Aaron grinned, “Happy, huh?”
Festa grunted, “Well, as happy as I get, anyway. “
Aaron nodded, “Safe travels.”
The captain grunted, “Aye, to you as well.”
Aaron turned and walked to Balen, offering his hand, “Don’t worry, Balen. I’ll do everything in my power to get your captain back to you.”
“Aye, Mr. Envelar. I thank you for it. May the gods keep you safe.”
“I’d rather they not get involved at all,” Aaron said, “but I appreciate the thought.”
“Well,” Festa said, coming up and putting a hand on Balen’s shoulder, “come on then, Balen. I’ll get Frederic to see to that arm of yours.”
In another moment, they were both gone, leaving Aaron alone in the cabin with May. “You’re sure about this?” She asked.
Aaron shook his head slowly, “No, but it’s the only option we have. I won’t leave Darrell and Leomin.”
She sighed, “I still think it’s a mistake.”
“I know.”
“Well,” she said, reaching into her purse and offering a hand full of coins, “I’ve said my piece. I won’t belabor it.”
“May,” he said, staring at the gold, “I couldn’t—”
“Oh, you will, Aaron Envelar,” she said, “If you’re to have a chance, you’ll need some gold to buy the answers to your questions or maybe for bribes. You will not defy me in this.”
Aaron met her eyes then finally sighed, “Alright,” he said, taking the gold and pocketing it, “Thank you.”
She nodded, her own eyes glistening with unshed tears, “You’re welcome,” she said, then she walked out the door, and Aaron was alone.
CHAPTER
NINE
Aaron walked away from the docks, feeling a pang of sadness as he did. It was a strange thing, having people to care about and that cared about him, and not a thing he was used to. His thoughts kept swirling around Adina, around the anger that had flashed in her eyes as she’d walked out of Festa’s cabin. Whatever had been growing between them, he had stolen its breath. It was a dark thought but also a comforting one. She could hate him if she wanted—at least she would be alive to do it. It was the best gift that he could offer her. He’d acted calm enough when speaking to her and the others, acted as if he was confident in his chances. It wasn’t the first lie he’d told in his life although, considering what was most likely in store for him once he started asking questions, it very well could be his last.
They could have helped you, Co said in his mind, a note of recrimination in her tone, if only you would have let them.
You mean they could have died with me, firefly. And dying is one of the few things a man can do just fine on his own.
Aaron glanced at the sky where the moon gave out its cold light, unmoving and unmoved by the lives that were lived and lost beneath its pale gaze. The rush to the docks and dealing with Festa had taken up most of the night, but he still judged there were a couple of hours left before morning.
Anyway, Co said, apparently deciding to let the argument drop, what’s your plan? How do you intend to figure out where Leomin and Darrell are?
“That’s easy enough,” Aaron muttered, as he ventured further into the city, “I’ll ask.”
At this time of the morning, most people—at least most honest ones—were asleep in their beds, and few shared the streets with him as he made his way through the city. He walked past the large, ostentatious shops of the richer quarter, past gilded signs of gold for this smith or this tailor, his senses alert for any sign of pursuit or recognition from the few he passed as he journeyed toward the poor district of the city.
He’d thrown the hood of his cloak up once again, obscuring most of his face, and he trusted to the near darkness to do the rest as he cut through alleyways and side streets, giving a wide berth to the few guards he saw patrolling the main avenues.
By the time he made it to the poor district, his nerves felt taut, frayed around the edges. He breathed a sigh of relief as he crossed into the city’s version of the Downs. There were no obvious signs declaring it such, but they were there nevertheless, for one who knew what to look for. The first, of course, was always the smell. A stale, slightly rotten odor carried on the night’s chill breeze, the smell of sweat and desperation, of hunger and thirst. It was one he recognized well. The distant peals of laughter, the far off shouts of ecstasy as whores plied their trade, faking their laughter and ardor as ably as any mummer’s troop.
And, of course, there were the screams. A man, not knowing better, might take those barely audible screams as ones of joy or excitement, might lump them in with the whores and the sounds of their profession, but he would be wrong. They were sounds of anger and hate, of despair and pain as those others who lurked in the night went about their own professions, their own victims leaving just as coinless as that of the whores’, though no doubt enjoying it less. That was, of course, for those who would live to see the sun again. There would be those, in a city this large, who would not. It was the way of things.
Most may not have found comfort in such sounds, such dark truths, but these were familiar to Aaron who knew well that those screams, those cries of pain and fear, were the heartbeat of this district, were the audible proof of its lifeblood pumping, of its existence—such that it was—carrying on from day to day. It was not a nice world, maybe, or a kind one. But it was one he understood, so he wasn’t particularly surprised when a shadow separated itself from one of the nearby alleys and kept pace some distance behind him.
Aaron took a moment to adjust his sword where it hung on his back, ensuring that the handle would be within easy reach should he need it. A situation that grew likelier and likelier with each step he took. The houses and shops on the border of the district to the rest of the city were reasonably nice, if simple and unadorned, but as he walked further, the houses on either end progressed in states of disrepair, as did those few people he passed on the street. They would not meet his eyes, not even so much as glance in his direction, but he knew that such things meant little. They were marking his passage just the same, deciding whether or not he was an easy mark, trying to determine if this newcomer in their midst was predator or prey. Apparently, those eyes watching from the darkness decided he wasn’t worth the trouble. Or, and this was more likely, they’d seen the shadow he cast some twenty or thirty paces back, the shadow being casual enough about it but following him just the same.
Aaron wanted to believe that the man was out to mug him, maybe give him a toss and take everything he had. Wanted to believe it but did not. The night was dark, but not so dark that his face wouldn’t have been visible in the lights spilling from the houses and shops he passed. Visible enough to be recognized, maybe, by someone who’d seen one of the flyers the prince’s men had posted. Why mug a man and leave him knocked out or dead in some alleyway, after all, when you could turn him in and receive a small fortune and a prince’s gratitude for your trouble?
He kept on, past the lurid shouts of women of the night as they hung out of windows, offering their wares as boldly as any merchant might, past the clusters of shadows that congregated in the alleyways, watching with eyes veiled in darkness, vultures circling, waiting for any sign of weakness, for any indication that the man who walked among them was a visitor who did not know the rules, who was unaware of the game.
Aaron considered as he walked. The man following him obviously wasn’t a soldier or a guard—he’d have long since found himself surrounded, had that been the case. Which meant that his shadow intended to bring him to Belgarin himself, thereby ensuring one of the prince’s men didn’t make off with his reward. The fact that he hadn’t already made his move meant he was waiting on something—friends, Aaron suspected. After all, better to split gold with friends than to have a coffin all to yourself. After walking for another fifteen minutes, Aaron came upon a tavern. The squat wooden building shone in the darkness like a beacon from the light of lamps within, and he could
hear the shouts of anger and laughter coming from it. He went inside, pausing as he closed the door long enough to see his shadow hurrying away down the street and allowed himself a small smile. Not long then.
Inside, the tavern was filled with pipe smoke so thick that it was nearly suffocating. A smell lingered in the air, a mélange of the bitter smell of ale, the sharp, acrid smell of vomit, and, of course, beneath it all, the vague, metallic scent of blood.
Is this wise, Co thought to him, letting the man following us know exactly where we are so that he can bring his friends?
They won’t want to make a scene in a crowded common room, firefly, Aaron thought back. They’d be too scared some of these others might realize who I am—decide that the reward money would look better in their own coin purses.
This place, Aaron, these people. They’re full of greed and hate and anger. I can feel it.
Aaron smiled beneath his hood, I know. Welcome home. The common room was crowded, as he’d known it would be, and several people turned from their conversations to study him as he walked to the bar. “An ale,” he said to the tavernkeep, sitting on one of the bar’s empty stools.
The man—who was at least a head taller than Aaron and half again as wide at the shoulders—frowned at him for a moment, as if trying to decide if he was going to be a problem. Long thin scars traced the man’s forearms, and his nose was little more than a lump of misbegotten flesh on his face, one that had long since lost its original shape. Or any shape at all, really. A fighter or a street thug then, but judging by the prodigious gut and the thin strands of gray hair on his head, one whose days of jumping people in dark alleys had long since passed.
After a moment, the big man nodded once and turned to pour the ale from a nearby cask. He thumped the glass down on the counter in front of Aaron, “Not a face I recognize,” he said, “In town to watch the competition and decided to stay over a bit, eh? Make a trip of it?”
Aaron raised his head up from studying the ale and met the man’s stare, gave him a small smile, “Something like that.” He glanced over where a youth, fourteen or fifteen years old at a guess, struggled under the weight of a cask of ale, lugging it behind the counter and setting it down. The youth was gasping for breath but still found the energy to scowl at Aaron before turning to the barkeep, a sullen question in his eyes.
“That’s alright then, Janum,” the tavernkeeper said, “now, why don’t you go on and see if Emma needs anything from ya—like as not, there’s some linens need washin’.”
The youth nodded, took the time to favor Aaron with another angry scowl then stalked away. Aaron watched him disappear up the inn’s stairs then turned to the barman, raising an eyebrow.
“Ah, don’t mind Janum. My sister’s boy. Been getting’ himself wrapped up in some trouble lately. Nothing big, mind, but got caught stealin’ a time or two. Her husband’s been dead goin’ on three years now, and my poor sister don’t know what to do with the boy, so I told her she could send ‘em to me. Few things build character quicker than an honest day’s work, I find.”
Aaron gave the man a half-smile, “Seems like maybe he’d disagree with you. And what about that nose?” Aaron said, nodding at the man’s face, “Get that through honest work, did you?”
The barkeep barked a laugh, “Well, now. There’s honest and then there’s honest ain’t there? Anyhow, I used to be a lot younger and a lot dumber. I learned my lessons, though it took me longer than it ought and that’s for certain. My hope is the boy there’ll learn his own without havin’ to get the scars that came with mine.”
Aaron considered that. “Some folks say it’s our scars that make us who we are.”
The man grunted, “Sure, they do. And some folks say that broke bones heal back stronger—sure do hurt like a bitch at the time though.”
Aaron decided, then, that he liked the tavernkeeper. He hoped that he would be able to go on liking him but, then, there was still plenty of night left. “Fair enough.”
The man grunted again, “Anyhow, seems like bout every swingin’ dick on the continent came for that damn contest. Most of ‘em don’t make it into the city so far as this, though,” he said, and it was clear by his tone that it was a question.
Aaron chose to ignore it and took a swig of the ale instead. “It’s not the drink, surely?” He said.
The bartender crossed his massive arms across his chest, scowling, “I ‘spose your business is your business.”
Aaron nodded, “Yes, it is. I do have a question though. You say not many have made it this far into the city—though I can’t see why, what with how great this ale is—but I’m sure some have, right?”
The bartender seemed somewhat appeased by that, and he let his arms drop, rubbing at the counter with a dirty rag. “Aye, I suppose we’ve had one or two.”
Aaron nodded, “Any of these visitors happen to be Parnen? Long hair with bells in it, talks more than any man you’ve likely met before?”
The bartender frowned, considering. “Well, now. Thing is, I stay pretty busy here, as you can see,” he said, gesturing out at the common room where people went about laughing and drinking and arguing. “Ain’t such an easy thing to remember one face out of that many.”
Aaron met the man’s eyes as he tossed a gold coin—several times more than the drink was worth—onto the counter. “I understand well enough, I think. Still, anything you might remember could really be a help.”
The big man considered again, glancing at the coin and back at Aaron. Finally, he sighed, a distinct note of regret in his tone, “Sorry, friend. Time was, I’d remember any face I passed in the street, could describe ‘em to ya just as if they were standin’ right in front of me. But, then, time’s a cruel bitch.”
Aaron watched the man’s face for a moment then finally shrugged, “Yeah, she is.”
“Well,” the tavernkeeper said, reaching for the coin, “Give me a minute, I’ll get you some change.”
“Keep it,” Aaron said, “I’ve got more.”
The big man paused, raising an eyebrow at that. After a moment, he nodded and took the coin, “Well, I appreciate it, mister. I sure wish you luck in findin’ the guy you’re after.”
Aaron nodded, grabbing his still half full ale and starting to rise. “Just out of curiosity,” the tavernkeeper said, his back to Aaron as he poured two more ales, “What do you aim to do with your man, should you find him?”
“Talk with him, that’s all.”
The man studied Aaron for a second, glancing at the sword handle protruding from the back of his hood, “You don’t mind me sayin’, strikes me you’re the type of man folks don’t necessarily enjoy ‘talkin’ to.”
“See, now, that hurts,” Aaron said, standing and grabbing his ale, “and here I thought we were getting along so well. Anyway, I think I’ll go have a seat at one of your tables. More room.”
“Expecting some company are you?”
Aaron smiled, “Something like that.” He turned and left the island of relative calm the bar provided, wading through a sea of drunken shouts, drunken laughter, and, of course, drunken threats. He passed a table where two men were arm wrestling, their faces red and covered in sweat—mostly sweat, anyway as spittle flew from their straining mouths.
He passed another table where several kids of no more than twelve or thirteen sat gathered around an older man who spoke to them in low, harsh tones. A taskmaster, no doubt, apparently unhappy with the day’s take. He ignored the sullen stares of men looking for a fight, making his way to an empty table in the corner that allowed him to see the tavern’s entrance out of the corner of his eye. Then he relaxed into the seat and nursed his drink.
I thought, Co said, after no more than five minutes, that you were going to ask questions. You’ve only questioned the tavernkeeper and, if you ask me, it seems like he knows more than he’s saying.
Sure he does, Aaron thought back, but then, doesn’t everyone? You don’t need the bond of some long dead magician to see that.
Magician? Co demanded, Kevlane and those of us who followed him were no street performers with colored ribbons up our sleeves and assistants in short skirts. You have no idea the amount of power he—we—wielded duri—
Sure I do, firefly. Enough to turn yourself into a floating ball of light—consider me impressed. My point is that we’ll ask our questions soon enough. There’s just something I have to deal with first.
Oh? Co asked, something more important than finding Leomin and Darrell?
Aaron saw the door to the tavern open out of the corner of his eye and allowed himself a small smile as the woman from outside sauntered in. She was thin—a bit too thin, really—but pretty enough. She moved well, languidly and with an affected carelessness that seemed to say she was comfortable with being the object of men’s desire and that—from time to time—she chose to sate those desires. Some, no doubt most, noticed her flashing eyes, the way they almost seemed to dance, and thought them windows that looked on a woman rich with life’s appetites. A woman who a man might step out on his wife with and never see again, a story for a young man to have for his friends the next day. But Aaron knew such eyes, had seen them before, and he suspected that few of those who dallied with such as this one ever lived to tell their friends.
Patience, firefly. The woman moved around the room with a directionless grace, stopping here and there to speak to the more forward men who tried their luck at winning her favor, rebuffing them with words he couldn’t hear that somehow left them smiling even as she sauntered away from them and on to the next. We’re about to have company.
The woman continued on for another few minutes, stopping at the bar to order two ales. Aaron waited, taking a drink out of his own mug and fighting back the urge to yawn. Gods, he was tired. He suspected she’d be at it for another few minutes and, if he’d been a dumber man, he’d have given in to the nearly irresistible urge to take a nap. Men rarely woke from naps in places such as this. He was rubbing at his eyes beneath the hood of his cloak when she finally made her appearance.
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