“Do not fail,” Assan said firmly, but before Randall could even turn around the side of the Black Ship had closed once again and the entire vessel vanished. There was a loud sound like a roaring wind, and Randall felt a brief but significant wave of heat before silence fell across the riverbank and he knew he was alone.
He is just as I remember him, Dan’Moread said irritably.
Randall looked down the river and saw the monochrome lights of Three Rivers in the distance. He heard the tolling of the first bell ring from the city, signaling that he had three hours before dawn’s first light shone down from above.
What is your plan again? Dan’Moread asked after learning the names and account numbers which he had memorized from Phinjo’s lists. During that time he had explained how he intended to gain entry to the city via the relatively low-security port, but even he had his doubts as to whether it would work.
“We’re going to smuggle ourselves in,” he explained. “Fishing boats work their way upriver at night and come back in with the night’s catch in the morning. Fed security checks just about every fish that comes off the boats and the tanks they were stored in before the catch is unloaded—but nobody screens the live-holds since the only fish that need to be kept fresh to avoid spoilage are stink eels. The live-holds are below decks, but easy to get to since they need constant ventilation to keep the eels from killing each other with their wretched odor. All I’ve got to do is get us aboard, avoid the fishermen’s eyes, and slip into the tank.”
If my deductive reasoning is not in error, it would seem that I will soon come to resent our newly-shared sense of smell, Dani sighed.
“Now there’s the wit I’ve come to know and love,” Randall grinned.
I would tell you to ‘bite me,’ but…
“And she even gives a free encore, ladies and gentlemen,” Randall chuckled as he set off at a jog down the riverbank, “we’ll see just how pithy you are when we’re gagging in a tank full of fish so foul that we’ll both be begging for a steady diet of raw sewage.”
The experience of lying in a tank full of stink eels was everything he had feared it would be—and more.
Thankfully, the boat he had slipped aboard unnoticed was crewed by just three fishermen and two of them had been so drunk it was a wonder they did not drown.
He had selected a reed from the riverbank which served as his breathing tube during the cursory inspection of the fishing vessel’s hold. He breathed through it for ten minutes after the inspection team left, retching at least once per minute but somehow managing to keep from inhaling the horrendous sludge made of stink eel, river mud, and something else that he had no wish to identify.
After lifting himself up and out of the writhing mass of slimy, malodorous fish, he found a nearby bucket of river water and used it to rinse off his clothes. Thankfully the documents which Phinjo had provided were rolled into a waterproof, sealed metal tube so the only items which had been ruined by the prolonged stay with the stink eels were his clothing and his pride.
He carefully peeked above decks and found no watchful eyes, and after checking the dock he saw no one who appeared interested in the fishing boat.
Exhaling shortly, and placing his hand on Dan’Moread’s hilt to bolster his confidence, he stepped off the boat and onto the wooden dock. It took him only a few steps to reach the carved stone of Three Rivers’ pier.
“By the gods,” a nearby wharf rat no older than ten held his nose after catching a whiff of Randall’s horrendous scent, “you smell like shit!”
Randall saw the youth glance in the direction of a two-man roving port patrol and wondered if he would be undone by a youth who hoped to curry favor with the Feds by reporting a suspicious-looking passenger disembarking one of the many boats moored at the docks.
Then he felt something wriggle in his pocket, and he reached in to produce a writhing, baby stink eel. He cocked the best grin he could summon and tossed the slippery little sucker to the dirty-faced wharf rat. The youth deftly caught the fish as Randall winked and spoke a phrase he had not heard since he, himself, had frequented these docks during his youth, “You know what they say: freshest is bestest.”
The youth grinned and instantly took a bite of the slimy creature which, according to popular opinion, was best eaten live and uncooked. The popular claim was that the fish’s flavor that way was every bit as good as the smell was bad, but Randall had no interest in learning the veracity of that claim for himself.
That was admirable improvisation, Dan’Moread said approvingly, concealed as she was within a bundle that was much like that which had enwreathed her when Randall had first discovered her in his room at The Last Coin.
“Thanks,” he muttered as the first rays of dawn came streaming down from overhead. The city bell chimed for the second time that day, and Randall drew a steadying breath as he moved purposefully into the city proper.
“The Forest walks, and the river flows,” Randall said to the last person on the mental list he had formed after memorizing the one Phinjo provided. He had located each of these people—most of them ‘star children’ with a surprising pair of pureblood human merchants intermingled—with relative ease, and each of them had given the same reaction: total silence as looks of grave comprehension came over their faces.
This last person, a half-elven woman who looked to be in her fifties and was no less than eight generations removed from her Ghaevlian ancestor, nodded and turned to disappear into the crowded marketplace where Randall had found her.
That was significantly easier than I anticipated it would be, Dan’Moread said skeptically. Are you certain we were not followed during our itinerary?
“I’m as sure as I can be,” he muttered, “growing up on these streets, it’s almost second nature to check for a tail and to be aware of the duck-off and re-entry points a rotating pursuit team might use to keep themselves from being too obvious.”
You truly felt persecuted by the Federation so badly that you feared they would follow you within the Native District?
“It wasn’t just the Feds,” Randall explained as he walked past a fruit vendor which had some of the most succulent yellowberries he had ever seen—including those he had feasted on while in the White Knight’s company, “it was mostly the local gangs—some of which wore municipal police badges, the irony of which I can assure you was far from lost on those of us who called the Rickety ‘home.’ If they thought you had something worth taking—even, or sometimes especially, a scrap of dignity—they’d be on you like stink on…well, on us at the moment,” he sniffed his rancid-smelling clothes and nearly gagged. “We’ve got to get some new clothes; we’re getting weird looks wherever we go.”
What about money? Dan’Moread asked.
“Yes,” Randall mused wryly, “what about money…you know, I bet I could fetch a small fortune if I—”
Do not even joke of that, Dan’Moread said severely.
“I made sure not to touch your hilt, though, didn’t I?” he said pointedly.
Even a monkey can be taught to avoid censure, she said coolly.
“Fair enough…and I doubt we’re going to be able to get into any of the banks without fresh clothes,” he sighed. “So we’ve got two options: thievery or—“
You could sell the scroll tube which houses your papers, she suggested.
“You know…that’s a great idea,” he said, feeling himself flush with embarrassment at not having thought of that himself. “It’s probably worth enough to buy a handful of high-end suits, but thankfully we’ll only need one so the rest can go to getting Ellie, Yordan, and even Lorie out of here if she wants to come.” He sighed, “As much as she grates on me—and she does grate on me—it seems like Phinjo thought of everything.”
Indeed, she mused, it would seem that foresight is a trait that is not unique to you alone among the ranks of your family.
“I still wouldn’t call us ‘family’,” he objected.
Lineage, then?
“Yeah…�
�� he grudged, “that works.”
“Can you believe that? Five gold bars for that stupid thing,” Randall shook his head in amazement after trading the scroll tube in at a no-questions-asked pawn shop in the better part of the Native District.
We are fortunate that Phinjo looked after our interests so generously, Dani said with grudging appreciation.
“Don’t let her hear you say that,” he muttered.
Need I remind you—
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he cut her off irritably, “I’m the only one who can hear you. But the sentiment holds.”
You will find no dispute from me on that matter.
“Good,” Randall nodded, “now let’s go find some clothes.”
These garments are entirely too frivolous, Dan’Moread complained for the third time since Randall had entered the mid-tier cloakery. Where is the protective value? Where is my scabbard to hang? And how are you to keep my new crosspiece from tearing into your hip without a proper guard—or, at the very least, a patch made of well-cured leather?
“We want to blend in, Dani,” he whispered as he examined himself in the mirror, finding the brown-and-grey ensemble pleasant enough to the eye. “Besides, this get-up only costs a few silvers.”
That is entirely my point, Randall, she said seriously. We have plenty of money not only to evacuate your friends from Three Rivers, but to buy provisions—and equipment—which might aid us in our future journeys.
“Well…ok,” he allowed, “what did you have in mind?”
We passed an arcanium en route to the Native District, and with your noble patents you should have no difficulty legally purchasing high-end equipment—including enchanted equipment… she explained leadingly, causing Randall’s eyes to widen at hearing her suggestion. A pair of Hyl’Tunna—or ‘Longstrider’—boots; a mildly enchanted leather jerkin; and even a fortified kilt of some kind ought to be well within our budget if they are available.
“’Longstrider boots’…?” he trailed off uncertainly, having never heard of such things.
They may call them something different here, she said dismissively, but they are boots which remain pliant and supportive even after several days of incessant hiking. One needs no socks to protect his feet while wearing Hyl’Tunna boots, and they enhance their wearer’s grip upon whatever terrain he finds beneath him.
“Huh…” Randall rubbed his chin, both excited and wary about venturing into the higher-end districts which housed the city’s few shops where such wares could be purchased—legally purchased, that is. “But why would we want a kilt? Why not just go with a full suit of leather?”
Kilts are remarkably effective and tend not to restrict the wearer’s movement compared with other options, she explained. My own fighting style greatly benefits from the ability to deflect blows down to my wielder’s thighs since doing so puts our opponent’s weapon in a vulnerable position that makes it susceptible to attack.
“So that you can break it before it’s withdrawn,” he nodded slowly as he came to agree with her suggested course. “That’s a good idea…but I think we’re going to need a quality cloak at the very least.”
She hesitated before saying, That is probably prudent.
“Ok,” he nodded, beckoning the tailor over, “this doesn’t seem to be my style, but what do you have in the way of cloaks befitting a Baron’s stature?”
The tailor looked skeptical, but when Randall produced a gold bar that look was replaced by one of well-varnished greed as he said, “I am sure we can find something to your liking, my lord.”
“I could definitely get used to this,” Randall said as he felt the thick, surprisingly cool cloak against his body.
The first arcanium is three blocks within the Guilds District, Dan’Moread said as Randall paused below the stone arch spanning the road which led into that very district.
“I…” he said hesitantly, spying a trio of armed City Watchmen approaching from within, “maybe we should do the banking business first?”
There is ample time to make the withdrawals, Dan’Moread assured him, since only two of the banks on the list close shop at sundown. The rest are accessible at all hours of the day to service high-end accounts like the ones you are here to drain. Besides, half of the banks are within the Guilds District.
He sighed as the guards drew steadily nearer, “I guess we’re going to have to do this sometime.”
It is surprising we have not already been accosted, she noted, prompting Randall to nod in agreement. Opening a solid door is usually easier than cutting through the wall which anchors it; take this particular hurdle head-on.
“From your lips to the Lady’s ears,” Randall muttered as he schooled his features and fingered the traveling documents which Phinjo had provided to him. He kept his shoulders square and his eyes upturned as he moved into the Guilds District, and within three steps he saw the trio of City Watchmen adjust course to intercept him.
“Hold, Citizen,” the leader said with an upraised hand.
Noble indignation, Randall, Dan’Moread reminded him. You are no ‘citizen’ of the Federation; you are a sovereign member of the Greystone city state’s nobility with direct familial ties to the Ghaevlian Nation’s most powerful representative in that city state. Conduct yourself accordingly.
“Got it,” he whispered as he met the watchman’s eyes. “Do you address me?” he asked with as much feigned incredulity as he could summon.
“I do,” the watchman said officiously while his companions snickered at his back. Two of them were humans and the third was a half-elven man just a few years older than Randall. Thankfully, none of them appeared familiar to Randall which meant he had some meaningful chance of pulling this thing off as the leader held out a hand, “Your traveling documents—now.”
Holding Dan’Moread under his arm, still wrapped as she was within a bundle of cloth, he jutted his chin out, “You would do well to address a member of the Greystone nobility with the proper respect, Watchman.”
“Nobility?” the half-elf blurted with open derision, drawing a scolding look from the troupe’s leader.
“If you are indeed a noble, sir,” the leader said coldly, taking a step forward while his hand remained outstretched, “you will have no difficulty providing your patents and travel documents.”
Don’t give in too easily, Dan’Moread warned. Nobles crave their elitism more than they crave their next breath. Make him earn this.
“What is your name, Watchman?” Randall demanded as haughtily as he could while fighting to keep his hands from shaking. With Dan’Moread still bundled within the cloth, retrieving her quickly enough to fight off the Watchmen would be next to impossible. He had kept her concealed because, as far as they knew, the Federation’s most powerful people—Senators among them—were still hunting her down.
“I am Kalindro,” the leader said as his eyes narrowed, “Second Shift Commander of the City Watch’s Guilds District detachment. And you are…?”
“I am…” Randall swallowed the fast-forming knot in his throat as the name and title he had rehearsed in the Black Ship came to his mind, “Randall, Baron of the Western Riverlands, Master of the Blue Pearls and cousin to Jarl Balgruf of Greystone.” He withdrew the papers from within his cloak’s inner pocket, and as he did so he savored the looks of surprise on the faces of all three City Watchmen.
Kalindro, the leader, took the papers and gave Randall an appraising look for several seconds before examining the documents. He flipped back and forth between the truncated patents of nobility and the writ of ownership which documented Dan’Moread as belonging to him—though Randall doubted she could ever ‘belong’ to any living creature as anything but a skewer on which their corpse might temporarily be propped up.
After perusing the documents at least a half dozen times, Kalindro grudgingly nodded and handed them back. “My apologies, Baron; your papers are in order,” he said with a respectful nod that seemed to harbor no resentment. “Though you would be wise to bear
your House’s heraldry in the traditional fashion if you would avoid walking patrols such as ours,” he gestured to his still-stunned fellows.
“I prefer to walk as a commoner,” Randall said, knowing that much at least was the absolute truth.
“If I may ask, what is your business in the Guilds District?” Kalindro asked neutrally as he clasped his hands behind his back. “Perhaps we could be of some assistance after inconveniencing you?”
“I appreciate the offer,” Randall shook his head, “but I can attend to myself.”
“Very well,” the patrol leader nodded. “Have a fine day, my lord.”
“I will,” Randall returned the nod before moving past them and entering the Guilds District proper—a place he had only set foot within two or three times in his entire life.
The buildings in this part of Three Rivers were a far cry from the flimsy, half-rotten structures which were piled atop each other in the Native District. Here, hardly a building could be seen that was not made of the cream-colored sandstone which dotted the countryside surrounding the city. Some of the buildings were made of fitted sandstone blocks, some were made of block-and-mortar, and a handful—like some of the city’s oldest temples which were inexplicably found in the Guilds District—were even carved out of solid sandstone.
It may appear as though these buildings are of similar quality to those in Greystone, Dan’Moread observed, but they would not withstand artillery fire nearly as effectively. They are likely no stronger than fakestone structures of comparable dimensions.
“How many times have you seen sieges?” Randall asked.
There was a strange pause before she replied, I cannot remember participating in one…
“Well, I wasn’t really aware when Three Rivers got besieged,” Randall commiserated, “so I don’t really have much in the way of firsthand experience either.”
No, you do not understand, she said with what sounded suspiciously like alarm in her telepathic voice, I know I have participated in sieges…but I cannot remember any of them right now.
Dross (Sphereworld: Joined at the Hilt Book 2) Page 16
