And farther up, dotting the surrounding hillsides, were sprawling palaces owned by merchants, ship owners, and officials who clearly had more foresight than the fool who first named the safest harbor on the Isle. They greedily reaped the rewards of the Wise Ones who enchanted and sold their goods for exorbitant prices. While travelers poured in from the farthest reaches of Fyrsta, trading, selling, and partaking of all the sordid splendor that could be found in the bustling port.
Isiilde was treated to an unrivaled view of the city when their wagon crested the final hill leading into Drivel. The city was much as she remembered it from the year before, still huddled in its haven, safe from the turbulent seas of the Fell Coast.
A gust of sharp wind swept up the hillside and buffeted their wagon as they navigated the final, snaking road. Isiilde tugged her cloak firmly about her and leaned into Marsais, trying to focus on the gulls that circled over the harbor while he worked the brake and kept a tight rein on the horses.
It never failed, whenever she rode down the final stretch of steep roadway, fear seized her, sending her heart racing. And as always she wished that she had decided to walk down the hill, promising herself that she would the next time. Unfortunately, it was far too late to climb down now.
“You look worried, my dear,” Marsais observed, sparing a glance at the shivering nymph.
“Are you?” she squeaked.
“Aye, he’s worried what’s gonna happen when he tips over my barrels of brew. Ease up on the bloody brake, before you snap it, Scarecrow,” Oenghus warned. With those ominous words, the wagon lurched. Isiilde grabbed onto Marsais’ sinewy arm for support, squeezing her eyes shut.
“By the Pits o’ Mourn,” Oenghus swore. “It looks like every bugger on the Isle has come today.” Curiosity triumphed over fear and she cracked an eye open.
A long line of travelers stretched along the road, waiting to pass the guards’ inspection and (hopefully) enter the formidable gates. When Marsais eased the wagon to a stop at the back of the line, Isiilde stood, peering over heads, and through the distant gates, eager for her first glimpse of the festivities beyond.
As with most port cities, half the population consisted of travelers and drifters, so the inns were plentiful and always full. But today, the festival had brought everyone into the cobbled streets. There weren’t many inhabitants on the secluded isle who would miss a performance by a Xaionian troupe.
“Why are they stopping everyone?” Isiilde asked. Generally, the gates were manned by two bored looking guards who waved everyone through with admirable indifference.
A number of eyes from the line drifted towards the nymph. When she noticed their lingering stares, she quickly sat back down.
“With a crowd like this they’re probably confiscating weapons,” Oenghus said, reaching up to unclasp the long folds of his kilt from around his shoulder. He gathered the billowing cloth and tucked the folds into his belt to conceal the war hammer hanging from its belt hook.
“I don’t think that will work, Oen,” she said, dubiously.
“No, but this will.” He reached into the wagon, pulled out a heavy jug from the bed, and set it by her feet.
“Isn’t bribery illegal?”
“Who said I was offering bribes?”
“The guards might. Then you’ll be thrown into the lock up again,” she said, stressing the last.
“Ah, it’s not so bad, Sprite,” Oenghus said, shrugging a broad shoulder. “The local militia know they can’t really keep me locked up if I didn’t want to be in there. We have an agreement of sorts. I stay in their jail to make them look good, and in exchange, I get free room and board.” He tugged his beard as he chuckled, low and rumbling. “Besides, it gets rowdier than a pleasure house in there.”
“O, do the guards dress up in corsets or do you?” Isiilde quipped. Marsais chortled at her goading comment.
“By the gods, girl, what’s got into you?” Oenghus frowned, returning her glare.
“I had to spend four days with Rashk when you were thrown in jail for disorderly conduct two months back—I still don’t know what you did and now I find out you enjoyed it.”
“I thought you liked Rashk.”
“I’ve never had to watch her eat before.” Isiilde’s stomach lurched in memory. “I thought the little piglet in her garden pen was a pet. I didn’t know she was going to eat it while it was still twitching.” She wrinkled her nose, wishing she hadn’t eaten earlier.
Oenghus chewed thoughtfully on his pipe, and finally offered, “Would it help if I told you they tortured me?”
“No, but it would help if I told Marsais that Isek had to borrow coin from his coffers to bail you out of prison on three different occasions.” Isiilde smiled innocently at her grumbling guardian. “It would also help if Marsais knew that you owed him thirty crowns for the bail and a hundred and fifty for the tavern you ruined.”
“But you wouldn’t tell him, right?” Oenghus asked, his black beard twitching with equal parts irritation and amusement.
“I wouldn’t dream of it, Oen,” she replied, primly.
“Hmm, interest on a hundred and eighty crowns—that’s a fair profit for not doing much,” Marsais mused.
“You flea-bitten scoundrel,” Oenghus growled. “Only a back biting bastard would charge a friend interest.”
“I wasn’t planning on it until you called me a scoundrel,” Marsais pointed out, receiving a crude gesture from the hulking Nuthaanian in reply.
“You’ll notice, Sprite, that back-biting, flea-bitten, and bastard doesn’t offend him.”
“So what did you do to offend the good and proper folk of Drivel this time?”
Oenghus glanced at Isiilde, scratched his beard, and replied, “I’ll tell you later.”
Isiilde started to protest, but they were nearing the checkpoint and a flash of gold caught her eye. Two paladins, dressed in gleaming mail and golden tunics, stood just inside the city gates, inspecting the crowd with keen eyes. She quickly pulled her cowl over her ears, hoping they hadn’t noticed her.
The Blessed Order of Zahra made Isiilde uneasy. She was, after all, a nymph, but she wasn’t the only one who disliked the paladins. The majority of Wise Ones disapproved of their ambiguous purposes, for their presence was two-fold.
On one hand, the Blessed Order provided additional soldiers for defense, patrolled the channel for pirates and raiding Wedamen, and used the Isle as a launching point for campaigns into the untamed north. And on the other hand, the Order maintained a large presence on the Isle so they could root out Wise Ones who dabbled with the dark powers of the Void. In short, the Blessed Order of Zahra distrusted the Isle, ruthlessly stamping out any practices that they deemed unholy. That, and they were a general pain in the arse.
“No weapons. No brawling. State your name,” a guard called out hoarsely when they pulled up to the gatehouse.
“Oenghus Saevaldr,” the towering Nuthaanian announced, proudly. A second guard, who looked bored and oafish, started his routine stroll around their wagon.
“I got this one, Corporal,” a voice called from the guardhouse, and a moment later the captain on watch appeared, striding directly up to the giant to clasp his forearm in greeting. “Been awhile, Oenghus.”
“Aye, Jamus, good to see you. How’s your family getting on?” Oenghus and the captain began conversing. From the snippets Isiilde overheard, she gathered that Oenghus had healed one of his children.
When the oafish guard finished his circuit of the wagon, he paused by the seat, glancing up to peek beneath her cowl. Marsais nodded down at the guard in amiable greeting, but the guard didn’t spare him a glance, instead, he stood frozen, staring up at the nymph with slack-jawed wonder.
Isiilde was beginning to feel uncomfortable, and then her discomfort turned to worry when the corporal stepped up to see what held his oafish comrade’s attention. Isiilde smiled, uneasily, wishing they would move on or at the very least, say something.
“Your captain knows
my friend, surely there’s nothing more for you to do here. Perhaps you should move on, and keep the line moving, Corporal,” Marsais remarked in a voice that was low and commanding. His long, elegant fingers twitched impatiently.
“I’d shut your trap unless you want trouble!” The guard spat, eyes never wavering from the nymph, but even if they had, he would not have recognized Marsais as Archlord without his crimson robes of office. The Archlord of the Isle was renown as a recluse, and even those few who knew him by sight would be hard pressed to recognize him while driving a wagon and dressed in the travel stained clothes of a vagabond.
“Get down from there lass so we can search you for weapons,” the corporal ordered and the oaf moved towards Isiilde with a strange look in his eyes.
“I have a gift for you, Jamus,” Oenghus said, casually reaching for the jug at her feet. As he brushed past the oaf, the guard suddenly doubled over with a grunt, clutching his gut. Isiilde blinked in surprise, missing the veiled attack.
“You should tell your men to be more careful, Jamus,” Oenghus chuckled, nudging the groaning oaf towards his corporal before handing the captain his gift.
“Aye, the blasted fools are always comin’ in drunk. You take care and I hope to see you in the jailhouse this eve’in. You’re a bloody bad gambler when you’re hungover.” Oenghus grinned and then slapped Gungnir. The wagon rolled into Drivel with a lurch.
The main road was clogged with people and their wagon made slow progress through the city. Bullying a wagon through the crowds would have been impossible, but their progress was considerably hastened when Oenghus began shouting for people to make way.
Oenghus Saevaldr had a voice that could cut through the thickest battlefield. His booming shouts demanded everyone’s attention, while his towering stature parted the crowds by use of simple fear. Despite his presence, it still took a ponderous amount of time for the crowd to jostle themselves out of the way.
As the wagon creaked slowly down Sparrow Road, Isiilde watched the people and festivities from her vantage point with curious eyes. Festive banners were draped across the closely packed buildings, bright, trailing ribbons fluttered in the breeze, and wreathes of flowers adorned lamp posts and doors. Women were dressed in all their finery, wearing garlands of flowers that bobbed atop a sea of heads. Hundreds of voices mingled together, and laughter wove its sweet melody through a chorus of street criers, minstrels, and jugglers who were boisterous and energetic as they coaxed coppers from their appreciative audiences.
The taverns hummed with life, and the drunken revelries within were already spilling onto the streets. Groups of sailors, who had undoubtedly started drinking the night before, staggered down the streets singing and brawling despite the militia’s warning. And although the drab, grey guards were patrolling the streets, they seemed more interested in women than breaking up fights.
It was only noon, and the crowds were already unruly, eyeing the kegs on the wagon with all the covertness of a soused schemer. The kegs would have been ripe for the plunder if it had not been for Oenghus. And the few foolish men who tried to steal a keg inevitably failed, receiving a painful reward for their efforts.
All in all, Isiilde thought he was enjoying himself. She let her cowl slide back as she tried to watch everything at once, oblivious to the stares and whistles directed at her.
“Oen!” A chorus of shouts drew Isiilde’s attention to a pleasure house, where a number of women stood on its balcony, leaning carelessly over the railing.
“We haven’t seen you in months!” a particularly busty blonde hollered down. The woman’s bodice seemed incapable of containing her breasts and she displayed them to the best advantage as Oenghus stopped below. “You’ll pay us a visit won’t you?”
“I’ve been busy, lass,” Oenghus called up with a grin.
“Aye, I heard, you lovable brute,” the blonde said. The other women on the balcony began giggling loudly amongst themselves
“How’s your girls?”
“Missin’ you,” she replied, toying with a shiny necklace nestled between her breasts. “Promise you’ll come by?”
“I have a delivery to make, Maira.”
“Come by after then, a number of me girls want to thank you properly.”
“There’s no need for thanks. I was happy to help.”
“Just the same, we want to return the favor, so make sure you come by, and bring your friend there!”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Oenghus promised, and then turned to Marsais who was eyeing the garishly painted building. “They’re a generous bunch.”
Isiilde considered Marsais for a moment. “Do you visit pleasure houses?”
“On occasion,” Marsais replied, clearing his throat, and then addressed Oenghus before the curious nymph could ask another question. “What thanks do they owe you?”
“They had a bad outbreak of fever a couple months back, so I brewed up some potions and sat with the worst of them until it burnt out.” Isiilde had never seen Oenghus turn the wounded or sick away for not having enough coin to pay for his healing services, although he certainly had no qualms charging the rich.
Isiilde’s ears perked up when she caught sight of a woman selling honey roasted peanuts. She stood up, wondering if she could squeeze through the pressing crowd.
“A beauty like you should be enjoying the festivities, love,” a slurred voice tore her attention away from food. She glanced down, finding two men staring up at her with dreamy-eyed wonder.
“We’d be more than happy to escort you around,” the taller of the two hiccuped, while the shorter offered her a rose. She reached out to take the gift when her guardian appeared, grabbing her admirers by their heads and bringing them together with a resounding smack. Isiilde squeaked in dismay as they crumpled to the cobblestones.
“Drunken louts,” Oenghus muttered. “Put your hood up, Sprite.”
“Why did you do that?” she demanded, feeling sick to her stomach, but she did as he asked, concealing her sprightly features. “I don’t think they meant any harm.”
“My arse they didn’t,” Oenghus snorted. Isiilde hoped he hadn’t hurt them too badly. She craned her neck around, searching for the two in the confusion of faces, but instead, she caught sight of a pair of paladins. They were pushing their way through the crowd towards the wagon and although their visors obscured their features, Isiilde was positive that they were the same polished pair from the gate. A shiver of ice crawled up her spine, and she quickly turned back around to face front, praying that they’d lose sight of them in the crowd.
Marsais directed the horses off the main road and turned onto Hawk Lane, which led to the wealthier districts of Drivel. This street was less chaotic than the main thoroughfare and the guards who were patrolling were alert to their duties.
Isiilde spared a peek back, dismayed to find that the paladins were still trailing them.
“It’s all right, my dear,” Marsais soothed with a reassuring smile. He turned the wagon down a narrow lane that led to the stables of the Glass Goblet, which was undisputedly the finest inn and tavern on the Isle.
The Glass Goblet was an elegant, three-story building of smooth river rock and polished oak, rich with the scent of fine tobacco, aged brandy, and mouth-watering food that tempted the pickiest of palates. There was a fond saying on the Isle that while the Glass Goblet was the finest inn; its stables were a close second. It wasn’t far from the truth. The patrons’ horses were better fed and cared for than the majority of townsfolk.
As soon as Marsais pulled into the immaculate courtyard, a stableman wearing the silver livery of the inn came trotting up. He bowed deeply and placed an expert hand on Carrothead’s harness. The big roan tolerated the man, owing to Oenghus’ presence. Generally, the two beasts behaved more like unruly dogs than horses, and had a bite to match.
“Oh bollocks,” Oenghus growled when the paladins turned the corner. He leaned casually against the wagon, puffing disdainfully away on his pipe, as he watched
them approach.
“Can I help you two?” he asked when it became more than apparent that coincidence hadn’t brought the paladins to the courtyard.
One of the paladins removed a visored helmet, revealing a stern-faced woman whose raven colored hair was shorn short. She tucked her helm under her arm and walked directly up to Oenghus, planting herself in front of him.
“State your business,” the paladin demanded.
“We’re delivering some brew. I’m sure you’ve heard of my Dragon’s Ale.” Oenghus generally uttered every word as if he held a personal grudge against it, but if you knew him as Isiilde did, then it was easy to look past his gruff exterior and see the man who he truly was (with her at any rate).
Regardless of his intent the paladins took extreme offense to his tone of voice. The second paladin, who had a jagged scar running the length of his square jaw, stepped forward, ordering Isiilde to remove her hood. She looked to her guardian and he nodded at her, so she obeyed, pushing her cowl back from her face.
The paladin’s eyes widened beneath his visor and the stableman stood stunned, gaping openly at the nymph.
“That is a nymph,” the raven-haired woman stated.
“Aye, what of it?”
“Who’s her owner?” The woman glanced between Marsais and Oenghus.
“I’m her guardian,” Oenghus replied.
“And you are?” The woman arched a brow.
The Nuthaanian took a long drag from his pipe before answering with an exhalation of smoke, “Oenghus Saevaldr.”
“Sir, he’s the one who—” the man began.
“I was cleared of those charges by the Knight Captain himself,” Oenghus interrupted.
“You can’t bring a nymph here.” The firm declaration made Isiilde’s heart sink.
“She’s been to Drivel before.”
“Not on my watch. I’ll be lenient and let you deliver your goods before escorting you out.” There was a clear warning in the woman’s words. It would be within the paladins’ rights to seize Oenghus’ shipment and escort him and Isiilde directly out of town.
“Look, she’s not your responsibility, your holiness. I’ll worry about her safety.”
A Thread in the Tangle Page 9