In the Earth Abides the Flame (4 page)

He sighed. 'At least that's my hope. No other reason for a weary old man to have come this far.'

'Get some rest, weary old man,' Perdu said quietly, a hint of kindness in his words. 'The Watchers will still be around tomorrow.'

'Do you want to come to the market?' Phemanderac had spent the afternoon pacing the floor.

'Well, I don't need the rest,' Leith said. I can't sleep in this house, not now she's here. Perhaps if I go for a walk . . .

'Come on, then.' Before Leith could rise from his couch, the philosopher had slipped his harp over his shoulder and stood waiting by the door.

As they came out on to the landing at the top of the wooden stair, a voice rose from the floor below. 'Where are you going?'

'Just to the market,' Leith replied. 'Phemanderac plays his harp for them most afternoons.'

'Oh.' The old farmer's voice sounded weary and strained. 'Does he mind if I tag along?'

'Not at all,' the philosopher said cheerfully.

'And us? Can we come?' Simultaneous inquiries emerged from other rooms.

'Of course!' Phemanderac told them, and laughed.

'So much for the Company's rest,' said Kurr gruffly.

In the end only Perdu stayed in the tenement building, assigned to keep an eye on their prisoner. Everyone else took refuge in the multicoloured gaiety of the market.

The site of the market, one of sixteen in the Great City - one for each kingdom, it was said, though undoubtedly the number was merely a coincidence - occupied the large open space at the intersection of three narrow lanes and a major thoroughfare. Stall owners set themselves up in a rough circle at the perimeter. There they peddled their produce and their wares, which ranged from necessities such as food and clothing through to the frivolous and even the downright dangerous. The central area showcased various entertainments. The more professional of these were funded by the stall owners - who paid the performers in the hope they would attract people away from the other markets - the others by coins collected from the spectators. The resulting cacophonous crush of both Instruians and visitors became a swirling sea of colour and light best observed from one of the nearby rooftops, yet best experienced at ground level.

'Stay together,' Phemanderac counselled them, 'and keep your hands in your pockets. Don't buy anything, because I can get it cheaper for you.'

'Why should we keep our hands in our pockets?' Indrett wanted to know. Wide-eyed, she gazed at delights unimagined, Rammr-born though she was. Few of them had imagined the Great City would be like this.

'Professional pickpockets. It's harder to pick a pocket if your hand is in it. If you relax your vigilance they'll take everything not actually tied to you. Stories are told about the best of them. Travellers have reported losing their undershirts without realising 'til day's end.'

Leith was beginning to recognise the twinkle in Phemanderac's eye that accompanied these statements, but one or two of the others looked at the tall man doubtfully.

The Company spent an hour sampling the sights, sounds and smells of this, perhaps the brightest if not the largest market in Instruere. They saw fish taken from the river surrounding the city and fish from the sea two days' journey to the west. Larger and more varied than anything from the colder waters of the north were huge eels, strange fish with beards or wire-like protrusions from their heads, and crab-like fish with red bodies and huge claws. Food of every sort could be bought, cheaply if one was skilled at bargaining. Fruit of many shapes and colours, vegetables of all kinds, meats and livestock gathered from each of the Sixteen Kingdoms of Faltha. The Company watched hawkers trying to sell jewellery lor the wrists, for the ankles, for the neck, the ears, the nose or virtually any protruding part of the body. They walked amongst crowds who applauded displays of juggling and acrobatics by a troupe of men from somewhere in the arid south; exotic dancing by young women - probably locals, Indrett decided - whose exuberance and lack of adequate clothing attracted quite a following; and listened to minstrels performing alone or in small groups on a variety of instruments, few of which were familiar to any of the Company. One of the more enthusiastic stall owners tried to sell them children's shoes, not desisting even when it was pointed out that they had no children with them. He stopped only when they agreed to buy four fretas' worth of sweetmeats and a decidedly amateurish painting of a mountainous landscape. The experience overwhelmed, exhilarated and unsettled the villagers from Loulea and their friends, leaving no time, it seemed, even to draw breath; and they soon lost themselves in the agreeably exciting chaos.

Phemanderac excused himself and made his way to the open space in the centre of the market just vacated by the acrobats. Expectantly the crowd quietened down to what Leith would have described as a dull roar, and most turned to watch and listen. Of the Company, only Leith and his father knew what to expect.

The philosopher unlimbered his harp like a weapon, sat comfortably on the cobbles, then fitted one point of the triangle under his chin and placed another between his feet. He ran his fingers across the instrument, so lightly that at first it could not be heard over the noise of the crowd, and Mahnum felt a slight disappointment rise within him. He guessed much of the magic he had experienced came from the caverns of Adunlok, but anticipated more than this.

Phemanderac played a chord, the crowd hushed and the Trader discovered the magic was still there. Like liquid fire the notes dropped from the thin fingers, coalescing into a sound that set him trembling.

Leith, too, felt himself respond to the music, as he did every time he heard it, even though the sounds lacked the fullness lent them by the great caves under Adunlok. For a time the melody soared, then suddenly was reined in by a tight, syncopated rhythm unlike anything the Falthans had ever heard. All around the market people found themselves opened by the music, a sweet song that seemed to draw them into a more complete embrace than any of them had known. Even in a land where music was well recognised as able to affect the soul, Phemanderac's skill was deeply moving. Immersed in the sound, his listeners were granted the chance to forget their struggles for a time; some were presented with the opportunity to overcome them. His playing left no one untouched.

Other musicians began to join him, their sounds merging with those of the philosopher in harmony and counterpoint, until to Leith and Mahnum the music began at last to echo the solidity and complexity of the sound of Wambakalven. Some of the onlookers began to dance, seemingly unconscious to all but the rhythm. Indrett held her breath, absorbed by the beauty of what she heard; and at the back of her mind the Northern Lights danced. Stirred to the bone, Farr thought of the Vinkullen bards, cold and austere, and by how much this music surpassed them. Stella felt the notes from the harp flowing over and through her like some soothing autumn rain, granting relief from an oppressive summer. Kurr closed his eyes and stood quietly as he allowed himself to wish, honestly and openly for the first time, that Tinei was here to share the music with him. She would have loved music and market both.

Singing came after that, local musicians leading the crowd in old folk songs from the Golden Age, a gentler, richer time ended by the Bhrudwan invasion a thousand years ago.

Phemanderac played with them for a while longer, then swung his harp over his shoulder and joined the Company. He fully understood the silence that greeted him. He remembered feeling the same way himself when he first heard the harp played by Pyrinius, his teacher, the clay he determined he would master this difficult instrument. To speak after such playing would be to spoil the peace settling over them like a thick blanket.

Without a word they returned to their lodgings.

'All right, Phemanderac,' Kurr said. Weariness bit deep into the old farmer's bones: he knew he ought to have spent the afternoon sleeping, but was honest enough to recognise he would not have slept if he had stayed in their lodgings. 'Forgive us for being perhaps a little overprotective of our mission, especially when it's obvious we need all the help we can get.

You've earned the chance to speak, friend. Tell us about yourself. Where are you from, and what can you offer?'

The tall stranger settled back into his couch. The members of the Company spread themselves around the basement room, the fading natural light from the one small window already surpassed by two blazing tapers.

1 come from a place called Dhauria, a small country on the far side of Desicca, the Khersos, the Deep Desert of Faltha. I am the first—'

'Dhauria?' Mahnum interrupted, puzzled. 'The Drowned Land? You come from the Drowned Land?'

Phemanderac was about to reply, but was beaten by Kurr. 'You don't mean the Vale of Dona Mihst, surely?' His eyes sought an answer from either Mahnum or Phemanderac.

'How do you know of the Drowned Land?' the thin philosopher asked Mahnum.

'The Drowned Land is what remains of the Vale of the First Men, according to legend, with Dona Mihst as the capital,' Mahnum replied to Kurr, who nodded. They both turned to Phemanderac.

'What do you know of Dhauria?' he asked them.

Kurr looked at Mahnum. 'All the Watchers are taught the Domaz Skreud, which tells the tale of the Poisoning - Dhaur Bitan - in which Kannwar betrays the First Men and pulls the wrath of the Most High down on to the Vale of Dona Mihst. It is the central history of the First Men, the ancestors of true Falthans. I related the story to the Company, though they may not remember it.'

'Do all Firanese know this story?' Phemanderac asked. 'Few I have met in Faltha admit to knowing it.'

'I've not heard it in its fullness,' Mahnum said. '1 heard the name Dhauria from the Voice of Andratan.'

'Leith told me of your adventure, and 1 can scarcely credit it. You were interrogated by the Voice, in that terrible castle, and yet you live? Surely in this, more than anything else, we can discern the hand of the Most High!'

'The hand of a greedy Trader, more like.' The anger in Mahnum's voice was unmistakable.

'Vaniyo may have saved me from the devices of the torturers, but he placed me in the merciless hands of the Bhrudwan warriors. At the very least, the deaths of innocents in a Favonian village can be laid at his feet.'

'The shades of my father and my brother also have reason to be angry,' Farr added, his tone bitter.

The old farmer appeared not to hear this last exchange. He took a step toward the couch upon which the lean, gaunt Dhaurian sat. 'I thought, as do all the Watchers, that Dhauria was a myth, an imaginary place, and the story of its fall was allegorical of the corruption of man, serving to explain the hatred of the Destroyer and of Bhrudwo towards us.' Kurr shook his head. 'Yet you say this land of myth is your home?'

Phemanderac glanced at Kurr, then stared intently at Mahnum. 'You have among you one who escaped the dread Keep of legend, yet you doubt the existence of my country?'

'Wait a moment!' Farr said. 'Too many questions, and not enough answers! There are others here who don't know what you're talking about. Let's sort this out.'

Everyone sat down, leaving the Vinkullen man alone on his feet.

'Phemanderac: you come from this Dhauria country. Is Dhauria another name for one of the Sixteen?'

'No,' the philosopher replied. 'Dhauria is not one of the Sixteen Kingdoms, and has no seat on the Council. Yet according to the ancient writings every one of the Sixteen Kingdoms sprang from the inhabitants of Dhauria.'

Farr persisted. 'What do these other names mean?'

'The Drowned Land?' Mahnum said. 'As far as I know, that is a literal interpretation of Dhauria.'

'Not exactly,' Phemanderac corrected, the scholar within getting the better of him. '"Death Valley" is the exact translation, though I can see how the error occurred. "Ria" is an old word meaning "drowned valley".'

'What about the other one?' Farr pressed. 'The Vale of something or other?'

'The Vale of Dona Mihst,' Phemanderac finished for him. 'That was the name of my country before we were betrayed and the Most High sent a flood to drown us.'

'Oh yes, I remember now. Kurr told us the story on Breidhan Moor.' The lines cleared from Farr's brow.

'Well, now we've established where Phemanderac comes from - or,;at least, where he claims to have come from,' the old farmer said. 'Even if we cannot yet credit it. Will it take the rest of the evening to hear why he wants to join the Company?'

'Not if I can help it,' Phemanderac said, smiling widely. 'But indulge me a moment first, if you will. This man, Leith's father, Mahnum: you've been on Andratan, you've heard the Voice.

Can you be certain it was the Destroyer?'

Mahnum sighed. 'I've been on Andratan, I've seen the fortress, I've visited the dungeons; I've heard the voice of one claiming to be the Destroyer. His voice was powerful. I've wondered ever since if it was indeed the ancient and Undying Man, or if in my weakened state I was merely more suggestible. I don't know.'

'Yet here you are. People do not leave Andratan. We Dhaurians know this, for the Bhrudwans are our sworn enemies, and some of our number have been taken there. None have returned.'

'It was a mistake,' Mahnum said quietly. 'They meant to make an end to me, and so the Voice told me everything about the coming Bhrudwan invasion, trying to ferret out information he hoped I had, secure in the knowledge his boastful words would die with me.'

'My friend, they should build a statue to you.' Phemanderac shook his head.

'After they listen to my story, it is my hope that they will be too busy building defences to worry about statues.'

The man from Dhauria told them about himself, continuing his interminable pacing as he did so. He was, he told them, the son of a blacksmith. His family lived in a small village a day's walk upvalley from the island of Dona Mihst, and as a youth he was apprenticed to his father.

His mother, however, held higher hopes for her youngest son, and convinced her husband to send him to the School of the Prophets when he was sixteen years old. There he met Pyrinius, the most famous of all teachers, listened to the debates, heard the music, and lost his heart to learning. Twelve years he spent in the School, replacing his mentor when the old man died.