Landmoor

by Jeff Wheeler

  “Keasorn, Shenalle, and Vannier?” Jaerod’s eyes twinkled. “No, Thealos. No, I don’t.”

  Thealos was disappointed, but not surprised. “How can you be a Shaefellow and a Sleepwalker? You said many of your peers were Shae. Are they Kilshae then? Is our true way of life then just another culture to you? Something that fascinates you, like studying fire or listening to the wind?”

  “Not at all,” the Sleepwalker replied with a chuckle. Then his expression hardened. “I do not believe that the Rules of Forbiddance are truly commandments of the gods. I think they are rules made by men. And men, whether they are Shae or not, are full of hypocrisy. That is why I’m not welcome in Avisahn, Thealos Quickfellow. Or with the Druid-priests, or with the sundry religions of Dos-Aralon.” The tongues of fire licked the cool night air. His gray eyes were deadly serious. “And maybe you and I are more alike than you’re ready to believe.”

  XII

  The conversation with Jaerod changed Thealos’ entire point of view. He barely slept that night, thinking again and again about what he had been told. When dawn came, he rose early, washed in the river, and hurriedly prepared to leave. He had never felt such a pressing urgency, not even in his desire to abandon Avisahn. If he could make it to Landmoor and grab the talisman, he would have the proof he needed to thrust in Nordain’s face. No – he wouldn’t bother with Nordain. He would go to Laisha Silverborne and her high council or to the Sunedrion itself.

  “How far is it to Landmoor?” Thealos asked as Jaerod patiently buried the fire ashes.

  “We’re stopping in Sol first.”

  “Why? We should go straight there.”

  “The Wolfsmen, Thealos,” Jaerod reminded him. “You stirred up some trouble in Avisahn when you left. We can hide our trail better in the city. Now be patient. Don’t let the importance of this rush your reason.”

  Near mid-afternoon, the fog finally dissipated and the colors and scents from the valley returned. Thealos could see the sprawling city of Sol in the valley lowlands, perched on a high outcropping on the right bank of the Trident river. The city itself wasn’t as enormous as Dos-Aralon, but its size had always impressed him. The outer walls were easily thirty feet high, spiked with watchtowers. Small villages hunkered down along the shadows, close to the protective bastions. From his vantage in the highlands, Thealos saw the needle-like masts from scores of ships on the far side of the city – the docks of Sol. Seagulls filled the sky like hundreds of gray leaves swirling in the wind, mingling with the smoke from smithfires and chimneys. There was also a smell, one that grew stronger the closer they approached. It was the stench of sewage mingled with the salty aroma of the ocean. Even from several miles away, it bothered him.

  They approached a gate and joined a branch of the King’s Highway just east of the main road from Dos-Aralon. As they passed beneath the spike and rail portcullis, the comforts of the Inlands vanished. Sol was a giant hulk of a city, bursting furiously inside the tight walls. Buildings rose two to three stories on each side, with narrow jagged streets barely separating them. Down the alleys he saw that the top levels of the buildings hung out over the streets, close enough that someone could reach across and open a window on the other side. A dog urinated in the sloping gutters choked with grit and debris. The stench was awful, and Thealos covered his nose and mouth to keep from gagging.

  “It’s not this bad along the trading wharves,” Thealos complained.

  “Of course it isn’t. The Shae wouldn’t trade here otherwise. But you get used to the smell…eventually. And the Shae sense of smell is more highly refined after all.”

  “It reeks worse than a slaughter pen,” Thealos muttered, trying to ignore the pervasive stench. “This makes Dos-Aralon smell like mint, and I thought it was ill-kept.”

  “Sol has been like this for a while. She has a great deal of laundry that hasn’t been washed, so to speak.” Pausing, he turned around, his black cloak whipping. “See the garrison tower over there? The symbols have almost faded, but you can still make them out. Those were part of the original watchpost. Most of the towers are gone now, but there used to be long catwalks connecting them.” His fingers traced across the sky. “The Shae could pass quickly, while the humans lived down here in the squalor of the streets.”

  “The humans lived here even then?”

  Jaerod nodded with certainty. “Sol has always been a trading hub. The towers were heavily guarded from below so that the Shae would be undisturbed by what the humans did down in the streets.” He shook his head regretfully. “Imagine how it made the survivors of the Sol don Orai destruction feel. The Shae were always watching them, keeping them down in the grime and mire. Armed guards prevented any contact between the races. And you wondered last night why humans never learn. The refugees from the destruction were taught by the Shae’s example.” He sighed. “The towers are gone now, the catwalks stripped away to make things equal. Visitors from the East Kingdoms stop here to trade with Dos-Aralon, but this is all they can see.”

  “Do the Bandits trade here, too?”

  “Of course they do. Whether don Rion is ignorant of it or not, who can say? The Bandits have connections with the League of Ilvaren – in fact, one of their battle commanders used to be an Ilvaren pirate. If you refuse to trade with a pirate, then you get attacked on the high seas. An Ilvaren gold piece is worth the same as Aralonian crowns to the merchants and moneylenders of Sol. A Sheven-Ingen blade costs the same regardless. The garrison is well provisioned, so the Bandit Rebellion does not cause much trouble within the city itself. They don’t want to end up in the River Cellars, the old Shae prisons along the wharves.” He wrinkled his nose. “And you thought the gatehouse reeked…”

  Thealos nodded briskly. He was anxious to get their business done and leave, but he didn’t want it to show on his face. He was much more comfortable in the open plains anyway. The walls and buildings pressed in on him, and the air was thicker than he was used to breathing. He couldn’t feel the presence of Earth magic at all in the city. It was worse than Dos-Aralon. “Where do we go from here?”

  “For now, you can wander about as you’d like. There are shops that sell new clothes,” he added, giving Thealos a scrutinizing glance. Thealos had to admit it – he did have the look of a common wayfarer. “I have a visit to make before I join you again. Meet me at dusk at the Foxtale Inn, near the Sheven-Ingen docks. It is a well-kept tavern along the piers. Oh, and don’t play Bones with the Drugaen there. He cheats.”

  “Why can’t I go with you?” Thealos asked.

  The Sleepwalker looked at him with a smirk. “I have my reasons. Which I doubt you would ever truly appreciate unless you became a Sleepwalker yourself. Now buy yourself some clothes and I’ll meet you at the inn later. Watch for thieves. I’m trusting the son of a barter can handle himself in a city.”

  Thealos nodded. “I’ll meet you at the Foxtale then.” Pulling his cloak over the blade of Jade-Shayler to hide the glint of Silvan steel, Thealos rested his hand over the hilt. As he joined the main road crowded with horses, carts, sailors, and merchants, Thealos felt the press of bodies. He turned to look back and Jaerod was gone. He craned his neck, trying to see him. Pin-pricks of gooseflesh danced on the back of his neck. He had the feeling he was being watched, but there was no sign of the Sleepwalker. Sighing with impatience, Thealos continued in the press of bodies toward the docks. Occasionally, a hand whisked on his clothes, but he kept a firm grip on his things and stayed along an open furrow on the rear side of the crowd.

  There were other Shae within Sol. He hadn’t really been looking for any, but their pale skin and light-colored hair was alarmingly obvious. He frowned. Some were obviously well-dressed moneylenders or barters attending to business. Others had lanky hair, cheap earrings, and thin beards. They shouted at everyone passing by, tempting them with deals on Silvan wine, palm-reading, some even hawking jewels from the Silverborne treasures. Thealos saw one juggle knives for a capful of coins. Kilshae, he remembered darkly. The banis
hed ones. Over the years, how many had left Avisahn as he had? Did they miss wandering through acres of twisting oaks when the first green leaves were budding? Or did they miss the languid, peaceful lifestyle even more – the music, the flavors of wines and cheeses, the clear voices of a trained chorale? Many of the Shae he saw were filthy. There were other races as well. Stocky Drugaen longshoremen with wizened eyes and tangled beards shoved their way through the crowds. The Drugaen were a slave race that had thrown off their masters centuries ago. From what Thealos remembered, they were shorter because they had originally been bred to mine ore. They could be found doing hard labor throughout the world, but only so long as they were paid for it. The best Sheven-Ingen blacksmiths were Drugaen-born, smiths who could hammer without tiring until the moonrise. The sights of Sol dazzled his eyes all at once, and he secretly wished he were with Jaerod, to see the city as a Sleepwalker did.

  Closer to the piers, Thealos found a tailor shop called The Silver Needle. He did not want to be recognized shopping in one of the Shae businesses that his Correl had dealings with. The owner was a large human woman with tight arms and long fingers. She gazed at him, watching his hands. He chose a thick pale green tunic sewn with silver-threaded trim and dotted across with studs, a heavy wool travel cloak that was ash gray, and he even found a padded leather vest lined with wool. He paused where the gloves were, tried on a few sets, and then put them back.

  “You planning on paying for those clothes, Shaden?” the woman said from the counter. “Or are you just hoaxing me?”

  Thealos turned to her. “Is my gold not welcome?”

  She didn’t flinch. “Just as long as you plan on leaving some of it here. It’s not easy selling clothes that a Shaden touched.”

  Anger seeped into his cheeks, and he clenched the fabric of the cloak and tunic. He knew his clothes were bloodstained and shabby. He was accustomed to being treated deferentially as a barter’s son. But it was obvious she didn’t trust the Shae.

  “I’ll take these,” he said, setting them down on the counter top.

  She eyed him and then unfolded the cloak and shook it out. After examining the other clothes that way, a trick to be sure he hadn’t bundled anything inside them, she propped her hand against her wide hip and said, “Five pieces.”

  “Of what?” he demanded.

  “Gold,” she answered firmly.

  “You can’t be serious,” he said, feeling the barter’s game begin. “The fabric isn’t worth one piece, but I’ll buy it for that. One Aralonian piece.”

  “One piece?” she laughed. “Get out of my shop. I sew each of these by hand with a silver needle. It’s worth five, and that’s all that I’ll accept. If you don’t like the prices, complain to the Silvan King.”

  “I could buy a new sword for five,” Thealos countered. He raised the cuff on the tunic disdainfully. “If this were made by Silvan Weavers, I would pay five. Look how the hem is creased and stitched. Two lines of thread, not three. These barely meet the stitch-marking guidelines.”

  “How do you know about the…?”

  “Or about the loose threads here along the hem,” Thealos snapped icily. “It’s fair work, Madame, but I know quality when I see it. And maybe I’m not an ignorant Shaden you can cheat.” He reached in his money purse and laid two Aralonian pieces. They glimmered with a clean Avisahn mint. “They are worth one piece, but I’m in a hurry. It’s two or nothing.”

  She hesitated, staring greedily down at the coins. It was obvious he could afford to pay, and that he knew the true value of the items. In the end, she accepted the gold Aralonian coins, and Thealos left after changing into the handsome tunic, cloak, and vest.

  “Come back sometime, Shae Barter,” she declared as he walked out. “Maybe we can talk some real business.”

  He gave her a mock bow and shut the door. The new clothes made him feel much better. What he needed was a warm bath and a laver full of soap cakes to cap it off. Pausing briefly, he asked a passerby about the Sheven-Ingen wharf and was given some vague directions taking him to the southeastern part of the city. Seagulls perched on the tall masts of ships and shrieked. Even though the roadway tilted slightly, the footing was good. Taverns and inns and warehouses jammed and crowded the Sheven-Ingen wharf, but it wasn’t difficult finding the Foxtale Inn. It had wide windows that opened to a sprawling main room glowing with a huge hearth in the middle of it. The chimney was wide enough to fit a man across. It butted out of the tiled roof, sending plumes of gray smoke into the leaden sky. The inn wrapped around itself, with two aisles of rooms that met in the back with a second level perched on top.

  Thealos studied it, inhaling the tangy salt smell from the ocean. That was the smell he remembered from Sol, not the filth by the gatehouse. Several wooden steps led up to the inn’s foundation, and the stone was covered with wash marks from where the tide had risen suddenly and overrun the pier. Looking straight down the dock, Thealos could see the churning gray-blue waters at the end. A cool breeze blew through his hair. Thealos climbed the steps and entered. A blast of heat warmed his cheeks and hands, and he realized how cold it had been on the dock. The hearthfire roared with huge trunk-thick logs. He scanned the thirty or forty tables for a sign of Jaerod, but the Sleepwalker wasn’t there yet. The owner leaned over on the bar counter, sifting through a stack of docket books. The man paused long enough to look up, scowl at Thealos, and then go back to counting figures. The room was barely half full, and there were plenty of open tables, so Thealos took a far corner table near the kitchen doors and dropped into a chair.

  The inn smelled like beer and pipe smoke, but also of fresh bread and roasted geese. The wood-planked floor was surprisingly clean, and the patrons seemed to be enjoying themselves. There were dozens of little touches that made the inside of the Foxtale a warm and inviting place. Wainscoting, vine ivy, and fat tallow candles – all of which helped add to its charm. It was definitely a woman’s touch – the innkeeper himself seemed out of place in it with his unkempt hair and rumpled sleeves. Setting his travel bundle and bow on an empty chair, Thealos sat and slowly scanned the room. A Drugaen sat on a tall stool by the bar, clumsily shuffling a worn deck of cards. One of his boots tapped against the leg of the stool. He had a wicked double-bladed Sheven-Ingen axe in his belt and an iron-knobbed club in a hoop on his other hip. The club reminded Thealos of Cropper, and he shuddered with the memory. The Drugaen was young and a little ruddy, with reddish-brown hair and a combed beard. His chest was as big around as an ale barrel, and his stubby fingers tapped as they shuffled through the cards. He leaned over and whispered something to a serving girl.

  The girl caught Thealos’s eye and he stared at her. She smiled at what the Drugaen had said and shook her head, making her jewelry tinkle softly. Her hair was dark brown and long, and her blouse drooped lazily in front. She nudged the Drugaen with her elbow, said something, and they both laughed. Then she glanced over at Thealos, catching him in his stare, and gave him a smile that was friendly and very pretty. Thealos nodded back and continued scanning the room.

  Along the far wall, near the rear corner of the inn, he saw a knight from Owen Draw. It was clear who he was from the scarred armor he wore. The knight pored over a thick platter of roast goose, dabbing gravy with a hunk of bread. He had rust-gold hair, long and loose – the Inland style. A mustache drooped down along each side of his mouth. Small crisscross scars knotted his cheekbone and neck, everywhere the fine-chain mesh and silver plate didn’t cover. His hands were bare, his gauntlets loose on the table next to him. Even his hands and fingers looked as if they’d been smashed and healed repeatedly. He looked like a care-worn hickory tree, solid and steady. Thealos watched him eat, wondering what the warrior from the Inland duchy of Owen Draw was doing down in the Shoreland.

  The door opened, and a howling sounded as the warm air rushed out. Thealos looked towards the door and watched four hooded men enter the Foxtale Inn. They quickly took a table near the doors, hunching forward. One tossed off a hood, and T
healos saw his silver-blonde hair scooped and tied back – tied with a red-dyed leather thong. Thealos stared at another and saw the rough sailor’s garb. But it was the red dye that made his stomach lurch. It was the color…

  Thealos wanted to shrink in his seat as his stomach coiled with fear. Sweet Vannier, it wasn’t possible! Four men – a quaere. And they weren’t human either. He could sense it from across the room as if someone had whispered it right in his ear. No. They weren’t human sailors in for a drink of ale.

  They were Crimson Wolfsmen. And he didn’t think it merely chance that they had entered the Foxtale behind him.

  XIII

  Dujahn pulled the reins back and eased the gelding into a light trot. Scratching the sweat-dampened skin behind his ear, he gazed at the picket fires ahead. Before reaching the south sentries, he dismounted and led the horse towards the flickering nests of light in the sharp darkness. His shirt was soaked, and sweat dripped down his ribs. The ground was spongy, moist and smelled like bitter weeds and mud. The vine maple and cedar crowded in on each other and in between the ruts grew thick patches of witch-thorn. His boots crunched over slick-beetles and crickets. Clouds of gnats and mosquitoes buzzed around him. The road was barely visible that night, but he studied the dimly-lit ruts and tracks and maneuvered without stumbling.

  A Kiran Thall hooted like an owl, three low bursts from the wall of trees on his left. An alert call, Dujahn remembered from the training Miestri had given him. Just thinking about the Sorian made him shiver. She and Dairron had tricked him into serving them, letting him eavesdrop until he knew too much and now he had no choice but to forsake Folkes and work for them. Miestri had said exactly what would happen when he reached the picket lines and told him exactly what to do and say. She was well-informed about military affairs – she knew all the right things to say. Just as she had promised, the Kiran Thall had spotted him earlier than he thought they would. Impressive, but still not enough. If he hadn’t wanted to be seen, he would have left the horse and started around the camp on foot as soon as the firelight was visible farther back.