Roger Taylor - Arash-Felloren

Atlon voiced his reservations. ‘Not such a small town, after all, by the sound of it. And alarming as well.’

‘You afraid?’

‘Nervous,’ Atlon conceded, pulling a wry face. ‘There are times when I’d much rather be back at the Caves, studying in peace and quiet.’

‘But…?’ Dvolci caught the doubt.

Atlon blew out a long breath and picked up his pack. ‘But the only way to get back to that is to go forwards, isn’t it?’

Dvolci gave a mocking whistle. ‘Very philosophical. You must write that one down.’ Then he was serious again. ‘We must find out all we can about these Kyrosdyn. Some of the things Rinter was saying about them were very alarming. Powers, for pity’s sake. If that means what I think it means… if these people are using crystals to meddle with…’

‘Yes, I know.’ Atlon cut across Dvolci’s concern. ‘But if they are, they are. And they’ll have been doing it for a long time. I’m sure we’ll have no trouble in finding that out. We’ll have to wait and see.’

‘And caves beneath the city – and strange creatures?’

Atlon wiped his hand across his mouth nervously. ‘I don’t even want to think about what that might mean.’

‘We’ll have to find out.’ Dvolci’s tone held no enthusiasm at the prospect.

‘I know, I know,’ Atlon acknowledged grimly. He fluttered his hands as if to dispel an image in the air in front of him. ‘In the meantime we have more pressing problems – like finding a source of income around here.’ He slung his pack on to his back.

A trail of fine dust eddied about his feet as he opened the door. Stepping on to the long balcony, he looked up at the hazy sky and the low bright sun just breaking through the dust that hung permanently over the Thlosgaral. There was an unhealthy, almost feverish quality about it. The promise of a heat that would drain rather than sustain.

‘Yes,’ he said, answering Dvolci’s earlier question. ‘I am afraid.’

Though not normally concerned by dirt about his person, Pinnatte nevertheless tried to remove the stain from the back of his hand. His first instinct was to lift it to his mouth, as an injured animal might, but something stopped him. At least he could see the mark where it was. If he sucked it into his body, who knew what it might spread through his system. Perhaps that was what the Kyrosdyn had intended – perhaps the mark contained some subtle poison. Pinnatte felt more pleased than unnerved by this conclusion. It confirmed his own assessment of himself: he knew how to survive on the streets; he was not one to be so easily trapped.

He was less pleased a few minutes later when a vigorous washing in the cold water of the fountain failed to make any impression on the stain. A chill slowly formed in the pit of his stomach. What had that freak done to him? He felt sick at the random chance of it all. Like most of the Guild of Thieves, he was meticulous in avoiding stealing not just crystals, but anything from the Kyrosdyn. Though an elaborate system of statutes announced otherwise, punishments in Arash-Felloren were usually dependent on the whim of the injured party. Weartans, typically, could be bribed, unless there were several of them, in which case a beating was more likely. The private guards who looked after noble houses were more immediately inclined to violence, but, incongruously, often hesitated to create a disturbance that might distress their masters. Those employed by the traders, by contrast, would often call on their master to join in, which they invariably did, and with relish. But no one really knew what the Kyrosdyn did. There were only vague and frightening rumours – mysterious disappearances and people returned who were silent and haunted – ‘never the same again’.

Pinnatte had been luckier than average in his career. He had had many narrow escapes but had only been caught twice. On the first occasion he had managed to escape by paying a substantial bribe to a Weartan officer, while on the second he had had to serve a spell as a bound worker in one of the lesser noble houses. But as he stood looking into the bubbling water of the fountain he felt as though all the punishments he should have had were now about to be brought down upon him.

Hardly noticing what he was doing, he turned and began making his way through the crowded square. Again like a wounded animal, his instincts were now leading him to where he felt safest – Lassner’s Den.

It’s only a mark, he kept saying to himself, over and over, but there was no comfort in the thought. A peculiar darkness had come into his life that refused to be so casually dismissed. For some reason he could see nothing beyond it.

Not that he was without resource. In a more practical attempt to push the concern from his mind, and in direct contradiction of his earlier vow, he had managed to steal two purses before he turned into the familiar twisted street with its uneven, cart-rutted surface and disordered tiers of neglected and abandoned dwellings on either side.

Lassner was in his usual position; apparently asleep, with his hands curled over, the top of his stick and his chin resting on them. The dingy room, off an equally dingy entrance hall, had a welcoming air that Pinnatte had never noticed before. He threw the two unopened purses on the table in front of the old man. ‘Clean cuts,’ he said, as Lassner’s eyes snapped open and looked at him sharply. The simple statement, meaning that the owners were unaware of their purses being taken, was more than a casual remark. A chase attracted attention. Faces otherwise lost in the crowd might be recognized, and perhaps remembered at a future time. A Den Master might decide that a particular area was to be avoided for the time being. Failure to report a chase was liable to bring down a punishment on the offender’s head – sometimes severe, particularly if the chase had been brought anywhere near the Den.

Lassner half-closed his eyes to acknowledge the message then looked at the purses shrewdly before emptying them on to the table. After carefully rooting through all the pockets to ensure that nothing had been missed, he threw them to an old woman sitting in the corner, with a few rapid instructions about how they were to be altered. There was a brief, ill-tempered exchange at the end of which the woman turned her back on him and, muttering to herself, bent over her work. It was a regular ritual; Lassner issued the instructions, she ignored them and went her own way and, within a couple of days, the purses, as new, but quite unrecognizable, would be for sale on a stall somewhere. Lassner could sell the bark from a dead dog, his friends proclaimed.

Bony fingers flicked quickly through the coins and personal items on the table, assessing and ordering them. Personal items, like the purses themselves, would be altered and resold, if possible, for the ‘funding of the Den’, though no one ever questioned the fate of the money from such sales. Coins would be returned to the thief, with a premium being paid to the Den Master. When he had finished, Lassner drew a pile of coins and a ring towards himself and looked up at Pinnatte.

‘Agreed?’

‘Agreed.’

Pinnatte did not actually agree. Lassner had been taking too much by way of premium lately, but nothing was to be gained by arguing the point. He swept up the balance of his day’s work and turned to leave.

‘What’s the matter, lad? They were clean cuts, weren’t they?’

The questions made Pinnatte start. For a moment he considered making an off-hand reply, but experience had taught him that it was pointless trying to keep anything from the old man once he had chosen to ask about it. Thus the tale which earlier he had hoped to tell bravely and with great style to win himself free lodge for a day or so, stumbled out almost incoherently.