by Simon Hawke
“I think these should fit you,” he said, laying them out while Sorak bathed. “Your own clothes should be clean and dry by tomorrow morning.”
“That was considerate of you, Captain,” Sorak said. “Thank you.”
“It was nothing. And please, call me Tajik.” He sat on a wooden chair while Sorak bathed. “You will pardon my curiosity, but I can see you are not a full-blooded elf. Yet, you look different from most half-elves I have seen.”
“My father was a halfling,” Sorak said. “Half-elves are part human. I am an elfling.”
Tajik’s eyebrows went up. “Indeed? I had heard something of the sort, but thought it merely a fanciful embellishment.”
“Embellishment?”
“Of the song,” said Tajik. “The Ballad of the Nomad.”
Sorak rolled his eyes and shook his head. “It hardly seems possible it could have spread so quickly,” he said.
Tajik chuckled. “Bards travel widely and steal each other’s songs as readily as they compose new ones. Tell me, is it true you single-handedly saved a caravan from a host of marauders?”
“Nothing quite so spectacular, I fear,” said Sorak with a wry grimace. “I merely learned of a marauder plan to ambush a caravan from Tyr and passed on a warning to the merchant house.”
“I see. And what of the tale of your crossing the Stony Barrens and rescuing a princess of the royal house of Nibenay?”
“That one is true,” admitted Sorak.
“Really? Then the Shadow King is in your debt?”
“Hardly,” Sorak said. “The princess in question had taken preserver vows and been exiled as a result. An ambitious nobleman from Gulg had seized her and planned to force her into marriage so he could lay claim to kinship to the royal house of Nibenay. The girl asked for my help, and as a fellow preserver, I could not refuse.”
“And so you stole her from the nobleman and fled across the Barrens?” Tajik asked.
Sorak nodded.
“Incredible,” said Tajik. “They say no one has ever tried to cross the Barrens and survived.”
“It was not an experience I would care to repeat,” said Sorak.
“And what of the nobleman?”
“He died,” said Sorak simply.
“And the princess? What became of her?”
“She returned to Nibenay and joined the Veiled Alliance.”
“So that part of the story is true, then,” said Tajik. “I would never have believed it. A daughter of the Shadow King enlisted in the Veiled Alliance!” He shook his head in amazement. “That must have made the old dragon king absolutely furious.”
“He does not hold me in very high regard.”
“And this does not frighten you?”
Sorak shrugged. “There is no love lost between preserver and defiler. Simply being what I am has made me the enemy of the dragon kings. I knew that when I chose to take my vows.”
“Yes, but taking preserver vows is not the same as making a personal enemy of the Shadow King.”
“Perhaps not,” said Sorak. “But there is little use to being afraid. Nibenay has tried to kill me several times. As you can see, I am still alive, so perhaps the dragon kings are not all-powerful, as they would have everyone believe.”
“Still, being marked for death by a sorcerer king is the sort of thing that would terrify most men.”
“Perhaps, but I should think that I would find your job much more dangerous,” said Sorak. “Nibenay’s primary concern is to complete his dragon metamorphosis. I may have aroused his ire, but he will not spare much energy to snuff out the life of one insignificant preserver. You, on the other hand, face death every time you board your ferry. So which of us has more to fear?”
Tajik smiled. “I have always thought the rewards of my job justified the risks. What justifies the risk for you?”
“Well, to put it in dwarven terms,” said Sorak, “the satisfaction of staying true to my focus. Accepting the risk and living with it is a sort of compromise.”
“I suppose we all make compromises and take the good with the bad,” said Tajik, taking the hint and not pressing his inquiries. “Well, I shall let you finish your bath. I will have some more water heated for Ryana. She did not go swimming in the silt, as you did, but I am sure she would appreciate a good, hot soak. And then you shall be my guests for dinner, and afterward, I hope you will accept the hospitality of my home for the night.”
“That is very generous of you,” Sorak said. “But it is really not necessary to go to so much trouble.”
“Do not concern yourself. It is no trouble at all. I rarely have company and will enjoy showing you my village. We may not have the luxuries of a city such as Tyr or Balic, but we do know how to entertain our guests.”
After they had both bathed and dressed, Tajik took them to dinner at an eating house that boasted “the best larder in South Ledopolus.” It was a short walk from his home in the center of town, and Sorak marveled at the difference between the streets of South Ledopolus and those of Tyr or Nibenay. In most towns and cities, and even in most villages, there was no shortage of beggars. Not so South Ledopolus. Since the town was situated on a caravan route, and well isolated from any other settlements except North Ledopolus, the only transient traffic was that brought by the caravans, and beggars could not afford to book passage.
The streets of the village were also remarkably clean, reflecting a dwarven obsession with neatness and order. Even though the streets were hard-packed dirt, Tajik told Sorak with a sense of pride that they were regularly swept and graded by kank beetles pulling weighted drags through town once every two weeks and after each rain. There was a narrow ditch for runoff at the side of each street, and well-planed wooden sidewalks had been constructed on both sides of the street, shaded from the desert sun by overhangs made from wood planks or cactus ribs.
The buildings were freshly plastered, painted in muted tones of reds and pinks and tans. Tajik told them that the owners of the buildings were responsible for maintaining a clean facade. Chipped or flaking exteriors resulted in fines levied by the council. It was a remarkably pleasant looking village, with gently winding streets and well-groomed pagafa trees providing shade and color. With its tidy shops and inviting hostelries, it did not look at all like the rollicking, wide-open caravan town Sorak had expected.
On the other hand, the mercenary presence was very evident. Everywhere he looked, Sorak saw lean and muscular, hard-bitten and well-armed men mixing with the dwarven population. Some were human, some were half-elves, but all looked tough. Sorak wondered about the women. Men such as these had needs to satisfy, and they often liked to satisfy them without any encumbrances. Yet, he saw no women of easy virtue wandering the streets. It probably meant that there were pleasure houses where such things were kept discreetly out of sight.
The ferry captain was clearly respected in the community. He was were greeted effusively and given the best table in the house. The whitewashed adobe walls were painted with murals of desert scenes, and the tables were covered with clean white cloths, unusual even in cities. The dwarven staff gave them prompt and courteous attention, and Tajik suggested that they order braised erdlu steaks with herb sauce and wild rice and baked, honey-glazed gava root. He flushed and immediately apologized, realizing his error.
“Forgive me,” he said, glancing at Ryana awkwardly. “I had forgotten that villichi priestesses do not eat flesh. I did not mean to give offense.”
“None was intended, and none taken,” Ryana replied with a smile. “I am not offended by others eating flesh. For myself, I would prefer some simple vegetables. The wild rice and gava root sound perfect.”
Tajik looked relieved. “In that case, may I also suggest the spiced bread, which they do very well here, and the mulled ale, which is excellent.”
“It sounds delightful,” said Ryana.
“And what of yourself, my friend?” asked Tajik, turning to Sorak. “Do you also abstain from meat?”
Ordinary, Sora
k would have answered yes.
Though elves were omnivorous and halflings were carnivorous, even to the extent that they often ate human flesh, he had been raised in the villichi convent and had always followed the villichi ways. However, his other personalities had remained true to his origins. They had craved the taste of meat, which he had forsworn. To avoid a conflict, he had reached a compromise of sorts with his more predatory personalities. Though he had refrained from eating flesh, after he went to sleep, his other personalities would assume control of his body, and would go out to hunt. They would stalk and make their kill as halflings did, consuming the flesh still raw and bloody.
Though divested of his other personalties, Sorak felt an unfamiliar craving brought on my the smells from the kitchen. Since leaving Bodach, he had eaten only wild desert plants and a mixture of nuts and dried fruits. Though he had taken vows as a preserver, those vows did not specifically prohibit him from eating meat. Ryana’s vows as a villichi priestess did, and though she had broken those vows by leaving the convent, she still kept to the spirit of them. He was neither priest nor villichi. He knew that his body had eaten meat regularly in the past, though he had no memory of it.
“I think I shall try the erdlu.”
Ryana glanced at him curiously, raising her eyebrows.
“Excellent choice,” said Tajik, beaming.
Ryana pursed her lips and said nothing.
When the meal came, it was delicious. Sorak ate ravenously. His first taste triggered a craving for more. He had never felt anything like it before.
“You must have been hungry,” Tajik said with a grin, watching him eat. “Here, try some of this ale.”
“Thank you, but I prefer water,” Sorak said.
“Water?” Tajik said with surprise. “You prefer water to ale?”
“I do not drink spirits,” Sorak said.
“Not even wine?”
Sorak shook his head. “I have no taste for it.”
“Pity,” Tajik said, shaking his head sadly. Like most dwarves, he loved to drink, and he quaffed the ale as quickly as the serving girl refilled the pitcher. Sorak had heard that dwarves could out-drink anybody, and watching Tajik swill the ale, he believed it.
“So, have you come to South Ledopolus in search of employment, or are you just passing through?”
Sorak hesitated. “I have not yet decided,” he replied after a moment.
“Ah. Well, if you choose to stay, for however long, perhaps I could be of assistance. I am not without influence here, and would be pleased to give you a recommendation.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that,” Sorak said. “But for the present, we would simply like to rest from our journey before making further plans.”
“Where were you traveling from?” asked Tajik. “Most people come to South Ledopolus by way of the caravan route, yet you came across the estuary.
Don’t tell me you walked all the way from the Mekillots?”
“That is the way we came,” said Sorak, which was the truth, though not the whole truth.
“A long, hard journey,” Tajik said. “But not really a surprising one, for two people who had crossed the Barrens. You came from Salt View then?”
Ryana nodded. “Yes, we spent some time there.” Which was also true.
“The gaming houses of Salt View are not the sort of place one would expect to find a villichi priestess,” Tajik said.
“Our pilgrimages take us all over the world,” Ryana replied. “Besides, why preach to the converted? Wherever there is hope of spreading the preserver cause, that is where you’ll find us.”
Tajik nodded, apparently satisfied, but Sorak had a feeling the ferry captain suspected they were withholding information. Without his telepathic personalities, though, Sorak could not know. He saw no reason to distrust Tajik, but prudence advised against being completely frank with him.
“What can you tell me of a mercenary named Kieran?” Sorak asked, to change the subject.
Tajik frowned and shook his head. “The name is not familiar to me.”
“He was the one who gave me his water on the boat,” said Sorak.
“Ah, the one dressed like a walking catalog of rare hides?” asked Tajik.
“That’s him,” said Sorak.
The ferry captain shook his head. “I noticed him. Who could not, with clothes like that? But I have never seen him before. His name is Kieran, you say?”
“Yes, that was the name he gave me.”
“Hmm. Well, I could ask around. Is there a particular reason for your curiosity?”
“He offered me employment,” Sorak said. “He said he was on his way to Altaruk to accept a position as captain of the guard with the House of Jhamri.”
“Indeed?” said Tajik, raising his eyebrows “That speaks highly of his capabilities. Jhamri hires nothing but the best for senior officers. If this Kieran has offered you employment, perhaps you should accept. You will not find anything in South Ledopolus that could compare with the salary you would receive working for a merchant house in Altaruk.”
“I told him I would consider it,” said Sorak. “But I should like to know something of a man’s background before I agree to work for him.”
“Quite understandable,” said Tajik, nodding. “Well, I know where we can probably find out. If he has been recruited for such a post, he must have a reputation. His fellow mercenaries would know, and since most of them have just been paid, I know where we can find a good sampling to ask. But perhaps we should escort Ryana back to my home first.”
“Why?” Ryana asked, puzzled.
“Because the Desert Damsel is not the sort of place to take a priestess,” Tajik replied.
“And why is that?” she asked again.
Tajik cleared his throat. “Well… the Damsel is a pleasure house, the most popular attraction in South Ledopolus, where women dance and, uh, artfully remove clothing. One can go there simply for the show, but there are also rooms upstairs where, for a price, one can enjoy a, uh, ‘private dance,’ if you get my meaning.”
“How very interesting,” Ryana said. “I would like to see it.”
Tajik looked scandalized. “You would?”
“Yes, very much. Can we go there after dinner?”
Tajik swallowed hard. “I… uh… really do not think it is a proper place for a lady like yourself.”
“Why not?” Ryana asked.
Tajik glanced at Sorak, helplessly.
“Don’t look at me,” said Sorak. “Ryana makes her own decisions.”
“I have never seen a pleasure house,” Ryana said. “I’m curious to know what it is like.”
“It is much like any other place where mercenaries drink, only much more so,” Tajik said. “I don’t think you would enjoy it much.”
“I should like the opportunity to judge that for myself,” Ryana said.
Tajik sighed with resignation. “Well, if you insist…”
* * *
“It is a rather rowdy crowd tonight,” said Edric as he came into the dressing room, rubbing his temple where a thrown bottle had struck him. It had shattered and cut the skin, and a thin trickle of blood ran down the side of his face. The spot was already swelling, and there would be a nasty bruise.
Cricket was up out of her chair at once. “Here, let me see,” she said.
“It’s of no consequence,” said Edric. “This is my last night.”
Cricket moistened a clean cloth and gently washed the cut. “Those brutes,” she said vehemently.
Edric winced as she cleaned the cut. “Well, they did not come to hear my ballads. I do not know why Turin even bothered hiring me.”
“To build up their anticipation,” Cricket said. “He likes a dull act to open the show.” And then she realized what she had said and bit her lower lip. “Forgive me. That came out wrong. I did not mean that I found you dull myself.”
Edric chuckled. “No, I understand. The pleasure of your company has been the only thing that has made this engagemen
t bearable. And you have been a most appreciative audience, for which I thank you.”
“I cannot wait to leave this place,” said Cricket. “I’ve booked passage on the caravan. I only wish it would leave tonight.”
“Tomorrow will be soon enough,” said Edric. “Turin still does not suspect your plans?”
“I do not think so,” Cricket said. “If he does, he’s shown no indication of it. Still, I would not put it past him to attempt something to make me stay.”
“What could he do?”
“Hire some mercenaries to detain me while the caravan departs,” she said. “He probably wouldn’t even have to pay them. He would merely offer them inducements.”
“Mmmm, yes, I can imagine what sort of inducements he would offer,” Edric said. “Still, he can’t force you to dance.”
Cricket shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said. “I have wanted to leave here for so long, it hardly seems possible that the time has come at last. I keep thinking something will go wrong.”
Edric patted her shoulder. “Nothing will go wrong,” he said. “By this time tomorrow, we’ll be on our way to Altaruk.”
“I want it to be now,” she said anxiously.
“Try to put it out of your mind,” said Edric. “You don’t want Turin to wonder why you seem distracted. Go out there and put on a good show. It’ll be the last time they’ll ever see you in this pestilential dump. Give them something to remember.”
She smiled. “That I can do.”
* * *
Walking into the Desert Damsel was like entering another world. Outside lay the quiet, picturesque and orderly dwarven village of South Ledopolus, with its immaculate streets and well-tended shade trees and desert gardens. Inside was the raucous South Ledopolus the Wanderer had described in his journal.
Tajik, Sorak, and Ryana entered through a small antechamber where a dwarf seated at a high podium collected the cover charge of ten coppers, which included a token for one drink. He also gathered all weapons, in exchange for numbered tokens that would allow the owners to claim them on the way out. Just past the podium was an arched, curtained entry where a muscular human bouncer stood at his post, thick arms folded across his bare, barrel-shaped chest.
