Buildings, with architecture too fine to be believed, lined the streets of the inner city. Wide seamless arches, great stone balconies, and spires stretching a hair’s length from the thick gray clouds made the inner city a grand sight to behold. Try as he might, Sim couldn’t restrain his wonder. His eyes drank in the majesty of it all. He couldn’t imagine how stone could be carved so intricately and fit together so precisely as though each building were sculpted from a single tower of granite.
The road led to a great circle paved with cobbled stones, where people dressed in fineries milled about watching street performers and bards. A pavilion was erected on one end of the space with ragged looking merchants hawking trinkets and crafts in front of tables. An enormous statue, carved of black opal, centered the circle. The statue was of three horses rearing their front quarters above what appeared to be the peak of a mountain. On one side of the circle a wide expansive stairway led up to the door of the grandest structure Sim had ever seen.
It was a colossal building, both wide and tall, carved of the same granite as the rest of the cities structures. Balconies lined every window on every floor and great towers rose from its corners in open defiance of man’s limitations, stretching to the heavens, impossibly high. Guardsmen dressed in gray uniforms, with gray cloaks and conical helmets held stoic posts at the main door and beneath every balcony on the buildings second floor. Sim guessed that this was the governor’s palace, since only nobility could deserve a residence so ostentatious.
There were benches all around the area, and Farrus took a seat on one facing the palace. He leaned forward with his elbows perched on his knees, eyes intent on the palace, and his jaw set in a contemptuous glower. Sim gratefully, took a seat beside him. He was wearing his new boots and the long walk from the tailor had taken its toll on his feet. The boots still had a ways to go before they would be broken in properly. He would have to suffer until then.
“What happened back there?” he asked Farrus after they had spent some time silently watching the Governor’s palace.
“I got careless,” Farrus grunted.
“I don’t get it.”
“We’re trying to keep a low profile. He asked one question too many. It should have been enough for him to know the name of the inn.”
“He’s just a tailor, Farrus,” Sim reproached. “Not everybody is against us.”
Farrus spat and rubbed his smooth chin. “Spies, Sim. The world is full of spies. Every city, every town. It’s not just Desirmor. Anyone that seeks power. Anyone that has an eye for a higher station in life knows that information makes the difference. Maybe he was just a tailor. In all likelihood he is. But we have to be careful. It's an awful way too live, but we have to accept that we can’t trust anyone.”
“I think you’re taking it too far,” Sim said. “You can’t go around being suspicious of everyone all the time. Besides, he was just a…” Sim cut off as someone entering the circle from the same way they had come, caught his eye. He was a teenage boy, with pitch black hair and a large hooked nose. It was the tailor’s apprentice. “That can’t just be coincidence,” Sim said, watching the boy cross the cobblestones to the stairs of the Governor’s palace.
Farrus sat up alertly, scanning the people for the source of Sim’s discontent. “Who do you see?” he asked intently.
Sim pointed to the stairs and the boy in a black cloak ascending towards the door guards. Farrus looked confused when he found him.
“That’s the tailor’s apprentice,” Sim told him.
Farrus gave him a skeptical look.
“I’m serious, Farrus. That’s him. I remember him from the fitting.”
“I didn’t see him,” Farrus said doubtfully.
The boy stood before the door guards and after a brief discussion was allowed into the palace.
“That’s him. I’m telling you.” Sim pointed toward the palace for emphasis. It could have been a coincidence, but his instincts told him otherwise.
Farrus studied him for a few moments before nodding his head slowly.
“Alright. I’ll take your word for it. Like I said before, anyone could be a spy.”
“Good,” Sim said, shrugging aside the frustration. “Now, what’s he doing at the Governor’s palace? He wasn’t carrying anything.”
“No he wasn’t,” Farrus agreed. “The tailor said he does work for the Governor from time to time. He could just be coming to pick something up.”
“That’s probably it,” Sim said uncertainly.
“It's just as likely he's passing on some information for the tailor. Let’s wait and watch the door. He has to come out eventually.” Farrus stood. “I’m getting a meat pie from that vendor over there.” He pointed to the pavilion. “Keep your eye on it. He’ll probably come out the front door, but you never know.”
Sim nodded and began fervently watching the building. “Bring me one,” he called as Farrus walked away. He made a study of the building’s face. By his count there were three doors in the front. The main double door at the end of the long stairway, and one on each corner. The main door had four guardsmen, two standing on either side of the large double door. The corners had two guards apiece. They stood their posts like statues, rigid and unmoving, with swords hanging from their hips and spears in their hands.
The building next to the palace suddenly caught Sim’s attention when about ten men dressed in guards uniforms came out and made their way up the palace steps. It was a plain stone edifice, several stories high. From time to time single guardsmen would enter or exit. That must be the guard's barracks, Sim thought.
Farrus returned carrying two pies wrapped in a thick parchment. He sat down and handed one to Sim.
“Anything?” Farrus asked, unwrapping his lunch and taking a bite. The cool air made the warm pie look as though it were on fire as steam poured from the parchment.
“Not yet,” Sim answered taking a bite of his pie. It was bland, but he was hungry. Juices ran down the corners of his mouth, collecting at his chin, and dripping to the gray cobblestones at his feet. He was careful to spread his feet apart and lean forward, not wanting any juices to stain his new boots. “Is that where the guards live?” he asked pointing to the building beside the palace.
Farrus watched it for awhile. Another group of ten uniformed men emerged and went into the palace. “Looks like it.”
They finished their lunch in silence. The apprentice still hadn’t emerged. Sim began to become bored with the watch. He was beginning to wonder if they were wasting their time. The great opal statue at the center of the area began to draw his attention.
“Do you know anything about this statue?” he asked Farrus, enjoying the beauty of the sculpture. The horses seemed almost real. Every line in their faces, every cord of muscle, was exquisitely crafted. It was a true work of art.
“It’s the legend of the city,” Farrus replied, never looking away from the palace. “Those horses are called the Dahara, a breed of myth. They were said to have roamed the plains of this land, great horses, intelligent as humans. Legend has it that a great mountain once stood here. The Dahara were said to have only one natural enemy, the Daikhir. The Daikhir were gruesome beasts, three times the size of humans, and they hunted the Dahara for sport. It is said that they were an unorganized race, but at some point, they gathered together to strike at the Dahara. Their army chased the Dahara across the land, and it’s said the horses gathered at this mountain for their final defense. As the Daikhir descended on the mountain, the Dahara tore the mountain down with their hooves, crushing their foes beneath the avalanche. The city was carved from the rubble. That’s why it’s called Nal’Dahara. Nal is city in the language of Perth before Desirmor outlawed all languages but his own. City of Dahara. City of horses. The statue depicts the legend.”
“I’ve never heard that tale before. It’s nice, but a bit hard to believe,” Sim said.
“I never said it was true. It’s just how the city got its name.”
“What about
the Dahara? What happened to them?” Sim asked.
Farrus shrugged. He was slouching back on the bench with a look as if he might fall asleep at any moment. “I couldn’t tell you. I don’t even know if they ever really existed. Some say…”
He suddenly sat up sharply, his eyes intent on the palace. Sim looked to see if the apprentice had finally come out. Three groups of guards, ten in each squad, mustered on the steps. A very small man, possibly a child even, stood before them calling out instructions. Sim and Farrus were too far away to make out what was being said. Then the squads tore off, in different directions, and the tiny man watched them depart with folded arms and a look of satisfaction.
“What is it, Farrus?” Sim asked.
“That man,” Farrus replied, pointing at the little man, who was walking down the steps now. “He’s a Turk.”
Sim raised an eyebrow. “I don’t understand. What’s a Turk?”
The Turk walked toward the main road that Sim and Farrus had come from.
“Turks are from Fandrall. They’re fiercely loyal to Desirmor. They never leave Fandrall. This is a very rare find.”
“What does it have to do with us?” Sim still didn’t understand why Farrus cared so much.
Just then, Sim saw the apprentice emerge from the door on the right corner of the palace. His hands were empty.
“Probably nothing,” Farrus grunted, his eyes trailing after the Turk with a look of disgust. “Still can’t be discounted.”
“There goes the apprentice,” Sim pointed to the boy, who seemed to be headed back to the tailor. “Should we follow him?”
Farrus stood up and watched the apprentice disappearing down the road. “We follow the Turk.”
“The Turk?” Sim nearly shouted in disbelief. They had spent almost an hour watching the palace for the apprentice. It seemed like a huge waste of time.
“We’ll see the apprentice in the morning. I want to see what this Turk is about.” Farrus took off with Sim close behind. They hurried down the street, leaving the circle behind. It wasn’t hard to find the Turk once they had caught up. His diminutive frame stood out amongst the rest of the street traffic. He wore a brown cloak that waved behind as he walked quickly down the road.
They kept their distance, though he set a fast pace. After a time the Turk suddenly slowed down. He began to deliberately walk slower as though he had just decided he was only out for a stroll. Abruptly, he darted into a thin alleyway between two very tall buildings. Despite the sun still hanging high in the afternoon sky, the alley was dark and filled with shadows.
“Don’t stop in front of the alley,” Farrus whispered to Sim as they came to its opening.
Sim chanced a look down the shadowy passage, but didn’t see anything moving. Farrus led them to the next alley, on the side of the next building, and stopped in its entrance. He pulled Sim back from the road, and peered around the edge of the building.
“Did he know we were following him?” Sim whispered.
“I don’t see how he could have,” Farrus answered under his breath.
“Should we keep following him?”
“I don’t like this,” Farrus grunted, pulling his head back into the alley. “Something smells foul.”
Sim had to agree. He had his eyes on the Turk the entire time that they had followed him. At no point did the little man ever look back at them. He couldn’t have known they were tracking him. And yet, the way he had slowed down and then darted down that alley suggested that he was wise to them.
“What do we do, Farrus?”
Farrus thought for a moment, then cracked a smile. His gray eyes flashed with a mischievous spark. “Something that will surely upset the ladies.” He waved a hand for Sim to follow. “Be ready to draw your sword and remember, the alley is thin. If it comes to it, use inside technique and leverage.”
Sim nodded thinking back to a lesson Farrus had given him many years ago. Farrus had set him up in one of the horse stalls where his movements would be confined. He had trained many hours, making the most of jabs and forehand parries. Balance, above all else, was the key to success. As they moved out on to the street, Sim felt guilty for feeling excited at the chance to use his sword. He didn’t want to have to kill again, but he would do what he must.
Farrus led the way into the alley were they had lost the Turk. It was dark and filled with shadows, but there was enough light from the afternoon sun to see. The alleyway was littered with debris. Decayed barrels and broken wooden crates rested along the sides, making walking tedious. About halfway down, a figure emerged from a doorway. The shadows hid his features, but his size gave him away. It was the Turk. Farrus came to a stop, his hand ready by his sword hilt. Sim stood a pace behind, taut with apprehension and ready to strike.
“Why are you following me?” the Turk asked in a deep baritone, which threw Sim off guard. He had been expecting the man to speak in a voice pitched high like a child.
“It’s been sometime since I’ve seen a Turk,” Farrus answered in a guarded tone. “Just wanted to see what brings you to Nal’Dahara.”
Movement behind caught Sim’s attention. He spun on the balls of his feet, pulling his left sword free as he turned to face the open end of the alley. Four men in dark cloaks had been creeping down the alley and were nearly upon them. Right away, Sim realized that none of them wore uniforms, and each carried a drawn sword.
“Watch my back. I’ll handle them,” Sim cried out to Farrus.
The attackers were coming single file, which would make it a fair fight. The first man tried to bull rush Sim. He lowered his sword and dove at Sim’s waist. Sim reacted quickly, driving his knee up into the man’s face, and then keeping his balance as his foe fell to his side. Farrus drove his sword into the man’s chest, careful to keep his attention on the Turk. The next man tried to use a quick following attack, hoping to catch Sim off balance. He struck quickly, aiming a hard jab at Sim’s chest. Sim didn’t even blink. He parried the blow and grabbed the man by the wrist with his free hand. He pulled hard, forcing the man to lose his balance and pitch forward. As the man fell past him, Sim recovered his leverage and drove his sword through the back of the man’s neck. He fell heavily on the body of the first man, spasming and shaking from the death blow.
The next man hesitated. He looked at the bodies of his fallen friends and his face betrayed his trepidation. Sim attacked. He jabbed high, targeting the man’s head, but the attack was really a feint. Sim was already pulling free his right sword, as the man raised his sword to block. Sim was too quick. His second sword found its mark in the man’s stomach an instant after his first attack was blocked. Then Sim dropped his left sword and pushed the man with all his strength. He fell against the last man, knocking the final adversary down. Sim jumped on top of him and began pounding his face with his fists. His arms pinned beneath the dying body of his comrade, the final man could do nothing to defend himself. Sim pummeled him until he was certain the man was unconscious, his face a bloodied and bruised mask.
Sim stood breathing heavily. The rush of adrenaline gave him the strength to overcome the grief he would soon feel. He looked down at his blood-stained hands and wiped them on the cloak of the nearest body. His swords were on the ground at his feet. He picked them up one at a time, taking a moment to wipe away the blood with the same cloak he’d used for his hands. Putting one of his swords away in its scabbard, he kept his right sword out and turned to face the Turk. Rage contorted his face and turned his hands into fists. He stared at the little man, unable to focus a single rational thought. He was a tempest of anger, retribution, and death. The blood of four more men was on his hands. He would make this little man answer for that blood.
Farrus could see the swelling wrath and placed a reasoning hand on Sim’s chest, vainly trying to calm his friend. Sim could not be made calm. He raised his right hand and pointed his sword at the Turk. He hardly recognized his own voice when he spoke.
“He calls you a Turk. I don’t know what that means,
but you have much to answer for, little man.”
The Turk stood his ground, defiantly staring back with beady black eyes and folded arms. If he was afraid, his posture betrayed nothing.
“Killing four men is a serious crime, young man,” he antagonized. His thin lips curved into a sinister smile. “I’m well within my rights to exact justice.”
Sim shook his head with exasperation. Was the little man serious? “You attacked us.”
“Did I?” the Turk asked.
“Of course!” Sim shouted, taking a threatening step forward.
“Enough of this.” said Farrus, taking charge. “What game are you playing at here, Turk?”
“I’ve had enough of you two,” the Turk said.
He raised his hands and a ball of fire materialized between them. With a sneer, he thrust his hands forward. The ball of flame shot toward them. Sim had no time to react. Instinct took over. He raised his hands reflexively and a wall of water appeared, shielding him and Farrus from the attack. The fire hit the wall of water with a hiss and immediately extinguished.
Farrus looked as though his heart had momentarily stopped beating. He looked around, breathing heavily, his eyes wide with shock. Sim realized the gem hanging from his neck was white hot and for an instant he thought he’d been hit with the fire. He glanced at Farrus, just to make sure his friend was still there, that they were both still alive. This was the first time he had ever used the power as a reaction. Sim hadn’t tried to defend himself with the power; it had simply happened.
The Turk looked shocked. His eyes were frenzied and disbelief hung plainly on his face. He stared at them as though unsure of what to do next.
“Are you registered, Trival?” the Turk sneered, regaining his insolence.
“Are you?” Sim mocked, regaining his composure.
The Turk frowned. His beady eyes looked back and forth from Farrus to Sim. He kept clenching and unclenching his left hand, as though he had some kind of nervous tick. He opened his mouth as if to speak then flung a small fireball at Sim. As Sim conjured another wall of water to defend the attack, the Turk suddenly vanished.
The Innkeeper's Son Page 29