A Perilous Power (Arucadi Series Book 5)

by E. Rose Sabin

  Determined to keep Trevor’s mind on the game, Les said, “I haven’t had the window seat for an hour. If I’d been there as long as you have, I’d have you skunked. Those horses are spectacular, aren’t they? I wish we could catch a couple and ship them back to the farm.”

  “I guess,” Trevor responded, gazing out the window dispiritedly. Then something caught his eye, and he suddenly became more animated. “Hah! What’s that?”

  Les followed Trevor’s pointing finger. Taking advantage of the herd’s fright at the train, two large birds with huge wingspans swooped down on a foal that had gotten separated from its mother. The birds drove the terrified youngster farther from the main body of the herd. One landed on the foal’s back, and Les saw blood spurt as the sharp talons sank into tender flesh.

  “Not a pretty sight,” he said. “It’s hard seeing a foal destroyed like that.”

  “Too bad we don’t have our shotguns,” Trevor responded with a grin as the train carried them out of view of the carnage. “Those had to be condors. Thought they were mostly carrion eaters.”

  “They’ll take live meat when they can get it,” Les said. “I read about them. They prey on the weak, the sick, the newborn—any helpless creature they can find. It’s a good thing they stay out here in the west and don’t fly over our farm country.”

  “They’re just doing what comes naturally,” Trevor said. “You always were a sucker for sick and hurt animals. Remember when you brought home that baby bobcat?”

  “Yeah.” Les laughed. “I had scratches all over my arms. Dad made me turn it loose, but at least he didn’t kill it—not where I could see, anyway.”

  Climbing away from the valley of horses, they were plunged into sudden darkness as the train entered a tunnel. Les held his breath, startled by the unexpected increase in the racket of the wheels and the ominous nearness of the tunnel walls.

  With the abrupt restoration of light, the train plunged downward into another valley. This one held no horses.

  “Look at those fields,” Trevor said. “Those plants are worth a point. You’ll never catch up.”

  Tall stalks of red flowers swayed in the wind like waves on a sea of blood.

  Trevor peered out the window, the exhaustion of the five-day train trip falling away with the excitement of seeing Port-of-Lords. Les leaned over to gawk, too. The train slowed to a stately swagger for its passage into the city, allowing them time to stare at the broad boulevards with gardens of brilliant flowers stretched in narrow strips down the center. Too fascinated to continue their game, they passed statues and fountains, buildings so tall they could not see the tops through the small window, and more shiny new motorcars than Trevor had known existed. It was early evening, still light, but already the electric streetlights were winking on. Night was banished from this city; its citizens could work all day and play all night if they wished.

  The train shuddered to a halt. Leaning his head out the open window and looking back, Trevor saw that the train had passed through a great arch to enter the station.

  “We’re here,” Les breathed, and the unnecessary observation sounded like a prayer.

  They stood, grabbed their carryalls, and pushed down the aisle past passengers gathering scattered belongings. When they were halted behind a fat woman juggling an armful of packages, Trevor chafed at the delay. But at last they stepped down from the train onto a marble platform. Trevor walked only a few steps before stopping, awed by the magnificence of their surroundings.

  The train had carried them into a building more like a palace than a train station. High above their heads a ceiling of glass panels offered a view of the twilit sky. From the metal framing the panels hung immense chandeliers like nothing Trevor had ever seen, aglitter with dazzling tiers of electric bulbs and sparkling crystal reflectors. Passenger trains filled the center of the long building, and on the marble platforms between them and to either side, porters in natty green uniforms dashed among the passengers, helping with luggage, giving directions, checking tickets, and calling out to one another in an unintelligible jargon. None approached them. Trevor guessed it was obvious from their country clothes and shabby carryalls that they were poor prospects for tips.

  They made their way through the crowd toward the shops and ticket offices beyond the platforms.

  “Think we ought to get our coppers changed right away?” Les asked, pointing to a sign proclaiming money exchange above a series of small windows. “We don’t want to have to use the gold and silver for little things.”

  “I guess we should,” Trevor shouted to be heard over the surrounding clatter and clamor. “And I wonder if we can find a place near here to stay overnight. I’d like to rest and get cleaned up. I feel too grubby and tired to meet Uncle Matt’s friend.”

  “I agree,” Les shouted back, adding to the cacophony. “Even with the letter of introduction, I don’t think he’d want to take us in looking like this. We can ask the moneychanger about a boardinghouse.”

  They got in line at one of the windows, and when they reached their goal, a young woman said, “May I help you?” in a bored voice.

  His face burning, Trevor unbuttoned his shirt and unfastened one of two pouches strapped to his chest. Beside him Les did his best to block the view of curious strangers. Trevor was glad his uncle had advised him to keep the coppers separate from the gold dorins and silver triums. The dorins and triums were acceptable anywhere in the country, but each province minted its own coppers, and their values varied from province to province.

  “I need to change these,” Trevor said as Les prepared to extract his pouch. He shook the coppers onto the narrow ledge. Two or three rolled onto the floor and he had to scramble after them.

  The clerk looked down her nose at the heap of copper coins. “You’ll have to count them out and arrange them by value,” she said with a sniff. “I can’t take them like that.”

  Trevor began to sort through the pile and stack the coins by size. The woman stopped him with a look of disgust. “Not here,” she said. “You can’t hold up other people. You’ll have to go somewhere else to do that and get in line again when you have them ready.”

  With Les’s help Trevor scooped up the coins and stuffed them back into the pouch. He looked for an unoccupied bench where they could sit and separate the coins.

  “Some welcome,” Trevor grumbled. “Wonder if she eats sour apples all day.”

  “Guess they’ve got us pegged for a couple of ignorant hicks. Wonder how long it’ll take us to learn city ways.”

  “If we were just treated to a sample of city ways, I never want to learn them, thanks. We can sit over there.”

  Trevor pointed to a bench near the arched entranceway, but as they headed toward it, a mother installed her three young children on it and stood guard in front, her glare defying anyone to challenge the children’s right to the bench.

  “Excuse me, gentlemen, could I be of service to you?”

  Startled, Trevor turned and saw a man with wavy brown hair and a thin blond mustache. He looked only a little older than he and Les.

  “I hope I didn’t startle you,” he said. “Name’s Carl Holdt.” With a broad smile he thrust out his hand and held it out until Trevor grasped and shook it. He shook Les’s hand, too, and in doing so steered them subtly toward the main doors. “I hope you won’t think I’m being rude, but I happened to be standing near the currency exchange when that cashier was so discourteous to you. She should be reported. That’s no way to introduce newcomers to our lovely city. This is your first time in Port-of-Lords, isn’t it?”

  Trevor nodded, all the answer Carl gave him time for before continuing, “Really, Port-of-Lords is a city known for its friendliness.” He cupped his palm around Trevor’s elbow and steered him toward the exit. “I got mad seeing you treated so rudely. So I decided to apologize for her and give you a bit of advice. The exchange here in the station pays at the official rate, but there are a lot of places where you can get a much better rate. If you’ll
permit me, I’ll take you to a hotel not far from here where you can exchange your coppers and get a room and a good meal, all at reasonable prices. What d’you say?”

  Trevor looked at Les, who, out of sight of Carl, gave a shake of his head. But Trevor saw no harm in saying, “We do need a place to stay for one night. We’ll be meeting a friend tomorrow.”

  “I wonder …” Les said slowly. “It might be better to stick with our plan to get our coppers changed here. We shouldn’t impose.”

  “Naturally you aren’t eager to trust me, a stranger,” Carl put in quickly, dropping his hands from their arms. “I quite understand. You’re being wise. You’ll find people here who are more than ready to take advantage of strangers. I shouldn’t have bothered you.”

  “You didn’t bother us at all,” Trevor protested, frowning at Les, unable to understand his friend’s unaccustomed rudeness. “We don’t know anything about the hotels here, and we sure could use a good hot meal. We’ve been traveling for five days and living on the cold snacks they sell at the stops.”

  Les put in grudgingly, “I guess we could look at the hotel.”

  “Then it’s settled!” Carl exclaimed heartily. “I promise I’ll give you no reason to regret this. You don’t have any other baggage, do you?”

  “Only these,” Trevor said, indicating the carryalls with some embarrassment.

  Carl clapped him on the shoulder. “That’s smart, to travel light.” They reached the exit, and he ushered them through the ornate glass doors. “It’s hard to find your way around a new city, especially one the size of Port-of-Lords. And if there’s anything I love to do, it’s show off my city. I was born and reared here, and I love the place. I’ve done a lot of traveling, and I’ve never found any city that can compare to it. Of course, I suppose you gents think that about your hometown. Where did you say you were from?”

  “Amesley,” Trevor answered. “It’s real small, no place you’d have heard of. It’s in Plains Province.”

  “Ah, yes. The farm belt. Breadbasket of the nation.” Carl’s words and respectful tone invested their home with an importance that brought Trevor a rush of pride.

  “Look across the street.” Carl pointed to an oddly shaped building whose front resembled the prow of a ship. “That’s the Maritime Museum. The shipping industry built Port-of-Lords, and the history is all laid out in there. You’ll have to see it. Maybe I can take you tomorrow afternoon if you’re not busy with your friend.”

  “It’s good of you to offer,” Les said, “but we don’t want to trouble you.” His emphasis on “don’t” warned Trevor that Les didn’t trust their new friend. But Les was being overcautious.

  “Trouble!” Carl sounded hurt. “I wouldn’t offer if it was going to be trouble. I like you fellows. I’m glad we’ve met, and I want the chance to know you better. Look across the street. That tall building with all the lights is the Telephone Exchange.”

  “Wow!” Trevor thought of the squat wooden building in Essell where two operators sat at a switchboard handling all the calls into, out of, and throughout the county.

  “And here’s the best restaurant in this part of town. It’s expensive, but if you ever feel like splurging, I can promise you’ll get the best meal you ever had.”

  Trevor was skeptical, thinking of the feast Aunt Ellen had prepared, but he kept silent. He had little choice, as Carl prattled nonstop, pointing out sights, giving bits of history—“At one time the famous shipping magnate Corbin Carnover had his offices on this very corner,”—calling their attention to some passing phenomenon—“That motorcar’s a new Murphy, one of the first off the line. Must cost a hundred dorins.”

  Trevor couldn’t imagine that much wealth. Uncle Matt had given him and Les each three dorins and fourteen triums, besides the coppers, and they had thought themselves rich. He noticed Les rub his hand over the pouches hidden against his chest and guessed he had the same thought. Les was being uncharacteristically quiet, but then Carl wasn’t really giving either of them much chance to speak.

  “Now that street,” he went on, pointing to a narrow side street, “that has nothing but shops selling exotic goods from across the ocean. Oh, and there’s a small café that serves food in the style of the countries on the other side. My sister waits tables there. Too bad we can’t pay her a visit and take a look at some of the shops, but we’ll save that for another day, eh? I know you’re tired now and probably can’t wait for a meal and a hot bath.”

  Trevor was ready to agree, but Carl grabbed his arm as he started across a street. “Watch out! That car’s coming way too fast.”

  Trevor stepped back to let the shiny black vehicle hurtle past.

  Carl shook his head. “Some drivers are disgracefully careless. They think pedestrians ought to watch out for them. There’ve been some nasty accidents because people buy these things and have no idea how to drive them. They say the horse-drawn carriages will all be gone in a couple more years.” He kept talking as he guided them across the street. “Already they’re getting scarce. Guess that’ll put the street cleaners out of a job.”

  Carl’s stream of comments, anecdotes, and information kept Trevor entertained until he noticed that they had entered an area where streetlights were farther apart, buildings older, plainer, and less well lit. He was on the verge of asking where they were, when Carl sang out, “Here we are!” and pointed to a lopsided sign illuminated by a spotlight above it. inn of the fifth lord, the sign proclaimed. The building didn’t seem to match that grandiose name.

  Carl led them into a cramped lobby with nondescript dark sofas and chairs. “The desk clerk here can change your coppers, but first why don’t we go into the pub and rest our feet? I’ll buy you each a drink to celebrate your arrival.”

  Without giving them a chance to object, he led them through a curtain of glass beads into a narrow, dimly lit room with a row of dark wooden tables crowded along one side and a counter along the other. Trailing after Carl the length of the room, Trevor felt as if he were back on the train negotiating the narrow aisle between the rows of seats. They sat at the last table in the line, and Trevor wondered why, since they had passed several empty tables.

  Carl went to the counter, and a man wearing a patch over one eye stepped out of the darkness behind it. Les poked Trevor and whispered, “I don’t like the looks of this place, Trev—or that guy. I think he’s a pirate.”

  “Shhh,” Trevor cautioned. “They’ll hear you.”

  But Carl ordered in his cheery voice, “I’ll have my usual, Ned. And a Port-of-Lords welcome special for each of my friends.”

  The man nodded, disappeared, and reappeared in seconds with three tall glasses on a tray.

  “We should get out of here,” Les insisted.

  “Don’t be stupid,” Trevor whispered. “Think of this as our first adventure.”

  Les rolled his eyes upward but said no more.

  Carl carried the tray back to the table and handed around the drinks. Trevor noted that Carl’s drink was a clear liquid while theirs was red and foamy.

  Les gazed suspiciously at the tall glass. “What is this?” he asked.

  “It’s a treat for newcomers to our city, a house specialty. It’s a blend of juices from fruit grown in the area, with just a taste of rum. I think you’ll like it.”

  Sitting down, Carl raised his glass. “To your enjoyable and successful stay in Port-of-Lords,” he proclaimed.

  They clinked their glasses together, and Trevor took a sip. The strong fruit flavor was not familiar to him. Or perhaps the sharp tang of the liquor made the fruit unrecognizable. It seemed more than a “taste,” and he would have preferred plain fruit juice, but the drink was cold, and he was thirsty.

  Les raised his glass to his mouth, but Trevor suspected he only pretended to drink. To show Les how foolish his fears were, Trevor quickly downed half the drink. His ploy worked: Les took a few swallows of his.

  Carl chatted on, allowing Trevor to relax, sip his drink slowly now, and list
en or let his mind wander. His thoughts drifted dreamily over the long miles to Amesley.

  He pictured his mother sitting in the old wooden rocker by the fire, remembered how as a small boy he used to crawl up into her lap and beg for a story. He’d grow sleepy as she talked. His head would droop against his mother’s breast as her words drifted around him. As Carl’s were doing. Words running together. Becoming like a lullaby. His eyes closed. He slumped forward, his arms spreading out on the table. His head rested on his arms.

  No. All wrong. Shouldn’t be sleeping. Got to wake up. But his head was too heavy and swollen to lift. And someone must have glued his eyelids shut and stuffed his mouth with cotton. He slept.

  “Trevor. Trevor, wake up. You have to wake up.” Someone shook his shoulders, sending waves of pain through his body. He groaned. A vile taste filled his mouth, and someone lifted him and held him while he vomited.

  “Trevor, snap out of it. Come on.” Les’s voice. Good ol’ Les.

  “Trevor, listen. We were drugged. And robbed. That Carl. He took everything. Our money. Our papers. Our carryalls. Everything.”

  At that, Trevor got his eyes open and focused with effort on Les’s face. It was pale, drawn, and he read panic in the blue eyes. The sight jolted him into awareness. He clutched at his chest where his coin pouches had been, felt nothing beneath his shirt but his own flesh.

  “I came to a little while ago. I’ve been trying to rouse you ever since,” Les was saying. “Can you stand up?”

  Trevor got unsteadily to his feet and leaned against the building, breathing hard as the world spun.

  “Take it slow,” Les said. “You drank that whole drink he gave us. I only took about half of mine. I saw you pass out, but by then I was too far under to yell for help. Next thing I knew, I woke up here—wherever here is.”

  Trevor discovered he’d been lying on hard ground behind a stack of crates in a dusty alley. A shaft of light fell between the old brick buildings on either side. Sunlight. It was morning. From somewhere nearby came the sounds of traffic. He shook his head in an attempt to clear away the fogginess and staggered toward the end of the alley.