The rowing ceased and the boat coasted forward for a time before hitting wood with a clunk, nearly propelling Carla out of her seat. She was again picked up and set down, and she felt solid planking beneath her feet. Wherever she was, it must be close to the docks. She speculated about her location. Perhaps one of the shipyards? One of the houses of the rich merchant families who could afford their own pier?
“Keep walking—don’t stop,” the voice said again.
Carla took several steps forward.
“Stairs ahead.”
Carla lifted one foot and placed it down, then tested the next step. Getting their measure, she reached the top of a stone stairway and continued ahead. She heard the creaking of a door, and then she was seated in a chair.
Carla felt hands fumbling at the knots of her blindfold, and then with a sense of relief, she felt it removed. Her hood stayed in place, hanging low over her face.
Carla was in a low-ceilinged room with very little light. She sat at a long table with several other figures, all with hoods over their faces like her. It was impossible to see anyone’s features.
Carla was ranked high in the Melin Tortho, the most powerful of the streetclans, but even she didn’t know where she was, nor did she know the identity of the man who sat at the head of the table, carefully placed where the shadows were deepest.
Scanning the other figures, Carla did have an idea who one of them was. She recognized the hunched build and lanky frame of the emperor’s steward. Neither Carla nor Lord Osker acknowledged each other, but she’d made the sign in the Imperial Palace and seen him return the countersign.
In addition to Carla, Osker, and the man at the table’s head, three other figures sat at the table. Whoever they were, their faces were shadowed, but they must be powerful to be seated at the same table as the man at the head.
Carla pricked her ears as the man at the head now spoke. She tried to pick up the cadence of his speech or the timbre of his voice—she was good at such things—but a man in his position must be cunning indeed, and a voice could be disguised. Still, knowing the identity of the Tortho himself would be a valuable secret to possess. Carla planned to supplant him one day.
“Those here are united by a common purpose,” the Tortho said. “We work together to increase Tingara’s power and keep our city safe from our enemies. Some of you are from the streetclans, and some are not. Speaking for the Melin Tortho, we wish neither to depose the emperor, nor to be the cause of conflict in the city. We like things just the way they are. We also have no wish to see the city fall to invaders, something the high lord of Altura warns us about. What do the nobles say?”
One of the men opposite Carla spoke. “We wish to keep Tingara safe. We wish to protect our lands and resources from those who would take them, whether from inside the Empire or without. We don’t want the houses taking the protection that is rightfully ours.”
“And the merchants?” the Tortho asked.
Another figure spread his hands; his voice was smooth as silk. “You’ve said it all already.”
“Let us be more plainspoken, then,” the Tortho said. “After mad Xenovere and the crazed primate, this new emperor may be the best thing to happen to Tingara in a very long time. But he has spent much of his time living as a foreigner, and his loyalty to Tingara is untested. He has friends in Altura and Petrya and among the Hazarans. Speaking simply, we cannot afford to lose the Legion. If Altura calls, and the emperor decides to send away those who should rightfully be protecting Tingara, then the emperor’s decision must not stand. We have sent men to the west to isolate Altura, but here at home we must prepare for a signal still reaching the emperor.”
Carla gulped. This was where she came into the plan, she knew. She’d fought hard to take her seat at the secret circles of power in Seranthia: a Halrana by birth, she’d had to prove herself time and again before she’d earned her new family’s trust. After the death of her father, the streetclans were the natural home for someone who despised the mad emperor, someone who had no family, no home, and no other place to go. She had to fulfill her duty.
“Though we come from different backgrounds and share different interests, we are united patriots, all of us. Desperate times call for desperate measures. Although our last rulers were despots, they nonetheless gave rightful precedence to Tingara above all others. We are uncertain about the new emperor. If he cares more for the other houses than he does for Tingara, he threatens everything.”
A chorus of assent came from the room.
And then they told Carla what she must do.
16
Jehral rode through the desert as only a horseman born and bred could do, lunging up the soft sand of the dunes and scrabbling down the reverse sides as he spurred his horses to ever greater efforts. Carrying only enough water for a few days, he strictly rationed himself to tiny sips, hoping the speed of his journey would get him through.
Taking advantage of the glittering starlight shining through the clear night skies, he rode through the days and into the nights, rotating mounts as he went, speeding past the strange rock formations and finally seeing red boulders replace the yellow sands as he entered Petrya.
As he left the desert behind, he was able to make better headway, spurring his horse into a gallop, with his two remounts trailing behind. The sound of hooves clattering on rock filled his consciousness, providing an unceasing rhythm to his journey so that even in the small snatches of sleep, he dreamt of the patter of horse feet.
Winding through Petrya’s northwest, skirting the forests of rust-colored trees, he found the thin trail leading up to the mountains, and called forth ever greater efforts from his mounts as the slope steepened and the trail carved a zigzag path up the face of the mighty Elmas.
Jehral cursed when the treacherous Wondhip Pass again forced him to dismount. Leading all three of his horses, he walked as fast as he was able over the loose scree and treacherous gravel, navigating his way around fallen boulders and into the gully that was the pass’s highest point.
As Jehral was about to pass under Ella’s tower, he looked up at the prism, seeing it was still dark and unlit. The enemy fleet must still be missing. Only Jehral knew it was close. Miro needed to send every man to Castlemere and prepare for the worst.
He thought about what he’d seen. The wrecked revenant ship told a story better than any written account. He remembered the way the single animated corpse had destroyed his men. The urgency of his mission spurred him on. Altura must know.
One of Jehral’s horses, a young and inexperienced mare, stumbled and whinnied in pain as Jehral heard a terrible crack that sent a shiver crawling up his back. The horse drew to a halt, and Jehral saw her lift her leg, eyes wide and body trembling. Splinters of bone protruded from the broken leg; the horse would never make it down from the mountain.
Jehral cursed and felt the animal’s pain and terror as if it were his own. He led his other two mounts forward through the gully and to the other side. They wouldn’t want to see this.
He hobbled the two horses and turned back into the gully. The wounded mare was in terrible agony, and Jehral’s heart reached out to her.
“You have done well,” he whispered in soothing tones. The mare looked at him and rolled her eyes while she shivered. Jehral drew his sword and rested his hand on the horse’s neck as he found the right place to make his strike, behind her foreleg. He continued to speak in a soft voice, and then with one swift move he plunged the blade into the horse’s side, driving hard to reach the heart. She died instantly as Jehral stood back and hung his head.
The blood dripped off the enchanted blade. In a matter of heartbeats, the steel shone bright and silver once more. Jehral sheathed the sword and again walked through the gully to reach his other two mounts.
Sighing, he took the reins and again led them forward over the treacherous down slope, exhausted but determined as he headed for his final destination.
Jehral had promised Ella to do anything he could to help,
and he was a man who lived by his word.
Sarostar beckoned.
Jehral’s journey took him along a winding road past fallow fields and through lush forests. He changed horses regularly but could see they were blown, both of his mounts foaming white at the mouth.
As he rode, he pictured the bloated bodies of the revenants and again saw the single revenant kill four of his men, all armed, with nothing but its hands. He remembered the last war, when a small army of Akari revenants had crushed the Hazarans at the Gap of Garl. He needed to hurry.
He looked up at the sun. It was perhaps midday. He was close to Sarostar now and could see a bridge spanning one of the Sarsen’s many tributaries. Jehral kicked into a gallop. Below the bridge he saw a mighty waterfall, and in awe of the great drop, he was distracted by the plummeting cascade.
As he reached the far side of the bridge, Jehral was attacked.
He saw a flicker of movement but was too slow to react as a spear point thrust up at his chest from somewhere below. Part of his consciousness told him it was an ambush, even as the spear hit the center of his chest, throwing him out of the saddle and sending him catapulting through the air to land heavily on the ground. Only the leather cuirass he wore under his clothing saved him for being impaled.
Adrenalin surged through Jehral’s body as he shook his head to clear it. Behind him he heard the roar of men rushing to the attack. Jehral leapt to his feet and drew his sword; thankfully the scabbard was still at his side.
His opponents halted their mad charge as Jehral shifted, head scanning to keep them all in his vision.
There were four of them. They wore light armor and no insignia, and at first Jehral thought they were bandits, but then he saw their features looked Tingaran. These men had tattoos, but they also didn’t look like military; they had the swagger of men from the street.
“You fool, Pedron,” a lean man, evidently the leader, said to one of his fellows, the warrior holding a spear. “We could have let him ride past.”
The accent was definitely Tingaran. What would Tingarans be doing here, close to Sarostar?
“I don’t care, Dan. I want his horses,” Pedron said.
“You imbecile! You can’t even ride!”
“I’m hungry. I haven’t had meat in weeks.”
Jehral watched the exchange in bemusement. He took the opportunity to activate his scimitar. “Al-maia,” Jehral spoke softly. The runes on the shining steel lit up with fiery colors.
The leader, Dan, swore. “He’s got an enchanted blade.”
“It’s worth a lot more than they’re paying us,” Pedron said. “Whoever kills him gets it!”
Pedron rushed Jehral with the spear while the others circled to the left and right. Jehral pretended to look uncertain, taking a few steps backward, but then he dashed forward and knocked aside the thrusting spear to whip his scimitar across Pedron’s throat.
Jehral spun, and before the leader could slash at his back, he took the scimitar through the backswing and into the leader’s attack. His opponent raised his sword to block, but Jehral’s blade cut through the steel, shearing it in two. Dan was suddenly holding half a sword, with a stricken expression on his face.
Jehral waited again, panting as he once more stepped back to keep his three opponents in sight. He feinted at the Tingaran on his left but turned right, and his superior swordsmanship immediately showed as they all took the bait. A slashing blow took a swordsman in the chest, and the man went down.
Jehral blocked a thrust, swiping the blade out of the way, and then shifted to stab at the leader’s abdomen. His opponent nimbly drew back, but even so, the blade bit into his side. The leader went down.
The last of the ambushers came at Jehral, but defeat was already in his eyes. He looked in surprise at the gash the scimitar left across his chest and then fell to his knees, blood welling around him as he died.
Jehral deactivated the sword, and his chest heaved as fatigue set in. He was exhausted from the frantic ride, and the fight had taken still more of his energy. The leader, Dan, looked up at him with wide eyes as Jehral approached.
“What are you doing here?” Jehral demanded, crouching beside him.
“We . . .” the leader coughed and choked. “We . . .”
The man’s eyes rolled back in his head, and his chest shuddered as the life went out of him.
The lands around Sarostar were supposed to be safe, yet here these men were, on the outskirts of Altura’s capital itself.
Jehral cursed when he saw his horses had bolted. Still, as tired as they were, they wouldn’t go far.
Jehral decided to leave the bandits—if that was what they were—where they’d fallen. He cast in circles, looking for hoof prints, and finally found a circular imprint in the soft earth.
Jehral began to walk.
17
Tapel darted from street corner to street corner as he watched the one-eyed man buying stores in the Poloplats market. He was sure he’d seen this man dressed as a beggar before, and now here he was in plain but well-cut clothing. Who was he? And why did he keep buying supplies?
Tapel skirted the stalls, hiding among some hanging tapestries, keeping the one-eyed man in sight. A Veldrin walked past, a swarthy man with an elegant doublet and tight blue leggings.
“Excuse me,” Tapel whispered.
“Yes?” the Veldrin looked down his nose.
“Is he one of you?” Tapel indicated the one-eyed man.
“One of whom, my boy?”
“One of you. A Veldrin.”
The Veldrin shook his head. “No, I can tell at a glance. He isn’t one of us.”
Tapel thanked the Veldrin and then scurried to keep up with the one-eyed man. Could he be Halrana? Perhaps from the free cities?
The one-eyed man reached forward to hand over some coins to a merchant and Tapel saw a tattoo at his wrist. Alturans and Halrana didn’t commonly have tattoos, but people from the free cities sometimes did, particularly sailors. Tapel decided to get close and hear the one-eyed man’s voice.
Tapel’s darting figure drew some glances, but few people took note of a fifteen-year-old boy, even if he was flitting from one stall to another. A few merchants fixed Tapel with baleful stares.
“Salt beef,” the one-eyed man was saying. “And wine.”
“It’s quite a journey you’re provisioning,” the vendor said.
“Mouths need feeding,” the one-eyed man said with a shrug.
The accent certainly wasn’t from the free cities. Tapel had been to Tingara and he thought perhaps it was Tingaran. What would a Tingaran be doing here in Altura?
Tapel wondered if he should go to Bladesinger Bartolo, or perhaps to his mother. But what would he say? And if he lost the one-eyed man now, who could say Tapel would find him again?
Tapel decided to follow him.
The one-eyed man finished his business and hefted a heavy knapsack onto his shoulder. Tapel trailed him out of the market, hiding in the crowd as his quarry traveled over the Long Bridge, heading east.
The crowds thinned as the one-eyed man traveled through the district of workshops and storehouses. Tapel found it difficult to keep up, darting behind walls and breathing heavily whenever he thought he might be spotted.
The one-eyed man’s stride opened up as he reached the road to Samson’s Bridge, and the trees at the city’s outskirts gave Tapel useful cover. Tapel couldn’t lose him now; this road led to only one place: the bridge, and the border with Halaran.
Tapel poked his head from around a tree and saw the man still lumbering along ahead. He felt foolish. Perhaps the man was camping with friends; there was certainly little space in the city. Tapel weaved through the trees, deciding to head deeper into the forest as he followed the road, staying in cover, where he could move faster without worrying about being spotted.
There were plenty of campsites around, so why was the man still traveling as if he had a long journey ahead of him?
Tapel followed the one-eyed
man for mile after mile, and soon he started to tire, although his quarry showed no sign of halting. Now that he’d come so far, Tapel stubbornly refused to give up. He would find the one-eyed man’s camp, and then he would know. If they were up to no good, Tapel would tell his mother. Amelia would know what to do.
Hours passed, and Tapel knew he was due at the Pens, and he would now be in trouble. Still the one-eyed man kept plodding along. Finally the trees began to thin, and ahead Tapel saw tall columns, the supports holding up Samson’s Bridge.
A tall three-legged tower stood beside the bridge, and at the apex Tapel saw the pyramid of quartz. He knew all about the signaling system, and he knew that this junction at the bridge was an important place. From here towers in the east would connect Altura to Tingara, and towers in the north would extend the chain all the way to Vezna and beyond.
Tapel’s brow furrowed.
He reached the edge of the trees and peered out. Where had the one-eyed man gone?
Tapel waited and moved silently forward, scanning the bank where the cliffs plunged to the surging river below, checking each tree in turn. His face fell as he realized he’d lost his quarry.
Tapel turned as he heard sudden movement behind him.
He jumped as a hand clapped over his mouth. Suddenly a face pressed close to his, the whiskers rubbing against his cheek, and a voice spoke with stinking breath. “What are you doing, eh, lad? How long’ve you been following me?”
The hand came off his mouth, and Tapel wondered if he should scream. Looking out at the bridge, he saw a drudge-pulled cart crossing the bridge, heading for Altura. Tapel drew in a breath when he felt a sharp point press into his side.
“Don’t even think about it,” the one-eyed man said, his empty eye socket so close that Tapel couldn’t look away from the puckered skin. “Well? What’s your story?”
“I was just hunting in the forest. For mushrooms,” Tapel said. “That’s all.”
The Lore Of The Evermen (Book 4) Page 13