Читать книгу The Bell Between Worlds - Ian Johnstone - Страница 18

“… such is their power to change the very fabric of the world.”

THE DARK, ALMOST-HUMAN shapes were stooped forward, their heads sweeping low as they bounded lightly along the street, making so little sound that, were it not for the gentle fall of their feet in the mud, he would have thought them ghosts or apparitions. Sylas knew instinctively that even as they ran they could hear the slightest noise, and he found himself holding his breath as he watched. Their movement was wolfish and hungry, but they moved with remarkable control, striding in perfect unison and in precise formation. They took no notice of each other, their disfigured heads swinging from side to side as they took in the pale, fearful townsfolk at the sides of the street.

For the first time Sylas saw their faces and he felt his stomach turn. Their pendulous, hooded brow and monstrous jaw and cheekbones were almost canine, yet amid the patchwork of pale human skin and dark matted fur were quick, intelligent human eyes, seeing everything with a deliberateness and menace that was far from animal-like. They were both the handler and the hound: measuring the situation, scrutinising every detail of the street and all the while hunting as a pack. He felt the same creeping terror that he had seen in Simia. His chest tightened, the blood drained from his face and he took an involuntary step away from the door.

None of them seemed to see him at the window, or hear his short breaths, or sense his fear. As quickly as they had come, they were gone.

Sylas exhaled, his breath clouding the glass.

“What are you doing? Come on!”

He turned and saw Simia standing in the inner doorway. She beckoned to him urgently, then disappeared into the room beyond.

He gathered his nerves and followed her, leaving behind a distant sound of splintering wood, shouts and wails issuing from a neighbouring street.

The strong scent of smoke filled his nostrils as soon as he walked into the dimly lit interior of the inn. It was not the smoke that he had smelt on the street, or the smoke of cigarettes or pipes, but one with a weirdly sweet and fresh aroma. So strange was the scent that it took him a few moments to identify it as that of common, freshly cut green grass, spiced with burning tobacco. He looked about the gloomy room to try to find its source and saw scores of men huddled low over tables, most smoking long pipes, others gulping from metal tankards. Some raised their heads as he entered and stared at him steadily for a moment, but they soon lost interest and returned to their conversations. The low drone of voices was broken only by an occasional cough and peals of laughter from a table at the end of the room.

He looked for Simia and soon saw her balancing on the first rung of a stool at the bar, talking excitedly to a tall barman, who looked with interest over her shoulder towards Sylas. He had an odd appearance, with massive, clumsy-looking limbs and a long, doleful face that was made even longer by an overly long nose, a narrow mouth and a redoubtable chin that hung far below. But his most striking feature was the great shiny dome of his head, which at first seemed to bear some sort of hat or skullcap but, on closer inspection, revealed itself to be emblazoned with a vast array of tattoos: shapes, symbols and markings that encircled his crown to astonishing effect.

The barman leaned his large frame forward and rested his elbows on the bar, his piercing green eyes taking everything in. Sylas could feel them interrogating him, exploring his every feature until he had the distinct impression that they could even see what he was thinking. The strange man seemed to be looking into him, layer by layer, peeling them away like the pages of a book. Sylas shifted uncomfortably and, not knowing what else to do, smiled. The man held his gaze without responding, then turned back to Simia, said something and walked quickly to a door at the rear of the inn. As he opened it, he glanced back at Sylas and gave him a brief nod that looked almost like a bow, then disappeared into the darkness beyond.

Relieved to be freed from the man’s penetrating gaze, Sylas turned to see Simia beckoning him to join her at the bar. To his surprise, she looked almost as cheerful and relaxed as she had before the chase: her cheeks had regained their ruddy colour and her eyes some of their lively sparkle. As he drew close, she leaned forward and whispered in his ear.

“We’re safe, for now at least. Thanks to the cart we’ve broken the trail,” she said with reassuring confidence, but without acknowledging that it had been Sylas’s idea. She nodded towards the door at the rear. “Bowe is a friend. He’s gone to check that the way is clear.”

“Strange... it was like he could see right through me,” said Sylas.

She laughed. “Oh, don’t mind that – he just has a way of seeing things. It’s what he does.”

“What he... does.”

“Yep,” she said matter-of-factly, pushing herself up on to the barstool to peer out of the window to the street. “Now we should have some time for a real drink, if you fancy?”

He looked at her, bewildered by her calm – only moments ago they had been fleeing for their lives. But he could not deny his thirst.

“Sure,” he said, heaving himself on to a neighbouring stool.

Simia reached over to an abandoned tankard on the bar and peered into it with interest, then held it out to him. Sylas looked at the dark green contents doubtfully, sloshing them around and sniffing at them, then raised the tankard to his lips. Carefully at first, then with increasing abandon, he drank down the contents. The flavour was decidedly odd but delicious: a mixture of lemons, rhubarb and woodsmoke. The combination was surprisingly sweet and refreshing. He finished it in large satisfying gulps, then set down the tankard with a loud belch. He was dimly aware of Simia watching him with keen interest and a suppressed smile.

“’Scuse me,” he said. “That’s great – what is it?”

He clamped his hand over his mouth.

With each word, clouds of pungent, sweet green smoke billowed between his lips. Simia shrieked with laughter and banged the counter with glee. He stared at her with a mixture of alarm and embarrassment, then parted two of his fingers and spoke quietly, trying in vain not to exhale as he did so.

“What is this stuff?” he mumbled, breathing out a succession of smoke signals depicted in glorious greens and yellows.

Simia was still heaving with laughter. “Oh, it’s… sorry... your face!” She let out another shriek of delight, then worked hard to gather herself. “It’s called Lemon Plume,” she said, drawing a long breath. “It’s a favourite with this lot – the Muddlemorphs.”

“Muddlemorphs?” repeated Sylas with interest, seeing to his relief that the smoke was growing thinner and less noticeable.

“Pretty much everyone here is a Muddlemorph,” she said. “They can change things – play around with stuff – change it from one thing into another. It’s a weird kind of Kimiyya – the Third Way. They come here to work on the farms: making the soil better, cleaning the water, that kind of thing. Problem is, they love their tricks so much that they spend all their time showing them off to each other in taverns like this.”

She jumped off her stool and pointed to the wooden seat. “Here, touch this.”

Sylas hesitated, wondering if he was to be the butt of another joke, but reluctantly reached forward and touched the seat. He pulled his hand away sharply, and looked up at Simia who was beaming with delight.

“Weird, isn’t it?” she said with a giggle.

He touched the seat again. To his amazement the wood bowed under his touch as though it was a cushion. He pressed his finger deep into it, and the grainy surface yielded; then he released it and it sprang back.

“Yes,” he said, his broad face breaking into a smile. “Very weird.”

He jumped off his own stool and found that it was the same. He walked over to a bench nearby and pressed on the wooden seat to find that the entire panel gave under the pressure of just one finger. “Magic...” he said quietly.