by Dorian Hart
“If fortune favors us,” said Grey Wolf, “they won’t stop us or ask any questions. We want to get in, find the shrine of Dralla, learn about the maze, and get out.”
“What if there’s more than one shrine?” Tor asked.
Grey Wolf looked annoyed at the question. “Then we try them all! Unless you have a more clever idea.”
The wall was thick enough that the gated entrance looked more like a tunnel, echoing with the noises of the crowds. Horn’s Company stayed together, passing beneath the largest portcullis Tor had ever seen, and he imagined being under it if it was lowered. What kind of armies threw themselves against Djaw that they needed such daunting defenses?
Guards stood at attention along both walls of the tunnel, well more than a dozen in all, dressed in identical uniforms: blue tunics over chain vests, pikes held upright, and the symbol of a falcon etched brightly on their silvered helms. These men and women stared keenly at the procession of foot traffic, laden wagons, ropes of livestock, and teetering wheelbarrows, but they didn’t seem to be stopping anyone.
“You. Stop.”
“Of course,” Grey Wolf muttered.
Two of the guards stepped out from the walls and barred their way, thankfully with their pikes still upright, but Tor tensed anyway, his heart racing, since this could be a trap set by Lapis. It would be an awfully awkward place to fight their way out of, what with the tunnel being clogged with innocent people and sheep and wagons, not to mention all those other guards.
Grey Wolf, at the front of their band, held up his hand. “Have we done something wrong?”
One of the guards spoke, a muscled woman who seemed to be in charge, and while her voice betrayed no sign of temper or alarm, she didn’t smile, not even a little bit. “Where are you from?”
“Anlakis,” said Grey Wolf, quite quickly, and glancing at Tor as he spoke.
“Have you visited Djaw before?”
“No, this is our first time.”
“And what is your business in our city?”
“Our clan was attacked and destroyed by our neighbors,” said Grey Wolf. “Tales of Djaw have reached even our remote villages, so with no better prospects, we have journeyed here to seek our fortunes.”
The two guards stared impassively, the seconds dragging out until Grey Wolf began to fidget. At a signal from the woman, a third guard quickly joined them, pushing a large wheeled box.
“Please disarm yourselves and place your weapons in here.”
“Could you tell us why?” asked Dranko.
“Please disarm yourselves, or you will be forcibly disarmed and indefinitely incarcerated pending your probable execution.”
They didn’t have much choice; into the bin went their swords, and Morningstar’s mace, and Dranko’s dagger, even though he wasn’t allowed to attack anyone with it.
The woman in charge motioned to an oversized pair of iron doors set into one of the tunnel walls. “Please follow me.”
She walked ahead while the other two guards followed behind. The doors opened into a large room lit with what must have been magical lights similar to the ones Aravia could make. They looked and flickered like torches but didn’t hiss or give off any smoke, and they illuminated a large rectangular table surrounded by a dozen uncomfortable-looking chairs. It was probably just a place for city officials to temporarily house smuggled goods, but for them it could be an execution chamber, with their deaths arranged by Lapis. Worse, they had no weapons to defend themselves, though between Kibi’s strength and his own, plus Aravia’s magic, they might be able to overpower these three and escape, which would be fine except for it seriously setting back their chances of finding the Crosser’s Maze.
“Please sit.” The female guard indicated that Horn’s Company should sit in chairs on one side of the table.
“What’s your name?” asked Dranko.
The guard gazed at him levelly. “Yellow Radiance.”
Dranko grinned. “So when someone asks your friends what your name is, they answer, ‘She’s Yellow?’”
Ernie elbowed Dranko in the ribs.
“Shut up,” said Grey Wolf.
Yellow Radiance showed no appreciation for Dranko’s humor. “I will ask again. Where are you from?”
Dranko sat back and put his hands behind his head. “Like my friend here said, we’re from Anlakis.”
“And this is your first visit to Djaw?”
“Yes,” said Morningstar. “For all of us.”
“And yet you speak perfectly fluent Djawish. I was not aware that the northern barbarians were such capable students of language.”
“Hey!” said Dranko. “Who are you calling barbarians?”
“I have also never heard that there are goblins so far to the north, and yet you have goblin blood in your veins. Can you explain that?”
“Do I need to?”
Yellow Radiance crossed her arms. “You are not from Anlakis. You have attempted to enter Djaw armed and under false pretenses. By the laws of our city, the Falcon Guard would recommend indefinite incarceration, severe corporal punishment, or execution.”
The other two guards continued to stare at them, calmly, unnervingly, but one of them inclined his head slightly.
“However,” continued Radiance, “we will give you one more chance. Where are you from, and why have you come to Djaw?”
Obviously they had to come clean, but Grey Wolf or Dranko would probably resort to another made-up tale, especially Dranko who loved that sort of thing, and these Falcon Guard people were clearly not the types to be easily fooled, so Tor stood up. “We’re from Charagan, a kingdom on the far side of the Uncrossable Sea. We’ve been sent on a mission to recover a magical artifact that will help us prevent the destruction of our homeland, and we’ve been told there’s a clue to its whereabouts here in Djaw. Please, we honestly don’t want to stir up any trouble in your wonderful city.”
Grey Wolf’s loud sigh filled the interrogation room. Aravia and Ernie stared at him with their mouths hanging open.
For at least twenty heartbeats—no, call it thirty, given how fast his was beating—no one said anything. The Falcon Guard just stared at him, as if they read truth or falsehood directly from his face.
Radiance pulled up one of the chairs on the far side of the table, the scraping sound of wood on stone filling the room, and sat directly opposite Tor.
“What is your name?” she asked.
“Darien Firemount.” Tor wasn’t sure why he gave his real name, but it would be pointless to lie to these people. Grey Wolf’s intake of breath was an audible hiss.
“How did you come to bypass Posada’s Boundary?”
“You mean the Uncrossable Sea? There’s a magical arch in Delfir that connects Kivia and Charagan. We had to sneak through since the Delfirians were trying to kill us.”
“Then how did you learn to speak Djawish?”
“Magic.”
“And tell me, Darien Firemount, what is the artifact you seek?”
“Tor, that’s none of her business.” Grey Wolf stared daggers at him. But what if she knew something useful?
Radiance never took her eyes off him. “Darien Firemount, what is the artifact you seek?”
In for a chit, in for a crescent. “It’s called the Crosser’s Maze.”
If that meant anything to her or the other guards, it didn’t show on their faces, but then nothing showed on their faces, as though they had been trained since birth not to display any emotions at all.
“Look at me, Darien, and tell me truthfully: Do you intend harm to any person inside the walls of Djaw?”
“No, we—”
“And do you intend to damage or deface any piece of the city’s infrastructure?”
“No!”
“And do you intend to protest, interfere with, or attempt to overthrow any part of the city’s governance?”
“Of course not!”
“And do you intend to violate any laws found in the Djawish charter?”
Yellow Radiance gazed into his face, and he couldn’t look away. Her eyes were blue, and wouldn’t it make more sense if they were yellow? What a strange name that was, Yellow Radiance. Was that her real name, or one she had chosen? Did the Falcon Guards get funny names like that assigned to them?
“Your weapons will remain in our custody until such time as you leave the city, with the exception of small utility blades deemed to be of sufficient general use, as per the city charter. We will issue you reclamation receipts to be presented to the Falcon Guard at this city exit. Understand that if any of you are enchanters or artificers, the use of magic in the commission of crimes is grounds for immediate and summary execution.”
She stood up from her chair and moved to stand behind it. “Enjoy your stay in Djaw. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
* * *
“What in the hells just happened?” Grey Wolf’s voice carried a mixture of confusion and relief.
They stood in a wide and brightly lit square into which the stream of entrants to Djaw was being disgorged. At least a half-dozen wide streets exited the square, but from the haggling and shouting and babbling din, it appeared that quite a few people weren’t waiting to conduct business elsewhere in the city. In many places members of the Falcon Guard stood head and shoulders above the crowd, which was strange since the ones in the tunnel weren’t particularly tall, but then Tor noticed that they stood on narrow stone pedestals that must have been put there for exactly that purpose.
“And Darien Firemount?” Grey Wolf had that funny flabbergasted look he sometimes got. “You’re a member of the ruling house of Forquelle?”
Tor felt himself redden. “Yes. I was. But not anymore.” He couldn’t stop himself from looking at Aravia as he added, “I’ve renounced my claim to the throne and relinquished all the responsibilities that went with it.”
“The throne?” Grey Wolf’s eyes grew even wider. “You were in line for the throne? Please don’t tell me Olorayne Firemount is your father.”
“Olorayne Firemount is my father.”
Grey Wolf made an odd choking noise.
“But it doesn’t matter! I’m not Darien anymore. I’m Tor Bladebearer now, proud member of Horn’s Company, and that’s it.” He prayed that the others would let the topic drop.
They stood beside the squared marble base of a towering statue, a skillfully carved woman in a gown of white whose upraised right hand held what looked like a miniature sun cut from the same yellow crystal as they had seen outside the city gate. The pedestal itself rose higher than their heads; the little sun must have been thirty feet off the ground, and some magic had been used to infuse the sun with an inner light, a light strong enough to illuminate most of the square by itself.
Everyone stared at him, even Aravia. At least Ernie gave him an encouraging smile.
Kibi broke the awkward spell. “Well, seems we oughta be lookin’ for some dinner and a place to spend the night. Get up tomorrow fresh and see ’bout findin’ the shrine a’ Dralla.”
“Dralla is a goddess of night,” said Morningstar. “If her followers are like those of Ell, the shrine might not be open to visitors during the day.”
“Could be,” said Dranko. “But given the size of this city, it’s unlikely to be close enough to find tonight. To tell you the truth, I’m just about finished for today.”
Morningstar looked back at the tunnel. “Am I the only one suspicious about how that played out? Tor, that was an extremely risky thing to have done.”
“How? They knew we were lying and were going to kill us if we didn’t tell the truth. I think it would have been riskier not to tell them!”
“It was the only logical course,” said Aravia. She flashed that incredible smile at Tor, and it felt as though all his hair stood on end. “We had no other credible excuse for who we are or what we intend to do. Yes, it was a gamble, but it had as great a chance of success as any prevarication we might have concocted. I think Tor did well to speak the truth.”
Tor wasn’t sure what a prevarication was but didn’t want to admit ignorance while Aravia was actually praising his savvy. “I think those guards had a way of reading our thoughts,” he said. “Did you see how they were staring at us?”
“Nonsense,” said Grey Wolf. “If they could read our minds, they’d have had no need to question us or detain us in the first place.”
“True,” said Aravia, “but they may have a way of determining the truth of what we say.”
“Excuse me, noble masters.” A scrawny girl in her middle teens approached them. She wore a filthy white dress with puffed sleeves, raggedly cut, as though she had dug out a fancy piece of women’s finery from a trash heap and trimmed it to fit with a whittling knife.
She placed both hands on her forehead, palms out, and gave a formal bow. “I am Burning Candle, and I could not help but overhear that you are in need of a place to stay. I would humbly offer my services as a guide to Djaw, should you desire it.”
“Hells yes, we desire it!” said Dranko. “How much?”
“For as much of the city as you wish me to show you, noble master, though I am most familiar with the outer two rings of the East Wedge.”
“No, no, I meant how much are you charging for your services?”
“That is for you to decide, noble master, at the end of every day of my service. I will endeavor to make myself as useful to you as possible.”
“Great.” Dranko rubbed his hands together. “For starters, you can be useful by taking us somewhere with dinner, alcohol, and beds. The establishment you’re getting kickbacks from will be fine, as long as it’s also clean and safe. I’m guessing you know just the place.”
Burning Candle blinked twice, and her face broke into a broad grin. “Noble master, who is as handsome as he is wise, I do know just the place. The Jeweled Crow is neither expensive nor far.”
Dranko held out his arms to the rest. “What do you say? The Jeweled Crow sounds perfect.”
Tor nodded, delighted with the street savvy that came to Dranko so naturally. “Let’s go!”
“Fine,” grumbled Grey Wolf.
“Sounds all right,” said Kibi, “but I ain’t sure we got the miracs left to cover room and board for all of us.”
“Good point,” said Dranko. “Candle, do businesses in Djaw accept miracs?”
“Noble master, the mirac and min-mirac are the standard coins in all the Jewels of the Plains.”
“Great. Now let’s say I had a fire opal I’d been carrying around for emergencies and wanted to turn it into miracs. Is there someone nearby who could give me a fair price?”
“Noble master, you stand in White Empress Square. There are a half-dozen persons offering such services, all of whom you could strike with your fire opal, were you inclined to throw it from where you stand.”
“Take us to your favorite. And stop calling me ‘noble master.’ My name is Dranko. Why don’t we treat you to dinner at the Jeweled Crow; we have a few questions we’re hoping you can answer.”
That sounded perfect. Tor was starving.
* * *
Ernie and Dranko in particular loved to rib Tor about his capacity for food, making all the usual jokes about hollow legs and whatnot. But Burning Candle could absolutely give him a run for his money. Her plate was already an ossuary of bones from something called a grassfowl, bones picked so clean they looked more like pieces of chalk. An entire loaf of bread they had imagined would be shared out among the eight of them had vanished, with only a small pile of crumbs on Candle’s plate to mark its passing. Next to her pile of grassfowl bones was a cairn of stones, all that remained of a small bowl of peach-like fruits she had requested.
“How often do you eat?” asked Morningstar.
Despite the devastation she wrought upon her plate, Candle was unfailingly polite. She carefully set down a half-eaten drum
stick. “On most days, noble mistress. But even the sun brings no certainty, it is said, so it is best to make the most of opportunity.”
“What about your parents?” asked Ernie.
“They are indentured,” she said calmly. “Debt slaves, with six years remaining on their contract.”
“Slaves?” Tor exclaimed. “You have slaves here?”
“Of course, noble master,” said Candle. “When one accrues debt one cannot repay, one must instead make good the debt with labor. My parents are chandlers, but they met with ill fortune and made some poor decisions. They grew dissatisfied with making simple tallow candles, but then could not repay the credit extended them to buy expensive beeswax and scented oils. So, like many, they are indentured to the White Sun Cartel. I believe they are in Mirj.”
“But you are not,” said Morningstar.
“No, noble mistress. I could have gone with them, but my parents preferred I stay in Djaw and make my own way. I would like to take up their trade someday, but I will need to save many miracs to buy a shop and enough supplies to make a start. I believe I can avoid their missteps.”
Dranko tore off a piece of bread from a second loaf. “Candle, we’ll be happy to make a generous contribution to your enterprising future, not even including this meal, but now it’s time for you to earn it.”
“As you wish, noble Dranko. What questions do you have regarding the great city of Djaw?”
Tor had one. “Do the Falcon Guards read minds?”
Burning Candle gave a little laugh. “I do not think so, but it is an understandable thing to think. The Falcons are handpicked from the temples of Palamir, god of loyalty and honor. They are taught to see into a person’s heart. Some say Palamir grants them a divine sight, teasing out the truth from the tangle of a man’s troubled tales. Some say that if a person harbors evil in their mind, the Falcons can smell it like a piece of rotten meat.”
“Do you say that?” asked Dranko.
“I say that anyone can learn to read the certainty of a man’s words in his face and gestures, and that Palamir’s graces are not fit for my idle guesses.”
