A Question of Power (The Fire Chronicles Book 2)

by Susi Wright

  The five fliers necessarily carried very little gear. Apart from their bow and quiver, each had a compact bag strapped to their waists containing flint, a few dry biscuits, some coins in a drawstring purse and a second small pouch of Prian powder for emergencies. They were accustomed to feeding themselves frugally on the bounties of Nature when the opportunity arose so never needed to weigh themselves down with supplies. They could cloak-fly much faster that way. Traversing the desert by wind-current, without the need for public highways and byways, it was possible to cross the border in a few hours and be in Siva city in two days; but this time they had decided to foray in a zig-zag across the desert lands searching for any sign of habitation, which meant reaching the city three days later.

  They would begin the search in Siva. Some word of the unprecedented Gaian-human alliance may have reached that far by now. Traders waggled their tongues everywhere, but sometimes distorted truth. They would have to exercise utmost caution, even to the point of keeping their true natures secret. As Gains they could not guarantee themselves safe passage in territories still ignorant of such ideals. Most of their people in other lands were still in hiding, and very good at it, avoiding all contact with humans. Many people would still be unaware of their existence. It had been this way for centuries. Even the Ancestors had accepted it until the quest to kill the Flame Adder had heralded a new day. Still, Lord Luminor had told them change would be slow. Even with magic.

  Their mission would be fraught with danger. They might be challenged by other Gaians who may have become disconnected from the Ancient codes. The four young friends were grateful to have Churian with them. His perceptive skills would protect them in many ways but also be most helpful in convincing others to consider the ideals of the Alliance. If they ventured far enough to the edges of the Known World, there would certainly be other displaced peoples who might also be interested in a harmonious life under its protection. The young warriors were eventually bound to encounter strange people in their travels. Churian had told them stories. He had fought with Lord Thunis, in the wars against the Milosi and the Burbels, human-variant races forced into war by a tyrant overlord.

  “Thank the Ancestors, Lord Thunis defeated that despot by Fire, and those people returned to the edges of the Known World and beyond.” Churian had remarked, “It would be very interesting to meet those people again under a different circumstance. A peaceful one. And long overdue.”

  As they flew over open country, towns and villages, even coming to ground in some places, Churian’s awareness turned up nothing of interest. They zig-zagged for a few days across the vast, uninhabited Southern desert, proving it was just that. Except for wild animals, mostly small reptiles and sand-rabbits, which made good eating, they had sensed nor seen any other sign of life. And mercifully, no kudros beasts. Before their departure from the Capital, Lord Luminor had warned them to be on their guard for stray individuals of those terrible winged beasts; a few might be on the prowl, made homeless by the Flame Adder, before he had killed the monster. They gave up on the desert, heading for the large human settlement of Siva City, nestled in a large harbour on the south coast.

  With no tree cover on the northern approach to that city, any arrival by land or air would be seen by the watchmen from leagues away so the group arrived by night. Their method of travel was always silent with no samblar hooves or snorts to give them away. A protective mantle of darkness disguised their presence in the moonless night sky. They came to ground noiselessly among the dunes, a few furlongs from the city, making a series of airborne leaps from one deep shadow to another. Once in the darkness at the base of the wall, they would wait for a gap in the guard and be inside the walls in a heartbeat. Once within the city, they would not find it too difficult to blend into the melting-pot of travellers from many lands who frequented this large port.

  They would not take overtly to the air, and would refrain from obvious magic. Languages were many and varied in Siva, the busiest port in the Known World, trader’s dialect was a common way to communicate. Their heavy Gaian accents would not be unusual here.

  On their departure from the Capital, they had been given two vials of a new herbal essence. The apothecaries of Baram had accidentally discovered it when trying to heal an eye infection in one of the Gaian children. One drop could temporarily dull the extraordinary brilliance of their eyes. The Council had suggested the warriors might find it useful. However, they were advised against long-term use since there had not been time to test it fully. The disguise could be helpful in interactions with humans – more so to the younger warriors, if they were separated from Churian. Perhaps they would have to ask many questions of human strangers.

  At Churian’s signal, they flew over the unattended section of the wall when the guard returned to the watch-house to hand over to his replacement. In seconds, they were deep in the back-alleys of the city, heading for taverns in the city-centre where they intended to split up into two smaller groups to make a few inquiries.

  Of course, they did not expect to find Gaians in plain sight here but someone might have seen something in their travels. In such a busy place, with all manner of characters gathering to drink and exchange stories of their adventures, it was very likely they could get a lead. It could save them weeks of wandering. Keeping one’s ears open in the common room of an inn could turn up much information. To make inquiries, they would simply pose as mercenaries wanting to collect a debt. The description they would give of the one they sought would suit almost any Gaian. And that would suit their real purpose.

  The five huddled in the deep shadow of a side alley, in view of the entrance of a likely tavern. It was obviously a popular haunt, packed to overflowing at this hour. The merry din of men well into their cups could be heard from across the street. The pavement outside buzzed with the comings and goings of a wide variety of patrons. Churian indicated that Xandor and Zenth, both of similar perceptive ability, should go in here, while he would take the other two friends, the least able in mental skills, to the next establishment.

  Excited for the challenge but making the sign of the Ancestors for protection, Xandor led the foray into the seething den of humanity, recalling the fiasco in the Capital which had led to their arrests. This time they would not be drunk, so would have focus and hopefully better judgment. They would not be taunted by name-calling and they would not be drawn into a brawl. They would not accidentally pulverise a human almost to death. So at the very least, confident they would not be making those same mistakes here, they pulled their hoods down to shield their eyes, and walked resolutely into the inn, behind two other new patrons. They found a bench in a dark corner to sit, backs to the chattering crowd in the common room. A long evening followed, as they listened to empty banter and avoided buying drinks.

  CHAPTER 3

  Tall Tales and New Friends

  Three more nights were spent in exactly the same manner. Each night they split up to search two or more inns but none of them turned up a single clue, even Churian. Eventually they resorted to asking a few questions of random patrons, disguised with the help of a few drops of the herbal tincture. Still nothing.

  The first carrier pigeon was sent to Lord Luminor to duly advise of their safety and whereabouts but with no progress to report. They slept each night, hidden on one rooftop or another throughout the city, eating very little. Their coin would certainly not stretch far buying food.

  One night, Troyan flew out into the desert beyond the city walls and brought back some fat locusts which served to fill their bellies well enough. Heartened by the meal, they decided try one more evening of listening and questions before giving up.

  That evening, they chose taverns closer to the docks of Siva. Gaians, practised at hiding for centuries now, were not easy to find – even by other Gaians as percipient as Churian. They must try harder, focus better, it was agreed. The two groups moved in different directions to search the alehouses. Xandor and Zenth entered the nearest inn by the front door; Churian and th
e others headed three streets away.

  Again, the two hooded friends sat with their backs to the jostling patrons who came and went. Enhanced hearing was a gift which came in handy now, as did their ability to focus. Xandor and Zenth tuned in to different conversations in the room, quickly sifting through all the small-talk and tall-tales; both ended up in the same place – a raucous huddle of men in the opposite corner. The rag-tags were exchanging bawdy anecdotes of some recent experiences with women, in particularly lurid and detailed manner. Unsure whether it had been true intuition, or boredom and his baser nature that had drawn him to the subject, Xandor chanced a glance at his companion to find him returning the look with similar uncertainty.

  Xandor decided to believe that his higher abilities were improving and, as the leader, gave permission by a half-smile for them both to continue listening; it was not a difficult task in this case since the men were becoming so loud, practically anyone in the inn could hear if they were the least bit interested. The huddle consisted of half-a-dozen roughnecks, three with seamen’s tattoos, perhaps sailors or reivers. One surly character with a threadbare captain’s hat, a few missing teeth, and a filthy eyepatch launched into his ribald tale, attempting to outdo the others in his Telling.

  “Three months past. . .I paid me a visit to a brothel, off the Lava Coast, on the Isle of Angels. There was a wench there. . .cost a pretty penny, that’s for sure! Beautiful, like an angel, and very young – not past sixteen. I’m telling ye true, me mates, not worn-out and haggard like the doxies we’re used to! Looked like an angel. . . but she was the very devil herself – isn’t that just what we want. . .eh, lads?” He winked his one good eye. “Long white hair, sparkling like silver coin all the way down to her arse. . .tall, with a body like you can only imagine! But the eyes – Oh them eyes – glowing amber like a flame. . .full o’ promise – set me loins a-fire like never afore!”

  Xandor and Zenth exchanged a startled glance, the physical description was distinctly interesting to their cause. The implied possibility was alarming to consider.

  The man continued, “. . .before I even jumped her, I was in so much pleasure – I almost blacked out!” He grinned lasciviously, confident his was the best story so far, and not about to give up the floor without a final comment to bolster his own ego. “Maybe I did black out! Anyway I was well done. . .worth every penny! When I woke up, she told me I was the best she ever had!” His grin widened proudly.

  The others burst into incredulous laughter. One of the men barked, “Yer an idiot, Skrim! Yer coin paid for that compliment! For certain, every customer gets told the very same lie!” Another piped up, “Sparkly silver hair. . .my arse! Never took ye for a poet, Skrim. Y’must be off with the faeries! What a load of bollocks, yer brain is addled with drink – as always!” A third man slapped him on the back. “You were likely so drunk, you passed out afore anything happened, and the wench had a nice sleep on your money!”

  Skrim just shook his head, used to the taunts. “Well, next time yer passing the Isle of Angels. . .go see for yerselves. Ye’ll see I’m right. . . and ye’ll owe me, big-time, lads! I’ll put money on that. . .right here and now!” Several of the sea-faring men, obviously likely to take that passage across the straits in the near future and very fond of gambling, took up serious bets. They agreed to settle next time they met here in a few months. Then the group quickly lost interest, having run out of stories, in favour of another round of ale.

  Zenth put his hand on Xandor’s arm, a question in his eyes. Could it be?

  Xandor pitched his voice low, shaking his head against a strange worm of compulsion in his mind; he refused to believe the possibility that one of their highly-principalled race, and so young, could have abandoned Gaian ideals and taken up such a lowly trade. “Unlikely. . .this is the story of a drunk! And, the Isle of Angels is too far to go on a fool’s errand!”

  The little worm returned. The evening is almost over. No other conversations so far have been of interest. Why are we both so drawn to this? Neither of us have harboured such base interest before. Should we not inquire further?

  Intuition was screaming at them both, hoping to be heard.

  But neither one was quite hearing. Xandor felt frustrated, knowing that as the leader, he should make a decision. Zenth added to the irritation by saying, “I wish Churian were with us! He would know whether to pursue this.”

  When Xandor did not reply, Zenth quickly apologised for the slight, then remained silent as he realised Xandor was in contemplation.

  Xandor struggled for several moments to reach clarity, trying to shut out the extraneous noises around him. If the story was true – if the girl was indeed Gaian – she must be all alone. No proper family with values, or coded clan for that matter, would allow such a thing. Should such a long journey be undertaken on a mere hunch, since he could not yet rely on his own sentience, and for one solitary girl? Even Gaian. Despite the ruffian’s claim to her prowess, unless she was completely corrupted, it was very likely she was a slave as were many human girls in that trade. Was she held against her will and sorely unhappy? Was a rescue warranted? The strange compulsion he felt in his gut, to do just that, warred with his logic. Their particular quest was to find lost Gaians wherever and however they were lost. It would also be an unlikely and lucky blessing to find any large number in one place. Was any one less important than another? Also, the Alliance meant protection for both races equally. What would happen if it turned out she was human? Aware of her plight, they would be obliged to rescue her. Did it not then follow, in ludicrous form, that they would be beholden to rescue other sex-slaves in the Known World? That would be a formidable task in itself! And even more ridiculous, all other kinds of lost souls of all races? They would never finish their quest! He sighed heavily. He was trying so hard but going around in circles. Where was the enlightenment?

  Just then Skrim staggered towards them, obviously full of ale, making his way to the outside privy. He accidentally brushed Xandor’s shoulder on the way past, weaving a path to the door. Suddenly an idea came to Xandor, and he voiced it in a whisper to Zenth. “We must question Skrim!” He indicated the exit with his eyes as Skrim left. They stood simultaneously to follow.

  Intuition had won a hearing.

  Just then a serving girl approached them. It had been noted they had no drinks, nor empty mugs. The inn had been so busy the two new customers had initially been overlooked. Most patrons would have pushed their way to the bar and demanded service. These two must be leaving, done with waiting. She would get the blame if they left without buying a drink. The boss had noticed and sent her scurrying over to make amends. She addressed their backs as they moved towards the door. “ ‘Scuse. Kind Sirs. Very sorry, if you please! We are so busy tonight. What will you have? Pay for one. . .Have one on the house!”

  It would not do to draw undue attention with the boss’s eyes trained directly on them. Xandor replied without turning. “First, bring the one on the house. . .” He gave Zenth a look. Stay here, I will go alone! Zenth’s eyes widened in horrified denial. It had been too many ales on the house that had got them into trouble before. They had all taken an oath never to imbibe again. Xandor assumed authority, using their native tongue to issue a curt order. “Sit and wait, you do not have to drink it. I will not be long!” To the serving wench he promised, in trader’s dialect, “I buy drink. . . after outhouse!” With that, he followed Skrim outside, leaving an apprehensive Zenth to pull his hood further over his eyes and return to the bench to wait for the cursed drink, and for Xandor to return, bitterly disappointed that he would likely be missing some interesting action outside.

  Once out of the door, Xandor followed Skrim as he teetered to find the privy at the back of the inn. He stopped abruptly, taking cover in the shadows by the wall, when the drunken sailor, deciding the outhouse was altogether too far, suddenly paused and opened his braes to relieve himself in the bushes along the path. Much more comfortable with his bladder empty, the man started back
along the path whistling a merry tune to himself. He was startled to silence when Xandor suddenly appeared from the shadows and blocked the way.

  Xandor’s height and breadth of shoulder made an imposing, hooded silhouette against the lamplight from the street. Skrim, head and shoulders shorter, swayed and squinted up unsuccessfully with his good eye to see if he recognised the younger and stronger man who blocked his passage with some certain purpose. The sailor felt nervous, very drunk and at an obvious disadvantage in other ways, even with his dagger at his side.

  He quizzed uncertainly, “What do you want? I have no more coin...” He pulled out his empty pockets to prove it. For once, he counted his blessings that he was yet again as broke as a beggar. His last pennies of profit from recent trade were sitting in the drink, waiting for him on the table inside. He did not remember the stranger being in the inn but then he wasn’t really noticing much at all. He certainly didn’t want to test his opponent’s skill if it could be avoided. He had enough bluster to control his small crew of misfits, running spices and supplies across the straits in his cutter, but he was not the bravest of men – even if he could brawl with other drunks at the drop of a hat when he was ashore, in taverns from here to the lands across the Southern Seas. Unfortunately, at those times in the usual fog of ale, he could never remember if he was very good at it. He did know he had gotten his fair share of black eyes, even lost one, had split lips and missing teeth to suggest he probably was not.