earthdawn Anarya's Secret

by Tim Jones

  Vyaka's tavern wasn't quite in that league, but it was far enough from the river to take the edge off the smell. Vyaka herself was, as her Name implied, a long-tusked troll who ran her establishment with a quelling glare for staff and customer alike. Her manner seemed more suitable for a riverside dive than an elegant dining establishment, but this was certainly the fanciest eating place Kendik had ever been in. He was intimidated by the snooty-faced majordomo who intercepted them as they tried to claim a table without queuing for it, intimidated by the fanciful array of eating utensils that lay before him, and rendered almost catatonic by the complexity of the menu.

  Mors and Atlan looked at each other. "We'll have what's cheapest," Mors said to the human woman who came by after a few minutes to take their order.

  Then they waited. Mors enlivened the delay by grumbling, until Atlan told him to shut up. Though Kendik was almost faint with hunger, he waited politely; his mother had cured him, with a few whacks from her long wooden stirring spoon, of impatience at the dinner table. He took the opportunity to look around at the clientele. Orks and trolls, sitting at the same table! Surely such a thing had never been seen before. And over there, in the far corner—was that a windling, a creature he had never seen, and had heard of only in stories? He half rose from the table for a closer look at the smallest of the Name-givers, but Atlan's hand pulled him back down.

  "You might never have seen a windling before, lad, but you don't have to let half of Borzim know that."

  The food, when it finally arrived, was delicious. Kendik's grandfather, a renowned cook, would have been proud of some of the sauces used at Vyaka's tavern. Kendik's father had inherited the talent, though Kendik could barely remember his being at home long enough to display it. What Kendik could remember was his father arriving home unexpectedly, armor blackened and splattered with blood, and lifting him up for a good look and a rough hug. He could remember also the arguments, and the fighting, and his mother screaming insults at a retreating back; and then the long silence.

  Kendik ate mechanically for a while, lost in reverie. Looking up from his plate for a moment, he caught a glimpse of silver from the street outside. He was up from his seat and out of the tavern without conscious thought. Anarya was striding down the road towards the river. Kendik rushed after her.

  She was almost at the bridge over the Opthia before he caught up with her. When he put his hand on her shoulder, she whipped her sword out of its scabbard, and he was forcibly reminded of that moment outside the entrance to Kaer Volost. Then she relaxed, and knew him.

  "Where have you been?" he asked.

  "To Medzhina's house, and then to the south ... No one knows where she is! The old man who lives in her house says he has never heard of her. The guard would have thrown me out of the town, but I managed to recall the Name of Medzhina's factor, and persuaded the guard to take me to him instead."

  "Did you find him?"

  She pointed to the top of the street. "I found a man of that Name, living in luxury not far from the palace. But he was old enough to be the factor's father."

  "What did he tell you?"

  "The old fool spoke in riddles, as they all do. Now I must go to the northern wall; they say Medzhina's niece still lives there, and will help me." She clutched at his arm. "Will you come with me? Everything has changed."

  Destiny spoke to Kendik, and it said: follow this woman, and follow your heart. But another voice competed: it was Mors, out of breath, flushed, and far from pleased. "Come back, you young idiot. We've got company. Akil has arrived."

  Kendik's indecision showed in his face. Anarya resolved it with a smile. "No matter. I can find my way to the northern wall and the Street of Apothecaries. We will meet again." In a heartbeat, in a few fluid strides, she had disappeared down the darkened street.

  Akil the dwarf looked up sardonically as Mors and Kendik returned to Vyaka Longtusk's tavern. "You two certainly know how to make yourselves inconspicuous," she said. "Chasing after some woman, was it?"

  Kendik muttered an apology and sat down. He was far from ready to reveal anything about Anarya to a stranger. He waited for a few more pieces of choice dwarfen advice about his behavior, but Akil seemed ready to let the matter drop. He did not have much experience with female dwarfs, but he judged her to be of middle years. She had once, he supposed, been beautiful by dwarf standards, and her black hair was still thick and lustrous. Her eyes, though—they were the eyes of one who had seen, and done, far too much.

  "Well," said Akil, "you've got everybody looking at you. Let's go."

  She led them out of the tavern, across the street, and into a maze of small lanes and alleys in the district just uphill from the river, ending at a small, anonymous house. Though the house appeared to be empty, candles had been lit in the front room, where they seated themselves around a square wooden table.

  "You've done quite well for yourselves so far," said Akil. "You managed to get past the gate, you didn't get press-ganged into the guards, and here you are, three scruffy travelers, enjoying the famed hospitality of Vyaka Longtusk. Well, now it's time to earn your keep. You're serious about serving the town of Borzim?"

  "We want work," said Mors.

  "A Thief, wanting work? That's a first. It's a dark night—shouldn't you be off stealing things by now?"

  "Who says I'm a Thief?"

  "You do. Everything about you does to one who has spent as long in the shadows as I. Do not take me for a fool."

  Mors said nothing.

  "Then listen hard when I say that we don't like thieves here in Borzim. We're trying to make something of this town, and we won't have outsiders coming in and taking what's ours. Have you seen the gallows yet? I suppose not—they're outside the northern gate, and you haven't been that way. There are six corpses hanging there at the moment, and three of them are Thieves. One word from me, and you could join them. Understand?"

  Mors nodded.

  "And as for you two—" Akil made a show of glancing at the parchment square—"we have an Archer and a Swordmaster. Let me see that bow."

  Atlan handed it over. "Mmmm, not bad," said Akil. "Seen much action?"

  "Some."

  "Can you shoot from cover?"

  "Of course."

  "Good. And you," she said, turning her penetrating gaze back onto Kendik, "you say you're a Swordmaster?"

  Something about this arrogant dwarf was setting Kendik's teeth on edge. "I am."

  "Bit young, aren't you?"

  "Are you doubting my skills?"

  "No, just your good sense. I've seen lads like you before. You apprentice yourself to some run-down veteran, get a few lessons, consider yourself an adept, and swagger around the place challenging Name-givers to fights and generally making a nuisance of yourself. And chase every girl you see in the street. Does that about sum you up?"

  "I am young, and have not been an adept for long, but I am not the fool you take me for," replied Kendik.

  "Oh, aren't you? Well, you'd better become one in a hurry, then, because that's exactly what I need—a young fool who doesn't appear to have a thought in his head, but can still keep his wits about him. That, and a couple of companions, experienced retainers who've been sent by the young fool's wealthy parents to keep an eye on him as he attempts to make his way in the world and do his duty for Borzim."

  "What duty?" asked Kendik.

  "A tour of the provinces. You'll be a young nobleman sent by his lord and master to show the flag in the provinces."

  "Borzim has provinces?"

  "We have villages."

  "Why not send a real nobleman?"

  Akil snorted. "I want someone to pretend to be stupid, not to be stupid. Besides, the villagers won't know the difference."

  "What's in it for us?" asked Atlan.

  "Pay, for a start," said Akil, producing a purse. "More pay if you do well. And a stake in Borzim's future. This town is on the move. Better to be with us than against us."

  "So what do we do?"

&nb
sp; "You can sleep here tonight. In the morning, pack your gear for travel and go to the North Gate. Someone will meet you outside and take you in hand. Gentlemen, Borzim thanks you."

  With that, Akil took her leave. Exploring the house, they found rough straw beds, a basin for washing, and a hole that led down to unplumbable, but very smellable, depths. Before long, Atlan and Mors were asleep. Kendik lay awake for quite a while, wondering whether he would see Anarya again, wondering what the morning would bring.

  Sunlight slanting in through the windows provided one answer, and breakfast waiting on the square table another. Atlan raised his mug and smiled at Kendik. "To adventure!" he said.

  Since conspicuousness seemed to be what Akil was looking for, they found their way to the main street and walked jauntily over the Opthia—the smell not quite so strong this morning—and through the center of town. Near the central square, shopkeepers were setting up for the day's business, and the produce of the lands surrounding Borzim was being readied for sale at the market opposite the guardhouse. The statue of Tesek gazed after them as they passed the guardhouse and walked towards the northern gate.

  The northern parts of the town displayed neither the poverty of the slums along the Opthia, nor the opulence of the mansions on the southern heights. Here were the houses, small, neat, and well kept, of artisans and clerks. They passed schools and shops, and at every street corner, Kendik looked left and right for the Street of Apothecaries.

  But he did not see the Street of Apothecaries, and he did not see Anarya. They reached the northern gate, barely had to queue before it was opened, and passed outside the walls of Borzim.

  They first thing they discovered was that Akil hadn't been lying about the gibbets. There was no way of knowing for what offences the decaying corpses, home to flies and crows, had been hanged, but Mors still scowled.

  "Amateurs," he said.

  In front of the gibbets, stretching on either side along the road to the north, was a ragged encampment. Here the poor and the destitute of the plain, those who waited in vain to gain entrance to Borzim, tried to sell them trinkets or food, or begged for coin. Well, thought Kendik, I'm supposed to be conspicuous. He reached for his share of Akil's purse and gave a coin each to the nearest beggars. Within seconds, he was surrounded. Atlan and Mors shook their heads and moved away a little.

  Finally, the beggars accepted that Kendik was done with charity for the day, and moved back to their hovels; all but one, who stood suddenly, swept off its hood, and revealed the long, pointed snout, flared nostrils, gray-green skin, and upswept crest of a t'skrang.

  "Kendik Dezelek?" said the t'skrang.

  "Yes."

  "Gather your companions," said the t'skrang. "In five minutes, we ride north."

  Chapter 4

  "Most interesting," said Kendik. "Marvelous. And the pigs as well? I'm most impressed."

  The peasant assigned to show Duke Kendik of Borzim the marvels of agricultural production in the hamlet of Pust, which squatted uncertainly on the great plain running from the River Opthia north to Lake Vors, bowed and scraped back out of harm's way. A silver coin from the nonchalant hand of the duke plopped in the mud at the peasant's feet. The peasant scrabbled in the mud, found the coin, and dropped it in the pocket of his smock with a small cry of pleasure. That silver coin could make the difference for weeks to come between food on the table and starvation.

  "And now, I believe, we have a water race to inspect?"

  Duke Kendik's t'skrang secretary threw back her hood. "Indeed, Your Excellence. Let it not be said that the good people of Pust make their living only by the sweat of their brows. The many fine artisans of the district have joined together to make the water race we are about to see, which draws water from the Opthia for themselves, their animals, and their crops. We will be shown its workings by—" the t'skrang peered at a parchment "—Lethik, its principal designer."

  Lethik stepped forwards. He was a little taller than the peasant, a little less gaunt. The strong muscles of his upper arms, the twisting scar of a burn on the back of one hand, the crows' feet crowding his eyes, all told of a life of hard work in the open air. He endured the scrutiny of the duke's two bodyguards, one tall, one short. "If you'd care to come this way, milord ."

  Kendik wondered just how a lazy, foppish junior scion of one of the leading families of Borzim would cross a muddy street rutted deeply by carts. With difficulty, he supposed, and made a production of trying to get the minimum of mud on his expensive trousers and boots. One foot contrived to land plumb in the depths of the deepest wallow. From somewhere behind him, he heard a titter, quickly cut off. He whirled around and glared at the line of impassive faces, wondering if he should order Atlan to lop off someone's head; but that might be considered an over-reaction, even for a duke. Rationing himself to a scowl, he succeeded in crossing the street. Lethik led him down a short lane that terminated in a contraption of wooden planks on wooden legs. This emerged between two hovels on the left and disappeared between two more hovels on the right. Kendik approached and peered in. A gush of water ran down a gutter of metal in the center of the water race.

  "Most interesting," said Kendik, who was quite proud of his stock phrase. "And you get the water from—?"

  "From the River Opthia, milord. The river flows less than a league from our village, and we draw its waters off a little upstream from here."

  Kendik repressed a shudder. "From the Opthia? And you drink it?"

  Lethik nodded. "After we boil it."

  "Most wise. And what happens to the water you don't use?"

  Lethik smiled. "There isn't much we don't use. This is pretty much the end of the flow. We draw a lot of it off for crops, and most of the rest goes into cisterns—I can show you those if you like?"

  "I shall have to check my schedule—T'shifa?"

  "I believe you will just have time, Your Excellence," replied the t'skrang. "But if I might have a word?"

  Kendik nodded graciously and allowed his secretary to draw him a little apart from the others.

  "Don't show too much interest, but you might want to ask what effect this water race of theirs has on the flow of the river."

  "Not much, surely?"

  "Just ask."

  Well, he was meant to be a fool, which meant he could ask foolish questions. As Lethik and Kendik stood looking at the cisterns, Kendik asked "I suppose this water race of yours must have quite an effect on the flow of the river?"

  "Hah!" said Lethik, before collecting himself. "That is to say, milord, there are some hereabouts who claim that we're draining the river dry, but they don't know what they're talking about."

  "And who might these ignorant persons be?"

  "Well," said Lethik, lowering his voice, "it's mainly the t'skrang downriver."

  "Indeed?"

  "They were most upset when they learned this race was being built. Said it was against their religion or their principles or something. Said they'd burn it down if they got the chance, and bless me if they didn't try one night. Made quite a mess of one section, before we drove them off. We have to post guards now, and we've had to lay in extra wood in case they try again. I did want to tell you before, but, er—"

  With a fractional movement of his head, Lethik indicated T'shifa, who was some fifteen feet away, deeply absorbed in contemplation of the method of construction of the common Pust hovel.

  "Oh, never mind T'shifa," said Kendik, loud enough to make sure the t'skrang heard. "She's a loyal citizen of Borzim. Proud record of service, trust her with my life. Out of the top drawer.

  I have no secrets from her. But these t'skrang downriver do sound like more of a problem. Have you tried to sally forth, teach them a lesson?"

  "Your Excellence may recall," said T'shifa, joining them, "that the t'skrang population becomes quite extensive as one moves closer to Lake Vors. Most, though not all, of the local t'skrang answer to House Ishkarat, and I would not imagine their raid on this, er, particular construction was carried out wit
hout sanction from the Ishkarat."

  "Well, madam, spit it out," said Kendik, who was beginning to feel quite lost among the t'skrang's ornate circumlocutions. "Should we teach them a lesson, or not?"

  "I recommend that the matter be reported to Lord Tesek upon our return to Borzim."

  "But surely we can't let the Ishkarat get away with this sort of thing? It's an affront to, well, an affront to the good Name of Borzim!"

  "Indeed, my lord, but perhaps one would not wish one's Name to be associated with an unsuccessful attempt to expunge this affront?"

  "Oh, hmmm," said Duke Kendik. Lethik, watching, could see him looking around, counting the Name-givers at his disposal (four, if Lethik was included, plus whatever aid the peasants of Pust might offer), and weighing the chances that such a force might make any significant impression upon House Ishkarat.

  "Yes, well, T'shifa. Perhaps you're right, perhaps you're right. Discretion the better part of valor, and all that. Report back to Tesek, certainly. Best course of action, without a doubt. How soon can we ride?"

  T'shifa lifted a claw to the darkening sky. "Not until the morning."

  "Ah. Very well. And have our lodgings been prepared?"

  "I believe that is in hand, my lord. Lethik here has offered us the use of his house."

  "What? You must be—" said Lethik, but then he swallowed hard, and looked at his feet, and continued in a calmer tone of voice. "Ah, yes, milord, yes, I have. I'd be honored if you'd stay at my humble dwelling. It's just a bit less humble than most of the others, if you take my meaning. Not suitable for a man such as yourself, no doubt, used to sleeping on fine linen and dining off fine porcelain, and all that, but nevertheless, I think it will serve. And my family will—"

  "Sleep at the tavern tonight, as I'm sure you remember from our earlier discussion," said T'shifa.

  "Sleep at the tavern, yes. And you'll be providing the funds, am I correct?"

  "Indeed. Take this and complete the necessary arrangements," said T'shifa, thrusting a small purse at Lethik. "We expect dinner to be on the table of your house in one hour, and if it isn't fit for a duke, then I will have some stern questions to put to you. Now be off!"