Farrus seemed unimpressed. Quinn studied him as he ate the last bit of gravy soaked biscuit. The grisled guardsman arched an eyebrow waiting for him to speak.
“Lady Edmira asked me to prepare a few things for our journey to my father’s residence. I came this morning looking for her and was told by our young friend that she never returned last night.”
Farrus remained silent for several moments before he leaned forward and fiercely whispered. “If you’re not who you say you are, I’ll kill you. Do you understand?” Quinn swallowed hard, but nodded. Farrus could be very imposing when he chose to be. Just the conviction of his tone was a solemn promise of death. “She’s been taken by the Governor.”
Sim didn’t fully understand the seriousness of the problem, but Quinn hissed through gritted teeth. “He’s making a play, isn’t he?” the old man asked, with countless calculations swirling in his one good eye.
Farrus nodded grimly. “It could be nothing. It’s customary for visiting nobles to make overtures to the local authority. The Governor may have just requested her presence for dinner, and to avoid any extra attention or suspicion, she may have accepted an invitation to stay at the palace. That wouldn’t be out of the ordinary.”
“No, that wouldn’t be unusual,” Quinn agreed.
“She would have sent us word, wouldn’t she?” Sim asked, still unsure as to why both men looked so grim.
Farrus looked at Sim with his customary blank steely gaze. Sim could tell that the situation was a bit more serious than he thought.
“Is Lady Edmira betrothed to anyone?” Quinn asked, hopefully.
“No. Of course not. What am I missing here? Is she in some kind of danger?”
“Remember our conversation with Ron yesterday?” Farrus asked him. Sim remembered, but he wasn’t sure what Farrus was alluding to. “Governor Cantor is known to be ambitious, Sim. He wants to gain a post in Fandrall, get a chance to be one of Desirmor’s boot lickers. He may be trying to invoke Desirmor’s Law and force her to marry him. She’s a noble, and it’s not customary for a noble to be forced to marry against her will, but he may be trying none the less.”
Sim’s face grew dark. He wasn’t about to let that happen. “We have to get her out of there.”
“We do,” Farrus agreed. “But breaking into the palace, and getting back out with both girls isn’t going to be easy.”
“We have to try, Farrus. I won’t leave Enaya to that fate.”
The door opened, and a young man entered carrying a large wrapped bundle. It was the tailor’s apprentice. He meant to walk up to the bar and find the innkeeper, but noticed Sim and Farrus and came right up to them.
“Your clothes,” he said, dropping the bundle, roughly on the table. Quinn's empty plate rattled loudly.
“You could use a lesson in manners, young man,” Quinn said angrily.
Sim agreed. The young apprentice had a haughty way about him, an air of superiority. But there was something else as well. Sim noticed that his hand was shaking. It was ever so slight, but it was definitely shaking.
“We saw you go to the palace after we left yesterday. Were you up there taking an order?” he inquired, though he could sense that Farrus was aggravated with him for asking.
The man’s eyes popped momentarily, and Sim noticed with growing satisfaction that his hand’s tremor had increased. He was hiding something.
“That is none of your business,” he practically sneered. He glared at Farrus. “My master is expecting payment.” He held out his slightly trembling hand.
Farrus seemed to notice it too. He looked at the hand, then at Sim. They exchanged a wordless glance of understanding. Farrus slowly pulled out his coin pouch and began counting coins into an open palm. When he made the right amount, he placed them in the young man’s outstretched hand.
“There you are,” he said with a sly smile. “And a little something extra for your troubles.”
The apprentice looked down at the coin in his hand then turned away without another word and left the inn.
“Why was he shaking like that?” Sim asked, as soon as the door had closed.
“I’m not sure,” Farrus said, getting to his feet. “He’s up to something.”
Farrus went to the door and opened it just a crack. He peered outside for several moments.
“We need to get out of here,” he announced urgently, as he gently closed the door. He pointed at Quinn. “Do you have somewhere safe that we can stay?”
“You can stay at my place. I doubt the boy recognized me.”
“It’ll have to do for now,” Farrus said.
“What’s going on, Farrus? What did you see?” Sim asked, fingering the hilt of his right sword.
“There are local guardsmen out there, ten at least. But I’m guessing there’s more.” Farrus’ normally complacent attitude was gone. He appeared stressed, worried.
“Ron said there was a secret way out, remember?” Sim told him. Farrus remembered. “I think it’s time to use it.”
Sim and Quinn followed Farrus to the kitchen door. Ron Foust was standing just inside, and he turned to them in surprise when Farrus walked in. He could tell by the expression on their faces that trouble had come to his inn.
“How serious is the situation?” he asked with a tone of irritation.
“We’ve got some local guards mustering outside,” Farrus told him levelly.
“I don’t want no killing, you hear?” Ron told them firmly.
“Neither do we. You mentioned a secret way out?” Farrus asked.
Ron nodded solemnly. “The fireplace. There be a passage in the chimney. You’ll see it. It leads to the stable.” Farrus thanked him and turned to go, but Ron grabbed his arm. “Should I be concerned for myself?”
Farrus shook his head. “I think they’re just looking for me and Sim. Tell them nothing. You didn’t even see us leave.”
After a second exchange of gratitude, they went back to the common room. Sim grabbed the bundle on the table. When Farrus looked at him reprovingly, he shrugged. “We need the clothes. Why leave them?”
Farrus shook his head impatiently. “Let’s go. Hurry.”
They stepped up to the massive fireplace cut right into the granite wall. Quinn poked his head up under the chimney and looked around.
“There’s a passage in here. We’ll have to crawl from the looks of it,” he warned them.
Quinn climbed up and disappeared. From Sim’s vantage, it looked as if he had climbed right up the chimney shaft.
Farrus stood guard, watching the door with his sword drawn, as Sim followed Quinn up into the passage. The passageway was a thin square, cut evenly into the stone that was barely tall enough for them to crawl. Further down, the light spilling in from the common room drained away, leaving a wall of pitch darkness.
As Sim began to work his way down the shaft, he felt Farrus clamber up behind him. Voices rang out in the common room. A stern voice gave commands. Sim heard Ron Foust’s voice answering questions.
“They be here just a moment ago.” Sim heard Ron say, angrily. “I just served them breakfast.”
“Did they say anything to you, Master Foust?” the stern voice said. “Do you know their names?”
“Move Sim,” Farrus whispered harshly. “Now.”
Up ahead, Quinn disappeared into the darkness. Sim wanted to stay back and make sure that nothing happened to Ron and Fanna. He didn’t think he could bear another senseless death laid out at his feet.
“Ron can fend for himself, Sim. Now move,” Farrus commanded.
Despite the ill foreboding begging him to stay back, Sim forced himself forward into the darkness of the passageway. He crawled slowly, his back scraping the top of the shaft as he maneuvered on his elbows and knees.
Taking the bundle had been a poorly conceived idea. He struggled to crawl with the bulky package. Farrus’s own struggles were relayed to him in sound alone, as he could see nothing beyond the tip of his nose. He could hear his old friend behind
him, grunting softly and muttering the occasional curse.
A dim globe of light suddenly appeared in the passage, floating just ahead of Quinn. Sim crawled into the nascent light, realizing with an unexpected shock that Quinn must be a trival. He wanted to question the scarred old man, but held his tongue and continued his effort to get through the space.
Finally, after several minutes of slow progress, the shaft began to slope down, leveling off after a time, before rising up at an obtuse angle. At the end of the climb, Quinn found a wooden hatch door. He gently pushed it open a crack, peering around cautiously. When he had deemed that there was no immediate threat, he pushed the hatch open all the way and climbed out of the passage.
Sim followed and found himself in the corner of one of the horse stables. The Foust’s must have covered the door with a small bale of hay to keep it concealed. It reminded Sim, painfully, of his own secret cubby in the stable at the Kelmor Inn. For only an instant, he allowed his heart to ache for what he had lost.
Once Farrus was safely out of the passage, he closed the door and placed the concealing bale of hay back in place. There was only one way out of the stable: a door that faced the inn. Farrus crept over to the door and peeked out. He quickly closed it and turned to them with a dire cast to his steely gray eyes.
“We have company” he told them, plainly aggravated.
“How many?” Sim asked, wanting to take a look for himself.
“Does it matter,” Farrus spat on the ground and grunted. “The only way out of this stable is with our swords drawn.
Sim fingered his sword hilt. Would this be the interminable path that his life was bound to follow? Would he always be forced to violence to resolve his conflicts? How many men would he have to kill to bring an end to Desirmor’s ageless iniquity?
There was a length of rope hanging from a steel hook between two of the horse pens. Sim noticed it in passing, but for some reason it drew his attention. He found himself inextricably compelled to focus on the rope. Like a memory from a time long past, the gem grew hot against his chest, but his conscious mind was beyond that feeling. He saw only the rope. The walls of the stable began to dissolve into a fluid vertical puddle, black as obsidian. He felt suddenly as though he were floating, drifting ineffably along a current of soundless wind. The feeling of weightlessness lasted for only moments before he felt his feet touch ground. Everything around him began to spin, building to a blinding crescendo, then stopping abruptly.
He had to catch his breath and wait for his vision to catch up to the scene in front of him. There were iron doors spaced evenly along the walls on each side of the room in which he stood. A faint light glowed in the distance, and he walked toward it, pushed along by an invisible guiding force. As he stepped further into the light, he made out the form of a man hanging by his feet, suspended from the ceiling by rope.
“Sim?” a familiar, feminine voice called out weakly.
“Givara?” he asked, running now as he realized with horror that the hanging figure was Enaya’s guardian.
“How is this possible?” she asked, her voice a hoarse cough.
Her face was battered and bruised. Each eye was surrounded by deep purple swelling, her lips caked in blood.
“Where are we?” Sim asked, reaching to untie the binds that held her hands behind her back. His hands floated through the ropes like mist. He looked down at them in surprise. They looked solid, yet when he tried again to grab the rope, they passed through with the same result. “What’s happening to me?”
“Either you’re having a vision, or I’m having a dream,” Givara answered. The weakness in her voice made Sim want to weep. She had been a queen once. It galled him to see her diminished.
“It’s a vision,” he told her, taking a knee so he could look her in the eye. “I may not have much time. Where are you? What happened?”
“The palace dungeon. Enaya is being held against her will by the Governor. He plans to force her to marry him. There’s no time. If she doesn’t give in to his demands by this evening, he will have me killed. They have trivals and…”
The vision dissipated, and like a slap in the face, Sim was thrust back into reality. He was on his knees in the stable with Farrus and Quinn standing over him calling his name. It took him a moment to regain himself, but Sim stood on his own and looked each man in the eye.
“The girls are in trouble,” he said, as the memory of Givara’s condition filled him with anger. “We’re going to the palace. I’ll tear that building to the ground if I have to.”
“Let’s take a breath, first,” Farrus warned him. “We can’t just go running into the Governor’s palace and walk out with the girls. What did you see?”
“Are you a trival?” Quinn asked. “Are you a seer of some sort?”
Sim stared deeply into the old man’s eyes. It was time to decide if he was worthy of his trust. “You told me your father is the Librarian? Is it true? Don’t lie to me now, old man.”
Quinn stood up straight and glared back at Sim as though his pride had been challenged. “I have told you the truth, young man, and I’ll take it a step further. I am a trival. There, you now know all of my secrets. Do with them as you wish.”
Sim nodded his head solemnly. “Thank you, Quinn. My true name is Siminus Harvencott. I am the last Harven.”
Quinn's one good eye nearly bulged from his head, and his jaw dropped in shock. Farrus hissed through his teeth. He wasn’t happy that Sim had so cavalierly dispensed such a guarded secret.
“Then I give you my oath, Siminus Harvencott,” Quinn said, taking a knee and placing his right hand over his heart. “I am your man to the death. Your secret will never leave my lips. I swear this on my life and my wish to feel the Creator’s embrace when my time passes on.”
“Very well. Now can you tell us what you saw?” Farrus asked again.
“Givara is being held prisoner in the palace dungeon. She said the Governor is forcing Enaya to marry him. She has until this evening to agree or Givara is dead.”
“Did you actually speak to her?” Farrus questioned him. The grisled old guardsman looked panicked by what Sim had said.
“Yes,” Sim answered. He could tell that Farrus had ulterior concerns regarding Givara. With sympathy he added, “She’s in bad shape, Farrus. We have to get them out today.”
Farrus looked down at the ground trying to throw together some sort of plan. He looked up at Quinn suddenly. “What kind of trival are you?”
“I’m a Quaker. Fairly strong too,” Quinn answered, proudly.
“Farrus, she said they have trivals up at the palace,” Sim said.
“That’s to be expected.” He looked over at the door and shrugged. “Well, we don’t have a lot of options here, men. Either we try to sneak out of here, then sneak our way into the palace, or we fight our way to the palace and tear that place down getting our women out of there.”
“Let’s try sneaking out of here first,” Quinn said trying to calm down the situation. “If we have to fight, well then so be it.”
Sim drew both swords and grinned at Farrus. “You taught me well, old man. Let’s find out what these guardsmen can do.”
“Just stay on your toes. Who knows how many men they sent to take us in. There might be a few trivals out there as well,” Farrus warned him.
The stable door suddenly pushed in, and two guardsmen casually strolled in. They appeared to be having a friendly conversation, but when they looked up and saw the three men standing with swords drawn, the blood drained from their faces.
“They’re in the stable!” one man shouted at the top of his lungs. They turned on their heels and ran out of the stable, closing the doors behind as they left. Sim could clearly hear them continue to cry out the alarm.
“Well, what do we do now?” Quinn asked direly.
Farrus looked at Sim calmly. “I hope you’re ready to use some of that power of yours.” He held up his sword. “This isn’t going to do much good against a trival.”
“We know you're in there,” the voice called out firmly from the other side of the stable door. “I am Captain Davold of the Governor’s guard. Surrender peacefully, and you have my word that no harm will come to you. Resist and we will take you by force.”
“What if we just let them take us in?” Sim asked.
“They’ll kill us, same as Givara,” Farrus said, spitting on the ground. “I expect the Governor needs Enaya to consent to the marriage since she’s a noble. He’ll use us to force her hand. Once she gives in, we’re as good as dead.”
“Then what do we do?” Sim looked to either man for an answer.
“We fight,” Farrus replied bluntly.
Quinnis looked like he might sick up, but he nodded in agreement.
“Do not fear, Sim,” he said, trying to be optimistic. “You must believe in the prophecy. This is not where we are meant to perish.”
Sim nodded vacantly. He wasn’t certain how he felt about his alleged role in some ancient prophecy he had never seen nor read. He believed in the moment. Any breath could be your last.
“We could let them capture us,” Sim continued searching for another answer. “Once we’re in the dungeon, I can use my powers to free us.”
Farrus shook his head. “You still need that gem, don’t you?” he asked. When Sim fingered it through his shirt he continued. “Once they capture us, they’ll take away all of our belongings. That includes the gem. You won’t be able to use your power, and if we do manage to escape, we’ll still have to go and find the gem.” He shook his head irritably. “No, I’m afraid the only choice we have is to fight.”
“Your time is up,” Davold shouted from beyond the door.
There was a moment of delayed silence, then the front wall of the stable, door and all, exploded inward. Shards of ruptured granite blasted the three men, throwing them backward into the stable’s rear wall. Smoke and dust distorted the air as Sim tried to lift his head to assess the damage. He could feel his consciousness wavering. Amid the chaos, a single thought drifted across his mind.
The Innkeeper's Son Page 45