Arash-Felloren

Chapter 3

Chapter 3The same powerful grip that had thrust Pinnatte’s head beneath the water eventually withdrew it, but he was retching and struggling frantically for some time before he realized that it was air entering his lungs and not freezing water. For a moment he hung limply, then he made a desperate attempt to free himself. It was to no avail however, for though he was much stronger than his wiry frame indicated, the grip was unyielding and merely tightened painfully until he became still again.

Then the sound of laughter penetrated the booming in his ears and a vague shape formed through his blurred vision. Reaching up cautiously, for fear of antagonizing his captor, he wiped the water from his face until the shape became clearer.

It was the Kyrosdyn.

A chill filled Pinnatte that was far colder than the water he had just been immersed in and he began struggling again. The grip on his neck tightened mercilessly, making him cry out this time, and a stinging blow struck him across the face.

Ironically, the blow cleared his mind and once again he became very still. The grip eased slightly. Pinnatte glanced around rapidly to assess his predicament. He saw that the laughter was coming from a gathering crowd and that the Kyrosdyn’s hand was raised to strike him again.

The crowd offered him a glimmer of hope. It was unlikely that they would intervene if he was about to receive a beating. He himself had stood by and watched while others had been beaten, even killed — interfering in such matters was rarely wise. But the Kyrosdyn were loved by no one and, with luck, the crowd might perhaps be swayed to his side.

If he got the opportunity to speak.

But whatever else happened, he must stay here, in public view. He was lost if the Kyrosdyn managed to take him to the Vaskyros.

‘What did you do that for?’ he spluttered, mustering all the injured innocence he could find.

The Kyrosdyn paused, tilted his head on one side, then brought his face close to Pinnatte’s. ‘I think you know,’ he said softly. Pinnatte’s insides tightened. It was as though the man’s gaze was burning through him. He wanted desperately to look away, but the grip on his neck prevented him from moving and all he could do was screw up his eyes.

‘No, I don’t,’ he managed to protest.

The Kyrosdyn moved a finger in front of his unblinking eyes. The strange gesture was made slowly and with a deliberateness that frightened Pinnatte far more than any angry fist-clenching could have done. He could do no other than focus on the man’s hand, turning the staring eyes into a glinting blur in the background. As if in some way he might hide from what was happening, he found himself noting that the hand was long and delicate — like a woman’s, almost — and it was clean. Very clean. However the Kyrosdyn practised their craft, it involved nothing that would coarsen and harden the hands.

‘Look at me,’ came the command. Pinnatte could not disobey and, once again, he was staring into the Kyrosdyn’s eyes. The soft, high-pitched voice continued. ‘We who study the crystals have a vision which you could not begin to imagine. We look into the very heart of all things.’ The voice dropped almost to a whisper. ‘Even into the worlds between and beyond. So when you sought to steal from us, your every line and shadow was etched into our mind on the instant. Your flight was a mere irritation — one which will worsen your punishment. It is not possible to hide from us — the echo of your stunted, shrivelled soul shone in the air itself. Nor is it possible to avoid the consequences that your desecration has set in train.’

The last three words were pronounced with great deliberation and each was accompanied by a slap across the face. Once again the blows served only to bring Pinnatte’s mind into sharp focus. Though the Brotherhood of the Kyrosdyn never seemed to vie for power over the city themselves, their influence was avidly sought by those factions that did, for it was a commonplace that they possessed dark and mysterious powers and whoever could win them to their side would prosper. The malign influence they had in the endless political manoeuvring that plagued the city had little or no effect on the lives of such as Pinnatte, and he affected to hold it in disdain. Yet he was well aware of its potency. Thus, suddenly finding himself confronted by one of these sinister manipulators, his reaction was coloured by the superstitious fear that street gossip had imbued in him. And each word the man spoke brought this fear closer and closer to the surface, until it threatened to unman him. Now, however, the blows to his face somehow reduced the Kyrosdyn. Now he was just another street bully. For an instant, Pinnatte experienced two opposing emotions — a sudden elation mingled with an unexpected and indefinable sense of loss. But he was freer now.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he replied angrily. ‘Are you touched in the head, or something? Half-drowning a man for just having a quiet drink. And let go of me, will you.’ He swung a fist vaguely backwards but it bounced impotently off a solid, muscular frame. He appealed to the crowd. ‘Get him off me,’ he shouted, catching the eyes of as many people as he could. ‘He’s a lunatic. I’ve never seen him before and I certainly haven’t stolen anything from him.’

The Kyrosdyn struck him again. Pinnatte reached up with both hands and managed to seize the wrist of his captor. Then, supporting himself on the extended arm, he kicked wildly with both feet at the Kyrosdyn. The man holding him tottered forward under this unexpected burden and Pinnatte used the movement to bounce his feet off the ground and kick again. None of the kicks found a target, but the Kyrosdyn was obliged to jump back hastily and the whole escapade was greeted by the crowd with a cheer. The second attack further disturbed the balance of the guard and Pinnatte tightened his awkward grip on the man’s wrist, and began to struggle desperately. Abruptly he was on his knees and the man was tumbling over. Then the grip vanished and Pinnatte stood up.

Quite unaware of how he had achieved this, he turned round to see the Kyrosdyn’s guard staggering down the steps of the fountain, his arms flailing to catch his balance. He was fully as large as Pinnatte remembered and now his face was alight with rage. Pinnatte reflected briefly that humiliating some ox of a mercenary in front of his employer was almost as bad as trying to rob the Kyrosdyn in the first place, but he did not dwell on the comparison. With the instinct of a fleeing animal and the cunning of a life-long street thief, he glanced round and, where others might have seen an impenetrable crowd, he saw a score of openings through which he could make an escape. He selected one that lay in the opposite direction to the Kyrosdyn and, scarcely hesitating, made for it.

‘No!’

The Kyrosdyn’s voice, penetrating and shrill, seemed to Pinnatte to wrap itself around him like the claws of innumerable tiny creatures and, abruptly, his legs stopped moving. The superstitious fear of the Kyrosdyn that had only just left him returned in full force and burst openly into his mind as he tried to continue his flight, only to find that his legs would not respond. Several hands caught him as he tumbled forward.

‘He’s done something to my legs,’ he heard himself saying in an echoing distance. ‘I can’t move them.’

‘Bring him here,’ the Kyrosdyn’s voice raked through him again.

There was doubt in the supporting hands, some holding him protectively, others pushing him away anxiously, as though he were suddenly contaminated.

‘Bring him here!’ The command was repeated.

Part of Pinnatte was telling him that he should be trying to sway the crowd to his side, but it could make no headway against the torrent of fears breaking over him at the loss of the use of his legs.

Someone turned him round to face the Kyrosdyn. The man was standing with his hand extended towards him, the centre, Pinnatte thought, of a strange disturbance. For an instant he thought he saw something green and baleful flickering on the man’s hand, but he blinked, and it was gone. He screwed up his eyes but the disturbance did not change. It was as though the air about the Kyrosdyn were dancing and twisting, and too, as though he was somehow standing by the fountain and, at the same time, somewhere else. Pinnatte felt a cold awfulness possess him at the sight, and movement leaving his limbs with each bursting heartbeat. He could do nothing. He was nothing. He was prey held captive by the gaze of a predator. All that remained now was a timeless time before he was no more.

But even as the thought formed, a faint cry of denial began to make itself heard through Pinnatte’s terror. This was not his time. He would not fall to this miserable creature, who squealed like a pig just because his purse was snatched, and who needed a guard just to walk the streets. From somewhere, he found a voice. ‘Help me,’ he said faintly, forcing himself to look round at the crowd. ‘He’s doing something to me. He’s killing me.’

The disturbance about the Kyrosdyn faltered a little and Pinnatte felt the bonds about him easing in response. And his sense of the mood of the crowd began to return. It held hope. Where before there had merely been excited curiosity, now, mingling with it, was concern and alarm — and anger.

Pinnatte saw the guard move to his master’s side as if in confirmation. The Kyrosdyn inclined his head as the man whispered something.

The disturbance was gone completely, and Pinnatte almost staggered as the use of his legs suddenly returned. ‘He’s doing something to me.’ He shouted this time. ‘I can’t move.’ He gave a brief stiff-jointed mime.

‘He’s nowhere near you.’ It was the guard.

Mistake, thought Pinnatte. Too loud and too soon.

The Kyrosdyn thought so too, judging by the angry look he gave his defender.

‘Something queer happened,’ came a supporting voice behind Pinnatte. ‘I felt it.’ It was followed by an unsteady chorus of agreement.

‘He’s lying,’ the Kyrosdyn cried.

The voice behind Pinnatte became an indignant figure at his side. ‘Are you calling me a liar?’

‘Kyroscreft!’

Coming from somewhere within the crowd, the word hissed through the air like an assassin’s arrow. Pinnatte started and cursed himself for a fool. It was the cry he should have made from the first. It was the cry that represented all that was deemed to be the Kyrosdyn’s true calling — the searching into the mysterious and dangerous powers that lay hidden in nature — forbidden powers — and for which their proclaimed craft of crystal-working was a mere façade. It was a word loaded with fear and hatred, and response to it was invariably unreasoned and primitive. In the past it had rung out loudly in rioting against the Kyrosdyn. Rioting that had resulted in many lives being lost but which, strangely, had left the Kyrosdyn, as innocent and injured parties, somehow further entrenched as a powerful force in the city’s shifting and complex government.

Without hesitation, the guard drew his sword and, slowly moving around his charge, swung it in a wide, horizontal arc. It was an action that forestalled any sudden assault on the Kyrosdyn, and the watching circle widened immediately. Though several men laid hands on knives and swords, none were drawn. All knew that the first one to step forward in anger was likely to die and, Kyroscreft or no, nothing had happened here that was worth that. There were one or two cries from bolder sparks, standing safely at the back of the crowd, but they were quickly silenced.

The crowd began to break up, its excited mood dissipated. Pinnatte sidled backwards with his immediate neighbours. He caught the Kyrosdyn’s eye and could not forebear a triumphant sneer. Unexpectedly, three long and furious strides brought the Kyrosdyn face to face with him, and a hand gripping the front of his jacket hoisted him up on to his toes. Pinnatte gaped, wide-eyed, taken aback by the speed of the man’s response, and too, by the strength in that delicate hand.

‘I meant you no offence, sir,’ the Kyrosdyn was saying, his voice pleasant and apologetic. It took Pinnatte a moment to realize that he was talking to the man by his side who had protested at being called a liar. ‘I was referring to this... wretch.’ He shook Pinnatte. ‘He’s a thief and not worthy of your protection.’

Pinnatte looked round at the crowd again, but it was already much smaller, and the traffic around the fountain was re-establishing itself. The Kyrosdyn’s guard was sheathing his sword — the danger had passed. Pinnatte thought desperately. Whatever else happened now, he must not allow himself to be taken to the Vaskyros.

‘I took nothing,’ he said plaintively to his now solitary ally, catching hold of his arm urgently. ‘You can search me.’

The man seemed anxious to be on his way, but the Kyrosdyn’s soft apology and Pinnatte’s appeal had placed him in the position of an arbiter. He looked from Pinnatte to the Kyrosdyn. ‘Will that satisfy you, sir?’ he said uncomfortably. ‘I can call for the Weartans if you wish.’ He pointed to a building some way down one of the streets that led into the square.

Pinnatte uttered a brief prayer of thanksgiving. It was highly unlikely that the Kyrosdyn would want anything to do with the Prefect’s guards — the men and women nominally responsible for enforcing the law and maintaining order on the streets. No one walked away from an encounter with them other than poorer.

The Kyrosdyn tightened his grip about Pinnatte’s jacket and his eyes narrowed savagely. Then, abruptly, he released him.

‘No,’ he replied, still polite. ‘I don’t think that will be necessary.’

Pinnatte wasted no time in thanking his inadvertent saviour, but turned to flee immediately. He had not taken one step however, when something struck his shins and sent him sprawling painfully on the cobbled road. It was no relief to him to note that this time it was not some strange power of the Kyrosdyn that had brought him down, but the guard’s foot. Before he could recover himself, that same foot placed itself deliberately over his ankle, and pressed. He cried out in pain and tried to pull his foot away, but the guard merely smiled and increased the pressure. Such of the crowd as remained kept their distance and watched warily. Passers-by stepped around them nervously.

Then the Kyrosdyn was bending over Pinnatte. The pressure on his foot eased, but still held him fast. ‘There will be another time, thief,’ the Kyrosdyn said. He crouched down, untied the purse that Pinnatte had tried to snatch earlier, and held it out for him to inspect.

The leatherwork alone was worth more than Pinnatte could expect to earn in many weeks of good thieving and, while he was no expert in the value of crystals, those he could see inlaid there represented wealth he had only ever dreamed of. He looked stonily at the purse, knowing that if he had been lucky enough to escape with it, he would probably not have been able to dispose of it. In fact, he would almost certainly have been at as great a risk from other, more successful thieves as from the searching Kyrosdyn. He could even have found himself having to deal with Barran’s men.

He pushed the thought away.

He noticed that the Kyrosdyn’s eyes were grey, as if all the colour had been drained from them.

‘You’ve caused me grievous offence, thief,’ the man was saying. ‘And thus the Brotherhood. And though circumstances have conspired to protect you at the moment, I’ll have your worthless soul before we’re through.’ He bared clenched teeth and, with a curiously delicate gesture, reached into the purse. When he withdrew it he was holding a clear crystal between his thumb and index finger. It glittered brightly — more brightly than it should have done in the hot and dust-filled light of the square, Pinnatte thought.

‘I’ll bind it in here. Hold it with bonds smaller and more powerful than you could believe.’ He held it to his ear. ‘I’ll listen to its futile struggling as it flitters about the latticed cages of its new home. Reflecting and refracting endlessly, bouncing to and fro, echoing and resonating. Doing our bidding. Trapped. For ever.’

The crystal was gone, suddenly encased in the Kyrosdyn’s hand. Pinnatte blinked. For a moment the square seemed to be much darker than it had been. Though the Kyrosdyn’s words made no sense, they had been terrifying and his mouth and throat were dry with fear. ‘I took nothing,’ he managed to say hoarsely. ‘You know that.’

The Kyrosdyn made no response but stood up and motioned the guard to release Pinnatte’s foot. Then he started, as if he had seen something unexpected. Doubt and certainty, both equally terrible, began to vie for mastery of his face as he stared at Pinnatte, and his head canted to one side as though he were listening to something far away. A shaking hand drew something hesitantly from inside his jacket. Pinnatte watched him fearfully.

Slowly — painfully, almost — the doubt faded into a tight-faced resolution, then, with an almost reckless swiftness, the Kyrosdyn took Pinnatte’s right hand and pressed his thumb lightly on the back of it. As he did so, his eyes glazed and then closed. For a timeless moment, Pinnatte felt as though he was somewhere, something, else — a brightness, without form or place, beginning or end.

Then, abruptly, he was in the square again, snatching back a hand that was no longer being held. He began scrambling away from the two men over the rough cobbles. The Kyrosdyn made no movement to pursue him, and kept a restraining hand on the arm of his guard.

‘Come to the Vaskyros when you are ready,’ he said, his tone strange, almost respectful, then he turned and walked slowly into the busy crowd.

Pinnatte watched him go, unable to accept for a moment that nothing else was going to happen. His confidence began to return.

Lunatic! he thought witheringly as he limped back up the steps of the fountain.

Sitting down, he leaned back against the wall, and began massaging his bruised foot.

As he did so, he noticed a small blemish on the back of his right hand.