So instead of throwing a hook directly at Dilliger's face, he continued chumming the social waters. At parties. Tea houses. Strolling around the markets. Yet he hadn't heard one word from the duke.
"The main shipment has been ported to Dollendun," Taya informed him several days later.
"Wonderful," Blays grimaced. They were in the reading room, which offered a view of the hill all the way down to the river, but it didn't look so pretty at that moment. "Why don't we wait a little longer? Maybe the duke hasn't had time to make a decision."
"It's been three weeks since you saw him. A full week since news leaked of your deal with Carraday. What happens if we wait and something happens to our bossen?"
"We're certain this would be enough to bankrupt her?"
"With a play like this, you can never be certain. You may as well bet on a goose race." Taya pushed away from the window. "Mines are expensive to operate. This deal could compromise or shut down the king's largest source of iron."
He gazed at the conical rooftops. "At the expense of a woman who didn't support the war."
"Where do you think Moddegan got the swords he used against Gallador? The blades his men used to kill thousands of norren?"
"Well, when you put it like that, it just sounds bad." Blays stood. "This scheme feels like every other war. The innocent always lose more than the guilty."
It wasn't yet noon. They gathered their small retinue—experienced warriors, all of them—and struck out toward Dollendun, cutting across the wedge of land that separated the two rivers the cities were situated upon. It was a multi-day trip through farms, pine forests, and limestone hills. Blays had all the time in the world to think, but he couldn't come up with a way to take a second shot at the duke.
Dollendun had taken a pounding during the Chainbreakers' War, but three years later, you'd never know it. The bridges had been rebuilt. The burned-down sections of the eastern shore where the norren lived had sprouted fresh homes. The only difference between the time before the war and now was the rampart around the northern edge of the norren quarters. Dante had raised most of it himself, using his ridiculous abilities to talk the damn earth into rearranging itself into a protective barrier. Seeing it again left Blays cold. Not so much for its association with his former friend, but more for the power it represented. Blays had heard Dante was being groomed to lead Narashtovik. He wasn't at all sure that bid well for its future.
Cloistered in Setteven, Blays hadn't seen a norren in weeks, and though he'd spent close to a decade mingling with the clans, part of him still wasn't used to the sight of the people going about their business on the eastern shores. Man or woman, none was less than six feet tall, with more breaking seven feet than not. With the bones and musculature to support it. The women's faces were hairless, but the men's beards grew to just below their eyes and were as thick as carpets.
Prior to the war, Blays wasn't sure he'd known a single norren man who hadn't had a beard. In Dollendun, however, they'd been forced to clip their beards short to show the brands on their cheeks that identified them as slaves. That era was now behind them, yet more norren than ever walked around stubbled or entirely beard-free. He hadn't asked, but he figured it was a display of defiance. Solidarity with those who had been freed, but would forever wear the scars of their captivity on their faces.
Taya led the troops to the wharfs. It smelled like mud and dung and cold water. Grimy humans and norren lugged casks of goods on handcarts. Others struck deals on corners. Women hauled racks of fish from the shores, set up stands, and called out prices.
At an unmarked pub, they tied up their horses and went inside. It smelled like tea and tobacco. Norren hunched over Nulladoon boards, analyzing the game pieces arrayed around the miniature hills, lakes, and rivers. One of the observers straightened, saw Taya, and approached. Blays let his right hand move to one of his swords, which he'd carried openly since departing Setteven.
"Taya." The norren inclined his head and glanced at Blays. "And you must be B—"
"Lord Pendelles. Of elsewhere." Blays stuck out his hand.
The norren accepted it in a bone-grinding grip. "Take a seat. Have a drink. Ever played Nulladoon?"
"I once had a friend who couldn't quit. Always looked fun. But much as I'd love to kick back, don't we have a job to do?"
"We have a job, yes. But it's a job that must be done by night."
Blays clapped his hands. "Say no more! Except to order me a drink."
The man's name was Forrd and they killed the remainder of the afternoon lounging around the tavern sipping beer and watching the Nulladoon players spar on their pint-sized battlefields. After a couple of cups, Blays was tempted to start wagering nulla on the outcome of the games, but he resisted. It wasn't time for gambling. Nor, sadly, for drinking. He was here to make enough money to buy a county. There would be plenty of time for fun once the sale was complete.
The sun ran away to investigate what was beyond the horizon. Blays idled longer, buying pan-fried trout and river-clam stew from the kitchen. At last, with the sun long gone and the only light in the street coming from the lanterns hanging at the pubs and inns, their team departed en masse to pick up the bossen.
They drew more than a few glances: the hour was late and they were about the only humans out and about on the eastern side of Dollendun. Blays was relieved when their mounts clopped past the last of the yurts and lean-tos pitched on the outskirts of town. Crickets chirped from the grass. The residents had plowed a passage through the ramparts; as Blays reached the gap, Forrd guided him to the right to skirt the inside of the wall.
The carts rocked through the grass. After a few hundred yards, Forrd called a stop. Blays glanced to all sides, touching the hilts of his swords.
Forrd tipped his head at the wall. "Well, get digging!"
Blays gaped. "You buried it? Do you have any idea what it's worth?"
"I thought pirate's law insists all treasure must be buried." Forrd couldn't keep a straight face. "I'm tweaking your nose. It's right through here."
Four feet up the wall, he brushed aside a tangle of leaves and branches, removed a key from his pocket, and inserted it into a knot in a bough embedded in the dirt. Metal clicked. He pocketed the key and heaved on a gnarled root and hauled open a door in the side of the rampart, sending Blays' perspective spinning.
"Oh come on," Blays said. "Don't tell me your nulla is making doors that look exactly like dirt!"
"I would never dedicate my life to something so ridiculous." Forrd stepped back from the entry and dusted his hands. "My friends, however, are another story."
The door and the passages dug in the rampart behind it made for the perfect smuggler's nook. Crate after crate of bossen were hidden inside it. Blays helped haul these outside to load onto the wagons. By the time they finished, it was after midnight and Blays was ready to drop dead, but they had a proper caravan of Gask-smashing riches. They drove it across the bridge into the human districts, then took the north road toward Setteven, paralleling the river. Blays managed to keep his eyes open until they put Dollendun's outer limits behind them, then collapsed inside a wagon to sleep.
He woke up as sore as if he'd slept under the wagon's wheels. He hopped down to relieve his bladder in the woods, then jogged to catch up to the caravan, which was now comprised of five wagons, ten veterans on horseback, Taya, himself, and assorted wagon-drivers and teamsters.
They traveled in quiet for three days, passing travelers, pilgrims, and merchants heading to Dollendun and lands beyond. Leery of camping around strangers, they spent their nights in the woods a few hundred yards from the road. The nights were cold, but the afternoon sun was warm enough to keep the wagons toasty.
Blays decided that, once he returned to Setteven, he'd give the duke three days. Then it was time to offer the bossen to Carraday. If he delayed any longer, the market for bossen might start to slide—a strong possibility, given that it was nothing more than a silly fad. If that happened, the whole gambit would be
ruined. Carraday wasn't his ideal mark, but there would be other opportunities to hit the duke and by extension the king.
"I'll try to gauge if the duke's interest has changed," Taya replied to his explanation. "Otherwise, I agree. Once you've lit the arrow, you have to fire before it burns out."
They left the river's humid banks and cut northwest toward the capital, less than a day's passage away. The road crossed a few miles of scattered farms, then a field of stumps where the farmers had harvested firewood and lumber, then entered a thick deciduous forest. The leaves of the canopy enclosing the rutted trail were beginning to yellow.
The trip had been so peaceful Blays didn't realize they were under attack until the first arrows slashed through the branches.
5
Dante stood up so fast his head grazed the cave ceiling. "Where is he?"
"Well," Nak said through the loon, "she refuses to say."
"Why? Who is she?"
"An enterprising lady who claims to have spent the last two years tracking him down. She is most interested in the reward you've placed on him."
"So pay her," Dante said.
"Not that easy," Nak said musingly, the same way he might broach a knotty theological problem. "She insists on striking a deal with you in person."
On the cave floor, Lew smacked his lips, as if he were dreaming of food. Dante lowered his voice. "Sounds like she's got all the makings of a purse-cutter. How do you know she's credible?"
"She refuses to go into details until you've gone into silver, but when pressed, she told me she'd tracked Blays' activities to Lolligan of Gallador."
"It's common knowledge that we stayed with Lolligan during the Lakeland Rebellion. Anyone could draw that connection as 'proof.'"
"Hey, I'm not the one asking for coin," Nak said. "I'm merely relaying her terms. How would you like to respond?"
Dante gritted his teeth. "Tell her to wait. We're on our way back anyway."
"Oh? Did you find out what was causing the disturbance?"
"Like I told you, we're short on answers and long on questions. We're also deep in the middle of the gods damn mountains. Please show our guest all the courtesies until we manage to drag our asses out of here."
"It will be done," Nak said. "See you soon!"
The loon connection went dead. Dante sat in the dark. Over the years, there had been many false Blays sightings reported to the Citadel. Dante had expected as much—he'd established a hefty bounty for information relating to Blays' whereabouts—but even so, with one lead after another taking him down a dead end, he had become sick of the process. Especially because every single time a new one cropped up, he couldn't help himself from kindling a new flame of hope.
Luckily, he was exhausted from yet another day of hiking up a mountain while avoiding being eaten by nightmarish beasts. He got back to sleep. When he met the morning, he found his anxieties were held at bay.
They had a quick look around the talus field. Finding no sign of the light's descent, they turned around for the long walk to Soll. Gray clouds blew in from the west, swaddling the peaks. These stayed calm for two or three hours, and then, as if the clouds had been slashed open by a celestial sword, hail fell in sheets, stinging Dante's hands and head. They bundled up and crunched through the carpet of icy pebbles.
At least they were headed downhill, and now that they weren't actively searching for signs, lights, rains of frogs, or deposits of goat entrails, they made good time. The second day into their return trip, they had to pause to gather food. Dante used the nether to spear a couple of ravens; Ast found mushrooms on the trunks of pines he assured them were edible; Lew turned up a couple sprigs of carrots. They quit early to stoke a fire and clean the ravens. It was an unusual meal, and the meat was on the greasy side. Yet after days of privation and hardship, it was among the most succulent Dante had ever tasted.
Three full days of walking and climbing brought them back to the meadow that housed the village of Soll. Smoke rose from the shared kitchens and workshops, ghostly columns in the mid-afternoon light. A few residents glanced their way, but that was all the fanfare their return received. Ast tracked down Vinsin, and the four of them sat at an outdoor table shaded from the sun by a tan canvas tarp.
"You survived!" the middle-aged man said. "And how was the grand adventure?"
"We fought a kapper!" Lew said.
Vinsin laughed. "No you didn't."
"Oh, you were there with us? Why is that so hard to believe?"
"The fact you're standing here. In one piece. And not in chunks, fermenting in the belly of a monster."
Dante rolled his eyes. "We didn't fight it so much as flee in panic. The only way we could be rid of it was to drop it down a ravine." He dug into his pocket and withdrew the scales he'd cut from its ankle. "I took these from it."
Vinsin reached forward hesitantly, as if the scales might fly up and slice off his fingers. "You really did it? What on earth would possess you to fight a kapper?"
"Like you said, it was either that or be eaten." Dante gave a severe look to the homes embedded in the cliffs. "It attacked us after dawn. I was led to believe that was impossible. I think something's going on in the mountains."
"Such as? What did you find?"
"Not much. Nothing I understand, anyway. But you should let your people know to be on guard. If the kappers become more aggressive, the whole village could be lost."
"It wouldn't be lost, exactly," Vinsin said mildly. "I expect our bones would be scattered around this very meadow."
Dante blinked at him. "Lew and I will leave tomorrow. Please send word to Narashtovik if you observe anything else strange—or if you need help."
"I will. And thank you for looking into this. Now, how do you feel about feasts?"
"I live for them," Lew said.
Vinsin went to talk to a few people, and within minutes, a dozen locals had dropped what they were doing to gather in one of the kitchens to attack kettles, pots, and foodstuffs of all stripes. Dante was puzzled by their vigor: were they that grateful to Narashtovik's envoys?
A meal materialized on the tables. Fried fish, stewed greens, farmer's cheese, roasted quail, thick slices of bread embedded with whole grains. Dante was too tired from hiking to fully appreciate the flour-smudged people thronging around the tables throwing plates of food at him, yet it lifted his spirits. If they'd forged a new connection with these people, and repaid, to some extent, the easterners' aid during the war, then perhaps the trip hadn't been a waste after all.
At sunset, he approached Ast. "Thanks for showing us the way. It was a bit of a trek, wasn't it?"
Ast smiled wryly. "Anything to help this land. It's a tough enough existence as it is."
"I know the feeling." They shook hands.
At dawn, Dante was among the first to rappel down the cliff and have a look around the vacated village. There were no tracks or kapper spoor. He signaled to the cliffs and others climbed down to solid ground. After a meal and a few goodbyes, he and Lew walked across the meadow, descended the stone staircase, and began the long trip back to Narashtovik.
"So is it true?" Lew said.
"Is what true?" Dante said.
"That they found Blays."
Dante gazed at him sidelong. "You were listening in?"
"Not on purpose," Lew said. "It's not like I had much choice. That cave was so tight you could hear a cricket fart."
"Wouldn't that be extremely noisy?" Dante pulled up his collar against the cold. "I don't know if he's been located. These reports come in all the time."
"I met him a couple times," the young monk mused. "I was just an acolyte, but he was always pleasant to me."
"He occupied a curious niche in the Citadel." Dante stepped over a fallen branch strewn across the switchbacked trail. "For years, he had no official position or power of his own. Some of the Council regarded him as nothing more than my servant. I think that left him sympathetic to all who had a similar role."
"I dunno. I just thou
ght he was a nice guy."
They traveled on foot for two days, sleeping in cliffside caves. At last they reached the lowlands and retrieved their horses from the Gates of the Mountains, a modest town that marked the unofficial boundary between the civilized lands and the scattered mountain people. The glassy yellow autumn light shined on fields of grass gone to seed and farms nearing harvest. Gusts of wind raced from the west, watering Dante's eyes. After so long in the mountains, the neutral air felt warm and welcoming. After so many nights of blankets in caves, the beds of the inns felt like magic.
Miles outside Narashtovik, the plains were replaced by pine forests. The road was dotted with light traffic: farmers and peasants on foot, dressed in long jackets that swished below their knees. Wagons and traders, too. The forest ended. Across the plain sat Narashtovik.
For the finale of the war, Moddegan's troops had marched right into it, but the battle had centered on the Sealed Citadel and lasted a single day. Prior to that, the ten thousand redshirts mustered against the city had accomplished plenty of looting, burning, and killing, but by the standards of war, the damage had been slight. While the fringes of the city were thick with abandoned and ruined houses, those had been there for decades. Centuries, in some cases. Narashtovik had a long, long history. The Chainbreakers' War was just the latest in a string of conflicts. Whatever damage it had caused, Narashtovik continued to enjoy a renaissance.
Dante and Lew rode into the outskirts of the city. On Dante's first visit, this had been a forest of young pines sprouting in the ruins of old houses. But these trees had made for easy firewood, and the last of them had been chopped down years ago. Much of the lumber had been used to build new homes, many of which were a patchwork of blond timber and old stone.
The land was patch-worked, too, with small homestead farms bordered by fieldstone fences. Though the city had a well-managed granary, one of the key strokes of the war had been securing a supply of wheat from Tantonnen, another former Gaskan territory that sprawled two hundred miles to the south. Late that summer, as the king's men rolled through the Norren Territories, displacing clans, villages, and entire towns, Narashtovik had funneled the Tantonnen wheat to the refugees, saving countless lives.
The Cycle of Arawn: The Complete Epic Fantasy Trilogy Page 113