Imorren’s entourage scuttled uncomfortably behind her as she strode along the passage in the lower reaches of the Jyolan building. Senior members of the Kyrosdyn Order – mostly elderly Higher Brothers – were used to her normally measured and careful progress and were having the greatest difficulty coping with her now rapid and determined step. There was certainly no question of maintaining the stately dignity that typified their escort duties about the Vaskyros. But then, many things had disturbed the Order’s long-established proceedings that day – rumours about Rostan being involved in a street disturbance, even stronger rumours that he had committed some dreadful folly resulting in his solitary audience with the Ailad – not a special thing in itself, but it had been keenly noted that he was both immaculate and palpably nervous beforehand, and untypically flustered and edgy afterwards. Then suddenly, pandemonium erupted, or what passed for it in the strict, regimented life of the Kyrosdyn. The secret ownership of the Jyolan was to be transferred to Barran. Like insects disturbed by a plough, the Order’s clerks and scribes had been sent scurrying between the Vaskyros and Barran’s city headquarters bearing hastily drafted contracts and agreements to implement this. Barran was also to be discreetly helped to organize a Loose Pit that same night – this had prompted even more frantic scurrying. And the newly found creature, its existence known only to a few, was to be used. Rippling through the Order, news of this in particular carried silence in its wake as each of the naturally obsessive and conspiratorial Kyrosdyn paused to ponder the intentions of their subtle and enigmatic Ailad. The normal work of the Brotherhood came almost to a complete halt and the Vaskyros was alive with whispered questions. But the Ailad had sought no advice, and no overt questions would be dared. Her commands were not to be debated. Obedience was all – obedience and efficiency.
And her will had prevailed. What she had demanded had come to pass. And insofar as any of the Kyrosdyn could pretend to know her mood, it was known that she was pleased. Not that this lessened the Kyrosdyn’s collective curiosity, but it did enable them to take solace from their faith in the rightness of the Order and its leader.
Thus it was too, that no hint of complaint or question arose from the escort bustling along after Imorren.
Accompanying, and discreetly supporting the less steady were several of the Vaskyros’s unliveried bodyguards, while two carefully groomed Pitguards walked on either side of Imorren. They had been given the task of leading the Ailad along the complicated route, but it seemed from the outset that they were not needed. At each branch and junction – and there were many – Imorren continued in the correct direction without hesitating.
Thug turned businessman and aspiring diplomat, in common with most of Barran’s senior aides, one of the Pitguards attempted a courtesy to break what was becoming an unnerving silence.
‘You’re familiar with the Jyolan, Ailad?’
There was no reply, but a tap on the shoulder and a shake of the head from a large bodyguard precluded any further attempt at conversation.
Finally they came to a wooden door. The same Pitguard, anxious now to atone for his apparent error, hurried forward and opened it fussily. Imorren stepped through, signalling the others to wait.
‘Close the door,’ she said, without turning.
It swung to with a dull thud.
Lamps were hung at random about the vaulted chamber where she now stood. They threw hazy shadows between rows of squat stone columns, but their light seemed to make little impression on the heavy darkness. As the sound of the door echoed and faded, there came the soft rustle of someone moving. Imorren turned towards it and a tall figure emerged from the shadows. He stopped in front of her then slowly went down on one knee and lowered his head. Imorren rested her hand on his shoulder.
‘Keeper, you did well. Leave us for the moment.’
There was a hesitancy in the man’s posture. ‘Have no fears,’ she said, almost maternally. ‘What danger could I be in?’ She motioned him to stand and indicated the door.
The man bowed and left the chamber.
After he left, Imorren stood for a while in the silence, her head moving slowly from side to side as if she were testing the air for an elusive perfume. She pulled back the hood of her robe.
‘Come,’ she said. ‘Don’t be afraid.’
The silence descended again. Imorren waited, motionless, showing no signs of impatience. Indeed, she was smiling slightly.
‘Do you think to hide from me?’ she said, as to a child.
There was a sound, delicate, like grains of sand sweeping across a windy shore, and out of the shadows from which the Keeper had emerged came the creature that had ended the Jyolan’s first Loose Pit.
Head lowered, it moved directly towards Imorren, stopping in front of her as its Keeper had done, without command. She crouched down and took its ugly head between her hands.
‘You too did well, blessed one,’ she said. Yellow eyes met hers. She stroked the creature’s head. ‘How long is your line?’ she said softly to herself, a hint of wonder in her voice. ‘How long have your kin roamed the depths, keeping alive His memory, waiting for Him to come again?’ Slowly it closed its eyes and opened them again, as if wilfully accepting her authority. She gripped the coarse hair of its neck and bared her teeth. ‘Would that you’d returned but a few years earlier – been with His armies when the enemy came against Him. They’d have scattered like scalded ants before you. And you’d have seen the weakness in His erstwhile lieutenants, wouldn’t you? Hollow vessels that they were. No ancient loyalties, old familiarities, would have blinded you to their inadequacy.’ Her mouth curled into a vicious snarl – feral and cruel in the yellow light. The creature tried to pull its head from her hands as if afraid, but she held it firm.
The mask of her normal face returned. ‘But these things are not for our questioning. It was His will that I left Him, and who can say why you came so late? And the past is the past. His wisdom in these things is beyond our judgement – who can say what stratagem is afoot? For He is with us yet, is He not? This city is His place. Beneath the clutter and clamour of the creatures who infest it for the moment, His presence lies firm and whole, deep in its ancient foundations. He is strong here. And His will reaches out to us. How else could you have sought out your Keeper and come to us? How else could Rostan have been so used?’
She hugged the creature’s head tightly. A low rumbling came from its throat and she laughed in response. It was a cold and desolate sound that darkened the vault where true laughter might have lightened it. Her voice fell to a whisper, and she spoke quickly, almost excitedly. ‘And He will be with us again soon, blessed one. More and more my dreams are filled with the true form of the Vaskyros – stronger, clearer each time. Perhaps the Anointed will complete its shaping to open the Ways. Perhaps…’ She stopped. Speculation was pointless. The Way of the Anointed was, by its very nature, unforeseeable.
But she could not remain silent. ‘You saw him, didn’t you? As did I. Glowing like a beacon of hope, high up in the darkness above the arena. And I feared that he might be lost.’ She laughed again. ‘He was drawn to us. He will bind himself to us more tightly than any bonds I could make.’ She stopped again, struck by something. ‘And perhaps more. I hadn’t thought such a thing possible, but…’
Agitated, she turned away from the creature and looked into the darkness. She was herself again when she looked back. Her voice became a whisper again as if the words she was about to speak might overwhelm her. ‘Could he prove to be more than a guide?’ She drew in a long, tense breath. ‘Once, I’ll swear, I felt His eyes upon me, His presence around me again.’ She wrapped her arms about herself then stood up and began walking down one of the aisles, as if the thought would be too much, contained in a motionless frame. The creature moved silently by her side. ‘I was right to seize the moment – to follow the wild rushing that Rostan had unleashed – to bring you out into this noisy world, so full of richness for you.’ She stopped and began stroking the creature again. ‘Soon, the Anointed will be truly ready, then…’
She grimaced and put her hands to the sides of her face as though to crush her head. As, earlier, she had discovered the human frailty of anger within her, so now she felt elation. It was no less despised.
She blazed inwardly. There had been such learning this day! And re-learning! Learning that she was still flawed, that she must ever beware the clinging power of her humanity with its treacherous emotions lying always in wait to bring her low – contaminating her, marring her for His work. Learning again that she was but His servant and that His ways were not to be questioned or doubted – her faith must be absolute. Learning again that the power she had seized and accumulated in this city of powerful people, great though it was, was as nothing to what would be.
The elation faded, unnoticed amid her greater lusts.
The creature whimpered. ‘We must be patient, blessed one. Our travails are nothing to His.’ She knelt down by its side and draped an arm across its shoulder. ‘But you were patient tonight, weren’t you?’ she said. ‘You waited and waited, and played their foolish games. Then you were deprived of what was rightly yours. Your prey was snatched from you.’ She became uneasy. The creature was no threat to her, she had more than enough Power to control it, but the Keeper had indicated concerns even though he had not voiced them. The creature was a unique instrument of His will, a memory of His crafting in the Great Age when His Power had spanned the world. It would be foolish of her to imagine that she fully understood it, and perhaps reckless of her to use the Power to control it. There was no telling what damage might be done. Then, slowly, strange, vivid images of the final encounter in the arena began to seep into her mind.
The creature was touching her in some way!
And she knew.
Though it showed no signs of distress, the antics of its three victims had served to rouse the creature without satisfying it. Its need suddenly filled her, leaving her at once exhilarated and starkly cold. It was not good that the creature was struggling against whatever forces were restraining it. As with people, the best control was had by fulfilling needs, not denying them.
She tightened her grip about the creature, holding it close. It did not resist.
As with the Anointed, she would have to have faith. Faith that His servants need not be bound by doors and chains, for they could do no other than follow her as she followed Him.
‘Go down beneath the city,’ she whispered, picturing in her mind the labyrinthine tunnels that underlay the city. ‘To the place above that you came from. Seek out a victim – sate your need. You must be whole. Return.’
The creature bent its forelegs and lowered its head as it had to Pinnatte in the arena. It made a strange mewling noise then drew its head back and let out a low, trembling howl. It was not loud but it was such as Imorren had never heard before and it struck right through her. In others, she knew, it would instil the deepest fear, but to her it was more a hymn of affirmation – this creature was indeed a harbinger of a new age. Nevertheless, her skin – all too human – crawled in response. The lamps seemed to flare at its touch, and as the howl echoed around the vaults it was as if the whole chamber were breathing a long sigh of recognition and delight.
The creature walked away from her silently and vanished into the darkness.
Imorren rubbed her hands down her arms to quieten her rebellious flesh. Then the presence of the creature was gone. As with every other chamber in the Jyolan, many passages joined this cellar, passages that plunged far beyond the confines of the building itself.
It was an ancient building.
He was moving through the darkness, powerful confident limbs remembering their honing at the other end of the long darkness. Scents assailed him, old and familiar, rich and heady, feeding the need that drove him and drawing him on. And there were sounds too, distant and distorted, as though they were being carried on a buffeting wind.
Then he stopped and dropped low, listening, feeling. Ahead was prey. All around was prey. And no danger! An expectant shudder ran through him, culminating in a low, rumbling growl. He began to crawl forward.
What…?
He was here and not here – two things – two minds…
He did not belong!
The thought made no sense. Thoughts did not belong. Hewas. This was the way of things.
And the noises disturbed. And the lights, hovering, watching…
But he crawled on, sensing every movement in the air about him, every crack and flaw in the ground beneath him so that as he crawled, even he could not hear himself.
The scents that filled him drew him forward – and repelled. And the thoughts – no, the sensations – that flooded in their wake, were ecstatic, unspeakable.
Protest. ‘No!’
Noises. And lights. They hurt.
‘Did he say something?’
‘He’s been making all sorts of queer noises.’
Soon there would be prey near. A low growl to warn it, to make it flee – and then the chase, terror growing as it flew, etching a luring trail through the swirling air, on and on, screaming.
Good.
‘Pinnatte!’
The sound crashed in on him, forming about him – giving him shape – tearing him free. The dark images fell away from him like a fouled cloak. And the dancing lights began to come together – hovering ovals.
Faces.
‘Rinter?’
His own voice ran achingly through his head.
‘You gave us a fright. Thought you’d been really hurt when that gate burst open. Are you all right?’
Pinnatte made to push himself upright but a hand stopped him. ‘Lie still.’ It was a woman’s voice. He tried to turn to her, but his head protested painfully and the room began to sway.
‘I said, lie still,’ came the voice again, authoritative. The hand returned, immovable. ‘I don’t think you’ve had anything more than a nasty bump, but you’re going to have a fine headache for a while.’ Moving more carefully, Pinnatte managed to turn to his physician.
She was a middle-aged woman. Quite tall, he thought, though it was difficult to tell from where he was lying. She was certainly no frail thing, judging from the determination in the hand restraining him. Most striking however, was her face. She had been handsome once, he thought. Not beautiful – handsome. At the same time he realized there were more important things he should be considering, but the thought enticed him. Now, though there were lines of care etched into it, the dominant impression the face gave was one of strength – great strength – the kind that only a woman can possess and which comes when she has stood alone against all troubles and then pressed on into and through the darkness.
‘Hello,’ he said weakly.
She looked at him intently for a moment then, apparently satisfied, took hold of his hand and began examining it. ‘Hello, yourself, young man,’ she said while she was doing this. She frowned.
‘It’s only a graze,’ came a man’s voice from somewhere behind her. She made no response but motioned to someone to bring a lamp closer, then raised Pinnatte’s hand close to her face.
‘Nasty,’ she said, very quietly. She shot a quick inquiring glance at Pinnatte as if expecting to see something she had missed. ‘It looks almost like a crystal stain.’
A large, heavy individual eased her to one side and a battered face bent down to examine the hand curiously. ‘You worked in the Thlosgaral, lad? In the mines?’ he asked, returning the hand to the woman. His expression was a mixture of puzzlement and concern.
‘No,’ Pinnatte replied. ‘Never been out of the city.’
The man shook his head. ‘Couldn’t be,’ he said emphatically. ‘Look at him. He’s a bit skinny, but he looks fit enough. He’s a Den-Mate or I’m a donkey – city through and through. Half a day’s walk from here and he’d be lost. There’s no way he’d learn to do that or even get the opportunity, for that matter.’ He looked at the hand again. ‘Besides, it looks almost green to me. No one but a lunatic would do that.’
The woman looked doubtful. ‘Yes,’ she began, ‘but…’ She shrugged. ‘Couldn’t be, as you say.’ She stared at the hand pensively. ‘Still, I’ll put some drawing salve on it. It won’t do any harm, and the cut needs cleaning anyway.’ She lifted a loose cloth bag on to her lap and, after some fumbling, produced a small jar. ‘Long time since I’ve needed this,’ she said, wrestling briefly with the lid. Then a clean, pungent smell assailed Pinnatte and she was liberally pasting something on to the back of his hand.
A violent burning ran up his arm. With it, powerfully, came the knowledge that he must not allow this to happen!
He gave a loud yell and tried to snatch his hand back, but the woman was too strong and the action simply drew him upright. The pain in his arm was replaced by an even greater one in his head which suddenly felt as though it were about to burst. He slumped back, banging down on a cushion that was serving as a pillow and making the pain in his head even worse. He could do no other than lie still and moan until the pounding began to ease. As it did, he became aware of laughter around him. Very hesitantly he opened his eyes. Even his nurse was smiling a little.
‘Some hero,’ someone was saying. There was more laughter.
‘The ointment will deaden it for a while and draw anything out that shouldn’t be there,’ the woman said. ‘It’s old-fashioned, but it’s good.’ She was bandaging his hand. The burning had stopped now and the hand felt cold. Still he had the feeling that this should not have been allowed, but it was much weaker now – and the tightening bandage was reassuring.
Cautiously he looked slowly around as far as he could, without actually moving his head. Apart from Rinter, the woman and the big man with the battered face, there were Pitguards milling about. He was lying in a room which, unusually for the Jyolan, had a plain, flat ceiling and four straight walls. It retained however, the Jyolan’s long-neglected appearance, walls and ceiling being decorated with anonymous stains and peeling paint.
The Pitguards were coming and going at the far end of the room, attending to some kind of business with a man sat at a table. Almost all of them looked across towards the small group and one or two came over to look at Pinnatte curiously.
The events that had brought him here returned to Pinnatte as his vision continued to clear and the pain in his head settled into a comparatively tolerable throb. After a little while, he began to feel not only at ease, but very pleased with himself. He had no idea what had prompted him to clamber over the crowd, but it had turned him into an object of some admiration by men of whom he stood in awe. Even though his thoughts were occupied almost totally with his present circumstances, a small part of him was registering the fact that the esteem of these people could prove very useful in the future.
‘You’d be best advised to rest for a while,’ the woman said.
‘I don’t think I can do anything else,’ Pinnatte replied. ‘Is it all right if I stay here for a while?’
‘Stay as long as you like, lad,’ the big man said. ‘Barran will see you get more than a bed for what you’ve done. A few minutes later opening that gate and there’d have been a lot of people killed for sure.’ He shook his head. ‘We’d have been up to our necks in Prefect’s men, Weartans and lawyers for months, all looking for their share. Business would’ve gone to hell. As it is, it’s only half a dozen or so got killed. We can soon pay them off.’
Pinnatte had little idea what the man was talking about and just looked at him blankly.
‘This is Fiarn, Pinnatte.’ It was Rinter. ‘I told you about him earlier. We were talking to you when you passed out.’
Despite his general weakness and confusion, Pinnatte’s thoughts soared. Meeting Fiarn was worth even more to him that the goodwill of a score of Pitguards. He lifted his bandaged hand to take Fiarn’s. It was still cold and although he saw Fiarn’s fist envelope it, he could feel nothing. It was as if it no longer belonged to him. He left it hovering for a moment when Fiarn released it then tried to move his fingers. Nothing happened.
‘It’s the ointment,’ the woman said, sensing his concern. ‘I told you, it deadens. You could chop a finger off and not feel it. Don’t worry, it’ll be back to normal in a few hours.’
Fiarn nodded knowingly. The woman thrust the jar and various bandages back into her bag and spoke to him. ‘I’ve done all I can here. I’ll get back to Barran downstairs and see what I can do there.’
Somewhat to Pinnatte’s surprise, Fiarn’s posture in front of the woman was politely deferential, as though she were in some way his superior. He even bowed slightly when she left. The impression was confirmed when she signalled to the Pitguards and they set off after her.
‘Who was that?’ he asked when she had gone.
‘Ellyn, Barran’s wife,’ Fiarn replied, looking at him in some surprise. ‘You’re lucky she was here. She knows a lot about wounds.’ He pulled up a chair and sat down. ‘Now, young man.’ He waved a hand in front of Pinnatte’s face. ‘Are you with us?’
Pinnatte blinked in lieu of a more hazardous nod. ‘Yes, I think so,’ he said. ‘But I wish she’d put some of that ointment on my head.’
Fiarn laughed and slapped his shoulder, both actions shaking Pinnatte bodily and making him wince. Fiarn did not seem to notice. ‘Barran was impressed by what you did – that’s why he got Ellyn to look after you. I told you, you saved us all a lot of problems, and he’s known for paying his debts. He’s busy now, tidying up the mess, otherwise he’d have been here himself, but he’ll speak to you later. In the meantime he’s told me to talk to you – see whether there’s anything we can do for you.’
Rinter, standing slightly behind Fiarn, gave Pinnatte a massive, knowing grimace. It was not necessary, Pinnatte was sufficiently recovered to appreciate fully the opportunity that was being presented. He opted for honesty.
‘I’m a Den-Mate,’ he said. ‘Cutpurse, mainly – and good at it. Work on my own, or with a team, it doesn’t matter.’ Both men instinctively checked their belts and pockets. Pinnatte raised a hasty hand. ‘I never worked the Pits, though. You can ask the Pitguards about that – the old ones, that is.’ Fiarn was watching him narrowly now, but was secretly pleased that his own estimate of Pinnatte had been correct. Pinnatte looked at him squarely. ‘It’s not enough. I want more. Could I work for Barran?’
Even as he heard himself speaking, he could scarcely believe what he had done. So blunt, so direct. What was he doing here? How could his whole world have changed so utterly in one day? He felt suddenly disorientated, as if at any moment he might wake to find himself lying in his old room at Lassner’s and this all a vivid dream.
But though looking doubtful, Fiarn was nodding. ‘That, I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Barran picks his people very carefully. But he might be able to find something for you. I’ll tell him. Who’s your Den Master?’
‘Lassner.’
‘I’ve heard of him. What can you do apart from steal purses?’
‘What do you want?’ Pinnatte put his hand to his head and frowned. His head was not hurting particularly but he contrived this small piece of theatre to distract Fiarn from answering the question.
It worked. Fiarn stood up. ‘You take it easy for a while. I’ll have to get back downstairs and help now you’re all right. I’ll ask Barran about you when I get the chance, but be prepared to ask for something else if he says he can’t use you.’ He leaned forward. ‘And don’t argue with him if that’s what he says. He’ll look after you for what you’ve done – he always looks after those who look after him – but he doesn’t tolerate fools or impudence. Do you understand?’
‘Yes,’ Pinnatte said, with a careful nod.
When Fiarn had gone, Rinter took his chair. ‘If Barran can’t use you, I’ll try to help you find something,’ he said. He drew his hand across his mouth. ‘It won’t be the same, of course, but I owe you more than he does. I’ve never been so frightened in all my life. As soon as you’d climbed up those two in front, the whole crowd just tightened around me.’ He hunched his arms tight into his sides and shivered. ‘And when you dropped out of sight…’ He hesitated. ‘I thought for a minute you’d just saved yourself… run away. I’m sorry.’
Pinnatte was beginning to doze off. ‘It’s all right,’ he mumbled. ‘I don’t know what I was thinking myself. Just the little lad’s face… had to do something…’
He was asleep.
And he was moving through the darkness again. Only this time, it was different. This time, he was who he was, and… what?
Deep, animal urgings filled him as they had before, drawing him on. They were both repellent and desirable, but where before they had been a measure of him, now something was keeping him apart from them, something cold and heavy. Yet he was bound to them. He could not escape. He must go wherever they led. Be a part of whatever happened.
On through the darkness he was carried, following the strange trails that he knew and did not know. Then there was stillness. His nostrils filled with an ancient perfume.
Prey was near, very near.
An image formed, vague and unsteady in the gloom, yet etched vividly by his other senses. It was a man, sitting on the ground, leaning with his back against a rocky wall. He was asleep.
Prey was chosen.
Something fearful was about to happen. Pinnatte began to struggle. But to no avail. He belonged here. This was his destiny.
No! he shouted out, though no sound came.
He tried again. His cry became a low rumbling growl – not a warning, but an announcement. The figure stirred and Pinnatte was aware of bleary eyes searching into the darkness. He was drawn nearer. The growl came again and something from within, something that was at the heart of his purpose, reached out and touched the man.
The bleary eyes were suddenly wide and terrified. Beneath them, a mouth formed into a gaping hole. Ancient memories consumed Pinnatte – an endless, overlapping line of such sights – filling him with desire.
Then came the screaming.