The Dancer at the Feast

Chapter 7

“Oh. Well it’s not bad, and it’s decent scran, long’s y’re not used to banquets in Valderthaan.”

“Oh, I do not worry for comfort,” said Ilissos airily.

“Y’ll be all right there then,” Tyrmar told him. “Might even get a place to y’self, like.”

“Well, don’t put him off, love,” scolded Iethen. “Thal’s got to make a livin’.” She clasped Ilissos’ and Tyrmar’s hands. “Tea first though, come on.”

Iethen tugged the two men, with the horse in tow, across the muddy square towards the wide door of the forge. She made a small detour by the wooden figure. Pausing, she and Tyrmar made a little bow.

The headman looked up at the carved, kindly face. “I thank y’,” he murmured, between his deep breaths. “I do.”

Ilissos made a respectful little bow also, feeling he should be decent enough to honour other people’s deities, whose territory he was in after all. Perhaps he could get an amulet of the pleasant Lady.

Arriving at the forge’s open door, they found a dark-haired lad leaning against the frame with arms folded. He peered at them with the bleary, scowling look of someone who has just woken but still wishes to avoid the world.

“Weren’t it Harrak, then?” he said.

“Nothin’ like it, Tyr,” replied Tyrmar heartily. “Just this feller here. Y’ all right now?”

“Bit wobbly, Dad. Had a lie down though. Wyrdha made me.”

“Y’re too pale,” said Iethen, stroking the boy’s face.

“Give over, Mam, I’m all right—hey, you’re foreign, y’ are! Where y’ from?”

“This here’s Ilissos,” explained Tyrmar, “and he’s on his holidays from Syrga. He’s havin’ a bite with us, then he’s stayin’ at the inn.”

“Is he? Utha’ll fancy him somethin’ rotten!” Tyr gave a weary but coarsely heartfelt guffaw.

“Tyr! Behave y’self!” said Iethen. “Utha’s a nice respectable girl!”

“Chuck it, Mam. I’m not weddin’ her.”

“Well, I don’t know why y’ won’t, Tyr, she’s—’

“I’m not weddin’ no fatty, I told y’.”

“Now then, Ieth,” said Tyrmar gently but firmly. “Leave it for now. The lad’s had a shock.”

“I’d have a bigger one if I snogged Utha.”

“Tyr!”

The lad lurched off the doorpost. “I think I’ll just have a walk,” he said meaningfully. “Come on, Iliwotsit, I’ll show y’ the inn.”

Iethen admitted temporary defeat on what was clearly a major issue for her and disappeared into the forge. Tyr, Ilissos, and the horse crossed the square, the lad ambling in a hunched, self-protective posture, hugging himself.

“You are not well, master Tyr?” asked Ilissos.

“Just had a fright.”

“Oh. It is a big fright, I think. I also had one.”

“Nearly got shot. Three of them Harrak buggers had a go at me.”

“Oh. I am very sorry.” Ilissos decided not to mention his sighting of the defeated Harrak until later. For now, a change of subject. “What is its name, the inn?”

“Not got one. They never bothered.”

“We will give it a name, then. Think hard, Tyr-shan. Now, there is an inn at Agoras, and its name is the Olive Grove.”

“What’s an olive?”

“It’s like a fruit. It’s beautiful to eat, and it gives us oil.”

“Y’ don’t get them round here. Call it something else.”

“But olive is its name: Shelou—”

“No, y’ daft bugger, the inn.” But the mistake was funny enough to put a grin on Tyr’s face and straighten his shoulders a little.

Less amusing was the man who sat hunched on a bench outside the nameless hostelry. The sagging figure irresistibly reminded Ilissos of a sackful of something that had gone very stale. He thought it might make an amusing song, but the man’s face flung the idea from his mind at once. There was nothing amusing about Bardcha of Falakhoth. His hard features were bunched into a scowl and tugged down by a sheer weight of sourness. Thin, tight lips held in the bitter things revolving in the mind. Stony eyes stared out under red, puffy lids.

“Somebody wantin’ lodgin’,” announced Tyr. “Where’s Thal?” The grey head lifted a little.

Ilissos peered at the bleak, disinterested face and sensed a challenge. “A beautiful day, master.”

Bardcha sucked air into his lungs as if he resented it. “Better than it was.” A pause as he regarded the ground once more. “Some storm, though, that’ll mean somethin’. I’ve been through hard things in me time but never had a portent like that.” This dire pronouncement was spoken without real interest.

Ilissos remained doggedly cheerful. “Yes, so sudden, the storm, but I found shelter. There are strong, warm houses in the north.”

“Daren’t get caught in somethin’ like that,” said the sighing voice. “Finish me off that would. Dose of fever’d end me.”

“Bardcha?” said Tyr, used to this.

“I heard y’ young Tyr: lodgin’s. Just hang on a bit.” He looked up at Ilissos. “Won’t let an old man talk. They don’t care, these young’uns.”

“Y’re not that old,” said Tyr, irritated by this ritual.

“Y’re not from round here,” observed Bardcha.

“No, I am Syrgan. I travel.”

“Ah. Syrga’s a good place, eh? I’m stuck up here, of course. I’d go down there, but the journey’d kill me. How long y’ stayin’ for?”

“Y’ needn’t worry, we’ve plenty of room. There’s a real priest stayin’ here and all.” A plump, fair-headed girl was standing at the inn door.

Ilissos beamed and gave a little bow.

“Hello, I’m Utha,” she cooed, twirling the ends of her braids in pink, practical fingers. “That’s me grandad. Are y’ feelin’ better, Tyr?”

“Rotten,” said Tyr curtly, avoiding the blatantly appreciative gaze.

“Ohh. Shall I bring some hot milk for y’?”

“No, y’ can’t. Wyrdha says I’ve not got to be disturbed. I’ll probably collapse when I get back.”

“Inside, girl, and do some work. Don’t interrupt y’ elders,” wheezed Bardcha. “And put a headscarf on. Be decent for once.”

“Well, if y’ must know, grandad, I’ve been helpin’ watch the little’uns in case it were more Harrak comin’. I think that’s very important, don’t y’, Tyr?” No reply. Utha scowled and went inside but relented enough to send back a final winsome smirk that seemed unable to decide whether to land on Tyr or Ilissos.

“Young’uns,” said Bardcha. “No respect. Goin’ up north, then?”

“Going down south, master. I am going home.”

Tyr scraped the ground with his foot, frustrated. The horse gave a little start.

“Now then, have a bit of patience,” wheezed Bardcha. “Look at that, frightnin’ the horse! Let us have a chat, will y’? I’ve not got much pleasure in life—”

“Don’t be a miserable sod, dad!” Thaljhaz the innkeeper was ambling back from the welcome gathering with his arm around a sturdy-looking woman who laughed as she tried to push her yellow hair under her headscarf. “Look, Verdje’s right happy her husband never got shot by a Harrak. That should give y’ plenty of pleasure in life, eh?”

Bardcha quickly turned away with an air of such crushed sourness it was clear the innkeeper had said something very wrong, or was meant to feel he had. The woman’s mirth dried up at once. She broke away from her husband and went into the house, not even glancing at Ilissos. Thaljhaz called after her, but there was no answer. He took the reins of Ilissos’s horse, embarrassed. “I’ll see to him,” he muttered. “There’s a stable round the back. I’ll get y’ stuff inside.” He paused, angrily struggling with the confusing guilt Bardcha had flung at him. “There’s a space with a mattress or y’ can sleep at the fire. Y’ want a meal?”

“We’re havin’ him,” said Tyr. A glance at Bardcha. “Y’ shouldn’t put up with him. Verdje looked right happy.”

Thaljhaz managed an awkward half-grin merged with a frown. “Aye, she did. She does when she gets the chance. Well, master Ilissos, glad I didn’t have to stick a knife in y’.” The innkeeper’s chin went out as his simmering anger threatened to take over. “Not that I wouldn’t mind doin’ that sometimes. Anyroad, I’m sorry for our little scene. Y’ have a good meal at the forge. Good folk there, very friendly people who enjoy others laughin’.” If Bardcha got the point of this, he gave no sign, nor any satisfaction to his son-in-law. “Right. I’ll make your acquaintance later.” Thaljhaz abruptly began to see to the horse.

Tyr and Ilissos made for the forge on the other side of the square. The innkeeper’s furious voice sounded behind them. “Y’ like it, don’t y’? We’ve all got to be as miserable as y’! Y’ can’t stand Verdje bein’ happy, can y’, y’ unnatural sod? Y’ own daughter! Arna should of sent that lightnin’ through y’ and given us all peace.”

“They don’t get on,” said Tyr.

~

TYRMAR AND IETHEN DID everything they could to satisfy Ilissos’ ravenous curiosity about life in the Northland, but they failed to explain why Thaljhaz and his father-in-law didn’t get on.

“Families,” Tyrmar said vaguely. ‘Y’ know.”

“When’s that young priest comin’ down from Wyrdha’s?” asked Iethen by way of rescue.

But Tyr had his own tales of local life. “When I were a sprog,” he announced, “there were this feller and his mates come in from the city—supposed to be royal or somethin’—”

“That’s water under the bridge, Tyr,” said Iethen firmly.

“Aye. Anyroad, they stops at the inn and gets drunk as weasels and the feller says he’s in love with Verdje’s sister, Antha, and he’s goin’ to wed her—”

“Ilissos isn’t interested in all that, Tyr.”

“He is, look at him. So he pulled her on his horse and off they goes. Course, he chucked her about a month later. She’s livin’ in Lukar now, dyein’ cloth or somethin’.”

“Well, she’s made a good life for herself, so that’s all right,” said Iethen briskly. “Shall we just leave it now?”

“Tell y’ what I think—”

“That’s the taters nearly ready, so y’ better—”

“Well, everybody knows, like, but Bardcha fancied himself related to rich nobs in the Stone Houses. He were hoppin’ mad when Antha got chucked. When Verdje wedded Thal, Bardcha were right sick about it cos he knew he’d not get money nor nothin’ with an innkeeper in the family. Hated Thal’s guts, he did. Can’t stand him and he hates Verdje for weddin’ him.”

“Ah, it is sad,” said Ilissos, who had been listening fascinated with his chin on his hand. “It should be a song or something to laugh at, I think. I will give it a happy ending.”

“Best of luck then,” said Tyrmar. “It needs one. Bardcha makes their lives hell in that inn.”

“Don’t encourage them,” his wife told him. “Now, get y’self ready: vegetables is done and I’ve got bread and some cold meat. Hope that’ll be all right for you, sir.”

The middle-aged man at the fire made a weak but reassuring noise.

“Anthu, Mam,” insisted Tyr. “Y’ call a priest, Anthu.”

“Oh, beg y’ pardon, sir—Anthu Jher-val, I mean, sorry,” trilled Iethen, over-jovial with embarrassment. “The things our Tyr knows!”

“One marvels,” replied the Anthu Jher-val. He smiled feebly with one side of his mouth and forced another sip of village wine into himself. “I, er—I was thinking, I shouldn’t create work for you. I can eat at the inn just as well.”

“Y’ll do no such thing,” exclaimed Iethen. “It’s an honour, sir, havin’ y’ on the very day our boy—”

“Mam!”

“And we’ve got two priests as well,” said Tyrmar quickly. “Y’ never see them round here, and now there’s two! Y’ and the young feller can have a good chat. Dunno what priests talk about, mind. Goes all over me head.” He gave a heartfelt guffaw that betrayed the fact that he presumed priestly conversation to be largely a waste of time.

“I have food in my saddle-bags,” said Jher-val weakly, but he knew it was useless. His lame horse had to rest, which made him the victim of village hospitality. The honour of Falakhoth’s once-in-a-lifetime encounter with one of Arna’s priests had therefore descended upon him. He was painfully reminded of Valderthaan’s civilised standards by the very fact of their absence. It was too much. He shifted somewhat into shadow and discreetly transferred a ring from his finger to a concealed pocket where the Golden Sun, a priest’s insignia, was already safe. Tyr, lounging on a mat on the other side of the fire, squinted at him and scowled. So distrustful, the peasants. The priest sighed, his inward fuming intensifying with every taste of the horrid wine.