by JD Byrne
By the time Strefer had finished her ale, Rurek had returned. He sat down across from her. “Good news,” he said. “I found somewhere we can stay and found a good way to get across the River Innis. It’s a day’s walk away, but it should be worth it. What about you?”
She leaned across the table and said, in a low voice, “I think someone’s been watching us.” She discreetly pointed towards the table by the door, but when they both turned their heads in that direction, the table was empty. “Shit,” she said.
“Who was it? Did you recognize him?” Rurek asked.
“No,” Strefer said, slumping back and doing away with any attempt at stealth. “He was sitting there looking over the place, just like I was. And now he’s gone. Maybe he was looking for us? Looking for something?”
“Or maybe we’re just being paranoid,” Rurek said. Strefer shot him a cold look. “All right, poor choice of words. Besides, we’re done here. Might as well find our accommodations for the evening. If this guy sends trouble back here, no point in being here when it arrives.”
Rurek chugged the last of his ale and they walked out into the young evening. As they walked through the streets, along a route that seemed convoluted even for trying to avoid detection, Rurek said, “Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure,” Strefer said.
“Just curious—if there’s a Guild for the folks who raise children and whatnot, then I suppose there’s a Guild for guys that run taverns, right?”
“Of course,” Strefer said, “the Guild of Hospitality.”
Rurek snorted. “Of course there is.”
“Although this particular barkeep could have also been a member of the Guild of Culinarians,” Strefer continued.
“The what?” Rurek asked.
“Culinarians,” Strefer said. “You know, cooks?”
Rurek snorted again, and they kept walking into the darkness.
~~~~~
They spent the night not at a boarding house or inn, but rather in what appeared to Strefer to be a private home. Their host was a middle-aged woman named Aira. Strefer gathered from the snips of conversation between her and Rurek that Aira’s husband was also a Sentinel and was deployed elsewhere. Perhaps that was how Rurek convinced her to allow them to stay there for the evening. Strefer never directly asked. It didn’t seem important, and she thought that Rurek was entitled to keep some of his secrets from her, so long as they were safe.
It was safe, as well as comfortable, certainly more than some threadbare boarding house would have been. Rurek and Strefer had adjoining rooms on the home’s third floor, well away from any disturbance that could come from the street. The bed in Strefer’s room was large and soft, a true luxury that made her forget all about her tiny berth on Kanawha. In the morning there was hot water for washing and a fresh breakfast.
They sat at the breakfast table in silence along with Aira. When she got up to go deal with something else, Strefer said under her breath, “I could get used to this, you know.”
“Don’t,” Rurek said around a hunk of something in his mouth. “This is the best night’s sleep and the best meal you’ll have until we get to Oberton, I imagine.”
Strefer knew he was right and so didn’t press the matter any further. She did notice that his Sentinel uniform was still intact and, if anything, in better shape than it had been in Tolenor. “I thought you were going to do something about that?” she asked quietly, gesturing towards him.
Rurek shook his head. “I thought about it and decided it was a better tool to use in a ruse,” he said. “Besides, I’m always going to be carrying that thing around,” he gestured towards the corner of the room in which his pikti rested. “It’s not exactly easy to conceal.”
Strefer could think of no good rebuttal to his conclusion. At any rate, Aira quickly returned to the table with a fresh pitcher of something that turned out to be fruit juice, freshly made from fruit imported from the Slaisal Islands. Strefer and Rurek both took a cup and drank it down. Once breakfast was over, Rurek extended his appreciation to Aira and they left the house, via a side door, and were back on the street.
By the position of the sun, Strefer could tell that Rurek was taking them due north, which made little sense to her. “Care to let me in on your plan?” she asked. “What did that barkeep tell you, anyway?”
“It wasn’t just him,” Rurek said, the base of his pikti striking the cobblestones on the street with every step. “I asked the same questions of three people at the bar. As I hoped, they each gave different answers.”
“How is that a good thing?”
“It’s a good thing because if someone comes back to the Three Lights asking questions about us, nobody can tell them where we went,” he said, head turning as he scanned the thin morning crowds on the street.
“You think that will really stop somebody who is looking for us?”
Rurek shook his head. “We don’t need to stop anybody. All we need to do is slow them down or confuse them.” He paused for a moment. “To answer your original question, we’re headed for a small private ferry just north of the city. According to one of the tavern patrons, it was once a key link between Innisport and the Arbor, but with the newer ferries downstream that have been completed in the past few years, it’s mostly been forgotten. It specializes, it seems, in moving people who don’t want to be noticed.”
“At least that makes sense,” Strefer said. They walked a few minutes more in silence, turning a corner on a street that was not a main traffic artery, but one just down the pecking order.
“Can I ask you another question, Strefer?” Rurek said.
“Sure,” she said.
“If there’s a Guild for those who raise children, and for the journalists, and for the…” he stumbled for a word, “the cooks.”
“Culinarians,” Strefer said. “They get very testy about nomenclature.”
“Yeah, yeah, all right,” Rurek said, a bit annoyed. “If there’s a Guild for all those people, is there a Guild for people who run shady ferries across the river?” He looked at her with a sharp grin.
Strefer knew the long and complicated answer, but decided not to go through it. “I’ll have to think about that one.”
It took about two hours before they were out of the city proper and into the loosely connected settlements that had developed around it. They finally turned due east, down a street that led to a small set of docks on the riverbank. There was nothing to indicate if the docks had a name or if there was some ferry service to the other side of the River Innis. But there was an empty slip at the far upstream side of the docks. They walked down onto the wooden planks that bobbed up and down on the water. From that point, they could see a small flat-bottom barge about halfway across the river, being poled across by four men.
“I suppose this is the place,” Strefer said, slumping against a pole that rose out of the water and held the dock in place.
“Think so,” Rurek said. He leaned against his pikti, catching his breath after the long morning stroll.
They waited on the dock and watched the ferry make its way slowly across the water. At times, it seemed to make no progress at all, in spite of the furious efforts of its crew. Strefer realized that they must have to correct for the effect of the current that was trying to sweep the craft out into the Water Road several miles downstream.
She looked away for just a moment and saw two men emerge from one of the boats tied up at the far end of the dock. It did not occur to her to mention them to Rurek or even think twice about them. Docks are busy places this time of day. People came and went all the time. There was nothing suspicious about them, to Strefer’s eyes.
When she glanced that way again, she saw that the two men had not walked away from the docks towards the city, but were walking slowly down towards where Strefer and Rurek were waiting on the ferry, which remained stranded in the middle of the river. They were both tall and lean, more sinew and nerve than muscle. The taller one was so pale he was almost white and,
if he had hair and a more muscular physique, could pass for Neldathi. The shorter one, his skin the darker green hue of an Arborian, looked hungry and driven. They had something in their hands, but Strefer could not see what they were holding. But her suspicions were now aroused. “Rurek,” she said, reaching into her satchel for the knife he had given her, “you see these guys?” She pointed towards the oncoming men.
Rurek had apparently nodded off. The question from Strefer jarred him back to his senses. “Uh huh,” he said, turning towards the dock boardwalk and taking his pikti in both hands, ready to use it if needed.
He needed it. While the two men were content to simply walk towards them when only Strefer was watching, Rurek’s settling into a fighting stance must have convinced them that stealth was no longer an option.
The two men were on the ferry dock before Rurek had the chance to move forward and at least divert them, if not block their path. The taller one tried to run around him, but was tripped by the quick flash of the pikti in Rurek’s hand. The treated wood smacked into bone with a crack, sending the man sprawling on the dock. Howling in pain, the knife he had slipped from his hand, skittered across the dock, and plopped harmlessly into the river.
The shorter man took Rurek by surprise. Rather than try to avoid him or square off with him in single combat, he simply plowed into the Sentinel, sending them both tumbling onto the dock, which pitched and rolled on the now turbulent water. Deploying his training and years of experience, Rurek rolled expertly out of the scrum and sprung back quickly to his feet, pikti in hand. He turned his head to Strefer. “Are you all right?” he shouted.
“Fine,” she shouted back. “Look out!” she cried as the short man returned to his feet and moved towards Rurek.
This time, the short man was out of ideas. Surprise had been successful, but only momentarily. He waved the knife menacingly at Rurek, who simply swiped it from his hand with the end of the pikti. The blade flew out across the water, glinting in the late-morning sun, and dropped into the river.
Strefer’s attacker returned to his feet as well, legs wobbly underneath him as the dock pitched and heaved. When he saw the knife in Strefer’s hand, he said, “Why don’t you give that to me, eh, love? Don’t want you to hurt yourself.”
“I’m touched,” she said, steady on her feet.
“Fine by me,” the tall man said, “I get paid whether you live or die.” He lunged towards Strefer in much the same way his partner had lunged at Rurek, perhaps hoping to cause her to panic. Instead, Strefer did as Rurek told her and slashed out at his face with the knife in a long, round arc. The blade found his cheek, opening a small gash. “You bitch!” he yelled, reeling backwards in a combination of surprise and shifting boards underneath him.
Rurek’s foe, without a weapon and out of ideas, stood for too long in one place trying to figure out his next move. Rurek seized the initiative and drove one end of his pikti into the shorter man’s stomach. He doubled over in pain and fell to his knees.
Behind her, Strefer could hear shouts and whistles from the river, from the men on the ferry that was making its way to the dock. She couldn’t make out what they were saying, and didn’t really care, so focused was she on the tall man opposite her. The way his feet shuffled underneath him, she thought there was a chance she could knock him off his feet and into the river. Once the idea was in her head, there was no reason to stop and think about it. She yelled at the top of her lungs and drove off the post behind her, lowering her shoulders, aiming at the midsection of her foe.
He was ready for Strefer’s move, or at least able to react to it quickly. He stepped to the side and grabbed her as she charged past. They slammed down on the dock, the tall man on top of Strefer, his weight pinning her down. The knife was out of her hand and she had no way of knowing where it had gone. Her head hit the dock and she tasted the sick taste of blood in her mouth.
“Thought you’d get the drop on me, bitch?” the man said, hand on the back of her head holding her down.
Strefer heard a crack from a few feet away, and then heard the same sound just above her, followed by the sound of a limp body falling onto the dock.
“Are you all right?” asked an unfamiliar voice from behind her.
Strefer rolled over and looked up, shielding her eyes from the sun with a bruised hand. Standing next to her was one of the men from the ferry, pole still in his hands and dripping water on the dock. Her attacker lay beside her on the dock, silent and unmoving. “I’ll be fine,” she said. “Thanks.” He helped her to her feet. Behind him, others clambered off the ferry to survey the scene.
A few feet away stood Rurek, panting, pikti still at the ready. The short man lay on the dock in front of him, as unmoving as the tall man. A trickle of blood ran from his head, dripping into the river through a gap between boards. “That was a dumb thing to do,” he said, pointing towards her bloody lip.
“Lesson learned,” she said. “Believe me.”
Before anyone could arrive to deal with the bloodied and beaten attackers, Strefer and Rurek hopped onto the ferry. The crew, who must have concluded they wanted to be on the other side of the river when the authorities arrived, followed. Within moments, they began inching slowly across the river to the Arbor.
Part III
Chapter 20
Once Ushan had agreed to Antrey’s plan and things were set in motion, Goshen became emboldened as never before and insisted on exposing Antrey to daily Neldathi life and trying to make her a part of it. As the clan moved further along its circuit, stopping to make camp every fourth or fifth night, Goshen would walk Antrey around the large compound that arose one day out of nowhere and disappeared just as completely a few days later.
At every campsite, the meeting hall became the center of activity. Much like the Triumvirate compound in Tolenor, everything else radiated from it, although the nature of the terrain made the layout much less uniform than Antrey was used to. There were dozens upon dozens of smaller compounds made up of linked collections of tents or other structures, each of a different size. Goshen explained that these were mostly extended family units, although some were groups of people with particular skills. Hirrek’s hunters lived spread out amongst the clan, but the Speakers of Time, for example, all lived in the same area. Children played. Animals grazed through the melting snow. Meals were eaten, arguments flared and died, and stories were told. Life, in all its manifold diversity, played out around her.
One day as they walked, Goshen and Antrey came upon an old man sitting with his back against a tree in the shade it provided. He sat not on the ground but on a small three-legged stool made from rich dark wood just tall enough to keep him from sitting on the snow. In his right hand he clutched a long staff unlike one Antrey had ever seen before.
It was as tall as a pikti, but that was the only thing they had in common. Where the pikti was made from some mysterious wood and prepared in such a way as to be black as night, the old man’s staff was brilliant and metallic. Upon close inspection, Antrey could see that it appeared to be covered in gold. And while the pikti was perfectly smooth, this staff was covered in ornate carvings along almost its entire length. Only the ends were different. On one end, the one that rested on the ground, the staff became plain and narrowed somewhat so as to dig into the ground. On the top was a carving of two figures, or what had once long ago been two figures. Antrey could not make them out from a distance.
Goshen noticed her appreciation. “They are quite something, are they not?” he asked.
“It’s brilliant,” Antrey said.
“Would you like to see it up close?” Goshen said. “It is time you met this man, anyway.”
Antrey said nothing, but let Goshen lead her over to the tree. The old man did not appear to notice them as they approached, even as the snow crunched under their feet.
Goshen said something when they reached him in polite soft tones. “This is Otom,” Goshen said to Antrey. “I asked him if he was keeping himself well this fine day.�
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The old man turned his head towards the pair, but his eyes did not find them. He smiled and asked something of Goshen. The two men conversed briefly in the Dost language without translating for Antrey’s benefit. Finally, Goshen laughed and Antrey prodded him for an explanation.
“Otom says that the day, in fact, is not fine. That the sun is too bright and hot on his face, but the shade provides its own discomforts. He wonders what my Maker of Worlds is going to do about it.”
Antrey smiled at the old man’s gentle poke at Goshen.
Goshen answered the man quickly, with a smile. “I told him that was a discussion for another day,” Goshen said to Antrey. “I also told him that I brought a young friend to him.” He turned back to Otom and said something that ended in “Antrey.”
Antrey nodded and smiled at the old man. He just shook his head and said something to Goshen in a low, disgruntled tone. “What was that?” she asked.
“He says that he does not know the name,” Goshen said. “That it is not known to him from the history of our people.” He turned back to the old man and responded to him. “I told him that the clan grows more numerous every day and asked how he could be so certain about such a thing.”
The old man laughed again and nodded, not quite at Goshen but in his general direction. He said something to Goshen then cocked his head slightly and said something that again ended in “Antrey.”
“Otom says that he will not argue the point further and that he is pleased to meet you,” Goshen said.
Drawing on the little bit of the Dost tongue Goshen had taught her, Antrey said, “Good day to you, Otom.”
In Altrerian, Goshen said, “Otom is a Speaker of Time.”
Antrey’s eyes went wide and her breath caught. Had Goshen brought her here on purpose? Was she supposed to interrogate the old man about the clan’s past? How had Otom not noticed that she was not, in fact, Neldathi, much less part of the clan? Goshen said something quietly as an aside to Otom, who laughed loudly and showed a gap-toothed smile. Then he spoke to Goshen in long bursts of short words.