“She’s no whim, and I’m not all that bad. Shooting off, indeed,” Dormael shook his head, but D’Jenn pressed on.
“Just be careful, cousin. It’s a hard thing, either way. On one hand, you have to let her go and it will be painful, and on the other hand is a life of hardship for the little one. Fun, perhaps, but traipsing about in constant danger is no life for her, Dormael. She needs to go to the Conclave.”
“I know, D’Jenn, I know. I just don’t like to think about it,” Dormael sighed, his mood suddenly dark. He had thought about it, and he did love the little one. It was the first time in a long while that he had someone to care for, and it was a strange feeling. He had to admit, though, that there was nothing more satisfying lately than a smile or a laugh from the little girl, and when she fixed her little eyes on him she could ask for anything in the world, and he would give it to her. The thought of leaving her at the Conclave alone pained him deeply.
D’Jenn was right, though. There was no telling what lay ahead for them, with the armlet and Dargorin chasing them. They were bound to encounter more trouble, and the incident on the road outside of Borders had been dangerous enough. Dormael remembered the Dannon threatening Bethany again, and it troubled him greatly. He couldn’t subject her to that. Dormael was suddenly somber, and they spent the rest of their bath in silence.
Later, the two wizards dressed and went down to the common room for some drinks. D’Jenn patted Dormael on the back to cheer him up, and Dormael smiled in spite of himself as they walked down the creaking stairs to the ground floor. They found a table and sat down in a corner of the room, so they could see who entered the Inn, and observe everything that was going on.
Dormael looked around, more curious now that he wasn’t tired to his bones and huddling underneath a mountain of saddlebags. Named simply “The Inn”, the common room of this establishment was certainly not comparable with the homely, beautiful Stormcoast Inn. The floors and ceiling both were built with crude and unfinished timber, and upon looking closely Dormael could see the spacing in the roof planks was uneven, and every now and then dust would drift down from one of these spaces as someone above planted an unwary foot, unsettling the grime that had been there for only the Gods knew how long.
As a result, the air was perpetually dusty in the common room, and the tendrils of tobacco smoke from the pipes of the scattered patrons only added to the haze that hung in the still, dead air. There was a counter near the front door that also served as a makeshift bar, and a few seedy-looking fellows sat there now, gulping down draughts of ale in pewter mugs. Just beyond that, and against the back wall from the door were the rickety stairs that led up to the rooms above, shabbily built and in dire need of repair. The entrance to the kitchen was against the same wall, almost underneath the stairs, and Dormael wondered if the stables were built right alongside the kitchen. He hadn’t been to the stables, but like all the buildings in Borders, the place didn’t seem to have been planned properly, and Dormael quietly conceded that it was a possibility.
The skinny, balding innkeeper was behind the bar speaking in low tones with one of his patrons, a dark Cambrellian man in a cloak of patched, thick wool. The innkeeper (Dormael had failed to get his name), kept wringing his hands and glancing toward the door and then the stairs like a rat waiting for a block of cheese to step through. Dormael watched him for a time, and when the man pointedly refrained from glancing his way, he took note of it and turned his attention on the other patrons.
They were a scattered group of men, and a few women as well. Here and there sat a few Cambrellians huddled over their drinks in quiet company, wearing everything from thick wool to boiled leather jerkins. Glancing down at their belts, he saw the hilts of more than one sword, and even a few axes. These were fighting men, probably thugs employed by the crime syndicates, but those men were about frequently and openly in Borders. Dormael didn’t place much importance on them.
There were also a few Dannons scattered around the taproom, their tall blonde figures standing out like beacons against the varied forms of the Cambrellians. Dannons were a powerful people, strongly-built and fair of hair and skin. The most notable group was what appeared to be a trader with three guards, strong-armed men carrying battleaxes. There were many Dannons in Borders year round, as this was the natural stop for the men of the tundra to trade with the Cambrellians.
Other than a few disinterested glances, and a few malevolent ones from the Dannons in the room, the patrons paid Dormael and D’Jenn no mind. Sevenlanders and Dannons had tenuous relations at best, with what had happened during the Second Great War, so Dormael expected some hostility from them. It was only natural. Old wounds were the hardest to heal.
After he had swept the room with his green-eyed gaze, a serving wench appeared by their table, hands on hips. She wore a brown and white dress that pushed up her meager bosom, and the smell of strong spirits hung like a miasma around her. Her dark and lank hair hung to her shoulders, and she regarded the Sevenlanders with a disinterested stare.
“What’ll it be?” she inquired roughly.
“You have the mead that the Dannons are so fond of?” D’Jenn asked, turning his intense blue eyes on her. She shrugged one shoulder in an expression of disdain.
“We might.”
“That, if you have it, and ale if not, and not from the bottom of the barrel,” D’Jenn demanded, responding to her contemptuous manner, which always irritated him. The girl turned without a word and headed for the kitchen. D’Jenn shook his head in disapproval and turned to his cousin.
“That will darken my mood if we don’t get some drinks in us quickly, coz,” D’Jenn commented.
“Indeed,” Dormael agreed, and his hands flashed lightly to D’Jenn.
The Cambrellian at the bar is the messenger we’re waiting for, I’m sure. The innkeeper has his ear bent in earnest.
“The spirits here are sure to be watered down, cousin. Mayhap this place was a poor choice,” D’Jenn said aloud, while his hands moved.
Watch him. Let me know when he leaves. We should be ready for anything; we’ll have to use magic if it comes to a fight. We left our weapons above.
“Of course,” Dormael nodded in reply both to his spoken words, and his silent ones. D’Jenn bowed his head slightly in understanding. The two of them had played this game of cat and mouse many times before and were used to the subtleties of deceit. After a few seconds, D’Jenn turned to take in the scene, his gaze falling on the Cambrellian man at the bar in passing. He turned back, his face registering nothing, and took out his carved pipe. Dormael mimicked him, and soon both wizards were puffing slowly on bowls full of tobacco.
Some time afterward, the slack-faced serving wench returned with two pewter mugs full of mead for the cousins, and slapped them down carelessly, slopping mead over the sides and onto the table. D’Jenn held his irritation in check, but his expression was dark as he told her to keep them coming and pressed a coin into her palm. She turned without a word and went to see to the other customers.
Dormael had been watching the Cambrellian man the entire time, keeping his observation subtle and concealed. The man appeared to be gathering his belongings to leave, and as he rose from the stool at the bar, he cast a glance back toward Dormael and D’Jenn’s table before turning and striding out the door quickly. Dormael glanced at D’Jenn meaningfully, and getting the message, D’Jenn made a slight grunting sound in his throat in acknowledgement.
Suddenly, Bethany came skipping down the stairs alone, and cast about the taproom searching for the two wizards. Dormael caught her gaze and motioned her over; watching her weave her way through the crowded tables to make sure no one gave her any trouble. Save a few surprised glances, the girl was paid no mind by the patrons of the Inn’s common room. Bethany reached the table, and pulled her little body onto a chair between the two wizards.
“Now what are you doing down here all alone?” D’Jenn asked her in a friendly tone.
“Looking for you,” Bet
hany replied, her eyes taking on a light of mischief. She leaned close and lowered her voice to as close to a whisper as possible. “Lady Shawna has been making the man at the desk bring things up to our room; food, and other stuff. Anyway, she wanted me to come down here and ask you what is happening.”
“Well,” Dormael chuckled, “nothing yet. We just got down here, though. Listen; there is another way we can communicate. Wizards, dear, can speak to each other in their minds.”
“We can?” asked the girl, her excitement showing through.
“Yes,” D’Jenn replied from his seat, tobacco smoke coming out of his mouth in tiny clouds as he spoke, “we’re not going to teach you about it just yet, but we can contact you. To talk back to us, all you have to do is think the answer.”
“I’ll try,” Bethany replied, nodding her head.
“Alright, for now you go on back up there with Shawna. Tell her to be ready for anything and that we will contact you to let her know what is happening. Tell her also to keep playing the noblewoman and send that innkeeper on as many errands as possible. It may keep him from having the time to wag his tongue so loosely,” Dormael instructed her. Bethany nodded enthusiastically, and turning from them she disappeared back up the stairs. D’Jenn gave Dormael a searching look after the girl left, but Dormael ignored him, quaffing his mead and puffing on his own simple wooden pipe.
They sat for roughly an hour, and drank around three mugs of mead each. Lounging against their chair backs, the cousins enjoyed the short amount of downtime they would have here in the shabby taproom. They finished their pipes, and stowed them. Neither of them said a word, though there was really no need to. It was a waiting game from here on out, and Dormael thought that it felt distinctly like the calm before a storm.
Then, as if the thought itself had brought them here, a group of men entered the inn. They were hard faced and silent, each wearing a mail shirt and with a sword at each waist. They moved like wolves playing at being men, with a scarcely concealed hostility; murder held at bay only by a thin line of social acceptable behavior. Dormael sent his mind up to Bethany at once.
Be ready! They’re here, but do not come down. Stay where you are. He heard her unspoken acceptance immediately and turned his mind back to the matter at hand. The men had entered the inn, five in number, and had posted themselves in each corner of the room. One of the men walked to the center of the taproom floor and cleared his throat.
The room had gone slowly silent at the appearance of these men, obviously fighting men, and not to be trifled with. Slowly realization dawned on the patrons that something was about to take place here, and it was in their best interests not to be involved. At the signal of the man clearing his throat, the common room emptied at once. Jostling bodies made their way to the door or up the stairs in a quiet hurry, and even the serving wench disappeared. The skinny innkeeper, who was watching from behind his bar, saw it all play out with a fearful but satisfied look on his face. It appeared as if he was going to stay, but at a murderous look from the man in the middle of the floor he scampered up the stairs like a rat hiding from the light.
Throughout this demonstration, the cousins sat calmly at their table, sipping on their mead and appearing unconcerned. Dormael opened his Kai and let the magic flow into him, and by the tingling feeling all along his body he could tell that D’Jenn had done the same. The man in the center of the room, who was obviously the leader, glanced at them in silence for a moment. When neither cousin said anything nor made a move, he signaled the man who stood at the front door, who opened it to admit someone new.
The man who entered the common room through the open door appeared unremarkable at first. He wasn’t tall, but neither was he short. He strode into the common room of the inn with a clear attitude of command that was bereft of arrogance. Dormael recognized it immediately as an air of a military commander. He thought that strange for a moment, but then he examined the man closely as he strode calmly for their table.
The man had short cropped hair, jet black in color. There was a scar that ran from the ridge of his right eye down his cheek and ended at his jaw line; the kind of wound that a soldier might receive in a battle. His skin was pale, and to Dormael that marked him clearly enough as a Nelekan, yet another strange bit of information. His face bore an expression of a pained acceptance, as if he was man accustomed to making hard decisions. His attitude demanded respect.
As he approached their table, he pulled back a chair and Dormael noticed that he was missing half of his little finger on his right hand. The man was wearing a black tunic of good, thick wool, and leather pants and boots of a dull color, and carried no weapon save an ordinary dagger at his waist. Dormael did not mistake him for being harmless, however; he moved with that same wolf-like grace displayed by his bodyguards.
Surprisingly, after he pulled back the chair he did not sit down, but offered Dormael and D’Jenn the Sevenlander greeting and bowed with his right fist balled up over his heart. Neither wizard could hide their surprise. They both rose and repeated the gesture to the man before all three sat back down at the table. This, Dormael thought, was not as he had imagined Hadrick. Hadrick took a deep breath and looked at each of them in turn before beckoning one of his men over.
“Find the serving wench and have her bring us a bottle of wine,” he said. His tone was light and his voice was empty of self importance, but it had clearly been a command. The bodyguard nodded and went for the kitchens. “You, gentlemen,” he began, looking back to the wizards, “must be the two Sevenlanders I was requested to find. But where, pray tell, is the young noblewoman?”
“Probably bathing,” Dormael quipped comfortably, “you know how women are, especially nobles.”
“Yes,” Hadrick replied, a smile tickling the corners of his mouth, “Indeed I do. Let us then, get down to business gentlemen. My name is Hadrick Lucius. I take it from the lack of expression on your faces you are already familiar with my name, and what I do, so I won’t bother to tell you that.
“I do have a few questions for you, however. Or rather, let me begin with observations. I sent one of the most feared Dannon mercenaries in the area to look for you. I have heard, of course, that the gate guards recovered the horses from his party on the road south. That means that you killed them all.
“Two men and a young noblewoman, and if the stories of the gate guards can be believed you have a small child with you. I won’t bother to speculate on that, the child means nothing to me. However, there were seven other men with Fulgaar. Now, either the two of you are incredibly skilled warriors, or there is something else going on here. You do have that air about you, that readiness that fighting men carry with them, but you are not swordsmen, I suspect.”
“Very observant of you,” D’Jenn said, breaking Hadrick’s string of observations, “but if you must know we shall just tell you what transpired.”
“Humor me, if you would,” Hadrick nodded.
“We killed them,” D’Jenn replied matter-of-factly. At that, Hadrick began a quiet laugh that went on for a moment, and he leaned back in his chair.
“We killed them with magic,” D’Jenn repeated, quietly. Hadrick stopped laughing abruptly, and fixed an intense but not unfriendly gaze in D’Jenn’s direction. His last words hung in the air like the last note of a gong that was struck in the middle of a funeral. The serving wench appeared from over his right shoulder, and he motioned her over to the table. She sat the bottle of wine upon the wooden surface as quickly as she could, and Hadrick dismissed her with a wave of his hand, never taking his eyes from D’Jenn.
Hadrick did not show that he was surprised, exactly, but he did not appear as a spider counting his flies, either. After a moment he took a deep breath and, leaning forward in his chair once again, uncorked the wine bottle and took a pull from it. He took another breath and offered the bottle to D’Jenn, who took it up with a nod of thanks.
“I can’t say that I didn’t expect that. I had certainly prepared for that explanation, bu
t it is no less unsettling to hear, if you would forgive me,” Hadrick conceded, putting his fingertips together in a thoughtful gesture. The man was certainly full of courtesy, and Dormael strangely found himself beginning to like the man. He had an unexpected amount of charm and Dormael suspected that it may have been one of the reasons he had risen to power. They would have to be careful; this was no street thug they were dealing with.
“I’m not sure who it is that wants you so badly,” Hadrick went on, “but promises were made to me the like of which I had never heard before. A great amount of gold, for one thing.”
“We can tell you that, too, if you wish,” Dormael shrugged, accepting the bottle of wine from his cousin and taking his share. He offered the bottle to Hadrick, who was considering his last comment as he reached for it.
“Perhaps,” Hadrick mused, “Though in my experience, it is better not to ask after such information when you are conducting seedy business. Such people like to remain anonymous.”
“My guess is that you will change your mind when you hear who it is, friend Hadrick,” D’Jenn commented, “You are a Nelekan, yes?” Hadrick’s eyes flicked back to D’Jenn and he raised an eyebrow. After a moment of quiet consideration, Hadrick nodded. When D’Jenn opened his mouth to explain more, Hadrick held up his hand and spoke.
“First, gentlemen, we must dispense with the business of the matter. I am, after all, only a businessman. The contract was for the two of you and the girl, alive if possible, but dead was just as good. There was mention of a piece of jewelry that was claimed to have been stolen by the girl, who is supposedly some sort of renegade. Most likely these were lies, and I know that, but I am in a strange situation here, you see.
“I’m sure that during your ride into town, you noticed the additions to the town’s construction; battlements, for a coming war with the other heads of the syndicates here in Borders. I came here around a year ago, after drifting around the world for a time. I was not a criminal by trade, before that, I was a soldier, as I’m sure you have guessed.
The Sentient Fire (The Seven Signs) Page 28