The Way to Babylon (Different Kingdoms) (26 page)

Riven shook his head. ‘Not now, Bicker. I need some air.’

‘Later, then,’ the dark man said. ‘After the talks there will be this afternoon. Before the feast.’

‘I want a horse. I want to get away from the Rorim for a while. Can it be arranged?’ Riven asked.

Bicker raised an eyebrow in surprise. ‘All right. Isay will—’

‘No. Alone, Bicker. On my own. I won’t go far.’

Bicker regarded him appraisingly. ‘Very well, then. Do not leave the Circle alone, however.’ He paused. ‘Can you manage a horse with that arm?’

‘I’ll manage. I’ve had worse.’ And he stalked away with their stares following him, their claims upon him pinned between his shoulder blades.

TEN

A
UTUMN WAS COMING.
He could feel it in the bite of the breeze, the faintly golden light of the afternoon. Summer seemed to have flitted by in a space of days. His shadow was strewn off to his right like a capering phantom as he kicked his steed northwards from the walls of the Rorim towards the ever-rising hills that surged out of the Dale into a heather-thick rampart of blue and purple heights beyond.

The Circle was almost empty of people. Most, it seemed, were in the Rorim itself or its environs—crowding the inns that squatted at its foot, making merry to mark Bragad’s visit. Hugh’s visit. Hugh and Jenny.

Christ.

He passed flocks of sheep and herds of cattle, and his mount nickered at other horses running free upon the common pastures. But the grass was stripped nearly bare now, and what was left was yellowing and cropped. There were houses of stone and thatch dotted in thorps and hamlets throughout the Circle, but there were also newer dwellings of hastily thrown up sod walls and heather roofs. And there were practice grounds where the Dalesmen were being taught to fight. He turned away from them, and rode onwards to where the Circle began to grow more empty to the north, and soon there was only the long bar of the outer wall between him and the hills.

Somewhere out there a facsimile of Jenny roamed, mute and afraid. And in here was her double—a black-garbed temptress, as Bicker had said.

What the hell was going on with this place? What is happening here? There were no answers, just agonising riddles he could not solve. Sourly, he wondered who would be next to pop up out of his former life. Doody, maybe—that would be a laugh. Or Anne Cohen—

He reined in the horse suddenly as an idea dawned on him. One that had gone even as he groped for it. Nurse Cohen...

No. Gone.

He cursed, and spurred his long-suffering mount onwards again.

W
HEN HE REACHED
the Outer Wall, he halted and dismounted, his cracked bones shouting at him. He grunted with annoyance and sat down in the sparse grass with his back to the worn stone and let the meagre sun warm him. It was quiet there; his horse grazed contentedly, its reins trailing on the ground. He pulled his awkward cloak about his shoulders and closed his eyes, emptying his head of preoccupations.

Autumn was not a bad season. There were gales, of course, but the bracken turned the mountainsides to copper, and there were mellow days scattered through it, like summer flotsam set adrift in the waning half of the year. The sea would start to roar at night, and the curlews would be hurled down the glen like dun-coloured bullets. That was a time for peat fires and firelit talk, with the wind a symphony to set stories to. Autumn on Skye.

‘Hello, stranger.’

He opened his eyes to see Jenny there, with a horse at her side, and he smiled. The sun picked the deep brown tints out of her hair and made her skin like honey. She raised her eyebrows and returned his smile, but there was something about it, something—

He scrambled to his feet, throwing his cloak aside and hissing at the stiff pain of his collarbone.

‘What are you doing out here?’ he demanded, his voice shaking.

Her smile faded. ‘I had thought to ask you the same thing. I felt like going for a ride, and when I saw you take horse, I followed, seeking companionship. It is not welcome, I see.’

He stared at her, mouth set in a bitter line. This world would not leave him alone, it seemed.

She went to remount her horse, but he stepped forward.

‘No. Wait.’

And she halted, turning to him.

‘Do you know me?’

She seemed puzzled. ‘We have met before?’

His eyes bored into her, glittering, searching her face. But no. He bowed his head, teeth clenched.

‘No. You don’t know me.’

She came forward, arm outstretched, palm down. ‘I am Jinneth, wife to Bragad of Garrafad...’ He supposed he was meant to kiss her hand, but he did not move. He was frightened of touching her.

Her arm dropped and she frowned, the dark brows crowning her eyes. ‘Wherever you are from, courtesy is not one of your virtues,’ she said tartly.

‘I don’t belong here,’ he answered at once, stung.

She stared at him. ‘So you are not of Ralarth, then.’ And she smiled again. ‘And what are you? Lord... or Hearthware? You are no lord of Ralarth that I know of—and I know them all. But you are no Hearthware either, I think. You do not have the look of a warrior.’

Cheers.

She moved easily towards him, and he would have backed away but for the stone wall against his shoulders.

‘You have not yet told me your name, stranger.’

‘Michael Riven.’ He thought for a second, just an instant, there was something there, something in her eyes like a flicker of uncertainty, but it was so brief he was unsure if he had imagined it.

‘Michael,’ she said, testing the word. Her accent was strange. It was not the way his wife spoke. Had spoken. ‘A strange name. Are you from the north? From the cities, perhaps?’

He shook his head dumbly. He could smell the fragrance of her. Her nearness dizzied him. ‘You’re not my wife,’ he whispered.

Her hands caressed his cheek, brushed his beard, and he froze. ‘Why so stiff?’ she asked. ‘You are as tight as a bent blade. Are you afraid of the wife of a lord such as Bragad? Be not so. We have an understanding, he and I, and I am very discreet.’

‘What do you want?’ he croaked.

‘Your eyes never left me in the hall. What have you been told of me?’

‘Nothing. I know nothing about you.’ Except what he had made into a story. Except for whatever part of her that might once have been Jenny.

‘What do you do here in Ralarth?’ Her fingers touched his neck, the knot there where the linen sling supported his arm. ‘You have been hurt. How?’

‘Fighting Giants.’

Her brow cocked. ‘So. A warrior after all, perhaps.’ The finger touched the scar on his forehead, making him flinch. ‘You are much marked by injury, some of it not so recent. Are you a Sellsword, then?’

‘A what?’ He hardly heard what she was saying. He was losing himself in the grey surf of her eyes, his heart threatening to smother him with its frenzied pounding.

‘A mercenary. A paid soldier.’

‘I was, once.’ Lieutenant Riven.

‘Ah.’ Her gaze sharpened. ‘And you are not now?’

‘No. No more.’ There were warning bells tolling in his head. This woman was not his wife, and she had not come out here to seek conversation. Wheels within wheels were moving, and he wanted no part of them. ‘I must go back,’ he said. ‘I’m expected.’

‘By whom? The frowning girl who stood by your side in the hall? She is only a child, surely.’

He pushed her aside suddenly, roughly, and saw her face grow sallow with anger, but she did not protest. His collarbone throbbed. A groan burst from his lips as he mounted his horse, and for a second the world swam before his eyes. When he focused again, she was staring at him intently. But there was no concern upon her face—only curiosity.

‘We’ll meet again,’ she called after him, but he dragged his mount’s head around without replying and kicked it into a gallop back to the Rorim.

L
ATE THAT AFTERNOON,
before the banquet was due to begin, he told Bicker, Ratagan and Murtach everything. They sat in his room whilst the wind whistled about the eaves of the Manse, and listened to him in silence. When he had finished, Bicker strode to the window and looked out at the tumbled clouds of the late day and the gathering darkness of the deserted hills.

‘I know now why you did what you did in the hall,’ Murtach said. He fondled Fife’s ears until the wolf emitted a growling sing-song of pleasure deep in his throat. ‘I am sorry.’

‘It’s nobody’s fault,’ Riven told him. ‘Except maybe mine. I should have known that she’d be here. I put her here, after all. In the story.’

‘But not in quite the same way, I take it,’ Bicker said over his shoulder.

‘No. Not quite.’

‘I should have realised myself,’ the dark man continued. ‘There was a resemblance between her and the girl wandering the Isle of Mists.’ He turned away from the window. ‘But it is not perfect. They are different, somehow. Why? Why should this happen? Two images of your wife in this land, one a wanton, the other a waif. It beggars deciphering.’

‘Guillamon’s territory, I think,’ Ratagan put in. There was a flagon of beer forgotten in his vast fist.

‘And this man you knew in your own world—the one who helped you with your stories. He is Bragad.’ Bicker shook his head. ‘My friend, no wonder you wanted to be alone this afternoon. It is enough to drive a man to distraction.’

‘Maybe Riven should not be seen at the feast tonight,’ Murtach suggested. The dark man disagreed.

‘That would raise more suspicions than it would allay. Bragad knows he is here now, that he is a stranger. There is no point in fuelling speculation.’

‘We need an identity—a harmless counterfeit for our ex-Sellsword here to cling to,’ said Ratagan. He sat a hand on Riven’s good shoulder and rocked him slightly. ‘How are you at playing a part?’

‘I’m dressed for it,’ Riven replied in a disgruntled tone, and the big man laughed. Some of the tension went out of the room.

Bicker smiled. ‘What would you like to be, Michael Riven?’

‘Well, she said I looked no warrior.’ He was surprised at the bitterness in his voice.

I was a soldier once. Once upon a time. Maybe not in this world—but a soldier nonetheless.

‘If she had seen you the night of the Giants, she might have thought differently,’ Ratagan said gently.

‘A merchant, then,’ Murtach suggested.

‘He does not know the reality of the country well enough,’ Bicker returned. ‘And besides, he wears a Ralarth sash. Whatever he is, it must be of the Dale itself.’

‘A Teller!’ Ratagan said, thumping a fist down on to the table so that the two wolves started.

‘What?’ Riven was aghast.

‘By all that’s holy, why not use your true profession? A Teller from the west come to take service in Ralarth and learn a few more tales from the Dales people. Yes!’

Bicker nodded. ‘The nail hit on the head. What say you, Michael Riven?’

‘I can’t do that. I can’t tell bloody stories any more.’

‘You won’t have to, with luck.’ Ratagan grinned. ‘Just sit in a corner and appear thoughtful. If someone asks you for a tale, tell them you’re learning the story of the Dwarf and the Firewood. It goes on for ever. They’ll leave you alone, then, in case you decide to start telling it to them.’

Bicker chuckled. ‘He speaks from experience, I fear. But, yes, I think that will suffice. I will tell Gwion to warn off our own people. Half of them think Riven is some sort of magical warrior from across the southern sea. They must be enjoined to remain silent. He is simply a Teller, come to seek new stories.’

And maybe that is not so very far from what is true.

Ratagan swigged at his beer and swallowed gratefully. Bicker rubbed his nose, deep in thought.

‘It might not be a bad notion, though, to spirit the Teller out of the Rorim soon after the feasting is over. That way he will not be bumping into the Lady Jinneth again in such a hurry. Her husband had obviously told her to find out who and what he is.’

‘None of us can accompany him without arousing suspicion,’ Murtach pointed out.