by Ember Lane
Hmmm…Lincoln thought. Has Finequill just baited the hook? Three to six gold, he’d remember that.
“Nice,” Lincoln replied. “A tidy sum.”
Finequill looked up at him. “Yes, well, good day. I’ll see you when you die.” He handed back the scroll. “You best keep the deeds, eh?” He turned tail and shuffled toward the door. “Remember,” he called. “See you when you die!” And out he went.
Lincoln turned back to Allaise. “He’s a cheerful soul.”
She leaned over the counter in her alluring way. “Finequill? He’s just a jealous little ceratog; he’s got no magic.” She grinned. “His sister got the lot—quite funny really.”
“Sister?”
“Spillwhistle. She’s got a magic shop on Keep Street. So, gonna let a girl see your little plot?” Allaise laughed.
Lincoln blushed and hunched over his soup. It was a new land, and he did feel great, but Joan was definitely still his love, and far too recent for him to think the way he was thinking. “It’s a plot, but not one I can build a city on.”
Allaise ducked under the bar’s serving flap and sat beside him. “A city? With a castle and all? Why’d you want that?”
Lincoln wagged his finger at her while he waited to swallow a mouthful of soup. “No, no castle. I need to find me somewhere idyllic, remote, somewhere away from all the spite that brought my world to its knees.”
“You’re one sentimental old fool, Lincoln. You won’t become a lord without a castle. You’ll never get a guild, or be a banner. This place ain’t no fairy tale.”
“I’ll make it work.”
Her laughter rang around the empty tavern. Empty that was apart from a slowly waking Pete who was still lain out across two benches. Allaise continued to berate Lincoln. “No bows, pikes or swords—good luck with that.”
Lincoln smiled and drummed his fingers on the counter. “Like I said, I’ll make it work.”
With a splutter and a start, Pete then yawned, rolled off the benches and crashed onto the filthy floor.
“Morning Pete,” Allaise called, as the half-giant looked around, confused. “Though he’s big,” Allaise explained, “he can’t take his ale. Never has been able to and never will.”
“It’s my heart,” Pete groaned, holding his head. “It’s too slow for this big, old body.”
Lincoln hopped off his barstool and walked up to him. “Here,” he said, and offered him his hand.
Pete’s hand wrapped around his, and Lincoln strained to pull the giant up.
“Hey, you need some strength,” Pete said. “Not much, but some.”
“I’ve got some growing to do.” Lincoln hopped back onto his stool. Pete slumped onto the bar.
“Tea?” Allaise asked.
“Got any honey?” Pete groaned, holding his head. “So, you want me to show you the training ground?”
“Or I could show you where your plot is,” Allaise offered, turning with two teas in her hand.
Two generous offers, thought gullible Lincoln. But why? Thought suspicious Lincoln. His protection only lasted until this evening, so learning some skills and defense should be a priority. But Finequill had made a point of checking his beginner’s deeds, and now Allaise had offered to take him there. Could that be the scam? he wondered.
He chose Allaise. The thought of being scammed was a scab he wanted to rip off. More than anything, he wanted to discount his grumbling worries. He wanted to believe in folks in this land. Utopia would be hard to fashion from liars.
Pete merely shrugged and started the business of getting the tavern ready for opening. Allaise began to explain the finer points of where they actually were.
“This place is called The Shambles,” she told him. “It’s the worst part of town, simply because it’s the lowest. All the sewers lead to The Shambles.”
Lincoln nodded. His nose had told him much the same. “Why do you live here, then?”
Allaise leaned over the counter and cupped his cheeks in her fine hands. She turned his head, and he got the slightest whiff of her sweet scent. “Because,” she whispered, her voice husky, “where else can a half-elf run a tavern with the help of a half-giant? Certainly not over the bridge, they’re all snobs over there, and to the west, near the temple and court, not a chance—pure blood only. Nope, my place is in the muck until fortunate winds fill my sails.”
Lincoln wondered if that was a hint or a lament. He decided on the latter, seeing as he was a mere level 1 weakling. “Maybe, one day you can come to my fair town and peddle your ale there,” he said. “Pour me a small mug.”
“Don’t you like your tea?”
But Lincoln bid her to do as he’d asked, and when she gave him the mug, he took a sip of ale and swilled it around his mouth. Closing his eyes, Lincoln tried to picture all the ingredients in the swill—for swill it was.
“Pete,” he said, having swallowed it. “You’re going to the market?”
“Yarp,” Pete said, like a burp.
Lincoln asked Allaise for something to scribble on, and she gave him an old ear of parchment and a stick of charcoal.
“Can you pick me up some of these? About a handful of each.”
Pete looked down at the list, but handed it back to Lincoln. “Could do, if I could read.”
“Orange peel, junipers, and cinnamon,” he told the giant. “And peppercorns and yeast—or moldy fruit, either will do.”
“Two bronze.”
Lincoln held his hand over his sack and two coins popped out.
“What’s it for?” Allaise asked.
“Didn’t I mention it? Where I came from, I used to brew the finest ale for a hundred miles around.”
Allaise’s eyes lit up, and she leaned on the counter. “Well, aren’t you the clever one,” she purred.
Though she tried to find out what he intended to do, Lincoln would tell her nothing. Pete finished up his chores, and Allaise tossed Lincoln a long coat that was hanging behind the bar.
“Have this,” she muttered. “He’s dead, so he’s no use fer it, and it’ll cover those noob rags,” and they all left the tavern together, escorting him out into The Shambles. Now she’d explained exactly why this place stank so much; its odor nearly overpowered him.
Brokenford, as at least part of the name suggested, forded a river. Half of the city was built on the northern side, with the castle standing proudly on an island in the river’s middle. The Shambles lurked in the southern half, and Allaise told him that somehow, no matter the season, The Shambles was nearly always in the castle’s shade. That was another reason it was always damp and dank. Coincidentally, Lincoln’s beginner’s plot was also on the southern side, but beyond the city wall.
They walked out of the shadows of The Shambles and on to the main thoroughfare through Brokenford. Allaise told him it was called Keep Street and that it was actually part of The Silver Road that ran the length of Irydia, from Castle Zybond in the north east all the way to Quislaine at its south western-most tip.
It was a bright and airy road after the press of The Shambles’ narrow streets, and Pete ambled off south and to the market. For the first time that day, Lincoln looked up at the sky. It was a sweep of vivid blue; the sun high over the city’s castle keep, and finally Lincoln saw some of the beauty of the land. Allaise grabbed his hand and pulled him over to the bridge that spanned toward to the keep. At first Lincoln protested, wanting to press on to his plot, but he soon relented.
She stopped ten yards along it and turned him west. In the distance, vast mountains reached up to the blue sky and dominated the horizon. They were perhaps twice, or three or more times the height of those back on earth. They were goliaths, clear and distinct peaks like the fangs of some mythical beast. White capped their tops, and spread down their flanks like a hefty cloak. Dabs of black among blots of green told him of sheer rock faces and thick forests. Lower, child-like hills cowered under the their gaze, bowing in prayer to the clear masters.
Those mountains had power. Linco
ln could feel it. Ancient power that had been locked up for an age and now waited to be set free. He could see it radiating from the rock itself and in the shimmering sky around those tumultuous peaks. For the first time since spawning, Lincoln grinned a true game grin. Not the smirk that you’d hold in good company, not the laughter at an average joke. His excitement was one of a quester about to enter a new dungeon, of a warrior about to cleave a fresh skull. If he could find that stirring power and build on it, with it in partnership, like a dovetail joint or a seamless miter—if he could do that—he knew he could fashion a city worthy of Joan’s name.
A prompt started flashing in his mind.
Congratulations! You have opened the skill Divination. To divine is divine and what you’ll find will be fine. The skill divination, will enable you to see what lies beneath, maybe even beneath some lies. You are a level 1 novice.
“Balazar’s teeth,” Allaise whispered, clearly oblivious to everything going on in Lincoln’s mind. “That’s what they call them. They split this land in two and then curve all the way around to the east, to Zybond.”
“They’re beautiful,” Lincoln said, his voice hushed.
He’d hardly noticed the tumbling river that flowed beneath them, but now it’s power shook through him, rolling and roiling, playfully tumbling down, but battering everything out of its way. Whatever this skill was, it was a potent boon. Somehow, he knew he’d been blessed.
“There, Lincoln, in those mountains; that’s where you’ll find your settlement, nowhere else in this forsaken land. Take no note of Pete. Half bloods like us find no sanctuary in a world of the pure.”
“Forsaken?”
She grunted. “Forsaken.” She leaned on the stone balustrade that lined the bridge. “This land has too many gods and too many kings that would be gods. They say war is coming; truth is, it never left.”
“Why don’t you come with me?”
Allaise laughed at that. “You’ll be back.”
Lincoln shook his head. “Nope, no I won’t.”
“You’ve got no skills.” She furrowed her brow. “Divination?” But she carried on, regardless. “You haven’t even allocated your points. How in Lamerell’s name are you going to travel a few hundred miles and found a city?”
Lincoln pushed himself away from the balustrade and turned. “I’ll use my charisma.”
“You forget, I can see your stats. You don’t even have the attribute.”
“Mine’s all natural. If it doesn’t work, I’ll pump all my spare points into luck.”
Allaise skipped back a step, and stood opposite him. “You’re a strange one, Lincoln Hart, but I sense a good soul. Your plot’s south. See if you can find it yourself. If you can, maybe you will found that city with no skill.” Her smile was radiant, glowing. “Goodbye for now, Lincoln Hart.” And she planted a kiss on his cheek.
“Goodbye for now, Allaise.”
Lincoln watched her walk off the bridge and duck back down into the shadows of The Shambles. He let a smile creep on to his lips, and took a lungful of fresh, river air. Bustling—that would adequately describe the road that led south and away. From his elevated position on the bridge he could see the narrow belt that was southern Brokenford. It was a crescent of smoke and grime surrounded by a drab border of what he assumed were the arable lands.
Behind him, the imposing castle rose upward, blotting out the north in a mass of chiseled gray rock, black flint, and crenellations. A dark and ominous tunnel led under it and toward the river’s northern bank. A place Lincoln had to hold himself back from exploring. He felt himself being drawn toward the north.
Allaise had told him his plot was outside the city wall, a half a mile farther, and on the road’s left, and so he started down Keep Street joining the throngs that milled on its cobbles. Carts and barrows trundled past him spilling with fresh, golden hay, or piled high with apples, or loaves, or anything and everything the occupants of the castle might desire. Barrow boys pushed their loads up the bridge, rosy cheeks puffed out, and funnels of steam bursting forth as they struggled. Lincoln had to jump out of the way as a small caravan of stone blocks barged through the throng.
Red and ocher prevailed among the teaming crowds, and that was the color the soldiers wore. It adorned their breastplates, shields, and every banner planted at regular intervals down Keep Street. Brokenford appeared to be a city in full swing, not a city on the very edge of war like Allaise and the others had alluded.
Lincoln held his bag tight, concealed by the deadman’s coat. Though he didn’t know much about this land, he knew about others. There would be rogues, thieves, and vagabonds, and more than once he heard a cry go up and shouts of “Stop.” Also, more than once he heard the whistles and catcalls of pursuit. He might have protection, but did the pilferers and pickpockets care that much? There was only so much rope in every city.
As he ambled down Keep Street, the stench of Brokenford changed. The farther away from The Shambles he went, the more new smells prevailed. The sweet odor of cinnamon, the mouthwatering waft of baking dough, the flower bouquets, perfumes, dyes, or all, now hung in the air. Long gone were the sewers that gathered in The Shambles before emptying into the river, and he wondered why others would choose to live there, if choose they did. Were they all half bloods?
He suddenly realized he’d entered a merchant quarter, though more a market area if the truth was told. More new smells billowed up from large roasting pans, turning carcasses, and ranks of perfume vials. Hands reached out toward him trying to turn him to one stall or the other. Lincoln pushed his way through to the middle of the road and began to walk just behind a cart laden with white stone. He looked up to see a dwarf riding along on its back.
The dwarf stared at him. “Deadman’s coat?” he asked.
“Aye,” Lincoln replied, suddenly feeling exposed again.
“It’s not the coat that gives you away,” the dwarf told him, and pointed at his own eyes. “It’s these. You’re acting like you’ve never seen a market before. Hop up; we’re going out of the city—save you getting shaken down by the city guard.”
Lincoln jumped up, sitting opposite the dwarf. He introduced himself, and the dwarf did likewise. His name was Grimble, and he heralded from a place called Cathelgrock, supposedly high up in the Red Mountains, by a volcano called Serenity. “Of course, that’s what the beggles call it, but it’s near their lands, so they can call it what they want.”
Grimble was about five feet tall, though it was hard to guess as he was slouched down. Lincoln could tell his shoulders were about three feet across, and his forearms resembled sturdy branches. Black hair cascaded all around a mere pale slot of skin for a face, which was whiter than morning mist and pierced by his deep-set eyes. His blunt nose was nearly lost in his billowing beard. A truly hairy soul was Grimble. He wore nothing more than a dirty, worn tunic, and heavy, leather-looking pants, and fat boots that ended at his knees.
“Welcome to paradise,” he said as they trundled toward the city wall. “Share a pipe?”
“I have no tobacco.”
“Nope,” he agreed. “But you’re new, so you have coin.”
Lincoln’s heart fell a bit, Grimble’s motives unmasked by his words. The dwarf lit a white, clay pipe, puffed a small cloud of smoke out, and then passed Lincoln his pipe.
“You can buy a pipe at a stall right by the city wall. The decent stalls are about ten back. Honest peddlers there, but the farther you go into the shadows, the worse the thievery.”
Lincoln took a puff on Grimble’s pipe. Its smoke was harsh on his lungs, the leaf clearly not the best. “I’ll look it up once I’ve seen my little plot of land.”
“You got a plot in the south? Worthless,” he muttered. “See this stone? It’s destined for the wall. King wants another few feet on it and it faces south. What does that tell you about yer plot?”
Tells me, thought Lincoln, that what everyone has told me is true. “I don’t expect to stay long. I’m going to build a city
in the north.” His own words surprised him, as Lincoln had decided not to make his mind up where he was going to build until he’d at least seen a map. But hey, it seemed he’d chosen. “I might just sell this plot and venture out.”
“Good luck with that. Your stats show you can just about breathe and walk at the same time, and that’s without lifting an ax.”
Lincoln grunted and handed Grimble back his pipe. The dwarf was covered from head to foot in white dust. Scrapes, cuts, and bruises peppered his arms like tattoos, and he had the air of someone who was fighting an uphill battle. A shadow passed over the cart, and Lincoln looked up. The wall they were trundling by was about twenty feet thick.
“Take some stone to raise it three feet,” Lincoln pointed out.
“I’m not the only one working on it,” Grimble mumbled.
The cart banked as soon as it emerged from the shadows, and followed the path of the wall for a hundred or so yards before it ground to a halt. Lincoln looked up at the city wall and wondered why it needed another three feet on top. It must have been fifty feet high already. He hopped down off the cart.
“Thanks for the ride,” he said, offering Grimble his hand.
“Just a ride,” said Grimble, jumping down, and then he squinted in the morning sun as he looked up at Lincoln. He shuffled his feet, kicking at some loose stone scattered around. Barks and grunts sounded everywhere, and Lincoln looked past the cart to see a section of the wall clad in wooden scaffolding. All along it, baskets full of stone were being hauled up, and he saw that Grimble’s cart was just one in a long line that was now waiting for unloading.
“Say,” Lincoln said. “Where’s all this stone mined?”
“North,” was all Grimble replied.
“North,” Lincoln affirmed. “Well, thanks. If I can buy you an ale or something later by way of payment for the smoke, then I will, but I really don’t know my way around, yet.”
“Should be unloaded by noon. If you’re by the city gate, you can. If not, then may Lamerell’s blessing go with you.”