The Qualinesti

by Paul B. Thompson

  Ulvian rolled his eyes and didn’t answer. Feldrin roared, “Is that clear?” The prince flinched and nodded quickly. “Good.”

  He assigned Ulvian to the grunt gang, and a burly, bearded human came to escort the prince to his new quarters.

  When they were gone, Merith’s shoulders sagged. “I must confess, Master Feldrin, I am exhausted,” he said, sighing. “For ten days, I have had the prince in my keeping, and I haven’t had a moment’s rest!”

  “Why so, Lieutenant? He doesn’t look so dangerous.”

  Feldrin stooped to retrieve his plans. Merith squatted to help.

  “It wasn’t fear that spoiled my sleep,” the warrior confided, “but the prince’s constant talk! By holy Mantis, that boy can talk, talk, talk. He tried to convert me, make me his friend, so that I wouldn’t deliver him to you. He’s engaging when he wants to be, and clever, too. You may have trouble with him.”

  Feldrin pushed back the front flap of his hut with one broad, blunt hand. “Oh, I doubt it, Master Merithynos. A few days dragging stone blocks will take the stiffness out of the prince’s neck.”

  Merith ducked under the low doorframe and entered the hut. Though the walls and roof were canvas, like a tent, Feldrin’s hut had a wooden frame and floor, sturdier than a tent. The mountains were sometimes wracked by fierce winds, blizzards, and landslides.

  Feldrin clomped across the bare board floor and dropped his scrolls on a low trestle table in the center of the room. He turned up the wick on a brass oil lamp and settled himself on a thick-legged stool, then proceeded to rummage through the loose assortment of parchment until he found a scrap.

  “I shall send a note back to the Speaker,” he said, “so that he will know you and the prince arrived safely.”

  The lieutenant glanced back at the door flap hanging loosely in the still, cool air. “What shall I do, Master Feldrin? I’m supposed to guard the prince, but it seems you don’t really need me.”

  “No, he won’t be any trouble,” muttered the dwarf, finishing his brief missive with a flourish. He shook sand over the wet ink to dry it. “But I may have another use for you.”

  Merith drew himself up straight, expecting an official order. “Yes, master builder?”

  Stroking his thick beard, Feldrin regarded the tall elf speculatively. “Do you play checkers?” he asked.

  *

  Bells and gongs rang through the camp, and all over Pax Tharkas workers set down their tools. The sun had just begun to set behind Mount Thak, which meant only an hour of daylight remained. It was quitting time.

  Ulvian dragged along at the rear of the ragged column of laborers known as the grunt gang. His arms and legs ached, his palms were blistered, and despite the cool temperature, the stronger sun at this high elevation had burned his face and arms cherry red. The overseers – the mute, bearded human Ulvian had met his first day in camp and an ill-tempered dwarf named Lugrim – stood on each side of the barracks door, urging the exhausted workers to hurry inside.

  The long, ramshackle building was made from slabs of shale and mud, and the rear wall was sunk in the mountainside. There were two windows and only one door. The roof was made of green splits of wood and moss, and the whole barrack was drafty, dusty, and cold, despite the fires kept burning in baked-clay fireplaces at each end.

  Inside the dim structure, the grunt gang members headed straight for their rude beds. Ulvian’s was near the center of the single large room, as far from either fire as it could be. Still, he was so tired that he was about to fall on his bunk when he noticed the man who slept on his right was already in bed, where he had apparently lazed all day. Ulvian opened his mouth to protest.

  The prince froze two paces from the bed. The human’s head and right leg were swathed in loose, bloodstained bandages. His hands hung limply over the sides of the narrow bunk.

  “Poor wretch won’t live the night,” rasped a voice behind the prince. Ulvian whirled. A filthy, rag-clad elf stood close to him, staring at him with burning gray eyes. “He was taking a load of bricks up the tower, and the scaffold broke. Broke his leg and cracked his skull.”

  “Aren’t – aren’t there healers to take care of him?” Ulvian exclaimed.

  A dry rattle of laughter issued from the throat of the sun-baked elf. He was nearly as tall as Ulvian, and very thin. When he looked down at the human on the bed, dust fell from his blond eyebrows and matted hair. “Healers?” he chortled. “Healers are for the masters. We get a swig of wine, a damp cloth, and a lot of prayers!”

  Ulvian recoiled from the loud elf. “Who are you?”

  “Name’s Drulethen,” said the elf, “but everyone calls me Dru.”

  “That’s a Silvanesti name,” Ulvian said, surprised. “How did you come to be here?”

  “I was once a wandering scholar who sought knowledge in the farthest comers of the world. Unfortunately when the war started, I was in Silvanesti, and the Speaker of the Stars needed ablebodied elves for his army. I didn’t want to fight, but they forced me to take up arms. Once out in the wilderness, I ran away.”

  “So you’re a deserter,” said Ulvian, understanding dawning.

  Dru shrugged. “That’s not a crime in Qualinesti,” he said idly and sat down on the nearest bed. “While I wandered the great plain, I found it was easier to take what I wanted than work for it, so I became a bandit. The Wildrunners caught up to me, and the Speaker of the Sun graciously allowed me to work here rather than rot in a Qualinost dungeon.” He held out his slender hands palms up. “So it goes.”

  No one had spoken at such length to Ulvian since his arrival at Pax Tharkas. Dru might be a coward and a thief, but it was obvious he had a certain amount of education, which was as rare as diamonds in the grunt gang. Sitting down on his own bed, the prince asked Dru a question that had been bothering him. “Why can’t we get closer to the fires?” he said in a low voice. Dru laughed nastily.

  “Only the strongest ones get a place by the chimneys,” he said. “Weaklings and newcomers get stuck in the middle. Unless you want a beating, I suggest you don’t dispute the order of things.”

  Before Ulvian could broach another question, Dru moved to his own bunk. Dropping down on the bed, he turned his back to the prince and in seconds began to snore lightly with each intake of breath. Ulvian threw himself across his own bed, which consisted of strips of cloth nailed to a rough wooden frame. It stank of sweat and dirt even more strongly than the barracks as a whole. The prince locked his hands together behind his head and stared at the crude ceiling overhead. The orange-tinged sunlight filtered in through the chinks in the roof slats. While he pondered his fate, he dozed fitfully.

  Something thumped against the prince’s feet, which hung over the end of his short bunk. Ulvian snapped to a sitting position. Dru had bumped him on his way to the injured human’s bed, where he now stood. Skinning back the man’s eyelid with his thumb, Dru shook his head and made clucking sounds in his throat.

  “Frell’s gone,” he announced loudly.

  An especially tall human came to the dead man’s bed and hoisted the body easily over his shoulder. He strode across the room and kicked the front door open. The red wash of sunset flowed into the gloomy barracks. The tall human dumped the corpse unceremoniously on the ground outside.

  Before he could close the door again, a dozen gang members were already picking the dead man’s bed clean. They took everything, from his scrap of blanket to the few personal items he’d stowed under the bunk. The press was so great that Ulvian was forced to move away. He spied Dru leaning against the wall near the water barrel. Slipping through the crowd, he finally faced the Silvanesti.

  “Is that it?” he asked sharply. “A man dies and he gets dumped outside?”

  “That’s it. The dwarves will take the body away,” Dru replied, unconcerned.

  “What about his friends? His family?” insisted the prince.

  Dru took a small stone from his pocket. It was a four-inch cylinder of onyx the thickness of his thum
b. “Nobody has friends here,” he said. “As to family —” He shrugged and didn’t finish. His fingers rubbed back and forth over the piece of black crystal.

  Just as night was claiming the mountain pass, the sound of metal against metal sent the grunt gang storming toward the door. Outside was a huge iron cart wheeled by four dwarves. The cart bore a great kettle, and when one of the dwarves removed its lid, steam poured out. Ulvian let the rest of the gang press ahead of him, having no desire to be trampled for a dish of stew.

  When he got outside, he shivered. A raw wind whistled down the pass, knifing through the clothing the prince wore. He watched the laborers, clay bowls in hand, mill around the food wagon while the dwarves served the steaming stew and doled out formidable loaves of bread to each worker. The aroma of roasted meat and savory spices drifted to Ulvian’s nose. It drew him toward the wagon.

  He was promptly shoved away by a Kagonesti with a shaved head and two scalp locks that hung down his back. Ulvian bristled and started to challenge the wild elf, but the hard muscles in the fellow’s arms and the definite air of danger in his manner held the prince back. Ulvian slinked to the rear of the poorly formed line and waited his turn.

  By the time he reached the wagon, the dwarves were scraping the bottom of the kettle. The ladle-bearing dwarf, warmly dressed in fur and leather, squinted down from the cart at Ulvian.

  “Where’s your bowl?” he growled.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Idiot!” He swung the ladle idly at the prince, who ducked. The copper dipper was as big as his hand and stoutly formed. The dwarf barked, “Get back inside and find yourself a bowl!”

  Chastened, Ulvian did so. He searched the room until he saw Dru, who was leaning against the wall by the water barrel, eating his stew.

  “Dru,” he called, “I need a bowl. Where can I get one?”

  The Silvanesti pointed to the fireplace at the south end of the room. Ulvian thanked him and wended his way through the crowd to the fireplace. Up close, he saw that the hearth was dominated by the same Kagonesti who had shoved him away from the food cart.

  “What do you want, city boy?” he snarled.

  “I need a bowl,” replied Ulvian warily.

  The Kagonesti, who was called Splint, set down his bowl. Glaring at the prince, he said, “I’m no charity, city boy. You want a bowl, you got to buy it.”

  The Speaker’s son was perplexed. He had nothing to trade. All his valuables had been taken from him before he left Qualinost.

  “I don’t have any money,” he said lamely.

  Harsh laughter rang out around him. Ulvian flushed furiously. Splint wiped his mouth with the end of one of his long scalp locks.

  “You got a good pair of boots, I see.”

  Ulvian looked at his feet. These were his oldest pair of boots, scuffed and dirty, but there were no holes in them and the soles were sound. They were also the only shoes he had.

  “My boots are worth a lot more than a clay dish,” Ulvian said stiffly.

  Splint made no reply. Instead, he picked up his bowl and started eating again. He studiously ignored Ulvian, who stood directly in front of him.

  The prince fumed. Who did this wild elf think he was? He was about to denounce him and tell everyone in earshot that he was the son of the Speaker of the Sun, but the words died in his throat. Who would believe him? They would only laugh at him. Hopelessness welled up inside him. No one cared what happened to him. No one would notice if he lived or died. For a horrible instant, he felt like crying.

  Ulvian’s stomach rumbled loudly. A few of the gang around him chuckled. He bit his lip and blurted out, “All right! The boots for a bowl!”

  Languidly Splint stood up. He was the same height as Ulvian, but his powerful physique and menacing presence made him seem much larger. The prince shucked off his boots and was soon standing on the cold dirt floor in his stockings. The Kagonesti slipped his ragged sandals off and pulled on the boots. After much stamping of his feet to settle them into the unfamiliar footwear, he pronounced them a good fit.

  “What about my bowl?” Ulvian reminded him angrily.

  Splint reached under his bunk next to the fireplace and brought out a chipped ceramic bowl, enameled in blue. Ulvian snatched the dish and ran to the door, leaving gales of coarse guffaws in his wake. By the time he threw open the door and dashed out, the dwarves and the food wagon were gone.

  The grunt gang was still laughing when he returned moments later. He stalked through them to the crackling fire, where Splint sat warming himself.

  “You tricked me.” Ulvian said in a scant whisper. He was afraid to raise his voice, afraid he would start shrieking. “I want my boots back.”

  “I’m not a merchant, city boy. I don’t make any exchanges.”

  The barracks were quiet now. Confrontation was as thick in the air as smoke.

  “Give them back,” demanded the prince, “or I’ll take them back!”

  “You truly are an idiot, pest. Go to sleep, city boy, and thank the gods I don’t beat you senseless,” Splint said.

  Ulvian’s pent-up rage exploded, and he did a rash thing. He raised a hand high and smashed the empty bowl against the Kagonesti’s head. A collective gasp went up from the workers. Splint rocked sideways with the blow, but in a flash, he had shaken it off and leapt to his feet.

  “Now you got no boots and no bowl!” he spat. His fist caught Ulvian low in the chest. The prince groaned and fell against one of the spectators who had gathered, who promptly flung him back to Splint. The Kagonesti delivered a rolling punch to Ulvian’s jaw, sending him spinning into the wall. Splint followed the reeling prince.

  Ulvian’s world swam in a sea of red fog. He felt strong hands grasp his shirt and drag him away from the support of the wall. More blows rained on his head and chest. Every time he was knocked down, someone picked him up and tossed him back to receive more abuse. Vainly he tried to grapple with Splint. The wild elf broke his feeble grip with little more than a shrug, kicking him in the stomach.

  “He’s had enough, Splint,” Dru said, stepping between the prostrate Ulvian and the raging Kagonesti.

  “I ought to kill him!” Splint retorted.

  “He’s new and stupid. Let him be,” countered Dru.

  “Bah!” Splint spat on Ulvian’s back. He rubbed his throbbing knuckles and returned to his place by the fire.

  Dru dragged the semiconscious prince to his bed and rolled him into it. Ulvian’s face was bruised and battered. His left eye would soon be invisible behind a rapidly swelling lid. Eventually the pain of his injuries gave way to sleep. Hungry and beaten, Ulvian sank into forgiving darkness.

  During the night, someone stole his stockings.

  6

  BARDS AND LIARS

  THE LIGHTNING LASTED THREE DAYS, THEN SUDDENLY CEASED.

  The next day, exactly one week after the darkness had fallen across the world, the sky filled with clouds. No one thought much of it, for they were ordinary-looking gray rain clouds. They covered the sky from horizon to horizon and lowered until it seemed they would touch the lofty towers of Qualinost. And then it began to rain – brilliant, scarlet rain.

  It filled the gutters and dripped off leaves, a torrent that drove everyone indoors. Though the crimson rain had no effect on anyone save to make him wet, the universal reaction to the downpour was to regard it as unnatural.

  “At least I am spared the hordes of petitioners who sought an audience during the darkness and lightning,” Kith-Kanan observed. He was standing on the covered verandah of the Speaker’s house, looking south across the city. Tamanier Ambrodel was with him, as was Tamanier’s son, Kemian. The younger Ambrodel was in his best warrior’s garb – glittering breastplate and helm, white plume, pigskin boots, and a yellow cape so long it brushed the ground. He stood well back from the eaves so as not to get rain on his finery.

  “You don’t seem upset by this new marvel, sire,” Tamanier said.

  “It’s just another phase we must
pass through,” Kith-Kanan replied stoically.

  “Ugh,” grunted Kemian. “How long do you think it will last, Great Speaker?” Scarlet rivulets were beginning to creep over the flagstone path. Lord Ambrodel shifted his boots back, avoiding the strange fluid.

  “Unless I am mistaken, exactly three days,” said the Speaker. “The darkness lasted three days, and so did the lightning. There’s a message in this, if we are just wise enough to perceive it.”

  “The message is ‘the world’s gone mad’,” Kemian breathed. His father didn’t share his concern. Tamanier had lived too long, had served Kith-Kanan for too many centuries, not to trust the Speaker’s intuition. At first he’d been frightened, but as his sovereign seemed so unconcerned, the elderly elf quickly mastered his own fear.

  Restless, Kemian paced up and down, his slate-blue eyes stormy. “I wish whatever’s going to happen would go ahead and happen!” he exclaimed, slamming his sword hilt against his scabbard. “This waiting will drive me mad!”

  “Calm yourself, Kem. A good warrior should be cool in the face of trial, not coiled up like an irritated serpent,” his father counseled.

  “I need action,” Kemian said, halting in midstride. “Give me something to do, Your Majesty!”

  Kith-Kanan thought for a moment. Then he said, “Go to Mackeli Tower and see if any foreigners have arrived since the rain started. I’d like to know if the rain is also falling outside my realm.”

  Grateful to have a task to perform, Kemian bowed, saying, “Yes, sire. I’ll go at once.”

  He hurried away.

  *

  Red rain trickled down Verhanna’s arms, dripping off her motionless fingertips. Beside her, Rufus Wrinklecap squirmed. She glared at him, a silent order to keep still. Ahead, some thirty feet away, two dark figures huddled by a feeble, smoky campfire. Rufus had smelled the smoke from quite a distance off, so Verhanna and her two remaining warriors had dismounted and crept up to the camp on foot. Verhanna grabbed the kender by his collar and hissed, “Are these the Kagonesti slavers?”