Daemi wasn’t paying any attention to such things. She was on alert. She’d heard stories about Sontair, in particular the lower districts lining the city walls, how they were the haunts of gangsters and thieves, how you should always keep one hand on your purse and the other on the hilt of your sword if you wanted to make it out with your money and your skin intact. Her feet fell into a strange cadence, an unfamiliar rhythm that somehow helped her to move easily past the obstacles in their way, slipping around wagons and merchants, waving away street urchins before they approached, noting every alley entrance they passed. Checking the shadows. It was as though some city dwelling instinct she wasn’t aware she had was dredged up to the surface to take control. Heather and Frankle had to hurry just to keep up.
Daemi tried to keep her head high as they walked, aware that she was still supposed to be part of an official delegation. It helped that she seemed taller than most of the crowd, able to see over heads and get a better view of the general area. Her instincts told her that though she was right to stay on alert, there was no immediate danger. Which then led to her next problem—where to now?
If she was honest with herself, Daemi hadn’t really thought much past getting to the city gates. From there she’d held the vague hope that they would be met by a court official, who would recognise and respect the Redmondis colours and lead them directly to the king, where they would present themselves and … And what?
Daemi shook her head to dismiss the thought and focused on the now. What they needed first of all was somewhere to stay. A place to rest and recover from their journey—she shuddered as the memory of the flight came rushing back to her—and come up with a plan. Her two companions were soldiering on bravely but they were almost out on their feet. That meant an inn, somewhere cheap and clean and as far from the city gates as they could get. Daemi knew that word of her little display with the guard captain would already be spreading, no doubt becoming more fantastic with each telling. Stories like that attracted certain folk. Gave them ideas.
As the main thoroughfare curved to the left, Daemi saw what she was looking for. Hanging from the side of a building in the middle distance was a battered timber sign, its paint weathered and streaked from years of exposure to the elements. Underneath the dirt and grime she could still make out two crossed keys.
Daemi waved the others on, cutting through the crowd to head toward the shelter of the inn’s doorway, just as the skies opened and a heavy, steady rain began to fall.
Once they made it across, she peered through the thick glass windows of the inn. It looked busy, but not too crowded. Patrons were scatted about the various tables in the main room eating and drinking, and a fiddler performed on a low stage.
‘This will do.’
She pushed in through the door, Heather and Frankle a step behind, trying not to make their relief too obvious.
Warm, dry air met them as soon as they entered, and the mixed scents of bread and ale and spices filled the room. Daemi spotted an empty table on the far side of the room and strode toward it, ignoring the multiple sets of eyes that followed them.
Frankle noticed the glances too, but kept his gaze down. He knew it often only took a look in the wrong direction to send some folk into a fury, especially when alcohol was involved. He’d learned very early in life that it was often safer never to raise your eyes at all, never to make your presence known. Keep quiet and still and hope to be ignored. It was only recently in Redmondis that he’d broken out of the habit. Now he slipped back into it with ease.
Heather experienced the room differently. She appreciated the warmth and the comforting smells of cooking food, but for her the real wonder was the music. She almost froze when she heard it, the fiddler on stage sending a racing thrill through her heart with his playing. She wanted to stop and watch and lose herself in the feeling, her mind being taken by the hand and led away, swept off its feet by the soaring notes. Everything else was forgotten.
Daemi grabbed Heather by the shoulder and guided her to the empty booth, pushing her into a seat and hunching over to whisper, ‘How much money do we have?’
‘I’ve about five silvers in my purse, and some gold hidden in the lining of my boots if it comes to that,’ Frankle whispered back.
Daemi rewarded this with a twisted grin. ‘Well. A wielder with more than half a brain. Never thought I’d see the day. Heather?’
Heather was in another world, the fiddler’s music now a fast trot, the sharp notes buffeting her as they carried her along.
‘Heather?’ Daemi repeated.
Nothing.
‘Heather!’ Daemi’s fist crashed into the table and half the room jumped.
Heather’s eyes snapped back, as though she’d just woken up. ‘I—uh, sorry. I was distracted. What were you saying?’
‘Money. How much money do you have?’ Daemi struggled to keep her voice low.
‘Oh, lots. As much as we need, more really.’ Heather smiled and pulled her shoulder bag onto the table. ‘Bottomless, you know.’
Daemi didn’t know what to make of that, and Frankle covered his grin with his hand to avoid angering her further.
Heather’s sunny reply had attracted the attention of more than one of the other inn patrons. Daemi sighed and sat back, pulling her cloak free to reveal the long knife hanging from her side.
‘Try to keep your voice to a low yell.’
Heather blushed. ‘Sorry, it’s the music, it’s—’
‘He’s quite good, isn’t he?’ Frankle agreed, looking to the stage.
The fiddler was an old man, hunched around his instrument, cradling it in the crook of his shoulder, his eyes closed, as if all that mattered was the music. The bow raced back and forth across the strings, while his other hand danced impossibly quickly up and down the neck of the fiddle, his fingers a blur of movement.
All three watched him for a long moment, taken out of themselves by the music.
Daemi shook her head as though to clear it and sat forward again to address Heather. ‘Do you have a way to retrieve enough money to pay for meals and accommodation without making it any clearer how much you’re actually carrying?’
‘Of course.’ Heather pulled her bag off the table and rummaged through it with one hand.
‘Frankle.’
Frankle dragged his eyes away from the stage.
‘You look like you know these sorts of places.’ It wasn’t a question, but Frankle nodded just the same. ‘Make yourself at home. See if you can siphon up some news. I want to know why the Redmondis name seems to have lost its power.’
He slid out of the booth, heading toward the bar, trying to make himself look older than he felt.
Daemi watched him go, taking note of the eyes that followed him. He’d be okay, she decided. If anything, his small stature would be an asset in this place. He didn’t look enough of a threat for anyone to bother with.
‘Here.’ Heather slid her fist across the table and Daemi covered it with her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.
‘Keep them in hand. Show only what you need to. Dinner for three, and a room. One room.’
This last was a whisper as a large ruddy-faced woman walked up to them, wiping her hands on the front of her apron before placing her fists on her ample hips. ‘What can I get you?’
Heather looked up into the unfriendly face, and almost dropped the coins as Daemi released her hand and sat back. ‘Uh—a meal please. For three. And a room for the night.’
The woman let out a harrumph as a reply and kept her hands on her hips as though waiting for something.
‘Um, how much will that be?’ Heather’s voice rose in pitch.
‘A clean room. Three bunks,’ Daemi added, her voice one of command. She tapped three fingers on her shoulder as she spoke, and the serving woman’s frown of disapproval instantly melted away.
‘Very good, ma’am. That’s two silvers in total.’
Heather fumbled out a couple of coins from her fist and handed them over. They
disappeared into some hidden pocket in the woman’s apron.
Heather stared at the woman’s back as she sauntered away toward the kitchen. Two silvers was far cheaper than she’d expected. She’d been willing to pay five at least, perhaps more since they were strangers in town.
‘I guess the colours of Redmondis carry some weight here after all.’
‘Perhaps,’ Daemi replied, rubbing the tips of her fingers together. It wasn’t the Redmondis colours that had made the difference; it was the shoulder tap, the sign she’d given without thinking, without knowing what it meant, almost out of some forgotten habit.
She scanned the room again. The eyes that had been locked on them since they entered the inn were all now studiously focused on other things.
In fact, the mood in the tavern seemed to have improved dramatically, and she took a moment to realise that it wasn’t her imagination. The music had changed; the jaunty dance from before had been replaced by a lilting ballad, the notes weeping from the fiddler’s bow. Daemi and Heather sat in silence, letting the strange music wash over them.
The mood was broken by Frankle plonking three large mugs of ale in the centre of the table. He slid into the booth and leaned forward, his eyes sparkling with excitement. ‘We need to be careful.’
Daemi sat forward, the music forgotten. ‘What do you mean?’
‘There are thieves here.’ He turned to Heather. ‘Keep your hand on your bag.’
‘How—?’ Daemi pressed.
‘You see the two old ones leaning against the bar?’
Daemi scanned the room again, subtly passing over the men Frankle pointed out. ‘Yes.’
‘Well, they’re local. Traders of some sort. Eager for a chat once their tongues had been lubricated. Told me there were members of the thieves’ guild here.’
‘You mean the two who are openly staring at us right now?’ Daemi asked.
Frankle looked up. His drinking companions were looking straight at him, their mouths hanging open. As soon as he met their eyes, they glanced away nervously and gathered their things. ‘Uh, yeah. That’s weird.’
Daemi sat back. ‘I think they were talking about us.’
The music changed again, the sad ballad replaced by a faster song, the mood in the room lightening. Daemi looked up and saw the fiddler bow his head toward the shadows at the side of the stage, then nod directly at their table.
She slid her hand under her cloak and grasped the hilt of her knife.
Frankle tried to explain to Heather what he’d been doing, but his whispers died as a tall, dark-haired man strode toward their table. He studied each of them as he approached, before his eyes returned to Daemi, having obviously decided she was in charge. With a brief wave of his fingers he signalled Frankle to shift over, and Frankle obeyed immediately. He looked like the sort of man used to giving orders.
The man slid into the booth opposite Daemi, his hands resting on the top of the table. ‘Now then.’ He smiled coldly. ‘It seems introductions are in order. I thought I was familiar with all the members of the Grey Guild here in Sontair. My name is Lodan.’ He bowed his head in Daemi’s direction. ‘Who might you be?’
33
The two cats danced lightly across the thick ice, skidding and sliding on their padded paws, the larger one moving slowly and carefully, placing each foot with care before shifting his weight, the smaller one moving much less surely, often falling backward before springing back to his feet. Beneath the ice other things moved in the dark. Every few steps, a flash of scales could be seen through the warping lens of the ice, and each time the smaller cat pounced at them, always a moment too late. The larger cat let him play his game. There was no risk of breaking through the packed path.
Above them the strangely lit skies whirled as though a storm were about to break, the clouds twisting and stretching into strange forms, shapes appearing and then blurring away in an instant as they rolled like thick smoke. The larger cat was aware of the faces far above, the eyes that sought them out, the glimpses that broke clear of the roiling storm. These too he ignored.
We … I apologise for our aspect. It is still troubling to find ourselves here alone.
The cat skidded softly to a stop on the ice and waited.
As you can see, the ages-old defences hold. But they are weakening. Times were that the ice that held back the dark was too thick for any eye to penetrate. Not anymore.
The voice from far above led the cat to peer down through the ice. Another flash of movement slid below his feet, a long serpentine body that sent a shiver of recognition down the cat’s spine.
What power formed this defence has long been lost to time, like so much else beneath the surface. All we are left with are hints and snatches of vague prophecies. The blood within the stone. We don’t even know the source of that augury, let alone its full text. Was it intended as a warning, or an invitation?
Given this ignorance perhaps we can be forgiven for delving too deep. When our nine linked minds first dove into these depths, we saw a world of possibilities. A challenge. Over time we learned to penetrate the barrier, to release that which dwells below. Now it is clear we were not alone in our folly.
The smaller cat bundled clumsily into the legs of the other as he chased another glimmering shape, and the larger cat turned and swatted him quickly across the snout. In the distance a thick column of steam stretched up from the ice to the heavens above, adding to the chaotic dance of the clouds, thickening the shapes that covered the sky.
This is close enough.
The cat studied the distant steam, watching as a flash of movement shot through it and disappeared into the sky.
This is but one of many such breaks. We do not know who was responsible for this one. Perhaps we all are. Perhaps our meddling has weakened the barriers so fundamentally that it is cracking up. Who is responsible no longer matters. It is just one of the access points that those who dwell below now share.
The cat sat on his haunches. The smaller cat sidled up to him, rubbing his body across the larger one’s back.
You say there are others—other weak points?
Many others. And growing every day.
What causes them? How do we plug them? How do we stop those … creatures from entering our world?
This is not the place for such a conversation. Besides, there are other things you need to see.
The next moment both cats were gone, the ice left stark and empty. Wilt floated high above, within the clouds themselves. He didn’t try to make sense of the madness; he just unfocused his eyes and let the images roll past.
It was here, beneath the chaos and flux that most who call themselves wielders consider the depths, down in this eternal silence, that we first noticed them.
Them?
Those few still worthy of the wielder name. Those we have forgotten. Those from the true heart of the welds themselves, it is said.
Wait, Wilt—didn’t Nurtle mention something like this?
You mean the Eastern Dales. Where the weld blade came from.
Yes, wielder. For I think you too are one of the few who still deserve that title. To the east, across the great mountain range that protects us from their armies, on the far side of the eternal plain, you can still hear mention of it in song if you frequent the right tavern. The Eastern Dales.
But—you saw them here? Wilt took in his surroundings. Above him rolled the impossible storms of the depths, below lay the thick ice barrier protecting the surface world. Here was nothing. Where?
Ah! You are close, and yet still do not quite see. The question is not where, wielder, but when.
A flash of movement caught Wilt’s eye. A ring of figures sinking out of the roiling chaos above. Nine hooded figures, arms interlocked.
The Sisters.
Yes. Watch.
The circle of women seemed to slow their descent, then stutter to a stop, as if unable to sink any further toward the ice surface below.
We nearly expended ourselves just getting
this far. Nine minds stretched to the limits of their endurance, and still did not succeed. It was unthinkable.
But, how is this possible? The Nine Sisters are no more.
Where you are is a place beyond time. What you see is part of a memory, yet here, that no longer matters.
Suddenly another figure appeared, flashing into being right beside the stalled Nine Sisters. It was a figure seemingly composed of shadows, no feature recognisable except a vaguely human shape. It reached out and touched the nearest Sister on the shoulder, and the group sank again.
They knew of our presence, and our struggle, and they gifted us the power needed to proceed. The way to draw up the serpents from below, to bend them to our will.
But … why?
Why indeed? Perhaps they intended for us to fail. To overreach ourselves. I have asked this same question of myself many times.
As the Sisters sank again, one of them reached out as though trying to grab the sleeve of the shadowed figure. It glided away, out of reach, then blinked out of existence.
I have tried again and again to alter this memory. To change what occurred, but such power is beyond me.
What do you mean, alter the memory?
Look to your own experience, wielder. For those who fully control the power of the blood within the stone, what has already occurred can yet be altered. As I said, time is meaningless here.
Like with Red Charley. The dreams we’ve been having. The way they change with each telling.
Yes. You know the truth of this. Come, wielder, let me show you.
Wilt rose again, the Nine Sisters disappearing as a grey mist filled the air, wiping the scene clear.
The Forked Path Page 21