The Way to Babylon

by Paul Kearney

  ‘Pah!’ he spat, taking the straw out of his mouth. ‘You are as clumsy as a pregnant cow, and as unaware of your potential. But there’s no time for that. Put the grating back, and let’s be on our way.’

  Riven did as he was told, gagging at the smell of the dank air in the sewer. They were in an arched tunnel six feet high, the walls slimy with filth, and two feet of noisome water running through it. There was the odd plop of a wayfaring rat, but hardly any other sound. The current that tugged at his knees was sluggish and thick, and he shuddered at the thought of what it was doing to the open wounds that covered him.

  He splashed down the sewer in Phrynius’s wake, following the bobbing light of the glowing straw. The arch of the roof grew lower as they continued and he found he had to stoop, though the old healer in front of him was still able to walk erect.

  ‘How far away are the others?’ he asked in a whisper, but the curved walls echoed back the sound grotesquely over the plash and gloop of the water.

  ‘Not far,’ Phrynius hissed back. ‘We go to meet friends first. Hold your noise. We are passing under the lower barracks.’

  As if to prove his point, a torrent of liquid suddenly gushed down from an opening above them, and Riven had to leap aside to avoid it. He retched at the smell, and thought he saw Phrynius’s teeth shine in a grin.

  ‘That was a privy being emptied.’ Then he had turned away, and was leading him onwards again.

  Riven saw other tunnels to his left and right as they continued. Some were as wide as roads, others low as culverts and almost choked with water or mud. There were areas of moonlight as they negotiated past gratings open to the sky, and other areas black as pitch where the crude bricks that formed the sewers had slumped and spilled outwards, leaving spaces barely big enough to crawl through. On the whole, the tunnels they followed grew narrower, lower, more full of water, and more frequented by rats. Riven felt instinctively that they were travelling deeper all the time, making their way to the bowels of the city above. He began to wonder how deep the sewers went.

  At last they halted. The narrow way they had been following dipped sharply, the filthy water rising up to meet its low ceiling. There seemed to be no way forward. Phrynius, however, seemed pleased.

  ‘Nearly there,’ he said, with obvious satisfaction.

  Riven frowned at him. ‘You mean—’

  ‘Indeed. Here we take to the water. It is only a brief submersion, though a trifle unnerving, perhaps, for the faint-hearted.’

  Riven swore.

  ‘Hold your breath for twenty seconds and strike out upwards,’ the old man said calmly. ‘You will come to no harm.’ And without further warning he dived into the black water like a wizened rat, still clutching his glowing straw. Riven saw its radiance flood the water for a moment or two; then it had moved off and disappeared, leaving him in utter night.

  He stood there dripping in the cold, stinking water for perhaps half a minute, cursing the impulses that had ever brought him into his present predicament, and then dived.

  It was very cold. The water swallowed him like a frigid womb, and he kicked out frantically, feeling his fingers scrape against the sewer walls at their farthest extension. He kept his eyes closed, not trusting to let the sewer water at them.

  And there was air on his face after only a few seconds. He sucked it in, treading water and wiping muck out of his eyes. Light here—real light, firelight; figures moving around. Two of them bent and seized his arms, wrenching him out of the water and letting him flap on to hard stone like a landed fish. He flipped the unruly waterlogged hair out of his eyes and stared.

  Phrynius was standing at the fire with a cloak thrown about his thin shoulders, his hands held out to the heat, and there were others with him. They were even shorter than he was, and they had the build of children. And their faces—

  Their noses were black and button-like, set at the end of whisker-covered snouts. Their eyes were large and deep, their ears huge and cup-like. Rodent faces. Rodent faces set on the bodies of children. Riven shook his head as two of them helped him towards the fire. He glimpsed stone walls welling up like the sides of a beehive in the flicker of the yellow flames, the ceiling lost in shadow. His goosepimpled flesh hungered for the fire. He stood shivering before it and accepted a thick, dry cloak wordlessly.

  Vyrmen. Rat-people. They lived in the sewers and ruins of Minginish’s cities. They had been his own creation, but he had never written of them. He had intended them to appear in the third book as the quest to save the land was nearing its completion.

  Maybe somebody is writing it for me. Maybe I’m just another character now.

  The thought chilled him.

  But they seemed to be friendly, at any rate. At least five or six of the diminutive figures were in the chamber. Phrynius was carrying on a conversation with one in a string of squeaks and chitters. The others were occupied with unwrapping bundled oilskins in the shadows, though Riven could see the green lamps of their eyes on him, reflecting back the firelight.

  These things were just an idea in my head. I hadn’t even got round to writing about them.

  He soaked up the warmth of the fire. Minginish was playing games with him again.

  Phrynius finished his conversation and regarded Riven once more.

  ‘Well, Teller of Tales, this is Quoy, a raider of the Vyr-folk that some name the Vyrmen. He is a friend of mine, and this is one of the havens he and his people use in their travelling below Talisker. It is part of the street system of the old city which was buried and built over by the new one. Here the Vyrmen live, hidden from the eyes of the folk above, and here they have lived for centuries.’

  Questions brimmed in Riven’s mouth, but he knew better than to ask them. And anxiety for his friends was gnawing at him like a canker.

  Unexpectedly Quoy spoke, his voice reedy and high-pitched, strangely at odds with the dark depths in his green-lit eyes.

  ‘We have located your friends, and are even now arranging their freedom. They have been imprisoned in separate cells in the upper levels of the Duke’s dungeons. As far as we can tell, none of them has suffered serious harm, though, like you, they have endured some discomfort.’

  Discomfort. Well, that’s one way of putting it.

  ‘When do we leave?’ Riven asked.

  Quoy blinked slowly, and turned to look at Phrynius. ‘He is to come with us?’

  The healer scowled. ‘Not by my reckoning. He’s in no state to be running through the sewers, and perhaps battling with Sellswords. He was tripping over his own feet on the way here. Your folk alone would be better left to this.’

  Riven swallowed anger. ‘They’re my friends. They’re in this mess because of me. I’m going with you.’

  Phrynius shook his head. ‘There is no wisdom in that course, believe me. And, besides, there is a way you can help your friends by staying here. There is someone you must meet.’

  He nodded at Quoy, and the Vyrman left them, joining his comrades at their work in the shadows. Metal glinted there, and Riven saw that they were unwrapping bundles of weapons and steel wires.

  He looked at Phrynius bitterly. ‘Who am I to meet then?’

  ‘Quirinus,’ the old man replied. ‘Now hold your tongue and try to dry out a little.’

  AFTER A WHILE, most of the Vyrmen left them to dive with thin splashes into the waterlogged exit of the chamber. They bore with them shining wires that Riven realised were garrottes, and slivers of steel that looked more like skewers than swords. Three of them remained sitting on their spindly haunches by the fire. They eyed him silently. Their hands were long and thin, the fingers covered with hair and terminating in black, sharp nails. He shifted uneasily under their gaze, and turned to Phrynius. The old man was puffing away on his convoluted pipe, steam rising faintly from his wet clothes.

  ‘How are they going to rescue the others?’ Riven asked irritably. He felt redundant and uncomfortable, but Phrynius appeared untroubled.

  ‘There are hidden p
assageways and tunnels everywhere under the city,’ he said between puffs on his pipe, ‘and nowhere are they thicker than under the Duke’s tower. His dungeons are only the highest level of the delvings that burrow deep into the hill of the city itself. Some say it was the Dwarves who began them, back in the time when woods covered the earth. No one has been down deep enough to find out, and the Dwarves say nothing.

  ‘But these tunnels and sewers will allow the Vyr-folk to travel undetected into the heart of the dungeons. And locks are no barrier to their deft fingers. Nor are Sellswords any match for their noiseless feet and the garrottes they carry. Your friends will soon be freed, and it is best not to ask of the whys and wherefores of it. Just be grateful they are on our side.’

  ‘Why are they on our side?’

  ‘Because they believe in the purpose of your quest, and they can smell the magic in you as I can.’

  ‘And this Quirinus—where does he come in?’

  Phrynius smiled. ‘Quirinus is a rare thing: a man of power who has an open mind. And he knows one of your company, apparently. He will help you to re-equip and leave the city as soon as may be, which is all to the good. There are things afoot in Talisker it would be best not to get mixed up in—games of power and prestige which have been brewing for some time, but which the arrival of the Southern Lady have quickened.’ He sighed. ‘Perhaps it is as well. There is a time of change upon us.’

  The Southern Lady. Indeed.

  After a time, when Riven had almost dried out, one of the Vyrmen began rummaging in a sack by his side. He produced thin strips of black, greasy stuff that stank of herbs and handed them round. Riven regarded one dubiously for a moment, and then began to follow his companions’ example and ate. Though leathery, the strips were surprisingly palatable. It was some kind of cured meat, and he decided against asking what animal it had once been.

  As they sat chewing in silence, the three Vyrmen seemed to suddenly stiffen. Their noses twitched and they pricked up their ears, for all the world like rats sniffing the air. A few words were exchanged in their high-pitched tongue, and then two of them left the fire to take up positions by the pool of water that was the chamber’s only entrance.

  Something broke surface with a whoop of air. A dark-haired head that whirled in the water, shaking off droplets in all directions. The two Vyrmen seized it and drew it on to dry stone; it was a man in leather armour with a long knife strapped to each thigh. He stood with the water pouring off him and, ignoring his hosts, bent over the pool once more. In a few moments another head broke the surface, spluttering. This one was bald as a mushroom, though it was barred by two thick, black eyebrows. The first man helped the second out of the water, and the cloaks which had warmed Phrynius and Riven were donated to the two soaked newcomers. The bald man ran one pale hand over his pate and laughed.

  ‘You people get worse,’ he said to the Vyrmen. ‘Have you never heard of doors?’ And then he spoke to them for a moment in their own language.

  The two joined Riven and Phrynius at the fire, the bald man greeting the healer in a voice that bounced back off the stone walls. ‘Phrynius, you old goat—still up to no good, I see. I hear you’re looking for new lodgings at the moment.’

  ‘It’s an ill-mannered sot who will gloat at the misfortune of another,’ the old man said with dignity. ‘You are as lacking in courtesy now, my lord Quirinus, as you were when I used to sew up the many hurts you suffered in your youth in your chosen profession of rake. Age has not invested you with any more decorum.’

  Quirinus boomed with laughter and sat down beside them, though his companion remained standing, his eyes watchful.

  Following Phrynius’s glance, Quirinus flicked a thumb at him. ‘Don’t mind Keigar: he worries about me in my old age.’ His gaze shifted to Riven. ‘So this is the Teller you told me of. He looks as though the Duke’s men have already been having a word with him.’

  ‘Indeed. He needs sanctuary, he and his friends, and gear for mountain travel. They must be on their way as soon as may be.’ Phrynius paused. ‘It is important, my lord.’

  Ouirinus looked at him. ‘I don’t doubt it, since the Vyr-folk have seen fit to aid him, you are homeless for his sake and the entire city garrison was put to the task of tracking him and his comrades down.’ He chuckled. ‘And a rare old time Sergius’s men had of it, if I’ve heard right. Bicker has lost none of his skill with a blade since I last saw him. And now Godomar and his dark-haired witch have Talisker in a panic with tales of disaster in the southern Rorims, and malign magicians wandering the streets. Is it any wonder the population is in turmoil, or that we are seeing innocents tossed out of the city to the beasts?’ For the first time humour fled his face, and the heavy brows made him appear momentarily savage. ‘Even my own ’Wares are affected, whilst the Myrcans skulk in their barracks and keep themselves to themselves. They refuse to police the city any more, because the goings-on here leave a bad taste in their mouths. I do not blame them. There are rumours that some of them are leaving to take up with the lords of the border fiefs and do some real soldiering.’

  ‘Which lords, I wonder,’ Phrynius said archly, and Quirinus laughed, his good humour returning.

  ‘Well, what can I do but accept their service? Besides, I need them. Whilst the nobles of the city squabble amongst themselves, we in the north are fighting for our very existence... Which brings me back to our friend here.’ The heavy-brewed eyes were on Riven once more. ‘You have the friendship of Bicker, I am told, which would make me trust you with no other token. I know that something happened to him whilst he was up in the mountains last year—something to do with you, perhaps. Something to do with what is presently besetting Minginish, for the Bad Time began the very day he said he had scaled the Staer. So what can you tell me?’ Quirinus wiped at the water which still dripped down his face, and regarded Riven patiently.

  Riven was taken aback by the bald man’s forthright manner. He looked at Phrynius, but the old man’s face was as seamed and shut as a walnut. He could feel the deep eyes of the Vyrmen on him, and the frowning gaze of Quirinus’s bodyguard.

  ‘All right, then,’ he said, and began.

  It was a long story, spanning two worlds and riddled with the inexplicable, but Riven’s listeners remained silent throughout, and Phrynius did not seem to notice that he had puffed his pipe cold. Riven told them everything, fitting Bicker and Murtach’s travels in with his own. When he had finished, one of the Vyrmen had to stoke up the fire, for it had sunk into glowing embers. The silence lingered long after he had finished speaking, until finally Phrynius sucked his pipe a last time, and then knocked it out against his boot heel. Quirinus’s brows had contracted into a single black caterpillar across his forehead.

  ‘A story, indeed!’ he said quietly. ‘You have been having a thin time of it lately, it would seem, and, hence, so have we.’ He shook his head ruefully. ‘This beggars the imagination. What say you, Phrynius?’

  The old healer paused in the act of refilling his pipe. ‘There have been rumours of other worlds for hundreds of years. Some of the Hidden Folk are even purported to have visited them, and it is said the Dwarves have discovered doors to other places in the deepest of their mines, but it is one thing to hear tales of such things and another to talk to a man who claims to actually come from such a place.’ He lit his pipe from the fire and sighed heavily. ‘I know this. I am disquietened, for two reasons. First there are the imponderables in the equation—this dark girl who is and is not our friend’s wife, as is the Lady Jinneth.’ He smiled. ‘I will no longer refer to her as a she-wolf, for it would be hardly fitting. But there is something wrong here, something beyond what is in Riven at work, and I wish I knew what it was. And then there is the other thing. I do not know if even the Dwarves have any answers to this conundrum. If they had, would they not have done something themselves by now? They are reputed to be all-wise, if a little reclusive. Surely they know what is happening to the land. They are believed to be masters of the magic that
is in the earth—but their hand is absent from this, nor do I think there is anything in them that could forestall what is happening. They may be as helpless as the rest of us, for they are inhabitants of the land even as we are. Another thing: we are told that the first clearance began in Minginish the year Riven was born in his own world. That suggests there is a deeper cause behind this link than simply his stories.’

  ‘A two-way channel,’ Riven broke in. ‘That’s what I thought it must be: a current of magic between me and Minginish. I receive pictures from this world, but in return it also receives something of me, and has done since the day I was born. I didn’t create this place. I didn’t.’ He felt a moment of vast relief. It’s not my fault, then, the killing and the destruction. There’s something more at work.

  ‘But what?’ he asked aloud. ‘What is doing it, and why?’

  ‘The Dwarves may not know,’ Quirinus said, ‘but then again, they know much. They have been here since the first mountains were raised and the Great River first began its slow crawl to the southern sea. They may be able to tell you something of the past which will solve the riddle. I certainly cannot, and it seems Phrynius, who is almost as old as a Dwarf, cannot either, so I think your party’s idea of going up into the mountains is a good one, though to be sure I am glad I will not be undertaking it myself.’

  ‘The Greshorns,’ Phrynius said reflectively. ‘The Mountains of the World’s End. It would have been hard to seek a more taxing journey.’ He glanced at Quirinus. ‘But you will help them? You will aid them on their way?’

  ‘I will,’ the bald man said. ‘I would do it for Bicker’s sake, if for no other reason. They shall find sanctuary in Armishir, and none of Sergius’s minions shall touch them there. If any of your company wish to stay behind’—here he addressed Riven again—‘then my fief shall be a home to them until they are prepared to go back south.’