Arash-Felloren

Chapter 2

Chapter 2Gasping 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.

He cursed silently. Damn the man, wandering the streets looking just like any other person. How was an honest thief supposed to know? Why the devil hadn’t he been wearing his robes or at least carrying his staff? Pinnatte did not debate the questions, however. Instead he twitched his head as the memory returned of his victim’s guard looming ahead of him, massive hands outstretched, eyes full of malevolent focus. His head had twitched thus while his mouth had been gaping, his mind teetering on the edge of panic and, having saved him then, it seemed to be locked into him now, as if every time he did it, he might suddenly find himself free.

Passers-by moved hastily out of his way, some nervously, others angrily, swearing after him or aiming a blow. One or two, sensing reward, tried to grab hold of him, but he was moving too quickly and the one individual who did succeed found himself a victim of Pinnatte’s momentum, ending his attempted seizure by spinning round incongruously and tottering into the path of a passing carriage.

The resultant din brought vividly to Pinnatte the realization that his headlong flight was leaving a trail for his pursuers as clear as footprints in the snow. He must slow down! If he didn’t he could well set off the Cry, then, if he survived that, he’d find his fellow thieves after him as well.

But he was not fully in command of his legs. The Kyrosdyn were terrifying. Steal crystals from most people and you could certainly look for a more vigorous pursuit than if you had stolen coin or any other jewellery. But steal one from a Kyrosdyn and you could look to run as far as the Wilde Ports, then a long swim, if you hoped to escape. Kyrosdyn obsession with crystals was legendary. It was one of the great ‘Do Nots’ of the Guild of Thieves — ‘Stole a crystal from a Kyrosdyn,’ was the knowing way of saying, ‘He’s a dead man.’

That was why he had thrown the purse in the guard’s face almost immediately — as if the action would absolve him from all blame. But the Kyrosdyn were more than just obsessive about their crystals, they had a lust for them that was almost religious, and to touch them without respect, still less without permission, was to bring down that unreasoned and self-righteous wrath on the perpetrator’s head that only the religious can aspire to.

And strange things happened to those who were taken by the Kyrosdyn...

He must stop running! He must stop!

The urgency of this inner demand was beginning to outweigh the urgency of the need to flee. Amongst the many skills that Pinnatte’s years of thieving had given him was one which made him aware of the sound of the crowd even when he was not particularly listening to it. Sometimes it would tell him that he could almost stroll from pocket to pocket, shop to shop, and take whatever he wanted without creating even a stir. At others, seemingly no different, it said, ‘No. Walk away. Leave it. It’s too dangerous.’ Whenever he had chosen to ignore this soft voice, he had suffered for it. Now, he could sense his erratic progress rebounding through the bustling chaos of the streets and leaving a wake that was not dissipating, but gathering in force. If he didn’t stop soon, then the Cry would be called as sure as fate.

He changed direction abruptly and careened into a narrow alley. It was a dangerous thing to do, as he could be trapping himself there, where his manoeuvrability would be of little avail, but he needed a moment to force himself to stop and gather his scattered senses. As it was, it took him twenty paces before he could slow down to a walk, and a further twenty before he really began to take command of his thoughts — and stop his head from twitching. Belatedly checking that the alley was empty, he pulled off his jacket, turned it inside out and put it on again. A dirty yellow kerchief was dragged out of a pocket, wiped across his perspiring face then wrapped about his neck. Then his trousers were tugged out of his boots and, finally, his unkempt hair was swept into some semblance of tidiness. It was thus a markedly different Pinnatte who emerged from the other end of the alley and, with studied casualness, sauntered into the busy traffic.

It was as well he stopped his reckless career when he did, he realized. Even here he could feel a tension in the passers-by. Somewhere that screeching Kyrosdyn and his guard might still be looking for him — making more din than a mother looking for a lost child! He’d like to choke the creature on his damned crystals! He’d got them back, hadn’t he?

Then, as if unleashed by this near-disaster, for the first time ever he wondered why the Kyrosdyn were the way they were. The crystals were valuable, some much more than others, with their many tints and hues, and valuable things made some people very strange. But why should the Kyrosdyn — to a man — have such fanatical regard for them?

It was rumoured that in the Vaskyros they had a great hoard, even of the most precious of all — those with that faint and subtle green glow at their heart. He had seen few worthwhile crystals in his life, and he had never seen one of those — very few had. Occasionally, in some drinking hole frequented by his own kind, boastful tales would emerge of green crystals won and lost, but such stories were usually worth no more than the ale that was creating them. Only once had he felt himself on the edge of the truth when, in the middle of such a yarn, an old man, sullenly silent until then, had suddenly snarled out a drunken oath and accused the teller of being a fool and a liar. By way of emphasis, he slapped his hand down on the table, palm upwards. It was withered and dead and the fingers were curled into a painful grasp.

‘That’s green crystals for you, lad,’ he said. ‘That, and nightmares for the rest of your life.’ He tapped his head and sneered. ‘You’ve seen nothing. Still less touched.’

The outburst had won him only a measure of his length in the street, yet Pinnatte had never forgotten the despair and pain that had shone briefly through the old man’s bleary eyes. The memory returned to him whenever green crystals were spoken of. It was with him now. And in a way he could not define, it chimed with the cry that The Kyrosdyn had uttered when his purse was snatched — there had been a fearful despair in it.

He shook his head to dispel these thoughts. This was no time to be daydreaming. He must pay attention to what was happening about him. Was he still being sought? Had his flight and the pursuit been sufficient to let loose the Cry?

He paused momentarily, ostensibly looking at the fruit on a stall but, in reality, listening, and debating his next move. The Street was noisy, but the tension he had sensed when he emerged from the alley was no longer there. The pursuit had either ended or gone off in another direction. He let out a long, silent breath. He’d been lucky there. Luckier than he deserved. He resolved to be more careful in future — it was the third time that month he had made such a resolution. Even as he was reaffirming this oath however, he saw his hand about to slip an apple into his pocket. With an effort he stopped it and conspicuously replaced the apple on the stall. He’d have to steal something else to eat, later.

‘Don’t maul ‘em if you’re not buying,’ the stall-holder barked by way of acknowledgement. Pinnatte bit back a retort, but could not avoid curling his lip at the man as he rejoined the crowd.

Still a little unnerved by his escape, he wandered aimlessly for some time. Although he was calmer now, scenes kept playing themselves through his head, showing him talking his way out of the clutches of the Kyrosdyn and his bodyguard with ingenious and quite convincing excuses, or somehow dashing them both aside and escaping with the purse to become the most famous of Arash-Felloren’s thieves. In the wake of these came endless, wilder variations and, even though he tried to dismiss them as so much foolishness, Pinnatte could not help himself but rehearse each to a nicety.

Gradually, more prosaic needs began to impose themselves. The combination of terror and his frantic run through the afternoon’s heat had made him thirsty — very thirsty. And, too, he would have to find something for his Den Master, Lassner, if he was to eat properly tonight. He dismissed this last concern for the moment. Unlike his fantasy about the Kyrosdyn, if the worst came to the worst he could talk his way around Lassner for at least one night’s credit. Far more pressing now was his thirst.

He came to where several streets met, or rather collided, to form a wide and ragged square. Arash-Felloren was replete with charters, statutes, laws, by-laws, and all manner of rules and regulations dealing with the movement of goods and people, the conducting of business, marrying, burying, begging, borrowing, stealing, and every form of social and commercial intercourse in which waywardness of some kind had occurred since anyone had bothered to record such matters. Sadly, while they were both extensive and comprehensive, they were also, for the most part, either incomprehensible or mutually contradictory. They had one thing in common, however. They were almost universally ignored. True, there were several large areas of the city where order and prosperity prevailed, but the greater part of it was subject only to one law — the oldest of laws — survival.

The square that Pinnatte now entered was a frenzy of confusion and disorder as faltering skeins of wagons, riders and walkers struggled to cross it, weaving around and through a random sprawl of stalls and tents and gaudy handcarts at its centre. The dust-filled air was thick with oaths and clamour as travellers and shifty-eyed traders each vied for attention.

Pinnatte entered the fray. The jostling and buffeting in a place like this made it ideal for snatching purses and picking pockets, especially working with a team of like-minded souls, but, apart from his thirst, his luck having turned so sour today, he was in no mood for it. A good yarn about today’s events should serve to keep Lassner satisfied tonight, he decided. The old man was a realist, he’d do nothing impetuous because of one night’s rent. Pinnatte took a perverse pride in his integrity as a thief... amongst his own kind, his word was good and he settled his debts promptly — he was a model Den-Mate.

Towards the middle of the square, where the traders outnumbered the travellers, was a raised fountain — a remnant of the time when the square had been more prosperous. The carved figures that formed it had long been mutilated — fine features rendered pugilistic by the breaking of noses and ears, stout stone shields and swords shattered and split, then weathered and decayed. But the water had always flowed. With its source far from the city, it was too good to be hazarded by the reckless damaging of its supply and outlet conduits, and a general awareness of its value by the locals had always protected it from complete destruction.

Pinnatte reached it with some relief. There were two or three groups of people, mainly men, lounging on the steps that led up to the fountain’s basin. He stepped through them with a studied combination of assuredness and inoffensiveness that he had cultivated over the years, meeting gazes clearly where unavoidable, though without challenge.

At the top of the steps, he leaned over the low parapet to catch a handful of water tumbling from one of several spouts. As ever, it was as cold as the mountains it came from, quite unaffected by the weeks of humid heat that had been pervading the city. He drank noisily, relishing the chill that marked out a route inside him. When he was sated, he scooped both hands deep into the basin and splashed his face luxuriously. The strains of the day faded almost immediately. He began to practice his tale for Lassner. It would be a good one and, if he told it well, he might get more than one night rent-free. There could even be extra food — Lassner liked a good tale.

As the thought came to him, a powerful grip closed around his neck and plunged his head under the water.