Roger Taylor: Ibryen

‘I’d neither inclination nor justification for killing him,’ Ibryen snapped back angrily.

‘That he’s here is justification enough!’

‘That he’s here is justification enough for keeping him alive, Rachyl. Use your head.’ Rachyl’s jaw came out fiercely, but Ibryen ignored the challenge. ‘He’s got a wild tale to tell and I think we should listen to it. If it transpires he’s lying, then we need more than ever to know how he came here, don’t we? Especially if there are ways to this place that even we don’t know about. For pity’s sake, we can kill him any time. He’s hardly a fighting man, is he?’ The two cousins cast a glance at the Traveller standing patiently some way away, apparently looking round at the mountains. Ibryen’s reasoning was impeccable, but a stranger in the valley was nerve-wracking for all that.

‘What do you want us to do with him?’ Rachyl conceded surlily.

For an instant, Ibryen’s face bore the expression of a man facing insurmountable odds as he looked at his glowering cousin.

‘Be pleasant. Be polite,’ he said, with an effort. ‘Watch him all the time. And watch what he watches. Listen to what he says and take note of everything he asks you. Tell him as little as possible but remember what you do tell him. And tell everyone else to keep away from him.’

‘And if he tries to escape?’ Rachyl asked expectantly.

‘Don’t let him!’ Ibryen’s tone was final. ‘I hold you responsible for his well-being until we decide what to do with him. Is that clear?’ Rachyl nodded curtly.

Ibryen returned to the Traveller. ‘You have my protection, but there’s no point pretending you’re welcome here. We’re under siege from a terrible enemy and have been for many years now. People who appear from nowhere strike a deep fear into us all.’

‘I understand.’

‘I doubt it,’ Ibryen retorted. ‘Go with Rachyl and Hynard, they’ll find somewhere for you to stay.’

‘And they’ll keep an eye on me.’

Ibryen nodded. ‘And they’ll protect you until we can talk further.’

‘I’m grateful,’ the Traveller replied.

‘Do whatever they tell you to do and don’t wander away from them.’

‘I will. They both look very… determined.’

Ibryen looked down at the Traveller. It would have needed no great perception to read the expressions on the faces of Hynard and Rachyl when they first arrived, for all they were now endeavouring to appear civil, and, in his brief acquaintance he had not found the Traveller to be anything other than very astute. He must know the danger he’s in, he thought, yet his last remark was almost flippant. Either he’s a complete fool, or he has greater resources than he appears to have.

He abandoned his debate and without further comment took Rachyl’s horse and turned it towards the approaching crowd.

Every part of Jeyan cried out for continued flight. She wanted to run and run until Hagen’s corpse, the Guards, the city, this whole damned land was far behind her. But, well away from the scene of the murder now, she forced herself to slow to a walk as she emerged from an alleyway into the busy street. The two dogs, Assh and Frey, who had been running ahead, slowed without turning round. Long-developed habit made Jeyan slouch and lower her head to take on the semblance of one of the many indigent street-dwellers that littered the city. But it was difficult. Her whole body was shaking violently and she felt as though her inner turmoil must surely be resounding through the afternoon crowd like a clarion, drawing all eyes towards her. Grimly she made herself stand still for a moment while she stared at the ground, nudging a mound of rubbish with her foot, as though searching for something. Her passion and hatred had done their part in giving her the courage to stare into the face of that creature, Hagen, and slay him – her shaking increased at the recollection – but now her wits must ensure her escape. And running was not the way. Running was the way that would indeed draw all eyes, and hencethe Guards, to her. She allowed herself to start walking again, carefully maintaining her slovenly posture. At the same time she signalled to the dogs to move away. They obeyed immediately, Assh surreptitiously trotting ahead and busying himself sniffing amongst the piles of refuse that lined the street, and Frey dropping back and crossing to the other side to do the same. Though they were soon weaving casually through the passers-by, Jeyan knew they would be watching and listening, waiting for her least signal. She, in her turn, was listening for the sounds of pursuit or, worse, for the sounds of the street purging that must surely follow what she had done. In the shivering chill that followed the heat of her slaughter of Hagen, colder counsels were emerging from time to time. Much more than a street purging would follow on such a deed. How many innocent people had she condemned with her act? What trials had she unleashed on the city?

She gritted her teeth. No more than the city deserved, she thought. Hadn’t the city stood by, timid and compliant, when her parents were hounded with lies and petty persecutions before finally being selected for trial and execution? Trial – the word made her want to spit – what an obscenity! All the forms and procedures, full of dignity and pomp, glibly displayed to cover and at once reveal the Gevethen’s grinding cruelty. But that was the way they ruled – paying obsessive attention to the superficial details of the Law, while wilfully corrupting its very heart. Turning it into just another subtle instrument of torture and so tainting it that even if the Count should return, he would find its ancient face disfigured beyond repair.

There would be plenty of trials after today’s work. Jeyan had known this from the moment she began to contemplate it, but it was of no concern to her. Only by the merest chance had she been absent from her parents’ home when the Citadel Guards came… and it was the cowardly response of her erstwhile ‘friends’ that had set her on the inexorable way to today’s deed. One after another, once welcoming doors had remained implacably shut against her tearful pleadings as, frantic, she had gone searching for help. Angry voices had spurned her, threats had been made to hold her for the Guards, dogs had been set upon her. The greatest kindness she had received that day had been a loaf of bread thrust through a briefly opened shutter, and even that had been accompanied by a fearful, whispered injunction to go at once, to flee the city.

And there had been little kindness or help since, so frightened were the people. For once the Count had been swept aside and his remaining followers silenced, the secret denunciation had become the Gevethen’s most insidious weapon. So pervasive had it become that spouse feared spouse, parents feared children, each feared his neighbour. Where there had been debate and laughter, there was now sullen silence. Where there had been warm and open faces there were now suspicious, uneasy glances. Even the least whisper seemed to reach the ears of the Gevethen, and the whisperer would be pursued and brought to account. There would be a well-rehearsed public trial, or the offender would simply be no more…

Those who saw the Guards marching at night turned their faces away.

Yet Jeyan had survived. She had eaten the loaf while softly cursing the giver, then, with the vague idea that perhaps she might meet survivors from the massacre of the Count’s followers, she had fled into the Ennerhald: the labyrinth of crooked streets, broken buildings and crumbling cellars that were the remains of the old city from which grew Dirynhald. She had found only such as herself there however, together with those who had no place under either the Count’s rule or the Gevethen’s – petty thieves and pathetic rogues and others whose grasp on the direction of their lives was, at best, tenuous.