The Way to Babylon (Different Kingdoms) (19 page)

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.

I
T 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.

This is all real, as real as me. I am inside it, breathing, touching, tasting it.

But how?

Brief snatches of physics he drew before his wandering mind, but nothing resembled an explanation. He was not in some well-disguised pantomime. The people were real.

For some reason he remembered Gwion, the Steward, and felt an absurd pleasure at recalling the character from his books. The same. The same, by God, down to the fussy manner and the beaming smile.

I know these people.

Something like logic hovered just out of his grasp as he recalled the night before, the faces of Ratagan and Murtach vivid with wine and candlelight. He had the sense of recognition, almost of deja vu; but it was hopeless for his conscious mind to try and batten it down, to draw lines around it.

He lay in the bed. His feet became warm and he breathed in the beautiful, impossible air; and something like a smile appeared on his face, so that for a moment he looked like a boy.

Soon after there was a tap at the door, and a young girl entered carrying a tray. She kept her eyes on her burden as she came in, but darted a quick glance at him to wish him a good morning. Riven wished her one back, again conscious of his scarred face.

She set the tray on the table and began arranging the breakfast things. ‘My name is Madra,’ she said shyly. ‘Ratagan told me to bring you your breakfast, sir, and ask if’—she smiled involuntarily—‘if your head is on speaking terms with your stomach. He says you will find him in the hall later, if you have a mind to go there.’ She straightened. ‘You had better eat before it gets cold.’ Then she went out, closing the door behind her.

Riven got up and dressed swiftly, bolting the steaming porridge and buttermilk that was breakfast, and leaving his room straight afterwards. He wondered what Bicker was doing, then remembered Murtach’s hot eyes from the night before.

‘It
is
something out of a book—your book.’

My book. Maybe. But there’s more to it than that.

The Manse was a maze of panelled corridors and sudden windows, stairs and arches, doors and alcoves. Riven met several of the attendants on his way to the hall—or, at least, he assumed they were attendants. And once he passed a blue-sashed Hearthware who was so lost in thought he did not even notice him.

A shout of welcome told him that he was at last in the right place. The hall was empty except for Ratagan and a short, spider-thin woman who stood beside him, dressed in rich, dark wool and with many rings on her fingers. The big man sat by the firepit with a jug at his side, whittling a stick. The only sound was the rain on the high windows.

‘Michael Riven! Madra tells me that you are alive and well this wet morning. I thought you might like to provide an injured man with company.’

The eyes of the woman switched to Riven then. They were dark and bright as a bird’s, uncomfortably sharp, but the deep worry lines around them dimmed their effect.

‘Indeed,’ the woman said. ‘So this is the Teller from the foreign land beyond the sea.’ Her voice was as reedy as a young girl’s. ‘Will you not introduce us, Ratagan?’

The big man seemed chagrined. ‘Of course. Mother, you know who Michael Riven is.’ He flapped one large hand, his whittling knife flashing as he did. ‘This is the Lady Ethyrra, my mother.’

Riven bowed awkwardly, unsure what to say or do. The woman nodded primly, the grey in her hair plain against the darkness of it.