Gateway to Fourline (The Fourline Trilogy Book 1)

by Pam Brondos

  One of the horses snorted. Another let out a low whinny and stomped on the broken tile. Nat sat up and grabbed the crossbow. “What’s wrong, boys?” she whispered. The horses tugged at their tethers with their ears flat against their heads. Their eyes were wide and their skin danced as if it were fly season. Nat looked at the patch of open night sky through the stairwell and saw nothing.

  The stairs groaned as she climbed onto the second viewing level. “Soris?” she whispered. A crumbling half wall obstructed her view of the landing. “Soris?” she said louder. She pulled out the orb. The sphere traveled toward the end of the viewing stand. In the soft light, she saw him, his head slumped over, snoring loudly. She jumped carefully over the exposed holes in the floor. “Soris, wake up. I’ll take watch since you are doing such a good job.”

  “Watching for what?” the voice hissed from above. The orb blasted with light. Nat spun around, pressing her back against the wall, and swung the crossbow toward the ceiling. The slick blue figure balanced on a beam. One pointed arm lay on the rough wood while the other hung casually down like a blue ice pick. “I’ve made no aggression, Sister. Put down your weapon,” it said.

  She didn’t move. She didn’t think she could. Soris snored on. Inching her foot slowly toward him, she nudged his leg with her toes. The Nala remained in its relaxed position. “What do you want?” Nat asked, trying to keep the fear out of her voice.

  The Nala blinked, and a thin blue membrane covered its webbed eyes. “Information, Sister. What are you? Wisdom or Emissary?” The orb moved closer to it, illuminating its bright, pointed teeth as it spoke. It pulled away from the orb as if repulsed by the light. She glanced at her forearm, realizing her markings were covered.

  “What does it matter to you?” she said. The Nala batted at the orb. “You need to leave—now.” She nudged Soris with her toe again as she spoke. He jerked awake. The Nala let out a long hiss.

  “Sisters of the Rim!” Soris exclaimed, dislodging chunks of mortar with his hands as he scrambled up.

  “Leave now, Nala.” Nat raised the crossbow. It leapt to the next beam, and she swung the weapon, tracking its moves.

  “Sisters no longer control the Nala.” Its voice seethed with anger. The orb whirled around its head, causing it to thrash from side to side. It jumped and scrambled along the edge of the roofline. Nat kept the crossbow trained on its disappearing figure. The orb chased it down the roof onto the treetops beyond the canopy.

  “Do you think there’s more than one?” Nat asked Soris. Her arms were shaking, but she still held the crossbow.

  “Maybe,” he croaked. The orb reappeared, zipping through the dark leaves.

  “If it’s okay with you, let’s get away from these trees,” she said as the orb returned. The sphere hovered protectively over her shoulder. Soris nodded in agreement and they ran for the stairs.

  “I don’t understand why it didn’t leave the minute it saw you. The Nala always leave Warrior Sisters alone. They have since the Rim Accord. Have you ever seen one act like that? I thought it was going to attack you.” Soris pulled the floppy hood of his bastle-herder cloak off his head with his good hand. Nat slowed her horse and turned as much as the tightly wrapped fabric of her clothes would comfortably allow. Every inch of her body, with the exception of her hands and a small square for her face, was wrapped in layers of a dingy cream-colored cloth. The riven and suix stone were tied to her inner thigh and the sleeping tar to her hip. She felt like a mummy. She looked at Soris and realized she could have it worse.

  His freshly shaven face was the color of paste. He leaned slightly to the right while his left hand held the reins. His horse kept veering left. Nat couldn’t see his right arm, but his hand had been swollen and dripping with pus when they’d stopped in the morning to hide their gear and change. The orb, tunics, and weapons were stashed in a narrow fissure in the roots of a tree along the upper banks of the Rust River. The location was less than perfect, but it was away from the ruins. After last night, the farther they got from the ruins, the easier Nat found it to breathe.

  “It never saw my arm. I didn’t tell it what I was,” she finally replied, feeling foolish.

  “Why not? Did you want to antagonize it, get it to try to bite you? What in the Rim were you thinking?” Soris asked.

  Nat wanted to tell him she hadn’t been thinking, because a blue creature with giant stick pins for arms and razors for teeth had been perched right above her head. “I . . . I just wanted to see what it wanted. I mean, what was it doing? It shouldn’t have been there in the first place, right?” Soris nodded wearily. “You said it yourself, the Nala aren’t supposed to be anywhere near the Houses even if they are in ruins.”

  “I understand your indignation, but it was an odd time to hide the Warrior Sister markings. Next time, will you just send it on its way? I thought I was going to end up a duozi or worse.” He grimaced as he spoke.

  “It won’t happen again, I promise.” Nat chewed on her lower lip as she glanced down at the dirt road strewn with rocks.

  Soris’ horse veered left. He jerked on the reins and the horse stumbled. His right arm slammed into the saddle horn. He cried out, sending an echo down the valley. Nat pulled back on her reins and slid quickly off her horse. Soris’ face was covered with a sheen of sweat and his arms were crossed close to his torso. “Can you lead him for a while?” he panted, nodding to the horse.

  “Let me see your arm first,” Nat demanded as she carefully pulled the edge of his cloak away. His hand looked like someone had blown up a surgical glove and stuck it in his tight sleeve. “This is never going to work. We’ve got to make a sling or you’re going to keep hitting your hand while we ride. Can you get down?”

  Soris nodded. He grasped the saddle horn with his left hand and kept his right arm slightly raised while he awkwardly dismounted. Nat rooted around in the saddlebag and brought out what looked like wide white gauze. She unrolled it and felt the sticky underside. It’ll work if I double it over on the sticky side, she thought. She made three loops and pressed one sticky end to secure it.

  “This should do,” she said as she pulled Soris’ cloak free and draped the bands over his neck before adjusting a band under his elbow, forearm, and wrist. His other arm draped over her shoulder.

  “You have pretty eyes.” His face was a few inches from hers.

  “You’re hallucinating,” she said but felt heat rise in her cheeks. “How does your hand feel in the sling?”

  “Good as new.” He gave her a lopsided grin.

  “Liar.” Nat linked her hands together and helped boost him back into the saddle. She took his reins and walked to her horse. The river running near the road curved, and a wide boat loaded with packed bales of wool sailed by on the rusty water. She waved in response to the salutation from the sparse crew. “How much longer till we get there?” she asked.

  Soris lifted his head. “Shouldn’t be more than an hour.” His head dropped. The road veered away from the river and merged with a wider packed-dirt road. Caravans of people and animals clumped together, clogging the passage. Nat and Soris fell behind two narrow wagons laden with wooden barrels. A lanky teenager lay across a row of three barrels. He opened one eye a slit when Nat’s horse snorted. When he saw Nat, his eyes popped open and he scrambled across the barrels to the driver’s wooden bench. The boy whispered into the driver’s ear and the wagon began to move to the right, giving Nat and Soris a way round. The driver, dressed in a thick, faded blue tunic, leaned away from Nat as she passed. His felted hat crushed into the boy’s face.

  Nat pulled the reins on Soris’ horse tight, bringing him alongside her. “What’s his problem?” she asked in a whisper.

  “Probably doesn’t want your bastle fleas.” Soris slowly turned and watched the wagons as they almost ground to a halt behind them. “Let’s have a little fun,” he said with a weak smile. “If I try to scratch myself, I’ll fall o
ff. But you can go at it like you’ve got the mother bastle flea. I guarantee it will clear a path for us.”

  “Bastle fleas, okay.” Nat transferred both sets of reins into one hand and began scratching at the tight wrapping around her hair, then moved to her shoulders and arms. A wide path appeared the moment the travelers saw her digging into her wrappings. Nat greeted their scowls with a grin and kept scratching. She leaned over and dug into her leather boot like she had a colony of little bloodsuckers tucked beneath the tight wrappings around her legs. She pulled her hand out and flicked an imaginary flea at a man wearing a monstrously broad-brimmed purple hat and a beard that formed a single point and tufted at the end like a broomstick.

  “Watch it there,” he groused and moved quickly out of their way.

  “Sorry.” Nat giggled, feeling slightly giddy from lack of sleep and amused at how repulsed her fellow travelers were. They found themselves at the front of the caravans in no time. When Nat looked back, the wagons, livestock, and travelers were scattered on opposite sides of the road. “I feel like Moses,” she said.

  “Moses?”

  “A man . . . good at parting things.” Nat bit her lip. She was developing a sore from chomping down when she said the wrong thing. Her tongue ran across the tender area on her lip. Maybe it will remind me to stop talking so much, she thought.

  “I think I see the city now.” Soris raised his head as they rounded a bend. An undulating stone wall curved along a hill in the distance. The taupe-colored stones ended abruptly near the riverbank. Tents of every shape and size dotted the sloping landscape around the wall and up and down the hill. “Take the route near the river,” he said, his voice ragged. “We’ll cause a riot if we try to make our way through the crowds around the main gate. It’ll be to our advantage when we leave, but right now . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “Soris?” Nat brought his horse to her side and gently pulled off his hood. His eyes were slits and his mouth hung open. She uncorked the water skin and squirted some on his face. “Get it together, Soris. I can’t do this by myself.” She gently slapped his cheek. He shook his head and opened his eyes wider.

  “What was that for?” He tried to raise his right arm and contorted his face.

  “You were about to slide out of your saddle.” She wiped a few drops of water from his face. “If something happens to you between now and the Chemist, what should I do?” She pulled the horses onto the side path following the river and noticed the hostile faces of those in the caravans as they lumbered past on the main road.

  “Get us to the bookshop on Wesdrono Street.” He tried to swallow a little more water from the skin, but most of it trickled down his cheek. Nat retrieved the skin from his shaking hand and urged the horses forward, away from the main road. “Ask for Mervin,” he said just loud enough for her to hear.

  A narrow archway interrupted the stone wall right before it ended by the river. “Through there?” Nat asked as she noticed the lone guard standing near the open archway. Soris nodded and carefully pulled his hood back over his hair slicked with sweat.

  “After we get through, pull your travel cloak shut so people can’t see your wrappings. We don’t want to draw any attention to ourselves in the crowds.” He grimaced and slowly righted himself. Nat tightened the reins and proceeded forward along the uneven path.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  The guard, wearing a sun-baked blue tunic emblazoned with a white circle, blocked the archway to the waterfront. He took one look at Nat and quickly stepped out of the way.

  “Mind yourself now,” the guard said nervously. “What’s your business?”

  “The same as theirs,” Nat said as she pointed to the massive crowd near the front gates.

  “Why aren’t you with them?” the guard retorted, still keeping space between Nat and himself.

  “We don’t want to cause a problem,” she said sweetly as she leaned down to scratch her knee.

  “Go on through.” The guard took another step back. “You’re lucky you arrived today, otherwise I would have turned you away,” he said as he scratched his arm. “Nastiness! Make sure you keep to the side roads,” he bellowed as he dropped his sword and began frantically brushing his arms up and down.

  Nat nodded dutifully and hurried through the archway with Soris trailing behind. She secured her travel cloak, hiding the bastle-herder wrappings, and pulled her hood over her brow. “Now what?” she asked as she scanned the harbor. A flock of seagulls ripped through a pile of discarded fish on the uneven ballast stones that popped out of the road like enormous pebbles. Scores of men crossed the wobbly way in front of them, loading and unloading the boats that neatly lined the dock.

  Soris gestured to an intersection of three sets of steep, narrow stairs with a wide walkway underneath them. As they made their way through the shadowy walkway, Nat pressed her horse close to the bumpy stone side, away from the stream of traffic moving to and from the boats. She paused. High on a hillside, past the tiered rows of houses, shops, markets, and gardens, stood a castle that looked like three consecutively smaller squares stacked on top of each other. Tiny blue flags flapped in the breeze, prevented from flying away by four spires adorning the top square. Two squat rectangular buildings flanked the castle. South of the hill, grand residences and large gardens flowed toward the river.

  “Head toward that square.” Soris’ hood hung down to his nose. He was hunched into a crooked c.

  Nat tightened her grip on the reins of his horse. “Don’t you dare fall off on me, Soris,” she hissed as they edged into the crowd.

  “I won’t, at least not on purpose.” He started to cough. That was new. What had Benedict really done to him? She cursed the shriveled man under her breath and ignored the hostile looks from some of the crowd.

  They crossed a wide wooden bridge, the rail at the end marred by a burn mark. The scorched emblem of a bird and vine was barely visible. Ahead, in a small square, the tip of a black obelisk poked out of a crowd thronging around its base. She brought the horses around the side, behind the crowd. A parchment was affixed to the black stone. Nat leaned forward in her saddle to read the writing:

  By Order of Lord Mudug

  Upon determination by the Special Investigation Section of the Merchant Division, authorized by the acting Temporary Regent, Lord Andrew Mudug, that one Sister of the now-defunct Western Warrior House has, in violation of the Rim Accord, conspired and plotted with the Nala to disrupt the sole southern shipping route of our great territories, the Temporary Regent orders the following:

  The rest of the words were lost in a sea of unwashed hair and head scarves. Forgetting herself, she leaned down and tapped the shoulder of a man with a basket of smelly fish strapped to his back. “Can you tell me what the Temporary Regent’s orders are? I can’t see.”

  “Mudug’s orders, eh?” the man responded, his four-point beard sticking straight out above his ample neck. “He’s set the Sister’s hanging for this afternoon in Rustbrook Square.”

  “All for show,” a teenage boy burdened with a similar basket said bitterly.

  “Hush,” the elder fishmonger said and walloped the back of the boy’s head.

  The boy rubbed his matted hair. “Just speaking the truth. He thinks a hanging will make us forget that he raised the transport tax. You said the same last night.”

  “Watch it.” The fishmonger gripped the boy’s arm tightly and looked nervously around at the faces in the crowd. “Take your basket to the stall,” he said and pushed the boy away. “He’s a bit confused in the head.” He let out a tense laugh. “Where would we be without Mudug’s guards protecting our merchant convoys and transports? The Nala would rip us to shreds.”

  Nat clutched the neck of her cloak and nodded in feigned agreement at the man’s cover story. So not all the people are buying Mudug’s lies, she thought. She looked at Soris, who appeared to be asleep. “Sir, could you tell me w
here Wesdrono Street is?” She tried to pronounce the name correctly, but it ended up jumbled on her tongue.

  The man stuck his chin out and replied, “Right straight through that lane.” He pointed beyond the obelisk.

  “Thank you.” She urged their horses through the throng of people, apologizing as they bumped, stepped on, and knocked over people. She considered getting rid of the horses but dismissed the idea when she glanced at Soris. Lugging him and their supplies through town would be impossible.

  The geometric castle disappeared behind the gray stone walls bordering the lane. There was no way she could get him up there by foot. After every step the horses took, she glanced back to make sure Soris was still upright and not rolling down the lane. Benedict had to have done something other than stick him with porc needles. Her hand had hurt when she’d been pricked, but nothing like what Soris was going through. Does he have an infection? she worried.

  The lane led to another intersection. To the left, beyond a row of small, neat shops, the road opened onto a square. A two-story tower stood in the middle of the square. The sound of hammering echoed down the road to the intersection. She scanned the street for signs and caught sight of a familiar glow in the doorway of one shop.

  “An orb!” She pulled Soris close. “I just saw an orb in that doorway.”

  Soris, raising his head just enough to peer under the edge of his hood, said in a slurred voice, “I don’t see anything.”

  “It was there . . .” The glow was gone, but Nat spied the edge of a cloak whipping past the darkened entrance.