by AC Cobble
“Rew!” snapped Anne. “He was talking about an actual sword-swallower.”
Rew turned and saw the empath clutching Raif’s arm, dragging him away from a woman who was slowly drawing a length of gleaming steel from her throat.
“Lead us on, Rew,” growled Anne low in her throat. She seemed to be trying to move Raif before he realized what sights awaited on the other side of the street.
Rew leaned over and wrapped his hand around Zaine’s arm, the same way Anne was pulling on Raif, and hauled the thief after him.
“Did you see that?” asked the thief, a flush reddening her cheeks. “She was… right there on the street.”
“I know.”
“Ah, Carff,” said the necromancer Ambrose, following quietly in the wake of the others. “A city of wonders.”
“Come on,” said Rew, pulling Zaine onward as the thief tried to look back at the half-naked woman and stumbled.
“I was meant for that life, once,” Zaine whispered. “From here… it doesn’t look bad, does it? It’s what takes place behind those walls, in the rooms…”
“It’s a good thing you took up thieving,” barked Rew, looking back at the woman in the window and then cursing and dragging Zaine along with him. “We all have our vices that we indulge, and more often than not, trouble comes with them. It’s best when you find your own trouble, on your own schedule.”
“That woman was something, though, wasn’t she?” asked Zaine, finally coming after him so that he could release her arm. “I’ve seen other women in the baths, of course, but never like that. I wonder, how much do you think—”
“I need an ale,” grumbled Rew, interrupting the thief and gesturing for her to hurry after him.
“Rumor has it that the prince has the finest wine cellar in Vaeldon,” said the nameless woman, elbowing Ambrose aside to walk beside Rew and Zaine.
“It’s no rumor,” acknowledged Rew.
“You think we’ll see him, the prince?” questioned the nameless woman. “I know that is your plan, but do you actually think he’ll agree to an audience? Fredrick told me it could be weeks or a month before he’ll deign to visit with us. Without the nobleman, I wonder if we’ll see Valchon at all. The tidings of Stanton could be passed to an aide of the prince, and then what reason does he have to see us? Surely he has bigger concerns than a ranger from the Eastern Territory.”
Rew did not answer. He wasn’t sure if that was true—whether or not the prince had bigger concerns.
“Do you drink wine, Ranger?” asked the woman.
He glanced at her and sighed, figuring answering some of her questions was the easiest way to avoid more pointed, probing inquires. “I do.”
Nodding, the woman said, “I as well, but I’m afraid the prince’s finest vintages will be wasted on me. I can tell a good mug from vinegar, but that’s about it. Still, it’d be nice to say you sat in a palace, drinking the grapes of the nobles, eh?”
“Why are you still with us?” asked Rew suddenly, looking between her and Ambrose. “Both of you. You’ve made it to Carff. You took what was left of Borace’s payment from Appleby, and we’ll warn the prince of what is happening. You’ve coin to spend, and you don’t even know our plans after we finish with the prince. There’s no reason you should stay with us.”
“That’s rather rude, isn’t it?” asked the woman.
“Sorry, I don’t mean to be—“ Rew cut off, shaking his head. He had meant to be rude. “Rude or not, why are you with us?”
Ambrose cleared his throat and said, “Find trouble on our own schedule, was that what you said? I think, perhaps, that is good advice, and I will take it rather than accompanying you to see the prince. Men like him collect men like me for sport. Hear me, Ranger. The way to survive this world is to never climb higher than you ought. You’ve ventured from your wilderness, but do not venture too far. I don’t claim to know what you’re up to, but I know enough. You should turn away from this and disappear. Ranger, I hope you hear me—there are worse things than death.”
Rew stared at the necromancer and replied, “Good luck, Ambrose.”
The necromancer granted Rew a shallow nod then turned to leave. The crowd parted as Ambrose strode into their midst. Those of Vaeldon knew the meaning of his crimson robes, and those who did not knew to avoid what everyone else was avoiding. Rew watched the man go, wondering grimly how much wisdom Ambrose had meant to share. Things worse than death. He shook himself, then turned to the nameless woman.
“Do you know why the priesthood of the Cursed Father only allows men?” she asked before he could speak.
Rew scratched his beard. “No.”
“Because the cult of the Cursed Father is a mirror to the reign of the Mordens. There are only male warrior-priests because there are only princes. I have overheard a little of what you and the others have discussed, enough to know you must have realized there are no women Mordens. Did you know there was no Cursed Father two hundred years ago?” she asked him, dodging around a group of singing men, their arms linked over each other’s shoulders, their breath heavy with the clove-spiced wine the commoners in Carff drank. “Did you know that? Of course not. You weren’t alive then, and neither was I. But like you have stories, the priests of the Cursed Father have stories as well. There’s no god of death, Ranger. There is no sentient force hungering for our souls. The Cursed Father is no more than a story!”
Rew stopped dead in his tracks, frowning at the woman and ignoring the scowling pedestrians who had to swerve around him. “What?”
“Come on, Rew!” called Anne from ahead of them. “I need your help. If I lose those two in this market, we’ll never find them!”
Rew began walking again, drawn into the swirl of Carff’s spice market. There was no Cursed Father?
The scent of the spices hung over Carff like a cloud, but within the market itself, it was more like a tornado, and it blasted into Rew, whipping away his questions for the nameless woman. Peppercorns and chilis. Cinnamon and nutmeg. Earthy cumin and acrid tartar. Spices Rew did not know described in languages he did not understand. Bundles of fresh sprigs harvested locally and dried sheafs traded from afar. Jars of it, piles of it, all spread across hundreds of tables and sheltered by linen awnings. Behind the tables, boisterous men and women stood, bellowing the quality of their goods, and disparaging everyone else around them. Behind them, wheelbarrows filled with sacks were wedged in, filled with more of the spices.
It made one’s eyes water on the first inhale, and tears poured down your cheeks before long, but then you became accustomed to breathing in and out the heady scent. The heat of the peppers, the acerbic sting of spice from south of the sea, and the comforting allure of rosemary and thyme that reminded Rew of Anne’s cooking. It was a lot to take in, and for the moment, the blast of sensation washed away his shock at what the nameless woman had said, what she was implying. When he’d gathered himself, Rew saw the woman had fallen back several steps and was smiling at him coyly, well aware of the storm she’d caused.
“Cinda went that way!” cried Anne, pointing into the crowd. “Get her before we lose her, Rew.”
Rew took hold of Zaine’s hand then plunged into the thick of shoppers, threading between locals garbed in loose tunics and robes, northerners bundled in furs and wool, adventurers in armor, women, men, and children. Some were pushing their own wheelbarrows through the crowds, knocking aside those who got in their way. Others were hauling heavy sacks, getting bounced around and jarred every time they passed another person. Wagons filled with spice coming in from the harbor were depositing new bags from all over the world. Shoppers for the largest inland merchants strode about with strings of assistants in tow, and mothers purchased small pouches for their own kitchens, always keeping a hand on their children.
Rew and Zaine caught up to Cinda, and Rew grabbed the noblewoman’s sleeve. He turned and fought his way through the current of people to where Anne was bending Raif’s ear, scolding him for running off into the crowd wi
thout her. The big fighter had the sheepish look of a child caught by his mother with his finger in the honey jar.
“I’m not a child,” Rew heard the big lad complaining, despite how it looked with Anne jabbing a finger at his face and chastising him. “I wasn’t lost.”
“Oh, you know the way to the palace, then?” snapped Anne. “Were you going to meet us there later, perhaps? Such a big man, taking care of himself, ignoring everyone else around him.”
“I’m not a child,” repeated Raif. “I can take care of myself.”
Rew shoved a little closer to the two of them and remarked, “Raif, someone has stolen your purse.”
“What!” exclaimed the big youth, his hands patting vainly at the two strings where his purse had hung from his belt.
“Watch the urchins,” advised Zaine. “They’ll be the ones working strangers in the market.”
“King’s Sake,” muttered Raif. “I had twenty gold in that purse! That’s half our coin, Cinda.”
“Good day for the thieves, then. I told you to stash your valuables out of reach,” said Rew. He nodded toward the south end of the market. “Let’s clear out of here.”
“W-We have to tell the authorities—“ stammered Raif.
“Tell them what, that you’ve never seen a big city before and you didn’t protect your purse, or that you didn’t listen to me about keeping only a token amount there while the rest was safely hidden? You didn’t see the thief, did you? And even if you had, the guards would just laugh at you. A thousand purses are cut in this city by a hundred pickpockets every day, Raif.”
Rew turned to find the nameless woman still lingering behind them. He opened his mouth to ask if she was coming but then shut it. There was no Cursed Father? Was that true, why had she told him that?
The nameless woman gestured toward the palace, and Rew grunted. He led the group through the swirling spice market, pushing against the flow, trying to avoid being sucked into its center.
From the spice market and off the commercial streets that wagons used to haul cargo from the harbor to the market, the crowds thinned, partly because the boulevard widened, nearly twice as broad as the road to the gate and partly because there were fewer people. The palace saw a great deal of activity, but those who did not belong stayed away. From time to time, a visitor to the city would venture too close, but they were quickly discouraged. It was always that way, but during the Investiture, the expansive, palm-lined road to the palace seemed nearly empty except for the heavily armed guards walking on patrol.
Even if the commoners of Carff did not know that the Investiture was going on, they knew what it meant when instead of revelers, it was armed men and women coming and going, and instead of feasts, the prince was hosting councils. The prince was preparing for war, and it was obvious to anyone who was paying attention. Valchon’s men, in squads of ten, walked by them every few minutes, the guards attired in unbleached linen and copper breastplates, with wide scimitars hanging from their belts.
“I appreciate the choice of weapon,” remarked the nameless woman, “but that armor won’t stop a heavy blow. Copper? No soldier has worn that in a thousand years.”
“It’s not swords the prince worries about,” said Rew, glancing around to make sure no one could overhear what he was saying. “Prince Valchon has armies twice the size of his brothers, so Calb and Heindaw won’t march against him, not out in the open.”
“You said Calb was the one who’d called the Dark Kind, right?” asked Raif. “That’s an army of sorts, isn’t it?”
“Fair enough,” Rew conceded as they passed another squad of the soldiers. “Recall the cave we found you in, Raif? Copper is a natural barrier against high magic. What those men are wearing may not be enough to stop a serious practitioner, but it’s better than no protection at all. I told you, Valchon worries little of swords and daggers. It’s magical attacks that concern the prince.”
“I’m just glad to see a man who doesn’t dress his armsmen like they were vomited out from a rainbow,” said the woman. “These are fighting men, not decorations. Back in Iyre, some of the minor nobles would… Well, I’ll go visit the menagerie if I want to see a peacock.”
“Aye, you could look at it that way,” responded Rew, “or perhaps Valchon just doesn’t want the men to take away from his own display.”
He waved ahead of them to where the palace was coming into view, and it was not a study in modesty. The walls of the palace were those of a keep, but the way it sprawled across their entire field of vision earned the more impressive title. Fifty paces high, thick, sand-colored stone rose like a mountain range, blocking the view of the sea from much of the city. Atop those walls, men moved on patrol, but what caught the eye was beyond those guards where lush gardens were bursting with life. The vegetation sprouted from several dozen places around and on top of the palace. It was thick and dotted with colorful flowers, raised on a steady diet of sea air and regular rain that blew in over the harbor.
There were palms, which towered above the rest like stern uncles, a plethora of fruiting trees and bushes, and flowers that spilled over the walls hanging like sheets, their brilliant colors exploding into a visual feast for anyone who could peak past the stone barriers that surrounded them. A block from the palace, the scent of the flowers warred with that of the spice market behind them.
Zaine turned to Rew. “I finally understand how you knew exactly where they’d headed.”
He nodded. “Nowhere else smells like Carff smells.”
“Kallie’s in there, somewhere,” remarked Raif, looking up at the towering stone walls of the palace.
“She came here,” corrected Rew. “We don’t know if she’s still here.”
“How do you plan to find out?” questioned the nameless woman.
“I’m going to ask Prince Valchon,” responded Rew.
The woman’s jaw dropped, as if she’d been doubting the entire journey that his plans were exactly what he’d been saying they were.
Rew led the party to the gate. It was a towering barrier made of pale, foreign wood, bound in verdigris copper, much like what the soldiers’ armor was made of, but this metal had been binding the gates for ages. It looked bright, cheerful almost, but the men arrayed in front of it were not. They held their pikes as if looking for an excuse to use them, and they glared at anyone who came within half a block of the gate. Rew ignored the looks and marched toward them.
“Halt,” called a man who had the flared helmet of a captain. “The palace is closed.”
“We’ve come to see Prince Valchon,” declared Rew.
The captain stared at him. “Did you not hear me, friend?”
The man did not look as if he was trying to make friends.
“Tell Valchon that Rew is here to see him.”
“Rew. Lord of…?”
“Of nothing,” responded the ranger. “Just Rew.”
The guard laughed and then frowned when he saw Rew was not making a jest.
“Your plan is going rather well, don’t you think?” whispered the nameless woman to Rew.
“It happens this way more often than you’d think,” said Zaine from Rew’s other side.
“Send a runner to the prince, and he will agree to see us,” instructed Rew.
Before the guard could reply, likely to say no, a small postern gate opened beside the main one. A liveried man stepped out, a valet dressed in Prince Valchon’s colors, wearing the same stern, disapproving expression that all men of his profession wore. The guards seemed to know him.
“These, ah, these adventurers are to come with me,” declared the man.
“Who sent for you?” demanded the guard captain. “We haven’t told anyone they are here. King’s Sake, I haven’t figured out who these people are yet. He says he’s from… He hasn’t said.”
“My instructions came from the prince’s office,” reported the valet.
The captain backed slowly out of the way, making room for Rew and the others to walk to the p
ostern gate. Rew guessed the men at the palace were well aware of Prince Valchon’s magical powers, but it gave the ranger a titter of nerves as they walked inside. Valchon could have laid a ward near his palace or, with effort, even all the way around the city. He could be alerted of their arrival, if he’d been looking for them, but why would he have cast such a ward? Had he known they were coming? Had the prince been waiting for them? Frowning, Rew wondered if Lord Fredrick had somehow managed to make his way to the prince. He doubted Valchon would see such a man, but how else had their arrival been noted?
They followed the valet through Prince Valchon’s extravagant palace. The floors were covered in rugs woven by the hands of Carff’s finest artisans or cut from the skins of exotic animals from all corners of the world. The walls were hung with tapestries from Carff and paintings Rew suspected were from the northern capital of Iyre. There were arrangements of flowers in gleaming gold and silver bowls, elegant candlesticks, and statuettes inset with sparkling gemstones. It was a nation’s wealth, concentrated in the palace of one man. Carff was the mercantile capital of Vaeldon, the primary point of trade with nations beyond, and gold collected in the prince’s coffers like dew on grass. A common joke, amongst the nobles, was that any prince residing in Carff spent so much of their wealth on valuable trinkets because they’d run out of room to store the coins in their counting house. It wasn’t true, but there was a true element to it.
The valet led them deep into the heart of the palace, several floors below where the prince received guests in his gardens and quite a distance from where Rew knew was the throne room. It was a nice space the valet led them to, though. Long and wide, thick wooden beams in arches supported a ceiling covered in intricately inlaid, glazed ceramic tiles. Two huge stone fireplaces bracketed the room, but only one was lit. Couches and stuffed chairs were scattered about the floor, sitting atop piled rugs. Cases of books were staggered against the walls. Flags hung there as well, between the shelves, a myriad of color catching the eye in the stone and wood room. Some of the flags were recent. Some could have predated Vaeldon. Fallen realms. Strange that Valchon would display such artifacts on his walls. Strange that they’d been brought here at all. Rew did not recall ever having seen the room before, and in years past, he’d been a frequent visitor to Carff.
