The Dancer at the Feast

Chapter 6

Ilissos returned the nods of the soldiers as they rode past, thinking no doubt of insufficiently fragrant ladies in the city. And then his smile faded away. Near the end of the column rode two sullen-looking men with hands bound and heads bowed. Another man’s body was slung over the horse behind them, a trail of blood seeping down the saddle-cloth. The Syrgan watched the column for a while, sorry for this grisly stain on the day. But the wind blew, the clouds and grasses moved, and in time his mind moved on. He thrust his precious parchment deep into a saddle-bag, gathered his cloak about him and went on towards the valley.

Ilissos descended the valley’s side for a while, shaking his head occasionally over the captive Harrak. The belt of trees that had marched alongside him to the west ended and the moors became a long, green slope into the valley. He reined in his horse to take in this new sight before he began the descent. Below, a glinting river twisted among tilled fields and pasture that rose on the valley’s farther side into the shadow of long, brown hills dense with fir and pine. Along the valley floor and near the river was a contrasting grey line running straight north to south. It was almost a mile below, but Ilissos realised that this was the great highway, the King’s Road as it was called, that ran from the island-city Valderthaan, the seat of power, through all the dominions of the Valgraav, the lord of the north. Even from this viewpoint it was obviously busy, and the Syrgan congratulated himself once more for taking the long, quiet road over the moors. He flicked the reins and allowed the horse to amble into the valley at its own speed. The outlines of the hills crowded away behind him, revealing the broad, dark, sentinel mountain that reared, snow-speckled, from the valley.

The first indications that a town lay below, were trails of wood smoke wandering up from behind a wooded slope to be caught in the brightness of the afternoon sun. Across the slope of land about half a mile away, along the valley’s curving lip and almost level with him, Ilissos saw a broad, flat grazing land and its animals. On the slopes below were a few wooden houses and people moving down towards the road; several were wading across a stream that ran from the moors to the river on the valley floor. Ilissos wondered if some kind of welcome was preparing, his blue Syrgan coat made him a most visible stranger. There was shouting: brief, urgent calls that were worryingly close. If these people were running to intercept him, a friendly meeting looked unlikely. Something had happened here. Perhaps the soldiers travelling north on the moors with two bound men and a body had started from this place. Ilissos squared his shoulders and rode on.

The situation was soon clear. Well into the valley Ilissos brought his horse round a sharp, narrow bend and faced a knot of grim-faced men gripping sticks and tools. A few were holding long knives. Directly in front of him a large, sweating man in a leather apron was holding a business-like sword in both hands. Ilissos pulled the horse up sharply and glanced around. More men were moving up the valley to block his escape. He wondered whether to bolt but realised that would be as good as an admission of guilt, and the men with knives no doubt threw them very well. The visiting poet of Syrgan was utterly disadvantaged. He therefore smiled and remained silent.

This confused the men. They glanced anxiously at one another, then looked to the big man in the leather apron who glowered through his tangled hair and growled, “Who’re y’ then?”

Ilissos felt he understood things. “Already I am asked this,” he said. “A soldier asked, and I told him I am Ilissos of Syrga, from Agoras on the Seventh Hill.” No reply. “That is where I am going. It is beautiful now in Syrga.” Shuffling and muttering.

“Syrga’s all right, isn’t it?” mumbled someone.

Ilissos tried again. “So sorry, masters, I am making you afraid—”

“Why do y’ think that is, then?” snapped a stocky man with a wood-axe.

“What soldier?” barked the big man.

Ilissos cautiously dismounted. Grips tightened, men stepped closer.

“Don’t you go for no knife, now,” said the big man, “or you’ll get this in you.” He was directly in front of Ilissos, sword ready.

“Only a little knife, master,” replied the Syrgan evenly. He slowly opened his coat, showing the rabbit-skinning blade at his belt. “There is a bigger one in the pack, on the horse, but he cannot use it.”

“Don’t be bloody funny,” shouted the axe-man. “What do y’ want here?”

“Well, that is easy. Some food and an inn. A shepherd on the moors, he says an inn is here.”

“What shepherd?”

“A man named Ver-Var-Ah! Var-dis, is it? I cannot say it, but his beard is black and his wife will have another child soon.” There was a murmur at this.

“That’ll be Vardthaz,” said several.

Ilissos seized the advantage, “These two, they told me there was a good inn at Falakhoth—I can say it! I had to try often—and the soldier, Tharval, he says I am not a bad man and the seal of the Bridge at Vald-dertan says the same.” This was better, Tharval’s name got a good response. Ilissos pressed on, “But masters, I think three men from the Plain wanted something here.” That got them.

“What do y’ mean?” asked the big man. The sword lowered a little.

“Well,” Ilissos said, “Tharval and his soldiers keep them. Two were bound—” he put his hands behind his back for a moment “—and one, he was dead.” This had the desired effect. Weapons became tools again.

“That’s them, Tyrmar,” said one. “He’s all right.”

“Knew it by the look of him,” said another heartily.

The big man, Tyrmar, let the sword-point rest on the ground. “This Tharval feller,” he said. “He’s got a red beard, hasn’t he? Big scar on his right cheek, like that.” He drew a finger from eye to jaw.

Ilissos stared at him, mystified. “Why, no,” he stammered, anxious now. “No beard, no scar. Another soldier has his name?” He stopped as loud guffaws burst out.

“That were just a precaution,” said Tyrmar. “Y’re an honest man, master Ilissos. Come on down to town and have a bite. I’m Tyrmar and I’m headman here. I’ve good reason to be thankful to them soldier lads, but y’ll hear about that.”

The men shouldered their tools, glad they had not been needed as weapons, and the whole group walked down to the town. Ilissos led his horse along and, true storyteller that he was, launched into a vivid saga of his meeting on the moor.

“We have the same sign, Tharval and I,” he said, touching the amulet of the sun at his breast. “I think he let me pass for this also.”

“What’s that, then?” asked Tyrmar, tapping the amulet on the Syrgan’s wrist.

“Well, Cynathé. She is goddess in Syrga and this is her sign. The great ones of the sun and moon, they brought her forth, and she begged them for the beautiful land at the sea’s edge to be her own, to care for.”

“I’ve heard of that.” said Tyrmar. “She looks out for y’, then?”

“Ah, she does. Is any land praised for beauty like Syrga? Where is there so much of fruits and corn, vines and oil? Where are such skies? Where warmer air?”

“In my forge, most like,” Tyrmar told him, slapping his leather apron.

Ilissos chattered on, “Cynathé, she is like the mother of us in Syrga, but we remember that once it was said that Hra’im—oh, it is hard to say—Hra’im was the name of the spirit men bowed to in the southern deserts. Listen now, I am a teller of the oldest memories and when the Lord of the South took your Northlands into his kingdom, he said you must worship Hra’im, only you called him Arna. So I am in Arna’s land and I wear Arna’s sign.”

“Oh, aye,” said Tyrmar, a little flatly, Ilissos thought. “Aye, we know all that. What vegetables do y’ like?”

Tyrmar’s men and their guests, human and equine, trudged through a gaggle of low, wooden houses, cutting a swathe through alarmed chickens and welcoming dogs, before arriving in the centre of Falakhoth. More of the wooden houses squatted, leaned, or otherwise huddled round a large square of trodden earth, their timbers still glistening with rainwater. Among them, Tyrmar’s forge smoked and glowed within. A large group of women, close together for safety and comfort, clustered round a cairn of stones on which was set the carven figure of a woman, hands uplifted in the sign of blessing. A plaintive, thin-voiced song drifted over.

Lady bless your daily breath,

Lady give you happy death,

Give you joy and sweet relief,

Save you from the one beneath.

Tacked or tied to the figure were a host of small objects, moving and personal: a child’s shoe, a bunch of ribbons or flowers, a piece of cheap jewellery, a scrap of parchment bearing some heart’s secret need. The women were talking quietly, soothing each other with word and touch, as women do who wait together to see if their men are safe.

Tyrmar shattered the gentle scene at once. “Right, me dears!” he roared. “Here we all are, safe as houses. What about a kiss?”

With delighted shrieks of relief, each woman rushed to her man and a hugging, laughing, kissing, tearful festival of welcome began. A few couples immediately rushed off to their houses, hanging on to each other like limpets as they ran. A few very elderly men, too frail for combat, clapped and shouted.

Ilissos, disinclined to hug or kiss his horse, enjoyed the happy melee but stood rather awkwardly on the edge until Tyrmar noticed and remembered his manners.

“Ah, beggin’ y’ pardon, master Ilissos! This here—” he swung a squealing, dark-haired little woman through the air “—is me good wife, mistress Iethen.” The woman landed in front of Ilissos and stared brightly up at him, fascinated at once by his exotic looks.

“Ooh,” she exclaimed. “Hello, then.”

“Ieth, this here’s a feller from Syrga. We met him on the road. Weren’t no bandits after all, but we give him a fright, so I brought him down for a bite.”

“Syrga, eh?” said Iethen, arranging her hair around her head-cloth. “Tis nice down there, isn’t it? Well, blessin’s of day, very happy to welcome you.” And she was. Her voice was honest, soft and clear, as if she was thanking Ilissos for not being Harrak.

The Syrgan gave her a courteous bow as her deep, bright eyes flicked back to her husband. “Aiyana va,” he said. “Sei seph’hona aima la meithon.”

“Eh?” said Iethen loudly.

“Oh, we say it in Syrga.”

“What’s it mean, then?” Ilissos hesitated. “Come on, I don’t like not knowin’ what folks is sayin’ to me!”

The Syrgan juggled words in his head. “Ah… it is difficult. Well, it is not close, but I think it is: Your faces are happiness to me. Does it have a meaning for you?”

“Ooh, yes!” exclaimed Iethen. “I like that! I’ll give y’ a good tea now, I will! Get y’self over to that forge.”

“Where’s Tyr?” asked Tyrmar, suddenly and seriously. “He all right?”

“He is,” said Iethen. She locked eyes with her husband for a moment before he gripped her in a tight hug.

“Bloody bastards,” he said, throat tight. “He could a—”

“He didn’t though,” said Iethen quietly, staring into realities with her head on his chest. “That’s all about it, my love.”

“Aye,” agreed Tyrmar huskily, moist-eyed. “Aye, y’re right.” He coughed unnecessarily loudly and drew a hand surreptitiously across his face. “Right then. Master Ilissos here’s wantin’ the inn, Ieth.”