by L J Chappell
The Company booked into The Dragon, one of the larger hotels in Harrata. It had a restaurant and a separate bar, and Vorrigan had found them seven double rooms with balconies. Vander had a unique status among them – part-guest, part-prisoner, part-cargo – and he would share a room with Kiergard Slorn and Bane. All their balconies faced east, towards the Inner Sea, but in reality, they offered views of the buildings on the opposite side of the street and of the street itself.
They unloaded their four trunks outside the hotel and bade Anslak safe passage, before heaving them up the stairs and arranging them among the rooms. Back down in the restaurant, the hotel staff seemed only too happy to feed a party of fifteen. Afterwards, although there was a bar, the Company sat and drank until late at their table.
Lanvik was sharing a slightly stuffy room with Vorrigan, and they both agreed that it would benefit from the window being open a little through the night. As a result, they were both awakened at first light by the din of shrieking gulls above the harbour.
‘Damn birds,’ Vorrigan pulled the pillow over his head in protest, but it was no good – they were both awake, and unlikely to fall asleep again. He swung his legs round to the floor and announced: ‘Not to worry. I have things to do today, so I may as well get started.’
‘What kind of things?’
‘Thanks to Magda, we have a large quantity of keepsakes, jewellery and other personal items, plus a whole temple’s worth of religious trinkets. All of these would be far more useful if they were converted to coin and if we’re here for a few days, I have a chance to make some contacts and hopefully negotiate some decent prices.’
He was right – if they were here for a few days, then there were probably things that they all needed to do. Lanvik had been acutely aware for some time that his wardrobe was in drastic need of attention. The clothes that he had been wearing in prison when Kiergard Slorn had freed him were of high quality but were now in poor condition. He had another set of clothes, picked up along the way, which he felt neither fitted him nor suited him particularly well: also, they were thick – designed to withstand the bitter cold of the far north.
He had no money of his own, though, so he talked to Magda after breakfast. ‘Since we’re here for a few days, I was thinking I could finally sort out some clothes. Do you think I could ask Kiergard for money – a loan, until I have some of my own?’
‘Here,’ she said, and handed him two Crowns, four half-Crowns and a handful of Shillings. ‘It’s not a huge amount, but it should cover you. Let me know if it doesn’t.’
‘Thanks. How do I pay you back?’
‘You don’t have to. It’s not really my money: it belongs to all of us. After each mission’s done, we pool whatever we have left after expenses. I figure your clothes probably count as “expenses”.’
She gave him a purse as well: she had a dozen or more from Darkfall in her pack.
It was another hot day, but far more pleasant here at the coast than in the jungle of the interior: as well as being less humid, a pleasant breeze from the shore wafted lazily through the streets. From the little he had seen of Harrata during their brief stop there, Sherron felt like much the same kind of place. The streets were wider and less contorted so the town seemed better proportioned, a little less of a chaotic jumble, but the buildings themselves looked very similar: they had the same kind of uniform red-orange clay finish and the same neat rows of orange roof tiles. Brightly painted doors and windows, often decorated with irregular patterns of circles and squares and diamonds, provided little splashes of colour that interrupted the monotony of the terracotta.
He had imagined that the harbour would be the centre of Sherron, but there was a small square further inland that hosted the town hall, two temples and a number of other public buildings. Meandering streets radiated out from there, dotted with shops and stores as well as taverns and hostels. The population seemed to be a random mix of Dark Elves, Light Elves and Humans: there was no specific Human quarter and, except in a few obvious cases, Lanvik found it impossible to tell from the outside which shops catered mainly to which races.
Eventually, as he hoped he might, he found Limenith and Geitar at a place named “Hecatt & Arin”, with the description “Curiosities and Exotic Luxuries” inscribed above the door. This was presumably Limenith’s cousin’s shop. Shelves lined the three inside walls, packed with a haphazard and arbitrary mix of unusual items ranging from the obvious and utilitarian through to the decorative and, at least to Lanvik, flatly unrecognisable. A counter, part-hidden under more oddities, ran more or less all the way across the shop: Geitar was sitting on top of the counter looking bored, while Limenith re-arranged items on one of the shelves.
‘Lanvik,’ she greeted him. ‘You’re still in Sherron.’
‘Yes, we’re here for a few days. We decided to wait for the Marsalea ferry.’
‘That’s probably best. You’ll be able to catch something to take you further from Marsalea. Where are you staying?’
‘A place called The Dragon. It’s alright.’
‘The Dragon’s nice enough,’ she nodded. ‘So, what brings you round our way? If you were looking for Panat, he’s helping Arin go through the new stock. Arin’s my cousin. This is his shop.’
‘Actually, I was looking for a decent tailor. Most of my clothes are far too thick for this weather, so I need to get something more appropriate. I have a few other things that are in an awful state, so I need someone to have a look at them to see if they can be salvaged. I thought you might be able to recommend someone.’
‘My uncle has a shop,’ she said. She hesitated: ‘It wouldn’t be fair for me to recommend him since he’s family, but I think he does a good job. And he’s been in business forever, so that must mean something. You should go and meet him. He’ll give you a good price if you say I sent you.’
‘I’ll take him,’ Geitar said, jumping down from the counter.
‘Come straight back after,’ Limenith told him.
‘Are you sure you can spare him?’ Lanvik asked.
She looked around the empty shop and laughed: ‘Yes, I can spare him. You’re only the third person to come in today.’
‘So,’ Geitar asked him, when they were outside. ‘What do you think of Sherron?’
‘I haven’t really had a good look round,’ Lanvik said. ‘But it seems nice enough.’
‘I hate it. It’s tiny and there’s nothing to do. It’s even worse than Harrata.’
Lanvik laughed. ‘Everyone probably thinks that about the place they grow up in.’
‘Oh no,’ Geitar disagreed. ‘Not here, anyway. Most people think it’s wonderful. They talk about how lucky they are to live here.’ He didn’t say anything for a few steps, and then added: ‘It must be great, just coming to a place, staying a few days, and then moving on to see somewhere different.’
‘Not so great,’ Lanvik told him. ‘You see a lot of places, but you don’t really get to know them. You just see the surface.’
‘In places like Harrata and Sherron, the surface is all there is to see.’
‘And you don’t really get to know people. It’s difficult to make friends.’
‘You met us, didn’t you?’ Geitar challenged.
‘Yes. Yes, I did.’
‘I wish I could travel.’
‘You do travel,’ Lanvik told him. ‘You probably travel more than most people in the Three Lands.’
‘That’s not travelling, these little two day trips. It’s just going back and forward on the same road over and over again, and a lot of the time you see the same people as well. And Harrata’s really no different from Sherron.’
‘Trust me,’ Lanvik said: ‘Travelling is not nearly as romantic as it sounds. You might think it’s an adventure, but most of the time we just sit in a ship or sit on a wagon for days at a time. We’re travelling as part of what we do, so we don’t ever decide where to go and we don’t get to just stop in places we like. It might be different if we could just choose to
go to the interesting places, the nice places, and stay for however long we wanted. But you’d have to be rich to do that.’
‘What do you think is the best way to get away from here, then?’ Geitar asked. ‘To do something more exciting than driving carts through the jungle? Something like you do, that takes me from place to place?’
Lanvik was hardly in a position to give any real advice – he could only remember the last few weeks. Most of that had been spent travelling, of course, but that wasn’t due to any choices that he had made. He also felt a responsibility not to make his life sound too appealing or romantic to Geitar: Panat and Limenith were relying on their son to help with their business. They had plans already, definite plans, and wouldn’t be at all happy if Lanvik suggested he simply drop everything and set off in search of a different life.
‘You’re young,’ he told Geitar. He thought of Karuin’s story. ‘Take your time, learn what you can and be patient. At some point an opportunity will come along to do something real, something with a purpose, which you can use as a foundation. You know – think of your father’s business. You might get a chance to travel out to one of the islands and back with a supplier, looking for stock. That could be a first step.’
‘I suppose so,’ Geitar said, but Lanvik knew his answer wasn’t really what the boy had been hoping for.
The tailor’s shop was a few blocks further from the square: Geitar addressed him as “Uncle Vask”, introduced Lanvik as “a friend of mum and dad’s” and then left.
‘Sit down, sit down,’ the old man insisted: there was an uncomfortable wooden stool at the counter. He produced two glasses of clear sweet tea and asked Lanvik what he needed, how long he was staying in Sherron, and how much he wanted to spend.
Lanvik laughed at the last question, reluctant to name a figure. ‘As little as possible,’ he joked.
‘But no more than …?’
‘Probably no more than three Crowns.’
‘Three Crowns. Well, it’s not a fortune, but you can do well enough for three Crowns.’
Once they’d established that he wasn’t looking for any formal wear, the tailor helped him to make a list: a number of trousers and shirts, a range of undergarments, a pair of sandals and two jackets – one for warmth, and one for when it was wet. Over still more tea, they chose a range of materials, matching colour swatches against each other in twos and threes.
And then the tailor lifted a huge, thick book down from one of the shelves behind him. He had Lanvik stand in the middle of the shop, took a wide range of measurements, and wrote them all in the book.
‘Can you come in tomorrow as well?’ he asked. ‘In the afternoon. They’ll be a much better fit if I can make adjustments part way through.’
After that, they looked at Lanvik’s old clothes: he’d brought them folded in his pack.
‘Fine quality,’ the tailor remarked, ‘and not so old, but they’ve taken a bit of punishment. You’ve fallen on hard times?’
‘Not hard,’ Lanvik was again reluctant to commit to a clear answer: ‘… but perhaps harder than before.’
‘I understand. And you’re from Ceran’Don, or at least your clothes are.’ He held a top up to the window for a better look.
‘That’s where I got them,’ Lanvik improvised, without confirming or denying where he himself was from, ‘but I haven’t been there for a while.’
“Vask” – that was how he had introduced himself – confirmed that he could repair them, perhaps not with an exact match of fabrics and stitching, but close enough that the repairs shouldn’t be visible. He would let Lanvik see what he was doing when he came round tomorrow.
Lanvik thanked him and left.
From Ceran’Don, he wondered as he walked away – the Land of Mists, the land of mages. If that was really where he was from, where his friends and family would be waiting, then what had he been doing in Urthgard – at the very opposite corner of the Three Lands? Had he gone there just to kill someone? Or was he there for some other reason?
There was a big empty hole in his head and as far as he could see, it started in Urthgard.
When he wasn’t thinking about his lost memories, their absence didn’t bother him as much as it probably should have. But whenever something reminded him of his missing life, he felt a sort of desperate panic – like being lost and without any hope. Over three weeks had now passed since Kiergard Slorn had rescued him, and he still remembered nothing more: nothing except his dream of the red-haired woman, and that particular dream only unsettled him further. He had no memories of his parents, his family, any wife or children that he might have; nothing about where or when he grew up; nothing about his friends or how he lived his life – what he cared for or believed in.
He found a little bar next to the water and bought something to eat for lunch. There were tables outside and he ate there, watching the boats in the busy harbour bob up and down with the waves. He had no definite plan for the rest of the day, so he stayed there for a couple more drinks before setting off to explore the rest of Sherron in case there was anything to see, despite what Geitar had said.
It didn’t take him long.
He found a couple of cobbled squares, half a dozen old temples to Gods that he couldn’t identify (despite Vrosko Din’s introductions while they were in Darkfall), statues to people he’d never heard of, one small fountain which was not operating – either because it was broken or because of the season – and a large number of small shops. Most of these were like Limenith’s cousin’s shop: opportunistic import businesses with stock from all across the Evallian Sea and the Inner Sea. Some were more like small warehouses, selling in bulk, especially around the harbour. From time to time he saw others from the Company, also walking idly around as they searched for something to see or to do.
Over their meal that evening, they exchanged information on the little town.
They had had varying degrees of success finding productive activities. Lisamel and Tremano had arranged to sing and play in a number of taverns this evening – they ate very little and left before the others.
Vorrigan had tried selling some of the items they had brought from Darkfall. ‘You mention jewellery and everyone’s got stock to sell,’ he complained. ‘No-one’s buying. They blame the time of year. It’s too quiet.’
After they’d finished eating, some of the others went after Lisamel and Tremano to support and encourage them, and to give them an audience.
Kiergard Slorn signalled to Lanvik to wait behind and they went upstairs together. Bane, Ethryk and Vander had already left to find somewhere busier than the hotel to drink – although The Dragon had its own bar, it was largely deserted after early evening. That left Slorn’s room empty.
‘Do you want the Crown back?’ Lanvik asked, once the door was closed. Vorrigan was out as well, so he could fetch it immediately.
‘I took it earlier, when no-one else was in,’ Slorn admitted. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’
Lanvik did mind but he couldn’t really protest: he didn’t have any private possessions at all, other than items that Slorn had given him or bought for him. Plus the map, of course, but that was actually on loan as well. And it was already done, so there was no point objecting now.
Even so, he chose to visibly frown before reluctantly answering: ‘No. No problem. I suppose.’
‘Good,’ Slorn ignored his expression. ‘I’ve tried all sorts of things,’ he continued: ‘mostly putting the Crown on and trying to command different things to happen: trying to lift things, or move things, or make light in the darkness, or make people to do things. I’ve tried thinking the instructions, saying the instructions aloud, visualising the result that I want in my mind and using my hands to indicate what I want to happen …’
‘And?’
‘Nothing yet, as far as I can tell. I’m beginning to think that perhaps someone else stole the real Emerald Crown centuries ago and replaced it with a more convincing replica than the one I used. And this is just some
ancient metal and glass fake which is never going to do anything.’
He asked Lanvik to lock the door so they wouldn’t be disturbed, and then brought out the Crown. ‘Did you try it after all?’ he asked.
‘No. Whenever I had any time alone, I tried to discover my own magecraft,’ Lanvik said. ‘The same kind of things you did, but maybe with some more dramatic hand moves.’ He illustrated some of his poses, smiling as he did.
Kiergard Slorn laughed as he put the Crown on: ‘Yes. I tried a few of those as well, but I wasn’t going to admit it.’
Wearing the Crown, he certainly looked the part – it looked at least as appropriate on him as it had looked on the Statue in Darkfall.
Slorn reached out and laid a hand on Lanvik’s shoulder: his eyes narrowed slightly, as he presumably tried to invoke some kind of command or request. Then he asked: ‘Do you feel anything? Anything unusual?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Try taking my hand. Anything now?’
‘Still nothing.’
Slorn shook his head, disappointed: ‘I thought I might be able to read your thoughts, or command you to do things, or just feel something – some tingle of magic.’ He frowned: ‘I wasn’t expecting it to be easy, but I was expecting more than this. Like with your music: you can’t play immediately, but you can at least make squeaks and bangs.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Here – you try,’ Slorn passed him the Crown.
Lanvik lowered it onto his own head: it felt just as awkward and heavy as it looked, and it didn’t seem to sit as snugly as it had on Slorn. It had been shaped for Madarinn, he guessed, rather than Humans.
He thought at it, talked to it, prayed to it. He waved his arms around as if he had magical powers, and commanded other objects to obey him. But in the end, he was just as unsuccessful as Kiergard Slorn had been … just as unsuccessful as he had been with his own magecraft.