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

Chapter 4

“The city is nothing like I’d expected,” said Yaret disconsolately. She was sitting in the kitchen of the women’s lodgings, perched cross-legged on the bench while she carefully sewed up a rent in her well-worn jerkin with swift, tiny stitches. Tiburé watched this tailoring with admiration, and managed to refrain from comparing it with the inferior work of Shildha’s maidservants.

Weaver, tailor, archer, Rider… the woman was versatile, thought Tiburé; and she always seemed content. But Yaret’s words just now sounded so uncharacteristically disheartened that Tiburé regarded her with some surprise.

“Why, what’s wrong with it, country girl?”

“You just said it, Tiburé. I’m from the country. Small-town at best. This city is too big. Too loud. Too bright. Too much going on. Far too many people. Too confusing.”

“Hah,” grunted Maeneb. “Just like everywhere for me.”

“In that case,” Yaret told her, “you have my deepest sympathy. I must admit I find it all somewhat… overwhelming. And now I’ve got to go and look for this blessed temple of Borgun.” She snipped her thread and began to mend a second tear.

“You haven’t got to do anything,” said Tiburé. “Except enjoy yourself, for a change.” She immediately reflected that this might be a tactless remark to make to someone who had lost their entire home town to fire and had subsequently fought in several bloody battles; but then she gave a mental shrug. That was little different to what many of the Vonn had been through – and it was all the more reason for Yaret to enjoy herself. Life did not stop.

“Well, maybe I don’t need to find the temple of Borgun, but I want to,” Yaret said. “And I’ve promised Durba that I’ll take her with me. And I’ve told Ikelder that I’ll take a third. So I thought maybe Delgeb…”

“Delgeb? And you don’t like too big, too noisy and too bright?” exclaimed Tiburé. “Don’t take Delgeb. Take me instead.”

“You?”

Tiburé spread out her hands and then smoothed down the creases of her heavy riding dress. “I’m an old lady and I’m respectable. Even if I don’t look like one of the Vonn.”

“You certainly don’t at the moment,” said Maeneb, eyeing the stiff crimson brocade skirt with some distaste.

Tiburé would have preferred Maeneb to question the first epithet – old – for she was only fifty-two, after all, and had meant it relatively. But she did look respectable, by Kelvhan standards, if something of a country cousin. A starchy, well-off, old-fashioned cousin who would be allowed a little eccentricity as a tourist.

“I could do with an afternoon out of court circles,” she told them. “I’ve been two months now in Kelvha City, when I’d have much preferred to be fighting in the north with you; and my word, am I tired of all the dressing-up and lordly nonsense that goes on here. My host and hostess will be at the castle joust this afternoon, but I have no desire to see grown men knocking each other off their horses. Alburé can go in my stead.” She thought her daughter might enjoy it. And Sashel would be there, although he was probably the wrong twin as far as Alburé was concerned; she had been very quiet since Gordal’s death in battle.

“Do you know your way around the northern quarter?” Yaret asked with obvious misgivings.

“Child, I’ve been coming to Kelvha for thirty years. I’ve stayed with my noble hosts every time, and stars, is it boring. I have to escape as often as I can.”

Yaret folded up her sewing. “I’m no more a child than you are an old lady,” she said. “Do you know where this temple of Borgun is?”

“Not exactly; but I know where Old Tanneries Street is. I’ll come with you. Just let me get my horse. And you get yours.”

“Horses? Really?”

“Really,” she said firmly.

So in due course the three of them – Tiburé, Yaret and Durba – set off riding together to the northern quarter. Tiburé had her reasons for insisting that they ride. While the horses would barely travel any faster than pedestrians through those crowded streets, they would inspire respect, she told the other two; for only higher ranks and their servants were allowed to ride inside the city.

But she advised Yaret to mount her moth-eaten old nag Helba and lend her other horse to Durba. Poda was too conspicuously fine a horse for a common archer. Tiburé designated Yaret as her groom; that should ensure Helba’s safety as well as Yaret’s own, for the theft of nobles’ horses was a capital offence. To beat a beggar or a whore to death, by contrast, might bring no more than a fine, provided the offence were committed by a lord. Such was the way of this world, and since Tiburé could not change it, she accepted it.

“You ride well side-saddle,” Yaret commented as they progressed at a stately pace away from the lodging-house. “It doesn’t look easy.”

“It isn’t. It twists your back. You ought to learn though, in case you ever end up in a skirt.”

“I don’t see that happening,” said Yaret. “What about you, Durba? Can you ride side-saddle?”

Durba shook her head and grimaced. She still wore her Vonnish clothing, but had changed her hairstyle to something more masculine, and could pass as a bland-faced young man. This was intentional. For after riding uneventfully down a series of broad, prosperous roads, they found themselves starting to weave through narrower lanes where a young woman – even a Vonnish one – might attract unwanted attention. Here, the stream of passers-by wore no furs and lace, but drab, much-mended clothes, and wary looks.

“This northern section is the oldest part of Kelvha City,” Tiburé informed the others. “It even predates the Castle – parts of it must date back eight hundred years.”

“Which parts?” asked Yaret.

Tiburé shrugged. It was impossible to tell. The northern quarter’s antiquity had left its legacy in the mazy layout of over-crowded streets rather than in any ornate architecture. Most of the buildings were of wood: cheaply built, they were prone to succumb to rot or fire, only to be rebuilt equally badly.

No fort or mansion marked the place where the first kings of Kelvha must once have sat enthroned before their tribesmen. Not even a memorial stone, thought Tiburé with disapproval. The Kelvhan royal family preferred to forget where it had started its magnificent career; for the northern quarter was a slum.

She steered the others past the odours of the meat-market, and to avoid the many taverns of the crowded lane popularly known as Beery Row, she then turned left towards the city wall.

“This city must measure about ten miles round,” said Yaret ruefully.

“You can double that.”

“Really? But then I’ll never…”

“What?”

“Nothing.” After a moment Yaret added, “I thought it might be possible to walk right round the wall and see the city that way.”

“If you mean walk on top of the wall, you couldn’t anyway,” Tiburé advised her. “It’s broad enough, but there are guard towers every half mile, where you’d be stopped. And if you mean you could walk round the inside of the wall – that’s not much better. It has to incorporate all the outlets for the city sewers. You’d find many a stinking stream across your path.”

“Don’t they run them underground?”

“Not in the northern quarter,” said Tiburé.

They continued to ride beneath the rickety upper storeys of faded houses: tall, thin and ramshackle, their paint peeling, their banners ragged where they were still aloft. Many heads turned to look at them; a few muted and not-so-muted comments were passed.

“Nice horse.” That was in reference to Poda.

“They look foreign. Are they those Vonn?”

“One of them is.” That would be Durba that they meant. Tiburé didn’t think that Yaret and Durba were recognised as women by any of the onlookers. Yaret especially wore her male guise very well, she thought, hearing a street-sweeper curse her abundantly for letting her horse befoul his crossroads.

“Would you mind repeating that?” said Yaret courteously; at which he retreated, muttering, as he whisked his ancient broom across the cobbles. She turned to Tiburé. “I’m acquiring Kelvhan swear-words,” she explained. Then her expression changed as she looked over Tiburé’s shoulder.

“What is it?” Tiburé’s hand was already at the knife-hilt hidden in her riding-dress; but Yaret just looked puzzled.

“It’s Zan,” she said. “Hey! Zan!”

“Who is Zan?” asked Tiburé, looking round.

“One of Veron’s hunters. Only he’s not really a hunter. He joined up with them after his village was burnt out. He was taken captive along with Arguril,” said Yaret.

“Ah, that one. I remember Arguril telling me about him.” A heavily bearded man had emerged from behind a fish-stall and was slowly walking up to them, his face a little sheepish.

Durba raised a hand to him in salute. Yaret did not.

“Zan,” she said sternly, “were you following us?”

He rubbed at his head. “No, of course not! I just happened to be going the same way.”

“Ever since Beery Row? You were following us,” said Yaret. She didn’t sound annoyed, merely intrigued. “Why? You could have just asked to accompany us. But I would have thought you’d be busy today with Veron and all his gang.”

“Veron’s at the big joust with the other Riders. The hunters aren’t invited. They’re mostly sleeping.”

“At this time of day? Why, what have they been doing? Out gallivanting all night?”

Zan didn’t answer that. Instead he rubbed at his head again and said, “I just came here to do some shopping.”

“For fish?”

“What?”

“You were hiding behind a fish stall just now.”

“I wasn’t hiding! I was looking around. Then I happened to see you and I… I didn’t want to disturb you.” He looked at Tiburé. A solemn, earnest man, she judged, not good at lying. Not normally devious, then.

“Would you like to come along with us?” she asked.

“No, no, that’s all right,” said Zan. “Where are you going?”

“Old Tanneries Street, third on the left from here. We’ll see you there,” said Tiburé. She nodded to him and began to move on. Standing undecided and open-mouthed, he watched them ride away.

Tiburé looked across at Yaret. “So you have two followers,” she said lightly. “One of them literal. Both of them figurative.”

“What do you mean?”

“Ikelder, and that man.”

“Followers? If you mean that – no, that’s ridiculous,” said Yaret, visibly taken aback. “Ikelder is a friend, certainly, but that’s all. And Zan... I think he’s just lonely. His situation is similar to mine.”

“Followers,” said Tiburé firmly, with some amusement. She did not understand why Yaret would think it so impossible. A wooden leg would make a few men think twice, and Yaret wasn’t conventionally feminine, which in Tiburé’s eyes was all to the good; in fact, she wasn’t conventional in many ways. But she had something about her. Quite a lot about her. Tiburé was fairly certain that Ikelder wasn’t the only Rider of the Vonn who was interested.

Ah me, she reflected, maybe I’m just remembering my own youth, before I married Solon. And also some time after. Am I jealous? She considered this before deciding that she was not. Even if she could shed twenty-five years, she would prefer not to do so.

“Here we are. Old Tanneries Street,” she said.

It was a busy thoroughfare; they had to pick their way past carts and delivery wagons. There was a delicious smell emanating from a bakery and a less delicious one wafting from a brewhouse. Some of the people here didn’t smell too good either, Tiburé realised, as she eyed the beggars who sat hunched against shop-fronts and the ragged women hurrying past with covered heads and empty baskets.

Tiburé reached down from her horse to stop one of these with a hand on her shoulder. As the woman looked up, startled, she said,

“The temple of Borgun. Where is it? I have a mind to visit it.”

“You, my lady?” The woman’s surprise was evident.

“Yes. Why not?”

“Well – it’s just that ladies don’t generally…”

“I see,” said Tiburé drily. Wealth was unlikely to be a bar to entering the temple; but femaleness very likely was. She should have expected it, really, and was annoyed with herself. “But you know where this temple is? Lead us there and I’ll give you a dreb.” She held up the small coin.

Then, since she was aware that half the street now seemed to be watching them, she said in further explanation, and in a strong, clear voice, “I have a groom who is a cripple. I was told the temple is the place for him to go.”

“I don’t like to put you to all this trouble, ma’am,” said Yaret in a thick northern burr.

“Nonsense. How can you see to my horses properly with that limp? The herbs haven’t worked, and that spell I bought from the medicine man in Havvich wasn’t worth the money. What an imposter.”

“Yes, ma’am. I appreciate this.”

It seemed to satisfy the listeners; Tiburé saw one man who was lounging against the wall shake his head and tap his forehead, making his companion laugh. Well, that was fine. A superstitious old lady with more money than sense: that was her role here.

Their guide led them further down the road and stopped outside a tall, drab building – this one a rare stone edifice wedged in between dilapidated wooden houses. It bore no sign, and no banners. This part of the street smelt even worse than the average, probably thanks to all the beggars milling around. Tiburé handed over the dreb with a flourish.

“Thank you, my good woman. Where does my groom go in?”

“That blue door there, ma’am. I believe there will be a priest inside.”

“Very good. Well, my lad, you heard her. In you go.” This was to Yaret, who dismounted and bowed. “And you… er?” This was to Durba, who was more of a problem; Tiburé had not decided who exactly Durba might be.

“The young gentleman wishes to enter with me, I believe, ma’am,” said Yaret evenly. “Is that not so, sir?” And she added a little sign language as if Durba were not only dumb but also deaf. Durba nodded vigorously and mimed assent.

“Very well. I will wait,” said Tiburé. Yaret hobbled over and knocked at the door, which had once been covered in blue paint, now flaking badly. It showed no sign of what might lie inside. After a few long seconds the door opened into darkness. Yaret glanced at Durba and then led the way in, with a pronounced limp.

As they disappeared from sight Tiburé wondered if she were altogether wise to wait here, on her own, in such a neighbourhood. There was a pair of men lurking in a doorway who had a definitely shifty look. Although she did not doubt her ability to look after herself, it would be annoying to have to use her knife. And if she needed to draw her sword – its scabbard currently concealed by her long skirts – that would draw attention to herself in a most undesirable way.

So it was with some relief that, on glancing around loftily, she noticed someone else lurking, at the far end of the street.

“Zan! Over here!” She waved and beckoned imperiously. As Zan approached, the shifty pair eased themselves out of their doorway and disappeared further down the road.

“You found the place, I see,” she said to Zan, who bowed.

“I wasn’t following you, though,” he said.

“Yes, you were, and quite rightly. I expect your master told you to keep an eye on me in these star-forsaken streets, didn’t he?”

Zan looked faintly baffled until she fixed him with a frown, when he had the presence of mind to say, “Erm, yes.”

“Well, you can come with me now. Take those horses. We’ll find somewhere more wholesome to wait.” As she nudged her horse into a walk, Zan obediently took the reins of the other two and followed alongside.

“You know Arguril, I believe,” she said.

“Yes!” His face came alive. “We were held as captives together, after we were taken by the stonemen.”

“He’s a brave young man.” In the past she would have said impulsive, even foolhardy – but maybe events of the last six months had modified those traits.

“When we were chained together, he tried to cheer me, to keep my courage up,” said Zan eagerly. “He told me that his friends would rescue him. I didn’t know whether to believe him. But then one of them did.” He described how a Rider had appeared suddenly at dawn and somehow released a darkburn from its cage; then, in the ensuing chaos at the stonemen’s camp, had killed the guard and thrown Zan the keys to the prisoners’ shackles before riding off with Arguril.

“I didn’t have time to free them all,” Zan finished, “but a dozen men escaped who would otherwise be dead.”

“Who was the Rider?”

“His name is Rothir,” said Zan with reverence. “I lately went to thank him.”

“I’m sure he enjoyed that,” said Tiburé drily.

“He seemed hardly happy to know of the many men he saved. He just frowned and shook his head as if in despair.”

“Well, of course he did,” she said. “He’ll have been regretting not saving them all, ever since it happened. Let’s go this way; it’s quieter.”

She turned back towards the city wall where the crowds were a little thinner. Shacks and fruit stalls leaned against the wall’s mighty bulk: up on the top she saw a pair of guards parading. She marvelled, as always, at the evidence of Kelvha’s manpower – both those who had built it and those who now patrolled it.

The place still smelt, though. Tiburé grimaced and continued to follow the wall clockwise, against the general flow of pedestrians and carts, laden with muddy vegetables, cloth, firewood and ironware. She craned her neck to look over their loads; and seeing a clearer section of the street ahead, she headed that way.

They crossed a fetid stream by means of a bridge. It was being repaired and was closed to carts, but there were almost no pedestrians on it. On the other side the street was all but empty. And as soon as she took her next breath she knew why.

“Dear stars,” she said aloud. “That smell…”

“That’s the bath-house,” said a lone passing tradesman, removing the handkerchief clamped to his face. “They’ve closed it. Drains.”

Tiburé nodded but did not answer. Drains?

She felt a sudden surge of fear; a heart-stopping, all too familiar dread. When she looked back at Zan, his stricken face told her that she was not wrong. They both recognised that feeling – and that smell. The ever-present stench of drains might provide sufficient camouflage to those who knew no better, but the deathly smell was unmistakable to anyone who had ever met its source.

Darkburn.