by Robert Beers
Adam sent a small shaping, into her, asking her body if it was lying. She showed no sign of feeling the shaping and she was being truthful, or at least she believed she was.
He reached into his pouch and pulled out a silver. “I'll take a pound.”
The coin was snatched from his fingers with lightening speed. “Ahh, good lad. You be makin’ a wise decision, you do. Them's the best onions this side of the mountains. You'll find that out, you just wait an’ see.”
Adam took the wrapped parcel of onions and his change and stepped back into the organized chaos of the marketplace.
Grisham's marketplace was not a single entity. The place Adam was shopping in was one of the smaller installations, away from the mass insanity of the press inside the city gates.
“Hey, Guv! Fancy a sausage?” The heavily accented voice called out to Adam as he strolled through the crush of stalls and carts. A knot of giggling and screaming children pushed past him, involved in some sort of game that had to rely on how many toes they could trod on in a given minute.
Adam turned to look at the fellow holding up a steaming sausage impaled on a wooden skewer. “You said something?”
The fellow squinted at him through dirty round spectacles. Bland, frizzy mouse brown hair peeked out from underneath a floppy knit hat that looked older than Milward. The grayish, greasy sausages grilling on the brazier did not smell, or look, appetizing. Adam tried not to breathe in too deeply.
Knit hat poked the sausage he was holding under Adam's nose. “Sure did, Guv. Have a sausage. Only a copper, an’ a real bargain at that. I should sell ‘em for a silver, at least, but me ol’ mom would come back an’ haunt me iffn I did somethin’ so dishonest. C'mon. Buy a sausage. Make me poor ol’ mum proud.”
Adam recoiled from the rancid odor that assaulted him. “Not on your life! What do you put in those things, anyway? It smells like burnt hair.”
The sausage vendor had the poor grace to look offended. “Burnt ‘air? Burnt ‘air? I'll ‘ave you know I use only th’ finest selected meat an’ spices in these ‘ere sausages.”
Adam held his mouth over his nose. “Selected from what? The finest rats?” He backed away from the stall.
“Oh, yeah, ‘at's right. Insult th’ ‘onest sausage seller an’ walk off. Go ahead. ‘Oo needs ya? Get outta ‘ere!” The merchant shooed Adam away with a wave of his merchandise.
He checked his purchases as he walked away from the vendor, through the market, and back into the city streets. The open netting of the shopping bag made it an easy task. Onions, carrots, and celery occupied the top of the bag, and bunched clippings of fresh herbs, long loaves of fresh baked crusty bread, a waxed package of yellow butter, and an even dozen golden brown potatoes made up the rest. All he needed was the meat, and the stew could be put together.
The time spent working in Hersh's shop had taught him a lot about grading meat. From what he'd seen in the market, nearly all the cuts offered there wouldn't make graduation. There was a butcher shop a couple of streets downhill from the inn, and the butcher was a fan of Granny Bullton's ale. He'd been at the bar when Adam discovered the guard's estimation of granny's brown ale to be accurate.
He greeted Adam with a wave and a grin as the bell over the door signaled his entrance. “Hey there! Gonna make that stew after all, eh?”
Adam's answering smile was tired. The walk had been mostly uphill, and he'd had to face down potential cutpurses on two separate occasions. “I suppose so. Milward could use the nourishment, and although Granny Bullton may be a good brewmaster, she's no cook.”
The butcher laughed as he drew one of his knives across a steel. “Don't I know it! She turned one of my best roasts into charcoal.”
He leaned across the counter. “I think she uses the same recipe for everything. Even her wheat cakes taste like beer.”
That brought a laugh out of Adam. “You're probably right. I'll take a couple pounds of stew meat. Small chunks, please.”
The butcher pursed his lips as he looked across his stock. “Beef, venison or mutton?”
Adam considered the old Wizard's tastes. “Beef.”
The butcher nodded. “Good choice. Venison's pricey, and the mutton's strong enough to walk out of the pot on its own.”
He pulled a well-marbled haunch out of the cupboard, and began dicing it into bite-sized chunks of stew meat. Adam watched the deft handling of the large butcher knife with a sense of nostalgia. He and Charity had been happy then.
He shook off the feeling. There was no sense in dwelling on a past that wasn't going to be revisited, at least not any time soon.
“That'll be a half silver.” The butcher plopped the bundle of stew meat onto the counter.
Adam handed him the five coppers plus one more. “Thanks. The extra's for you and your missus, and for me not having to use the stuff down the hill.”
The butcher pocketed the coin, and nodded his head. “Aye. If they keep on going as they are, Grisham won't have a rat to its name. I swear, if they could get away with it, they'd serve Garloc.”
That got another laugh from Adam. He felt considerably better than when he had entered the butcher shop. The man's gregariousness was catching. He found himself whistling a tune as he walked the two blocks to the inn.
Milward woke as Adam entered the bedroom. Granny Bullton came in and left a supply of fresh cloths for his forehead before going into her basement brewery. A lingering smell of hops and yeast lay in the room from her visit.
“So, you've made it back in one piece,” the Wizard grumped, as he reached for the water pitcher and poured himself a glassful.
“You must be feeling better,” Adam remarked, as he unbuckled his sword belt. “That's the first sour word you've said to me in most of a week.”
Milward's eyebrows climbed into his scalp line. “Really? I must have been stricken harder than I thought. No one takes you seriously when you get to be my age unless you crab a bit. Remember that.” He drank the water in one long swallow.
“I've got a stew started.” Adam took the empty glass and placed it back onto the nightstand.
Milward looked at him suspiciously. “That old crone hasn't had her hands into it, has she?”
Adam smiled as he shook his head no. “I made sure of it. She was a little disappointed at not being able to help out. I think she's sweet on you.”
Milward looked alarmed. “Bardoc preserve me. We've got to get out of here as soon as possible.”
He started to pull back the quilts, but Adam restrained him with a small laugh. “Don't worry about it. I've already told her you were a confirmed vagabond bachelor. She was even more disappointed to hear that one than about the stew.”
Milward sank back into the mattress with a profound sigh. “Oh, thank you, dear boy. You don't know how large a favor I owe you for that one.”
Adam grunted. “I'll collect later. Can you tell me more about what happened back at the gate house?”
Milward thought about the seizure. It had felt like an attack, but he was sure Gilgafed didn't have the reach; not from Pestilence. But, there were entities ... he drove the thought from his mind and refocused on Adam.
“Ummm. Not really. It was most likely a reaction to some of my own cooking out in the wild. I really should pay more attention to such things.”
Adam crossed his arms. “If I remember correctly, I was the one who prepared that morning's breakfast. And I don't recall hearing any complaints.”
“See!?” The old Wizard pointed a finger at Adam's nose. “I told you your cooking would one day be the death of me! Look at what you did.” He spread his arms, indicating where he lay.
“If that's what happened,” Adam kept his arms crossed as he leaned back against the bedroom wall. “Then you ate something I didn't, otherwise I'd be in bed the same as you.”
Milward gathered the covers around himself and settled deeper into his mattress. “Well, I'm not going to argue with you about it.”
Adam snorted a short laug
h. “That's a change.”
“Go. See to your stew, if you're going to be that way. I want to get some more sleep.” The old Wizard pulled the covers over his eyes as he turned on his side.
He could hear the click of the latch as Adam closed the door. "He is a good lad.” Milward thought. “He doesn't deserve what's coming.”
“Please, Bardoc.” He prayed. “Let it not be a seeker.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Cobain pushed the door open with his rear as he worked at balancing his master's lunch on the silver tray. The sorcerer's appetite was finally coming back to something resembling a normal level since that horrible day he released the Seeker into the world.
“Finally.” Gilgafed's voice cut across the room, disturbing his reflections. “Did you have to give birth to the shoat, as well as cook it?”
The Sorcerer sat at his favorite dining spot, drumming the fingers of his right hand, pinky to thumb and back again. He was hungry, and impatient. He hadn't felt hunger, real hunger, for the first time in weeks. Ever since ... he shuddered at the thought. The problem, he'd learned, with the shadow creatures was, you couldn't trust them. They'd just as soon take the one who summoned them as the target they'd been brought over to deal with.
Cobain laid the covered platter onto the table with a practiced flourish. “Your repast, Master.”
He swept the cover upwards to reveal a suckling pig, roasted whole, in a honey glaze with the heart, kidneys and sweetbreads laid around it, interspersed with apples and potatoes.
Gilgafed looked at the feast, and his stomach rumbled in anticipation. He picked up his knife and cut into the crisp golden skin of the shoat. It crackled, and sweet fat welled up as the blade sliced off a thick serving.
“Ummm.” He closed his eyes in rapture as he chewed the succulent flesh. “I am forced to admit, Cobain, the wait was worth it.”
Cobain was surprised at the unlooked for compliment. “W ... why thank you, Master. I am gratified.”
The Sorcerer gulped at his wine and waved off his servant's reply. “Think nothing of it. I'm hungry enough, the hooves would taste good. In fact, I may eat them, anyway.” He sliced off another section and shoved it into his mouth.
Cobain watched his master eat and nodded to himself. He should probably follow the sorcerer's advice and think nothing of the compliment. It was safer that way.
He swallowed and asked his question. “Have you heard anything from the envoy, Master?”
There was a slurping sound as Gilgafed gulped more of his wine. Cobain winced. The vintage was hundreds of years old, and as rare as a flawless ruby. The sorcerer was treating it like spring water.
Gilgafed wiped his mouth with back of his hand as he put down the empty goblet. “Nothing yet. Not that I expected to hear anything so soon. Grisham is a giant haystack, and I've sent her to find one particular needle. Really, Cobain, you should learn to practice patience, like I do.”
Cobain set his face into a mask of resigned tolerance. “I will endeavor to do so, Master.”
* * * *
The great dog sniffed the corner of the building with interest. In spite of its size and its immunity to its rider's power, it was, of course, still a dog. The envoy hissed a command and it forwent the inspection of the neighborhood message board, and turned back into the center of the City Street.
The envoy could feel she was getting closer to finding what the sorcerer had sent her to find. That feeling of evil was becoming stronger, and in fact, it had developed an additional nuance, almost ... a flavor, as if it were particularly pleased with something it had recently accomplished.
The rabble inhabiting Grisham continued to be repulsed by her power, which was just as well. There had been times in the past when her power was used to kill. Fear would stop a man's heart as surely as a blade, and it had done so, many times. She preferred not to have to do so again.
The buildings around them were looking better, the streets wider, and the people better dressed. “This must be one of the moneyed neighborhoods,” she thought.
They turned another corner, this one of no interest at all to the dog. The street opened into a wide, park-like setting, with an expensive looking mansion set in the middle of it. The evil wasn't here, but it had been. Recently. The trail led ... that way.
Guards came running her way, carrying ornate, but serviceable looking spears and halberds. She turned her head, and watched them come. Some of them were made of sterner stuff than the others, they actually came to within a spear length of the dog before their bowels turned to water. In the back of her mind, the question arose again. “Why don't they ever think of using a bow?”
When the last of the guards lay on the grass gibbering in terror, she turned her head and directed the dog to continue the search. She had the trail; now it was just a matter of time.
* * * *
McCabe's right hand held the gold coins over his outstretched left palm, and dropped them, one after another, into it. He relished the rich, tinkling sound they made as they rearranged their stack on his palm.
The Duke had been generous, more than he thought the pot-bellied old man would have been.
“They should have discovered the little bitch's body by now,” he mused to himself, as he clinked his coins in his hand. A smile that was less than kind spread across his face as he walked the street in the neighborhood he'd chosen to live in. It was upper class and indulgent, a perfect playground for one with McCabe's tastes.
A couple of women coming home from shopping shied when they saw his expression and crossed the street. Their steps quickened as his laughter followed them. A few shutters opened to see the cause of the sound, more closed because of it.
* * * *
The Envoy's skin began to tingle. Her target was very, very near. The great dog sensed it, as well, and a low rumble formed in its throat. Alongside the excitement of the hunt lay apprehension. This target was not their usual prey. The sense of evil was nearly palpable. She, who gave fear, now felt it. She increased her projection as a precaution. The people who had stayed in the street to gawk at the great dog vanished from it as if swept aside by an invisible broom.
“Only a few more moments, now,” she thought to herself. “Maybe this turning, or the next.”
The dog's rumble became a growl and then a bark. The envoy looked up the previously empty street to see a slender, dark-complexioned man of less than average height walking towards them. He wore black; silk blouse, leather belt and twill pants that tucked into calf-high shiny black boots. The smile his face wore as he approached her and the dog was anything but pleasant.
She feared this man. The emotion was alien to her, and it gave wings to the tightness that flew to her heart.
The shaping hit McCabe with all the force the envoy could muster. Men had died under less, their insides rupturing under the weight of the terror that struck them. McCabe merely smiled as his hand toyed with the pommel of his dagger.
* * * *
Thaylli's temper had been better. Her feet struck the ground as if it were to blame for her present mood. She knew the real reasons for how she felt. Her mouth still burned a bit from that foul stew the dwarves had left for her breakfast, and they hadn't even had the good graces to be there when she awoke.
To top it off, she could feel the pressure of her time coming on. No, today was not a good day.
She had to admit that the advice and the lessons of the dwarves were serving her well. She now had a sturdy staff, and it did help in her walking, especially when the uphill grade was steep. She took some small satisfaction by maintaining her foul mood in spite of that.
The weather was also cooperating in keeping her out of sorts. A storm had rattled the highlands behind her last night. The edges of it left a dampness that clung to the greenery around her, and soaked her skirts through to her skin.
“Oooo ... bother you, Adam. You're going to pay for this when I finally catch up with you.” She raised her staff and whacked the top off of an in
nocent thistle as she passed it. A small part of her rose up to protest the meanness of the act, but she pushed it back as she thought about all the things she was going to say to Adam concerning his thoughtlessness in running off and leaving her like he did. That she had agreed with his choice bore no weight at all in the argument.
She dug the staff into the damp ground and used it to help her climb the slope. This one was stepper than the rest, and the tall grasses gave off a fragrant sweet alfalfa smell as she passed through them.
Her mood took a sudden swing to the better as she looked down the other side of the ridge she had just climbed. A gleaming white ribbon curved away to the north and to the south, maybe five or six miles from where she stood.
Labad's legendary highway, the rest of her journey would be much easier.
* * * *
They watched the solitary female from their vantagepoint in the pines.
“She is without pack or mate, sky lord.” The Alpha Wolf said to Drinaugh.
One of the pups whined and was quickly shushed by his mother. The Alpha Wolf noted the disturbance with a twitch of his ears. The cub would be spoken to later.
Drinaugh flexed his wings as he shifted his shoulders. He ached to take to the sky again, but that would be rude to the wolves, as well as cause him to lose track of Adam's scent.
He sniffed the air as the wind shifted. “Our human friend has been with this one. His scent is on her.”
The wolf sniffed the breeze. He curled his upper lip as he musthed. “Your nose does you great credit, sky lord. I smell the short ones and where she has walked, nothing more. When was she with our pack mate?”
The young Dragon sniffed again. “It has been a long time. Maybe as much as a season, but it is his scent.”
The alpha wolf opened his mouth in a wolf grin. “I smell you, dragon. The wolves will honor your nose in our songs.”
Drinaugh gave him the Dragon equivalent of a blush. “The honor is mine, pack leader. I am grateful, but ... how shall we approach our friend's female?”
“The day is near its ending,” the wolf said, while watching Thaylli walk down the hill. “We will greet her in the morning. If she is the she of our pack mate, she will know who we are.”