Doom was very near.
3
The city of palanthas.
A weary search, not quite fruitless.
he heat of the midday sun poured like flaming oil on the waters of the Bay of Branchala. The noon hour was the busiest of the day on the docks of Palanthas, when Usha’s boat joined the throng of others crowding the harbor. Unaccustomed to such heat, noise, and confusion, Usha sat in her bobbing craft and stared around her in dismay.
Enormous merchant galleys with minotaur crews rubbed up against the large fishing vessels piloted by the seagoing black-skinned humans of Northern Ergoth. Smaller “market” barges bumped and nosed their way among the crowd, bringing down a storm of curses and the occasional bucket of bilge water or fish heads when they piled up against a larger craft. To add to the confusion, a gnome ship had just entered port. The other ships were hauling up anchor, endeavoring to put as much sea as possible between themselves and the gnomes. No one with any sense would risk life and limb by staying anywhere near the steam-burping monstrosity. The harbormaster, in his specially painted boat, sailed hither and thither, mopping his sweating, bald head and shouting up at the captains through a speaking trumpet.
Usha very nearly hoisted her sail, turned her boat around, and went back home. The cruel-sounding curses of the minotaur (she had heard of them, but never seen one) frightened her; the gnome ship—its smoking stacks looming dangerously close—appalled her. She had no idea what to do or where to go.
An elderly man, bobbing placidly in a small fishing skiff on the outskirts of the turmoil, saw her and, appreciating her difficulty, drew in his line and rowed his boat over.
“Bein’ a stranger to these parts, er you?” the old man asked, by which Usha understood him (eventually) to be inquiring if she was a stranger.
She acknowledged that she was and asked him where she might dock her boat.
“Not here,” he said, sucking on a battered pipe. Removing it from his mouth, he gestured at the barges. “Too dang many farmers.”
At that moment a minotaur clipper hove up behind Usha’s boat and nearly swamped her. The captain, leaning over the side, promised to split her boat—and her—in two if she didn’t move out of his way.
Usha, panic-stricken, laid her hands on the oars, but the old man stopped her.
Standing up in his own boat—a marvelous feat, Usha thought, considering that the boat was rocking wildly—the old man answered the captain in what must have been the minotaur’s own language, for it sounded like someone crunching bones. Just exactly what the old man said, Usha never knew, but the minotaur captain ended by grunting and ordering his ship to veer off.
“Bullies,” muttered the old man, reseating himself. “But damn fine sailors. I should know. I crewed with ’em regular.” He eyed her boat curiously. “A fine craft, that. Minotaur-built, if I’m not mistaken. Where did you come by it?”
Usha evaded his question. Before she left, the Protector had warned against her revealing anything about herself to anyone. She pretended not to have heard the old man—an easy thing, amidst the clashing of oars, the swearing, and the harbormaster’s trumpeting. Thanking him for his help, she asked, again, where she should dock.
“Over t’east.” The old man pointed with the pipe stem. “Thar’s a public pier. Usually a docking fee, but”—he was eyeing her now, not the boat—“with that face and them eyes, likely they’ll let you in fer naught.”
Usha flushed in anger and shame, bit back a scathing retort. The old man had been kind and helpful. If he wanted to mock her homely appearance, he’d earned the right. As for the rest of what he’d said—something about a “fee” and letting her in for “naught,” she had no idea what he was talking about. Peering through the tangle of masts, she located the pier to which he referred, and it seemed a haven of peace compared to the main docks. Thanking the old man again—rather coolly—Usha sailed her boat that direction.
The public harbor was far less crowded, being restricted to small boats, primarily the pleasure craft of the wealthy. Usha lowered her sails, rowed in, found a pier, and dropped anchor. Gathering up her possessions, she slung one pouch over her shoulders, hung the other around her waist, and climbed out of the boat. She tied the boat to the dock, started to leave it, then paused to take one last look.
That boat was the last tie to her homeland, to the Protector, to everyone she loved. When she walked away from it, she would be walking away from her past life. She recalled the strange red glow in the sky last night and was suddenly loathe to leave. She ran her hand over the rope that linked her to the boat, the boat that linked her to her homeland. Her eyes filled with tears. Half blind, she turned and bumped into something dark and solid that caught hold of her sleeve.
A voice, coming from somewhere around waist-level, demanded, “Where do you think you’re going, girlie? There’s a small matter of the docking fee.”
Usha, embarrassed to be caught crying, hurriedly wiped her eyes. Her accoster was a dwarf, with a gray, scruffy beard and the weathered face and squinting eyes of those who spend their days watching the sun beat on the water.
“Fee? I don’t know what you mean, sir,” Usha returned, trying not to stare. She’d never seen a dwarf, either, although she knew of them from Prot’s stories.
“A fee to leave your boat where you’ve docked it! You don’t think the people of Palanthas run this operation out of the goodness of their hearts, do you, girlie? There’s a fee! How long are you leaving the boat? Day, week, month? The fee varies.”
“I … I don’t know,” Usha said helplessly.
The Irda have no concept of money. Their needs being simple, each Irda makes what he or she needs, either by hand-crafting it or magicking the object into being. One Irda would never think of exchanging anything with another. Such an act would be tantamount to an incursion into another’s soul.
Usha was beginning to recall stories Prot had told her about dwarves. “Do you mean that if I give you something, you will let me leave the boat here in exchange?”
The dwarf glared up at her, eyes squinting until they were nearly shut. “What’s the matter, girlie? Boom hit you in the head?” He altered his voice, speaking in a high-pitched tone, as one might to a child. “Yes, little girl, you give the nice dwarf something—preferably cold, hard steel—and the nice dwarf will let you keep your boat where it is. If you don’t give the nice dwarf something—preferably cold, hard steel—the nice dwarf will impound your goddamn boat. Got it?”
Usha’s face burned. She had no steel, wasn’t even certain what he meant by that term. But a crowd of grinning men, some of them rough-looking, was starting to gather around the two of them. Usha wanted only to get away. Fumbling in one of her pouches, her fingers grasped an object. She pulled it out and thrust it in the dwarf’s direction.
“I don’t have any steel. Will this do?”
The dwarf took hold of it, examined it closely. The squinted eyes opened wider than they’d probably opened in a hundred years. Then, noting the interest of the men around him, the dwarf glowered at them all, closed his hand hastily over the object.
“Platinum, by Reorx’s beard. With a ruby,” he was overheard to mutter. He waved his hand at the men. “Be gone, you gawkers! Go about your business, or I’ll have the lord’s guardsmen down on you!”
The men laughed, made a few ribald remarks, and drifted off. The dwarf took hold of Usha’s sleeve, drew her down to his level.
“Do you know what this is, Mistress?” He was much more polite.
“It’s a ring,” Usha said, thinking he might not know what a ring was.
“Aye.” The dwarf licked his lips. His gaze went hungrily to the pouch. “A ring. Might … might there be more where that come from?”
Usha didn’t like his look. She pressed her hand over the pouch, drew it close to her body. “Will that be enough to leave the boat in your care?”
“Oh, aye, Mistress! As long as you want. I’ll take real good care of her. Scrub the dec
ks, shall I? Scrape off the barnacles? Mend the sail?”
“Whatever you like, sir.” Usha started walking away, heading for the shore and the large buildings that could be seen lining it.
“When will you be corning back for it?” the dwarf asked, his short legs pumping to keep up with her.
“I don’t know,” Usha said, hoping to sound carefree and careless, not confused. “Just so long as the boat’s here when I do come back.”
“She will be, Mistress. And I’ll be right with her,” said the dwarf. The fingers of one grimy hand could be seen working busily, as if he were doing sums. “Might be a few extra charges …”
Usha shrugged, continued on her way.
“Platinum!” she heard the dwarf say with a covetous sigh. “With a ruby!”
Usha evaded the Palanthas port authority simply because she had no idea who they were or that she was supposed to explain to them who she was and why she was in Palanthas. She walked right past the guards and through the rebuilt portion of the city wall with such perfect poise and cool aplomb that not one of the admittedly overworked guardsmen took the time to stop her or question her. She looked as if she had a perfect right to be where she was.
Her poise was, in reality, innocence. Her aplomb was an ice coating over her terror and confusion.
She spent the next several hours wandering the hot, dust-ridden, and overcrowded streets of Palanthas. At every turn, she saw something that amazed, terrified, dazzled, or repulsed her. She had no idea where she was headed, what she was doing, except that somehow she had to find this Lord Dalamar. After that, she supposed she should find someplace to sleep.
The Protector had made some vague references to “lodgings” and a “job,” earning “money.” The Protector could not be more specific. He’d had only limited contact with humans during his long life, and though he’d heard of such concepts as “working for one’s bread,” he had only the vaguest idea what that meant.
Usha had no idea whatsoever.
She stared and gawked, overawed. The ornate buildings—so different from the Irda’s small, single-story dwellings—towered over her, taller than the pine trees. She was lost in a forest of marble. And the number of people! She saw more people in one minute in Palanthas than she’d seen during a lifetime of living among the Irda. And all the people seemed to be in a tearing hurry, bustling and shoving and pushing and walking very fast, red-faced and out of breath.
At first, Usha wondered fearfully if the city was afflicted by some sort of dire emergency. Perhaps war. But, on asking a young girl who was drawing water from a well, Usha learned that this was only “market day” and that the city was unusually quiet—probably due to the severe heat.
It had been hot near the bay; the sun reflecting off the water burned Usha’s fair skin, even in the shade. But at least on the docks she had felt the lingering cool touch of an ocean breeze. Such relief never reached the city proper. Palanthas sweltered. The heat radiated upward from the cobblestone streets, frying those who walked on them as surely as if they’d been set down on a red-hot griddle. Yet the streets were cool compared to the interiors of shops and houses. Shop owners, who could not leave their businesses, fanned themselves and tried to keep from dozing off. The poor people abandoned their stifling homes, lived and slept in the parks or on top of roofs, hoping to catch the barest hint of a breath of air. The wealthy stayed within their marble-walled dwellings, drank warm wine (there was no ice, for the snows on the mountaintops had almost all melted), and complained languidly of the heat.
The stench of too many sweating bodies, crowded too close together, of garbage and refuse baking in the sun, stole Usha’s breath, set her gagging. She wondered how anyone could ever live with such a dreadful smell, but the girl had said she didn’t smell anything except Palanthas in the summertime.
Usha traveled all over Palanthas, walked and walked. She passed an enormous building, which someone told her was “the Great Library” and recalled hearing the Protector speak of it in respectful tones as the source of all knowledge about everything in the world.
Thinking this might be a good place to inquire about the whereabouts of Lord Dalamar, Usha stopped a brown-robed young man walking about the grounds of the Great Library and made her inquiry. The monk opened his eyes very wide, drew back from Usha about six paces, and pointed down a street.
Following his directions, Usha emerged from an alley into the shadow of a hideous-looking tower surrounded by a grove of dark trees. Although she had been sweating moments before, she now shook with sudden chills. Cold, dank darkness seemed to flow from out of the woods. Shivering, she turned and fled and was actually relieved to find herself once again in the baking sunlight. As for Lord Dalamar, Usha could only imagine that the monk had been mistaken. No one could possibly live in such a dreadful place.
She passed a beautiful building that was, by its inscription, a temple to Paladine. She passed parks and the magnificent yet sterile-looking homes of the wealthy. (Usha took them to be museums). She passed shops filled with wondrous objects, everything from sparkling jewels to swords and armor such as the young knights had worn.
And always, hordes of people.
Lost and confused, not sure why she’d been sent to this bewildering city, Usha continued to wander the streets. She was weakened by the heat and weariness, and only gradually became conscious, as she walked along, that people were staring at her. Some actually came to a halt and gazed at her in gaping wonderment. Others—generally men, who were fashionably dressed—doffed their feathered caps and smiled at her.
Usha naturally assumed they were mocking her appearance, and she thought this very cruel. Bedraggled, miserable, feeling sorry for herself, she wondered how the Protector could have sent her to such a hateful place. Gradually, however, she came to realize that these stares and cap-doffings and bowings were admiring.
Having some vague idea that the journey had altered her appearance, Usha halted to study her reflection in the glass window of a shop. The glass was wavy and distorted her face, but then so did the water of the small pond she was accustomed to using for a mirror back at home. She hadn’t changed. Her hair was still flaxen-silver, her eyes still their odd color, her features regular, but lacking the molded, crafted, exquisite beauty of those of the Irda. She was, as she had always been—in her own eyes—homely.
“What very strange people,” Usha said to herself, after a young man had been so occupied in staring at her that he’d accidentally walked into a tree.
At length, when she’d nearly worn the soles of her leather boots through, Usha noticed that the hot sun was finally setting, the shadows of the buildings were growing longer and a hint cooler. The number of people on the street diminished. Mothers appeared in doorways, shouting for their children to come home. Looking through the windows of several fine houses, Usha saw families gathering together. She was worn, weary, alone. She had no place to spend the night, and, she realized, she was ravenously hungry.
The Protector had supplied her with food for her journey, but she’d eaten all that before she had sailed into Palanthas. Fortunately, however, she had accidentally wended her way into the merchandising section of the city.
The vendors were just closing up their stalls, prior to calling it a day. Usha had been wondering what people did for food in this bustling city. Now she had her answer. Apparently, people didn’t serve food on tables here in Palanthas. They handed it out in the streets. Usha thought that rather odd, but then everything in this city was odd.
She drew close to a booth that had a few odd pieces of fruit left on it. The fruit was withered and dried, having baked in the heat all day, but it looked wonderful to her. Picking up several apples, Usha bit into one, devoured it, and stuffed the rest into one of her pouches.
Leaving the fruit vendors, she came to a baker and added a loaf of bread to her meal. Usha was glancing about, searching for a booth offering wine, when an unholy commotion burst out around her.
“Catch her!
Hold her! Thief! Thief!”
4
An assault. Arrested.
Tasslehoff is surprised.
sha stared in amazement at a tall, thin man in a leather apron, who danced and bobbed around her. “Thief!” he cried, pointing at her. “She stole my fruit!”
“She ran off with my bread,” panted a flour-smudged woman, who had been running after the man. “That’s it, sticking out of her pouch! I’ll have that back, you hussy.”
The baker made a grab for the bread. Usha slapped the woman’s hand away.
The woman began to howl. “Murder! She tried to murder me!”
The idlers and ruffians who generally hung about the market, swilling raw wine and waiting for trouble, were quick to sniff it. A jeering crowd gathered around Usha. A ragged and uncouth-looking man grabbed hold of her.
“I’ll volunteer to search her!” he yelled. “Looks to me like she’s got those apples stuffed down her blouse!”
The crowd laughed and pressed closer.
Usha had never experienced such rough treatment. Pampered, coddled, brought up among a society of people who didn’t raise their voices, much less their fists, she was shocked almost senseless. She had no weapons, and it didn’t occur to her, in her initial panic, to use the magical items the Irda had given her. She wouldn’t have known how to use them anyway, having paid scant attention to the instructions given her.
The man’s filthy hands tore her blouse; his fingers groped to touch her flesh. His fellows cheered him on.
Panic gave way to fury. The ferocity of a cornered animal burned in Usha. She lashed out wildly, with strength borne of terror. She hit and bit and kicked and flailed, not knowing, not caring who she hurt, wanting to hurt them all, wanting to hurt every living being in this hateful city.
It was only when strong hands took hold of her arm, clasping it and giving it a painful twist, and a clear, firm voice said, “Here now, stop this, young woman!” that the blood-tinged mist cleared from her eyes.
Dragons of Summer Flame Page 10