the south, the Lady Jinneth. She holds the Duke’s heart in thrall. He was never a strong man, but he was at least swayed by the more sensible members of his council. Now—’ He shrugged his thin shoulders. ‘Now he has gone to ruin in the space of weeks, and these men of Sergius’s are seen more on the streets than our own Hearthwares or Myrcans. Some say the Myrcans have withdrawn entirely to their barracks—certainly they have not been seen in the streets lately—and that they are considering what to do.’ The healer’s eyes darted suddenly to Luib, the grey-muzzled soldier who stood silent to one side.
‘Your folk were ever ones for weighing up the moral niceties of things before acting. It remains to be seen what side you will choose.’
The Myrcan did not reply. On the floor, the girl stirred. Her fist tightened in Ratagan’s, and then her eyes opened wide in fear. But Phrynius shushed her with a gentleness that was as much part of him, and as odd to see, as his sharp-tongued authority.