The Way to Babylon (Different Kingdoms) Page 20

  He shook his head and sank more of the strong beer. He did not feel hungry, and the alcohol sent his imagination soaring into the smoky roof beams, so that he lost the thread of the story Ratagan was telling him—the one about the Dwarf and the Firewood, he thought muzzily. Instead he was thinking of Jenny. Jenny in his arms. And, oddly, that gave way to thoughts of Madra. When she bent to pour for him her breasts swung against the fabric of her robe and he could see the press of the nipples. He felt an urge to cup them in his hands, but gulped at his beer savagely and prised his eyes away.

  Only a youngster, for Christ’s sake. Besides, I’m married.

  Married. Here in a world where she never existed, with people who do not exist in mine. Where her doppelgangers wander the hills or flirt in banqueting halls. He bent his head.

  She’s dead and buried in a grave in Portree. And where is that?

  He swilled down the beer.

  And where am I.

  Madra’s forehead shone in the heat, and with those dark eyebrows she looked as though she were concentrating hard on not spilling the wine. Spots of it stained the thighs of her robe.

  Riven thrust aside his sling. It was picked up by Isay, who glanced at him. Riven wondered if he saw sympathy there, but laughed harshly. Myrcan sympathy, like milk from a bull.

  The eating had ended, and the drinking was in full swing. The scene reminded Riven of many a drunken episode in a saga. Even Bicker seemed to have lost his wary watchfulness and was grinning with the rest. Someone was dancing crazily on the trestles, sending wooden plates flying. His blue sash marked him as a Hearthware, and his face was red with heat and wine. Laughter and clapping surrounded his antics. Watching him, Riven felt the return of bonhomie and contemplated touching Madra’s hair next time she came round. His collarbone ached, and he dug at it with his good arm, massaging the stiffness with his fingers. He wanted her to do it for him, but she was busy across the hall. He met her eyes and for a second time; she smiled her shy smile at him, but his swimming head filled it with invitations. He remembered Nurse Cohen holding him, remembered Jenny underneath him, making soft noises at his ear in the dark.

  Christ, I need air.

  But he was not sure he could stand up. Isay would help him, capable soldier. For a moment he thought Isay was his corporal in Derry, and began smiling at him; but he was dead. In pieces, like the Hearthwares in his room. Like Jenny at the foot of Sgurr Dearg, the Red Mountain. Everywhere there was blood in his memories, and now he was drinking it himself. The blood of this world which he had created and which he was slowly killing. Hero. Soldier. Husband. Mourner.

  He stood up, one hand on the table; his bad arm. He swore vaguely, pushed away from the board to see the enquiring looks. Big Ratagan and ferret Murtach, grey Guillamon and dark Bicker.

  ‘Need some air.’ He turned to Isay, and was lent a Myrcan shoulder. ‘Get me out of here.’

  The floor plunged at him, the faces at the feast blurring with noise; he made out Bragad watching him with sharp eyes. Wondering who I am. He almost tripped up over his own drunk feet, but Isay supported him. Out of the hall, lurching, swimming, swaying, feeling shamefully sick and gritting his teeth together to stop his stomach from heaving. And then the dark, the blessed dark, and the cold night air that iced him and ripped the mist from his brain, steadied his legs, poured pain into his shoulder.

  Real pain. My pain.

  He breathed in deeply, bent double. Felt a hand on his back and a quiet voice telling Isay he’d be all right.

  I’ll be all right. Leave me alone.

  ‘Leave me alone.’

  But the hand was still there, warm now on the nape of his neck; and the hand guided him as he lurched forward again, the firm body beside his, holding him upright; helping him up dark stairs and through a pitching doorway.

  His room, moonlit by the silver-flooded windows. He stood with his back against a wall and closed his eyes. He could feel the sweat of the hall still on him, cold now; working up towards a shiver. His breathing became steady. He opened his eyes to the quiet darkness, the moonlight, the breeze from the window that his helper had opened. She stood worriedly in front of him, brows pulled together, feathery hair over her shoulders and clinging in fine threads to the sweat of her forehead. He reached out and caught her hand, pulled her close. Dark eyes, unreadable as mist. Then he hugged her to him, feeling her warmth and softness, the length of her thighs against his, the muscles of her back under his palms, the satin of her neck at his mouth. He kissed her there, gently, and she turned her head, offering him her mouth. He closed his own over it, but her questing tongue met only his teeth. He kissed her forehead, her chin, cupped her face in both hands and kissed shut her eyes, the tears falling from his own. In his mind he spoke another girl’s name, a girl long dead, and asked her to forgive him.

  HE SLEPT LATE, and when he awoke the wind was rising in the rafters. He lay curiously content in the warm bed for some minutes, then frowned. Abruptly he jumped up and tore away the bedclothes, searching the rug on which he had lain. There, dried in, the small patch of blood. He searched farther; long hairs on the pillow. But the room was empty. He closed his eyes and groaned. Not a dream.

  You bastard.

  He drank water from the pitcher, then staggered over to the basin on the table and thrust his head into it, the chill water making him gasp. He shook his head, spraying drops over the room, over his clothes discarded on the floor. He knuckled his eyes.

  She’s only a child.

  ‘Oh, God,’ he groaned aloud, then rubbed himself dry. He dressed and looked in the polished mirror, seeing a scarred, bearded face glaring out at him.

  The door was knocked and opened, and Madra entered bearing his breakfast on a tray. She set it on the table, avoiding his stare, and made as if to leave, but stopped before she reached the door and looked in his eyes. Was it only his fancy, or were her eyes older?

  ‘Do you want me to stay?’ she asked simply, and he knew she was not just talking about leaving the room. He stared at her. Even now he hungered for her again, seeing the light in her hair, the length of her leg under the robe. It had been very sweet.

  She’s only a child.

  He wanted to put flowers in her hair and make her laugh; but he would never be able to do that.

  ‘I’ll see you about, later,’ he said, hating the clumsiness of the words. And she was gone.

  ‘WELL,’ SAID RATAGAN, ‘for the next day or two, it seems hardly likely that I will be wetting my throat at all, so perhaps it is just as well I indulged in a draught or three last night.’ He hardly limped now, and leaned only seldom on the haft of his axe. Riven did not reply. They were making their way round to the stables at the back of the Manse. He wore his sling again, for Isay had returned it to him wordlessly earlier that morning. The Myrcan followed them as they made their way towards the smell of horse piss and hay.

  ‘Still, I am out of the council, at least,’ Ratagan went on. ‘Those meetings are about as bearable as a boil in the wrong place—though this one should be more interesting than most. Ralarth will not combine, but Marsco will not take that too well, and his Ringill is in a delicate position. A ticklish business altogether. I am glad it is Bicker’s backside that is warming a council chair instead of mine.’

  ‘We’re going to your home,’ Riven said absently. Ivrigar. The place had been a quiet country house in his books. Domestic bliss and all the rest.

  But Ratagan frowned suddenly. ‘Aye. We are.’

  They reached the stables and found Murtach waiting for them, with his sword strapped to his back and a quiver of arrows at his hip. He gripped a pair of reins in his hand; behind him a blaze-faced chestnut nosed at the cobbles, whilst the two wolves sat by his feet.

  ‘Tardy again, Master Ratagan, and now you have not even a real limp to excuse you.’ Behind him were a crowd of men and horses; Hearthwares in full armour, their breaths steaming in the coolness of the morning, Myrcans standing impassively, indifferent to the cold, but n
odding to Isay as he approached, and a pair of pack mules trying to bite each other’s manes.

  ‘It’s my head, this time,’ Ratagan confessed, the cheer restored. ‘It berates me for the way I mistreated it last night.’

  ‘And our knight—or resident Teller, I should say. How is his head this morning?’ Riven searched his blue eyes for any hidden meanings, but they were closed to him. He did not answer, and Murtach raised his eyebrows, but made no further comment.

  He found that a quiet bay gelding had been saddled for him, and mounted along with the others, the Hearthwares hissing with effort as they pulled the weight of their armour into the saddle. Riven’s slung arm hampered him, and he pulled the sling off irritably and stuffed it down the front of his jerkin, moving his arm in circles. The collarbone complained, but it was bearable, and he was sick of bandages. Ratagan edged his mount over.

  ‘Are you sure you are up to this?’

  Riven nodded. ‘It’ll be good for me. I need the air.’

  Ratagan grinned. ‘This morning, we all need the air.’

  There were fourteen of them. Riven, Ratagan and Murtach, then Isay and two other Myrcans—Luib, whose hair was peppery with age, and Belig. And then there were eight Hearthwares, seven of whom were in full armour. The eighth, a black-bearded, brown-faced man named Tagan, was the tracker. All except Riven and the Myrcans had sheathed shortbows and full quivers hanging from their knees, in addition to their personal weapons. They had food in their saddlebags for two days, and the pack mules carried grain and hay for the horses, there being little forage in the hills the patrol would traverse for the first two days. After that, they planned to pick up more provisions at Ivrigar, Ratagan’s home, and return to the Rorim on the third or fourth day, by which time the council would be winding down, or even finished.

  The wind was strengthening in their faces, and more than one man looked up at the sky in puzzlement. Autumn was here, on the heels of a mutilated summer, and it had arrived with preternatural speed. Almost from the moment he had seen Jinneth, Riven thought, and then scowled, putting the idea out of his head as though it were unlucky. There were too many things to think about this morning. Somewhere in the hills, perhaps, another Jenny walked with the beasts, no memory of him in her head. And in the Manse behind him was a girl, a child whom he had taken last night in a fit of lust and self-pity. He snarled at himself. I’m a real hero, I am.

  But it had been... good. He had lost himself in her, and she had been willing to take him. And afterwards he had lain in her arms as though they were a world away, with the waves breaking on the shore outside. And he had known peace, for a little while.

  Not now. Now it was a grey morning with the drizzle beginning to veil the hills. But he was looking forward to leaving the Rorim, to being in the open. Always, for him, problems had seemed much simpler in such places. As simple as lighting a fire or finding a dry place to sleep. Nothing ever followed him there.

  Not in my own world, anyway.

  The tracker, Tagan, took point, the rain beginning to mist his beard and the black mat of hair that covered his forehead, and they followed on, Fife and Drum looking wet and unenthusiastic already.

  ‘What’s the plan?’ Ratagan asked no one in particular.

  ‘West to the Skriaig first, to check the border,’ Murtach told him. ‘Then north to view Suardal and Corry. We’ll see if we can’t catch sight of Mullach and Lionan as they head back north. And then down to Ivrigar on the second night.’

  Ratagan grunted.

  They left the Rorim and set their faces towards the hills. Tagan rode to the rise in front as they left the Dale behind. After him came Murtach, who seemed to be leading the patrol; then Ratagan, Riven and Isay, and the other seven Hearthwares with the mules. Luib and Belig brought up the rear, and the two wolves loped alongside. They rode in single file, for the ground became broken as they climbed higher and the hoofs of their mounts dislodged loose stones that clattered down the hillside. Tagan’s eyes were as much on the ground as on the land ahead. They were heading westwards, to where the land rose more precipitously and broke into a grey surf of scattered granite.

  The rain remained a moist guess in the air, though they had to tug on their cloaks against the cold in the wind. It reddened their faces and made their mounts steam. There was nothing of summer left in it.

  They halted on a rocky ridge, where heather poked up through gaps in the stones, and looked back to see Ralarth a green patch below them. Riven’s legs were complaining about the unaccustomed riding, and the wind made his eyes water. He pulled the double thickness of the cloak tighter around him and wondered briefly why he had not worn his hiking clothes. But they would have looked ridiculous alongside the others. He smiled at himself. Vanity.

  ‘This is the Skriaig,’ said Murtach, standing up in his stirrups and staring west across the summits of the lesser hills. ‘What you might call our border. Beyond it lives no man, and even the hunters cross the ridge only seldom. There is nothing beyond but the hills, and mountains in the far west; and the beasts.’

  ‘Here be dragons,’ Riven murmured, eyeing the empty spaces below. He felt the hilt of his sword.

  ‘We are skylined here,’ said Tagan after a few moments. ‘Everything for miles around can see us.’

  Murtach nodded. ‘We will continue down along the eastern slope of the ridge.’ He pointed with one gloved hand, then clicked his tongue and urged his mount forward. They continued on their way, the hiss of the wind and their horses’ hoofs the only sounds.

  The ridge ran north to south for miles, with an occasional saddle where a foaming river had scored its way through it. The country reminded Riven of Skye; it was harsher than Ralarth. The only life they saw were a few curlews, and once an eagle far off in the west, circling the heights. They continued riding through the afternoon, by which time the dull cloud above their heads had become unbroken, and it looked as though they were in for a wet night. They had seen no tracks and sighted nothing in the land below them, which Ratagan said was unusual, for deer were not uncommon here, as well as hill foxes and hares. But there was nothing in the emptiness, not even a field mouse.

  It darkened, and they made camp. A fire was lit at the base of a broad crag, and they sat around it whilst a Hearthware took sentry and the night was blown in around them. Riven was stiff all over, hardly able to stretch himself flat. But once the horses were unsaddled, rubbed down and hobbled, he spread a blanket on the hard ground and took his place at the evening meal with the others. Thick slabs of bacon sizzled on a pan by the fire, and they mopped up the fat with grainy bread, washing it down with spring water.

  A drizzle ran in streams down the rocks and dewed the horses, but the fire kept the worst of its effects from them. The burning heather curls gave off a bright, intense heat but burned quickly, and they each took their turn at collecting a pile, so the fire could be kept going, through part of the night at least. Then the watches were arranged. Riven drew the watch before Murtach, who, as leader, took the last watch before dawn. They talked quietly amongst themselves for a while of inconsequential things, content to watch the fire and feel the tiredness in their muscles; then rolled themselves in their cloaks and slept.

  Riven was woken for his watch in the dead of night by a yawning Hearthware.

  ‘All quiet,’ said the man in a low voice. ‘Murtach is on after you. You might build up the fire a little.’ Then he left for the warmth of his blankets.

  Shivering and sore, Riven stood up and buckled his sword. The fire was a mess of glowing embers that spat at the light rain. He searched around and found the pile of heather, and fed the fire until the flames licked up to warm him. He blew through his hands. The rain had soaked into his cloak as he slept, and it hung in heavy damp folds on his shoulders. He thought of his bed at the Rorim; then he thought of Madra in it, her warmth under him and her hands on his back, her hair in his mouth.

  He checked the horses, but they were quiet, standing resting one leg at a time, with
their eyes half-closed. The wind had dropped, he noticed. The rain fell silently and invisibly, kissing his scarred forehead. A soft night.

  It was the click of rock beyond the firelight that made him turn. He stared out into the wet darkness, and heard it again. He wanted to wake up the sleepers, but it might merely be a rabbit, or a fox. He stood still, and heard then the sound of pebbles shifting under feet—more than one set of feet—and there was the rattle of loose scree. He drew his sword and held it in front of him, the pulse pounding in his temples, but he was not yet afraid enough to wake the others.

  And then he saw them come into the amber flicker of the firelight with the flames lighting green lamps in their heads. Three wolves. Two were winter wolves, pale as ghosts in the night, but the third was a dark, short-haired animal, larger than the others. Its mouth was open and it seemed to be grinning at him.

  The two smaller animals padded towards him and lay down beside the fire with contented sighs, hardly giving him a glance.

  They were Fife and Drum.

  The third sat on its haunches in that twilit area between the light of the fire and the rainy blue darkness of the empty hills. Riven stared at it, wonder widening his eyes. And even as he watched it blurred. The lights in its eyes faded and he saw the pricked ears descend. It whined deep in its throat, as though in pain, and he saw the body grow paler as the fur sloughed away into nothing. The forepaws grew thicker, the hind legs longer, the torso broader. And then Murtach was crouched there, naked in the night, watching him. Riven lowered his blade, hands shaking. The little man stood up and came over to join him at the fire.

  ‘Well met, Michael Riven,’ he said quietly, and the words were distorted in his mouth, as though it were not yet the right shape for them. He was shivering, and fumbled in his bedroll for a cloak, which he pulled about his shoulders before crouching beside the fire once more. Fife and Drum followed him with their eyes, showing no surprise.

  ‘Christ,’ said Riven at last. He sat down on the bare rock and shook his head.