Darkburn Book 3: The Gates of Kelvha by Tayin Machrie - HTML preview

Chapter 3

“It was a very fine banquet,” said Parthenal, rather smugly; “lavish barely covers it. Enough tender lamb to feed all Veron’s wolves, and about thirty different sauces, in every flavour from cherry to lavender.”

“I didn’t care for that one,” put in Sashel. “Perfumed sauce is very strange. They perfume some of the wine as well.”

“Yes, I noticed you were sampling all the wines, to check.”

“Well, Huldarion needs somebody to act as wine-taster,” Sashel said. Yaret was glad to see him looking relatively cheerful, although she hoped he would not seek consolation for his brother’s death in wine – perfumed or otherwise.

Sashel and Parthenal sat lounging on the unpadded chairs in the somewhat austere lodgings of the male Riders who had remained outside the castle walls. Yaret eyed them with affection. They looked very handsome; at their ease. She thought that they already carried a faint sense of Kelvhan superiority. That air of lofty privilege.

“Don’t get too used to luxury, will you?” said Rothir, who perhaps felt the same. “It’ll be a horrible shock when you return to normal.”

“All the more reason to enjoy it now,” said Parthenal, stretching out his long limbs.

“We had mutton stew last night,” said Ikelder regretfully. “Or rather, turnip stew with the odd shred of mutton lurking at the bottom.”

“But the cheese was good,” said Yaret.

“The cheese could knock your head off at ten paces,” said Rothir.

“Exactly.”

“Well, turnips are probably better for you than thirty perfumed sauces,” Sashel said. “I’ll be as fat as a barrel after a week inside the castle.” The half-dozen Riders present all laughed more appreciatively than the comment merited. They were still being very careful around Sashel.

“And the women?” asked Delgeb. “Were they there at the banquet – Huldarion’s prospective brides?”

Yaret knew that this was the question everyone had wanted to ask. But Parthenal shook his head.

“No, no yet. That’s the highlight of tomorrow’s banquet, I believe. Last night the only women present were the nobles’ wives. Huldarion has already memorised the names of all the lords and ladies. I don’t know how he does it.”

“He has a brain,” said Rothir.

“I have one of those.”

“But little-used. I don’t suppose you found out any more about the mysterious Borgun?”

“There’s nobody in the castle I can easily ask,” said Parthenal. “You’ve got a better chance out here.”

“Ah, but the same rules apply to us as to you,” Delgeb pointed out. “And especially to us women even more than you men. We all have to behave ourselves, and be careful what we say to strangers.”

“I’m doing all that,” said Parthenal.

“Ha! I’m sure you are, polecat.”

“What?” Parthenal sat up straighter and glared at Delgeb. “Polecat? Only Yaret is allowed to call me that.”

“But Yaret is too polite to mention such matters. So I will.”

“For stars’ sake,” said Parthenal, “I know, I know. I’ve already had the lecture from Huldarion about not giving anyone the eye. It’s all very well for him. He’ll get the lady of his choice tomorrow.”

“We’ll want all the details,” Delgeb warned him.

“And then there’ll be the consummation before the marriage even happens.”

“We won’t want details of that. Stars above, it doesn’t have to be witnessed, does it?”

“No,” said Rothir. “Though I wouldn’t be surprised, in this place.”

“They do like their formalities,” said Yaret. “Going back to Borgun… Might your little archivist be a possible one to ask?”

“Little Tamu? He’d just blink and shuffle his papers anxiously,” Parthenal replied. “No, I don’t want to terrify him any more than we have already. You could ask at an inn or somewhere like that, where people will talk freely.”

“But they won’t talk to us,” said Rothir. He sat with his freshly-polished sword across his knees: a characteristic pose, thought Yaret, and so forbidding that it was no surprise that people wouldn’t talk to him. He might as well have Beware of the Vonn imprinted on his forehead.

“This afternoon Durba and I are planning to do a tour of Kelvha City,” she said, “so if I get a chance I’ll ask around.”

“Well, Durba certainly won’t be able to,” said Parthenal. “Has she said anything yet?”

“Yes and no. I mean, that’s what she’s said. Yes and no. Otherwise, she’s still stammering.”

“It will take time,” said Sashel, and everybody nodded gravely.

“She seems happier in your company than with us,” commented Rothir to her.

“I’m not Vonn.”

“What does that have to do with it?”

“She needn’t be ashamed of suffering from battle shock with me,” said Yaret. She knew that in fact Durba would be happier in Maeneb’s company – if Maeneb could be persuaded to take a closer interest in her; but it was all Maeneb could do to endure being in close quarters with all the other women in their lodgings, which were even more basic than the men’s. Maeneb said the voices of the city echoed round her mind with such a clamour that she could scarcely breathe, let alone think.

Yaret, on the other hand, was eager to be out amidst those voices, exploring the winding tunnel-like streets of Kelvha City. It was fabled for its markets and for its sheer size.

She had one particular aim. An object that burnt constantly in the background of her mind: a formless, furious thing of heat and darkness. But she did not mention looking for the darkburn in this company, because Rothir would not approve.

So when he said, “You and Durba should be careful out there,” she just replied, “Of course.”

He was referring to their femaleness; but Yaret wasn’t worried about that. She and Durba both wore male clothing, and although her own male mode was more effective than Durba’s – both through long practice, and through her lack of anything that could be labelled prettiness – Durba was obviously Vonn and therefore untouchable.

So she was slightly put out when Ikelder said, “I’ll come along with you, if you don’t mind. I’d like to look around the city too.”

“Good. You take care of them,” said Rothir to Ikelder.

“I have been to Kelvha before,” Yaret pointed out, a little surprised at Rothir’s concern. He was not usually so peremptory.

“Only Outer Kelvha.”

“But I speak the language.”

“Like a country bumpkin,” said Rothir. “Speak to a noble in that accent and they’ll kick you down the road.”

“Really?” She hadn’t been aware of it. Perhaps Ikelder’s presence would be helpful after all. It was not that she disliked Ikelder. On the contrary, she was rather taken with the contrast between the young man’s ungainly awkwardness – all knees and elbows – and his notable skill in battle. Hesitant off the field, he was focused, calm and disciplined on it.

And he was kind to Durba, although the battle-shock she suffered from seemed to be unknown to him. In fact, Durba might even be the reason for his request to accompany them, she thought; although he must know that he’d be wasting his time there – so maybe simple kindness after all…

“All right. We’ll meet outside our place in an hour,” she said to him.

So an hour later, when she and Durba clattered down from the attic of their narrow lodging-house, Ikelder was already waiting outside the door. He greeted them with a diffident smile.

“I’m told the shops in the western quarter are the best,” he told them. “Would you like to go there first?” Then he waited for Durba’s answer without any of the slightly patronising patience that some of the Riders showed. Well, that Thoronal showed, at least.

Durba pulled a face.

“You’re not keen on shopping?” asked Ikelder.

“M… m…”

“Maybe?” suggested Yaret. Durba nodded.

“The truth is,” Ikelder said to both of them, “I need some clothes. Mine are all very much the worse for wear, and next to the Kelvhans I feel like I’m in rags.” Durba nodded again, in agreement. “And I’m no good at bargaining.” Durba shook her head.

Oh, wonderful, thought Yaret. My afternoon in Kelvha City is to be spent in haggling over undershirts. I need some myself. But I need to learn about the darkburn more.

She sighed inwardly and traipsed along with them through narrow streets whose upper storeys almost kissed each other overhead. There were even makeshift bridges across some of them, from roof to roof, precarious passages. The footpaths down below were so gloomy that she wondered how those living in the lower storeys fared. Not much light could get through those little many-paned windows. They’d need their lamps kept lit all day.

It was a fair distance to the market that Ikelder had suggested, and as they walked, gradually Yaret understood that Kelvha City was bigger than she’d thought: bigger even than its reputation had suggested to her. She had imagined that inside it might be equivalent to perhaps ten Obandiros packed together.

But her estimation had been way out. It was more like a hundred Obandiros – no, two hundred. The maze of streets was noisy and bewildering. Yaret soon realised that her idea of walking all the way around the city walls to see if she could find any signs of the darkburn could never have been the task of a single afternoon.

And even if she’d been alone with Durba, she would not have escaped notice. Their plain hairstyles and long green cloaks marked the other two as Vonn; and so did Ikelder’s voice when he halted at a stall to speak, although his Kelvhan was certainly better than her own. On using some words that were unfamiliar, he explained to her that they were honorifics, which were expected when dealing with the different ranks of people. Her own Kelvhan, she thought in some dismay, must sound very rustic and uneducated in comparison.

Despite his assurance with the Kelvhan tongue, the three of them attracted stares. However, nobody troubled them: rather, they were treated with careful courtesy. As Ikelder had predicted, this was a well-off quarter, judging by the people they saw around them. Plenty of fur linings and elaborate embroidery were on display; and that was just the men. The women were more discreet, cloaked and usually hooded so that their faces were half-hidden.

When they reached the clothes market, Yaret saw immediately that the quality of goods was high – and the prices even more so. She’d be lucky to afford a single plain shirt here. And most of them weren’t plain.

“Do you have anything a little cheaper?” she asked the stall-holder in Kelvhan, keeping her voice in the lower register and letting loose her northern burr. “In Moreva the prices aren’t this high.”

“Moreva? Well, you’re not used to decent stuff there, are you? We’ve got these,” he said, carelessly pulling out a pile of shirts from underneath the counter. The linen was coarse and loosely woven. It would scratch. She fingered them, sighed and moved further away from her companions to inspect cloaks with a weaver’s knowledgeable eye. Good wool: strong weave: strange colour choices. They liked things bright here. She supposed that the difficulty of dyeing cloth a clear red or blue – as opposed to a soft moss-green or oak-brown – must account for at least some of the eye-watering prices.

With amusement, she realised that the two old women next to her were busily discussing Durba and Ikelder.

“Those are Vonn, you know. The ones who’ve just arrived. They come from down south somewhere. Our Prince has helped them in their battles. Not too handsome, are they?”

“My Logun said that some of them are quite good-looking. He saw them ride into town, you know. Good horsemen, he told me. But their chieftain – he’s quite a sight. Terribly scarred, all down one side of his face.”

“What happened to him?”

“I don’t know. It must be battle scars. It can’t be a defect, because they say he’ll marry the princess,” said the older of the two women.

“Will he? What about the Lady Gaelera?” asked her friend, quite loudly.

“Ssh!” The old woman looked around in some alarm, as if the Lady Gaelera – whoever she was – might be just behind her.

The younger woman lowered her voice. “Well, she’s long overdue to marry, and you’d think her father would have–”

“Be quiet,” said the old woman, almost savagely.

Her neighbour was quiet for a moment. Then she said, “Look! That one on the right. I thought there was something odd there. It’s a woman, wearing a man’s clothes, I’m sure of it.” She was staring at Durba. “I heard the Vonn had female soldiers. How can they? So strange! So uncivilized!”

Yaret moved further away, and tried a little haggling over underclothes. She was unsuccessful. The shop-keeper stonewalled her, his face blank and uninterested until a beggar appeared at the far end of the stall. Then he snapped out,

“Hey, you! Get out of here! Go back to the northern quarter where you belong.”

The beggar turned. He was an old man with an eye-patch, in filthy rags; his shaking hand held a cup with a few coins rattling in it. He touched his forehead in a vague gesture that might have been respectful had it not been so desultory.

“Any clothing you can’t sell, anything ripped or soiled–” he began.

“Ripped or soiled! What sort of shop do you think I’m running here? The only thing that’s ripped or soiled is you. Get out! Take yourself off to Northern Quarter and go to the bath-house.”

“They’ve closed it,” said the beggar. “Drains.”

“Again? Well, that’s no surprise – just look at the stinking scum who’s using it. You clear off out of here,” commanded the stall-owner. The beggar began to shamble away.

Yaret promptly abandoned her search for undergarments and hurried after him, wriggling through a crowd of Kelvhan gentlemen to reach him. She caught him up by a candle-stall.

“Excuse me,” she called to him. The beggar flinched away as if expecting a kick, but she held out a coin; one of the few she had. He held his cup out for it doubtfully.

“Thank you, young maister.”

“Can I just ask you something?”

He looked alarmed, but she persevered. All around was such a hubbub of chatter and bargaining that she was not likely to be overheard.

“Can you tell me anything about Borgun?” she asked him quietly.

At that, the beggar really did flinch. His one eye expressed such alarm that she suspected he would have fled on the spot if the crowds had let him. But she persisted.

“I ask because I heard a man speak of Borgun – he had a twisted back – and I wondered if you could tell me anything about him.”

The old man put a shaky hand to his patched eye. “Why would you need Borgun? You don’t have anything wrong.”

“Wrong? A disability, you mean?”

“Borgun is for the damaged. The crippled. The rejected.” The man’s voice was low, but there was some bitterness in it.

“I have this,” she said, and pulled up the right leg of her breeches a little way. “My foot: it’s wooden. Feel it if you like.”

Although she did not expect him to, he reached down a hand to check, tapping on the wooden leg above the boot.

“Ah,” he said, his one eye staring at her. “Well. That’s different. I didn’t realise. Borgun has his temple in the northern quarter, on Old Tanneries Street.”

“Where’s that? I don’t know the city.”

But even as she spoke Yaret became aware that the conversation was now starting to attract attention. The words might not be audible, but the very fact that she was talking at such length to a beggar was evidently strange enough for people to stop and look at her.

So she stepped back, and reaching in her pocket for another small coin – farewell, new undershirt – she handed it with a more lordly air to the beggar.

“There you are,” she said. “Now take yourself off. And find a bath-house that’s still open.”

“The other bath-houses won’t let me in,” he muttered, turning to shuffle away.

A second later he was sprawling on the ground. The coins rattled out of his cup and rolled around the stalls.

“Dear me,” said the man who had tripped him; and whose elegantly clad leg was still stuck out. “Look where you’re going, can’t you?” He made no move to either help the beggar up or to pick up his coins. Neither did anyone else.

So Yaret did both, although the beggar did not appreciate her attentions: as soon as he was on his feet, he shook her off, snatched the cup from her hand and began to shamble away.

The man who had tripped the beggar now ignored him. Instead, he stared at Yaret.

“You’re the peg-leg archer,” he said, his eyes narrowing.

She looked at him, expressionless. Kelvhan aristocracy, unfamiliar; fine gear, blue satin breeches, gold brooch on his cloak, sword and heavily jewelled dagger. If he knew her nickname, he must be one of the nobles who had fought in the Kelvhan cavalry alongside the Vonn up in the north. His dark eyebrows did not match his bleached and curled hair. She thought she might have seen him once before: where had it been?

Then she knew. He had been standing just behind Prince Faldron, when she had appealed to him on behalf of the Iobens.

It seemed that the man recalled her for a different reason. “You’re the one who rode with all the wolves,” he added. “That was quite a trick.” He did not sound admiring; quite the contrary.

She gave him the faintest nod of acknowledgement.

“And you’re female.” The man smiled. “Yet you’re not even of the Vonn. You’re a country sheep. How do you get away with it?”

Yaret did not know how to answer. Luckily no answer seemed to be expected. He took off his feathered hat and bowed low and elaborately.

“My lady ewe,” he said, “allow me to buy you some trinket. A ribbon, perhaps, for your delightful brown fleece, sorry, hair? A little bell for your neck? Some lace to add a note of femininity to your – how shall I say it – somewhat rustic woolly outfit?”

“None of those are necessary, thank you.”

She wanted to walk away from him but the constant passage and pressure of people made it difficult. And now two other noblemen had grouped themselves alongside him, looking on in interest and some amusement. They were the ones she had pushed past to reach the beggar.

“What have you found, Dughin? A village boy?”

“A little one-legged female masquerading as a Vonnish archer,” said the man with the eyebrows. Less of the little, thought Yaret. She stood quite still and silent, watching him. His companions watched him too, and she got the impression that there was some trepidation in their sideways glances.

“Vonnish?” said one of them more cautiously.

“She’s not Vonnish,” said Dughin. “What’s your name, peg-leg?”

“Yaret!” The shout came from her left. It was Ikelder, shouldering his way through the crowd with Durba some way behind. “Thought we’d lost you,” he said, with a grin. He looked at the group of men and bowed. “My lords.”

Two of them bowed back; it was a few seconds before the one called Dughin did the same.

“I hope I find you well,” Ikelder said in his formal Kelvhan. He looked more closely at Dughin, before putting out his hand. “I saw you on the battlefield,” he said, “and I saw few others who fought as fiercely as you did.”

After a second or two, unsmiling, Dughin shook his hand. “You were a Captain?”

“On the right flank.”

“It was a good day’s sport,” said Dughin. He gave a bow just deep enough to be polite, and strolled away, with the other pair following in his wake.

“Well,” said Yaret, as they disappeared into the crowd, “you came in the nick of time.”

“Were they ungallant?”

“One way of putting it. I’m glad they didn’t see Durba – mind you, they probably wouldn’t have bothered her, because she’s Vonn.”

“She’s hungry Vonn.” He looked around at Durba, who nodded and patted her stomach. “Shall we hunt out somewhere to have a snack?”

There were many eating-places surrounding the market square, but all of those looked too busy for their liking. Yaret had already had enough of being stared at, and she guessed that Durba too would prefer some privacy.

However, on exploring down one of the quieter winding side-streets they discovered a whole row of pastry shops; so they sat outside one of these with an assortment of the most interesting pastries. Yaret’s favourite held a mixture of spiced custard with chopped sweet vegetables. It tasted strange, but also strangely pleasant.

“I’ll get as fat as Sashel,” said Ikelder. “My new shirt won’t fit.”

“I don’t think either you or Sashel need worry too much about that. Ikelder: that man, Dughin. You’d obviously come across him in the battle?”

“Briefly. But memorably. A very efficient warrior. Very…” Ikelder sighed. “Brutal. I saw him eagle a stoneman.”

“Eagle?”

Ikelder hesitated. “Well. Let’s just say he hacked the stoneman’s ribs apart.”

Yaret reflected on this. “Was it necessary?”

“Not really, no.”

“Dreadful things can happen on a battlefield,” she said.

“Yes. I have done some of them. But that was one of the more dreadful acts that I have seen.”

She looked at Ikelder: he was not a man to flinch from danger or bloodshed. It must have been particularly bad. “Who is Dughin? Do you know?”

“I know he’s very high ranking. His father is apparently the Keeper of the Swords, in Kelvha Castle. One of the noblest families.”

“It’s just as well I didn’t slap him, then.”

Ikelder nodded. “That would not have been a good idea,” he said. Then he glanced sidelong at Durba, who was looking suddenly frozen at the talk of battle. Yaret quickly switched to a less traumatic subject.

“You probably didn’t see the beggar,” she said, and told them about her encounter with the ragged one-eyed man: how she had shown him her wooden leg, and what he had said about Borgun.

“There’s a temple?” asked Ikelder. “So is this Borgun a priest, or a deity to be worshipped, then?”

“I aim to go to the temple and find out. If Huldarion is associated with Borgun in people’s minds, it would be useful to know why.”

“B… b… b…”

Yaret looked compassionately at Durba. “Yes, but I don’t think a temple can be all that dangerous.”

“Trying to find it could be, though,” Ikelder warned her. “Old Tanneries Street, you said?”

“In the northern quarter. I thought of going there once we’ve finished shopping.” She had already considered combining her search for the temple with her hunt for any sign of the hidden darkburn.

Ikelder shook his head, however. “I can’t accompany you that far today. Huldarion has called the Riders to a meeting later on: that doesn’t give us enough time to find this temple.”

“I can go on my own.”

“But it would be starting to get dark by the time you headed back.”

“Does that matter?” asked Yaret.

He pulled a face. “Well, yes, it does. The northern quarter is the oldest and the poorest area of the city. If you must go, I don’t suppose that I can stop you, but you shouldn’t be wandering round there alone – and certainly not at dusk.”

“So what are you doing tomorrow?”

“Unfortunately,” said Ikelder, “we’ve all been invited to a ceremonial joust. That’s what the meeting this evening is about. By we I mean all the male Vonn, naturally. I don’t think our hosts know what to do about the females. At any rate, they won’t be involved.” He scooped the last crumbs off his plate and ate them.

“Well, I could take a female with me tomorrow to the northern quarter, then. No offence, Durba, but one who can speak good Kelvhan. How about Shebel?”

“Better Delgeb,” said Ikelder.

“I’d be scared to ask her,” Yaret said.

“M… m… m…”

“You?”

Durba put her fingers to her mouth; then pointed to her chest and mimed an opening door.

“You mean, you have a disability, so they might let you in?” Ikelder asked. Durba nodded. “They might, at that,” he went on thoughtfully. “But then you’d need a third person too.”

“I know,” replied Yaret reluctantly. Although she would much prefer to do her exploration on her own, she could see the sense in what Ikelder said. Delgeb was a strong and self-assured warrior, who would take no nonsense from anybody. Including Yaret herself.

And as for Durba… why did she want to go to the temple of Borgun?

An uneasy thought crossed Yaret’s mind. Was it because Durba thought that in the temple she might find a cure for her muteness and her battle-shock? Did she even expect some supernatural power to greet them there?

Yaret sighed. She sincerely trusted not. This task was difficult enough, without such folly.