Chalil was silent for a moment, his face unreadable in the near darkness. “Four years is a long time. Much could have happened.”
“You may be right,” Zevaron admitted. The prophecy spoken by the sea king might have been no more than a vision born of the storm. “But I feel—I believe—she is still alive. And if she is, who knows what may become of her in this madness? I must find her and take her away to safety.”
Chalil looked into the night and sighed. “I knew this time would come. You were destined to leave us from the moment you came. Still, we had a good long run of it, and I am thinking this will be the last time I sail these unhappy shores. I will miss you.”
Zevaron did not know how to answer. Chalil had been like a father to him, but that was not enough reason to turn away from the demands of family and conscience.
“You cannot go wandering around Gelon, asking questions about royal hostages, even if Cinath had not taken it into his mind to persecute your people,” Chalil said with a thoughtful expression.
“I can pass as Denariyan well enough.”
“Until you encounter one of us. One word in your atrocious accent will betray you. I am thinking that while a lone traveler may be suspect, no one looks closely at a servant or a bodyguard. You remember Ranath, the fat cloth-merchant who bought up the cheapest of our silks? He let slip, by way of bragging, that he could get a better price for them in Aidon than in Verenzza.”
“Are you suggesting I disguise myself as a cloth-seller?” The idea was risky. A hundred things might go wrong.
“I am thinking that the longer journey provides more opportunities for thieves, and therefore greater need for protection.”
“A bodyguard?”
“You fight well and you keep your wits about you.”
“This merchant might remember me as a sailor. Why would he hire me as a bodyguard?” Zevaron asked.
Through the gathering dark, he felt Chalil’s smile. “Leave that to us.”
* * *
It was a simple enough matter for a man of Chalil’s resources to set up a faked ambush and rescue just outside of Roramenth. It meant delaying the Wave Dancer’s departure for another day, but Chalil smoothed things over with his Meklavaran passengers, kept them hidden onboard, and guaranteed their safety.
Tamir and Omri played the thugs with gleeful abandon, bearing down on the cloth-merchant in his onager-drawn wagon. They burst from their hiding place in a turn in the road, drew their flashy but useless trophy swords, and rushed forward. Omri seized the reins of the onagers and shouted at the merchant to get down if he valued his life. Protesting weakly, the merchant complied. At the same time, Tamir lunged for the single servant, a hulking, clumsy boy who was clearly befuddled by the speed and apparent ferocity of the attack.
Zevaron let the sham fighting proceed just long enough, then ran up, brandishing his own sword. Tamir dashed back to the Roramenth road while Omri put up enough of a fight to appear realistic and to make Zevaron look good. They fenced for a few moments and then Omri turned tail as well.
Watching Omri go, Zevaron silently wished both of them a smooth voyage and a safe harbor. He did not think he would ever see them again. Then he turned back to the merchant, who stood clutching the halter of one of the onagers. He caught no hint of recognition in the man’s eyes. That was not surprising, for such men rarely paid much attention to anyone but the owners of the goods they bought, not the hired help, not the porters and lackeys.
Smiling, he sheathed his sword. “Are you hurt, my lord?”
“No, no. I was just caught unprepared. This road has always been safe before.”
“These are unsettled times,” Zevaron said. “It’s a good thing I came along when I did.”
The merchant started to climb back up into the wagon, then paused. “You speak good Gelone, but you’re not one of us. Denariyan, I’d guess?”
Zevaron smiled.
“Where are you bound?” the cloth-merchant asked.
“Wherever there is honest work for me. As you see, I have a measure of skill with a blade.”
“Indeed, to my good fortune.”
From there, it was but a small matter to agree on a fee for protecting the merchant and his wares on their journey. Zevaron bargained enough to sound realistic, but not too high. He wanted the merchant to think he’d got the better of the deal. In addition, he made sure to practice his sword moves every night where the merchant could see him. Some techniques he remembered from his boyhood training, although the thick-bladed Gelonian sword was ill-suited to that style. Other exercises, designed to strengthen muscles as well as hone reflexes, he had learned from his fellow pirates. They fought with whatever weapons came to hand, curved or straight, short or long, Denariyan or Gelonian, or even the rough bronze blades of the tribes who roved the barren lands north of the Mearas.
They went by road to Verenzza, stayed at the home of the merchant’s cousin for two days, and then took a barge upriver to Aidon. Twice along the road, they were eyed by fellow travelers whose ragged clothing and haggard expressions suggested desperation. But when Zevaron displayed his sword, handling it to best display his skill, they backed off, and there were no incidents.
* * *
He sat on the barge, watching the sleepy landscape slip by, the green-silver ripples of the Serpan River, wondering if Tsorreh had come this way. Had she looked out over these fields, these trees with their long, supple branches trailing in the shallows, and had she seen the light on these waters, iridescent in the twilight? Where was she now? Was she safe?
Aidon was like nothing he’d imagined, an immense, sprawling city. An enemy would dash his force against its complex heights and subside, like waves against the rocky beaches of the Mher Seshola. The thought came to him that Gelon, like Aidon itself, would fall from within, from rot at its heart, not from any outside invasion.
All things have their season; all things pass away.
He had not thought of the holy scripts since that terrible time when he first believed Tsorreh was dead. How could he pray to a god, any god, who would let such a thing happen? Now hope had arisen, and everything he’d clung to during those four years of exile had been shaken by the appearance of the sea king.
What should he believe? What could he believe? The gentle currents of the river and the towers of Aidon gave him no answer.
The barge docked at one of the many wharves, and laborers offloaded the wagon, along with carts and draft animals, passengers and baggage. The cloth-merchant hired one of the wharf boys as a guide, and together they made a little procession up into the city.
As they passed through a riot of different colors, garments, and aromas, Zevaron could well believe that exiled Meklavarans had made their home here. There must be a dozen different races living as neighbors. Some of them he recognized: Gelon with their pale skins and red-tinted hair, huge Xians, and Sand Lands tribesmen in their striped robes and head-cloths, leading fine-boned horses. Others seemed strange, even in this jumbled crowd.
Once or twice, Zevaron spotted figures in the robes of Gelonian priests, and although he looked, he could not tell if the emblems on their robes had jointed legs and curving stingers. He had no chance to speak to any of them.
They passed by taverns and nautical businesses and into a district of warehouses and stables. After a bit of lively negotiation, the merchant found a place to board his onagers and his wagon.
Eager to begin his search, Zevaron waited impatiently for Ranath to conclude his business. Ranath, however, required Zevaron’s services in accompanying him to the house of another of his cousins. By this time, Zevaron was very close to declaring his obligation fulfilled, although the extra money would be useful. Now that he had seen Aidon, he realized it would take time to find Tsorreh. Among other things, he needed a meal, a bath, and a relatively safe place to sleep.
The cousin’s house was a little ways up one of the hills, a compact walled compound. Brass-bound wooden gates led to a garden and a modest one-st
ory house built around a little courtyard with a fountain. Here Ranath sat with his cousin, eating seed cakes brought to them by an elderly Xian woman-servant, while Zevaron stood behind his employer’s seat.
The cousin, Ottoren, bore a strong family resemblance to Ranath, stocky and going to softness but possessing keen, restless eyes. When Ranath proposed to engage Zevaron’s services again in several months’ time, for protection during his next trading venture, Zevaron demurred, saying that he could not wait that long.
“I could use a competent guard for my warehouses here, or for personal security,” Ottoren suggested, “My cousin’s praise is recommendation enough.”
A position with a respectable merchant might give him a legitimate reason to be in Aidon. Bowing, Zevaron replied that he was honored by the offer and would consider it. He had personal business to attend to first. The merchant cousin seemed to think this entirely reasonable. Zevaron accepted his pay and stayed to take a meal with the servants. The household steward suggested a nearby inn.
Zevaron located the inn without too many wrong turns. It was farther from the harbor than he liked and not in the safest district for the unwary, but he was familiar with such dangers. He settled his few belongings in his upstairs room, leaving behind only those items he could afford to lose, made sure that not all his weapons were visible, and went down to begin his exploration.
The sun had swung past its zenith and begun a slow descent in the west. Zevaron paused outside the inn’s door, watching the street outside. Men passed, drawing handcarts or laden under sacks or wicker panniers. A barefoot boy led two of the slow massive barge-oxen. Within a short time, Zevaron got a pretty good idea of the people and their business. As he studied the scene, he formulated his next step. His first problem was not knowing if Tsorreh’s identity had been discovered. Had she come to Aidon as an ordinary slave or as the Meklavaran te-ravah? Surely, there would be a record of prisoners of importance.
As shadows deepened, the tavern owner lit the outside lanterns. Men wandered in, calling to one another.
As the common room of the inn began to fill, Zevaron took a place at one of the larger tables. Ordinarily, he would be happy to spend a few coins with such women as were willing and reasonably clean, for an hour’s companionship and pleasure, but not tonight. As he sipped his watered wine, careful to not drink it too quickly lest it dull his wits, he listened to the conversations around him. Sensing the rhythms, he searched out which men talked too readily, which ones not at all, and which spoke with a careful balance of camaraderie and discretion. A few oblique inquiries about how slaves were brought into Aidon, and also what hostages might be held here in the city, brought no useful information. Yet Zevaron was satisfied that he had not elicited any undue suspicion.
The night was still early, so he left the inn to try another. He headed in the direction of the river, for water-rats and sailors had much in common, and he knew their ways. Gradually, he worked his way through successively more disreputable areas of the city. His senses sharpened reflexively, and without conscious thought, he shifted his posture. His walk took on the sure, elastic stride of a skilled swordsman. His eyes narrowed, and the supple tension in his shoulders conveyed deadly alertness. Even drunken men swerved from his path.
The night wore on. The moon set, and pools of darkness swathed the narrow, ill-smelling streets. Even the most stalwart ale-sellers nudged their inebriated customers out. Tired, yet too wrought up to sleep, Zevaron returned to his inn. He stretched out on the hard cot, stared at the ceiling, and tried to make sense out of inconclusive information.
Over the nights that followed, he pieced together what generally happened to slaves or hostages brought into the city. Slaves taken by Ar-Cinath’s forces, usually in conquest but also as tribute, were considered the property of the Ar-King and were usually sold to enrich his coffers. Doubtless, Zevaron concluded, the proceeds helped to pay for his next war. Records might be kept of the numbers—so many male slaves from such-and-such a province—but none of the men Zevaron talked to had any interest in their names. Most likely, his drinking mates advised him, anyone taken captive four years ago was either dead or long since shipped off to work in the countryside. The Ar-King took care to avoid a concentration of enemies within the boundaries of his capital city, even if they were slaves.
One old sot remembered something about a foreign queen’s arrival in Aidon; a sorceress, everyone said. His wits were so addled with chronic drink that he couldn’t recall more than that or even how long ago it had happened.
Zevaron planted a few hints of a reward for information about the sister of a patron, a woman of mixed Isarran and Sand Lands blood, he said to explain her coloring and in case Tsorreh had hidden her Meklavaran origin. Then he turned his back on the wharves.
The closer he got to the center of the city and Cinath’s palace in particular, the more armed guards he saw. Plumed helmets, bright armor, and sashes in the colors of the Ar-King were in evidence everywhere. At almost every major intersection and along some of the boulevards, patrols stopped anyone who did not look rich or did not look Gelon. Zevaron was not ready to test his ruse, not yet. The patrolmen reminded him too much of Gatacinne.
* * *
By the end of a week, Zevaron became increasingly frustrated. Perhaps the best way through the blockades was the patronage of someone like Ranath’s cousin. The cousin—what was his name, Ottomar? Ottoren?—might have forgotten his offer, but Zevaron retraced his steps to the cousin’s compound not even knowing if Ranath was still in the city.
When Zevaron was ushered into the cousin’s garden, which was apparently where he preferred to conduct his interviews, the merchant shook his head.
“I’m sorry, but I’ve hired someone else for the job.” Ottoren sounded genuinely regretful. “I would have liked to oblige my cousin with patronage of one who did him such a service, but…” He shrugged his fleshy shoulders, meaning, business is business. “You should not have waited so long. What were you about, if I may ask?”
“I was—and still am—looking for the kinswoman of a friend,” Zevaron said. “He traced her here to Aidon, but cannot find her.”
Ottoren gave a mild snort. “This is a big city. A woman could be swallowed up and leave no trace, or a man as well.” His eyes narrowed. “She’s Gelon?”
“No, dark like me, but not Denariyan. Isarran and Sand Lands blood.”
“Not Meklavaran?”
Zevaron gave his stoniest look of incomprehension. “Why do you ask?”
Ottoren shook his head again. “I have nothing personal against them, mind you. I’ve traded with them for years and found them honest if not exactly affable. But if your—ah, friend’s—kinswoman has been taken as Meklavaran, I doubt there’s much chance you’ll find her alive. A few years back, right after Prince Thessar, may-his-soul-find-eternal-delight, conquered their city, things were different. People felt a certain—ah, sympathy, you might say—for them. Even those taken as slaves. Now…” He shrugged again.
“Were there any noble ladies captured and brought to Aidon at that time?”
“Let me see.” Ottoren rubbed his chin. “I remember hearing of one, but if you’re thinking it might be the one you seek, I doubt it. One of my patrons mentioned attending a concert at the compound of one of the Ar-King’s own family—cousin or daughter’s husband, I can’t recall. Could have been his brother for all I know. He mentioned that he’d caught sight of an important Meklavaran hostage, as if she were one of the attractions of the evening. Poor thing, I can’t imagine what’s become of her. It’s not likely Cinath let her live.”
It took all of Zevaron’s self-control to remain still. He reminded himself that this merchant didn’t know, he was only guessing. He counted heartbeats, so loud they rocked his chest. One, two…
The merchant was staring at him with a slightly suspicious expression.
“An interesting story,” Zevaron said carefully, “but I do take your meaning. I thank you for your hospital
ity.”
Ottoren signaled for his servant to escort Zevaron to the gate. “I’ll keep my ears open for another position.”
“Thank you, and good day.” Zevaron bowed and took his leave.
* * *
For the rest of the day, Zevaron strode through the city, trying to wrestle his feelings under control. Although he kept to the poorer areas, his gaze often lifted to the gleaming houses on the hills, wondering if Tsorreh had lived—and died—in one of them. But he did not trust his temper enough to approach them. Not yet.
The woman Ottoren mentioned could have been Tsorreh, but she might also have been a lady of another noble house. Many of the great families had been scattered after the fall of Meklavar. And if it were Tsorreh, she might well have been spared the current persecution. He would have to find out more about Cinath’s relatives and where they lived, and a way around those patrols. So far, he had encountered no difficulty in passing as Denariyan, and any of a dozen stories might gain him access to the hills.
He headed back to the inn with brightened spirits. The day was ending and he found himself surprisingly hungry. He stopped at an open cook stall for a tankard of barley-ale and a platter of savory pastries, dough stuffed with minced fish, herbs, and onions, then fried to crispness. The food was surprisingly good, and the stall owner did a brisk business as evening drew on.
It was almost dark when Zevaron returned to the inn. As he approached, he noticed several men lounging nearby. They looked no different from any of the other casual laborers of the neighborhood. Despite their air of indifference, he felt them come alert at his approach.
One man, who had been leaning against the side of the inn, straightened up and came toward Zevaron. His age was difficult to tell beneath the scarred, weathered skin, but his clothing looked too well-made for a gutter rat.
“Were you waiting for me?” Zevaron kept his voice soft, easy.
The Seven-Petaled Shield Page 38
