"I mean just as I say, traveler. It's an old belief that it is dangerous to mention either by name. My grandfather, long dead though he is, used to talk of them as only them, and while I thought that strange, he did live to sixty years."
Another man spat. "Faw. Just a superstition."
"Maybe it was, and maybe it wasn't. Maybe they know when their names are spoke, and maybe they don't. What with strange things happening, with something or other having wiped out that little village up near Erevale, I'm not one to take chances." He turned to me. "What do you think, Tybel?"
I shook my head. "I've never been one to take chances, either." Without a damn good reason. Wiped out a village? I hadn't heard about that.
"A wise man," he said. "And with the Warrior about, turning visible only to kill? I used to own a servant, had her for ten years—Venda, her name is. Stout as a stoat, and loyal as a good dog. But with the Warrior about—and there are many who say it's Karl Cullinane—murdering honest men who own such, I'll tell you that I sold her, for quick coin and without apology."
Tennetty frowned. "One moment. The way I've heard it is that Karl Cullinane and his people will leave alone all but slavers, and Guild slavers in particular."
Enric shook his head. "That's the way it used to be, for sure. For years and years. I've met some of the Home raiders and traders—I even camped for an evening with a bunch of his men one night, in Kuarolin, up along the edge of the Katharhd? Tough-looking bunch, but I felt perfectly safe among them, and they were welcome in most towns—nobody thought they'd be hunting for any but slavers, and slavers are none too popular anyway.
"But there's been word of it changing. There was a hostler murdered in Wehnest, for nothing more than having a bought servant."
"Not just off in Wehnest, either." A burly man slapped his fist down on the table, causing mugs and pitchers to dance. "Just outside our own Fenevar, not forty days ago, Arnet and his brother were murdered in their beds, and one of those notes left behind. Englits all over it, they say." He shuddered. "Dangerous language, I hear—they say that you don't have to be a wizard to write spells in it."
"That's nonsense. Pfah." Another spat. In Fenevar, you can tell the locals by their habit of spitting as punctuation.
"You have to be one of their wizards to do it, to make their gunpowder."
I listened with more than half an ear for the next hour, buying just a bit more than my share of the rounds. That's the key to being inconspicuous. You don't have to be average—you just have to seem like you're typical.
I guess I drank too much. But I do remember hearing a fragment of a phrase from Reil the baker, one I didn't want to inquire into too closely.
"—and that's what Alezyn said. You know, the new farrier, the one who was through about five tendays ago?"
Bingo. Alezyn was Mikyn's father's name. It was possible, of course, that there was a real farrier going by the name of Alezyn, but I don't believe in coincidences—somebody with that name near a killing.
It all made sense. Many smiths—most, easily—and a lot of hostlers did some shoeing on the side, but like anything else, shoeing horses is something you get a lot better at if you do it regularly. On the other hand, outside of the largest cities, there simply wasn't enough work for a full-time farrier, and it was a respectable and likely profession for a smith or horseman to take up, if he had a bit of money for tools, and the taste for the road.
Didn't take much in the way of tools, either. A small anvil and maybe a portable forge if you were extravagant, although you could build a firepit for that kind of work. Hammers, tongs, various trimming knives and clippers, plus some bar stock, and you were in business. You could put all of it on the back of a packhorse, if you were pressed, although you'd probably want a wagon.
Home raiding teams usually carried at least one traveling farrier's rig with them. It always was a good idea for a raiding team to send scouts out, and one of the best covers we had used, back during the raiding years, was that of a farrier.
Mikyn had separated from the rest of the team, taking the traveling farrier rig with him.
We were getting warm, perhaps. Possibly we could wrap up the Mikyn matter quickly, before investigating Faerie. Not a bad idea, all things considered. We had a double objective, after all, if we could manage it: sniff around Ehvenor to see if we could find out what was happening with Faerie, and see if we could track down Mikyn.
Which was more important? Okay, Ehvenor. Fine.
Which was more urgent, though? That was another thing.
Maybe a better question was: which could we handle better?
And why ask questions when there was beer to be drunk. Er, drank?
Enric refilled my mug. "You're decidedly good company, Tybel," he said. "It's been a pleasure meeting you."
"That's because I listen well."
Somehow or other, Tennetty got me back to our rooms.
* * *
I don't remember dreaming that night, although I do remember getting up once to puke into the thundermug next to my bed. (If I hadn't, the smell would have reminded me.)
In the morning, I had the godfather of all hangovers.
Anything for the cause, eh?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
In Which I Have a
Hangover
It is only the first bottle that is expensive.
—FRENCH PROVERB
Mrmf. Gack. Urpffff.
—WALTER SLOVOTSKY
Trying to get something decided over a hangover is no fun at all. Trying to do anything over a hangover is no fun at all.
I couldn't see it, not with my eyes closed, but there was a thumb-sized flask of Eareven healing draughts at my elbow as I lay stretched out on the settee in our common room. Tennetty had placed the filigreed brass flask there when she and Ahira had hauled me out of my room and set me up on the settee. A damp cloth lay across my eyes, easing the dry burning of my eyeballs to mere agony.
Sadistic bitch. She knew that I wouldn't take it, not for something like this. Healing draughts are for emergencies.
"You okay, Walter?" the dwarf asked.
"Peachy keen." Each word hurt. There were little men with big knives carving on the inside of my temples, and demons with spiked shoes and flamethrowers walking up and down every tendon in my body. Never mind what was going on in my stomach. I don't like to think about what was going on in my stomach.
At least the settee was overstuffed and would have been comfortable if even softness didn't hurt. The luxury was not unexpected—we had taken a large suite of rooms at the Krellen Inn. When you're paying with real Pandathaway gold—even if you get back a lot of local coins as your change—you can usually get a spot of luxury.
I would have settled for a jot of comfort.
Ahira bit into a red, round apple; the crunching sound hurt my forehead.
My mouth tasted of sour vomit. Every time I turned to look at something I could feel my neck bones squawk, and the grit behind my eyes grated as I lay there.
There was a cure, but I couldn't use it. Wouldn't use it.
I forced myself up to one elbow and fumbled for the stone mug of too-hot Holtish herb tea that Andrea had brewed up for me; it was supposed to be good for both headaches and menstrual cramps. I had to remove the damp cloth from my eyes to find it. This is one time that I can swear that one out of two isn't good.
I eyed the flask of healing draughts. It would be wrong to take it just to cure the hangover. It's not just that healing draughts are expensive—although they are—it's worse: they're rare, hard to get hold of. We're supposed to save that stuff for serious hurts, for emergencies.
Granted, I once downed a half bottle when I was fleeing from a town—I've shown my heels to so many that I don't recall just which one now—but I had sprained my ankle, and while that's usually a minor injury, it would have gotten me killed then, and by my definition, an injury isn't minor if it gets you killed.
In all the times I've been banged up, and there are a lo
t of those, I've never used the stuff promiscuously—I've always preferred saving promiscuity for other contexts.
The wind was blowing hard from the west, in through the window; the fresh air helped just a little. Jason had been dispatched for food, and had returned with a basket of fruit, a dozen sticks of roasted pork, peppers, and onions from the market down the street, and a pail of ale from the eating room below.
The smell of food made me gag. The aroma of roast pork and a hangover don't mix.
Well, the tea was a loser. Maybe the ale would be better. I accepted Jason's offer of a battered pewter tankard, and sipped at the flat brew, hoping it would clear the painful fog behind my throbbing eyes.
It didn't. I've never had much luck with the hair of the dog as a hangover remedy.
Healing draughts are expensive, and hard to come by. Hangovers hurt. Balance the two in the scales, and the supply of healing draughts was still meager, and hangovers still hurt like hell.
Put it in proportion: I could lie here in pain for the rest of the day. In a day, tops, I'd be back to normal, and if we were going to leave Fenevar, we'd need at least a day to get horses and provisions, never mind about which direction.
The trouble, of course, was that Mikyn could have gone anywhere, in about three directions. On the other hand, while things in Ehvenor weren't likely to stay in one place, the city itself was considerate enough to stay in one place, and maybe that solved the problem for us.
How to travel was easy: we'd go by land. Fenevar isn't a major shipping center—the shoreline is too swampy and shallow.
"At least we don't have to travel by water," Ahira said, repressing a shudder.
Andy patted his knee. "Just as well, eh?"
Dwarves don't like water any deeper than what they wash in—and the traditional dwarvish washhouse is a small room, concave to a drain in the center, ringed with chest-high (to them) washbasins. Ahira was the only one I've ever known to use a bathtub.
It's obvious why, when you think of it—a human with a lungful of air is lighter than water. Swimming, for us, is just a matter of working with natural forces, sometimes bobbing up and down to rhythmically clear mouth and nose from the water in time with breathing. Dwarves, on the other hand, are denser than we are. Their bones aren't only thicker, with the correspondingly larger joints that confer a greater mechanical advantage, they're made of a slightly different, more compact calcium matrix than ours. Their muscle fibers are smaller and much more numerous, and they carry a smaller fat-to-muscle ratio—that's one of the reasons they're so fond of ale: starch and alcohol are good sources of quick calories.
Drop a dwarf in water, and he'll sink like a stone.
I trotted out Lou Riccetti's old joke: "How do you make a dwarf float?" I tried to grin, but the effort hurt.
Ahira smiled dutifully, while Andy answered. "Two scoops of ice cream, one dwarf, and fill with Coke."
Yup; because that's the only way. I guess you have to be an Other Sider to find it funny.
Jason wasn't having any of the humor. "I don't like any of it, but we've got to find him."
Tennetty sneered. "Wanting doesn't make it so. He left tendays ago. He could be anywhere."
Andy shook her head. "Not if he's maintaining a cover as a roving farrier."
"We need to find him."
Jason was right. It was one thing to kill slavers. Nobody shed tears for them. Fear them, sure; deal with them—well, what else was there to do with a conquered neighbor?
But express sympathy? Identify with them? Consider Home raiders a common threat?
Nah.
The trouble with creating a legend is that people will believe it. Ahira and I, and later Jason, had gone to some trouble to keep Karl's legend alive in the stories about the Warrior, and Karl was the archetype of a Home raider. By murdering the locals and leaving the note, Mikyn was fucking with the legend. I'm not sure whether I was more surprised or annoyed. Both, I guess—Mikyn had been raised in Home, and he should have known better.
I sipped some more of the hot tea and lay back. Just reach out, take the small brass bottle in my trembling hand, then break the wax seal with my thumb, and tilt it back . . .
No.
Ahira had been thinking. "Any chance you can put a location spell on him?" he asked Andrea.
She shrugged. "Perhaps." She shrugged. "Certainly. I've gotten very good at location spells."
I was going to ask how, but I caught myself. Back when she thought Karl was alive, she had labored long and hard to locate him. You do it a lot, you get good at it.
"I will need something of his," she said, "preferably some hair or nails, or something he's interacted with intimately."
"They say the note was written in blood."
"His?" Ahira was skeptical.
"Not likely, but it's a start." Andrea stood up. "There's a hedge wizard in town. As I understand it, he's a confidant of Lord Ulven. I think it's time for a bit of professional courtesy." She wasn't wearing wizard's robes, of course, but equally of course she could quickly demonstrate what she was, if necessary.
"Hold on, please." Ahira held up a hand. "You haven't done this for awhile."
"Magic?"
A frown twisted its way across his face. "No. The rest of it." He pursed his lips for a moment, then bit another chunk of meat off his skewer. "If you're going to brace a local, we'd best be able to get out of town quickly. That means horses."
Tennetty nodded. "Me. You part with gold too easy. Looks suspicious."
"Fine."
"Hmm . . ." she cocked her head. "One each, and two spares?"
"Three, if you can. We also should try to learn as much as we can about the local situation—there's a dwarf smith; I should go and see if he wants some word from the Old Country. Jason, it's you and me for that one."
Jason scowled. "Why me?"
"Because you speak dwarvish, and with a thick Heverel accent. Tall Ones who can speak the language, accent or no, are rare enough that you'll charm him. If he happens to be from Heverel, all the better." He turned to Andrea. "Which leaves you and Walter for the wizard. You need somebody to watch your back." He nodded at me. "You'd best leave now."
"Now?" I asked.
"Now," he said.
"Well," I said, each word a painful effort, "a bodyguard has to move around."
"True enough. Better drink that stuff," he said.
My hands trembled as I examined the wax seal perfunctorily, then broke it, tossing the cap aside. I brought the flask to my cracked lips, each movement hurting.
A spasm of nausea washed over me, but I fought it down successfully. The too-sweet liquid washed the vomit and sand from my mouth, replacing it with a warm glow, like good brandy. In between painful beats, my headache disappeared, various aches and pains sparking away, disappearing.
But I really hate magic. Honest. I just hate hangovers more.
"That feels better," I said, my voice deepening and strengthening as I tossed the damp cloth aside and swung off the couch and to my feet.
No pain, not even any morning aches. The air was just chilly enough to be bracing, and filled with the enticing smell of roasted pork, peppers, and onions. I was twenty again—strong, arrogant, and horny, ready to deal with anything the universe cared to offer up . . . starting with a stick of roast peppers, pork, and onions that Jason had left on the serving platter.
As I bit hungrily into the cold meat, Ahira caught my smile and returned it.
In divvying up the jobs, he was still looking after me, the way it had always been. He could easily have assigned himself as Andrea's bodyguard, even if that meant she would have to wait until he got back from the smith.
Tennetty scowled. "What are the two of you so proud of yourselves about?"
Ahira shrugged. "Private joke."
CHAPTER TWELVE
In Which I'm Too Smart
for My Own Damn Good
A hasty judgment is the first step toward recantation.
—PUBLILIUS SYR
US
Figure it out fast—and so what if you're wrong? You might get lucky and implement the wrong one so that it works.
—WALTER SLOVOTSKY
The sign read—
REWNOR
Magician, Wizard, Mage, and Seer
—in typical convoluted Erendra lettering, although runes and symbols were scattered across its surface.
Andrea stopped five steps before the doorway, and reached into the bag at her waist.
I started to reach for her wrist, but stopped myself. "Hang on a second," I said.
She turned, her face creased in irritation. "What is it?"
"Look," I said, "I'm no expert on magic—"
"That's for sure."
"—but I do know that it's a risk for you. You've overdone in the past. Doria thinks you've been hooked on it."
She dismissed it with a frown and a wave. "You don't, or you wouldn't have let me come along."
I had been thinking about that, and I'd been thinking about how convenient it had been for me to think Doria wrong, and decide that Andy was safe to travel, because if I didn't, I don't know what we would have done for a wizard.
She tossed her head, sending her long black hair flying as she struck a pose, one hand on hip. That's who Aeia got that habit from, I guess. "I don't intend to spend the rest of my life living that down. I had a problem. I pushed myself too far, and made it worse by not taking care of myself. I've got it under control now."
I guess I didn't keep my skepticism off my face—not surprisingly, because I wasn't trying to.
Also unsurprisingly, that didn't calm her down. "Dammit, Walter, you know you need a wizard in on this, at least the Ehvenor and Faerie part."
I had to admit that was true. "Sure, but—"
"But nothing," she said. "Just navigating around the middle city takes magic. By some perspectives, it doesn't have a diameter."
"Eh?"
"I mean," she said, "looked at one way, there's a fleck of Faerie in the middle of the city, and the rules of Faerie are . . ." she grasped for a word ". . . indeterminate, by your standards. Not entirely determinate, by mine. When you get close natural laws break down.
Guardians of The Flame: To Home And Ehvenor (The Guardians of the Flame #06-07) Page 14
