Roger Taylor: Arash-Felloren

The man led his horse to a stall and whispered to it before turning back to Ghreel.

‘Yes, thank you,’ he said, hitching his pack on to his shoulder and picking up two saddlebags. ‘Could you show me my room?’

Once again, the soft voice and quiet manner left Ghreel at a loss, throwing him, untypically, into politeness. ‘Are you travelling on, or looking for work hereabouts?’ he asked as he motioned the man back to the inn.

‘Both,’ came the reply. ‘I’ll need to work for a little while until I’ve enough money to move on.’

It gave Ghreel the opportunity he had been waiting for. ‘What’s your trade?’ he asked.

‘I’m a teacher.’

‘Teacher!’ Ghreel exclaimed. He wobbled to a halt and looked at his companion with a combination of disbelief and distaste. ‘Teacher!’ He was in his element now – he hated ‘clever’ people. His inadvertent politeness vanished. ‘What do you think you’re going to teach around here?’ He waved a dismissive hand and set off again.

‘Whatever people want to learn.’ The answer showed no sign of irritation at the innkeeper’s attitude, which soured further as a consequence.

‘That’s precisely nothing,’ Ghreel retorted, with a sneer. ‘Or at least nothing that comes out of a book. All anyone wants to know here is what they can use – who’s got money they can steal, where they can get a woman, and who’s got the cheapest ale.’ He patted himself on the chest.

He expected some argument, especially from a know-it-all like this one. The man obviously had no idea what the real world was like. He’d be lucky if he didn’t end up in a ditch with his head stoved in. Even experienced travellers went on their ways wiser after passing through here. Wiser – and poorer.

‘Perhaps I should just move on, then.’

The reply brought Ghreel to another halt. In his enthusiasm to persecute this newcomer he had nearly stepped over the mark. His hands involuntarily closed around the coins in his apron pocket and he gave the man a quick, narrow-eyed glance. The hat and the low sun combined to prevent him from reading anything in the shadowed face, but with an effort he forced himself to look concerned. ‘Your horse looks as if it could do with a rest,’ he said. ‘As do you.’ He tried to make his expression fatherly, but it became a yellow-toothed leer. ‘There’ll probably be something for you.’ A fat thumb flicked towards the setting sun. ‘There’s the city. And the Lowe Towns. Not to mention more than a few farms.’ The leer nodded to the east. ‘Then there’s the mines in the Thlosgaral and the Wilde Ports on the other side.’ He was unable to resist a final jibe. ‘Providing you don’t mind doing real work, of course.’

Once again, to Ghreel’s annoyance, the man did not respond, and they entered the inn in silence.

‘What is the city?’ the man asked as the stagnant dimness of the drinking room embraced them. He took off his hat. Ghreel blinked to clear his vision, then looked at him with a mixture of disbelief and suspicion. There was no sign of mockery in the face however.

‘What do you mean, what’s the city?’

‘What’s it called?’

The innkeeper pondered the question, testing it carefully, still suspicious. ‘Arash-Felloren,’ he said eventually, speaking wanly, as if to a treacherous child. ‘You can’t not have heard about Arash-Felloren, surely?’

The man gave a self-deprecating shrug. ‘I live far away.’

Like a hunting animal returning to its lair, Ghreel scuttled back behind the counter, and into his natural condition. He addressed the room. ‘Hear that, lads? Man here’s a teacher.’ He lingered on the word. ‘But he’s never heard of Arash-Felloren. You must have come from a very long way away, that’s all I can say. And it must have been a quiet place.’ Unfriendly laughter greeted this but the man just turned and acknowledged it with a smile.

‘I have, and it was,’ he said. ‘But I’ll take your advice. I’ll stay a while. Perhaps try the city tomorrow.’ He met Ghreel’s taunting gaze squarely. ‘I’d like to rest now, if you don’t mind.’

Ghreel scowled. This man’s lack of response was increasingly irritating but it also gave him no excuse for picking a quarrel.

‘Never heard of Arash-Felloren,’ he growled, loath to let the topic pass. ‘Biggest city in the world, lad.’ He was about to indulge in a scornful tirade about the stranger’s chances of surviving there when the coins in his apron reminded him that they might have cousins nearby. He contented himself with a laboured shake of his head as he indicated a door at the far end of the room.

The wooden stairs creaked unhappily as Ghreel made his way up them. It was not until he had reached the top that the stranger followed him, apparently anxious not to be trapped in this timber-sided ravine with Ghreel’s mountainous bulk lurching above him. The stairway led directly on to a wide, unevenly boarded balcony lined with doors and shuttered windows. Ghreel kicked open the nearest door.

‘Here you are,’ he said brusquely. He was about to turn away when a spasm of proprietorial pride seized him and he followed the stranger into the room. ‘Shutters are a bit stiff,’ he said, giving them a powerful slap. ‘But you’ll not be wanting them open too long, what with the flies and dust and all.’ The tour moved to the bed. ‘Mattress was given a good beating only last week.’ And thence to a stone sink. The pride became incongruously visible. ‘And water.’ He pumped a handle energetically and, after some peevish coughing, a desultory trickle of water spluttered irritably into the sink. ‘Only inn round here with that,’ he announced. ‘You’ll be lucky with most of them if you’ve got a pump in the yard and a bucket that doesn’t leak.’

The stranger raised his eyebrows and nodded an acknowledgement to indicate his appreciation at finding this haven. ‘Only here,’ Ghreel repeated. ‘Only at The Wyndering. Anyone’ll tell you.’ Then he was gone, the floor shaking rhythmically to his departure.

The stranger put his saddlebags on the floor and laid his pack on the bed. He left the door open and, after a brief struggle, managed to open the various shutters – one on to the balcony and one overlooking the inn yard. The brilliant redness of the setting sun was fading to a dusty ruddiness, though there seemed to be no lessening of the day’s heat. He took off his hat and the long coat and laid them carefully on the room’s one chair. Then he unbuckled his belt and, carefully placing his sword by his side, lay down on the bed, his hands behind his head.

His eyes moved slowly and methodically about the room, noting the old workmanship and the scars of many years of usage. The room, like The Wyndering as a whole, had the air of a fine old gentleman fallen upon hard times but now revelling in it. His study was punctuated by occasional sounds from the yard and the drinking room below.

‘What’s it to be tomorrow?’ said his companion. ‘Arash-Felloren, or the Wilde Ports?’

Gasping for breath, but made even more vigorous and fleet than usual by the angry cries following him, Pinnatte ran frantically along the crowded street.

He had made a mistake – a serious one – but it was not until after he had snatched the man’s purse that he realized he had been one of the Kyrosdyn. Worse, the wretch had been a full Brother too, perhaps even a Higher Brother, judging by the quality of the crystals marking out the emblem on his purse, and the size of the guard who appeared from nowhere at his master’s cry.

Pinnatte swung round a corner.

And that cry had been another thing – it was still ringing in his head – that peculiar blend of fury, disbelief and throat-wrenching petulance. It had confirmed the man as a Kyrosdyn even as Pinnatte was registering the emblem and its implications for his immediate future.