The Way to Babylon (Different Kingdoms) (18 page)

‘Twenty-six men and eight Myrcans, most of whom are stationed at the Rorim itself, cannot police the whole Dale and the hills beyond. This weird winter has destroyed every crop we have. The thaw came too late. The people are being trained in the use of weapons, since they have no fields to tend. Dunan sees to it. I intend to increase the numbers of the Hearthwares, and I have put both Luib and Druim of the Myrcans on to the training now, but we will not reap the results of that for another season at least. Trained fighters do not spring out of the ground, though these things that are closing in on the Dale seem to.’

Then the Warbutt spoke, addressing Bicker. ‘While you have been away, dozens of our people have lost their lives to the beasts, and their herds have been scattered. And shepherd has fought farmer within the Dale, bickering over the use of the land. Wolves have roamed up to the very walls of the Circle. We are becoming an island. We face famine in a few months. This place needs you more than any place beyond the door.’

Bicker flushed at once. ‘Do you doubt the importance of my errand?’

‘I have yet to see its value,’ the old man responded mildly, looking at Riven.

It was Riven’s turn to flush. He glared at the elderly figure on the high seat. Up to now, he had been transfixed by the narratives of Bicker, Murtach and Ratagan, lost in pondering imponderables, and with horror slowly dawning on him as he saw more clearly what kind of situation Bicker had brought him into—and what his own role in it might be. And gnawing under it was the knowledge that Jenny was alive, and more than likely here in Minginish. That knowledge made him want to run out of the hall, out of the Rorim and into the wolf-ridden hills to find his wife. And then he saw her eyes on him at the bothy again—empty and afraid. He could have howled with despair.

And now an elderly man whom he had created in his own book to be a pompous reactionary was regarding him with disdain.

‘Well that just fucking tears it,’ he barked. ‘Who the hell do you think you people are? You take me from my world, my own life, and you haul me into some kind of rural Disneyland, spinning tales of death and destruction—then you nearly get me killed by a dog made of wood, for Christ’s sake, and you sit down in front of me and talk about me as though I weren’t there. Well, I am here—here in your marvellous bloody world—and if I’m supposed to help you then that’s well and good, but before I do, by God, you’re going to stop treating me like a bloody child who can’t understand what’s going on. I created you people!’ He stopped.

‘I created you...’ he repeated hoarsely.

There was silence. Fife and Drum pricked up their ears attentively. Finally the Warbutt broke the silence.

‘So,’ he said, still in the same mild tone, ‘he has a tongue in his head, after all. I am glad to see it.’ The old, bright eyes met Riven’s. ‘If we have offended, you then we apologise, truly. Welcomes and courtesy are not what they used to be in Ralarth Rorim, I fear. I see you are a man, even if you are not of Minginish. Our counsels are open to you; our home is yours.’

Riven nodded, slightly.

‘But your words confirm what Bicker and Murtach have already told us.’

‘And what is that?’ Riven snapped, not yet appeased. The Warbutt inclined his head towards Bicker, and the dark man drained his flagon.

‘I’m going to talk about you as though you weren’t here again,’ Bicker said with a wry smile. Then he turned from Riven and stared at the floor, toying with his empty flagon.

‘As all here know, Riven is a Teller of Tales. In his world, he writes down stories that he has made up so that others can read them. There are so many people in his world that he cannot travel as our Tellers do, reciting their tales for a meal or a night’s lodging, or for the favour of the lord. He writes them on paper, and they travel about the land in that form—for paper is common and cheap over there—so that all can learn them whilst he stays where he would, making up more tales.’

Bicker looked up at his father. ‘Murtach and I have read these two volumes of tales, and they are about Minginish. He describes the land—the mountains and the Dales, the cities and the sea. He knows of Rime Giants and grypesh, Hearthwares and Myrcans. And he knows the people, also. We sitting here are in Riven’s stories. He tells of Murtach’s shapechanging, Ratagan’s drunken debauches—’ Here the big man bellowed with laughter and everyone smiled.

‘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

G
WION THE
S
TEWARD
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?’