Sayri's Whisper: The Great Link Book 1

by Daniel J. Rothery

  “Where will I find another woman like ya,” he said, his eyes on her lips, hair and then eyes.

  Sayri faked a laugh. “Now you’re teasing,” she prodded. Then, adopting an accent like his and rolling her shoulders back and forth as he often did, “Ya probably pick na up a dozen a for ya makin’ it home.”

  He burst out laughing at that, roaring to the sky before he stopped, then when he saw her pouting at him, he roared more.

  Clearly, she had indeed learned how to raise his mood.

  The night was mercifully starlit; even the partial moon bathed the eerie flat grey nightscape with an incandescent glow. Once her eyes adjusted, Sayri discovered that she could see reasonably well; much better than she had in previous nights. Was she adjusting to the darkness over time, or was it just brighter without the cloud cover? She was to embarrassed to ask Dol Vi, so she simply enjoyed a new sense of comfort in knowing she would see any dangers that encroached upon their perimeter of safety.

  Morning came, however, without incident. And with it came a welcome sight; not only was the weather clear and calm, with tufts of cloud here and there to offer respite from the hot autumn day, but after a short while a trail of dust in the distance to the east told Sayri—after Dol Vi pointed it out—than a number of wagons were approaching, probably headed North. Sayri thought it more likely they were heading west, considering their direction of travel, but he only shook his head and laughed at her, and said “Stupid girl” again.

  She was moderately offended but kept her peace; no sense reacting when she was about to bid him farewell.

  It was a large train indeed; eight wagons, led by four to eight orey each (Dol Vi pointed the beasts out and explained what they were, and she realized they were the beasts she had seen in veritable swarms in Yalcinae).

  There were no coaches, he told her—she recognized the lack of windows once he said so—but it was no trouble to secure a ride. Dol Vi simply called out to each driver as the wagon ambled past, addressing him in the same incomprehensible dialect he had used at the halfway house; Sayri congratulated herself in recognizing the difference, though she still understood practically none of what he said, or the reply.

  The third wagon was a smaller one, with only four orey, and Sayri expected it to be an unlikely prospect, but after exchanging a few words, Dol Vi turned to Sayri. “Do ya six coin?”

  “Yes,” she replied, digging for her purse.

  He stopped her with a hand on her arm. “On arrival,” he explained. “So they take ya na the right place. I explained ya husband is na officer at North Province garrison, so they will na astray ya, and ya should be safe, but keep ya guard in case.”

  Sayri stared at him. Finally, she said, “He is not my husband, but . . . how did you know? I didn’t say anything about him!”

  Dol Vi paused, his head crooked to the side. “The man ya go ta is na officer for the Somria army?” He did not look impressed, but alarmed.

  “Not truly,” Sayri said. “He is retired; I met him in the Lords’ Lands. His father is—” she went on, taking a deep breath as much for her own sake as for his, “—the Commander-General of the North Province.” At that she watched Dol Vi for his reaction; surely he would be impressed with that.

  Dol Vi just stared, as though he was staring down the maw of a giant boxcat. His response, when it finally came out, was more a whisper than anything. “Ya man’s father is Trentel Sherzi El, Taral.”

  “Yes,” Sayri confirmed. She nodded slowly, thinking of the task ahead of her. How could she help Arad, in the clutches as he was of the most powerful man in Somria, save the Overlord Yalcin Rex himself? She could only hope that Win Wal would have some plan once he learned of Arad’s imprisonment.

  But Dol Vi had seized her by the shoulders, and was staring into her eyes. “Listen ya on what I say,” he began. His voice was full of concern, bordering on desperation; Sayri had never seen him so full of emotion, not even when she had spurned him. “Ya must go back ta na Lords’ Lands. I will take ya all the way to na sea, put ya on boat; I even sail back with ya, if ya na can go alone. Ya must go back, hear me?”

  “No,” Sayri said, confused, his grip on her shoulders hurting. “Dol Vi, I can’t. Arad—my man—is in trouble, captured by his father. I have to help him,” she nearly implored. “Let me go, Dol Vi.”

  Dol Vi’s eyes were wild; his tone grave. “Na man murdered his blood, executed his daughter. Ya think ya safe? If he imprison his son, what ya think he do to ya, to get his way? Ya are a tool, he kill ya too!”

  “No, no,” Sayri repeated, tears filling her eyes. She was already frightened of going to the North Province alone, of entering the garrison and wandering in search of Win Wal. Now, with Dol Vi shaking her violently, she was terrified. “Stop,” she begged him.

  He released her and stepped back, horror in his eyes, as if she was already dead. His breath was coming in short gasps as he struggled to control himself.

  “I have to go, Dol Vi,” she said, trying to sound calm, but her voice shook. “Thank you, I’m sorry . . . but I . . .”

  She rushed to him, then, and threw her arms around his neck, tears flowing freely now. For a long moment she clutched him tightly, holding on as if she was afraid that he was the one going to his almost certain death.

  Then she stepped back, swallowing her fear, and forcing down her tears. “Thank you, Dol Vi,” she said again.

  “I go with ya,” he answered.

  “No!” she cried, her voice high above the roll of the wagons and the huffing of the orey. Then, more calmly; “No, Dol Vi. I couldn’t live with that. But, thank you even more, from all of me.” She took a step back, then, away from him and toward the wagons, toward Arad, and knew that it made clear her intent.

  Dol Vi didn’t reply, but he nodded slowly. “The third wagon,” he reminded her, motioning up the trail; the wagons had moved on past as they argued, and the last was nearly going by. She would have to trot to catch up.

  She started to go then, but he stopped her by calling to her. “Peaceful life, Sayri,” he said, bowing deeply, one hand on his chest. It was the first time he had used her name, and it had a sing-song quality to it, the way he pronounced it. Then, “If ya need me, send for me . . . ma salkra.”

  She didn’t know the meaning of the word, but she understood his intent. She backed away slowly and sadly, then, nodded to him and turned to run for the wagon.

  When she climbed aboard and looked back he was standing in the same spot, his right hand still clutched to his chest.

  23 WELGRAY

  The town was called Spillsover. It wasn’t hard to imagine why; the creek running through its centre ran less than a handswidth from the lip of its bank, in mid-autumn. Overflow wasn’t likely to present a serious problem, however, with most of the buildings positioned well above water level, on the sloped hills to either side of the creek.

  The trail ran along the bank of the creek as he approached town, mud still apparent here and there; whether leftover from the last time the creek breached or simply from rainfall in the shade of trees clustered around the water, Welgray couldn’t know. Cardinal’s hooves slapped in the mud rhythmically, and he found himself relaxing as he contemplated the savoury meal awaiting him at the town’s public house, The Broken Sperl (he didn’t know what a sperl was, but wasn’t about to admit ignorance by asking—Collectors maintained their air of omniscience by never asking after such things).

  Welgray had visited the town before, when pursuing a criminal all the way from Promontory. The man had stolen a horse from his employer, and been foolish enough to ride straight home; Welgray had already anticipated his intent and had been waiting in his doorstep when he arrived. It had been a tough pill to swallow, in the end—the man had been lorded over unnecessarily by his employer, who refused to allow him leave to witness the birth of his first born. He had willingly surrendered himself but had begged the Collector to allow him to stay long enough to meet his son. Welgray had capitulated, staying several day
s in the public house while awaiting the birth, then escorting the man back to Promontory to face the charges. When all was said and done, Welgray had been chastised by the Chamber for excessive compassion, which they said would undermine the authority of the order.

  Nevertheless, the town held a warm place in his heart and returning gave him satisfaction, though he didn’t expect to stay long.

  The late afternoon sun filtered through a tangle of broad green leaves still clutching to low-hanging boughs, occasionally blinding him while it painted a mottled pattern on the moist dirt of the trail. He entered the town opposite from the previous time, along the trail that came in from the east (which required circling the town in the hills above, but was a much more relaxing ride than coming straight down the steep bluff).

  Townsfolk were busy in the square, where the ground was muddy in places; clearly it had indeed been raining. Finishing off their day’s business, or heading to the public house for an after-work nip of ale, many noted Welgray’s approach but quickly looked away. It was, in his eyes, one of the benefits of his order; he could examine people around him at his leisure without having to endure the challenging glares that had so often plagued him in his younger years. His diminutive stature, problematic enough as a lad—he had been bullied excessively, often to the point of violence—had become downright dangerous as a man, with drunken louts often singling him out to express their violent frustrations. His delicate, almost feminine quality had only made him stand out as a more helpless target.

  As a Collector, of course, it had all changed. No man would hold his gaze; they all looked quickly off with nervous eyes lest he tear from them their deepest secrets and expose all their crimes—of course it didn’t truly work that way, but it was a useful myth. So did the people of Spillsover clear the way for Cardinal and Welgray, some bowing to him with eyes downcast, others simply hurrying away.

  The Broken Sperl public house was typical of the homes that littered the forested flats above the creek, nestled up against the small, sharp hills behind. It was essentially a stone foundation with chest high stone walls, topped heavy with wooden timbers that rose sharply to a peak, the roof thatched. Large windows—shuttered, of course; glass was too expensive for small, remote towns—poked through the roof in dormers near its base, with flat thatched roofs of their own. A buzz of happy off-duty farmers and labourers enjoying their first tank could be heard from within.

  Welgray dismounted outside the entrance, looping Cardinal’s reins over the hitching post casually. The horse was relaxed enough in countenance to stay put without being properly tied, and no man would dare steal him, marked as he was with a Collector’s badge.

  He walked into the common room, and every head immediately turned to him, then swivelled to a corner on his far right beneath a large window—as expected; the rumours had been easy to follow, and he had found Chamber Seat Llory.

  They met eyes, and Welgray approached. Llory held a metal flagon, which she brought to her lips, then turned back to gazing out the window. The table at the end of which she sat, a long one with a dozen seats, was full; Welgray made a flicking motion with his hand, and the patrons, mostly craftsmen and apprentices, stood up to leave. In fact, many of them were already standing when he approached, but he hurried them along. He stopped one young man, however, with two fingers on his upper arm. The apprentice recoiled in fear, his eyes downcast, and an older fellow, no doubt his master, paused with concern in his eyes.

  “Tell me, young man,” Welgray said, his voice soft as the grave and barely audible above the conversation in the common room, which was still a substantial din. “Do they still serve that wonderful spiced kaf at this fine establishment?”

  The boy nodded, gulped, then bowed, saying, “It is so, Master Collector.”

  “Have them bring me some.” He turned away, the boy no longer in his mind. He heard a sigh of relief behind him, no doubt from the boy’s employer.

  The table was empty, and he sat opposite Llory.

  “Peaceful day, Chamber Seat Llory,” he droned.

  She didn’t look at him. “Peaceful day, Collector Welgray. Well met, again. But you misaddress me; I am a Collector again.” She sounded forlorn.

  “So I’ve heard,” he replied. “As have I the circumstances of your surrendering the Seat.”

  She turned to him, her dark eyes narrow and fixed upon him. “Surrendering?” she asked, irony twisting her lips.

  Welgray frowned lightly. “The Lower Valley girl. You didn’t approve of her fate, so you stepped down.”

  Llory chuckled. She was taller than he, and broader across the shoulder—as most women were—but seated, their eyes were at a level. She leaned forward conspiratorially. “Collector Welgray, do you see me so easy to give off without a fight? Would any Collector achieve a seat, so lacking in grit?”

  Welgray was puzzled, and made no attempt disguise it. “What then?” he asked.

  Llory paused as the proprietor, an older woman with a barrel-shaped chest and stringy yellow-grey hair, stopped two paces from the table and curtseyed—an impressive feat for such a large woman. She held Welgray’s kaf with both hands in a metal chalice similar to the one Llory held; the other patrons all drank from wooden cups.

  Welgray motioned for her to approach; she did so.

  “Your spiced kaf, Master Collector,” she said, placing it near him—though far enough that he couldn’t easily touch her, he noted.

  Wisps of steam curled from the black liquid, and a delicious scent of the brewed black beans, mixed with a collection of local spices, reached his nose; he inhaled deeply.

  “Thank you, mistress,” he said, gifting her with a light smile.

  She curtseyed again and rushed off as Welgray picked up and sipped at the hot, flavourful drink.

  “You are too familiar, Collector,” Llory chastised. “Such generosity may incite a lack of respect.”

  “You are no longer a Chamber Seat to instruct me,” Welgray countered. “And I believe respect differs from fear.”

  Llory eyed him, the corners of her mouth turning down slightly, but she didn’t respond, sipping from her own cup instead.

  Welgray settled in his seat. He hadn’t come here to offend her. “Why did you step down? Or were you forced out?”

  Llory pursed her lips, as if debating how much to tell. Then she held a breath and released it.

  The buzz of conversation had again reached the level it had been at when Welgray came in; apparently the shock of seeing two Collectors at once, a rare sight, had worn off. With their table now empty and the window nearby, however, a quiet had fallen around them, as if the two were encapsulated in their own private bubble of air.

  Llory took another deep breath, and finally spoke. “You know that the Chamber will destroy the girl if she does not join the order and demonstrate certain loyalty to us.”

  Welgray shook his head slowly. “No, Chamber—Collector Llory. Your information is outdated. I,” he went on sadly, “brought new knowing to the Chamber gathered in a personal encounter with the girl, and they have already decided her fate—she is to be destroyed, it is certain.”

  Llory stared at him. “You encountered her? When? What knowing?”

  “Near the town of Red Rock I spent an evening with the girl at my campsite,” Welgray said quietly, sipping his kaf. “I had ample time to examine her, though she was driven off by warders in the morning.”

  “You delved her? What did you determine?” Llory seemed anxious, almost anticipatory. Welgray wondered if she knew more than she let on.

  “She is an interesting individual, wouldn’t you say?” he asked. Can’t hurt to try.

  Llory scowled at him. “Don’t try to twist me, Collector. My skills were twice again yours at your age, and they have only grown in the decade since.”

  Welgray allowed a slight smile to trace his lips. She was formidable, as he had heard. “Peace, Collector Llory. I ask your grace. I shall not do it again.”

  “Continue,” she c
ommanded.

  He chose to let that pass. Offence for offence, fair enough. “The girl cannot be delved. At least, not easily. She defends herself . . . well, as capably as a Collector.”

  Llory nodded.

  “You’re not surprised?” Welgray had been; as he had suspected, she seemed to know more than she pretended.

  “No,” she said, searching his eyes. “As you have guessed, I have some prior knowledge of the girl.”

  Wow. Welgray was impressed; he had hidden that carefully. Or did she guess? Either way, she had him off balance. He waited, the only thing he could do.

  A trace of satisfaction was all she gave up. “I once visited the Lower Valley, about a decade ago, and delved most of the families living there. I met a man named Davoy, who was of great interest; he had potential to be a Collector, if he had been caught younger. As it was, he was the brightest man among his peers by far, and had thought up numerous inventions of use to the village. He had also twisted the village reeve into being a good friend, despite the man’s unruly nature, and was able to make all sorts of unusual requests of him.

  “If the man had been ambitious,” she suggested, “he might have become quite powerful. As it was, he was a sort of village hero.”

  Welgray nodded, listening intently. The former Chamber Seat had the ability to entrance a listener, a sort of group twisting talent few Collectors developed. He could see how she had risen so quickly through the ranks.

  “I twisted my way into a dinner invitation. It wasn’t hard; though the man was cautious of Collectors, he wasn’t in awe the way most are. He was even curious.

  “When I arrived at his house, he introduced his children. The youngest was his daughter, Sayri. She was . . . extraordinary.” Llory shook her head slowly, her eyes drifting out to the forest beyond the window.

  “How so?” Welgray prompted.

  Llory turned back to him, clearly astounded by her own words as she began to speak. “The girl was six. I couldn’t delve her. In fact, she delved me a bit before I realized it and could deflect her.”