‘I’ll go,’ he said quietly.
He pulled on his clothes and left the bedroom without saying more though his mind was drenched with words. His heart was beating hard and he was aware of a growing confusion. Sol shivered and tied his shirt tight at the neck. On the stairs, pain flared in his leg, an old memory resurfacing. The docks at Arlen. The sweep of a sword. Hirad saving his life. Again. The imagery was so intense it was within a ghost of being real. Sol leaned against the wall and descended more slowly, letting his shoulder slide along the age-smoothed dark timbers.
The hammering on the door was repeated.
‘Patience!’ roared Sol. ‘I’m coming. The Gods save me from the curse of the impatient drunk.’
When he reached the bottom of the stairs, Sol could feel the heat from the ovens in the kitchens to his right. A clatter of pans told him at least one of the staff was already in. Evenings at The Raven’s Rest were always busy. It helped that so many of the city’s influential people were regular customers but Sol liked to think that both the food and the wine cellar were worthy of those he served.
Ahead of Sol, a short passage led out to a fenced yard where he could hear at least one of his sons, Jonas probably, playing a loud game with friends. And to his left, his pride and joy, if he could be said to experience joy these days. His bar. No. Their bar. A place of laughter, memory and reminiscence. The place where he always retreated when he tired of the attentions of state. When he was allowed to.
The place where The Raven would live forever.
But now, walking towards the heavy, bound oak door that let out on to the street, he wondered if this shrine to his past really was poisoning his mind. Diera thought so. Sol walked slowly past the portraits of his friends a decade and more dead. He didn’t feel the barbs of grief as he had done in the early days but he didn’t think he’d ever shake the regret that he would never stand with them again.
Sol could hear Diera’s voice in his head, telling him to move on. Celebrate their triumphs, learn to smile.
He couldn’t. He never had been able to, and now his head was full of disaster like it hadn’t been in five years, ever since he stopped hunting demons. Sol let his gaze trail over the portraits of Erienne, beautiful of face but sad of mind; Thraun, forever troubled but so loyal; and Ilkar, sharp-featured and acerbic, before pausing as he so often did at Hirad.
The barbarian’s scarred face was packed full of belief and raw power and it sported that damned smile with which he had died.
‘So, old friend, what is it? I’m either right or I’m losing my mind. No in between, as you’d have said. Trouble is, I don’t know what to do. I don’t know where to begin. Any ideas?’
It was a moment before Sol became aware that he was actually waiting for a response.
‘Talking to a picture.’ Sol shook his head. ‘I think we have an answer, don’t we?’
Another bout of hammering on the door, and this time Sol was relieved to hear it and let it distract him from himself.
‘All right, all right. I’m here.’
He strode to the door, drew back the top and centre bolts, kicked up the bottom one and turned the key in the lock. The levers moved back with a satisfying, heavy sound. He pulled the door open, stepping back as he did so. You can never be too careful.
The man who stared at him with an expression bordering on elation was young and smartly dressed very much in the style of a merchant. There was blood all over his left shoulder and chest. Sol frowned. He looked at the wound and wondered how the man was still standing.
‘Unknown, is it really you? Did I really find you?’
Sol flinched at the sound of his old name. The man made to move forward, his arms reaching out.
‘No one calls me that,’ said Sol, his voice gruff. ‘Not any more.’
‘Shame,’ said the man, raising his eyebrows. ‘I always thought it rather suited you. It was one of Ilkar’s better nicknames.’
Sol’s skin prickled and his head cleared. He stepped forward and jabbed the man in the chest.
‘You are treading a very fine line with the memories of my friends.’
‘Don’t you recognise me, big man?’
‘Clearly not,’ said Sol. ‘And be assured that if you make one more familiar remark, I will deck you.’
‘The body is unfamiliar but the soul and the shadow are mine, Unknown. And you have to help me. You have to help all of us.’
Sol felt cold. He straightened. The man’s eyes held a desperate sadness, and he was frightened. Not of Sol but of something far, far more deeply embedded in his mind. There was something about him Sol couldn’t grasp, something recognisable. But he’d been begged for help by passing acquaintances before. Everyone knew Sol’s face and reputation.
‘Who are you?’
The man smiled and a spark lit his eyes just for a heartbeat. He spread his arms.
‘It’s me. It’s Hirad.’
Sol decked him.
‘Bloody hell.’ The merchant put a hand to his left eye. It was already beginning to swell. ‘Didn’t lose your strength when you got the wrinkles, did you?’
Sol paused for a moment and glanced up and down the street. The Thread was busy as always. Heads were turning and no doubt jaws already exercising opinions laced with ignorance. There were always stories to be invented about the first and reluctant king of Balaia. Sol stooped and grabbed the merchant by his lapels. He pulled the man upright and threw him inside the bar, where he slithered to his knees. Sol walked in and kicked the door shut behind him.
The merchant displayed no fear when Sol loomed above him.
‘I’ll give you one more chance. An abject apology just might save you from a few more broken bones.’
‘You need to believe me, Unknown. Balaia’s in trouble. The whole dimension and loads of other things only Ilkar understands.’
‘Right, that’s it.’
Sol grabbed the merchant by his wounded arm and dragged him to his feet. He clamped a hand around the back of the man’s neck and marched him to the picture of Hirad.
‘Take a good close look, you little bastard. This is Hirad Coldheart. This is the heartbeat of The Raven. A man I loved and a man I miss every single day. You will not pass yourself off as one of Balaia’s great heroes. Do I make myself clear?’
The merchant nodded. ‘You do. And it’s a good likeness though I remember my teeth being straighter than that.’
‘Fucking weasel.’
Sol hurled the merchant across his bar. The man knocked aside two chairs, sprawled across a table and collided with the back shelf, upsetting a candelabra and smashing the glass in two lanterns. He scrabbled for purchase. Sol could see his eyes. There was fear of him in them now. Too late.
Sol’s cudgel for the control of the unruly was hanging in its brackets on a cross beam just above his head. He fetched it down and advanced.
‘Why didn’t you listen to me?’ The cudgel’s face slapped against his open left palm. ‘No one plays with the memory of The Raven. Certainly not some puffed-up pretty boy like you. I’m going to make sure that cut on your shoulder is the least of your concerns.’
The merchant pushed himself to his feet and backed away. There was nothing behind him but the corner of the alcove into which he had been thrown. He felt the wall behind him and held out both hands.
‘Unknown, please. You have to believe me. I’m not taking the piss. Please.’
‘No one calls me that and walks out of here. Not any more.’
Sol pushed a chair aside and dragged the table from in front of the merchant. The back of his neck was hot. The cudgel felt good in his fist. It had been a long time since anyone had tried it on with him. It seemed that not quite everyone had got the message.
‘I love that you are the protector of our memories. But we’re in trouble. You have to listen. I know you’ve been having dreams. Ilkar’s been-’
‘It’s about respect,’ said Sol. ‘And the young never seem to show any these days. I try and be reasonable but some of you just don’t do reason, do you? So be it.’
