Lessek's Key

by Rob Scott; Jay Gordon

  ‘I think it smells like burned dirt,’ Garec said. ‘And you prefer this muck to tecan? Look at the colour of it!’

  ‘You need learn to have some faith, Garec,’ Steven said. ‘Just wait until you try some with a little milk and a few drops of that sugar extract Gilmour pretends he doesn’t carry in his tunic next to his three hundred pipes.’

  ‘Don’t listen to him, Garec,’ Mark said, ‘you want it barefoot.’

  ‘Barefoot?’

  ‘Exactly,’ Mark nodded, ‘as it comes, direct from the pot, none of that creamy, sugary nonsense, just insert the needle and open the IV.’

  Garec looked askance at the foreigner. ‘I think Steven’s way sounds better,’ he said, ‘but neither sounds good!’

  Gilmour broke in, ‘That aroma does bring back memories. My last cup must have been outside Gettysburg. Jed Harkness from Maine had a pot that brewed it right beside the fire, the water bubbled up in a little compartment, first clear, then brown and then almost black. It was wonderful …’ He sighed, and pulled his cloak close around his shoulders. It had grown noticeably colder in the days since they had resumed normal travelling, without the aid of what Garec had dubbed the Larion push. The ground was hard this morning and there was frost on the leaves and shrubs. The sky was slate-grey, and a glimmer in the southeast was all the sun they had seen that morning.

  ‘Don’t admit that, Gilmour,’ Mark said, ‘you’re showing your age.’

  ‘I am?’ He looked at Steven. ‘You’ve calculated the difference. How old would a two-thousand-Twinmoon grettan like me be in Colorado?’

  Steven breathed a sigh through his nose. Mark recognised it: his maths sigh, a deep breath that said, there are numbers and figures lining themselves up inside my head, so don’t interrupt.

  ‘That’s about two hundred and eighty years old, Gilmour.’

  ‘Holy shit.’ Mark stopped pouring and stared at the former Larion Senator. ‘I have to apologise, Gilmour. The fact that you have any memories from your last visit at all is an impressive feat, never mind that they come from a time when my mother’s mother’s mother’s mother was still in nappies. And I am embarrassed for my world that this little cup of trail coffee is the first you’ll have to drink in a century and a half. I wish I could take you to the diner on I-84 just across the Newburgh-Beacon Bridge. That’s the best coffee in America. I used to run up there when I was on break from school just to get a mug. It took all day.’

  ‘If we ever get through this, I promise I’ll go with you for a cup.’ Gilmour forced a smile and rubbed his neck bruises absently.

  ‘Speaking of which,’ Steven changed the subject, ‘we’re about a Twinmoon early to meet Gita and the rest of the Eastern Resistance – when we made plans to meet in Traver’s Notch, we thought you were dead. We figured we might need them to get us across the border.’

  ‘Had I been dead, you would have needed them,’ Gilmour said. ‘But given our current situation, it’s just as well that she is rallying the remainder of the Falkan forces here, for if we do succeed in vanquishing Nerak, we’ll need a fighting force – however ramshackle they may be – to help with any pockets of occupation personnel who make the decision to stand fast.’

  ‘I think they would relish that assignment,’ Mark agreed. ‘So how do we get across the border?’

  ‘Magic, or if we don’t want to be noisy, we creep in after dark, between the pickets,’ Gilmour said. ‘It’ll be the only way – unless you fancy fighting your way through Malakasian soldiers whose sole purpose is to keep me – and Kantu, I suppose – from re-entering Gorsk.’

  ‘No, that’s fine,’ Mark said quickly, ‘I’m quite happy with door number two.’

  Traver’s Notch was a small village nestled between hills in a ridge running east to west along the Falkan-Gorsk border, south of the Twinmoon Mountains. The only road into town led between the hills through a miniature pass that ran up the draw and then down a series of gentle switchbacks until it reached the main town on the valley floor. It wasn’t hidden – several homes and what looked like shops were clearly visible on the slopes above the city – but flanked to the north as it was by deeper valleys and steep foothills, Traver’s Notch was well protected and easily defensible from any force, either approaching over the mountains or along the Falkan plain. It looked like it was engaged in a daily battle to keep from being swallowed entirely by the mixed hardwood and evergreen forests that spilled over from Gorsk.

  As they crested the final hill, Traver’s Notch spread out before them. Steven guessed the valley was over a mile wild and perhaps half a mile across, with most of the buildings tucked neatly into the great natural bowl. A narrow river ran through the middle of the valley, and the centre of town, spanned here and there by bridges. Along the river were a handful of large stone buildings, colourful standards waving in the midday breeze.

  Steven had no idea what they represented, but he gestured in their direction. ‘That looks like as good a place as any to start looking for the inn.’

  ‘What good will that do us?’ Garec asked. ‘I can’t imagine Gita managed to get the passwords up here already.’

  ‘You’re probably right,’ Steven agreed, ‘but let’s see if we can find the place, figure out which innkeeper she meant – and make certain we all know the code.’

  ‘Some maths thing, right?’

  ‘Why am I not surprised?’ Mark rolled his eyes.

  ‘Hey,’ Steven said, ‘be grateful! If it hadn’t been for my maths obsession, we never would have made it this far.’

  ‘Oh yes, I forgot,’ Mark said. ‘Malagon’s safe-deposit box, right? Your telephones and calculators problem?’

  ‘Yup,’ Steven answered proudly. ‘Jeff Simmons will never believe it.’

  ‘I have to admit, I was impressed,’ Gilmour said. ‘It was one of the more harrowing moments of my life – and we’ve already determined that I’m older than most civilisations.’

  ‘It’s not that bad, Gilmour,’ Mark said, ‘there are plenty of civilisations far older than you.’

  The others laughed. They found a barn where they paid to stable their horses for a few nights, then crossed a sturdy wooden bridge into the main part of town. At the far end of the span, a merchant was selling pelts, flagons of warm tecan and blocks of cheese from a cart. He was a short, thin man, and grimy. His gloves, cloak and leggings were in tatters; on his head, he wore a scarf of some sort, badly made from the hide of an unrecognisable animal. Steven glanced at it furtively, afraid it might raise its head and snarl at him, but he nodded affably to the fellow as they moved past the impromptu store. His cart was not much more than a slatted wagon with a pair of boards nailed to each corner creating space for hanging pelts. The tecan smelled good, but with the lingering aroma of freshly brewed coffee on his mind, Steven ignored the temptation.

  ‘Wine, sire?’ the merchant asked. His voice was gravel underfoot. ‘Or maybe some cheese, sire?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ Steven said.

  ‘A splash of tecan then, sire?’ As the filthy man stepped out from behind his cart, Steven was able to see just how pitiable he was. One leg dragged, and he shuffled along in an ungainly creep that made Steven think of every war B-movie he had ever seen, and every character actor who had ever dragged his broken form up the Normandy beaches for entertainment’s sake.

  ‘No. Thank you again,’ Steven insisted, moving away more quickly.

  ‘Right, then, sire,’ the crippled salesman persisted, ‘maybe I’ll carry your bag then, sire? Maybe carry it for you? What do you think, sire? Maybe for a copper Marek or two?’

  ‘All right, look,’ Steven turned with a frustrated shrug, his hands raised in surrender. ‘I will give you a copper coin if you will go back to your cart and leave us in peace. Agreed?’

  ‘Sorry, sire. I can’t take it if I don’t do something, sire … something, sire. You need something carried, sire? Your bags? Maybe I’ll see to the horses, sire? They tethered across the bridge, sire?’


  ‘Yes,’ Steven gave up. ‘Our horses are tethered across the bridge, but I have already paid for them to be well cared for. You wish to carry my bags, but you’ve left your stand. Aren’t you worried someone will come along and steal your goods?’

  ‘No, sire, oh no,’ the man answered. ‘I’m well known here. This is my bridge, sire. Everyone knows me here.’

  ‘I see.’ Steven looked to the others, his eyes begging for help. ‘Anyone have any ideas?’

  ‘Go ahead, Steven,’ Mark encouraged. ‘Let him carry the saddlebag. You’re going to give him a couple of those kopeks, anyway. Let him haul the stuff.’

  ‘He’s dragging his leg,’ Steven said as if only he had noticed.

  ‘He has made that fairly obvious,’ Mark answered, ‘but he doesn’t seem bothered by it. Go ahead. And if he runs, I’m sure we can catch him. He’s not going to be competing for any international records in the hundred metre sprint, let’s face it.’

  Steven hesitated a moment longer, then handed over the saddlebag. ‘Here you go, but if you run off, I’m going to break your neck. Do you understand me?’

  ‘Of course, sire. I’ll not run off, sire. Where are you going, sire? Maybe I know the way.’

  Steven was irritated by the way the little man ended each phrase with sire – it got under his skin. Steven regretted giving up his bag.

  ‘And the stick, sire?’ The intrepid salesman gestured towards the hickory staff.

  ‘No. I’ll carry the stick, my friend.’

  ‘Very well, sire. Very well.’ He scratched at his chin for a moment, turned to the others and asked, ‘Any bags, you sires?’

  ‘No,’ Garec answered for the rest of the company, ‘we’re doing just fine on our own.’

  ‘Very well, sires. Very well. Where are you going?’

  Steven answered, ‘We’re looking for an inn.’

  ‘Which one, sire? There are many here in the Notch, sire, many.’

  ‘I’m not sure of the name, but it’s got a yellow and red standard, a sign depicting a bowman at the hunt. Do you know it?’ Steven flexed the fingers of his right hand into a fist several times, as if working out a cramp; something was bothering him.

  ‘I do, sire. This way, sire. It’s not far. Good food in there too, sire. Comfortable beds, cool beer, warm stew, sire. A wise choice you make going there, sire.’ The little man pushed passed Steven to lead them through town and as he did, Steven caught a hint of something familiar, a faint aroma, maybe lingering around the man’s clothing. It wasn’t overt, almost a memory of something. Coffee? Was he remembering the coffee, or was this something else?

  ‘This way, sire, this way.’

  ‘Right.’ Steven shook his head and flexed his fingers again. They were stiff. He needed to get out of the cold, to eat something other than old venison strips. But the coffee had been delicious.

  Was it coffee?

  Steven sidled up behind the man as he turned a corner into the wind. Though he inhaled deeply, he couldn’t pick up the scent; he decided that he must be really tired, or at least thirsty for another pot of Howard’s French roast. Once they were settled, they’d find a bigger pot and brew up a cauldron of the stuff … ‘Inside,’ he whispered to himself, ‘inside someplace warm.’

  ‘Yes, sire. Yes. Inside. Someplace warm, the Bowman, a clean place, sire. Good food, cool beer, sire. Follow me.’ The little man had heard him. Making surprisingly good time on one ruined leg, he half-hopped and half-scurried. Except for the bridges, the streets were either dirt or cobblestone, and the tree-lined boulevards, tidy dwellings and clean shops gave the place a sense of having been well cared for. In fact, there was nothing about Traver’s Notch that Steven found disagreeable – he thought it might be a pleasant place to spend a few days when he located Hannah again.

  Calling back to Gilmour, he asked, ‘What kind of industry keeps this place going?’

  ‘Mining,’ the old man answered. ‘Look up there.’ Gilmour gestured towards an area of the valley wall that had been hidden during their descent and Steven saw the telltale sign of lode shafts dug deep into the mountains, great triangular swaths of brown dirt and rubble, tailings spilled in teardrops marking the hillsides from top to bottom.

  ‘Mining, sire. Yes, mining,’ the merchant turned and spoke only to Steven, as though he were passing on a secret. Lowering his voice, he added, ‘Mining, sire. It ruined my leg, sire. Can’t do it any more, sire. See?’ He dropped the saddlebag and drew up his hose to expose what remained of his lower leg.

  Steven gasped at the carnage: the vivid scars looked as if they had been drawn by a child with a crayon, a roadmap of recent pain. The skin bulged in unlikely places too; Steven guessed bones had been fractured in multiple places and left to knit themselves together in whatever arrangement they saw fit. ‘Good Christ,’ he whispered.

  ‘Yes, sire, he is,’ the little man mumbled, dropping his leggings back into place.

  ‘What’s that?’ Steven asked. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Nothing, sire,’ he said, ‘I didn’t say anything, sire.’

  Steven caught the aroma again, something tangy and pleasant, but not coffee. He stopped and sniffed at the air again.

  Mark looked at him quizzically. ‘What’s up?’ He clapped a hand across Steven’s shoulder.

  ‘Do you smell that?’

  ‘Nope. What is it?’

  ‘I can’t put my finger on it, maybe it’s just me, but I keep getting a hint of something—’ He paused, sniffing again. ‘You sure you don’t smell anything … anything from home?’

  Mark tested the air again. Nope. Sorry.’

  ‘All right, it’s me going mad.’ Steven moved along after the crippled ex-miner. ‘I just need a couple of nights in a bed, that’s all.’

  ‘Yes, sire. A bed. The Bowman, they have comfortable beds, sire. Warm stew, cool beer, sire.’

  ‘Would you stop that?’ Steven asked as politely as he could.

  ‘Stop what, sire?’

  ‘Stop calling me sire. I’m not— well, I don’t need to— yes, just stop. Can you do that?’

  ‘Yes, sire,’ the man grinned and pointed towards a two-level building at the top of a short rise. ‘The Bowman, sire. There it is, sire. Come this way. It’s a shortcut, sire.’ He moved off through a small wooded area, a city park maybe, that ran along the edge of the brook and cut off the corner between the street and the inn at the top of the rise. ‘Just through the trees here, sire.’

  Steven followed him in, glancing back to see Garec shrug and gesture him forward. Mark came after and Gilmour trailed behind, gazing along the street, an inquisitive look on his face, as if he had dropped something and didn’t know where to begin searching for it.

  ‘You all right, Gilmour?’ Steven asked.

  ‘Oh, yes, for a moment I thought I felt something back there, but then it was gone.’

  ‘This way, sire. This way,’ their guide insisted, ‘here, through the trees, sire, a shortcut.’

  ‘Right, right, we’re coming,’ Steven said irritably. Looking back again, he saw Gilmour hesitate. The grove of trees was small but relatively thick, and the old man appeared strangely well-lighted outside the overhanging branches.

  Steven’s foot splashed through a puddle, invisible in the darkness beneath the trees. ‘Ah, shit,’ he said. ‘Look at that; now my feet are wet. I’ll be so glad to be under a roof again. Do you think they have hot and cold running water?’

  ‘I wouldn’t get my hopes up,’ Mark answered as he moved ahead of Garec. ‘From the look of this ground, it must have rained or snowed here recently. That doesn’t bode well for us heading into those hills. We’ll be slogging through drifts in no time.’

  The crippled merchant muttered something and Steven froze. ‘What did you say?’ Shadows of dying leaves, faded dusty brown, were caught in scattered puddles marking the trail through the grove. Steven watched his own shadow pass over a puddle. Ahead, the little man had stopped, turning to wait for them. Steven moved for
ward and inhaled deeply again, still seeking the curiously elusive aroma he had detected earlier. He flexed his fingers.

  Mark’s voice came to him, as if from far away. ‘I agree, I am so owed a hot bath. A shower would be even better, but I know that won’t happen.’ Steven heard Mark’s boots slosh through the same puddle, and waiting, holding his breath, he heard the Falkan miner’s reply.

  ‘Yes, sire. Yes. Hot water. They have hot water at the Bowman, my prince.’

  Mark looked ahead. ‘What was that?’ He gave a startled cry when Steven whirled on their guide, swinging the hickory staff in a deadly arc. The staff, glowing with rage and ancient power, sliced through the cool air, leaving its own contrail. It didn’t appear to slow as it passed through the man’s body and tore through clothing, sinew, flesh and brittle, undernourished bone to emerge on the other side.

  Mark watched in horror as the small man simply fell apart. Save for the terrible look in Steven’s eye and the heartrending scream that accompanied the attack, it was an almost comical caricature of death as the broken man split at the waist. There was no blood, though, no wet entrails. Nothing splashed up to hit Mark except for the backsplash from the puddles he danced through to get clear of the hickory staff, still aglow with rage.

  Holy shit, Steven!’ Mark fell backwards into Garec, who stumbled, but managed to keep both of them upright. ‘What did you do?’

  Steven was standing over the remains of their guide and staring at Gilmour. ‘You didn’t feel it?’ he asked calmly, ‘how could you not feel it?’ Neither Garec nor Mark spoke.

  Gilmour stammered, ‘I thought I did – out there on the street, I thought – I don’t know.’ His neck throbbed and his ribs burned as if they had been rebroken. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me.’ He lowered his eyes to the ground.