by Thomas Locke
But all Dally could see was the cloud-flecked sky and the tree limbs up ahead. “Stop here. I want to sit up. I need to observe what we are entering.” Which was only half true. The reality was, Dally had never been beyond the Three Valleys, and she was flushed with the prospect of seeing her first real city.
The group halted, her pallet was rearranged, then Connell asked, “Better?”
“Much. Thank you.”
At a word from Alembord, the company re-formed, and the two scouts went on ahead. When they gave the all clear, the group proceeded through the glade, around a sharp bend, and joined the main thoroughfare.
And what a road it was, paved in greyish-yellow stones and as wide as the river running through Dally’s home village. The forest was cut well back, such that the verge on either side was twice as broad as the road itself. This served as a resting place for numerous companies taking their leisure. Dally’s group was soon surrounded by the odors of roasting meats and the sounds of bleating animals. Dally could not take it all in. Nothing in her existence to this point had prepared her for the sight of so much humanity.
There were all manner of people. Greasy mendicants hawked their wares as they journeyed. A wealthy oil merchant rode within a gilded carriage while behind him stretched several dozen high-sided transports. Swarthy mercenaries from some distant sun-kissed land surrounded a coach with veiled windows. As they passed, one crimson curtain pulled back long enough for Dally to glimpse a dowager with a painted face and jeweled fingers. Then the curtain dropped, and the lead guard snarled at them to keep their distance.
Edlyn murmured, “My, but this takes me back.”
“You have been to Port Royal, Mistress?”
“Never. But the road and the people.” Edlyn took it all in with one sweep of her hand. “I was born to a half-caste woman before the main archway leading into Falmouth Port. Or so I was told. She died when I was still very young. I was raised by numerous aunties who served at the local taverns. They claim my father was a dashing guards officer who died stamping down a rebellion by one of the hill clans.”
The two men on the wagon bench turned an ear toward Edlyn, and the mages drew their horses closer. Edlyn stared dreamily about, her eyes glistening. “My earliest memories are of the road leading into Falmouth, and the people, and the noise. The hill tribes are all at peace now, drawn together by the struggles that led to the battle for Emporis. They’ve sworn fealty to Oberon and to Shona. But in my childhood it was an entirely different story.”
Alembord said, “I’ve heard tales of their savagery.”
“That’s true enough, I suppose. But they also held to their own brutal form of honor. And they were very kind to a young orphan girl. Especially once my abilities began to appear. I was six or seven at the time. For several years I brought in more than my share of trade. I learned to fashion pewter animals from the tableware and made them dance to the minstrel’s tunes.”
They were all captivated by the tale, drawn together in a manner that Dally could never have accomplished on her own. As she listened, she wondered if this was why Edlyn spoke as she did. Taking their minds from the danger up ahead, granting them a moment of unity and peace, however fleeting.
Dally asked, “How did you gain your freedom?”
“I wouldn’t say I was ever a captive, not like the young years you’ve known,” Edlyn replied. “I was born to this, remember. That roadside inn was the only home I’d ever known. Even after I moved into the palace caverns, I spent every free day back among my friends at the tavern. Watching the river of folk and animals. Hearing stories from beyond the first line of hills. It was a grand place for mysteries.”
To Dally’s surprise, Connell suggested, “And romance, perhaps?”
“Ah, well. It was so very long ago.” Edlyn smiled at a passing squad of mounted troops. “What does an old woman know of romance.”
38
They halted soon after, pulling into a broad wayside market sheltered by massive interlocking boughs. The day was growing hot, and the animals drank thirstily from spring-fed troughs. They bought food and took tables somewhat removed from the boisterous throngs.
Connell seated himself next to Dally and said, “Time for your next dose.”
“No. Please. Later.”
Edlyn added her voice to Connell’s. The Mistress spoke gently, but it was an order just the same. “Drink.”
Once Dally had gagged down another horrid spoonful of the glutinous mess, she did feel significantly improved. She was content to listen in silence as they ran through both strategy and timing. These were no longer her plans. The idea might have come from her, but as she listened to the others she felt as though she had merely planted a seed.
As Dally watched the road, she cast the occasional glance at Connell. His closeness filled her senses. Dally had known several infatuations with local village lads. A dance or two at season fetes. A stolen kiss. A few whispered words. But all that seemed so distant now. This was her first contact with, well, a man. She had no idea what to do or say.
She wondered if Connell was this nice to all the ladies. The prospect stabbed at her. She wanted him to treat her differently than the others. And there had to be others, with a man this handsome and from a fine family and gifted in magic. No doubt his young female students had been madly in love with their strikingly grand instructor. Dally found herself jealous of them all. Logic had nothing to do with how she felt. More than anything else, right then she wanted him to see her as . . .
Special.
He turned and smiled at her then. Connell’s eyebrows were golden in the sunlight, his smile both gentle and beckoning. Dally wondered what it would be like to kiss those lips, and blushed furiously at the direction of her thoughts.
Connell said, “Perhaps we should be going.”
They exited the forest soon after. A broad vale expanded out to where hills rose to the left and right of the highway. Four other roads joined together here, forming a river of traffic and people streaming to and from the capital. The broad thoroughfare dropped gently down an emerald slope. Beyond stone barriers stretched a latticework of farms and crops and herds. All this was overlooked by grand manors that dotted the hilltops. And directly ahead of them rose Port Royal.
Far to their right, a grand lake nestled up against the city’s ramparts, and from this flowed a moat that stretched out in both directions. The capital formed a gilded necklace strung around the realm’s finest harbor. The city’s walls gleamed a timeless yellow in the afternoon light.
A smallish island with sheer stone sides rose in the middle of the harbor, effectively splitting the port in two. An ancient fortress covered every inch of the island’s flattened top like an ancient stone hat. There were numerous other palaces and grand estates inside the city walls, each nestled within a small island of green. The remainder of the city showed roofs and chimneys and towers, all of the same reddish-gold stone. The effect was as striking as it was uniform. Long streamers of smoke rose from countless kitchen fires, drifting cheerfully in the still air.
Alembord had once served a count who owned a Port Royal manor, and he described some of what they saw. “The fishing vessels are that motley lot clustered to the left of the customs fortress. The broad, flat expanse you see fronting the sea wall holds the daily fish market. To the right are the merchant vessels and warships.”
“There are so many,” Dally said.
“Hundreds,” Alembord agreed. “Since the Oberons were deposed, the king has anchored his seagoing force here under his thumb.”
The ships rocked gently with the incoming tide. The sea glistened beneath the cloudless sky. Now and then a larger wave buffeted the ancient sea wall extending from the two natural arms. The sound boomed like a distant cannon, echoing off the hills and frothing the old stone before falling away.
Dally asked, “Where is the king’s residence?”
“Look there to the right. See the squared-off walls? That’s the inner keep. The palace is
below those six towers with the banners—that’s the royal seal on the white backing. The king’s emblem.”
Dally asked because she had to. “And the treasury?”
Alembord cast her a worried look but merely said, “The large square windowless structure, just to the left of the inner keep’s tallest tower. The only door is solid bronze and well guarded. It leads to a series of vast storerooms.”
Connell said softly, “And where, pray tell, is the enemy?”
No one responded to that. But the answer hung heavy in the summer heat.
Everywhere.
39
Dally was overwhelmed by everything she saw. According to Alembord, the city, combined with the palatial estates atop the surrounding hills, was a day and a half’s ride from end to end. Bright flags of office and fiefdom banners hung from numerous towers and rooftops. A faint breeze began to push inland, carrying with it the pungent odors of salt and sea and drying nets. Where the roads joined, a trio of minstrels stood by the rocky intersection and played a merry tune. Two jugglers with silver bells tied to their wrists and ankles tossed colorful balls in time to the music. Even so, all the faces Dally saw held a somber cast.
“These people look very worried,” Myron said.
“Terrified, more like,” Connell replied.
The city’s main entrance was formed by a pair of massive gates, one inside the other. The broad moat separating them effectively made Port Royal an enormous island. Guards manned the first tower gate, inspecting wagons and exacting penny-sized bribes from everyone who sought entry.
Dally spotted a healer’s assistant standing somewhat removed from the guards. She instantly knew what role he played. Before the thorn barrier had cut the Three Valleys off from the world, physicians often passed through plying their salves and their talents. Most tended to be cast-offs and second-rate medics who had never managed to gain a foothold in the more competitive cities. Others had fled their fiefdoms in disgrace. A few, though, simply loved the road. They all traveled with assistants or apprentices who were dressed as this one was, in tunic and leggings with the healers’ logo on their hat and chest.
“Potions made up fresh with the finest of healing spells,” he called in a bored voice. “Potions for the faint of heart and limb. My master is known far and wide for his ability to halt the wasting disease.”
“The wasting disease,” Alembord repeated, a bit too loudly, for it turned the man’s attention their way.
He was portly and heavily jowled and showed them a greedy gleam. “What’s this I see here? Another innocent lost to the wasting ailment?”
“Innocent, yes.” Edlyn’s voice was sharp in the manner of a servant who had spent years speaking for her mistress. “Lost, certainly not.”
“And yet here you are, journeying to Port Royal in search of what my master can offer!” The apprentice was old enough to have grey in his hair. Which suggested his lack of abilities had kept him from ever gaining full healer status. “From where do you hail?”
Alembord responded in a voice that carried to the city guards who now observed them. “The hill fief of Reime. My lady is the count’s only child.”
“No doubt your local healers could do naught for her ladyship.” The apprentice rubbed his hands together. “Just the sort of case my master specializes in.”
The sergeant in charge of the gate’s squad walked over. “There’s a charge for all who seek entry into Port Royal.”
A signal must have passed between Alembord and the apprentice, for the local man declared, “Three shillings per clan, that’s the proper charge and not a penny more.”
“Three shillings is twice what we paid last visit,” Alembord protested.
“It’s gone up to five,” the sergeant snarled. “Difficult times, these.”
“Three is the rate,” the apprentice insisted.
The sergeant looked ready to argue, but Edlyn said, “Give the guard his due and let us be off. I want to see my lady bathed and rested. It’s been a long journey.” When Alembord looked ready to argue, she snapped, “Pay him!”
Alembord grumbled but did as he was told. As they were waved through the first gate, Edlyn said, “Now pay this good man his due as well.”
Alembord pretended to seethe as he reopened the purse strings. The apprentice made the coin disappear, then asked, “Do you have lodgings?”
“We’re to stay with the banker allied to the silent ones,” Edlyn said.
“If the count’s letter arrived,” Alembord groused, slipping the purse back into his pocket.
“Hush now,” Edlyn said, then addressed the apprentice. “Do you know the banker’s residence?”
“All Port Royal know of that one,” the apprentice replied. “But you’d be well advised to seek lodgings elsewhere.”
“And no doubt be gouged by some flea-bitten innkeeper,” Alembord muttered.
“That’s enough,” Edlyn said. “Good sir, we are well aware of the situation. But we have orders from our master. Will you show us the way?”
The healer’s apprentice led them past the second portcullis and through a cobblestone market. Beyond the city’s main stables, the avenue broadened and the houses became much finer. Here and there were tight patches of citified green, with carefully tended trees and splashes of summer flowers. The houses had crosshatched windows that masked their barred faces with diamond-shaped glass. Troops and armed sentries were everywhere. The city’s atmosphere was tense, muted.
The farther they moved into the city, the quieter the apprentice became. Finally he halted at an intersection and said, “This watchtower belongs to the house you seek. The entry is up ahead on your left.”
Edlyn asked, “What manner of man is he?”
“A good enough sort, by all accounts. Though I’ve never met him. He is tended by another healer.” The apprentice cast nervous glances to either side, then added, “The man and the people he represents are out of favor. That’s a dangerous thing to be in these times. You’re much better off finding another place to lay your head.”
Edlyn paid his warning no mind. “Have your physician attend us tonight.”
“Begging your pardon, miss. But the healer won’t be coming here, oh my word no. Not for gold nor diamonds neither.”
“Then give us his address.”
“First house on the main market’s eastern flank. Red door.”
“Thank you, good sir. Alembord, give the man another shilling for his troubles.”
The apprentice made the coin vanish, knuckled his forehead, and scuttled away.
Myron waited until the man was out of hearing range to say, “Perhaps we’d be better off doing as he said.”
“Nonsense,” Edlyn replied. “This location is ideal.”
“The banker has maintained his loyalty to the Ashanta even when it’s risked him everything,” Connell said. “And the whole city knows it.”
“The apprentice has just earned his coin,” Alembord said.
40
The Ashanta banker’s manor was enormous, a veritable palace set within its own keep. Beyond the front gates, a graveled lane curved beneath dual lines of fruit trees before arriving at a set of sweeping front stairs. The banker was away on some official duty when they arrived. The chief guard’s name was Gert, and he greeted them with sour disapproval. But his master had been alerted to their arrival, the guard conceded, and so led them to the rear entrance. He clearly intended this as a slur, but Dally’s one brief glimpse at the manor’s formal rooms was enough. She insisted upon staying with her team. Gert snorted his disdain and stomped away.
There formed an uneasy truce between the banker’s staff and Dally’s team. Edlyn and Alembord made it work by simply ignoring Gert’s suspicious jibes. The chief guard was a brutish man with scarred knuckles and a flattened nose. He spoke with a deceptively quiet voice, but Dally disliked how the rest of the house staff showed fear at his approach. Alembord despised the man. They said nothing to one another, but Dally thought it w
as like watching two cur dogs who waited for the chance to strike.
Edlyn insisted upon helping Dally up the stairs and out of her road-stained clothes and into the bath. The steamed water and the feel of clean clothes were exquisite. When they returned downstairs, they found a table laden with early-season fruit, a plate piled with smoked meats, a quarter-round of cheese, a clay pot of fresh-churned butter, and bread still steaming from the oven.
Gert stomped through the rear entry just as the cook’s two helpers set out flat bowls of stew. The pair fled at his approach. He stood watching Dally and her company with eyes of dried mud, fists cocked on hips, a bruiser looking for his next conquest. As Dally felt the friction growing between Gert and Alembord, she shut her eyes, reached out, and signaled to her dogs. A few moments later, the wolfhounds padded in.
Gert took an involuntary step back and snarled, “Them dogs of yours better not give my lot trouble. Else I’ll skin ’em and turn four dogs into one fine coat.”
Edlyn and Dally and Alembord fed the dogs from their spoons. Edlyn said, “No trouble, Captain.”
They were seated around a broad-plank table in a pantry as large as Norvin’s cottage. Shelves held wheels of cheese and jars of spices and dough covered in cheesecloth and left to rise. The air was redolent with all the fragrances of a happy home. Gert’s disagreeable presence was the only sour note.