The Temple

by Cameron Mitchell

  “Good. I’ll be back to check up on you in a few days,” said the man. He turned around and left. The raspy one looked at Nolan for a while before whispering, “You’re lucky,” and departing, snapping shut a curtain before departing.

  Nolan slept.

  He awoke feeling strange. It couldn’t be called better, but it was certainly less bad. He found he could sit up. “I think I preferred the girl, honestly,” he said. It hurt to speak. “Hello?”

  His corner was large enough for maybe six people to lie side by side. What had the man called it? The sicky corner. Seems appropriate. The man in question pulled open the curtain a moment later. “Ah, you’re awake. How are you feeling?”

  “Wondrous what a good night’s sleep does for you. Can I have something to eat?”

  “I’ll get you something here in a bit.”

  “Thank you. Where are we?”

  “Common house. My name’s Leon. Yours?”

  “Nolan.”

  “I’ll get you some food, Nolan.”

  He left. Nolan didn’t like Leon; the niceness he exuded seemed very artificial.

  Leon brought soup, and Nolan ate it. He wasn’t as badly hurt as he’d thought the previous night. He could eat, he could move, he could bathe and dress himself. On the second day Nolan decided to try and walk, and found he could, albeit with a limp. He hobbled across the commons and asked Leon for lunch.

  So Nolan spent the next week in the common house, getting better little by little. He devoted a few hours each day to walking, working out his injured muscles. At the back of his mind there was always a plan. Or the beginnings of one, at least. Dar had had him beaten within an inch of his life, and he would pay for that.

  Somehow. Nolan was still a bit fuzzy on the details.

  On the fourth day, as Nolan made his way from one end of the house to the other, he met Leon in one of the back hallways. “What’s the matter,” he asked, “no customers?”

  “Funny,” Leon said. Since Nolan had been brought to Leon’s care, he’d seen two actual patrons. Both had since left.

  Nolan winked at him. “I thought so.”

  “How are the legs?”

  “Better, thank you. Still painful. Have you ever been set on fire?”

  “Regretfully no.”

  “Ah, shame. It feels a little bit like that.”

  “Is that what happened to you?” Leon asked. “Did someone set you on fire?”

  They walked into the main living area. Leon steered their course toward the kitchen, something Nolan found he approved of. Walking was hungry work.

  “Something like that.”

  Leon looked at Nolan, his eyes full of disapproval. That was irritating. What did this man have that made him think he could be disapproving? Leon owned a second rate inn that made less money a day than the beggars working the Cordalis slums. Nolan decided then and there he wasn’t going to pay him his money.

  “Nolan, you can tell me.” Leon coughed into his hand. Nolan frowned.

  “I lost a fight. That’s all there is to the story. Can we just drop it?”

  “All right, fair enough.” The proprietor reached into his pocket and withdrew a packet of self-rolled cigarettes. Nolan declined his. He didn’t feel like smoking.

  The man who’d rescued Nolan from the gutter was called Bors. A week had passed, and neither Nolan nor Leon had seen him. Nolan was beginning to wonder if he were ever going to come to collect his payment. Not that Nolan had anything to pay him with, of course. Cheating Leon was easy, but he felt he owed Bors a debt. The man had fished him out of pretty deep water, after all. Nolan figured that he’d include Bors in his plans, somehow. First he wanted to actually speak to the man.

  He’d figure it out later, but now it was time to leave the common house. Nolan was as healthy as he was going to get, and each day spent lingering was money down the drain.

  Unfortunately for both of them, Leon was far from stupid, and he had no intention of letting Nolan out of his sight. Nolan didn’t necessarily want to hurt the man, but he wasn’t going to give him what he wanted, either. One way or another, Nolan fully intended to walk out of this place up to his eyeballs in a debt he would never pay.

  At first he tried to be innocuous about it, suggesting he would go out for a walk, or run a few errands if Leon needed it. But no, Nolan wasn’t allowed to leave, and Leon had an errand boy. Nolan had never actually seen this boy, and soon began to doubt his existence.

  His second plan was just as simple. Nolan would wait until nightfall, until Leon was asleep, and stroll right out the door. It was Wednesday, the longest Wednesday of his life. Nolan was remarkably impatient about the whole thing. He wanted out. Fresh air, a warm breeze. Good food. He puttered around the commons all day, whistling quietly to himself and watching Leon, who, of course, was watching him just as sharply. When night fell, Nolan settled on to his cot and closed his eyes. Leon’s heavy footfalls wandered around the building for a while as he closed up shop. Then the creaking of a mattress. The time had come; Leon would soon pass out and Nolan would be free to leave.

  Then Leon started whistling.

  Nolan woke up the next morning and swore.

  Chapter Seven

  Jaden Harves

  Halas had to stop running. He held Aeon’s hand. The boy’s eyes were blank, and silent tears streaked his cheeks. Garek followed listlessly. Of Halas’ three companions, only Desmond looked alert. They ran from the dock, from the soldiers and the mob, from the witch. Halas dragged them down several cobbled streets, passing over a bridged canal, hurrying by a couple out for a stroll, and finally ducking into a cramped alleyway.

  He gulped for air, looking around, but there was nothing to look at. Earlsfort was an alien city. They may as well have been on the moon, for all the good it did them. Nothing was familiar, nothing looked friendly. Around every corner was danger. Halas put a hand on his chest to steady himself. He still held his father’s sword. Panting, he sheathed it. It was an awkward gesture.

  “Is everyone all right?” he asked.

  Aeon looked at him as if he were crazy, and immediately Halas felt ashamed. Of course they weren’t. They were only alive because of Tormod’s disturbing death and Desmond’s quick thinking. And freak chance, of course. Garek stared at the far wall, and Desmond waved Halas away. He crouched near Garek. “Garek, we’ve got to keep moving, okay? Hang in there. You with me?”

  Garek looked up at Desmond, saw the earnestness on his face. He slowly nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m with you.”

  Desmond clasped his shoulder. “All right. Up you go, come on.” He turned to Halas. “What do we do now?”

  Halas wondered that very thing. Surely there was an inn nearby, but Halas wanted to be as far from the dock as possible before they stopped. Raazoi and the soldiers would be searching for them. They would be wanted fugitives. Nowhere was safe. They had to get out of the city.

  But how? From his vantage, Halas could see two streets, and both felt identical. What he had seen so far of Earlsfort had been no better than a maze. He did not wish to wander that maze bloody, terrified, and exhausted, especially not in the dark. And all the while they would be pursued. He pursed his lips and finally spoke. “We have to find an inn. We must risk it. In the morning, we’ll figure out a plan.”

  Desmond nodded. He looked concerned, but did not voice any dissent. That was good.

  “I will go out,” Halas said, “have a look around. Stay here with them, will you?”

  “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

  “Not at all. But we have to find our bearings somehow, don’t we? I can avoid the soldiers.”

  “Okay. Come back soon. If you’re not back in five minutes, I’m coming for you.”

  “Ten. I’ll be back in ten.”

  Desmond frowned, but acquiesced. “Ten it is.”

  Halas scurried out of the alley. Once in the street, he doubled back, examining the hiding spot. His friends were not visible from the street. Good. Halas set off,
trying to look in all directions at once. Several buildings sported signs; Halas read these eagerly, thanking every god he could think of that he knew his letters. Conroy’s tutelage could quite possibly have saved his life that night.

  There were few pedestrians on the street. The hour was late, and word of the battle must have spread quickly. All around him, doors were locked and windows shuttered. He passed a blacksmith and a tanner’s shop. Both were battened down securely.

  He was beginning to get a sense of the area. Halas had always had an excellent sense of direction, and even now that was taking hold. He knew exactly how to find his friends in the alley, and did his best to memorize the street names as an added safeguard. The structures around him were wildly varied, some made of wood, some of stone, some of what appeared to be sand. Halas saw squat stone houses neighbored with grass huts. From within several he could smell roasting meat. It made his mouth water and his stomach grumble. He patted it.

  A small contingent of guards hurried across the street in front of him. Halas froze, hands clasped into fists, heart hammering to escape his chest. He had his sword, but against six it was as good as useless. These men would take him, torture him until he gave up his friends, and then kill the lot of them. Halas resolved not to tell them where to find his friends. The soldiers did not even look his direction, however, and terror slowly released its grip. Halas stood, rooted to his spot, and watched a while longer. He wished more than anything for normal clothes, anything but these blood-stained silver uniforms. They were so painfully obvious, Halas could have been identified by a dead man. A woman walked by, eyeing him curiously. Halas squinted, blinked his eyes and rubbed them. When he opened them again, the woman was gone, and Halas felt ready to move.

  A few minutes had passed. He would have to turn back soon if he wanted to reach Desmond in time. Poor Desmond. He was holding up remarkably well, under the circumstances. Halas wouldn’t have guessed he’d had it in him. And, of course, Desmond had managed to save Halas’ life yet again. At this point Halas would be very hard-pressed to repay his friend. He wondered again how he could ever have disliked the young man, and why so many back home shared the sentiment. Desmond was the most loyal friend anyone could ask for. Someday, Halas knew he would be a great man, if he wasn’t already. Glass shattered somewhere in the distance, echoing in Halas’ head. More soldiers?

  He didn’t want to find out. It was time to go back to the alley. He found his friends much as he had left them, huddled together in cold silence. The rain had picked up just before, but it was already diminishing. “Anything?” Desmond asked.

  “No inns. Houses and shops, mostly.”

  “What about soldiers? Did you see any?”

  “A few, but they passed right by me. Hopefully our uniforms will not be easily identifiable in the dark.”

  Desmond looked down at himself and plucked at the shirt. He uttered a desperate laugh. “Hadn’t thought of that.”

  Halas glanced at Aeon, finding it extremely unfortunate that he, too, wore the silver outfit. The boy had not even been given one initially, but Tormod scrounged together the necessary clothing before the battle, not wanting Aeon to be confused for anyone but a crewman, cut down by his own side on the field. It was the first time Aeon had donned the uniform. Halas thought it would have been nice to be with someone in plain clothing, but unfortunately it was not to be.

  “Hey, I know ya boys,” said a voice in the darkness. Halas nearly jumped out of his skin. He drew down on the voice, not noticing Desmond, Aeon, and Garek all do the same.

  A small boy stood at the other end of the alley, no more than a waif. He wore tattered burlap rags, and only one shoe. His hair was thin and scraggly. The boy scratched his belly, seemingly unafraid of the brandished weapons. “Yer from the boat, yeh? The burned boat?”

  Halas, still feeling the panic, forced himself to lower his blade. “Who are you?”

  “Names are for chumps, mate. Ain’t never got one, did I? And I ain’t a chump.”

  “Do you know about the boat?”

  “Saw it burn. Burned nice, it did. Yer’d be on the run then, huh? Maybe I give you in.”

  “What do you want?” Halas asked.

  “That’s a nice sword.”

  “What else do you want?”

  “Got any money?”

  Halas reached for his pockets. There had been no time to grab any supplies, so he wasn’t likely to have much in the way of money. He found two crumpled bills, and no coins at all. Garek offered up his own wad; together, they produced eleven detricots. Garek tucked the remainder of the wad away, and Halas offered the bills to the waif. He reached for them timidly, like a stray animal offered food. Once the boy held the money, he skittered backwards. “What’s this? I said money, not shit! You mess with me? I ain’t no chump!” And with that, the boy ran off, clutching their money and wailing for the guards. Garek moved to go after him, but Halas grabbed his shirt.

  “No time!” he said. “Just go!”

  They took off in the opposite direction, running again. They had had time to recover, and now all four moved with determination, even Prince Aeon. Halas thought he could hear the stomping of armored boots close behind, but he did not dare look. If he did, he would almost certainly trip and fall, and then they would be on him. He led his friends to a staircase dug into the side of a hill, and sprinted up it, rushing up and over several houses. They came parallel to a rooftop, and Halas scrambled over it, dislodging shingles with his boots. True to his nature, he slipped, and slid down the incline and hit the street hard, landing roughly on his hip. Desmond landed next to him, stumbling into the wall. Garek and Aeon came down more gracefully. They helped Halas up, and all four were running. Someone shouted, warning them to stop, but they ignored him, ducking into yet another alleyway. They burst into the street on the opposite end. A group of men and women on horses trotted past, sparing them looks. One woman raised an arm as if to say something, but thought better of it. The horses disappeared around the corner.

  “Slow down,” Desmond gasped.

  Halas did, although every part of him wanted to burst into a run again. He felt as if the soldiers of Queen Anaua were closing in from all sides, moving in for the kill. Still, they could not very well sprint from one end of Earlsfort to the other. They were suspicious enough in the uniforms. Halas forced himself to a walk, gripping his brother’s arm tightly for support. Garek allowed it. They walked a ways.

  “We should find clothes,” Desmond said when they felt more or less under control. “Anything to be out of these uniforms.”

  “How much money is left?” Halas asked, cursing the boy who robbed them. He himself had none. Garek produced twenty-two detricots. Desmond had four. Aeon had ten.

  “This should buy us a room, right?” Garek asked.

  “As long as prices here are not outrageously expensive,” Halas said. “We should be all right. I think.”

  “If an innkeeper will even accept detricots,” Aeon whispered.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why wouldn’t he?”

  “We are about as far from Cordalis as it gets, and detricots are not universal. Many vendors throughout Aelborough prefer money order notes, or coins. Out here, currency is about as varied as skin tone. Of course, Earlsfort is an Agerian province, so I believe our money will be sufficient, but it is something to look out for.”

  Once again, Halas tried to blink away the confusion, rubbing his temples. This was getting to be ridiculously complicated. It had to be a dream.

  But when he opened his eyes, they were still in Earlsfort. He groaned.

  “So how do we find clothes?” he asked. “I do not see any open vendors, and we’re nearly broke.” For the first time, it occurred to him that they ought to seek out Halbrick’s friend, Jaden Harves. Halbrick mentioned him just before the boys left. But as lost as they were, Jaden Harves was just as out of reach as Father himself.

  Garek stared at his boots, his face flushed. Desmond stared at
Halas, unblinking. It took Halas a minute, but he finally realized what his friend had in mind. He slowly shook his head. “No, that’s…” He trailed off. Halas’ father was a man of honor and principle. Stealing was something he’d discouraged in his children since birth. Halas felt sick at the idea of it, but he also felt Halbrick would understand, under the circumstances.

  Stealing was wrong, but then again, Halas had also killed two people less than an hour before. His stomach turned, remembering their faces. Bartholomew crying as he died, Nolan stumbling over the edge of the ship.

  Desmond spoke. “We’ll find a clothesline. There’s got to be one around here somewhere.”

  “Not likely,” Aeon said. “It has rained seven times since we arrived in the past hour. Seven times. These people must be used to this kind of weather. Would you leave your laundry out in these conditions?”

  Garek groaned. “Well then, what would you suggest?”

  Halas took over the conversation, glad that he would not have to steal. He wanted to steer the discussion far from that particular topic. “We go as is, take our chances in the silver. We find an inn, and we sleep. In the morning, we can figure something out.”

  So they walked. It took roughly half an hour, but they found what was almost certainly an inn. Desmond took Halas’ arm. “They’ll be looking for four of us,” he said. “So book a room with a bed for two. Act as if you’ve hired a woman, and are embarrassed, or something.”

  “Bad idea,” said Garek. “Avoid suspicion, I say. Pay for the room as quickly as you can.”

  Halas didn’t like how he had somehow been elected to get the room. Scowling, he crossed through the inn.

  It was unlike any he had ever seen. The common room was outdoors, warm under the stars. There was no fireplace, but a pit in the center of the area. He made his way to the bar and signaled the man behind it. He did as Desmond suggested, booking a room with a large bed under the name of Darius Conroy. “How much would that cost?” he asked, trying to sound excited and nervous. It was not difficult. He still expected the soldiers to descend from all directions and attack.