‘Welcome,’ the raven said. The man started away from it violently then, crouching low, he stared blearily round at the watching diners.
‘Just a drunk,’ Heirn said casually, but nevertheless pushing his chair back so that he would be able to move quickly if necessary as Elda began to speak to the newcomer.
‘I’m not sure,’ Atlon said. ‘He looks more petrified than drunk.’
Then, Elda was leaning over the counter, shouting and pointing towards the door.
‘Go on, man, go on,’ Heirn muttered softly. ‘You’re making a mistake.’ He was narrowing his eyes as if in anticipation. Suddenly the man lunged threateningly towards Elda. As he reached the counter, Elda leaned backwards, then her right hand described a wide vertical circle and an incongruous bell-like sound filled the room as a large pan struck the man on the head. He slithered to the floor. Atlon cringed in response, as did most of the spectators, though their recovery was quite rapid and Elda was almost immediately regaled with an enthusiastic burst of applause. She raised the pan in triumphant acknowledgement.
‘Excuse me a moment,’ Heirn said to Atlon.
‘Come on,’ Dvolci said excitedly, clambering roughly over Atlon’s lap and running after the smith as he threaded his way through the tables. With some reluctance, Atlon followed him.
‘Look at this.’ Elda was waving the pan at Heirn indignantly. ‘You’re making them too thin.’
Glancing down as he stepped over the fallen figure, Heirn took the pan and examined it. He shook his head. ‘If I made them any thicker, you’d kill someone,’ he said firmly.
Elda’s mouth moued into a denial but she confined herself to a grunt and a scowl.
‘He’s all right.’
It was Atlon. During the exchange about the pan, he had been examining Elda’s victim. ‘But Heirn’s right – your pans are thick enough.’ The man confirmed Atlon’s diagnosis by groaning.
Elda nodded to Heirn who bent down and, wrinkling his nose, seized the man by the scruff of the neck. ‘Come on, my lad,’ he said, dragging him upright. ‘Out you go. And don’t pick on a defenceless woman next time.’
As he opened the door to eject the man, the noise that washed into the room was no longer that of the usual clamour of a busy street; now there was uproar. Still supporting the intruder, Heirn cautiously moved up the steps until he could see what was happening. Atlon and several of the other diners followed him.
The traffic in the street was in even greater confusion than before, for running through it, regardless of riders, vehicles, and pedestrians, were men and women as ragged and unkempt as the one that Elda had just felled. And the warm night air was full of angry voices. From where he was standing, Atlon could see a score of violent arguments, several loose horses, and at least two carriages resting on their sides.
‘What’s happening?’ he gasped. ‘Who are these people?’
Heirn shook his head. ‘I’ve no idea,’ he replied, adding softly, ‘but can you use that sword you’re wearing?’ He withdrew his free hand from his pocket. It was decorated with a heavy set of iron knuckles.
Atlon looked alarmed. ‘I can use it after a fashion, if I have to, but what’s going on?’
‘They look like Tunnellers,’ Heirn said. He wrinkled his nose again. ‘They smell like Tunnellers.’ He shook Elda’s victim. ‘What’re you all doing up here?’ he demanded.
The man, recovered now, though holding his head, yanked himself free. His eyes were wide with fear. ‘We’re not hurting anyone. Leave us alone! We don’t want to be here, but we can’t stay down there.’
‘He’s terrified,’ Atlon said. ‘He’s trembling from head to foot. Do they normally come out on to the streets like this?’
Heirn shook his head. ‘They come up to beg now and then, and they can be a nuisance. But I’ve never seen anything like this.’ He made to interrogate the man again, but Atlon laid a restraining hand on his arm.
The noise from the crowd rose and Atlon had to shout to make himself heard as he addressed the man directly. ‘What’s happened? What’s frightened you? Why’ve so many of you left your… homes… to come out on to the streets?’
The man opened his mouth several times before he managed to speak. ‘There’s something down there. Something awful. In the shadows. It’s killing people. Killing and killing.’ He clamped his hands to his ears. ‘The screaming. I can still hear it – echoing and echoing. It’s everywhere. You can’t tell where it’s coming from. Is it ahead – or behind?’ He clutched at Heirn. ‘There’s nowhere to hide. Then it howls. Whatever it is, it howls.’ He began swinging his head from side to side frantically. ‘It’s not something anyone should hear. It’s something out of a nightmare.’ Then, with two sudden strides, he was gone, lost in the confusion.
Heirn and Atlon exchanged a look but did not speak.
‘What was he talking about?’
It was Elda, standing just below Heirn on the stairs. She was hefting her bent pan.
‘I’ve no idea,’ Heirn replied. ‘It’s probably a… flood, or… foul air.’
‘A flood! After this summer?’
‘I don’t know,’ Heirn insisted, though with a hint of irritability that he did not intend. ‘Who knows how these people think – how they live.’ He put an apologetic arm on her shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, there can’t be all that many of them. Atlon and I will stay here until things quieten down. You look after your customers.’
Temporarily mollified, Elda descended the stairs ushering everyone vigorously before her. As they disappeared behind the glass doors the faint sound of ‘Welcome’ drifted up through the general din.
But Heirn was wrong. Although the first rush of people gradually dissipated, carriages were righted, horses recovered, and fights and quarrels noisily abandoned, more and more Tunnellers kept moving along the street. Their presence became like a miasma, muffling and subduing the bustling liveliness that had previously marked the scene. After watching them for only a short time, Atlon was appalled. Though he had seen many things that distressed him in the short time since he had arrived in Arash-Felloren, nothing had prepared him for the sight of so many wretched individuals. Some were obviously strutting thugs, but it needed no skilled healer’s eye to measure the pervasive weakness that typified most of them; the blank, frightened and lost expressions, and, for many of them, malnutrition verging on starvation.
‘This is awful, Heirn,’ he said soberly. ‘How can people be allowed to live like this?’
Heirn did not reply for a long time, and his voice was unsteady when he did. ‘They choose it,’ he said, but everything about him told Atlon that the comment was at best a half-truth and that Heirn knew it.
‘I’m sorry,’ Atlon said. ‘It’s not my place to offer reproach.’
Heirn’s jaw was set. ‘Yes, it is,’ he said very softly. ‘It’s everyone’s place.’
They stood in the silence for some time, then Dvolci gently whistled in Atlon’s ear. Atlon shook himself out of his dark reverie. He was already facing tasks that were probably beyond him. Fretting about the lot of the Tunnellers when he could do nothing about it was a self-indulgence he could not afford. He must concentrate on those matters that he could do something about. The decision hurt him however.
Looking around to ensure that no one in the immediate vicinity might overhear him, he said, ‘It must be that creature – the Serwulf. The damned thing’s loose.’
‘“It took me hunting. I could hear prey screaming”.’ Heirn’s voice was flat as he echoed Pinnatte’s words. ‘I didn’t really know what to think about your creature before but, bad or not, the Tunnellers make their own lives and they don’t come out except when need drives them. It must be something truly awful down there for this to happen. What can we do?’
‘I don’t know,’ Atlon said. ‘With each turn of events, things seem to get worse.’ He straightened up. ‘But they also become clearer. I can’t reach Pinnatte, and even if I could find the Serwulf and kill it – which is debatable, to say the least – what end would it serve? None. The heart of the troubles here lies with the Kyrosdyn and, thrash about as I might, that’s where I’ll have to seek an answer.’
Heirn turned to him sharply and pointed to the door below. ‘I’d forgotten in all this confusion. Did you really say you were going to the Vaskyros?’ He did not wait for an answer. ‘Are you mad? Didn’t you say they’d know about your… abilities… with the Power? Sense it in you in some way?’
‘It’s a risk,’ Atlon replied, feigning a casualness he did not feel. ‘But I should be able to hide it from them. I’ve faced worse by far. And I’m not without resources.’
Heirn looked extremely doubtful. ‘But you still can’t just walk up to the gate and start asking questions.’
Atlon thought for a moment. ‘Why not?’ he decided. ‘What else would a traveller from another land do – a traveller who was interested in the working of crystals as part of his trade, and who’d heard of the famous Kyrosdyn from far away?’
‘You’re crazy.’
Atlon’s fear balled up and threatened to overwhelm him. When he spoke his voice was hoarse with it. ‘Don’t, Heirn, please. I’m frightened enough. Just help me to do what I’ve got to do.’
‘Help you to commit suicide, you mean.’
‘No, damn it. I’ve every intention of staying alive.’ Atlon paused. ‘But just be here for Dvolci if something goes wrong. Take him – and my horse – to the road north of The Wyndering. They’ll be all right from there. Then keep an eye on what’s happening in the city and help my friends if they come looking for me.’ He gazed at Heirn earnestly. ‘Will you do that for me?’
Heirn met his gaze unhappily. ‘Of course I will, but…’
‘No buts, Heirn. Nothing that’ll weaken my resolve.’ He stared into the crowds passing by, larded now with Tunnellers, wandering aimlessly, like terrified grey ghosts. ‘I think I’d like to go back to your home now and rest. I’ll need to prepare myself before…’ His voice tailed off.
Heirn nodded. ‘Let me say good night to Elda then we’ll get back,’ he said.
As they returned to Heirn’s they passed a great many Tunnellers. Some of them were begging and were of a vicious demeanour, but Heirn’s size and determined stride kept them at bay. The majority, however, were as Atlon had noted before, sad and weary creatures, most of them looking for a dark corner to lie down in. Fear radiated from all of them.
‘A long way from their homes,’ Atlon said, half to himself.
Heirn ignored the remark. ‘There’ll be trouble if they’re still wandering the streets tomorrow,’ he said.
‘Then there’ll be trouble,’ Atlon said resignedly. ‘If that is a Serwulf loose in the tunnels, and everything we’ve heard indicates that it is, it’ll be getting stronger by the minute. No one will go back down there.’
‘They’ll get no choice,’ Heirn replied. ‘The Prefect will set the Weartans on them to make sure they do, because if he doesn’t, there’s a score of merchants that’ll turn their own mercenaries on to them once they look like affecting trade. And past experience shows that it’s difficult to confine mercenaries to what they’re supposed to be doing once they’ve banded together.’
‘From what I know about the Serwulf, I think you’ll find all these people will die where they stand before they’ll risk facing one again.’
Heirn was openly disparaging. ‘It’s only an animal,’ he said. ‘You want to see a Weartan Renewal Squadron in action. That’s something that no-one’ll stand against. The Tunnellers will be scuttling back at the first hint of one of those being let loose.’
‘I don’t know whether to hope you’re right or wrong,’ Atlon said. ‘But I fear you’re wrong. I fear you’re going to have trouble on your streets soon.’
Heirn shrugged. ‘There’s always trouble on the streets. Why do you think I carry these?’ He thrust his iron-clad knuckles in front of Atlon’s face. ‘But it’s not worth worrying about. Generally speaking, so long as you can hear it coming, you can run away from it.’
The observation brought Atlon back to his own dark concerns and the two men made the rest of the journey in silence.
That same night, with Rinter left to hover outside a closed and guarded door, a breathless Pinnatte finally met Barran. The preliminaries to the encounter were comparatively brief, Barran still being occupied with the take-over of the Jyolan and the consideration of its future. Almost all the provisional plans he had made for it in the past were being dashed aside by what he was discovering about the place, not least the Mirror Room. Though he was not by nature given to idle speculation, it still both puzzled and troubled him to learn that the Kyrosdyn had not used such a remarkable asset. As it was, he had spent more time than he knew he properly should, just sitting in the room and thinking, sifting through the innumerable possibilities that it offered for the further advancement of his power and influence within the city.
He was only a little taller than Pinnatte but his heavier and more muscular presence made him seem much taller to the young street thief.
‘You’re one of Lassner’s, are you?’ he began.
Pinnatte remembered what Ellyn had whispered to him just minutes earlier. ‘You’d be best advised to run away to another part of the city and find honest work for yourself, young man. But I can see you’re not going to pay any heed to that advice, so if you’re bent on being bound to my husband rather than being free, stand up straight and answer clearly when he speaks to you. Don’t be insolent, but do try, at least, to look him in the eye.’
Pinnatte found the latter very difficult – Barran’s gaze had crushed stronger by far than he – but he did manage to stand straight and answer promptly.
‘Yes, I am, sir.’
Barran maintained his stare, looking up and down Pinnatte as though he were a piece of furniture he was contemplating buying. Then he sat down behind a desk and, after a brisk but impatient search, retrieved something from one of the drawers. He dropped it on to the top of the desk. It was a small money bag. Without lifting his wrist from the desk, he unlaced the bag with one hand and emptied out the contents. It was an unexpectedly dexterous movement and particularly caught Pinnatte’s attention. Coins glittered in the lamplight, one of them rolling a little way, another spinning on its edge. Barran casually stopped the rolling coin but let the other spin. Pinnatte watched as the coin turned imperceptibly from a spinning sphere into a quivering disc which seemed to stretch time itself as it gradually rattled into a distant silence. A silence which filled the room.
‘You did well yesterday, Pinnatte,’ Barran said, breaking it. He leaned forward and began pushing the coins around idly while still watching Pinnatte. ‘Apart from saving me a great deal of difficulty with the Prefect’s people and the families of those who’d have been killed, there were friends of mine in that crowd.’
He turned one of the coins over. Though he had been trying to meet Barran’s gaze, Pinnatte had been unable to keep his eyes from the money. The coins were large and he knew exactly what they were, even though he had never actually handled one. Despite trying to concentrate on what Barran was saying, he had done a quick calculation and worked out that there was more money on the desk than he could look to earn in three or four years – good years at that.
‘I won’t ask you why you did it – I shouldn’t think you know, really. It’s enough for me that you acted when everyone else was panicking. It’s a trait I value in my people. A good battlefield trait.’
Pinnatte started at the word ‘my’ and remembered to stand straight again. With a swift gesture, Barran spread out the coins. There were nine in all. Pinnatte increased his estimate to five or six years. ‘I can give you these now and you can go on your way with my thanks,’ Barran said off-handedly. He threw a smaller coin on to the desk. ‘Or you can work for me and get one of these a month.’
‘I’ll work for you, sir,’ Pinnatte said, without calculating and without hesitation, though he added quickly, ‘If Lassner will release me.’
Barran’s expression was unreadable.
‘I’ve little call for street thieves, Pinnatte. What else can you do?’
Suddenly on the point of tumbling into abject panic, Pinnatte was rescued by an inspiration. ‘I can learn, sir.’
Barran looked down at the coins, then swept them up and, again using only one hand, dropped them back into the bag and tightened the lace. He stood up. ‘You enjoyed the Loose Pit last night?’
It took Pinnatte a moment to register the question. ‘Very much, sir. Exciting. I’ve never seen anything like it before.’
‘And the Jyolan – what do you think of that?’
Pinnatte’s eyes lit up. ‘I’d never seen anything like that either. It used to be just… another hall… dismal really. But last night it was alive.’ The elation he had felt the previous night began to return.
Barran looked at him intently. ‘Would you like to work here?’
Something leapt inside Pinnatte. He was filled with a sense of something growing, blooming. ‘Yes,’ he said eagerly.
Barran continued looking at him, then reached a decision. ‘Come with me,’ he said.
Pinnatte was vaguely aware of Rinter trying to catch his attention as he followed Barran out of the room, but he could only keep his eyes fixed on his new master. As they walked along, Pinnatte wanted to dance and shout, to seize Barran’s hand and thank him profusely. At the same time he was castigating himself for such folly, reminding himself that Barran had not actually said he would employ him yet, and that he was a dangerous and much-feared man who must be watched and listened to very carefully at all times. He reminded himself also to mention his bond with Lassner again. Too open a disloyalty to a previous master was unlikely to endear him to the next one.
Eventually they arrived at the door to the Mirror Room. Barran unlocked it and ushered Pinnatte inside. For the first time since he had rushed, gasping for breath, into the Jyolan, he felt a frisson of alarm as Barran followed him and closed the door. He had been alone with this powerful man at their first meeting, but there had been guards by the door and he had been aware of people moving to and fro outside. There had been no safety in that, he knew, but here there were no guards, no people pursuing their business – no one. Indeed, Pinnatte realized, he had not seen anyone for the past few minutes. This entire part of the Jyolan seemed to be deserted.
‘Push that panel to one side.’
Barran’s businesslike voice cut across Pinnatte’s half-formed fears. At first he did not understand the command, then Barran motioned him towards the decorated timber panel and indicated what he wanted with a wave of his hand. It took Pinnatte some effort, but after a brief struggle the panel creaked aside to reveal the mysterious mirrors.
Pinnatte took a step back and looked at the uneven rows uncomprehendingly. Then he bent forward and examined one closely. ‘That’s a picture of the arena,’ he said. He made to wipe the dust from the mirror, but a sharp ‘Don’t touch’ from Barran snatched his hand away and made him turn to see what wrath he might have brought down on himself with the carelessness. Barran however, impassively indicated that he look at the mirror again. As he did so, two figures moved across the scene.
Pinnatte gasped and stepped back in alarm. Barran’s hand arrested him.
‘These are the Eyes of the Jyolan, Pinnatte,’ he said, maintaining his grip. ‘This is an ancient building, full of things that perhaps couldn’t even be built today. Precious things, that must be tended carefully. Tending these will be your task until I get to know you better.’
‘I’ll do whatever you ask, sir,’ Pinnatte said, trying to affect a man-to-man attitude, but failing. The sudden movement in what he had taken to be nothing more than a picture had shaken him badly. Only Barran’s grip on his shoulder had stopped his hand from circling his heart in the old sign of protection. The grip tightened. It was not painful, but Barran’s hand felt heavy and immovable – it was not something to be disputed with.
‘Clean this room, make it more comfortable. Then polish each of these mirrors. I’ll show you how to do it – it needs care. Each morning, come to me, wherever I am, for the key. See that all’s well here, and return the key to me. No one else is to enter this room under any circumstances. No one is to be told about it, it is no one else’s concern. Should anyone ask you about it, you will tell them to speak to me.’
The hand became heavier and Barran’s voice became softer. ‘Understand, Pinnatte. This is no slight thing. The trust I’m placing in you is greater than you know. How well you do this task will decide what happens to you next. If you do well, there’s a good fortune waiting for you. Should you disappoint me…’
The conclusion was unspoken and the grip was gone. A reassuring pat replaced it briefly but there was a menace in it that no amount of threatening and abuse could have conveyed. It brought home to Pinnatte what he already knew about Barran, albeit only by repute. Now, as the soft impact of the pat on his shoulder vibrated through him, he felt it. He had developed ways of coping with Lassner over the years, but even he could present problems – and Barran was no Lassner. Barran would support and protect him, but he would also kill him – or have him killed – without a moment’s hesitation if he offended or disobeyed. He must cling to this knowledge at all times. He must watch and listen and learn as never before. It was a frightening and cruel lesson, but Pinnatte learned it instantly. Indeed, it seemed to resonate with something deep in his own nature, giving him a fleeting vision of himself in Barran’s position passing down the instruction to some young hopeful. He cradled his injured hand and, turning, for the first time he looked his new master squarely in the eye. ‘I won’t disappoint you, sir,’ he said. ‘I gave Lassner good service and, if he’ll release me, I’ll give you the same.’
There was a brief flicker of something in Barran’s eyes but his usual impassivity closed over it before Pinnatte could interpret it. ‘Lassner will release you, Pinnatte,’ Barran said. ‘He’s a reasonable man.’
As they were walking away from the Mirror Room, Pinnatte noticed several other rooms, apparently empty. Though he was elated at the prospect of working for Barran, the problem of accommodation was troubling him. He could no longer stay at Lassner’s Den, he had no desire to return to Heirn’s to face Atlon’s relentless prying and, fine weather or not, the street was no place for him. Better Lassner than that. He’d have to risk it.
‘Can I use one of these for a while?’ he asked. ‘I’ll have nowhere to stay if I’m leaving Lassner.’
Barran stopped and looked at him, then at the open door he was pointing to. He took a lamp from the wall and peered into the room. It was bare and empty like most of the others he had bothered to examine. And the Jyolan seemed to be full of rooms and halls. He sniffed. ‘Better than nothing, I suppose,’ he replied. ‘Pick whichever you want – there doesn’t seem to be much to choose between any of them.’ He pursed his lips and nodded as if warming to the idea. ‘Yes, make the place yours. I’ll tell Fiarn you’ll be staying here for the time being. I doubt we’ll be able to find a bed for you tonight, but we should be able to manage some blankets. Will that be all right?’
Pinnatte nodded an awkward, ‘Fine, thank you.’ The sudden note in Barran’s voice of concern for his personal comfort had taken him by surprise. As it had many before him. For Barran was far too subtle a leader to motivate solely by fear. He constantly showed an interest in the well-being of his followers, some of it quite genuine, some contrived, but all of it effective. It bred strong loyalty, and when it was necessary to deal harshly with someone, that, and his invariably swift and ruthless action, usually brought condemnation on the victim rather than himself.
Later, Pinnatte related the news of his acceptance by Barran to Rinter. The animal trainer was scarcely less elated, seeing what he perceived to be a continuing improvement in his own prospects. First had come his encounter with Atlon and the felci and the possibilities that stemmed from the quietly ferocious little animal. Then, his random meeting with this young street thief which, having started by saving him money at the Loose Pit, had ended with him having a contact direct to Barran himself.
‘Such is the way of Arash-Felloren, eh Pinnatte?’ he said expansively as they walked idly along the busy night street. ‘One moment a bound Den-Mate, the next a hero and working for one of the richest and most powerful men in the city. What’ll you be doing for him?’
The memory of Barran’s hand on his shoulder returned to Pinnatte. ‘I don’t know yet,’ he replied. ‘I’ll find out tomorrow.’ He looked earnestly at Rinter. ‘But I mightn’t be allowed to talk about it,’ he said.
Rinter nodded knowingly. ‘I understand,’ he said. ‘Besides…’ He lowered his voice. ‘I don’t think it would be in my interests to know anything of Barran’s business that I wasn’t supposed to.’ He drew a finger across his throat. Pinnatte did not respond.
‘Are you going back to Heirn’s tonight?’ Rinter asked as casually as he could, anxious, despite his euphoria, not to lose his contact with Atlon.
‘No, I’ve got a place in the Jyolan,’ Pinnatte replied. ‘Well, a room and three blankets at the moment, until I can get a bed and some bits of furniture.’
Rinter tried to look pleased but it was not easy and he stammered a little when he spoke. ‘Oh. That’s lucky. Are you going to tell Heirn and Atlon about your good fortune?’
Pinnatte hesitated. The blacksmith had been decent enough to him – offered him a home, albeit temporary, and a bed – and kindness was not a common thing in his life. But his thoughts about Atlon were buffeting to and fro. He too had been kind and helpful, yet he had also been intrusive – prying into matters that did not concern him. Why did he want to know what the Kyrosdyn had done to him? Why did he want to know about the dream?
He prevaricated. ‘Not tonight. I told them I mightn’t be back, depending on what happened.’ But mention of Atlon and the memory of his dream had unsettled him again. What would happen tonight when he went to sleep in his spartan new quarters? Would he wake covered in sweat, perhaps crying out? It was a disturbing thought – the new boy having bad dreams like some hapless child, shouting for his mother. Hardly something to make a good impression on Barran’s men. Yet even as it occurred to him, he realized that he was no longer really concerned. As soon as he had entered the Jyolan, the aura of the place had wrapped itself about him – steadied him – told him that here was his true home. And when Barran had asked him about the Jyolan, he had answered truthfully. He wanted to be there desperately, wanted to see the animals fighting again, wanted to feel the deep reverence for the happenings in the arena that he had felt the previous night…
Wanted to feel himself part of the creature again – hunting prey, lusting for the terror and the screaming.
He wiped his hand across his forehead. The prospect was making him sweat.
‘It is warm, isn’t it?’ Rinter said, misinterpreting the movement. ‘Makes you think that the winds and the rain and the snows we had only a few months ago will never come again.’
Pinnatte nodded absently. He should be rid of this jabbering oaf. He should be back at the Jyolan, learning about it, communing with its ancient secrets. His life as a Den-Mate – a thing of the streets – was now over. He did not belong here any more. It was surely no mere chance that he had fallen in with the man who now owned the Jyolan. No mere chance that he was actually staying there. Powers were conspiring to bring him where he should be – in his rightful place – the place from which his influence would spread forth, carrying with it the majesty of the Jyolan and the sacred events that happened there. He would…
Someone bumped into him, jolting him from his vaulting fantasy.
‘Watch where you’re going, you dozy sod.’
The rebuke cut through Pinnatte. Furiously he lashed out. His blow struck the offender in the chest with such force that two other passers-by were knocked to the ground before he finally crashed into a street-trader’s cart and overturned it. Rinter gaped, but moved immediately when it seemed that Pinnatte was going to pursue the man further.
‘Come on,’ he said urgently, taking Pinnatte’s arm. ‘A certain person wouldn’t like you being involved in a street brawl, would he?’
Pinnatte had taken two steps forward, almost dragging Rinter, before the words sank in. He did not speak but levelled a menacing finger at the fallen man, now being disentangled from the remains of the cart by its cursing owner, then turned away.
‘You don’t know your own strength,’ Rinter said, looking nervously over his shoulder to make sure that no irate pursuit was under way.
‘He should have been more respectful,’ Pinnatte retorted.
Rinter frowned. Respectful was an odd word for a street thief to use – even one who was going up in the world. He was about to remind Pinnatte that it was he who had bumped into the man, wandering along in a trance, but he decided against it. If Barran had decided he could use this young man, it was highly likely that there was more to him than met the eye. Perhaps he had just seen an indication of it.
The outburst however, had caused Pinnatte’s mood to shift again. Generally, a quick kick or punch to startle rather than injure, followed by flight, had been the most violence he had ever had to use. The punch he had just delivered he would not have thought himself capable of, either physically or emotionally. The power of it seemed to have come from some hitherto hidden well within him. It had surged up along with his rage and simply burst out of him. He had felt the harm it had done even as he struck. The man’s entire frame had shuddered with the impact and he knew that he had broken bones and hurt him badly.
Part of him revelled in the thought. Such would be the fate of those who opposed him; they must learn their place, learn respect. Yet another part of him was sickened. The violence had been unnecessary. Taking purses was one thing, but damaging people, perhaps depriving them of their livelihood, throwing them into the hands of healers and physicians and all that that could lead to, was another entirely. It broke the rules he had always lived by. He shouldn’t have done it.
The inner conflict brought him to a halt, swaying and wide-eyed. His whole body was shaking.
‘You really don’t look well,’ Rinter said, greatly alarmed by Pinnatte’s increasingly strange behaviour.
For a moment, such was the turmoil inside him that Pinnatte thought he was going to vomit, but then came the feeling that should he do so, he would never stop: his entire insides would burst forth in a scalding stream, leaving him an empty shell filled with darkness. Desperately he reached out and seized Rinter. The animal trainer yanked his arm free from the powerful grip, but put a supporting arm around Pinnatte.
‘Shall I take you to Heirn’s? Perhaps Atlon can help. He seemed to know what he was doing.’
The mention of Atlon redoubled Pinnatte’s conflict. Atlon’s presence returned to him. It was full of deep and genuine concern, and a willingness to enter into his pain and tear out the torment that had come into his life. Ellyn’s words hovered in the background: he should run away from all this and find an honest life somewhere in this vast city. There would be such a place, surely? Everything was possible in Arash-Felloren. This was the way he must go. The rightness of it was beyond any dispute. Yet at the same time, the Jyolan was all about him, dark and blood-streaked, infinitely alluring – redolent with power, and the satisfying of desires he had no names for. A myriad tiny barbs tore at him. Then Atlon and Ellyn were gone, swept away by the Jyolan’s ancient lure. The inner wracking faded rapidly to become little more than a vague unease. Carefully, Pinnatte breathed out, and the street formed itself around him again.
‘No,’ he said hoarsely. ‘I’ll go back to the Jyolan. I’m just tired, that’s all.’
Rinter made one or two half-hearted attempts at conversation as they returned, but they all foundered on Pinnatte’s preoccupation.
That night, Pinnatte left the lamp burning in his new room. He lay for a long time staring up at the dust-stained ceiling, uncertain about what might greet him should he fall asleep, yet knowing that he could not avoid it.
Then he was sitting upright, wide awake and alert. It took him a moment to remember where he was then he lay back in relief. He was safe at the Jyolan, away from Lassner, away from his old life, and under the protection of Barran. And whatever had wakened him, it was no dream. He had no recollection of falling asleep or being asleep, which was the way it normally was for him – night and morning separated only by the blink of an eye. Yet something had wakened him. He looked around, puzzled. The door was bolted and he could hear nothing from the passageway outside. Then he became aware of a faint, high-pitched sound, like a small, irritating fly. But it was not a fly. There was a persistence to it – an urgency – that caught his attention. Quietly he stood up and began moving about the room, listening intently. It was some time before he discovered the source of the noise. It was coming from one of the small openings that pocked the walls of his room, as seemingly they did in every part of the Jyolan. It was barely the width of two fingers. Hesitantly he bent forward and placed his ear by it.
The whining became clearer. It was coming from far away. As he listened, though he could not identify any part of it, he knew what it was.
It was screaming.
Many people.
Screaming.
It was good.