“I will do what I can here, you have my word,” Alton promised.
“Good,” D’Jenn said, walking up between them. “In that case, let us make ready to leave. It’s time.”
Shawna and Nan appeared from the servant’s entrance into the stables, drawing everyone’s gaze. Shawna’s hair was now a deep black, in startling contrast to her usual red-golden color. The effect was startling, and Dormael had to blink in order to absorb the sight. Shawna was wearing a rueful expression on her face, while Nan beamed up at the taller woman in triumph. Dormael bowed to her and began quiet applause, which was taken up by D’Jenn and Alton. Bethany just stared open-mouthed at Shawna's hair, as if she hadn't known such a thing was possible.
“Riverroot pulp,” Nan smiled. “Girls from Cambrell have been using it for years. I warn you, though—it will only last about a week, especially in this wet weather. I’ve given her some extra, and she knows how to apply it.” Nan fussed at Shawna’s clothing for a minute, arranging the winter cloak and enfolding the woman into a fierce hug. “May the gods grant you guile and good fortune, child. You be careful, now—don’t go undoing all the hard work we did keeping you alive!”
Shawna grew red in the face, but returned the hug with a nod.
Nan then went around shaking the hands and kissing the cheeks of the departing men, offering pearls of wisdom and well-wishes. She crouched down and smothered Bethany in a hug and kiss—which made the girl cringe in discomfort—before handing her something wrapped in cloth. Bethany hid it under her cloak, whatever it was, but she was unable to keep the smile from her face. Dormael pretended not to notice it.
Once everyone was gathered, Dormael clasped arms with Alton.
“You’ve been good to us, Alton—shown us trust and hospitality,” Dormael said. “That’s not something that’s taken lightly where we come from.”
“We got to thinking about a parting gift,” D’Jenn smiled, coming up beside them. “But what could we get for you that you couldn’t buy for yourself?”
“And to repay you for the lie,” Dormael said.
“You owe me nothing,” Alton said.
“We know,” D’Jenn replied. “But we can give gifts to our friends if we wish.”
Alton opened his mouth to object, but stopped when D’Jenn started to sing.
It was a quiet, sorrowful melody. Everyone paused at what they were doing at the unexpected baritone, the rattling of buckles and shifting of garments settling into stillness. Dormael's tenor joined with his cousin’s voice, and as the song began to lilt through highs and lows, Dormael opened his Kai.
He was suddenly connected to the world, senses ringing with the invisible, restless energy around him. His arms and legs began to tingle, and D’Jenn’s magical song joined his own. Their voices harmonized with the song, and their Kais began to sing along in a chorus that only Dormael and D’Jenn could hear. Dormael could feel his power dancing with the music, as if the very fabric of reality was bending its ear to listen.
A bluish haze rose from the ground surrounding the two wizards, and those gathered shuffled back in stunned disbelief. The mist rushed outward, flowing toward the walls of Alton's gardens, which separated his manor from the street. As the haze reached inside of the wall, flowing runes began to scrawl themselves over the bricks in sinuous patterns. The magic sank into the stone, into the ground underfoot, and even the few trees that stood inside the estate’s walls. As the tune died on the wizards' lips, the runes finished their race around the gardens, and the spell abated.
A stunned silence followed the wizards’ performance. The melody hung in the air, reluctant to leave. Bethany gaped at the mist as it dissipated, and ran her hands through the air in a vain attempt to catch it. Dormael took a deep breath and spoke up, breaking the silence.
“It’s called Sanctuary,” he said. “This place is tied to you now. It can’t make you completely safe from your enemies, but anyone who means you harm will come to fatal misfortune if they try to come inside the Sanctuary.”
“Fatal misfortune?” Alton asked. “How?”
“Think of it like a cascade of the worst things possible happening,” D’Jenn said. “Say someone is chasing you with a sword. Maybe he trips on a root in your garden and falls on a stone, breaking his head open. Fatal misfortune.”
“What if it’s just someone I don’t like?”
“They have to be attacking you,” Dormael smiled. “It’s like having an invisible guard dog that can’t leave your manor.”
“That’s probably both the most wondrous, and most terrible thing anyone has ever done for me,” Alton replied. His voice sounded nearly as dumbfounded as his expression. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Nothing needs to be said,” Dormael replied, waving his hand in a dismissive gesture. “We watch out for our own.”
Alton nodded, and the two clasped forearms again.
“Remember, I expect to see you three back here as soon as you can make it,” Alton said.
“When this business is over, we’ll come back and finish the rest of your wine,” Dormael smiled. “Until then, my friend.”
“Until then,” Alton said, inclining this head.
Shawna came and enfolded Alton in a hug, and Dormael gave the two of them room to say their goodbyes. He busied himself with readying Horse, and making sure Bethany was wearing shoes. By the time he had struggled up into the saddle, everyone was ready to leave. Bethany scurried up next to him like a squirrel climbing a tree, and began playing with the end of his beard. Shawna gave him a nod, and Dormael nudged Horse into a walk.
“Take care!” Alton called as they departed. “I’ll leave something for the gods on your behalf!”
The party called their goodbyes, and left Alton’s estate for the wet streets of Ferolan.
Dormael took the lead, turning Horse toward the Docks. D’Jenn brought up the rear with the two pack horses, his eyes scanning the night for danger. Shawna winced with every hoof-beat, but made no complaints as they began to descend the steep hillside that Ferolan was built upon. Bethany wrapped herself in her little woolen cloak and leaned back on Dormael, who then wrapped her in his large Sevenlander cloak. She snuggled closer to him against the cold, and Dormael tried to keep an embarrassed smile from his face as Shawna regarded him. It didn't work.
The ruddy glow of oil lanterns threw splattered reflections across the cobblestones of Ferolan’s streets as the four companions made their way through the city. The rain from the previous night hadn’t completely burned off in the cool winter sun, and it made some of the steeper inclines treacherous, despite the improved city streets. Dormael led them on, carefully meandering through the city toward the harbor.
They kept to back streets and alleyways when they could, though the horses sometimes made that impossible. Their path led them through some of the city’s seedier districts, hugged along the northern cliff face below the Merchant’s District. As they passed into the poorer parts of the city, the street lanterns were replaced by torches, which gave off a dirty, smoky odor that tickled Dormael's nose.
Every now and then the group passed a squad of City Guardsmen, and Dormael would turn down a side street to avoid them. The sacrifice in time was worth avoiding awkward questions, and a possible open conflict in the streets. Dormael's stomach tightened every time he saw them, but quick thinking and convenient alleyways kept them from having to come face to face with the authorities.
They rode in tense silence, Dormael’s eyes sweeping the road ahead. D’Jenn kept his eyes open as well, and Dormael could feel him reaching out with his magic from time to time, searching for any possible threats. Shawna had a look of hard concentration on her face, and even in this cold weather there was sweat beading on her brow. Judging by the stiff way she was riding, Dormael figured that her wound was causing her a lot of pain. She was too stubborn to admit it, though, and too determined to let it stop her. Dormael could respect that.
After about an hour of snaking down back alleys
and taking detours, they managed to make their way down to the harbor mouth. The sea rolled black and menacing in the moonlight as the ships bobbed with the ocean in the harbor, like so many twigs caught in a stream. Dormael didn't relish the thought of sailing the Stormy Sea at the worst time of the season, but there was no helping it. Coming to an alleyway near Whiskey Row, he stopped the procession and dismounted. Everyone else moved into the alley, and got out of sight.
“I'm going to go meet our sea captain, and make sure nothing has gone wrong,” Dormael said.
“Oh yes,” Shawna remarked in a flat tone, “in front of the Happy Lad. Don’t have too much fun while we’re waiting.” D’Jenn gave her an irritated look, but Dormael heard the sarcastic humor in her voice, and simply gave a low laugh to her in return. D’Jenn nodded after a moment and relaxed, but his hands began to signal as soon as Shawna turned back to her horse.
Have you noticed that we haven’t seen any Red Swords tonight?
It’s crossed my mind, Dormael signaled in reply.
I don’t like this, cousin. It feels wrong, and traps usually feel wrong, D’Jenn signed.
I realize that, but what choice do we have?
Just be careful, cousin. With that, D’Jenn turned and remounted his horse, taking up a position as sentinel. Dormael handed Horse’s reins to Shawna and drew the deep cowl of his cloak over his head. Nodding at his companions, he stepped from the alley and strolled toward Whiskey Row.
Since they had stuck more or less to the northern side of the city, Dormael had a small distance to travel before he made it down to the Happy Lad. The brothel was just on the southern side of the Row, and at this time of night the dockside lane was full of drunken seafarers. That would make it easier for Dormael to blend in, but it would also mean a stronger City Guard presence along the street to keep order. He would just have to keep his head down, and try to be as nondescript as possible.
Puddles of yellow-orange light shone onto the cobblestones from the pubs and inns scattered along the seaside street, and pools of sound filled with revelry accompanied them. In the harbor mouth the air was cooler, with the wind coming off the sea and blowing right through the valley. It was also more humid, as seaside air always tended to be, and the combination made for an uncomfortable walk. His cloak kept the wetness out of his clothes well enough, though the icy wind tried to seep through.
He passed groups of singing men, too drunk to let the cold night air simmer their enthusiasm. Every now and then he passed a group of men who were dragging one or more drunken sailors down to the harbor, undoubtedly crewmen who had committed some offense. He dodged them all, slipping through the crowd like a shadow.
Dormael saw the three-story Happy Lad ahead of him, with women—and men painted like women, Dormael noticed with a smile—leaning out of the windows. They called greetings to those gathered in the street below, who shouted back and raised drinks in raucous response. There appeared to be a line to get in, and those who were still waiting in the street below had formed their own celebration. Dormael found an alley nearby, and slid into the shadows to watch the scene.
He rubbed his aching right shoulder and flexed his tattered hand inside the bandage as he surveyed the street. There were plenty of men in the street, and a good many of them could have been sea captains. Most were yelling up to the windows of the brothel at the whores, though, shouting obscenities and making sexual promises they probably couldn’t keep. Most were beyond drunk already, swaying in the sea wind to the dance of the alcohol in their bellies. After a few seconds of searching, Dormael thought he spotted Roldo.
The man was leaning on a railing on the harbor side of the street, peering around while drumming the fingers of one hand against the railing’s weathered wood. He was wearing the thigh-length leather coat that sailors favored in wet, cold weather, and he had a wide-brimmed hat pulled low on his forehead. A shaggy brown beard curled from most of his face, and greasy hair lay down to the sides of his chin. Beady little pig-eyes stared out from a sloping brow, which made the grimace on the man’s face look particularly ugly.
I hope the gods gave him a pleasant demeanor to contrast his countenance.
Roldo—if Roldo he was—had a man standing next to him, who leaned on the railing, facing outward toward the harbor. Dormael immediately thought of him as the first mate, but he couldn’t be sure. Dormael couldn’t see his face, but he had a brown swath of cloth tied around his head, and a matching scarf around his neck to shield him from the cold. He wore no coat, but a baggy off-white shirt beneath a dark leather vest, with pants that were wide and loose. His boots were brushed black leather, which looked out of place with the rest of his shabby attire. He had a wooden baton hanging from his belt, probably for keeping stowaways from the ship’s loading ramp. He was trying to appear idle, but he kept glancing down the street to the south.
Following his gaze, Dormael spotted two more men who were pretending to lounge along the harbor side railing as well, and these two had belted cutlasses. Their clothing and appearance were much like the first mate’s, and they kept shifting their gazes around with anxious expressions. Something was definitely suspicious, but Dormael couldn’t fault the man for being cautious. With that thought in mind, he strode back out onto the street and slipped through the crowd beneath the brothel.
He was right next to Roldo before the man noticed him.
“Horrible weather,” Dormael said from the depths of his hood. Roldo gave Dormael an indifferent grunt in answer, peering past him up the street at first, and then looking at him with more interest. He gave a start at Dormael when he noticed his appearance, taking in his outlandish clothing. Roldo glanced in the direction of his men, but his first mate and the two makeshift bodyguards were still none the wiser. The former gazed out to sea, and the latter stared up at the brothel windows with hungry expressions.
“Do you usually bring this many men to meet with your passengers?” Dormael asked, gesturing in the direction of Roldo's bodyguards.
“Dark times, these,” Roldo grunted. “Passage across the Sea of Storms in the dark, the names and number of passengers unclear, and the payment more than sufficient. I'm not an idiot, Sevenlander, and I do what’s best for the Squidchaser and her crew. If that means a bit more caution at times when I sense something that’s a little out of the ordinary, then so be it.”
“I can't fault you for that, Captain. Alton vouched for me, did he not?”
“Aye, he did that,” Roldo nodded.
“And your price for passage has been paid,” Dormael said.
“Aye, paid in full.”
“We're ready to leave immediately. I trust that's not a problem?”
“If it were a bloody problem, we wouldn't be standing here,” Roldo replied, shooting a nervous glance toward his men. Something seemed off about the man's attitude. Dormael had worked with plenty of people who operated in a less-than-legal capacity, but Roldo was more skittish than he should have been. It made Dormael's hackles rise.
“Where's your ship?” Dormael asked.
“She’s moored down on sixteen,” Roldo replied, jabbing his thumb towards darkest part of the southern wharves. “How many are with you?”
“Four people, five horses.”
“Then make ready, Sevenlander. I plan to cast off the first chance I get. Things smell a little troubled in Ferolan lately. I’ve heard enough stories about the City Watch dragging people off in the night for no good reason, and that’s the last kind of gods-damned trouble I want,” Roldo growled.
“Very well. I'll return within the hour,” Dormael said. He didn't give Roldo a chance to reply as he turned away. Dormael melted into the crowd and made his way back to his earlier vantage point. Something about Roldo’s body language, his attitude, was itching at Dormael’s suspicion. He settled in to watch.
By the time he got in place, Roldo was reprimanding his men for having been so clueless. He spoke harshly to the two men armed with cutlasses, who then scuttled away into the darkness
. His mate stayed close by, and conversed with him in hushed tones as they stepped down toward the harbor after them. Roldo shot a worried look over his shoulder before disappearing into the shadows.
Why is the bastard so nervous?
Dormael waited until the men were gone a full minute before setting back out himself, making his way toward his friends. He ducked into a few alleyways to avoid the patrols of City Watchmen, but their presence was not as thick has he had expected. Not for the first time this evening, Dormael began to get the distinct impression that something was wrong. Where were all the Galanians? Where was the search for Sevenlanders that the Red Swords were supposed to be conducting? They had navigated the city tonight with some small difficulty, but Dormael and D’Jenn had expected a good deal more than they had encountered. It had all been too easy, and Dormael didn’t trust anything that was too easy.
Rounding a corner back in the direction of the street where he and his companions had parted ways, he spotted D’Jenn leaning against the wall in the mouth of an alleyway. Dormael caught his eye, and D'Jenn disappeared into the space between the buildings. Dormael slipped in after him when he was sure no one was watching.
“Well, I've met our captain,” Dormael said, “and Alton was right. He doesn't seem very trustworthy.”
“Something is wrong here, cousin, I can feel it,” D’Jenn said. “The Galanians are nowhere in sight, and the City Guard is more complacent than I would've thought. If you were Duke of Ferolan in this situation, what would be the first thing you did?”
“Place the harbor under military control and search everyone coming in and out. It’s the quickest route of egress, and anyone in our position would naturally look for passage out of the country the fastest way possible. Here we are, right on cue,” Dormael replied, gesturing to sky.
“Exactly,” D’Jenn said. “So where are they?” Dormael, D’Jenn, and Shawna all shared a grim look as the question stretched out between them. “There’s only one reason that the City Guard and the Red Swords would be behaving this way. Think about it. Our path has been clear all night. Conveniently clear, one might say.”
The Seven Signs: Three Book Collection Page 20
