Luck in the Shadows

by Lynn Flewelling

  The Gold Road began to the north in the foothills of the Ironheart Mountains, where gold had been mined from time out of mind. At Kerry, the precious metal was smelted and molded into round, flat ingots called baps and sewn into square sheepskin bales stuffed with wool. This wool, shorn from the mountain sheep native to the region, was especially soft and fine and had since become another source of wealth for the region. The original purpose of the bales, however, was merely to protect the gold, for the road was fraught with hazards, not the least of which were bandits. Weighing as much as two men, the bales were difficult to steal but floated if they were lost in one of the many rivers that crossed the route. Loaded onto ox-drawn wagons, the bales were carried on to Boersby, where they were packed onto flatboats and taken down the Folcwine to the Mycenian seaport of Nanta.

  The country between Kerry and Boersby was desolate except for a few settled districts. The caravaneers traveled in large groups with hired swordsmen and archers to protect them. The last safe refuge between Blackwater Lake and Boersby was the town of Wolde on the banks of the Gallistrom River.

  Unlike the placid Brythwin, the Gallistrom was dangerous, deep, and broad. From its source in the Ironheart, it swept down through the great Lake Wood into Blackwater Lake. Originally the only safe crossing was a slow, precarious system of ferries. Wagons waiting on the shore for the next raft across were easy prey for bandits. Many others were lost to the river itself when strong spring currents overturned the rafts, sweeping away men, oxen, and gold.

  At last a wide stone bridge was constructed and the tiny settlement that had sprung up around the ferry site grew into a village. The area had riches of its own, as it turned out. Dye-yielding plants of many sorts grew in profusion between the lake and the forest, among them the yellow wolde from which the town took its name. With these plants nearly any color could be produced, many in rich hues superior to anything produced in the south. Dyers, weavers, fullers, and felters set up shop there and suddenly the wool of Kerry was in great demand. Bolts of soft, lustrous “Wolde cloth” were now sought almost as eagerly in the south as the golden baps. By Alec’s day, Wolde was a wealthy guild town centered around the bridge and protected by a stout wooden palisade.

  The sun was nearing the western horizon when Alec and Seregil rode up the lake shore to the town walls. Across the water they could see the many colored sails of fishing boats making their way back to town for the night.

  “It’s early for the gates to be closed, isn’t it?” remarked Seregil as they reined in. “Any time I’ve been here before they’ve been kept open until well after dark.”

  Alec looked the palisade over. “The walls are higher, too.”

  “State your names and business, if you please,” a disinterested voice called from overhead.

  “Aren Windover, a bard,” Seregil announced, dropping into Aren’s slightly pompous manner. “I am accompanied by my apprentice.”

  “Windover, is it?” The sentry leaned over the parapet for a better look at the newcomers. “Why, I remember you! You played at the summer fair and was the best of all the bards that come. Pass through, sir, and your boy.”

  A horse postern swung inward. Alec and Seregil ducked their heads and rode inside. The sentry, a youngish man in a leather jerkin, extended a long-handled toll basket down to them.

  “That’s one copper a horse and a silver half penny for each rider, sir. We’ve not seen a proper bard or skald since you was here last, you know. Where’ll you be staying this time through?”

  “I mean to start at the Fishes, but hope for better before I leave,” replied Seregil, motioning Alec to pay the toll. “By my recollection, it’s early in the day for the gates to be locked. Aren’t there more guards than usual?”

  “That there is, sir,” the man replied, shaking his head. “There’s been three raids on the caravans within the last couple of months, two of ’em within ten miles of the town. The caravaneers are mad as scalded cats over it, claiming the town’s supposed to guard the road. But the mayor, he’s more worried about Wolde itself being attacked. We’ve been building up the palisade and standing extra watches ever since. It all seems to have calmed down, though, since them southerners showed up.”

  “Southerners?” Seregil’s feigned surprise was not lost on Alec.

  “Oh, aye. Plenimarans, of all people! An envoy called Lord Boraneus come to set up trade, as I hear it.”

  Boraneus? Alec stole a glance at Seregil; this was one of the names he’d picked up eavesdropping at the blind man’s cottage—that and another, something starting with M.

  “Brought a mess of soldiers with him, too,” the gatekeeper went on. “Must be two score or more. We didn’t know what to make of it when word first come that they was on the way, but it turned out to be a good thing. They made short work of them bandits, I can tell you! The taverners claim they’re a rough lot, but they pay well, and in silver. I warrant you’ll pick up a good piece of trade with ’em yourself.”

  “I have the greatest hopes.” Throwing back his cloak, Seregil produced a silver coin from his own purse and flipped it to the man. “Thank you for your most helpful information. I hope you’ll drink my health at the Three Fishes.”

  Pocketing the coin happily, the sentry waved them through.

  Within the palisade the road wound through the center of the town toward a market square that spanned both sides of the bridge.

  The streets here were stained with the colorful, foul-smelling runoff of dyers’ shops. In the more prosperous lanes, raised wooden walkways had been built to prevent patrons from staining their garments with the mud. Gatherers’ carts trundled from shop to shop all day, loaded with shipments of pigment-bearing plants and minerals. The poorest of children had bright rags on their backs; even the pigs and dogs that wandered the neighborhood displayed a startling diversity of color. The clack and thump of the weavers’ looms filled the air and lengths of freshly dyed cloth, hung to dry on racks strung between buildings and over the streets, gave the area a perpetually festive appearance.

  This was familiar territory to Alec, and he felt a twinge of sadness as he looked around. The last time he’d been here his father had been alive.

  “That’s the mayor’s hall there, where that Boraneus fellow is staying,” he said as they entered the open square at the center of the town. Too late he recalled that his knowledge of Boraneus’ whereabouts had also been gleaned while eavesdropping.

  Seregil looked over at him, an unreadable expression on his face, and Alec added quickly, “Important visitors always lodge with the mayor. It’s the custom here.”

  “I’m lucky to have so well versed a guide,” Seregil replied with quiet amusement.

  The large, elaborately decorated hall stood beside the Dalnan temple. Guildhalls and craftsmen’s shops lined the sides of the square on this side of the bridge. The Temple of Astellus commanded the other side of the river, and with it the fishermen’s guild, a tavern, more shops, and several inns.

  Seregil took the lead here, riding across the bridge into the Lake Quarter. As they neared the waterfront, the streets grew narrower and more winding. The stink of the dyers’ quarter was replaced by the pungent odors of fish and damp nets.

  “Father and I never came down into this part of town,” Alec said, looking nervously around at the weathered building overhanging the street and the shadowed alleys between.

  Seregil shrugged. “People know how to mind their own business here.”

  The taverns were coming alive now; the sounds of shouting brawls and snatches of drunken song echoed from all directions. Someone hissed a soft invitation to them from a shadowed doorway as they rode by. After several more turns, they came out at the waterfront.

  The palisades extended out into the water on both sides of the town. Within their embrace lay long wharves, warehouses, and taverns, all built on posts above the slope of the shingle. Looking out over the water, Alec again tried to imagine how big an ocean must be to outstrip this. On either si
de, the shore seemed to curve away endlessly, the far shore visibly only on the clearest of days.

  Seregil hurried them along down the street to a narrow building squeezed in among the wharves. The sign over the open door displayed three intertwined fish, and from inside came the raucous clamor of a tavern crowd. A small knot of loafers had gathered beneath the windows with pipes and mugs.

  Dismounting, he handed Alec his harp and pack.

  “Mind the part I’ve given you,” he whispered, keeping his voice low. “From here on you’re the apprentice of Aren the Bard. You’ve seen what he’s like; react accordingly. If I’m abrupt with you, or order you about like a servant, don’t be resentful—it’s Aren’s way, not mine. Frankly, I don’t envy your position. Ready?”

  Alec nodded.

  “Good. Then the act begins.” With that, Seregil stepped back and became Aren.

  “Take the horses to the stable around the side,” he ordered, raising his voice for the benefit of the onlookers. “Make certain they’re properly looked after. Then see the tavern keeper about a room. Tell him I’d have the one at the top of the house, overlooking the lake, and don’t let that villain charge you more than a silver mark for it, either! When you’ve taken care of the baggage, bring my harp to the common room. Be quick, now.”

  With this, he disappeared into the warmth of the tavern.

  “By the Old Sailor, I guess you been told, boy!” laughed one of the loiterers, much to the amusement of his cronies.

  Scowling, Alec led the horses around to the stable. In spite of Seregil’s hasty explanation, he wasn’t sure he liked this turn of events. When the horses had been seen to, he gathered up the pack and Seregil’s saddle and hurried into the steamy bustle of the kitchen.

  “I’m looking for the tavern keeper,” he said, catching a harried serving girl by the sleeve.

  “Taproom,” she snapped, nodding curtly toward a nearby doorway. Leaving the gear by the door, he went on into the taproom and found himself faced with a portly, red-faced giant in a leather apron.

  “I need lodgings for my master and myself,” Alec informed him, endeavoring to imitate Aren’s imperious manner.

  The taverner scarcely looked up from the tapping of a fresh barrel. “Big room at the top of the stairs. Shouldn’t be no more than three or four to a bed tonight.”

  “My master prefers the room at the top,” Alec said.

  “Does he indeed? Well, he may have it for three marks a night.”

  “I’ll give you one,” Alec countered. “We’ll be here for several nights and I’m certain my master—”

  “Your master be damned!” the taverner growled. “That’s my best room, and I couldn’t let the mayor himself nor the whole of the damned Guild Council have it for less than three! Not when there’s all these southern strangers lolling about with more money than brains. I could get five a night from any one of them.”

  “Begging your pardon,” Alec chose his words with care, “but I think my master, Aren Windover, and I could bring you in ten times that each night we’re here.”

  Satisfied with the set of the tap, the taverner shoved his hands into his belt and glowered down at Alec. “Well! Begging your pardon, my young whelp, but just how do you think you could do that?”

  Alec held his ground stubbornly; his father’d had a knack for dickering. Thinking back, he asked, “Do you make more profit from your rooms or your ale?”

  “From the ale, I suppose.”

  “And how much do you charge for that?”

  “Five coppers for a flagon, a half silver for a jug. What of it?”

  Sensing the man’s growing impatience, Alec quickly came to the point. “What you need, then, is something to attract men to drink. And what attracts drinking men more than a good bard? You may not know Aren Windover, but a good many in town do. You put it about that he’s playing at your tavern and I think you’ll have to send out for more ale. I can probably coax a few soldiers in here, and they’ll bring their friends the next night. You know how fighting men can drink!”

  “Aye, used to be one m’self,” the tavern keeper nodded, looking Alec up and down. “Come to think of it, I believe I have heard of this Windover chap. He’s the one drew such a crowd over at the Stag and Branch last year. Perhaps I could let you have the room for two and a half.”

  “I can pay in advance,” Alec assured him. Then carried away with the success of his own invention, he added for good measure, “Master Windover is to play for the mayor, you see.”

  “The mayor, eh?” the tavern keeper grunted in surprise. “Why didn’t you say so! Playing at the mayor’s, and the Fishes as well? All right, then. Go and tell your master that the room is his for two marks.”

  “Well—” Alec mused stubbornly.

  “Damn you, do you want my blood? One and a half, then, but I’ve got to make a profit, don’t you see?”

  “Done,” Alec conceded. “But that does include candles and supper, right? And the bed linens had better be fresh! Master Windover is very particular about his bed linens.”

  “You do want my blood,” the landlord growled. “Yes, yes, he’ll get his dinner and he’ll get his cursed bed linens. But by the Old Sailor, he better be all you say or the fishermen will have the pair of you for bait.”

  Alec paid out two nights in advance for good faith, then toiled upstairs balancing their gear and a candlestick.

  Passing the common sleeping room on the second floor, he climbed a steeper stairway to the attic. A short, windowless corridor led to a door at the far end.

  Tucked in the peak of a gable, the room Seregil had specified was small, with sloping walls on either side. The narrow bed and washstand nearly filled the cramped space. Alec found a cheap tallow candle in a cracked dish on the stand and lit it from his own, then pushed back the shutters of the window over the bed. The back of the tavern stood out over the water on pilings. Looking out, Alec found a sheer drop down to the water below.

  A thick crescent moon cast a glittering trail across the lake’s black surface. It was pleasant up here at the top of the house, quiet and warm. It occurred to Alec that he could probably count on one hand the times he had ever been alone inside a proper house, and never in a room so high. After pausing a moment to savor the new sensation, he sighed and headed back down the stairs.

  Looking out over the noisy commotion of the tavern, he spotted Seregil talking with the host and was struck once more by the difference between “Aren” and Seregil; their movements, their stance, the set of their mouth, all as distinct as if they really were two separate men.

  Seregil glanced up just then and motioned impatiently for him to come. Dodging past servers with flagons and wooden trenchers, Alec made his way through the crowd.

  “Of course, we have only just arrived in town,” Seregil was saying, “but I shall present myself to your most honored mayor tomorrow.” Coughing delicately into his fist, he added, “I seem to have taken sore in the throat today, but I’m certain a night’s rest will repair my voice. In the meantime, I am certain that you will be pleased with my apprentice’s abilities.”

  The landlord darkened noticeably at this, and Alec gave Seregil a startled glance, which he pointedly ignored.

  “You mustn’t fear,” Seregil went on airily. “This lad is constantly surprising me with his rapid progress. Tonight you shall have a demonstration of his talents.”

  “We shall see, Master Windover,” the taverner growled doubtfully. “Your boy claims he’ll be good for business, so the sooner you start, the better.”

  Though he made a sort of bow to Seregil, Alec was certain he caught a glint of malevolent humor in the man’s eye as he left.

  “You’ve been busy,” Seregil remarked dryly as he checked the tuning of his harp. The crowd shifted restlessly around them, anticipating entertainment.

  “There’s nothing wrong with your voice!” Alec whispered in alarm.

  “There are a few things I need to do tonight that don’t allow me to
be the center of attention for the whole evening. You’ll be fine, don’t worry. I understand you beat our landlord down to one and a half for the room. I didn’t think you’d bring the old robber down below two. I am curious, however, as to how you propose to bring in Plenimarans.”

  “I don’t know,” Alec admitted, “it just seemed like a good thing to tell him at the time.”

  “Well, hopefully we’ll be on our way before we have to keep too many of your promises. But in case we’re not, a word of caution—stay clear of the soldiers, especially if you’re out alone. These are Plenimaran marines, and there’s not much most of them aren’t capable of, if you take my meaning.”

  “I don’t think I do,” said Alec, puzzled by Seregil’s tone.

  “Then try this. They have a saying among them: ‘When whores are few, a boy will do.’ Got that?”

  “Oh.” Alec felt his face go hot.

  “Anyway, consider yourself warned. Now I think it’s time for you to prove yourself, my bardling.”

  Seregil rose and cleared his throat before Alec could make further objections.

  “Good people,” he announced, gesturing for their attention. “I am Aren Windover, a humble bard, and this lad is my apprentice. While journeying to reach your fair town, I fear I have contracted a temporary inflammation of the throat. Nonetheless, I pray you will allow us to offer you entertainment.”

  He resumed his seat amid enthusiastic cheering and pounding of mugs. Favorite ballads were called for, and more ale.

  Alec’s mouth went dry as a roomful of expectant faces turned his way. He’d sometimes been a member of such gatherings, but never the focus of one.

  Seregil passed him a mug of ale with a mischievous wink.

  “Don’t worry about this lot,” he whispered, “they’ve got full bellies and half-empty jugs.”

  Alec took a long swallow and managed a weak grin in return.

  Seregil knew the extent of Alec’s repertoire and chose requests accordingly, striking up first with “Far Across the Water Lies My Love.”

  Alec’s voice, though hardly of bardic quality, was good enough for this audience. He sang all the fishermen’s songs he knew, and made a passable job of several of the story ballads Seregil had taught him on the Downs. This, together with Seregil’s excellent playing, soon endeared them to the crowd. When his voice began to weaken Seregil pulled out a tin whistle and struck up a dance tune for variety.