“The question is, young Mangus… are the bumbling fools of Rellant the wide-eyed innocents we took them to be? Or did they pull the wool of their countless sheep over our eyes?”
“I cannot say. But a significant power was in evidence and it rendered us helpless!”
“Ah, yes! The unexpected sorcerer! And even without that, I could not demand where my soldiers were, nor admit my second boat lay in wait… and for what reason! It should have been a clean, successful strike. I may never know what happened.”
“The Rellant court may be backwards, but their resident magician is not,” Mangus insisted. “Even the clear quartz I left is now unresponsive. I cannot detect anything from it. Nor from the live amulet in the gold necklace gifted to the queen. They have locked away it in a vault of stone, as far as I can tell, and she did not so much as touch it.”
“A challenge to your skills!” Woliff said flippantly. “Have you been able to detect anything about the gold coins yon pale and emaciated child-queen dropped so foolishly at our feet?”
“Foolishly or tantalizingly?” Mangus shook his head. “I held one for only a few seconds. As I have described, I picked up the impression of a cave and a box of similar gold coins, but I could not tell where it was, not even in which direction.”
“The queen is in very poor physical condition… she is very lame, no matter what they say about a recent injury, and she appears to eat almost nothing. I look forward to seeing King Joff’s reaction when I present her to him.” Woliff’s rumbling laugh sounded again in the small cabin. “He will quiver with rage… and do nothing!”
“It is said the princess was shut up in the attic rooms with her handmaid. As we know, rumors of her madness abound.” Mangus eyed Woliff warily. “After seeing such a pathetic figure in person, do you still go ahead with the plan to marry her to King Joff?”
“Of course. Why ever not? Our mad young king marries Rellant’s mad young queen and Gryor’s high court assumes control. King Tobin scattered gold as if it grew in his forests. Perhaps it does. Whatever is there, I want it! Also, what little wine I had during that tortuous feast was excellent. Gryor will take possession of King Tobin’s large wine collection along with the gold.”
“The chancellor consumed very little wine himself,” said Mangus. “I watched him… a sip here, a sip there… along with much smooth talk. I suspect the queen’s chancellor is not the yokel he would like you to believe he is.”
“I suspect you are not the sorcerer you would like me to believe you are!” Woliff’s words fell like sword blows between them. “For my continuing studies, master Mangus, I want the books of magic held by the priests of Rellant. That was why we went there. I do not believe they are burned, nor even that they can be. I want them even more than I want King Tobin’s gold! This is your task. For now, root out what you can in regards to yon swamp-water kingdom and find out what sorcerer holds power there. When we return, I look forward to pulping the people of Rellant like frogs beneath our feet!”
Mangus gave him a fervent nod. “I have a few ideas, High Priest. I will see what I can do.”
“See you are successful. Now get out on deck, sorcerer, and do your best to make sure this boat continues in the right direction,” Woliff directed him coldly. “I wish to return to the City as soon as possible. Any delays—at all!—and I myself will toss you overboard to feed the fish!”
Mangus scurried out of the cabin, his face red and his eyes troubled.
“And furthermore,” Woliff growled to himself when he was alone again in the dark cabin, listening to the endless waves rushing alongside as the boat raced eastward. “Even if this farce of a marriage proposal achieves nothing, I have seen for myself enough to know how few fighting men I need to annihilate the court of Rellant, despite the hundreds of soldiers its chancellor claims to have. The only real obstacle is that foul, snake-ridden bog surrounding it!”
In the Unwalled City, the old man had left the market and shambled slowly through the streets with Arrow shortening his step alongside.
The shop was off the Street of Three Stars, which itself was an alley off the Street of the Thin Horse. He led Arrow down an arched corridor between two stout unmarked doors. At the far end the arch ended in a doorway to another street. There was no candlelight to chase the gloom away, and Arrow stumbled down two shallow steps.
“Watch your step,” said the sage, whose pace was a mere shuffle. He turned into a doorway and started painfully up a flight of stairs. “Twenty-two steps,” his voice drifted back to Arrow, who began to count. At the top, the old man stopped and was fumbling with a handful of keys, from the sounds of it. A moment later the door swung open on a black void smelling of mustiness, camphor and some mixture of spices, along with something more putrid.
“Shut the door behind you,” directed the voice. Not yet panicking, Arrow followed by feel, giving the door a shove and hearing the latch fall heavily into place behind him. He could see nothing. The sage was cursing the blackness and moving away.
Suddenly light flooded the far end of what was a long narrow room, really no more than another corridor. Blinking, Arrow gawked at the stacks of stuff lining the walls, and the bundles of something ... herbs? ... suspended from the ceiling. There was a narrow path through. Darkness fell like a thick blanket again, and Arrow lunged toward the memory of light.
He collided with what was actually a blanket, or several of them, covering the narrow doorway. “Come through, come through,” said the teacher's muffled voice impatiently. “That's really a dreadful entrance way. It's meant to confuse thieves.”
Arrow fought his way through the hanging blankets and came out into a fairly large room, which must be the shop. It contained books by the dozens, boxes, a bewildering variety of stacked objects and, at the far end, a doorway. The old man was by now in the next room, silhouetted against a large window that miraculously let in daylight. When he had shuffled his way to the far end, he pushed open the grid work of metal and small panes of glass that covered the opening. Arrow followed him and was drawn to the light like a beggar to food.
It was some moments before he found his voice. “How did you find this place?”
“It found me.”
Arrow leaned out into the late afternoon light. The window had a narrow view out to sea. On both sides of the inlet the battered buildings of the Unwalled City faced each other, and the waves in the inlet seethed and roiled. Beyond, the dancing waves beckoned, flashing sunlight as if they held jewels.
The old man gestured with his twisted hand at the buildings to the right. “Those are the buildings facing on the Street of the Spotted Horse, and those,” he waved to the left, “are facing on the Street of the Thin Horse. People have built balconies, not always well.”
Arrow gazed past the rickety balconies, the irregular stone steps down to the water. Beyond the buildings was the open sea, where misty blue light marked the meeting of water and sky. He had grown up in a room with a window looking out to sea, from babyhood to his tenth year, when all had changed. Then he had fled to sea in the little paddling boat because there had been nowhere else to go.
“Huh.” Arrow tore his eyes from the distance and faced into the room, looking around. “I see you are a king in your palace. What's to keep me from robbing you blind?”
“Your own self. And this.” He displayed one hand, which now held a small thin blade. “Dipped in poison, of course.”
“Of course. I have the utmost respect, Teacher.” He took his eyes off the blade, taking in the contents of the room. A bed occupied one corner; near the window was a table and chair; and on the walls were shelves of books, candle-holders, and several paintings. Another corner served as a sparse kitchen and, in the opposite corner, a mat lay on the floor.
When he looked back at the sage, the misformed hands were hidden once more. “What now, oh wise one?”
“Water, if you will. Here are two pails with lids. Do you know the well at the end of Isabot Street?”
Arr
ow shook his head. He had found water early in the morning at a roadside spring and had washed, drunk and filled his container.
“Back to the market, past the corner where I sat, down Isabot Street to the end. You will see the well. When you get back, pull the string at the top of the stairs. And give me a few minutes to open the door. I am not a gazelle.”
Arrow took the pails back through the smothering corridor, down the steps, through the arched alley corridor and back out into daylight. When he crossed the Middle-market, he saw that late afternoon was a busy time there.
But not busy enough for sharp eyes to miss him. “Hey, lad!” called the fabric seller with a piercing whistle. “You with the teacher's water pails! Are you his new boy?”
“Employee!” Arrow corrected with a grandiose bow, faked a trip and dropped one of the pails with a clang.
“You clumsy idiot, you won't last long denting his pails. Watch him, he's got a poison dart!” the fabric merchant said with a touch of malice.
“Poison dart!” Arrow, now firmly in the persona of Bell-fool, repeated the words in dismay.
“And tell him if he still has that brass tea box with the dragons on it, Ennis the cloth-man will pay half a puppet for it.”
“Brass dragons?” Bell-fool squinted, open-mouthed with the effort to memorize the message. “Cloth man, puppets.”
“Tea box, fool! Half a puppet, no more!”
“Tea box, fool! Half a puppet, no more!” Bell-fool mimicked, same intonation, same sharp nasality. “'Tea box, fool! Half a puppet, no more! Half a puppet, tea box! No more!” He picked up the pail and went on, swinging the pails and repeating Ennis' words in a chant. Behind him, Ennis waved an impatient hand and rolled his eyes.
“... picked a real sharp one this time...” The words drifted after Arrow and he smothered a grin as he went on his way.
He found the well in a small square where several streets intersected, and drew the water after a pair of children showed him how, then put the lids back on and started back.
Crossing the market once more, he found that Ennis the cloth-man had been busy. Many more eyes were peering at him from around the stalls. “What's your name, lad?” called Ennis, breaking off a pitch to an elderly shark-faced lady who was inspecting a length of fine white wool.
“Bell-fool!” He set the pails down and took from his pocket three small leather balls stuffed with seeds. He sent them into the air and gave a short but deft juggling performance. As he put the balls back into his pocket, he fielded a barrage of questions. “Where you from? Who's your family? How long you been in the City?”
“The country north, east, west and south – what family? – here to seek my fortune!”
The last brought whoops of laughter. “Should have brought it with you 'cause there ain't any around here. If there was we'd have hung it up by the heels!”
“Yeah and shook out every last penny from its pockets.”
“An' Ennis would’ve sold its clothing for thread and rags!”
Arrow picked up the pails and went on his way. He found his way back to the old man's arched corridor, stumbled up the twenty-two steps in the dark and pulled the string at the top of the stairs. The sage took his time about coming, and when the door opened, it was to the choking blackness.
“Come in, come in, have you got the water?”
“Do you not have a lamp in here, old man? How can I carry pails in pitch blackness?”
“You are young and supple,” he grumbled from the darkness. “Wait here until I lift the blankets.” He shuffled off.
“The whole market knows you have a poisoned dart. They told me. You don't need to worry about thieves.”
“Merely precaution, Bell-fool. No fault is more dangerous than possessiveness.”
“Ennis the cloth-man says if you still have a brass tea box with dragons on it, he'll pay half a puppet for it.”
“Ennis knows I sold that tea box some time ago. He was unwilling to pay the price. The workmanship on those dragons was fine… oh, very fine. Come along, can you see now?” He was pushing back the blankets and letting in the light.
Arrow carried the pails towards the inner rooms. “Possessiveness. Who is it has the fault of possessiveness?” he muttered under his breath as he sidled through the packed shop, and finally was able to put down the pails of water.
“Now. Put your question to me.”
Arrow, rubbing his aching shoulders, stared blankly at the old man.
“Puppets,” the sage prompted. “… king’s coins now called puppets in common usage. Had you not heard that before?”
Arrow shrugged. “I've been traveling.” On the road he had not wanted to draw attention to himself. Other than juggling for pennies a time or two, he had avoided farmers and villagers—and the knots of hard-eyed soldiers—as much as possible.
“The feeling is that the young king is not all he should be,” intoned the teacher as if he were on stage. “Gossips are calling the Walled City the theater and King Joff a puppet, and people like the man with the book begin to feel the strings themselves. One would have to consider how long before the Unwalled City ceases to be the place of choice.”
“Oh?” said Arrow. “Who pulls the puppet's strings? The Protector?” Haddon of Dyers Keep had mentioned The Protector’s soldiers…
The sage gave an expressive shrug, one that evidently caused him pain, for he flinched and became querulous. “Questions, questions. Methinks it's time for a drop of tea. You may rest. Sit quietly and meditate.”
His student shot him a sardonic glance but sat down on the mat in the far corner. Sitting became slouching, slouching became lying down, and from there he drifted into sleep.
When he woke, the cool night air was coming in through the open window, and the old man had thrown a blanket over him. Arrow sat up, the sight of the figure reading by candlelight enough to recollect him to the unfamiliar surroundings.
“If you are hungry, have some soup. And there's a pail in the outer corridor if you need it. Speaking of which, that would be your morning duty. The wagons come through before dawn.”
“Right,” said Arrow, through a yawn. The surrounding farmers aged the Cities’ waste and used it on the fields. He had passed the reeking wagons on his journey to the Cities.
He followed both suggestions, then lay down again and went to sleep. If the sage slept at all, there was no evidence of it, for by dawn the candles had burned to sputtering nubs and he was still reading.
With their destination in view—the wharfs and piers of Gryor’s main port—Orwen’s fleet approached from the western sea. The three boats loaded with cargo had made good time after a fast and uneventful journey from Rellant. The crews knew the fastest ways through the uncooperative delta and had the advantage of gaining favorable winds quickly.
“An excellent journey!” Orwen said to his captain, his eyes sweeping the silhouette of the Unwalled and Walled Cities in the late afternoon sun. “Now, with luck we will achieve our objectives without delay and return home as quickly as possible!”
The boats nosed alongside a vacant pier. Meanwhile, he searched the wharfs and dockside buildings for familiar faces.
“Hmmm, I do not see overly much activity… My buyers should be on their way, though. I will send word to them if they do not show up. We are a little ahead of schedule. I will report to the dockmaster.”
Orwen left the boat when it was secure and the ramp in place. He started up the boards only to be met by a hard-eyed group of armed men. “Identify yourself!” came the command.
“Orwen Miller of Rellant, three boatloads of cargo with buyers awaiting!” he spoke as genially as ever.
“An inspection is required!”
Orwen accompanied the men back to the boats. One by one, they boarded the boats and made a cursory inspection of the raw wool and bundles of woven fabrics in transport.
The inspection crew left the last boat. “Report in half an hour to the office, Master Miller! New regulations and new f
ees… do not expect to trample roughshod over port inspectors the way you are used to!”
“Half an hour… yes, thank you, gentlemen!” he agreed without exhibiting impatience or surprise.
As the men walked away, he said in an undertone to his captain, “It seems the regular dock crew has been replaced by these new officers—armed and carrying themselves like soldiers. I suggest no one leaves the boats until we see what transpires next.” The captain gave him an uneasy nod and scurried down the ramp to speak to the crews on the other two boats.
Half an hour later, Orwen reported to the port office. With the usually busy docks almost abandoned, he wondered what new restrictions were in place. It was late in the day already, and the sun was sliding lower in the sky.
“Good afternoon!” he greeted a pair of guards standing at the office door. “Reporting to the port office as I was told, gentlemen!”
“Port office’s locked up for the night,” came the sharp response from one. “Report in the morning, merchant!”
“I will, thank you.” He turned and went back to the boats. “Well, Macory,” he said to his captain quietly when he returned. “I’m put off till the morning when the port office reopens… at least I hope it will reopen! I planned to stay at the Western Star Inn and meet with a man or two. I believe I will walk up and see if a room is still available. Keep everyone on board and guard the cargo, if you will!”
“We will,” said Macory, casting an anxious glare around the immediate area. “I will stand a guard on each boat and keep the ramps pulled up.”
“Good man!” Orwen told him lightly. He went into his cabin and tucked a small package well inside his coat. Soon he was ambling up the wharf yet again, carrying a carpetbag with a change of clothing. His alert eyes shifted from side to side as he kept to the center of the walkway. No one accosted him as he passed between the shuttered dockside buildings and crossed the water market, all but abandoned in the early evening. It stank as usual of fish and seawater.
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