No wonder the people of the town were frightened. Armies tended to plunder towns, and the war was getting closer. Only two months ago a battle had been fought not forty miles away.
Cethelin moved to the window and pushed it open. The night breeze was cool, the stars shining brightly in a clear sky. Flames were flickering again in the town’s northern quarter. Some other poor soul was watching his house burn, he thought sadly.
A dog barked in the courtyard below. Cethelin leaned out of the window and gazed down. A dark-haired youth, in a pale linen shirt and black leggings, was squatting in the gateway, a black hound beside him.
Cethelin threw a cloak around his thin shoulders and left his study, descending the long staircase to the lower levels.
As he walked out the hound turned towards him and growled. It lurched forward in a faintly comical manner, off balance and part hopping.
Cethelin knelt and held out his hand to the beast. It cocked its head and eyed him warily. ‘What do you want?’ the abbot asked the youth, recognizing him as the young man who had helped Brother Labberan.
‘Need a place for the dog, Father. Councillor Raseev ordered it put down.’
‘Why?’
‘It bit Todhe when he was kicking old Labbers… begging your pardon, Brother Labberan.’
‘Did it hurt him badly?’
‘No. Just a nip to the calf.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. Now why did you think we could find a home for a three-legged dog?’
‘Figured you owed him,’ said the boy.
‘For saving Brother Labberan?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is he useful?’
‘He fights wolves, Father. He’s not afraid of anything.’
‘But you are,’ observed Cethelin, noting that the youth kept casting nervous glances back through the open gate.
Todhe’s looking for me. He’s big, Father. And he has friends with him.’
‘Are you seeking sanctuary too?’
‘No, not me. I’m too fast for them. I want to get back to my aunt’s house. Looks like they’ve set fires again.’
‘Who is your aunt?’
‘Aunt Athyla. She comes to church. Big woman. Sings loud and out of tune.’
Cethelin laughed. ‘I know her. Laundrywoman and occasional midwife.
She has a sweet soul.’
‘Aye, she does.’
‘What of your parents?’
‘They left to find work in Mellicane years ago. Said they’d send for me and my sister. They didn’t. My sister died last year when the plague struck. Me and Aunt Athyla thought we’d get it, but we didn’t. Brother Labberan gave us herbs and such. Told us to clean out the house and keep the rats away.’
‘It was a harsh time,’ said Cethelin.
‘The Arbiters say the priests caused the plague.’
‘I know. Apparently we also caused the war, and the harvest failures.
Why is it that you don’t believe the stories?’
The youth shrugged. ‘Old Labbers, I expect. Always talking about love and such. Can’t see him causing plagues. Makes no sense. Still, no-one cares what I think.’
Cethelin looked into Rabalyn’s dark eyes. He saw strength there, and compassion. In that moment he also caught a glimpse of Rabalyn’s memories: a woman being beaten by a harsh man, a small child fading towards death as Rabalyn sat by the bedside weeping. ‘I care, Rabalyn. Old Labbers — as you call him — cares. I shall take care of the dog until such time as you return for him.’
‘Jesper’s not my dog. Belongs to Kalia. She brought him to me and asked me to hide him. When all this blows over I’ll get her to come and see you.’
‘Walk with care, young man.’
‘You too, Father. Best lock this gate, I’d say.’
‘A locked gate will not keep out a mob. Goodnight to you, Rabalyn. You are a good lad.’
Cethelin watched as the boy sped off. The dog gave an awkward bound as if to follow him. Cethelin called to him softly. ‘Here, Jesper! Are you hungry, boy? Let us go to the kitchen and see what we can find.’
Rabalyn returned the way he had come, wading across the shallows of the river and making his way through the trees and up the old watchtower hill. From here he could see the fires burning in the northern quarter. It was here that most of the foreigners had settled, including fat Arren and his family. There were merchants from Drenan, and a few shops run by Ventrian traders. The mob, however, were more concerned with those whose family ties were in the east, in Dospilis or Datia. Both these nations were now at war with Tantria.
Rabalyn squatted in the ruins, his keen eyes scanning the area at the base of the hill. He doubted Todhe and his friends would be waiting for him now, not with another riot looming. They would be out chanting and screaming at those they now dubbed traitors. Many of the houses in the northern quarter were empty. Scores of families had left in the last few days, heading west towards Mellicane. Rabalyn could not understand why any foreigners had chosen to stay.
A cool wind blew across the hilltop. Rabalyn’s leggings and shoes were wet from wading the river and he shivered with the cold. Time to be getting home. Aunt Athyla would be worried, and she would not sleep until he was safe in his bed. The abbot had called her a sweet soul. This was true, but she was also massively irritating. She fussed over Rabalyn as if he was still three years old, and her conversation was absurdly repetitive. Every time he left the little cottage she would ask: ‘Are you going to be warm enough?’ If he voiced any concerns about life, schooling or future plans, she would say: ‘I don’t know about that. It’s enough to have food on the table today.’ Her days were spent cleaning other people’s sheets and clothes. In the evenings she would unravel discarded woollen garments and create balls of faded wool. Then she would knit scores of squares, which would later be fashioned into blankets. Some she sold.
Others she gave away to the poorhouse. Aunt Athyla was never idle.
The riots had unnerved her. When the first killings had taken place Rabalyn had run home and told her. At first she had disbelieved him, but when the truth was established Athyla refused to talk of it with the boy. ‘It will all settle down,’ she said. ‘Best not to get involved.’
That evening she had sat with her balls of wool, looking old and grey.
Rabalyn had moved alongside her. ‘Are you all right, Aunt?’
‘We don’t have any foreign blood,’ she said. ‘It will be all right.
Everything will be all right.’ Her face was drawn and tight, just as it had been when Lesha had died — a mixture of bafflement and sorrow.
Rabalyn left the hilltop and made his way down towards the town.
The streets were deserted. He could hear the mob far off, chanting and screaming. The wind changed and he smelt smoke in the air. Pausing in a darkened alleyway arch he peered out across the short open stretch between the houses and his aunt’s little cottage. No-one was in sight, but Rabalyn decided to take no chances. Squatting down in the shadows he scanned the area. There was a dry stone wall running along the north side of the cottage, and a line of scrub bushes around the gate. Rabalyn waited silently. Just as he was convinced there was no danger he saw someone rise briefly from behind the bushes and creep across to the wagon outside the baker’s house. It looked like Todhe’s friend Bron. A touch of anger flared in Rabalyn. He was hungry and tired, and his clothes were still wet.