Fondaras conducted the negotiations for stabling our horses, while the rest of us looked around the circular square. There were other shops there, though it was not a market day, and everyone took the time to look at us. Big people were not common, even in Sostine.
It took a little more negotiation (and a bribe) to get one of the officials to grant Fondaras and Gareth access to their archives and assistance with translation. As it would take some time for them to seek the information, the rest of us decided to shop, relax, eat (the pies were delicious), enjoy a few drinks, and gaze out over the tiny houses towards the gorgeous blue lake until the llama races started.
We found a tavern with a perfect view of both lake and the commons the Tal used for llama racing and ordered ale, pie, soup, and roasted fish. Many of the canopies were hosting games of chance, or cards, or other amusements. There were several entertainers, from musicians to jugglers, who wandered the gathering crowd. And the much-anticipated llama races were soon to begin, which involved a lot of wagering. The Lakeshire Tal were overly fond of wagering, I’d noted.
“This is more like a holiday than a quest, so far,” Alya remarked, when she finished her second gourd of ale. The Lakeshire Tal grew lots of gourds and used them as pipes, bottles, cups and bowls. “After the wastes, I mean. This place is as merry as Anferny was quaint.”
“It’s not bad, as quests go,” I agreed, ordering another round of ale. It was incredibly good.
“Are you kidding?” Ormar snorted. “This has been an alchemist’s holiday, so far. I found more interesting material in Anferny, and the closer we get to that volcano the more interesting things get. I can’t wait to get up into the desolated areas. And to have a row of first-class taverns on the way makes it damn close to paradise. Ale and pie and exotic minerals? It’s like the gods of alchemy have chosen me,” he said, with serene satisfaction.
“It’s probably nice to be one of the tallest people here, too,” Nattia teased.
Ormar grimaced. “I cross great wastes at great peril to come to the land of the little people. And I still get short jokes,” he said with a disgusted sigh.
“The pies are particularly good, but I’m unsure what kind of meat is in it,” Alya said, poking at the remainder of her crust with her eating knife. “I thought it was pork, but . . .”
“It’s called cavi,” Nattia supplied. “It’s a domesticated mammal the Lakeshire folk raise. A kind of rodent. Travid told me about them.”
“I . . . I just ate a rat pie?” Alya asked, instantly horrified.
“They aren’t rats,” Nattia objected. “They’re fed grain and scraps. But they are rodents,” she admitted.
“I just ate rat pie,” my wife said, in a daze. “I need more rum,” she decided.
“It could have been insect,” I consoled her. “Consider it a sample of the local exotic cuisine on your holiday.” That just earned me a dirty look.
“Lovely,” Ormar snorted. “The fish was just a fish. And quite well-prepared. I have to hand it to these little guys, they know how to season everything. Even rat pie.”
“Cavi are nothing like rats,” insisted Nattia. “They’re more like pigs. But nicer and smaller and much easier to raise. They aren’t filthy, like rats. And they’re importasta,” she added, a little defensively. “The Tal Alon just like the taste, and the fact that they’re easy to raise.”
“The soup was good,” I said, after a moment of reflective silence at the table. “Vegetable. Very tasty.”
“So this is what a Tal Alon society looks like when they’re left to their own devices,” Alya said, changing the subject. She looked a little ill. I got her more rum, quickly.
“It’s not exactly what I would have predicted, but it is interesting,” I agreed, glancing around at the little furry fellows at the tables around us. “But it is encouraging for our own Tal Alon settlement. I might even place a wager or two on the races,” I decided. “I don’t know anything about llamas, but it might be exciting. Perhaps some dice, my love?” I asked Alya, trying to distract her. “They keep bringing you free rum as long as you’re playing.”
Every now and then, throughout our supper, a Tal would wander over and speak to us in a kind of pidgin Narasi. A few even spoke the Kasari language with Nattia, which was interesting to hear out of their mouths. They were very friendly, and extremely inquisitive, but they did not act with the slightest bit of deference to us. We were just another set of travelers coming to their land; uncommon, perhaps, but nothing to get worked up about. Our purses were of interest, not our titles.
But hospitality was important to the Tal. Before they left, each of our visitors insisted on buying us a drink of ale or rum. By midafternoon, everyone at our table was reeling.
That’s when I realized the other reason the Lakeshire Tal were likely braver and bolder than their fellows.
They were drunk. All the time.
All Tal Alon like to drink. They excel at brewing and distillation. That’s usually a problem, back in the Riverlands where such things are controlled by the authority of the manor lords. Here, there were no such constraints.
Lakeshire had turned the practice into a cultural tradition that bordered on religion. As the workday ended, the row of taverns was flooded with a sea of furry brown bodies and goofy looking felt caps. Every Tal there consumed an absurd amount of alcohol in the twilight hour. Not just rum – although that was certainly favored, but ales, beer, wine, brandy, really all manner and flavor of alcohol was brewed and enjoyed in the tiny pubs of Sostine. Even with the food we’d enjoyed (well, most of us) in just a few hours we were completely staggered. And surrounded by little furry guys who loved to sing, dance and gamble.
When a toothy fellow in a red cap I’d learned to associate with the Sivaji fishermen, in my short experience of Lakeshire, offered to fill my pipe with some of his own leaf, I accepted as a matter of courtesy. Ten minutes later, as the sunset began, I realized that whatever was smoking in the bowl of my pipe was not mere peppermint or hemp flower. I was blasted.
Just before sunset, the llama races began. For nearly an hour they ran heats of two in sprints across the commons. Betting was encouraged, of course – all Tal love to gamble almost as much as they love drink. The conclusion of each race saw a wild round of cheers for the victors. But with the booze and the pipeweed, the races became incredibly fascinating to me, and I found myself cheering for several dashing llamas and their jockeys. Indeed, it was more fun than watching a tournament. I lost a bundle, but I didn’t care.
“These are just the nightly races,” Fondaras explained to me when he and Gareth rejoined us. Even the normally temperate old footwizard was slurring his words by then. “The big race won’t be until Midsummer. Most of the clans hold back their fastest llamas until then.”
“It certainly is more exciting than I expected,” I said as I watched another heat. The last few heats were finishing up, and I was eager to see if my choice for winner – governed entirely by the certain lucky feel of the wooly ears of my favored beast – would prevail. I had three ounces of silver riding on the outcome.
“They have a kind of big festival, then, before the harvest. In another few weeks they’ll have a kind of Midsummer fair, where the distance races and the endurance races will be held. That’s where the real action is,” he advised.
“If we’re in the neighborhood, I’ll be certain to stop by,” I agreed, eagerly . . . as my chosen pick lost. “Damn! I’m out another three silver pennies, now.”
“I told you not to bet,” Alya reminded me, giggling. She was drunk.
“The ears,” I pointed out. “That llama had particularly lucky feeling ears.” I may have slurred my words as well. It’s hard to remember accurately.
“Yes,” said Gareth, soberly, “you can usually tell how fast a llama goes by the ears. There was an entire lecture on that, back at the Academy.”
“There was?” I asked, surprised and startled.
“I don’t know if you’ll remember thi
s,” he sighed, taking a seat, “but I feel compelled to inform you the results of our research. We just spent five hours in a hole looking over ancient parchments by candlelight written in the worst handwriting I’ve ever seen.”
“You were in a hole all day?” Nattia asked, wrinkling her nose.
“It wasn’t damp, or sandy, or too smelly, and there were no worms or things,” Gareth admitted. “Indeed, it was quite comfortable . . . for a hole. But we did find some things. Not much, but some.”
“Like what?” Ormar asked, staring at his mug like it was thinking about sneaking off.
“Like the fact that a hunting expedition the Tal made a few years ago into the Plain of Pillars witnessed a human that may very well be Rolof,” he reported. “It was near the eastern ridge along the dragon’s lake. There were also two sightings of an Alka Alon female, in different places. But no references to magical glassy organic minerals, or anything like that,” he said, discouraged.
“It was a little more helpful than that,” Fondaras insisted. “My friend sells himself short. The sighting of the wizard was admirably complete, compared to other references. It very well could be Rolof. In the account he indicated he wasn’t far from his home, so I’m supposing that eastern ridge is an excellent place to start looking for him.”
“And our elfin maiden?” I asked. I really wished his face would settle on how many eyes it had. It was distracting, with the two beards. And no one should have that many eyebrows. Not in public. It was indecent.
“She was seen once near the Leshwood, and again on the slopes of Chimney Mountain,” reported the footwizard, as he received his first ale from the barman. “Two pies, please, and some soup,” he ordered from the eager Tal. “Both times she was reluctant to engage with the Tal. Almost as if she was afraid of discovery.”
“By the Lakeshire Tal?” I asked, incredulous. “Why? These little fellows are great!”
“Except for the rat pie,” Alya muttered. “Maybe that’s why she was avoiding them.”
“Rodent pie,” I corrected, authoritatively.
“Because of folk like us who are looking for her,” Fondaras explained, patiently. “The original account of Ameras being in this land that came to the Beryen Council likely came through Lakeshire. If she is truly in hiding, then minimizing her exposure to discovery would be prudent.”
“But why is she hiding?” Alya asked, unexpectedly. “Certainly, she should be cautious. But she’s hiding from the Alka Alon Council. That doesn’t make sense.”
“Much about the Alka Alon remains a mystery,” I reflected, with a belch. “Their motivations, their true ambitions, their loyalties . . . even with the Emissaries, Ondarion, and Lilastien – especially Lilastien! Even with their insights, we just don’t know,” I said. Perhaps there was a bit too much emotion in my voice. For once, I was glad that none of the Tera Alon were around to hear me.
“They are an enigma,” Fondaras agreed, quietly. “Their long lives give them perspective on their motivations that we lack. But they are not unfathomable,” he counseled. “Nor are they evil. They are just as flawed and just as blessed as any creature in creation. Perhaps we cannot know that perspective. But we can do our best to understand what they want and how they want to use us.”
“You believe they wish to use us, Fondaras?” asked Ormar, surprised, as he paused his drink before it came to his lip. The alchemist was putting away a prodigious amount of ethanol, I noted.
“I don’t think there’s much doubt about that,” he nodded, solemnly. “I’ve come across them a few times in my journeys. Some I even account my friends. But their race, as a whole? They consider humanity both a nuisance and an opportunity. They aid our efforts in war, but they have kept our own past enshrouded from us. They may not be sinister . . . but that doesn’t mean they are benign,” he cautioned.
“The Enshadowed are Alka Alon,” reminded Gareth, soberly. “They inflicted them upon us. And Korbal. And the Nemovorti. Sheruel is the result, and the invasion.”
“In truth, we’ve only encountered the Alka Alon of the Five Duchies,” I reminded them. “There are realms beyond the seas where far more of their people live. There is politics afoot that we can only guess at. Ameras is a part of that. The Aronin – for those of you who don’t know – was a guardian. Until recently I assumed that he and his line worked at the direction of the Council. But Alya is right – why would Ameras disappear and avoid communication with the Council if she was? It doesn’t make sense.”
“Politics rarely make sense, unless you are arse deep in it,” Fondaras agreed, sipping his ale. “The politics of the immortals even more so. Without more information, we shall never know if we are true allies of the Alka Alon . . . or mere servants.”
“Lilastien is telling me as much as she can,” I pointed out. “In direct defiance of the Council. But there is only so much one man can learn and then understand,” I confessed. “I spent a few precious hours in the Cave of the Ancients and learned more about my ancestry than I’d discovered in a lifetime. Yet I know but a fragment of what there is to know about our past. The things I saw in that cave, the sights and sounds of our homeworld . . . all of that is riven from us by time and ignorance. The wonders that brought us to this world are all but gone. Lilastien hints that this was intentional by our supposed allies. How are we supposed to contend with that?” I demanded.
“You must tell others about it,” suggested Ormar, drunkenly. “As many as you can. No offense, Minalan, but you live in a dangerous world. I ap-appreciate what you have learned and can only guess at what secrets you know that I don’t. But I want to know,” he insisted, with perhaps a little more emotion than he intended. “Others do, too. If you slip and fall in the baths and break your neck, gods forbid, I would not have that knowledge die with you!” he declared, passionately.
“Uh, thanks. . . ?” I replied, as I tried to figure out what, exactly, the alchemist meant. “I’ve done what I can to institutionalize this knowledge. Pentandra knows most of it – if not more than I. So does Gareth,” I pointed out, “and others. “And Taren, and the Thaumaturgic Academy, and . . . all right,” I sighed. “I see your point.”
“The fact is, if you died, my lord, they all might have a piece of your insight,” Nattia agreed. “But would they have enough to see the truth of the Alka Alon? Or the Sea Folk?”
The Sky Captain had been close in my counsels, the last two years. She was no wizard, but she had lived among the magi since she came to Sevendor as a falconer’s apprentice. And she was smart, observant, and attentive. “No disrespect to our allies, my lord, but even I smell something sinister in their actions. They are not being entirely truthful.”
“No,” I agreed. “And they haven’t been entirely truthful from the beginning, I suspect. They are afraid of something. Perhaps that’s why Ameras has not gone directly to them, when she could. She has duties beyond the Council,” I predicted. “She answers to a different authority. A higher authority.”
“She might just be off having a good think,” Gareth countered. “When you’re immortal, taking five or six years to go wander around in nature to collect your thoughts might be just be considered a holiday.”
“Who would go knocking off into the wild, shirking their responsibilities in the middle of an emergency?” I asked critically.
When I saw the faces of my companions, I reconsidered the question. Irony tastes bitter when you’re drunk and self-conscious.
“Don’t answer that,” I decided, before anyone else could speak. “While I take your point, Gareth, as heir to the Aronin, Ameras has more urgent matters to contend with than we mere mortals. One would think she would be taking action.”
“Perhaps she is, my lord,” Fondaras offered, thoughtfully. “Until we speak to her, we will not know her mind. But I do believe she is here,” he insisted. “Whether she will consent to speak to us mere mortals is another matter.”
“Why wouldn’t she?” Alya asked, confused.
“Becaus
e she doesn’t know whether or not she can trust us, my lady,” the footwizard considered. “And, in truth, I don’t entirely know if she is wrong to think that.”
Chapter Eighteen
Grost Kilnuskum
Among the various provinces and regions of Anghysbel, none is more noble in scope and character than the Kilnusk in their fortress complex of Grost Kilnuskum. It is a solitary mountain on the frontier of desolation to the north, and fertile lands to the south. Its role as a defensive outpost is welcomed by the Kilnusk, who are the most belligerent of all the dwarven clans, and who most delight in the challenge of battle. But the Kilnusk are more than mere warriors, or even kings. In them lies the essence of all the clans refined and exaggerated beyond all reason. To them lies the glory of the other six clans, untainted by mere humility or grace. They are, unabashedly, the best of the clans, and they make no secret of that belief.
from the Expedition Book of Anghysbel,
Recorded by Alya of Spellgarden
Have you ever had a hangover?
Not a mere consequence of overindulgence, where your stomach rebels at the thought of food and the room spins when you arise. I’m speaking of the hellish state of alchemical necromancy where your very blood feels like poison in your veins. The condition where the pain in your head makes you feel like a sharpened chisel being pounded into your temple would be a blessed relief. The malady wherein your skin feels as if it has been mistakenly stitched upon your half-dead flesh with a particularly rusty needle by a sadistic demon with extremely poor eyesight who is, nonetheless, determined to impress his superiors in hell with his technical expertise.
That kind of hangover. That was the kind I had as we rode away from Lakeshire, where every bump in the road under the wheel became a new exercise in misery.
I don’t know what those furry bastards put in their bloody beet rum, but the aftermath was devastating. Ordinarily, I had a dozen little magical charms and spells that could ease the suffering my body was enduring. But this was the bloody realm of the bloody jevolar, and such comforts were denied me.
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