“Wow,” was all Geryn could say as they made their way patiently through the throng.
“Takes some getting used to,” Thorn agreed.
“Been before, have yeh?”
“Not here, precisely. But I’ve seen the like, yes.”
“Could fit the whole o’ Bandicour—garrison an’ town t’gether—inta this market, an’ that’s a fack.”
“From the looks of it, people in Angwyn don’t know how to do anything small.”
“Where’s the palace, then?”
“Which one?”
“Get off!”
Thorn had to chuckle and decided to gamble on some roast meat from a vendor. A trial taste confirmed his nose’s assessment; it was fresh, soaked in a deliciously spiced marinade, and then coated with a peanut dipping sauce, washed down with lemonade so strong it made his cheeks pucker. Geryn preferred a half-mug of ale and promptly made a face.
“Ain’t beer,” he declared.
“Hell you say,” replied the vendor hotly, brandishing his license. “An’ I got the certifications to prove it!”
Geryn held up his hands in a placating gesture. “Ain’t proper beer, not the way it’s brewed on the frontier.”
“Then maybe you best go back, swiller. We brew for more particular palates.”
“He’s for a burr up his butt,” the Pathfinder groused as he let Thorn tug him away. “Or better yet, a boot!”
“Different places, different tastes. The frontier isn’t known for subtlety, in drink or manner.”
Geryn laughed out loud and repeated, “That’s a fack, Peck. But tell me, yeh wasn’t buzzin’ me about more than one palace?”
“At least one for every hill, so Morag told me, and this is a city of hills.”
“The way I’m looked at, folk here’bouts must think me a proper bumpkin.”
“Pathfinders are a rare sight at the heart of the kingdom, especially carrying their saddles. They’re as old and noble a regiment as the Lions, Geryn….”
“So yeh wonder why I’ve my heart set on t’other?”
“Yes, actually. I mean, it wasn’t the Red Lions who were sent to Tir Asleen.”
“That’s a fack, certes. M’ gran’da was a Lion, yeh see. We had a place up along the Madarine, no good for farmin’, nothing come from that land ’cept stones an’ busted hearts; m’ da, though, were good with his hands, grant ’im that. Made his trade as a cobbler, boots ’n such, brought in a fair wage most times, kept us clothed an’ fed. Gran’da, though…”
Geryn’s voice trailed off and he wiped foam from his upper lip. The midday sun had turned the flagstone plaza into a searingly hot griddle, driving them to take refuge under the canopy of an open-air tavern. Thorn shifted his carryall to the ground as the two of them settled into canvas-backed chairs, spent a few moments fiddling with the laces to cover the brownies’ descent from their hiding places in his clothes. He set a cup of water on the carryall and allowed himself a smile when he raised it to his lips and found it almost empty. He knew they’d prefer beer, but that indulgence would have to wait until the travelers were properly settled. He hadn’t heard a comment from either since coming ashore and didn’t mind a bit.
“Your grandfather?” Thorn prompted, genuinely interested.
“Aye. Gran’da, his visits, they were somethin’ wonderful. His uniform was a sight to behold and the stories were even better. Always brought presents, he did, sorta bound us t’gether, jus’ by bein’ inna room. Made us feel we were a proper fam’ly. Made me feel proud.”
“He and your father didn’t get along.”
Geryn looked over sharply. “How’d yeh know that?”
“A guess. A color to your tone.”
“He never came when me da were home. My whole life, I never saw ’em t’gether. He wanted me da to follow him into the service, as he’d followed his—me great-gran’da—an’ so on, back five full generations. Me da were his only son, but he wouldn’t hold t’ tha’ tradition. Said he had no truck wi’ takin’ orders, wanted to be his own man entire, beholdin’ to none. If King were attacked, that were different; elsewise, he jus’ din’t see the sense of it. Fam’ly came first, plain an’ simple. Gran’da, he thought me da were a coward.”
“Did you?”
A shrug. But the answer was clear.
“Still, Geryn, in their way the Pathfinders are just as renowned, just as elite….”
“Yeh don’t understand.” No anger to the lad, the words came in a weary outrush of breath, as though this were an old fight. “Me da were bonded to the King’s service as a boy. Pledged to a place among the Lions. Five generations, an’ Gran’da was the first of us to wear that crest. An’ he’d served so well he’d secured a likewise place for me da. But when the time came ta take the Oath, me da refused. Gran’da never forgave him for that disgrace.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Not’cher fam’ly, Peck. Not’cher problem. Dunno why I told yeh of it. Anyroad, both dead now.” He grinned. “ ’S a fool’s dream, I know, but I thought if I could take the place m’ da refused…”
“Perhaps I can help.”
“Yer not startin’ tha’ bunk about Nelwyns an’ the Magus, are yeh? Tha’s plain daft, don’tchaknow?”
“Trust me. I’m a Nelwyn, the Magus is a Nelwyn. All you need do is present me at the door.”
“An’ spend th’ rest o’ my career muckin’ stables, most likely.”
“Nothing ventured…?”
“Seen yeh throwin’ bones on the boat, what do they say?”
Dutifully, Thorn pulled out the tiny packet and undid its leather-and-oilskin wrappings. With the ease of long practice, he rolled the bones in his cupped hands and let his eyes assume a faraway stare, not a true trance, merely the appearance of one. Then he stopped and simply held them.
“Oi,” nudged Geryn, after a time. When that provoked no response, he tried a little louder. “Oi! Drumheller! Yeh spirit-walkin’ or what?”
The Nelwyn blinked, drew his gaze back to the Daikini, but still wasn’t really seeing him as he slowly moved his hands. He felt like an automaton left to rust, metal grinding so harshly on itself it was sure to break.
“My hands are cold,” Thorn said, more loudly in thought than speech. Followed on its heels by an unspoken realization. My hands are frozen!
He set the bones gently on their bundle, stretched and flexed his fingers to restore their suppleness. The bones were dusted with hoarfrost, whose sparkles glistened brilliantly before the sun consumed them. The hands that held them felt as though he’d thrust them naked into an ice storm. He was half-surprised when he sighed to see no cloud of cold condensation on his breath, his body was so sure it was winter.
“Y’okay, Peck?”
“I know it’s a common term, Trooper,” he said with asperity, his body’s distress provoking a sharper tone than he intended, “and I know you mean no offense, but I really don’t like it.”
At first, it appeared as though the young Daikini would protest the point; then he thought better of it, accepting Thorn’s request with a nod of the head and an audible closing of his mouth.
“Never really thought about it, y’know,” Geryn said. “Just a word, is all.”
“Words have power. As much sometimes as any sword.”
“So tell me, are yeh okay?”
Thorn looked about, twisting his head over one shoulder, then the other, for as full as possible a view of the plaza. Nothing had changed in the slightest, hardly any time had passed. People filled the space with their bodies and charged the air with a heady mix of excitement and joy. What skeins of apprehension there were, were buried deep. The sun shone brightly overhead, the day was warm beyond comfort.
Yet when he clutched the bones, all around him had been gray and frozen, a wasteland devoid of life where not even the hottest flame would make a difference.
“Bad Se
eing, was it?”
Thorn shook his head and said, “No Seeing at all, my friend. Just a body getting old before its time. Shall we go?”
Some portion of his InSight always remained open to the resonances about him. If the image came again, or any other, he would be ready.
“Which way?”
“Biggest hill, biggest palace.”
Geryn groaned. Then threw coins on the table and heaved his body to its feet and gear to his shoulder.
“Best be off, then. Probably take all day ta find it, in this warren.”
He wasn’t far wrong. Not so much in terms of finding the King’s Palace, but in reaching it. Angwyn was built atop a score and more of hills, arrayed in a cluster about the headland. Some tall, some not, most so painfully steep that both had to pause for breath as they negotiated the slopes.
Two main thoroughfares reached out from the port. The Royal Promenade ran straight as an arrow flight to the city’s main landward gate and the High Road beyond, providing the easiest possible passage for travelers following the overland route down the peninsula. Meandering the other way, along the waterfront toward the King’s Gate, was the esplanade—more colloquially referred to as the “Rambles,” because that was what folk tended to do when the weather was nice, enjoying both the spectacular view of Angwyn Bay and the many and varied shops that lined the thoroughfare. Both were paved highways; as were, Geryn quickly discovered to his amazement, most of the city’s streets.
Clustered close about the plaza was the business district, dominated by the great mercantile houses and their attendant banks, plain, solid structures meant to inspire confidence in customers and investors both. As well could be found all the myriad establishments that serviced the port—saloons and joy houses at one extreme (proudly proclaiming that they catered solely to “quality” folk, not at all like their waterfront counterparts), chandlers and victuallers and shipwrights at the other. The neighborhood was called the Silver Square, because within that legendary square mile you could buy or sell virtually anything. It wasn’t a roughhouse precinct, the Civic Watch saw to that, but that in no way meant the deals weren’t just as cutthroat, the terms just as ruthless.
Most common folk lived south of the promenade. Rough trade hung close to the water; life was held more dear the farther inland you progressed. Nothing fancy there, the buildings tended to be walk-ups, four flights, maybe six, with lucky families having a whole floor to themselves. Streets were a winding, messy tangle, and what signposts there were tended to add to the confusion. There was no plan to the layout; it had the air of something made up as it went along, without a thought to the practical ramifications. The standing joke spoke of how every new monarch—or chancellor—would look down from the heights and vow to bring some order from this never-ending chaos. If anyone actually tried, though, they worked more subtly than any devil because none of the residents ever noticed a single change. In truth, they figured that was for the best.
North of the promenade, the lesser slopes of the lower hills were the province of the minor nobility. Landed gentry, who for convenience kept a house in the capital, and Life Peers, commoners whose titles were an acknowledgment of service to the Lion Throne. The permanent government was found here, all the departments of state. As you moved uptown, moving along the shore toward the Gate, the more formidable the hill, the more impressive the title.
Dominated, of course, by King’s Mount. One of the most impressive features was Elora’s Aerie, sanctum sanctorum of the Sacred Princess. This, they learned from an eager troubadour, outfitted in a costume of brilliant spangles that caught and reflected sunlight so wildly he appeared clad in flames of every imaginable hue. He cheerily offered gossip and directions and some quite marvelously filthy songs to anyone who’d paused to listen, in return for coins tossed into a proffered cap. He was a personable enough youth, but something about his smile—both lips and eyes—made Thorn nervous, a sense of being the butt of some great joke. He thought of using InSight to see beneath the surface of the jongleur’s soul, and found himself dismissing the notion out of hand. It would, some instinct told him, be a mistake. He didn’t know why, he knew of no way to learn, and chose to leave well enough alone.
“To some,” the lad said, “a sanctuary. Others,” a dismissive twist of the shoulder, “a prison.”
“What d’yeh mean, wretch?” demanded Geryn, taking immediate offense. The troubadour didn’t appear to mind, probably because he’d heard such comments before.
Thorn had led Geryn along the Rambles, partly to ease the strain on his own short legs but mainly to observe the unbelievable throng of people. He couldn’t help being fascinated, he’d never seen so many in a single place. Eager as Maulroon and Morag had been to steer clear of Angwyn, it seemed everyone else in the country had the opposite notion: this was the ideal time for a visit.
“A cage is a cage, my friend, no matter how gilded,” said the troubadour, punctuating his commentary with some sharp riffs on his guitar.
“We should all be so lucky, an’ yeh ask me, to have such a life.”
“Coddled and cosseted and never allowed out? Fun for a while, perhaps…”
“Elora isn’t allowed out?” Thorn asked.
“Are yeh daft, Drumheller?” Geryn cried, aghast. “She’s the Sacred Princess, bless all our souls! She’s holy! Likes o’ her don’t mingle wi’ the likes of us, ain’t right nor proper. An’ where’s the need, anyroad? ’Tis said her tower’s more luxurious than the King’s own palace, an’ her every necessity provided for, her every desire satisfied.”
“Except freedom,” the troubadour noted.
“Like t’ see what body part yeh’d cast away fer a portion of such a life,” Geryn challenged belligerently, punctuating his words with a rude gesture, and another for good measure to show the depth of his disgust and speed the singer on his way. Thorn slipped the troubadour a gold piece.
“She’s not seen at all, then,” he asked.
“The Ascension’s the first time by any but the Royals and her attendants. I’d move off the road, I were you,” the troubadour said suddenly, his tone flattening to an edge.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Maizan. Thunder Riders.”
He was already moving, and Thorn hurried after, taking three scuttling strides to every one of his. The esplanade was wide enough for a dozen men to ride abreast with room to spare, beach on one side, buildings on the other. There weren’t more than a score of riders in the unit, but their horses’ hooves struck the paving stones like drumheads, making those twenty sound like ten times their number.
“I see where they get their name,” Thorn said, casually pulling a wide-brimmed hat from his carryall and settling it on his head. Nothing unusual about that; the sun was high overhead and there was precious little shade.
The troubadour nodded. “ ‘Maizan’ is what they call themselves.”
Sable figures on ebony horses, as though all had been carved from a piece of blackest jet. Dark armor and horned helms. Leather overlaid with pieces of steel plate, designed as much for comfort as practicality. They were large-framed men, cast pretty much from the same mold, a stark contrast to the slim figure who led them.
She was a woman for one, not quite a match for them in height and certainly not in breadth. But she more than made up for that with the sheer force of her personality. She wore no armor, and conveyed the sense that none was needed, she was more than capable of taking care of herself without. The cut of her clothes was simple, yet the fabric was exquisite, a rich sand-colored weave that managed the flow and drape of silk while retaining the sturdiness of cotton. She wore trousers, which caused some muttering among the more conservative onlookers, that matched the color of her blouse, tucked into knee-high boots. Over the shirt was a high-collared tunic of mahogany leather, skins so fine they were as pliable as cloth, that buttoned out along the shoulder and down the side, falling to midthigh but slit
on each leg below the waist to allow for complete freedom of movement. It was sleeveless, and the full, bell sleeves of her blouse billowed in the breeze set up by her mount’s canter. She wore two daggers on her belt, plus a sword. The weapons and their harness were the only things about her that weren’t designed for show. The leather was worn, the gloss of polish mixed with the patina of long and hard usage and the blades were hung as a warrior would, were they could be quickly and easily drawn. She wore her dark hair as a mane, gathered behind a rebellious forelock and wrapped into a broad braid that touched her backside. No jewelry to speak of, save a narrow circlet of silver that appeared to be molded to her forehead.
The funny thing was, for all her finery, she wasn’t especially pretty. Looking about the crowd, Thorn picked out an easy handful of young women who matched her in age but far surpassed her in looks; from the comments, a couple of them knew it. Yet there was a presence to the rider, the way features combined with character, that would make her the focal point of any crowd, the natural center of attention. Indeed, the eyes of the crowd went naturally to her, passing over the Maizan Castellan who rode by her side. Even Thorn, who should have been looking at the man, found his gaze drawn like a magnet back to the woman.
She wasn’t one of the Maizan, but she was more than a match for them.
“Anakerie,” the troubadour announced to no one in particular. “Princess Royal. Her father’s heir since the disappearance of her brother.”
“Is that all you’re going to say?” Thorn smiled encouragement when the silence stretched between them. The Thunder Riders had passed them by and the crowd begun to reclaim the esplanade.
Shadow Moon Page 14