“Impressive,” he said when he spotted her catch. “If I may ask, what secret do you employ to capture them? Or are you a druidess, and need merely coax them to you with imploring eyes?”
“Oh no, young man,” Sayri said, her eyes widening. “I would never engage in such black art.” She shook her head firmly, then placed the lizards on the wooden tray and began preparing them.
Welgray watched her for a moment, as if waiting for something. “It was a jest, young lady,” he said finally. He shook head his head lightly in bewilderment. “I did not mean to suggest you might, truly. Please disregard it.”
“Of course,” Sayri replied. She didn’t really understand his attempt at humour; black arts were nothing to laugh at. But then, he was a Collector. Wasn’t that a black art? Sayri glanced up from working on the lapizars, and caught him staring into her eyes placidly. Is he reading my mind now? She wondered. Has this entire thing been a farce, just biding time for him to collect his evidence from my mind, so he can take me away easily without dispute?
Welgray didn’t react, so perhaps not. She continued preparing the meal while he mixed something in another jar, this one clay. Sayri smelled something bitter, unrecognizable; he brought two metal cups out of his bag (both far more extravagant than the one her father treasured!), and poured a brown liquid into each of them, then handed one to her.
Finished preparing both of her catches, Sayri accepted the cup and sniffed at it curiously. It smelled bitter and sweet at the same time, and a bit like roasted fetchgrass nuts, a winter treat popular in the Lower Valley, but one that she didn’t particularly enjoy. “What is it?”
Welgray’s eyes widened. “You’ve never had kaf?” he asked incredulously.
“No,” Sayri said. She’d never even heard of it, but no sense appearing all the more farm girl if she could avoid it.
Welgray motioned for her to try it, so there was nothing for it. She sipped it quickly, ready to endure a ghastly flavour, then started. It was delicious! She drank it down quickly then, slurping at the end in quite an unladylike manner.
“Wonderful!” she exclaimed. “I’ve never tasted anything like it!” She tilted her cup back and looked into it, wishing for more.
“Best not have another cup, then,” Welgray said. “It has the effect of being . . . energizing, and if you aren’t accustomed to it, you may find yourself somewhat light headed. Not to mention,” he added carefully, “the possibility of . . . increased regularity.”
Sayri blinked at him, puzzling out what he had said, then reddened. “Young man,” she said flatly with a slight smile, in the tone of which Ma might use when her father drank a bit too much ale and cussed at the table.
Welgray burst out laughing—incongruous at best, with the already strange dichotomy of his dark formal robes and freckled youthful face. He paused, looking at her—then burst out laughing again.
“Brother Eminence, we did not expect to find you here,” a man’s voice said behind Sayri.
She whirled to her feet, crouching, and her knife was in her hand.
A group of four warders were just around the corner. Their armor was dusty with the reddish stain of the ravines but Sayri could clearly see the Red Rock symbol engraved on the bronze breastplates they wore, and the short, broad blade at each of their hips identified them.
“And in such company,” the man in front added, looking over Sayri. He was tall and broad-shouldered, as all warders were (or so it seemed to Sayri), with coarse black hair and beard, both cropped close, and a heavy-set, humourless face. Only a few paces from her, he was clearly not at all concerned with her knife. “May I ask who she is?”
“Why do you ask, Armsman?” Welgray said. “And how do you come to my campsite unannounced without fair introduction?” His eyes narrowed slightly; it was subtle, but Sayri could see he was angry.
Her heart was threatening to explode right out of her chest. Please let them not be looking for me.
The warder paused, then bowed stiffly, placing both hands on the front of his belt, where Sayri saw he wore a heavy bronze buckle in the shape of a hexagon. For a moment she was distracted, puzzling over what it might represent. A rank insignia? Some sort of special unit designation? Or something simpler; a gift from his wife, perhaps?
Stay focused, Sayri. This is an important moment.
Sayri started, then frowned. Why had she thought that?
“Collector, I am Staff Right-Guardsman Elo Foress,” the warder said. “I beg pardon for my abruptness, it was unseemly. My men and I are searching these hills for a young lady from the Lower Valley, one Sayri of Vollori and Davoy. She is wanted by the lord of that place, for murdering a lordsman. This young lady, may I be granted indulgence,” he added, bowing properly in Sayri’s direction, “does well fit that one’s description.”
“Right-Guardsmen, surely the circumstances do not require the breaching of etiquette,” Welgray said coolly.
“Your words, as I should only expect, ring of truth,” the warder replied, no trace of disrespect or anger in his voice. “I repeat my apology, and—respectfully—ask permission to inquire of the Collector’s companion.”
Welgray glanced at Sayri, then turned back to the warder. “Honey-haired young ladies are common in these lands,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “Even famous for it, in this area. What possible reason could lead you to imagine this could be whom you seek? This young lady is hardly the murdering type; mightn’t you agree?”
Sayri realized she was holding her breath. She let it out slowly, and tried to remain calm, and even managed a bemused expression. Suddenly she recalled the knife in her hand. She had been holding it nearly hidden at her side; she slipping it fully behind her back, hoping the warders hadn’t seen it.
Foress frowned, glancing his over shoulder at his men, then turned back to Welgray. “The Collector knows more than I. If he says this girl—young lady, pardons—is not the one we seek, then our intrusion is unwarranted, and we will correct the problem immediately.” He bowed again politely, but did not move, nor did his men.
“This young lady’s name is Merikal, and she is my guest,” Welgray said, smiling at Sayri, who returned the smile with a relieved one of her own. Then, to her; “You aren’t this murderer they are looking for, are you, young lady?” He chuckled lightly as he added the last.
Sayri’s smile transfixed her face.
As a Collector, perhaps he could tell if she lied. Would he protect her anyway?
But, she thought, if he couldn’t tell, then her deception would send the warders away, and she would be able to safely depart.
Which would make him an accessory to her flight, and in violation of Lord Perrile’s commands.
Sayri didn’t know if a Collector would be immune to the death sentence that treason carried. Would being a lordsman save him from that fate? Or would the punishment be even worse, considering his position of authority?
Her smile gradually fading as she gazed at him, Sayri realized that even if he escaped Lord Perrile’s wrath, he might still be punished—perhaps severely—for so clearly failing in his duty.
And he had been kind to her.
The Collector’s pleasant smile was fading with hers as he saw something in her eyes changing. A frown replaced it—one of concern. Not rage at being deceived, as he was surely realizing. Concern . . . concern for her.
Her smile gone completely, Sayri knew with certainty in that moment the correct choice.
“I am the one they seek,” she said softly, sadness in her eyes as she held Welgray’s. “I am sorry for lying to you. My name is Sayri, my sires Davoy and Vollori.”
She stood and turned to the Right-Guardsman. “I am the charge you seek. I deceived this Collector, and took advantage of his kindness. He has been traveling many tendays, and did not know of my crimes.”
The warder smiled, a toothy and hungry grin. Sayri did not know if he was in a position to collect the reward for her capture, being a warder, but clearly he anticipated some gain. Sh
e felt panic rising in the back of her throat as she thought of what that might mean to her.
The rocky slope behind you. Turn now, and run up it.
Why had she thought that? She hadn’t been thinking of escape a moment earlier. She would have no chance of getting away from all of these large men; they would pull her down before she got halfway—
NOW, SAYRI!
Confused, she turned and ran. It had been her own thought, but it was almost as if someone else had said it! No time to ponder, she reached the slope and began to climb as fast as she could with hands and feet, the loose rock and sand sliding under her and being thrown up by her boots.
Foress turned to his men and yelled, “Grab her!”
But one of his men had already begun to move on his own initiative, and crashed into his commander as he turned. Foress was thrown by the force of the collision, and fell over backward, right into the path of the warder on his other side, and they both went down in a tangle. Welgray was staring dumbfounded at the mess of men as the remaining warder attempted to help his commander up.
Sayri crested the top of the slope on her hands and knees. She saw Welgray turning to look up at her, then lost sight of him as she straightened up and sprinted away.
As she ran, she thought he had looked hopeful.
4 ARAD
Fish baked in oil had been his favourite dish growing up. Now, however, he couldn’t imagine anything more disgusting, and as another surge of nausea overwhelmed him and he vomited out yet another stream of the grey, putrid half-digested remnants of his morning meal, Arad silently vowed never to eat it again.
Well, not at least until he was well on shore, far from the sea, and far from the smell of sea water.
As he wiped his mouth with the back of his arm, another great roller lifted the ship high enough to grant a stunning view of the approaching port city, nestled facing the sea in a natural amphitheater of rocky hills. Arad’s stomach dropped and he probably would have been sick again, if there had been anything left in it.
“Not to worry, fair Arad,” Shulgi called to him from the stern, where he held the rudder tightly gripped in both hands. “We be at dock safely by high noon, and y’ boots be firmly rooted on good earth soon after.” A smirk curling the hulking bald man’s lip was ever-present, so Arad had no reason to assume he was mocking him. Not that Arad much cared, as he clung to the wooden rail in certain desperation that if he were to let go he would be hurled to the translucent waves below, where drowning would likely precede being consumed by serpents.
“How can we dock in this torrent?” he yelled back at the pilot. His voice was hoarse and salty spray came up in a sheet from the rail just as he said it, but somehow the sailor heard him.
“Torrent, my thespian friend? This be just a summer breeze!” The great man roared with laughter, and slapped his mammoth bare chest in a barking guffaw that Arad thought sounded more like a sea dragon than a man.
Arad didn’t correct the man; he had tried to explain that he was an athlete, not a performer, and if people showed up in droves to watch his contests, that wasn’t his concern. But Shulgi either didn’t understand, or didn’t see the difference; he called Arad a thespian or a minstrel in front of the ship’s crew, and had asked him many times over the evening meal on deck to weave a tale or sing a ballad. After many failed explanations and seeing disappointment in the eyes of the men, Arad had given in and narrated some of the sleeptime tales his mother used to tell him. He did have a knack for storytelling despite his protestations, and the crew, ever-disheveled and to a man completely lacking in culture, hung on his every word. They cheered him when he was done and pouring him endless torrents of ale, and pounded him on the back until he could barely breathe. Thus became Arad the ship’s thespian, appearing nightly at supper under the stars for the remainder of his three-tenday voyage, and he was certain that the men would brag of his wondrous talents in marine pubs for years thereafter.
The crew of the Scuttled Thrush (the origin of whose name he had been unable to discover, and worried him somewhat) were eighteen in number, including the pilot. This seemed a lot for a ship only ten paces in length, to Arad at least, but they were proficient and somehow stayed out of each other’s way. In the cramped belowdecks there were only six bunks in a single room not three paces long, the rest of the hull being reserved for cargo, but when Arad went to sleep there was always an empty bunk, and often several. The secret of this mystery was finally revealed to him a tenday into the trip, when he witnessed three crewmen sleeping whilst standing at the rail amidships, their wrists twisted in ropes for security. How they slept that way through rain and wind was beyond Arad’s imagination, but somehow it gave him a sense of security to know that the crew were ever diligent at their posts, even if they might be unconscious.
Mercifully the rough waters calmed as the Thrush charged into the bay, her great twin triangular sails stretched taut with the stiff wind that dragged the ship forward. Shulgi bellowed out an incomprehensible command then, and before the ship crossed halfway into the harbour they had drawn the sails furled, using ropes dangling from the main masts so that the sails were folded up like paper fans. Arad had imagined on first seeing the sails that the bamboo strips splayed out from the mast’s base, attached to the sails by cloth loops, gave the appearance of a sunrise. When he voiced this to Shulgi, the burly pilot had immediately commanded his men to “liberate” some dyes from the cargo they carried, and by next watch the sails were bright yellow with a spray of red where the crewmen had painted the bamboo rods. Arad thought it looked quite intimidating; Shulgi seemed extremely satisfied, and slapped Arad’s back enough times to make it sore.
Arad’s stomach calmed with the waters, and he was able to enjoy the view of the city as they approached. He had never been to Benn’s Harbour, but back home stories abounded of its beautiful architecture and stunning gardens. He was not disappointed. The docks extended out from nearly every waterfront promontory that he could see, forming a jagged array of teeth pointing directly at the Thrush as she cruised in. Above the docks and the warehouses that serviced them (and the pubs that serviced the men who serviced the warehouses), there were a myriad of multi-story stone houses, with balconies made from massive single white stone slabs, held up by even more massive grey stone pillars. The balconies were protected from harbour noise by walls of large grey bricks stacked taller than a man, over which he could see what looked to be a forest; these balcony gardens were so extensive and overgrown that their trees and bushes merged together, creating what appearing to be a layer of forest separating the harbour from the city above.
The city itself rose up from the harbour forming a perfect semicircle, its streets invisible except for a few routes radiating directly up from the harbour toward the hills surrounding it. Most of the buildings behind the garden ring were also stone and two-storied, though he did see some wooden structures further up the slope, close to where the city gave way into livestock pens and farmhouses that dotted the hillside.
“Benn’s Harbour,” Shulgi said, pronouncing it more like “banes”, and resting a massive arm across Arad’s shoulders. The man was more than a head taller and much heavier than his below-average size passenger, but Arad was stocky and exceptionally strong; the weight of it didn’t bother him. “I be sure y’are eager to get ashores, and begin your minstreling.”
Arad gazed out over the city, wondering what it had in store for him. He would miss the old pilot and his strange crew, almost as much as he would miss his home. Nevertheless, he had come here to get away from the troubles back home, and he had no family to go back to; this would be a new beginning for him, one that he had no desire to return from. “That I am, Shulgi. That I am.”
・
The town was bustling in the afternoon sun, especially around the docks. It took at least a thousand heartbeats for Arad to find his way out from the harbour and up into the city proper; most of that time was spent weaving his away between off-duty sailors (most already drunk
), wagon teams moving along the docks to load or unload cargo from ships, and the merchants’ stalls covering the boardwalk, hawking everything from strange spices to brightly coloured clothing to exotic weapons, and more. It seemed to Arad that the docks district was also the main market of the city; inconvenient for the locals, who would need to dodge their way around the harbour activity to do their shopping, but very convenient for the merchants, who needn’t carry their goods far to or from the docks.
When he finally found his way up a narrow alley, which lay between two huge whitewashed villas overlooking the sea, Arad was astonished how quiet the streets were. Without the constant wagon traffic that frequented the streets of his home city in Somria (which was larger than Benn’s Harbour but, to his eyes, paled in comparison), there were only locals going about their business passing by. It made for a peaceful township; wonderfully so, in Arad’s opinion.
A young couple, clearly enamoured with each other, were about to pass by him, so he interrupted their amorous banter, noting the difference in their clothing to his. He would need to dispense with his skirt and find a pair of the knee-length breeches if he didn’t want to stand out like a horned waterdrake in a lapizar den.
“Pardons, friends. I wonder if I might ask directions of you?” He affected a short bend, touching his palm to his chest.
“Fresh off the boat, is this young man,” the girl said. She had a head of lustrous yellow-white hair, almost the colour of straw; Arad had never seen its like. In Somria, the girls were all raven-haired.
“So he must be,” the boy said, taking in Arad’s skirt with surprise. Like the girl, he spoke with a strange rolling accent. He was tall and lean, with brown curly hair, and brownish spots on his cheeks; Arad had never seen those either. “I should be pleased to offer aid, young man, once we are no longer strangers,” he replied to Arad, bowing his head lightly.
Sayri's Whisper: The Great Link Book 1 Page 5
