The Way to Babylon (Different Kingdoms) (25 page)

Riven took his place beside Ratagan in the upper end of the crowded hall, and met Bicker’s welcoming smile from where the dark man sat on one of the high seats. The Warbutt occupied the other; his robe was the mirror of Ralarth Rorim’s pennant in colour, and was trimmed with gold. The old man’s head was bare, but there was a golden torc about his neck and he held in his blue-veined hands a rod of white, silver-trimmed wood. On the Ralarth side of the hall, Riven could just make out Udairn standing with the dark, diminutive form of Ethyrra, Ratagan’s mother, beside him. And Dunan the Hearthware lieutenant was there also, his sister Mira at his side, with her eyes fixed on Bicker. Nearby was Gwion, looking harassed and no doubt wishing he were somewhere else, overseeing the preparations for the feast that was to follow; but Ygelda towered impassive and serene beside him, her copper hair ensnaring the light of the torches.

Someone squeezed his hand, and he knew it was Madra. She did that, to gain his attention. She was on his other side.

‘You look like a Ralarth lord,’ she whispered.

He shrugged, smiling back absently. Perhaps he did, but he did not feel comfortable with the illusion, for reasons too innumerable and tenuous to voice.

Riven made a game of trying to recognise Ralarth’s lords from the descriptions his companions had given of them. Marsco was easy to pick out, half a head taller than anyone in the hall save Ratagan, his eyes like icy fires in his weathered face. His cheeks were hollow and ruddy, speaking of much hard exercise in the open air. He was clad in a doublet of black, close-fitting moleskin so smooth it looked like velvet. His sword hung at his side, slim-bladed and basket-hilted, unlike the heavy long swords Riven had seen most other warriors in Minginish carry. A circlet of silver glittered at his temples. Riven met his blue eyes and saw them widen slightly, speculating. Then he had to look away, cursing himself.

Behind Marsco were Lionan and Mullach, the two lords who had accompanied him into the Rorim that morning. Mullach was a low-browed dwarf of a man with a vast nose and a black moustache that curved in black tusks past his chin. His eyes glinted like flints lodged under an overhanging crag, and there was a battle hammer tucked like a pistol into his belt sash. Someone to watch, Bicker had said—someone who would abandon a year of intrigue in a moment of mindless violence. Riven could believe it. There was strength in his knotted shoulders and corded forearms. He thought that even Ratagan would have difficulty there.

And Lionan, beside him. Mullach was the hammer, and Lionan was the rapier. He was tall and thin as a young willow, with a spray of red-gold hair wreathing his head like a halo in the light of the torches. His skin was as fair as a girl’s, his Adam’s apple bobbing like a cork in his throat. Had he been a woman, he would have been pretty. As it was, he was disturbing, his fine hazel eyes hooded over by heavy lids, the eyebrows almost invisible. He was new to power, his father having died a year previously. He was latching on to the rising star he saw in Marsco, gleaning glory from his coattails. How had Ratagan described him? A white-fingered lady’s maid. But Bicker had told him that Lionan was one of the finest swordsmen in the Dale. His weapon, a reed-thin rapier, had claimed more than one life in duels.

Yet again, Riven marvelled at the things and the people he was witness to. He could stand here and pick out a dozen of his characters without turning his head. Mullach had been a brigand, a bandit who robbed travellers of valuables and women. And Lionan had been a court dandy, sweet-smelling and murderous. Strange to see them transmuted into other roles. But not unfitting ones, he thought.

And then he saw the woman.

She was raven-haired, grey-eyed, dressed in black. A silver fillet adorned her flawless brows, and she took a place beside Marsco like a brittle flower.

She was the woman of Riven’s dream, his dead wife’s double.

Oh, Christ.

He poked Ratagan with a frantic elbow, and the big man turned quickly.

‘Who is she?’

‘Who?’ Ratagan peered into the buzzing throng, puzzled.

‘Her—the woman beside Marsco.’

Ratagan clicked his tongue in chagrin. ‘Aha. You have seen her. That, my friend, is—’

‘Jinneth.’ He remembered. God help him, he remembered. It had been a joke at the time, a high-hearted prank to put his wife into one of his stories, to make a great lady of her. And so she was here, in this hall with him. Jennifer who had become Jinneth.

Mother of God!

But in his books she had been unmarried, unattached.

‘She’s married to Marsco,’ he said dully. But Ratagan shook his head.

‘She is the wife of Bragad, here out of courtesy; and to prove the peaceful intent of his mission.’

‘No one told me,’ Riven choked.

Ratagan frowned, and looked at him closely. ‘You are troubled, Michael Riven. What is amiss?’

Riven could feel Madra’s concern at his other side, her hand on his shoulder. He gritted his teeth.

‘Nothing. Forget it.’ Forget it.

So she was Bragad’s wife. Somewhere there had to be a logic to the way this world was unfolding.

There must be a reason.

But he was damned if he could fathom what it was.

He stared at her like a hunted animal, unable to tear his eyes away. She felt his gaze, and her brows drew together slightly. They met in the middle. When their eyes locked, she stiffened momentarily, then half smiled and looked away, dismissing him. He felt a surge of irrational rage, his fists bunching helplessly. But then it flickered out, leaving him sick and empty.

Nothing is sacred.

The double doors at the end of the hall opened with a bass groaning of wood, and the hubbub in the hall fell to a church-like whisper. The hundreds within turned as one to watch the entry of a group of men sashed in scarlet and green as they made their way up the aisle to where the high seats dominated the end wall.

They were led by a stocky black-haired man who walked easily with one hand on his sword hilt. He was clean-shaven, short-haired, and had the bearing of a blacksmith or a sergeant major. Or a war leader. His scarlet tunic sat well on his broad shoulders.

‘Bragad,’ Ratagan whispered. Riven gaped.

‘Hugh!’ he breathed.

His editor; the man who had been midwife to his stories when the world was young. He belonged in a London office, dressed in a suit that never looked at ease on him, smoking foul-smelling cigarettes.

He walked past, never giving Riven a glance, but drawing a wide smile from Jinneth, his wife.

Riven thought he might be going insane. He swayed where he stood, and only Madra’s support kept him from stumbling backwards.

‘Are you all right?’ she demanded urgently, but he could not answer. He could only stare at Hugh-Bragad’s back with fury and despair running circles in his brain. He seemed to hear Hugh’s voice from a long time ago
: ‘You know how I felt about her, Mike. I adored her. She was a bewitching woman.’

She was my
wife
, damn it!

But he stood still, shaking Madra’s hand from him, ignoring Ratagan’s anxious glance. His sword pommel was a cold globe in his palm.

The embassy had reached the foot of the dais on which the high seats rested. The men halted, their boots booming on the boards of the floor, and bowed. Bicker and his father inclined their heads in answer.

It was Bragad who spoke first, irritably. The Warbutt had greeted him as a suppliant, not an equal.

‘To the Warbutt and the lords of Ralarth and its Rorim, greetings.’ His sweeping arm took in the occupants of the high seats, Guillamon and Udairn, who stood beside them, and the rest of the lords who clustered near the head of the hall. ‘My lords, I am Bragad, ruler of Garrafad Rorim. Here with me is Daman, sister’s-son of Mugeary, lord of Carnach Rorim. I speak for both of us here, for we are of one mind in this matter, and our strength counts as one strength this day.’ He paused, emphasising his last words. ‘I bear a message from our two Rorims, to be heard by all who are willing to listen in Ralarth. Have I leave to deliver it?’ There was irony in his smile. Bicker was frowning, but the Warbutt remained impassive.

‘Deliver your... offer,’ he said mildly.

Bragad turned to address the crowd running down both sides of the huge hall, and there was complete silence.

‘I say this,’ he declared loudly. ‘We of Garrafad and Carnach have seen our people slain, our flocks slaughtered or driven off, our crops ruined by a witch’s winter, our homes levelled by the marauding beasts. Carnach’s very heir has been slain. This cannot go on. Since the seasons have returned to their proper order, the summer has followed on with unnatural speed. Autumn will soon be upon us, with no richness of harvest to stave off the arrival of the winter that will follow—the second winter in half a year. There is sorcery abroad in the land. Evil magic has brought us to the verge of famine.’

Riven saw Murtach’s face darken with anger, and he exchanged a look with Guillamon, his father.

‘This cannot be allowed to continue, or the land and its people will be ruined,’ Bragad went on, his voice ringing in the silent hall. ‘Garrafad and Carnach have combined, because two fists strike harder than one, and friends may give each other what aid they can in a time of need such as this. The Dales must stand together through this thing, help each other and bring succour to their peoples. We must root out the source of this ruinous magic, and destroy it. We must drive the spawn of the mountains back to their old haunts so we may live in peace again.

‘I come here asking this: I ask whether the Warbutt may consider joining Mugeary and myself on this crusade, so that the western Rorim may act as one. United, they will prevail against these present troubles; divided, they are sure to falter. Let comrades fight shoulder to shoulder to rid the land of evil, and when it is conquered, let them remain comrades, united by the cause they fought for. Thus may the Dales Rorim survive and prosper.’

Bragad bowed to the assembled people, and then to the high seats.

The Warbutt stood up. ‘You have conveyed your intent admirably, my lord Bragad. It will require much thought and discussion to answer your offer. I trust that you will remain to expound it in more detail, and while you do, you will avail yourself of the hospitality of this Rorim. You—lord Daman of Carnach, and your Hearthwares—are welcome here as guests for as long as it takes Ralarth and her lords to consider what you have said. And I trust that, this evening, you and your party will join our folk in a celebration to mark your visit.’

Bragad bowed deeply and said he would be honoured, then turned and left the hall with the rest of his party behind him, their empty sword scabbards slapping their calves. Only lords and Ralarth’s ’Wares wore their weapons in the Warbutt’s presence: another reason for the scrutiny Riven was now being subjected to from various corners of the hall. He was obviously not a Hearthware, since he wore no armour, and yet he had a ’Ware’s sash about his middle and bore a sword. Was he a lord, then? He could feel the questions in the eyes of Ralarth’s other lords, and he could feel the eyes of Jinneth, also, which he could no longer bring himself to meet. He was sick of surprises, sick of being stared at. He wanted to be left alone for a while.

The crowd milled about the hall, a steady stream leaving through the end doors as attendants came in and lifted the timbers from the fire pit, readying the place for the feasting that evening. It was very warm with the press of people there, and Riven thought of the bothy with an instant’s wistfulness, corrected the next instant.

Bicker came over to them with a frowning Murtach in tow.

‘A pretty piece of rhetoric,’ he said. ‘Those lords he has not already won over will see him as the very soul of reason. I foresee a difficult few days.’

‘I liked the part about sorcery and magic,’ Murtach said lightly, but his eyes were glowing amber in the torchlight. ‘Perhaps friend Bragad would like to taste some magic himself.’

Ratagan laid a hand on the little man’s shoulder. ‘Don’t trouble yourself. He casts about for scapegoats, is all. Bragad is the kind of man who likes to show results, even if they are the wrong ones. There’ll be no witch hunt in Ralarth, whatever may happen.’

‘And no combining of Rorims, whatever Marsco and his friends may have to say,’ Bicker went on. ‘That black-garbed temptress has him in her pocket, it’s plain.’

‘Swords and magic are not the only weapons,’ Ratagan rumbled.

He glanced at Riven. ‘Maybe it was not such a good idea to have the Teller here in his finery. I saw more than one set of eyes stray to him.’

‘Bragad’s lady will have her hands full servicing the needs of her lord and his allies,’ Murtach said, flickering with dark laughter. ‘The Teller at least should be safe enough from her wiles.’ And he looked at Madra with something surprisingly like bitterness.

But Riven suddenly seized a fistful of the shapeshifter’s tunic with his good arm, yanking him forward. His eyes blazed into Murtach’s astonished face. Then, as quickly as it had come, the anger left him. He let go, shutting his eyes.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry.’ There was no way to explain.

The four stood looking at him for a few seconds amid the hubbub of the hall.

‘There is something behind this you are not telling us,’ Bicker said quietly.