by Unknown
“Why’s that?”
“He said you owed him money. Half a copper, because your mother wasn’t worth full price.”
The oaf bellowed and took a swing at me, but I was quick to scramble out of his way. I held up my hands and tried to look defenseless. “Those were his words, I swear! He said he’ll meet you in front of the Demon and Harlot!” The man looked at me, rage boiling in his eyes before he rolled up his sleeves and pushed past. I turned to Phargas and grinned. “There, now he has someone to play with. Problem solved.”
“You’ll forgive me for not feeling reassured.”
“It’ll be fine. By the time they figure out what happened, you and I will be long gone. There’s nothing to worry about.” I cracked my knuckles and stretched. “Still, we’d best find the girl quickly.”
“Do you have a better idea than offending every woman in white feathers from here to the waterfront?”
I walked in the opposite direction from the Demon and Harlot, weaving in and out of the crowd. “Really, Phargas, you should appreciate her cleverness. By convincing so many other women to wear similar outfits, she’s made it easy for us to smuggle her out of the city.”
Shouts and boisterous music grew louder as we approached the river, and I quickly saw the reason. Boats of every size clogged the waterway, each one decorated with flowers and paper to transform them into great floating stages. Revelers cavorted and hurled trinkets into the screaming crowds on shore, and the noise made it difficult to hear one’s own thoughts.
Phargas tugged at my arm, then gestured to a balcony. A capital idea—from such a vantage point, finding Anra would be simple. He scampered up the stone wall of the building with impressive dexterity, then tossed a rope down to me. With a modest effort, I joined him and looked out over the party that reigned below us.
It was possibly the largest number of people I had seen in a single place. The floats extended up the river and out of sight around a bend, and depicted everything from the raising of the Starstone to the fall of Cheliax.
Swan maidens were a common theme as well, though I could see few who had both the blonde hair and exquisite figure of my quarry. The effort of this service was beginning to outweigh any sense of reward.
“There he is! Out of the way!” A familiar voice cut through the din of the crowd and Phargas and I turned to see the iron-masked duelist pointing up at us. Beside him stood the blue-clad buffoon I had sent to join him. The two had apparently become fast friends, which boded ill for my continued safety.
“Master Pathfinder, I humbly suggest we forget the girl and find an exit instead.”
“Excellent idea, Master Priest. Any suggestions?”
Below us, the two men were shoving through the crowd in our direction. Phargas glanced down, and then to the next balcony over. “Only one. Run!” Without another thought for my safety, he vaulted from our balcony to the next.
I glanced at the crowd below, then followed him. The ground seemed painfully far beneath me before I landed in a heap on the balcony floor.
By the time I had recovered my feet, Phargas had already leapt again, to a perch crowded with women who giggled and squealed at his unexpected arrival. They seemed less excited when I landed among them; a result of the reduced novelty, no doubt. The leap had put some distance between us and our pursuit, though the two men would close the gap quickly. Unfortunately, we were also out of balconies.
A shout from below questioned my parentage, and promised painful death. As I watched, the two men entered our building; any moment they would reach the balcony. Rather than wait, I jumped.
More accurately, I took a running jump for the nearest float, which passed by the balcony on the river below. I landed poorly, and rolled to a stop at the feet of a bear-like man on a great wooden throne. He laughed as his associates flung jewelry from a chest into the adoring crowds. For a moment, my mouth watered at the sight of the overflowing box; then I realized that the jewels were costume paste.
Phargas landed and stepped forward with a grandiose bow. The shouting men and squealing women in our wake must have impressed our host, as he jumped down from the chair, laughing, and swept Phargas into a tight embrace.
“Your Grace, you honor us with your presence!” his voice boomed. “Everyone! A duke of hell has joined us! Make way, make way!”
The other occupants of the float included a broad assortment of legendary characters, including a group of armored men dressed as the four Archdaemons of Abaddon. Charon fixed me with a hollow-skull stare as though he knew me, and my soul chilled until yet another swan maiden pulled him away. Meanwhile our new host was still talking.
“...must join us for dinner this evening. It shall be a feast befitting one of your priestly rank, my friend. Come! Ride with us, and at the end of the parade you can rest yourselves in my estate.”
Phargas looked at me. “Really, my companion and I should return to the goddess’s temple.”
“Nonsense! The temple-maids will be busy enough without your help. By all means bring your fool with you, but I won’t take no for an answer.”
I rose to correct the gentleman regarding Phargas’s and my relative stations, but Phargas fixed me with a gaze that made me decide dinner would be soon enough to set the record straight.
∗ ∗ ∗
“So he invited you because you’re a priest of Calistria.” I glared at the yellow-clad form of Phargas as we walked along. His Asmodeus mask had been replaced by a piece of sheer gold silk.
“Exactly. So if you ruin this meal for us, I will personally see to it that your nethers become a nesting place for every stinging insect in this stretch of swamp.”
I swallowed at the vivid imagery. “Just make certain he understands you’re traveling with me to help document my deeds as a Pathfinder.”
If he heard me, our entry into the great hall made it irrelevant. It was as though I had returned to my father’s table at last. Roast swine graced the centerboard, while an entire aviary of broiled birds was arranged in flocks around it. Cheeses and breads of every description were heaped in the available spaces, and nuts from across the River Kingdoms waited for persistent fingers to winnow them open. My stomach rumbled in appreciation.
I took a seat next to Phargas and noticed the swan maiden from the float staring at me. No doubt she was taken with me—I was likely the first noble she’d seen besides the backwater aristocracy in charge of the city. I blew her a kiss.
Phargas seemed about to say something when our host entered, the four archdaemons following him. At his arrival, the smattering of other guests around the table burst into cheers, and with a wave of his hand he called forth a troupe of attendants to serve the feast.
Between courses, I noticed the swan maiden’s eyes on me yet again. I raised my cup. “My lady, in all my travels as a Pathfinder, I have never met woman of such loveliness.” A bit thick perhaps, but no matter.
She looked to her plate—embarrassed, no doubt—but our host, seated next to her, perked up. “A Pathfinder you say? And have you come to Jedda to document Calistria’s Ball?”
I took a drink of wine and stood. “But of course! And good that we had, for we encountered a damsel in distress that only the skills of my companion and I could rescue.”
The nobleman leaned forward. “Indeed? I would hear more, friend—pray regale us with your tales while we eat.”
I would be a poor guest to refuse so earnest a request, and I launched into the tale. Midway through my description of the mystery woman’s décolletage, Phargas poked me in the leg with his knife. I slapped his hand away.
Our host’s hands were flat on the table now, and he seemed quite interested, so I continued. “For all her beauty, this poor damsel was married to an oaf of low breeding. He beat her regularly, and walled her away from the world. Still, she managed to escape last night and spoke with devotion of a young man for whom her heart had remained pure. I had to help her, my lord. I’m certain you would have done the same in my shoes.”
“An excellent point, your grace. Anra, she said her name was. Too plain for such a rare creature, but surely she would be easy for you to find.”
“Sadly, it would seem I can’t help you. For you see, I already have an Anra of my own.” At this, he pulled the mask from the swan maiden beside him and revealed the girl from the Demon and Harlot. In my mind I went through the various attributes I had assigned to the woman and the various denigrating terms I had used to describe the husband. I risked a glance at Phargas, but he had buried his face in his hands, no doubt praying for some way out of this.
“What, gone silent now? Come, Pathfinder, tell us more of this woman’s loveliness, of her husband’s monstrosity.”
"Damn Seren. Next time I'm arrested for adultery, I intend to deserve it."
My hands came up to remind him I was unarmed. “My lord must understand, I may have elaborated certain aspects of the truth in exchange for a more entertaining story.”
“How fortunate, then, that I have someone who can support you. Seren! Present yourself.” The archdaemon Charon stepped into the center of the tables, and pulled off his mask to reveal the scarred visage from the tavern.
The man fixed me with a glare, then saluted his lord. “How may I serve?”
“You are the captain of my guards, and my wife’s personal bodyguard. Pray, did anything like this happen yesterday?”
“To be clear, my lord ordered me to accept her word as your own. She ordered me to remain outside the bedroom while she entertained not just the foppish idiot, but the priest as well.”
I felt the imagined noose constricting and tugged at the collar of my doublet. Beside me, Phargas eased a roll of parchment from his boot.
“I cannot fault you for obeying my commands, Seren.” The nobleman stood and handed Anra to the waiting captain. “As for you, my dear, I won’t say I’m not disappointed. Perhaps I shall become the ogre your lover has accused me of being. Seren, take her to her quarters and see to it she remains there.”
The pair marched out of the room, with the girl stopping long enough to spit an epithet at me, rather literally. I wiped my face while our host turned back to us. Behind him, the other archdaemons were readying weapons.
“I must credit you, Pathfinder.” The noble’s voice sounded like a death knell tolling. “I knew your order was bold, but to cuckold me and then accept my hospitality? That’s gutsy. Of course, if word got out, I would be a laughingstock, so I’ve no choice but to have you both killed. The burden of rule, you know.” He gave a helpless shrug and turned to his costumed guards. “Kill them.”
Phargas shoved me into a side corridor as the guards charged. I started to protest that we’d never outrun the guards when he read something from the parchment and a stone wall covered the mouth of the hall.
I gaped. “Truly the goddess is merciful.”
“Yes, she has a soft spot for fools and cuckolds. Hurry up, that won’t stop them long.”
“I didn’t actually...”
“Neither did I, which won’t matter a whit when the guards catch us.” He ran to a window at the end of the hall and looked out. The safety of the ground lay at least twenty feet below.
“That’s a long jump, priest.”
He grabbed me by the collar and shoved me out the open window. “Good thing you’ll fall then.”
I screamed, but at a word from Phargas I drifted to the ground and landed as gently as a feather. He jumped after me and landed with ease. I pointed at another window, which had a knotted rope hanging down from it. “That would have been easier, priest.”
“Don’t question the blessings of the goddess. Just run.”
After a half-hour’s flight we made our way to the water’s edge. Unfortunately, the only boat in sight was crewed by a mud-covered man with a neat beard and breastplate, and his buxom but equally mud-covered woman. When they saw us on shore, they paddled faster to get away. I turned to the priest. “I had hoped for a little more traffic than this.”
Phargas hoisted his pack and smiled. “The goddess can be fickle. I find in such situations it’s better to rely on my feet than prayers. Shall we?”
I took a deep breath and started off along the river’s edge.
Chapter Four: The Fifth River Freedom
by Kevin Andrew Murphy
That could have gone better,” Phargas stated.
I shrugged, stepping down the road a half day from Jedda. “We have our wealth, our health, our freedom, and a good story besides. What more could a Pathfinder want?”
“Food,” Phargas grumbled, “and a foot massage.”
“You have me there, Phargas,” I laughed, “but you, old man, will never be a Pathfinder.”
He looked offended, then rolled his eyes. “Like you are...”
My companion grumbled, but it was to be expected. He was older, heavier, and less favored in all ways than I. Whereas I am Ollix Kaddar, sole heir to the throne of Kadria, finest of the River Kingdoms, and a fine figure of a man if I say so myself.
And I do. ’Tis the duty of a Pathfinder to chronicle truth, even if it seems immodest. And while I may not have been formally accepted by the Pathfinder Society, such niceties are immaterial. I have my wayfinder, I have my journal, and I have had adventures that would set tongues wagging and maidens blushing throughout the land.
“We have no cause for complaint. We rescued a beautiful woman from an unhappy marriage to a boor, and—”
“We missed the boat,” Phargas finished.
“Easily remedied.” I stepped onto a trail down to the riverbank and a copse edging alongside. “The bards say the finest way to see the Sellen is by raft, and I was raised to expect the finest in life.”
Unfortunately, while bards tell wondrous tales of carefree vagabonds traveling by raft, they say very little about building one. I was stumped, or I should say, stumpless. I had no means to fell trees and no skill with which to fashion a raft once I did. My father raised me for finer pursuits. But among these was making diplomatic requests. “Perhaps you might use your priestly magic to obtain us a raft, Phargas?”
He shook his shaven pate wearily but did go over to a willow. “Cayden Cailean provides,” he muttered, snapping a withe and stripping the leaves. It looked a little small for a raft, and forked, but it wasn’t me doing the magic.
He took it in both hands and the far end began to twitch like he had a fish on an invisible line. Muttering charms or perhaps curses, he set off, stumbling through curtains of willow.
I followed a bit more carefully until we stepped onto the bank of the Sellen.
It wasn’t a raft so much as a small dock carried away by floodwaters, two-thirds rotten and half-sunk in the mud. Waterflowers grew through the cracks. I jumped to it easily, keeping my feet dry, and walked to the sound end, surveying the river.
Phargas squelched up. “Anything else, your highness?” he asked sarcastically.
It was then I heard the whistling. Pipes and flutes and warbling trills blended together into a harmonious polyphony echoing off the banks.
“No, this should do splendidly, Phargas.” I waited at the end of the dock.
My companion was not from the River Kingdoms and so did not recognize the sound. I admit I relished his expression as the dragon’s head hove into view, great jaws agape, laughing like a linnorm ready to devour its meal.
Sunlight glinted from the monster’s scales. This one’s were a beautiful cornflower blue, and once it rounded the bank, I could see that its name was indeed the Cornflower. The prow cut the river, the calliope at the crown played, and I waved the mask I’d kept from Jedda’s festival in lieu of a hat.
I looked at my companion, still laughing. “What, you were expecting something less than one of
the famed pleasure barges of the Sellen?”
Phargas grumbled a reply, but I grinned. “Cheer up, old man. As you said, Cayden Cailean provides. And he has.”
∗ ∗ ∗
Leaping to the boat was simplicity itself. I have danced the Unicorn’s Charge, and a dock is nothing more than an ill-tended dance floor. Phargas, on the other hand, was less adept, landing half in the Sellen and half out, clinging to a towrope for fear of being left behind.
Blue-liveried stevedores grabbed hold of the line. One produced a gaffing hook and snagged the hem of the priest’s robe. In this manner he was dragged onboard and unceremoniously saved.
“Old Hanspur nearly got you, yes?” the one with the hook hissed with the atrocious accent of the swamps. “Give sacrifice or old one take you yet...” He pointed to a shrine tucked underneath a flight of stairs. The others nodded, then left, pointedly averting their eyes.
Phargas looked at the shrine dubiously. “Who’s Hanspur?” As I said, he’s a priest, but not one from the River Kingdoms.
I jerked my head. “That’s Hanspur.” The icon sat in the shadows, an old man with a long beard fashioned from the inverted knee of a cypress. Upon his brow he wore a crown of cattails, shadowing bog opal eyes. Like swampers, Hanspur is everywhere in the River Kingdoms, but not spoken of in polite company—or at all, for that matter.
“What is the appropriate sacrifice?”
I avoided the opalescent gaze but still felt a chill. “Drowning someone.” One did not speak of Hanspur if one could avoid it, but more important than that, one did not lie before a god. Especially this god. My old nursemaid Laraen had told me horrible tales of those who’d lied before the eyes of Hanspur only to have his brides come up from the depths in all their moss-green glory.
Hanspur’s brides are something else the well bred do not speak of if they can avoid it. The vulgar term them hags, with skin the color of pond scum and hair like trailing lichen, at least when not disguised as beauteous maidens by means of their ensorcelments and charms. But not wishing to offend the crafty beldames, most simply call them Hanspur’s brides.
