When Todhe spoke to him, which was a rare occurrence, Rabalyn was always courteous and careful to avoid giving offence. He didn’t think of it as cowardice — though he was scared of Todhe — but more as good common sense. On occasions when he witnessed the bullying of other boys — like fat Arren — he had convinced himself it was none of his business and walked away.
However, the beating of old Labbers had been brutal and sickening, and Rabalyn found that he did not regret the punch that had begun this enmity with Todhe. His regret was that he had not had the courage to rush in on the adults who began the beating. No matter how much he thought about the dreadful incident he could make no sense of it. Old Labbers had never done anything to harm anyone in the town. Quite the reverse. During the plague he had gone from house to house ministering to the sick and the dying.
The world was indeed a strange place. As he lay on his bed Rabalyn thought about the lessons he had attended. He hadn’t taken much notice of them, save for the stories about heroic battles and mighty warriors.
Rabalyn had formed the impression that wars were fought by good people against evil people. The evil people were always from foreign countries. Yet was it not evil for a score of healthy men to beat an elderly priest almost to the point of death? Was it not evil for women in the crowd to jeer and scream for them to ‘kick his ugly face’ as Marja, the baker’s wife, had?
‘She always was a sad and sour woman,’ Aunt Athyla had said — which was a remarkable thing to hear from her. Aunt Athyla never spoke badly of anyone.
It was all most unsettling. Rabalyn had heard the gossip that travellers brought to the town. In the capital, Mellicane, huge crowds were said to have burned churches and hanged priests. The King’s adviser, the Lord Ironmask, had ordered the arrests of scores of ministers, who had then been executed and their lands forfeited to the state. As the government began to crumble Ironmask had appointed Arbiters, and these had travelled all across Tantria, rooting out ‘foreign inspired’ traitors.
When Rabalyn had first heard of these events he had thought them generally to be good. Traitors should be rooted out. Now, however, he had seen old Labbers branded a traitor, and he was confused.
Then there were the constant tales of battles fought between loyal troops and the vile enemy from Dospilis and their evil allies, the Datians.
These battles were always won by Tantria, and yet each battle seemed to get closer. He had asked old Labbers about this one day. ‘How can it be that when we win we draw back, and the defeated enemy moves forward?’
‘A little more reading might be in order, young Rabalyn,’ said Labbers.
‘In particular I would refer you to the historical works of Appalanus. He wrote: "Truth in war is like a maiden pure. She must be protected at all times within a fortress of lies." Does that help?’
Rabalyn had nodded and thanked him, though he had no idea what the old man was talking about.
As he lay on his bed he could smell the smoke from the hearth. He would have to borrow Barik’s brooms and clear the chimney of soot.
Pulling a blanket over his shoulders he closed his eyes and tried again to sleep.
His mind was too full. He kept thinking of Todhe. Perhaps if he just accepted a beating from Todhe and his friends it would all blow over. Like for like. Rabalyn doubted it. He had raised the stakes when he assaulted them with the iron rod. Perhaps the Watch would arrest him for it. This was a new and frightening thought. Uncomfortable now, and newly afraid, he sat up and opened his eyes. Immediately they began to sting. Smoke was everywhere. Rabalyn climbed off his bed and opened the door. The living room was filled with oily smoke, and he saw flames outside the window.
Coughing and gasping, he ran across the living room and pushed open the door to Aunt Athyla’s bedroom. The fire was eating through the window frame, and he could now hear it roaring through the thatched roof above. Stumbling to the bedside, he shook his aunt by the shoulder.
‘Aunt Athyla!’ he shouted. ‘The house is on fire.’ His knees buckled, his lungs hot and smoke-filled. Grabbing a chair, he hammered with it at the burning shutters. They would not give. Dragging a blanket from the bed he wrapped an edge of it round his hands and tried to lift the blazing wooden locking bar. The fire had warped it too badly. Pulling all the covers from Aunt Athyla he grabbed her by the arm and hauled her from the bed. Her body hit the floor, and she gave a groan.
‘Wake up!’ he screamed. On the verge of panic he began to haul her back into the living room. Fire was now bright here also, and a section of the roof fell into the far corner. The heat was intense. Leaving Athyla he ran to the door, lifted the bar and pushed it. The door would not open.
Something had been wedged against it from the outside. Rabalyn could scarcely breathe. Staggering to the one window in the living room he lifted the shutter bar and pushed open the shutters. Flames were licking at the wood. Scrambling up onto the sill he threw himself out onto the path beyond. Jumping to his feet he ran back to the front door. A wooden bench had been lodged against it. Grabbing it, he hauled it clear, then pulled open the door.
The flames were high now inside and as he tried to enter he felt the ferocity of the heat. Sucking in a deep breath he gave a yell and hurled himself forward. Fire was all around him as he reached the unconscious woman. Grabbing her arm he began to drag her across the floor. Her nightdress caught alight, but he could not stop to put it out. Flames licked at his arms and the backs of his legs, and he could feel his clothing charring. Still he would not let go. He screamed in pain but struggled on.
Once into the doorway he heard a great groan from the timbers above.
They suddenly sagged and burning thatch showered down over Aunt Athyla. Rabalyn hauled the woman out onto open ground.
Her nightdress was ablaze and he knelt by her side, beating out the flames with his hands, and wrenching the garment clear of her body. In the brightness of the fire he could see burns all over her legs. Pulling her even further from the blazing building he left her for a moment and ran to the well, dropped the bucket, and then hauled it up. It seemed to take an age. Carrying the bucket to Aunt Athyla, he tore off his shirt and dipped it into the water. Then, squatting naked beside her, he gently dabbed the drenched shirt to Athyla’s smoke-smeared face. Suddenly she coughed, and his relief was total.
‘It’s all right, Aunt. We’re all right.’
‘Oh dear,’ she said. Then there was silence.
People began to arrive, rushing forward to surround Rabalyn.
‘What happened, boy?’ asked a voice.
‘Someone set fire to the cottage,’ he said. ‘They blocked the door to stop us getting out.’
‘Did you see anyone?’
Rabalyn did not answer. ‘Help my aunt,’ he said. ‘Please help my aunt.’
A man knelt down beside the still form, and held a finger to her throat.
‘She’s gone, boy. Smoke did for her, I reckon.’
‘She just spoke to me. She’s going to be all right.’ His voice was breaking as he began to shake Aunt Athyla by the shoulders. ‘Wake up, Aunt. Wake up.’
‘What happened here?’ asked a new voice.
‘Someone fired the cottage,’ said the man beside Rabalyn. The boy says they blocked the front door.’
Rabalyn looked up and saw Councillor Raseev. He was a tall man, with greying blond hair and a wide handsome face. His voice was smooth and deep. ‘What did you see, boy?’ he asked.