Chapter 29 – Dain

What do you call fifty thousand idiots living on a rock? Parsus City.

It was the punch-line to more than one joke. Dain recalled that another of Ingold's tales suggested the inhabitants had crawled out from under the rock.

At first, the scale of the Rock deceived Dain's eyes. For mile after mile he was convinced they would arrive within the hour. When the bumps decorating its flat top resolved into houses, he began to understand. Dain guessed the Rock to be at least three miles long, a single huge piece of granite, a good mile wide. He could see the Parsus River. It glittered in a lazy arc described around the Rock, rolling peaceably towards the sea, in no particular hurry.

They closed the last mile and Dain had to crane his neck. The Rock rose a sheer three hundred feet from the flood plain, with no obvious way up. There were no buildings around the base; the floodwaters would scour them away in Spring. Dain and Raymell walked alone on the road. A few wagons had passed them earlier in the day, but nothing since noon.

"The people of this city hate Ingold Stannith," Raymell said. "King Handelf wants Ingold dead. There is an army atop that rock, aching to spill your bard's blood. So, if you believe Ingold stands a better chance against just me, you'll keep quiet. If you cause a scene, if you try to run, if you disobey me in any matter, I will tell the soldiers, the city guard and the Red Priests themselves that Ingold is headed this way from the foothills of the Matteracks."

Raymell led the way into the shadow of the Rock. Some distance ahead Dain made out a cluster of covered wagons. He watched in fascination as unseen men hauled a black and white cow slowly up the precipitous side of the Rock. By means of rope and harness the hapless bovine rose smoothly, dropping dung in startling quantity. It passed a wooden platform going in the opposite direction. The wagons too, were waiting to be hoisted aloft.

Dain made his entry to Parsus City unassisted. He followed Raymell up one of many steep stairs carved into the granite. Eight hundred and sixty steps snaked their way back and forth up the bulk of the Rock. At the top Dain's legs burned with the memory of the climb. He swayed through the streets behind Raymell, his muscles like water.

"Quickly boy!" Raymell glanced back at him, "We have to reach the market before sundown."

Space on the Rock was at a premium. Each generation swelled the population, but the city walls could not be pushed beyond the limits of the plateau. Indeed the walls clung to the very margins of the Rock, teetering on the edge like indecisive suicides. When Dain reached the city gate it seemed that the walls leaned out above him, waiting to fall. Mercifully the scrutiny of the gate guard had been brief and they had not waited long beneath the walls.

Raymell led the way through a street so narrow that it seemed a mere gully in a ravine of buildings. The competition for space drove the houses upwards. Each new story overhung the lower, so that homes on opposite sides stepped towards each other. As they went up they threatened to meet, and seal away the sky.

Dain felt it to be miraculous so many people could pack a street, and yet still go about their business. The throng moved to some unheard music; the heartbeat of the city, the intricate dance of crowd through crowd, lubricated by courtesy. Raymell ignored the rules and cut a straight path. The citizens of Parsus City shared an instinct for self-preservation and they parted before the Arkasian. Dain followed in his wake before the press of people sealed the momentary gap.

Their path lurched through the convolutions of the city's roads, turning always towards the spires of the palace. Raymell cut through the slum district. He led Dain quickly along alleys where refuse lay in drifts and the rotting tenements leaned like drunken whores, empty-windowed and doorless. Dain slowed, pondering escape. Perhaps he could warn Ingold against the alarm Raymell threatened... A tall man, skeletally thin, clothed in grime and rags, reached for Dain as he passed a dark entrance. Long fingers with dirt-crusted nails snagged at his hair. Dain was free with a twist, and hard on the Blood Guard's heels thereafter.

A rich and complex aroma replaced the stench of the slum. Spices, cloves and peppers, fought with the smell of cooked meats and the stink of animals. They emerged into a collection of markets. Each of six streets radiating from one grand square was dedicated to the sale of specific goods. Raymell and Dain approached along Fowl Street. Squawking and feathers from a hundred cage-stacked stalls filled the air. Boys chased escapee chickens, their mothers appraised fattened geese, younger siblings made faces at the ducks.

Fowl Street disgorged into a square so wide that nearly all of Thelim would sit within it. The wind was raw, scouring the over the Rock. Above and beyond the flapping tarpaulin roofs of a thousand stalls the skyline was grand with tower and dome. A second wall circled the heart of Parsus City, ensuring that opulence could exist side by side with the squalor that sponsored it, without the need for rich and poor to mix.

The crowds were thinning in the Square. Here and there a vendor started to pack his goods away. The unseen sun raced towards its nightly appointment beyond the Matteracks, and the temperature fell with it. Dain trotted to keep up with Raymell's urgent stride. His face felt frozen, like a mask of numb flesh, his cheekbones ached with the cold.

Gem Street led from the opposite side of the Square, up to the very gates of the inner city. The tables had been cleared of trinkets. Merchants watched as guards closed heavy shutters over the shop windows. Raymell halted outside one of the smaller establishments. Dain couldn't read the sign above the door. It sported a necklace with the links picked out in flaking gold paint. The letters wove an intriguing mystery below. Ingold had said he would teach him to read... Dain looked back along the street, wondering if he could lose himself in the patchy crowd.

"In. Now!"

A heavy hand closed about the back of his neck and steered Dain into the dim interior of the gemsmiths. He stumbled down a short flight of stairs, then struggled to keep his feet as Raymell propelled him through a side door into a small room. A fire crackled in the hearth. The welcome heat began to thaw Dain's face.

In the corner opposite the door, almost lost in the dancing shadows, an old man sat. His face was gaunt, a few straggles of grey hair meandered over his shiny pate. The man's eyes caught the firelight as he looked up from the bracelet he was working.

"We're closed. Come back tomorrow." He put the bracelet on the workbench before him.

Raymell stepped up behind Dain. "You'll be interested in my custom." In the palm of his hand a faint will-o-wisp glowed momentarily and was gone.

"Marluk sends me another agent hey? You boys, you come here so full of pride, so sure of yourselves. Attlus sent a dozen home to Arkas over the years. In boxes. Quite small boxes sometimes."

"Handelf is not the man his father was," Raymell said. "I need to get into the inner city. Get us in and forget about us."

The old jeweller sighed, "I can do both." He shook his head, "This is not a game for children though. Must the boy go too?"

Raymell ran his hand along the workbench, toying with an awl. "Can we get in tonight, Gerral?"

Gerral stood and brushed the debris from his leather apron. Dain almost heard old bones creak in protest. The old man nodded,

"I have a delivery for Lady Selma. Ear-rings, opals, cheap stuff, I offered her fire opals from the mines in Sark but she balked at the price. We can go tonight."

Gerral looked at Dain. Within their wrinkled nests the ancient's eyes were the colour of almonds, "The lad is blue with cold. Here boy, stand by the fire."

The old man held his hand out and Dain took it. "Gerral, gemsmith to the rich and discerning. Formerly of Arkas."

"Dain ... I used to sing in taverns, now I'm apprenticed to a bard."

"Well met Dain." The old man smiled.

Dain watched as Gerral tidied away his tools and gathered what he needed for the next day's work. The old man shook with palsy. When his hands were idle they jittered violently, but when set to a particular task they took on marvellous precision. Raymell waited without comment, but Dain could feel his impatience building like a charge until the very air was thick with it. At length, Gerral, wrapped against the cold, walking-stick in hand, stood ready with his delivery.

It took several minutes to cover the three hundred yards to the gates. Gerral shuffled up to the towering portal, double doors of oak studded with iron. They sealed an entrance wide enough to admit two wagons abreast, and high enough for Gartus's big brother in a tall hat. Dain gaped. Gerral banged his stick against the wood.

"Open up!"

A small hatch shot open before he'd finished. It was set at head-height in a regular-sized door cut into one of the large doors. The little window framed a fat face.

"Who goes there?"

"I'm too old for these games Silas Offalwurm. I knew your mother when she scarce reached my knee. Now let me in before I fetch her."

A smile creased the face at the window, "Old man, you were in Arkas when my mother was a girl." A sudden frown, "Who's these two then?"

Gerral waved his stick in annoyance. "My assistant and his son who works the bellows on my forge. Lady Selma wanted to hear the boy sing.

"Now open the blasted door before you freeze an old man's..."

"Alright, alright anything for a peaceful night."

The small door swung inward and Dain followed Gerral through. Fat Silas studied Raymell with particular care as they passed through, paying close attention to his hair.

At this hour none were abroad in the wide streets of the Inner City. Gerral chose a path that led past the many-pillared marble façade of a play-house. A patrol of city guard watched the trio's slow progress. Gerral took them through formal gardens, glossy with holly and winterbloom. The shuffling of his feet loud on the gravelled pathways.

"Lady Selma's mansion is not far ahead," Gerral paused to catch his breath.

"Take us to the Cloister," Raymell said.

The old man looked at him in shock, "The Cloister! You have no business there!"

"My business is my own. You will take me where I choose." Raymell's voice was far colder than the night.

Gerral turned towards the palace, muttering, shaking his head. He led at a reluctant snail's pace. "The Red Priests ... what business do you have with the Red Priests?"

At the end of the street, amidst buildings of towering beauty, the Cloister's squat monstrosity threatened. Its brutal simplicity sat in ominous contrast to the marbled opulence all about. Where artistry turned the stone of neighbouring buildings to a froth of curling images the Cloister bore only stark symbols; runes from a lost alphabet.

Raymell drew them into the deep gloom of a narrow passage leading from the main street.

"We're done Gerral. I'll find my own way from here," he said.

Gerral shook his head once more and turned to go, "You're insane. Only death waits in there..."

"I am death." Raymell reached out and touched the small of Gerral's back. The old man froze. His tremors stilled. Dain saw the flesh of his cheeks glow, lit from within. Gerral opened his mouth and sparks flew. He pitched forward, his cloak catching alight as he fell.

"He'll have no problems forgetting us now," said Raymell.

A tear cut a hot path down Dain's cheek as he looked up at Raymell. The Arkasian met Dain's eyes. "He was nothing. Too many years here made him soft."

Dain didn't look away. "You were not always broken, Raymell Greon." His voice was gentle and although he couldn't say where the words came from he knew them to be true.

Raymell's eyes widened in horror, he tore his gaze away, glancing towards the street. Where the man's terror lay, Dain couldn't say. The Arkasian stepped around Garrel's smouldering corpse and hastened towards the Cloister.

"Follow me boy. Do not speak again if you wish to live."

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