“Just so you know, Locke, that sorcerer appears to have healed my blood as well!”
Rowen frowned at the abrupt comment. “What?”
Hráthbam laughed. “I nicked myself a few days back, preparing that stew you like so much. I fetched the powder, figured the bleeding wouldn’t stop—but it did.” He shrugged. “Apparently, being hauled back from death brings additional benefits!”
Rowen’s eyes widened. Speechless, he took the coins then went to fetch lunch. If the resurrection magic had altered Hráthbam so much, he wondered if the magic El’rash’lin had used to teleport him out of Cadavash had done something else to him—something he had not perceived yet.
He rejected the first few food vendors he saw, judging by the gray hue of the meat they were selling that it had been improperly treated and left out too long in the sun. He remembered what he’d heard of the Soroccans’ peculiar diet: they preferred vegetables and fruits over meat, but if necessary, they would eat the flesh of land animals. They would not consume the flesh of birds, which they associated with the sea and therefore considered holy. Rowen was confident that Hráthbam’s tastes were motivated less by belief than habit, though.
He bought food and ale, for the first time forgetting to scan the crowds for a sign of tapered ears and long, platinum tresses, then returned. He found Hráthbam grinning even more broadly, his table empty but for a few trinkets of jewelry. What’s more, two young women—twin sisters, by the look of them—were fawning over the merchant. Both women wore gowns with all the substance of colored clouds.
Unlike other cities, Lyos had long since adopted the Lotus Isles’ open-minded view on prostitution, largely regulated and overseen by the well-schooled clerics of Dyoni. But their affection was an act—just business, like shoeing a horse or repairing a busted piece of armor. While not evil, the act held no substance. And substance, it seemed, was what he was forever doomed to crave.
Still, he reminded himself, he was just a wagon guard. What made him uncomfortable was irrelevant.
Hráthbam gave Rowen a hearty greeting, accepted the food as though he had completely forgotten what food was, then handed one of the girls a handful of copper cranáfi. He winked at Rowen. To the young woman, he said, “The good Knight here finds himself far removed from the comforts of his temple. Might you help him find it?”
The woman smiled. “Of course!” she purred. She took Rowen’s arm with teasing affection, using one hand to trace his chest through his clothes before snaking boldly downward, brushing his thigh before she lifted it again. At her touch, his blood burned despite her insincerity. For a moment, he hated himself for it. Then he surrendered. He offered Hráthbam the remainder of the coins he’d been given before. The Soroccan waved them off.
“I’ll be here when you return.” Hráthbam glanced at the wagon. “Well, I’ll be nearby, at least!”
Face burning, Rowen pocketed the remaining few copper cranáfi then followed the young woman. She guided him by the hand toward a nearby inn. Forgotten, the food he’d just purchased grew cold and inedible on the empty table, lost in the daily commotion of the world around it.
Rowen rose slowly from the bed, hoping not to wake the prostitute. He went to the window of the dusty room in the upstairs of the inn. It was nearly sunset. Orange light filtered through the battlements and fringed the tops of houses and walkways. He sighed. His second day in Lyos. Naked, weary, he stretched.
“So, are you really an Isle Knight?”
Rowen was glad he wasn’t facing her. “No. I was just a squire.”
“So you cleaned your master’s armor and carried his lances and such?”
Rowen concealed a smile. “You’re thinking of the Lancers, up in Ivairia. The Isle Knights are a bit different, more like fighting monks. They care for their own steel. It’s part of their discipline. Squires are basically just advanced students... like acolytes, I guess.” He shrugged. “Anyway, I left the Isles before I finished training.” He blushed further. He remembered his brother saying that he lied as well as he danced.
“Liar!” she teased, echoing his thoughts. “It’s all right,” she added. “Lots of squires end up here, m’lord. No shame in that. I could name a dozen if I had a mind to.”
Rowen did not like being called a lord. “I bet you could.” He glanced at her in time to see her wince. “Sorry.” He returned to the bed but shifted awkwardly.
She looked at him and smiled. She had a pretty face, round with a small nose and full lips. Her breasts were also full and more than his hands could grasp—the way he liked it, oddly perfect but for a scar on the side of one that looked to have been made by a knife.
He had half a mind to ask her about the scar, but he decided not to. He liked her. He wasn’t sure if it was his loneliness or the ache in his loins or the blackberry wine they’d shared earlier, poured from a skin that Hráthbam had given her.
She squeezed his hand. “Relax, Sir Knight. I have skin like armor. I promise.”
For some reason, the words touched him. He wanted her to stay, but she kissed him playfully then rose from the bed. Rowen was sure his face matched his hair again as he watched her dress in a burgundy sarong trimmed in white lace.
She glanced over her shoulder at him. “Have you ever thought about joining the Red Watch?”
Rowen laughed. “An orphan from the Dark Quarter joining the Red Watch...”
She smiled. “I came from the Dark Quarter, I’ll have you know! I like to say it toughened me. Maybe it didn’t, maybe scars are just scars, but it’s a nice idea.” She lifted her arms over her head and wriggled into her gown. It sank past the faint, serpentine outline of her spine, past her pleasingly full buttocks, to her bronze ankles. “Anyway, the Red Watch ain’t all bad. But I’d understand if you want to get away from here, what with the war coming.”
Rowen tensed. “What do you mean?”
She frowned at him. “You should listen to rumors more!” She continued talking as she dressed. “I got to know an officer of the Watch a while back. He said they’d gotten reports about that sorcerer’s army. The Throng, I think they call it. Anyway, they’re moving east. Weird thing is, he said they’re not even bothering to guard their rear—whatever that means!” She winked at him. “He said they’ll probably take a stab at Cassica if they haven’t already.”
Rowen forced himself to smile. “Their army’s even bigger than the one here at Lyos. My brother and I sold our swords there a long time ago. If this so-called Throng marches on Cassica, they’ll get slaughtered!”
The woman was dressed now. “If you say so, Sir Knight.” She stretched, playfully arching her back and accentuating her bosom through the tightly-tied sarong. “I have to go. You can stay for a while and sleep, but can you be gone before dark?”
He caught her meaning. “Yes... of course.”
She kissed his forehead then vanished out the door. Only then did Rowen wish he’d thought to ask her name. He considered sleeping. Instead, he thought of what the woman had said. It occurred to him that Cassica was far away. If it had already been attacked—had already fallen—word might not have reached Lyos yet.
By the time Rowen returned to the King’s Market, twilight had spread through the whole of the city like some nobleman’s thick, blue rug. Rowen found Hráthbam where the table had been. The table and chair had already been loaded into the wagon, the horses hitched. On the ground lay Rowen’s few, meager possessions, neatly stacked. Hráthbam now wore a plain traveling cloak over his pompous silk robes. When he saw Rowen, he grinned and held out his hand. “Fa’taj dá fiél-tha.”
Rowen blinked in surprise. Reflexively, he shook Hráthbam’s hand. “What are you thanking me for?”
“For keeping me alive,” Hráthbam laughed, “although I suppose you had a little help!” He pressed a coin purse into Rowen’s hand. “Ninety coppers. To tell it true, I thought about making another trip to Cadavash, but the coin doesn’t seem to be in dragonbone after all.” He shrugged lightly. “Anyway, I
thought about hiring you to see me safely to the docks off Sorocco, but something told me you’d be staying in Lyos.”
Rowen frowned. “I have no reason to stay here.”
Hráthbam’s expression sobered. “Could have fooled me.” For a long time, neither spoke. Then Hráthbam lowered his voice. “My friend, should we meet again in this life, perhaps we will each have the courage to tell the other what we have seen.”
Before Rowen could reply, Hráthbam shook his hand again. Then, silently, he climbed into the wagon and steered it through the King’s Market, down the cobblestone streets, past the open gates of Lyos, down the muck-trodden path of King’s Bend, and beyond, out of Rowen’s life.
Rowen stood in the King’s Market for a while, uncertain, wind rustling his tangled red hair. Then, as darkness shrouded the city, penetrated only by the occasional flicker of lamps and torches, he headed for the nearest tavern. Hunger gnawed his stomach. And for once, coins filled his pockets. He ate his fill of bread and thick, spiced stew, plus a slab of charred, peppered salmon, then drank until a thick fog settled inside his head. At last, alone in a room crowded with strangers and a lively melody played by a brightly dressed troupe of minstrels, he pondered what to do next.
Was it true that Cassica was in danger? He’d heard such rumors but had put little stock in them. Just as Syros was famous for its archers, Cassica was known for the skill of its men-at-arms. But what use were such things against magic?
He listened to the common room’s chatter, hot with whispers of battle. Some even insisted that Cassica had already fallen. A few spoke fearfully of the possibility that the Throng would march on Lyos next, but most dismissed this. With these, Rowen was inclined to agree. After all, assuming Cassica had been taken, what was the point of seizing such a great city, only to relinquish it to the Dhargots?
The Dhargots had been massing their legions for years: charioteers, phalanxes swelled by conscripts and slaves, highly trained war elephants, all poised to expand their bloody empire from the western peninsula across the Simurgh Plains. Rowen himself—along with his brother, Jalist, and a handful of others—had worked both for and against Dhargots in the past. He detested fighting alongside them. Their sanction of slavery and their penchant for disemboweling captured enemies thoroughly sickened him. But fighting against them was worse. For all their chilling cruelty, the Dhargots boasted discipline that rivaled even the Isle Knights’. And just as greatwolves always hungered for flesh, the Dhargots always hungered to expand their territories, take slaves, gain riches, and sow fear. If this General Fadarah was smart enough to conquer so many of the Free Cities of the Simurgh Plains, surely he must recognize that so overextending his lines only welcomed the Dhargots to sweep up behind him!
No, Lyos is safe—even if Cassica is already gone. We’re too close to the Isles, too friendly with the Knights.
But Silwren’s words nagged at his mind. She had said that Lyos was in danger. Rowen did not know her, did not even know if he could trust her, but he sensed she was telling the truth.
She’ll be here—sooner or later. I just have to decide what I’ll do when she gets here!
But what would he do in the meantime? Glancing across the tavern, he saw a squad of guards from the Red Watch engaged in a drinking contest, guzzling their mugs so quickly that ale spread like bloodstains down their red tabards. An answer came to him. He ordered another ale.
Rowen had found a room at a modest inn called Dyoni’s Bane. The inn’s name reminded him that Hráthbam had used the phrase more than once. Rowen cursed himself for not asking what it meant while he had the chance. He tried asking the serving girls there, but none of them seemed able to understand what he was saying. So he went to his room and slept instead.
He woke to sunlight streaming through the eastern window, into his eyes. He resisted for a while but then roused and dressed himself, forced himself to chew some sweetbitter for his breath, splashed his face with water from the basin laid outside his door, and made his way down to the streets. He adjusted Knightswrath on his hip, wishing he’d taken the time to trim his beard or cut his hair first. But he did not want to wait any longer. He thought of the decision he’d made the night before. It seemed no more asinine now than it had then, which he took as a good sign. He asked around, and all the guards he spoke to directed him toward the gates. So Rowen made his way out to King’s Bend.
He spotted a weathered-looking sergeant, dressed in a red tabard emblazoned with a black falcon. He approached the man, saying simply that he wanted a job. The sergeant scowled at him then waved him toward the captain of the Red Watch. The captain was just exiting the privy, a tired scowl on his face.
“Captain Ferocles, another recruit!” the sergeant called.
The captain—a barrel-chested man with short-cut dark hair, a thick beard, and skin suntanned the color of leather—sized up Rowen with a quick glance. Then he said, “Hired.” The captain turned and barked orders at the nearest soldiers, as though he’d already forgotten Rowen was there.
“Cassius, get your lazy asses over to Beggar’s Drop. Epheus said another drunk fell—or jumped—off the ledge last night. This one was a merchant’s kid, so now we have to pretend to care about stopping dumb bastards from killing themselves.” He turned to a different man of the Red Watch. “Poska, since you were so kind as to show up late for duty, you get the pleasure of emptying the buckets.” He gestured to the privies. The other soldiers laughed.
Rowen shifted from foot to foot, unsure what to do. Finally, he cleared his throat. Neither the captain nor the sergeant looked up. The captain removed a flask from another soldier’s hand just as the man was about to drink, drank it himself, then passed the flask back. Then he turned to Rowen. “What in Fohl’s hells are you still doing here?”
Rowen blinked in surprise at the man’s gruff tone. “Begging your pardon, Captain... thank you, but what am I supposed to do now?”
Captain Ferocles stared at him for a moment then burst into laughter. The nearby men of the Red Watch chuckled, too, and Rowen felt his face turn the color of their tabards. “Why, try not to get your guts carved out, of course!” the captain said. “What’s your name?”
Rowen bowed in the fashion he’d learned on the Lotus Isles. “My name is Rowen Locke.”
The captain rolled his eyes. “Lovely. Another brooding washout from the Isles!” His statement drew more laughter. Rowen’s fists clenched at the insult. “It’s pretty simple, Locke. You’ll be paid ten copper cranáfi from the tax coffers on the last day of every week in which you don’t get yourself killed. Die, and we’ll pay the balance to your family instead—if you have any.”
The other soldiers snickered at this.
“In the meantime, report to Quartermaster Phews in the barracks for your uniform. He’ll also set up your shift schedule and fix you up with a bunk—rather, a board with some straw on it. Once you’re dressed, haul your pompous ass back here and get to work!”
The captain gestured to King’s Bend. “We’ll start you out here. What we do, boy, is keep order here as best we can. Simple as that. If you see a fight, break it up. If you see a pickpocket, grab him. Don’t kill anyone you don’t have to. Don’t bash anyone you don’t have to. If I find out you’ve broken either of these rules, I’ll kill you myself.” The captain yawned. “Over there, just off the bluff, is the Dark Quarter—” He stopped himself and squinted, scrutinizing Rowen again. “But you already know that, don’t you?”
Rowen nodded, surprised.
“Figured as much. You have that look.” The captain continued. “Well, in case you’ve been away, I’ll fill you in. Not a damn thing’s changed. The gangs still control the Quarter—which is just fine by us, since we’re outnumbered and underpaid. So stay out of the Quarter unless I tell you otherwise. When you’re in the city, whether you’re on duty or not, keep yourself armed. Keep your eyes open. Men sneak up from the Quarter sometimes and look for women or children to... you know.” He grimaced meaningfully. “If
you catch them doing that, or trying to, do us all a favor and cut the man’s throat. So long as you have a good reason and a reliable witness, and I’m not suspicious, I won’t ask questions.” He yawned again. “Speaking of questions, do you have any? The correct answer is no.”
Caught off guard, Rowen hesitated a moment then shook his head accordingly.
The captain said, “Good. Oh, and one more thing, we practice every day with weapons and bare hands. All of us, even me. You look like you can handle yourself, but some of those bastards in the Quarter fight every bit as good as those Knights you trained with. So stay sharp. Miss drills because you’re drunk, in bed with a whore, or any other reason that doesn’t involve you recuperating from a stab wound, and you’re through. Understood?”
Rowen nodded. Captain Ferocles waved him off, as though forgetting him again. Rowen had no idea where the barracks were, nor could he even remember the name of the quartermaster, but he knew better than to ask.
He hurried through the gates. A metallic creak made him look up at a raised portcullis followed by a column of murder-holes. The captain called after him, “I’d welcome you, boy, but wherever you were before this, you were probably better off!” Rowen guessed that must be an old joke by now, but once again, the other soldiers broke into laughter.
Rowen’s first week in Lyos made him wonder if he might have been better off leaving after all. As Captain Ferocles had said, nothing much had changed.
As much as Rowen detested the cutthroats and would-be rapists, he especially loathed dealing with all the half-starved thieves. Some looked even more destitute than the man who had tried to rob Hráthbam’s wagon outside the city gates. Technically, Rowen’s duty was to apprehend these desperate souls and turn them over to Red Watch interrogators, ignoring their pleas for release.
This thought chilled Rowen’s blood, for he had seen the results of such things as a boy. Since the thieves rarely had valuable information to share, the interrogations often degenerated into rote punishment, usually a flogging followed by a severed finger or a notched ear. On matters like this, no clear laws existed, and no one in the Red Watch seemed inclined to press for change.
Wytchfire (Book 1) Page 19