D'Jenn pulled his own door open before Dormael could even knock.
“It’s bloody cold outside,” D'Jenn grumbled, wrapping his thick cloak around his shoulders. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the weather here in the east.”
“It’s not too different from the Sevenlands,” Dormael replied. “It gets cold there, too.”
“Yes, well the cold usually sticks to the northern tribelands, and Soirus-Gamerit doesn’t get much of it,” D’Jenn said. He strapped his morningstar onto his belt, and together the cousins descended the stairs that led to the ground floor.
“So,” Dormael began, stepping out into the hallway that led into the main wing of the manor, “what's your plan? I know you've been brooding since you woke up this morning.”
D'Jenn smiled. “Brooding, eh? We need to get down into the city. Find out if anyone interesting has come through the gates since you found the girl. That, and I want to head to the docks and find out if anyone is braving the ocean this close to the stormy season.”
“I just got off a gods-damned boat,” Dormael muttered.
“Yes, and since you have such an honorable streak, we've now got a problem on our hands. She's going to live, which means that we need to prepare to smuggle her to Ishamael,” D'Jenn said.
“You think she'll want to come with us?” Dormael asked, raising an eyebrow at his cousin.
“I think she's in danger, and we need to prepare for any eventuality. Something tells me that whoever is after the girl is interested in what she's carrying. Besides, you know this...thing, whatever it is, is too powerful to ignore. Either she comes with us, gives us the artifact, or we stay with her. The Conclave would have it no other way, and we both know it.”
“I wonder how she's going to like that,” Dormael sighed.
“Even if she doesn’t like the idea,” D’Jenn said, “I think Alton will ask you to smuggle her out of the country. You two are becoming friends, though I don't understand how anyone likes you.”
“Thanks,” Dormael grunted, shaking his head.
“You’re the least likely explanation if anyone comes here looking for her. You're the thing that they didn't count on, whoever they are, and no one but Alton knows about you. I think you’ve gone and gotten yourself well trapped, coz. Shawna is your charge now, whether you like it or not. I’m willing to wager that the idea has rattled around in Alton's head already. I would have considered the possibility, were I him.”
Dormael shook his head, and the two of them fell silent.
D’Jenn wasn’t hungry, so instead of going to the dining hall for breakfast with Alton, Dormael sent a servant to let him know that he and D’Jenn were headed out into the city. The two men left the entrance hall by the oaken double doors that opened onto the front lawn. Alton’s manor was concealed from the street by trees that had been planted all along his stone fence. The leaves were bare at this time of year, with skeletal branches reaching twisted fingers into the cold winter air, but the trees still provided a fair amount of privacy. Leaving the grounds by the large iron gate, the cousins stepped out into the cobblestone streets, and strolled toward the Docks.
There were a fair number of people going up and down the street, but the usual crush and hubbub was quieter in the Merchant's District than in other parts of the city. Most of the crowd were well-dressed merchants hurrying to some unknown place, sometimes with guards carrying large chests in their wake. Dormael even saw one merchant walking up and down the line of a large caravan, screaming orders at his drivers as everyone made ready to leave. As Dormael and D'Jenn came around a bend, other areas of the city opened up before them. They stopped to light a pipe and take in the view.
Ferolan had been founded on the only usable piece of the Cambrellian coastline for leagues. The land around the city was mostly sheer, deadly cliffs, but Ferolan had been built in a bowl-shaped valley that sloped toward the sea. The web-work of buildings and streets was settled into the hills in charming, orderly rows that spoke of the Cambrellian penchant for bustling industry. It was a beautiful site, but while it was easy on the eyes, it was also hard on the feet. A walk in any direction in Ferolan promised that, for at least half of the time, one would be climbing the steep grade away from the harbor.
Dormael looked around and took in the buildings dotting the hillsides of the valley. Modern masonry sat right next to wooden tenements and stonework from earlier periods in the city's history. It seemed to Dormael that everywhere he looked there were Cambrellians crawling over the surfaces like ants, quietly improving the city to their standards. Ferolan saw more trade than any other city in northern Alderak, and had accumulated many civil advancements from its exposure to other cultures. From what Alton told him, even the city's nobility prided themselves on being erudite, if not liberal.
Still, the Cambrellians themselves were nowhere near as intolerant of outsiders as other societies in Alderak. The Dannons—Cambrell's northern neighbor—were notorious for their treatment of unannounced visitors. Sevenlanders were killed on sight in Dannon, and even their fellow easterners often received a taste of steel from them. If Dormael had to put up with a sneer, or a snide comment here and there, it was much preferred to a knife.
Upon the southern side of the valley was the district in which all of Ferolan's oldest and most prestigious nobility made their homes—the Lord's March. The higher upon the hillside Dormael looked, the larger and more ostentatious the manors became. Even at this distance, he could clearly see the red tiles of roofs, manicured grounds, and ancient statues. Alton had told him that the nobles competed with each other during the summertime to see which family could throw the largest celebration, each one culminating with a parade through the city. Dormael had found throughout his life that nobility of any origin were thoroughly convinced of their own superiority, and tried like all Six Hells to convince everyone else, too. It was the same all over Eldath.
At the highest point of the southern ridge stood Ferolan Castle. It had been built long before the lavish homes of the nobles below, and sat like a rock towering over a bed of flowers. It's outer wall sat so close to the edge of the seaside cliff that Dormael thought the bricks might tumble over the side at any second. Cambrell's flag—a rearing white griffon over a green field—flapped in the heavy sea wind. Ferolan's flag whipped just below it, but Dormael couldn't make it out from so far away.
“That's not too bad, as castles come,” D'Jenn said. “I've always found the castles in Alderak interesting.”
“Oh?” Dormael asked, puffing out a large cloud of smoke. “I've always thought the easterners were savage with the way they make war. They've no scruples about killing women and children, or starving out entire populations such as this. They do it to each other all the time.”
“Indeed,” D'Jenn nodded, “but one can still have an academic interest. And truthfully, Dormael, our people have been guilty of plenty of horrible things. The Second Great War, for instance. The Conclave might be the ones who outlawed the use of magic for warfare, but that's because it was also the first one to use it in such a way.”
“Sure, hundreds of years ago,” Dormael grunted. “Still, our people face each other in the field. These people use their families as pawns in their struggles. It bothers me.”
“I'm sure they don't see it that way. I still think it's interesting how the need for all these martial innovations drives their war machines. Our cities have walls, sure, but not castles, Dormael. Just look at that bastard over there. Would you want to assault that?”
Dormael's eyes went to the high walls, the battlements, and the flags waving their menace into the wind.
“Not as a soldier, no. You'd have to fight your way up from the harbor, tiring yourself out the whole way, or throw yourself against the walls of the castle on the landward side.”
“The rest of the city, though,” D'Jenn said, gesturing out over the valley, “would crack like a melon. All these pretty houses and that new construction...well, you know.”
&nbs
p; “Someone has a dark turn of mind this morning.”
“Every morning,” D'Jenn smiled. “Let's get going.”
The cousins walked down the cobblestone streets, meandering their way down toward the docks. They passed from the Merchant’s District to poorer residential areas, and then into a teeming market, where the buzz of the city revealed itself in bustling fashion. Hawkers were crying their wares in booming voices, and people rushed in and out of shops along the street. Some were loitering outside, gazing into windows that displayed everything from herbs to pastries to weapons.
Dormael and D’Jenn dodged through the crowd, trying their best not to jostle passersby, but usually only succeeding in getting jostled themselves. D’Jenn had to grab the wrists of two small boys who had tried to cut his purse strings, and flash his morningstar at a young man who had been following them. All three melted back into the crowd in turn, looking for easier prey. Finally, breaking through the tumult, the cousins turned onto a dockside street that looked to have only alehouses built along the landward side.
“Whiskey Row,” explained Dormael at D’Jenn’s questioning look. “The finest welcome any seafaring man can ask for in Cambrell. There’s nothing but taverns and brothels on this street. Of course, more than sailors make their way down here.” Dormael nodded his head at a well-dressed man being thrown out of a large two-story building on the corner of Whiskey Row. He was holding his hands up in protest as half dressed girls screamed at him from the doorway. A large bear of a man was roughly pushing him backwards into the street, ignoring his angry protestations.
“A little early for that,” D’Jenn said as they watched the scene.
“Probably late for him, though.”
D’Jenn laughed, and the two of them continued down the street. Dormael smiled and waved at a few of the ladies, which elicited their various sales pitches. D’Jenn just shook his head and continued walking.
Whiskey Row was built about fifteen hands higher than the harbor below, and looked out over the expanse of ships anchored in the bay. Staircases were set in intervals along the street, and a low wall ran along the seaward side of the path. The sea spray made the cobblestones underfoot slippery, but only enough to make Dormael’s boot slide backward as he walked.
In the distance, the street ran all the way to the other edge of the valley, where it was dwarfed by a sheer cliff face. Ferolan Castle loomed over the street atop the cliff, but just on the near side of the castle wall was a small piece of land that clung to the steep hillside. It sat high above the roofs of Whiskey Row and the Docks, and hung ponderously from the cliff face. It looked dangerous—as if too much weight would cause it to collapse. Dormael could see the small figures of people atop it, though he could not see what they were doing. He did, however, spot a few kites in the air above it.
“That's some kind of bloody park,” Dormael said. “People are flying kites up there. It looks like the thing could come down at any moment, or that the wind could blow you off.”
“Must be quite a view, though,” D’Jenn smiled.
“It’s quite a fall too, right onto the roof of some tavern over there,” Dormael said. “Imagine sitting in that pub when it happened.”
“Imagine if it was a brothel,” D'Jenn replied, turning a mischievous glance on Dormael.
Dormael made to laugh, but was interrupted as someone bowled into him, nearly taking him from his feet. He caught his balance and turned an angry eye on the perpetrator, who turned out to be an older fellow with graying hair. He had fallen to the wet cobblestones, but had somehow managed to keep hold of the bottle he was carrying. The smell of firewine wafted from him like perfume.
“You alright there, friend?” asked Dormael, stifling a laugh as the man tried to regain his feet.
“Fine…just fine,” the man slurred as he swayed to a standing position. Dormael shook his head at the man's appearance. His tunic was ripped and stained with blood. His eye was swollen, and bloodstains decorated his face. The stranger’s words came out around a slur, though Dormael couldn’t tell if it was from drinking, or from getting his face pounded.
“Who did you piss off?” D'Jenn asked, eyeing the man up and down. “What happened to you?”
“Oh, I'll tell you what happened. I'll tell you what happened, alright. My country has gone to the dogs, that's what happened. Sold us out. Sold the gods-damned people to the Imperials. The fucking Galanians,” the drunken man replied, swaying until Dormael grabbed his shoulder to steady him.
“Who?” Dormael asked, shaking the man's arm to wake him up.
“Gods-damned Galanians,” slurred the drunk. “Like I said. Imperials.”
D'Jenn met Dormael's eyes, and a look of dread passed between them.
“Tell us what happened, old boy,” D'Jenn said, turning his icy gaze on the man. The drunk finally got his bearings, and took a deep swig from the firewine. Dormael could smell the stuff from where he was standing, and the man also had a distinct odor of old vomit about him.
“Last night the damned City Watch comes in the Fish Head, kicking over tables, causing a damned ruckus. They shut the music down, stiff-armed people like they done something wrong,” the man grunted. “Then, these two bastards strut into the alehouse, armed to the teeth and looking like they own the place. Everybody gets real quiet, see? There isn't a soul in Cambrell that don't know the look of a Galanian. These boys were killers. Soldiers, I'm saying.”
Dormael shared another ominous look with his cousin.
“Soldiers, you say?” he asked.
“Aye,” the man nodded. “Each one wearing the same surcoat. Plenty of men walking around Ferolan with swords, see, but don't none of them wear a damned standard. That's for soldiers and knights. Nobles and the like. I'm telling you—they sold us out. Sold us all out.”
“What did they want? They're the ones that did this to you?” D'Jenn asked.
“What?” the drunk asked, halfway to another sip from his bottle. “Oh! Right, aye, they're the ones that roughed me up.”
“Why?” Dormael said.
“They said they was looking for some girl. They said she was some kind of criminal, killed somebody important or something. Gave out descriptions of her. I told those bastards that if they wanted a girl, then there was plenty of them upstairs that would do whatever you please for a few copper marks, see?”
“That's when they had their little conversation with you,” D'Jenn said.
“I thought it was funny,” he grumbled. “Everybody else did, too. So I told them that this wasn't the Empire, or Galania, or whatever they're calling it now. They can't just come here and lord it up like they own the place. That's when they did this.” The man gestured at his face, and Dormael nodded.
“What did they say about the girl?” D'Jenn asked.
“The girl? Who gives a golden shit about the girl? We got Imperials inside the walls! They already did this!” the man said, gesturing at his face again with the bottle. “They're taking over, and nobody's doing anything about it! First it's just a few, just looking for a criminal, they say. Mark me, there's an army out there somewhere. A gods-damned army.”
“Alright, friend,” Dormael sighed, slowing the man's tirade before his rant could get out of control. “You should get home. Have your face seen to.”
“Gods-damned army,” the man muttered as he turned to walk away. “Mark my words, boys! An army!”
With that, the drunken man pushed between them and swayed down Whiskey Row, muttering under his breath. Dormael shared a glance with D'Jenn, and in short order they were walking down the street, looking for the Fish Head. Dormael had a sinking feeling growing in his belly, and it had nothing to do with the pastry he had stolen from the kitchens.
The Fish Head turned out to be one of those large establishments that combined alehouse, inn, and brothel all under one roof. It sat between two similar buildings that were shuttered up for the morning, though a small number of people loitered between the buildings, or slept in an out-of-the-
way spot. Dormael and D'Jenn paid them no mind as they ducked through the entrance to the Fish Head, even though a few called out for charity.
Although these places were normally deserted this early in the morning, Dormael was surprised to see a number of people breakfasting. There was something cooking that filled the air with a spicy scent, though it had to compete with the smell of smoke and the remnants of vomit. Perusing the room with one look, he and D’Jenn sat down at the bar.
The bartender was a slim brunette who looked as though she had been quite pretty in the past. The years in places like this looked to have worn her down, though—unless it was the alleged events of the night before. Her eyes were sunken, and she stifled a yawn as she dipped an iron stein in a keg full of water. She looked up at the two cousins and forced a smile as they sat down.
“Fancy an ale, gentlemen?” she asked.
“Two,” replied D’Jenn, sliding a silver mark across the wooden surface of the bar. She raised her eyebrows in surprise, but declined to comment on the exorbitant tip. After she had dipped them out a couple of tankards, she leaned on the table and fixed them with an interested gaze.
“You two are an odd-looking pair,” she remarked, gazing at Dormael’s braided goatee and their outlandish dress. “Where do you come from?”
“Orris,” lied D’Jenn. “Came over on a trading ship to go to Tauravon. We’ve heard it’s the wonder of all Alderak.”
“I’ve never been there,” she sighed, “but I wish I could go with you. The Great River City…it sounds beautiful. My daughter's there—at least that's what my son says. Ran off with a drover a few years back.”
The Seven Signs: Three Book Collection Page 11
