Lessek's Key

by Rob Scott; Jay Gordon

  ‘Gag this rutter!’ Warren snapped. ‘Make it tight.’

  Still shaking, Hannah allowed herself to be guided towards the sloping road that led through the village. Behind her, the waterway was abuzz as naval vessels patrolled back and forth and barges, too many to count, moved up and down the channel, some stacked high with crates, others starting their return journey unladen. Hannah saw, in the shadows, Branag’s dog, the wolfhound she had seen padding into the living room from her mother’s kitchen as clearly, lying dead, its broken form motionless.

  Ahead, Welstar Palace rose above the village, a dark structure with windows that appeared to absorb rather than reflect light: depthless pools of midnight black staring out at passersby. There were three towers, and wings stretching out and back from the elaborate main gate, and a series of enclosed courtyards, but there were no pennants flying from the ramparts, no flags hoisted above the towers and no smoke rising from chimneys; no sign of life inside at all.

  Hannah thought it was the most forbidding place she had ever seen. The grim façade seemed to hum, stay away, resonating out through the dirt beneath her feet.

  THE BOWMAN INN

  ‘Beer.’

  ‘Beer.’

  ‘Beer.’

  ‘All right, three beers and two half-goblets of wine coming right up.’ Steven draped his cloak over the back of his chair. The Gore-tex coats were hidden in Garec’s saddlebag.

  ‘And aspirin,’ Mark said. ‘My leg is cramping again.’

  ‘I have aspirin. I took it from Howard’s place.’

  ‘I need three.’

  ‘They’re in the bottle in my pack. You can get them while I get the drinks.’

  ‘Good, I like them better with beer, anyway.’ Mark dug into Steven’s bag and opened the plastic container discreetly. Cupping the pills in his hand, he said, ‘I like Traver’s Notch.’

  Garec nodded. ‘It’s a nice little town, clean and quiet. I’ll bet there’s good fishing too.’

  ‘Too bad we can’t stay,’ Mark said.

  ‘Time is running out on us.’ Gilmour traced the grain on their tabletop with a fingertip. ‘We have to get south. If you know where the spell table is, we must get there as soon as possible, before Nerak beats us there.’

  ‘Won’t he be looking for us?’ Garec asked, ‘knowing we have the key, won’t he be waiting for us out here somewhere?’

  ‘Perhaps not. If Nerak travelled back to Malakasia to take over Bellan and resume command of the occupation forces, then we may have some time before he comes back to the East.’

  ‘But why would he waste time doing that?’ The young Ronan checked the front room for eavesdroppers.

  ‘Because he can, and because the occupation forces are valuable to him. They are a formidable army – and don’t forget, as far as Nerak is concerned, we don’t know where the spell table is, and we are effectively trapped in Sandcliff Palace.’ At that, Gilmour smiled.

  ‘Unless he felt Steven killing the almor and wiping out those clouds,’ Mark said.

  ‘He can’t detect Steven’s magic. If he could, we’d have known by now. So if he returned to Welstar Palace to collect Bellan, to proclaim Prince Malagon dead and to restore order among the occupation forces, we may have a little time in which to travel un-accosted. He may be thinking he can take Bellan, return to Sandcliff in person, and finish us off, but with Steven’s cloaking spell—’

  ‘Yup, Mom’s old blanket,’ Mark said, appreciatively.

  ‘Well, with that we may be able to move south without him knowing we’ve escaped.’ Gilmour gestured south as if Meyers’ Vale were just across the street.

  ‘Could he somehow have had the almor reporting back to him?’ Garec asked.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Gilmour shrugged, ‘but that’s a risk we can’t avoid these days. Our best option is to get there as quickly as we can. He has no idea we’re closing in on the spell table; that’s to our advantage. We have Steven’s cloaking spell. And finally—’

  ‘We have the key.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So someplace between here and the spell table, he’ll confront us in person, not long-distance threats or talking Larion skeletons,’ Mark said.

  ‘Unless we manage to get all the way down there without him detecting us, or without his spies getting word to him of our whereabouts. Although at this juncture I suppose I should say her spies.’

  ‘So Nerak is now Princess Bellan?’ Garec sat up straighter, half expecting the woman herself to step into the room.

  ‘I’m pretty sure – of course, she won’t be Princess Bellan in the eyes of his occupation leaders until someone produces Malagon’s body.’

  ‘Which is floating somewhere off Charleston, South Carolina,’ Mark said. Gilmour chuckled. ‘That’s right, and as long as that’s the case, Bellan will have a hard time convincing the generals they need to follow her.’

  ‘Won’t she just kill anyone who resists her?’ Garec wondered why a being as powerful as Nerak would spend time trying to convince mortal generals that they should follow him.

  ‘A few, yes, and after a while that will get the others’ attention. We want her distracted by that as long as possible.’

  ‘How long will it take us to cross Falkan?’ Mark asked.

  ‘Maybe fifteen days from here, riding flat-out.’

  ‘We should travel like we did before,’ Garec suggested. ‘That was incredible. We crossed the plains in just a few days.’

  ‘Nerak was still in Colorado then. If we do that now, he’ll track us all the way.’ Gilmour closed his eyes for a moment; he was not looking forward to the journey.

  ‘You’re right, sorry. So we travel the old-fashioned way. That’s fine; it gives us a chance to see the scenery.’

  ‘A mostly flat, arable plain lying fallow during winter,’ Mark quipped. ‘That will make for some picturesque vistas.’

  ‘No matter,’ Gilmour said. ‘We’ll travel as far and as fast as the horses can stand.’

  ‘When we get to that bend in the river, assuming we can find it again, how will we get the spell table out?’ Garec checked the bar to see what was keeping Steven so long.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Gilmour said matter-of-factly. ‘I haven’t seen this place.’

  ‘Imagine ice and snow over a rushing river and an underwater moraine as big as your mother’s house. There’s nothing south of there but the Blackstones and nothing north except days and days of river, and then that cavern with those bone-collecting things.’ Mark popped one of the aspirins into his mouth and swallowed it dry.

  Gilmour filled a pipe and lit it from a taper on the table. ‘I trust you, and that’s why we’re going all the way down there. Nerak thinks he has the best of us – of me, I suppose, because I was too stupid to realise he wouldn’t have left the spell table at Sandcliff. Any half-wit would guess if it isn’t at Sandcliff, then Nerak must keep it at Welstar Palace, but I think you may have stumbled onto it completely out of naked— what was it, Mark?’

  ‘Pastry-chef luck.’

  ‘Naked, pastry-chef luck.’ He puffed contentedly at the pipe. ‘Anyway, if it is Eldarn warding the spell table, and it was Eldarn that trapped you down there, then I will need some time to find the root of the spell he’s used to control the ground, the water and the rocks. It will be a slow process.’

  ‘Can you unweave it?’ Garec wasn’t sure how to ask what he wanted to know.

  ‘Probably not,’ Gilmour said, surprising them, ‘but I’ll wager he can.’ He nodded towards Steven, standing patiently at the bar.

  *

  Steven was waiting for the innkeeper. Gita had told him to look for a tall man, heavy around the middle, with flowing grey hair and ruddy, wrinkled skin. His name was Ranvid; he had been a member of the Falkan Resistance for almost two hundred Twinmoons. Malakasian forces regularly moved through Traver’s Notch, so Ranvid was always assimilating bits of news about the occupation which he passed through various channels to Gita and the other Resistance cell lead
ers. His methods were simple, and effective: the Bowman was known to welcome Malakasian soldiers: they got good service, cheap booze and plentiful meals, and officers always drank for free.

  Over time, the local occupation forces had come to think of the Bowman as an establishment sympathetic to Prince Malagon and word spread as the army moved throughout the country. Ranvid gleaned a wealth of valuable information, ranging from which general loathed which down to specific troop movements. He even knew when an enormous force started mustering outside Welstar Palace.

  The innkeeper had never participated in a raid, taken up arms against a local patrol or killed a Malakasian soldier, but he was invaluable to the Falkan Resistance, a hero who risked his life daily.

  When he finally stepped out from the kitchen, Steven recognised him immediately from Gita’s description.

  ‘Yes, sir, what do you need?’ He collected an armful of dirty trenchers that had been left along the raised counter.

  ‘Three beers, and two half-goblets of wine, one red and one white.’

  Ranvid froze, then turned to look Steven in the face. ‘You plan to mix them to make a whole pink?’

  ‘No,’ Steven said, ‘I don’t like to drink that much.’

  He placed the trenchers in a bucket half filled with greasy water that made Steven lose his appetite and drew three beers from a wooden cask behind the bar. ‘I knew a woman once who drank pink wine,’ he said conversationally.

  ‘I hear she died,’ Steven continued the exchange he’d memorised.

  No, she’s still around.’

  ‘I’d like to meet her.’

  The innkeeper placed the beers in front of him, then poured out two half-goblets of wine from ceramic pitchers. Steven paid with a few copper Mareks and reached for the drinks, but almost imperceptibly, Ranvid shook his head. ‘You want food?’

  ‘No, thanks,’ Steven said, his stomach still recoiling from the sight of the oily bucket. ‘We have to be moving on.’

  ‘You want food.’ It was not a request this time.

  Steven sipped the surprisingly good white wine and agreed, understanding belatedly that the man wanted him to wait beside the bar. ‘Actually, why not? What’s good?’ Anything but stew, he thought to himself.

  ‘The stew is tasty.’

  He swallowed hard. ‘Good then. Four stews, and bread, please.’

  A fine choice.’ Ranvid turned to the kitchen and shouted, ‘Four up!’

  Someone called back, ‘Come get them yourself.’

  Ranvid motioned for Steven to wait and disappeared into the kitchen. A moment later, Steven winced at a loud slap, a shriek and the sound of a large pan full of something wet and sloppy tumbling to the floor.

  The innkeeper returned and grinned. ‘Your food’ll be right out.’ He waved away Steven’s thanks and busied himself at the bar, clearing goblets, scraping trenchers and tossing half-eaten loaves into a woven straw basket at his feet.

  Steven stayed where he was, content to watch and wait.

  Without making eye contact, Ranvid said softly, ‘You wield the staff, yes?’

  Steven examined an etched pattern on the side of his wine goblet. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘The woman is here. Many of her men are in the Notch; there’s a camp on the north side of the wall.’

  ‘The wall?’

  ‘The northernmost hill behind Traver’s Notch. There’s a pass; we keep it open through the winter. Any horse can cross with no trouble.’ He waved to three locals sitting near a window, raised his eyebrows, and nodded. ‘Three more, right away,’ he called.

  Steven finished the white wine and started in on the red. ‘How do I find her?’ he asked as Ranvid finished drawing the men’s drinks.

  Across the western bridge and up the hill road. Near the top there’s a dirt path leading back into the trees. Follow that to the cottage at the end behind the birch trees.’

  He disappeared back in to the kitchen and reappeared with four trenchers. ‘Enjoy, sir,’ he said heartily.

  ‘Thank you.’ Steven left a silver coin on the bar and loaded up the trenchers.

  ‘She’s a great leader, and a great fighter.’ Ranvid’s voice was barely there. ‘She has great hopes for you.’

  ‘I won’t let her down,’ he replied.

  ‘Steven Taylor!’ Gita Kamrec met them outside the cottage, running to him and throwing her arms around him. ‘Gods, but I am glad to see you’re still alive.’

  ‘Me too,’ Steven replied, returning her embrace one-handed, the hickory staff in the other.

  Gita released him and stepped back. ‘Gods! Be careful where you point that thing. It makes me nervous.’ She hugged Garec and Mark in turn. ‘Garec the bowman, and Jenkins, the horseman from the South Coast, welcome to Traver’s Notch.’

  Mark smiled. ‘Nice to see you again, Gita.’

  ‘What happened to your leg?’

  ‘We met a border patrol in Gorsk.’

  ‘Gorsk? How long have you been up here? I thought you were going to Praga to find Kantu. What were you doing in Gorsk?’

  Mark said, ‘We’ve a lot to tell you.’

  ‘And where’s Brynne? My earlobes have healed, and I think the scars just about match; I don’t think I’m lopsided.’ When no one answered, Gita’s countenance fell. She looked back and forth between them. ‘Brynne, too?’

  ‘We lost her in Orindale,’ Garec said. ‘We’re hoping she’s alive, but we don’t know.’

  The Falkan leader pressed her lips into a thin line. ‘And Sallax?’

  ‘In Orindale, we hope,’ Garec said. ‘We heard nothing from him, nor could we find him while we were there.’

  ‘Gilmour, Sallax, Brynne, Timmon – not to mention my soldiers: this is a costly a business, boys. I hope we’ll all be around when it ends.’

  ‘I’ll buy the drinks.’ Garec said, anxious to move on to something more pleasant.

  ‘The rutting blazes you will,’ Gita quipped, smiling again. ‘I’m an old lady, and it’s an old lady’s prerogative to decide who picks up the tavern bill. I’ll have no arguing about it. The drinks will be on me.’

  ‘Done,’ Gilmour said, approaching warily.

  ‘And who’s this? Are you Kantu? I’ve heard of you.’

  ‘It’s me, Gita.’

  ‘Which me?’ She looked askance at him. ‘Do I know you?’

  ‘You have known me for a long time,’ Gilmour said, looking into her eyes. ‘When days in Rona grow balmy—’

  ‘Drink Falkan wine after Twinmoon,’ she said in a whisper. She turned to Garec. ‘Did you teach him that?’

  Garec shook his head. ‘It really is him, Gita. It’s a long story.’

  She leaned in, squinted as if, blurry, he might somehow become familiar to her. Then, inhaling sharply, she said, ‘They told me you were dead.’

  Gilmour said, ‘I suppose part of me has been for some Twinmoons now, but as you can see, the parts that count are still doing quite well.’

  ‘I always knew there was something about you, you old … is it really you?’

  He nodded.

  Now she was awestruck. ‘What kind of magic is this?’

  ‘Larion.’

  She laughed. ‘That’s funny, but no, I mean, what kind—’ Gita waited for Gilmour’s expression to change, and when it didn’t, her eyes grew wide. ‘Then you would have to be—’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And that would make you like – gods! I can’t even figure it without a piece of paper.’

  ‘Two thousand, probably more.’

  ‘I need to sit down. I need a drink, a lot of drinks.’ She reached for Garec and he slipped an arm around her waist. ‘Let’s go inside.’

  Three men, bodyguards, Steven guessed, materialised from the woods beside the cottage when Gita reached up and signed all clear. He remembered the covert communication the Falkan Resistance forces had used in the underground cavern. Two remained outside watching for any indication that their hideaway had been discovered. The third,
a young man wearing an eye-patch, joined them inside.

  Steven tried not to look at the soldier’s face, but couldn’t help wondering if the man was one of those he had injured when he had used magic to hurl a cloud of stones into the Falkan ranks; he toyed with the idea of asking and apologising, but every time he geared himself up to do so, someone interrupted, derailing his good intentions.

  Another of Gita’s commanders joined them for the discussion. As Brand Krug walked in, Steven noticed that he still wore a brace of throwing knives at his belt. As he had in the underground cavern, Brand immediately asked for news of Sallax; he looked angry and disappointed when Garec told him they had not located their friend.

  Gita paced back and forth before the fireplace, thinking through their story, and their intention to move south towards the Blackstones. Steven watched her, hoping she wouldn’t try to accompany them into Meyers’ Vale; he didn’t want a military escort. If their group got any larger, it would slow them down and make them an obvious target for the army.

  Gita said finally, ‘We’ve received information that the forces around Orindale have broken up and battalions are moving to take up their regular patrols. The prince’s generals argued for almost a Moon after Malagon disappeared and they have finally decided there is nothing to protect; that the prince must have left the city incognito.’

  Garec said, ‘They’ll be scattered all over the countryside. It’ll be difficult to avoid them.’

  ‘You won’t avoid them,’ Gita said. ‘You need to take some of us along. Brand’s company can escort you.’

  ‘How many men do you have?’ Garec asked.

  ‘Ninety-seven here now with more on the way.’

  Steven shook his head. ‘That’s foolish, Gita. We’ll succeed in nothing but getting them hacked to pieces. Gilmour and I can see us into the Vale.’

  ‘A stray arrow, Steven, one single arrow will silence you or Gilmour. We can’t afford it. You have to be escorted. Brand’s soldiers are tough, solid fighters. They’ve lived a long time, and through hundreds of raids. They know what they’re doing, and they can travel fast. If you’re attacked, the orders will be clear. Brand and a squad will ride with you, while the lieutenants engage and retreat, engage and retreat, pulling them off your back. Afterward, if they can get past the Malakasian forces, they’ll meet with you along the road further south.’ She stared down at a map of the flatlands in central Falkan. ‘They will see you through the first skirmish, anyway.’