Once Plu had disappeared from view, Nils assessed the disorderly tumble of rocks, looking for something. It was hard to believe this was the Way Nils sought.
“Follow me. We must go through the Way Gate quickly in case they summon dragons to follow us.” He knelt down to help her to stand.
Salinda managed a smile, though it hurt and she knew she must look a fright. “Oh, but they can’t. Only I can do it as far as I know.”
Nils’s expression changed. At first he looked skeptical but then he smiled, revealing small, even teeth. “I have chosen well then.” Something in his smug expression warmed her heart.
By the time Salinda had been assisted through the rocks and into the dark antechamber beyond she was weak and sweating. She could walk no further. Nils caught her as she collapsed and propped her up while he opened the Way Gate. Incantations and strange movements of his hands operated the door, allowing them passage. Before he shut the door behind them, making it liquidly dark, she saw enough to make her mind soar with the wonder of it. Ornately carved pillars braced a domed wall. A richly painted mural depicted a fairytale landscape of green fields and blue-mauve sky, filled with grazing stock and farmers at work. It was so otherworldly. Only the cadre could verify that the painting depicted what the world had been like before Ruel moon fell.
*
Something cold pressed against the wounded flesh of her back, easing her into consciousness. She lay on a marble bench, which was cool and comforting at the same time. Nils stood nearby, operating a metal panel in the center of the wall. The sight of it was strange to her, some sort of pre-Shatterwing technology, she surmised. Her consciousness threatened to fade once again. She was so tired. Her heart lurched in her chest as if, only now that it had reached safety, it was ready to beat its last.
Nils’s face loomed above her. “I must put the cover over you now and then you will sleep a long and healing sleep. Most of the damage can be restored—the brand, the scars …”
Salinda reached out to him, brushing her swollen fingertips against his thin, white hand. “The red tincture?” she said weakly.
Nils moved closer, his ear close to her mouth. “What did you say?”
Salinda swallowed and touched her lips. “Whore taint … must … take it away … please promise me …”
Nils’s brow furrowed.
She touched his hand once again. “He … did … this.” She sucked in another shuddering breath and grimaced in pain. “I am no whore.”
That was all she could manage before a dark pit opened up inside her and swallowed her awareness. Above the sound of the healing contraption humming softly, she heard him whisper, “Very well. I will see what I can do.”
“I trust you …”
“Welcome to Barrahiem,” his voice said faintly. “You are the first Sundweller to enter here.”
The transparent lid came down with a click and covered her. Her eyes snapped open, her vision suddenly clear. Before the air misted over her, blocking out the view, she caught a vague impression of her surroundings. More vaulted ceilings and ornate cornices and glowing walls that shimmered like moonlight. Wide open hallways that seemed to extend forever. The cadre almost sang at the wonder of it as she closed her eyes to sleep the healing sleep.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Wine Trail
A week later, Brill stood in the shadows of Gunner’s bakehouse, huddled into his cloak while running his hands along the coiled rope he had borrowed from Earl. Ahead, the dark lane was bathed in the yellow glow from a small window. The trek to Gunner had been hazardous. With camouflage cloaks and perseverance they had made it this far intact.
Shuffling his feet, Brill tried to quell his anxiety. Danton was late. Brill knew the Inspector would recognize both of them if he saw them—if indeed he was in Gunner. They had had to risk entering the town, though, as Danton had contacts there. The rebel leader was healed now, able to move with stealth even with his one eye. Brill had fashioned an eye patch that gave the rebel leader a distinguished air, or so Brill told him before Danton thumped him in the upper arm.
A door shut in the distance and someone began to yell. A man, Brill thought. Soon after, the yell was answered by a woman’s shrill scream. Brill looked over his shoulder and slunk back into shadow. He was uneasy in such unfamiliar surroundings. Not having been to Gunner before didn’t help. They had entered the town at dusk, when the shadows were lengthening and the inhabitants were heading home. Danton had told him the constabulary ran the place, under the rather large thumb of an area superintendent. The populace appeared healthy and the inn had an ample supply of dragon wine, if the rantings of the drunken clientele were to be relied on. The pieces fit together well enough. The wine they were chasing had passed through Gunner and someone with influence had helped the cache along. Just exactly who, where and when were Danton’s burning questions, but the whereabouts of Salinda was his obsession.
At the sound of footfall, Brill flattened himself against the wall. A cloaked figure approached, the face hidden by a cowl. Brill kept his hand over the hilt of his dagger, poised and ready. The figure stopped and threw back the hood. Danton’s eye patch was distinguishable in the light from the window.
With a sigh, Brill asked, “What news?”
Danton walked straight past. Brill stepped in beside him. Danton spoke quietly, his expression alert. “Plenty. Best we don’t linger here. The informant was good, but not loyal. If he can make some profit from our capture he will.”
Danton slunk from shadow to shadow, with Brill bringing up the rear. The town gates were shut and guarded. The sound of booted feet echoed along the cobblestones.
A prick of fear trilled up Brill’s spine. “I think your friend didn’t waste any time.”
Danton grinned, looking savage. “I think you’re right. We’ll head back toward the north of the town. The men will cause a disturbance when Belle rises.”
“You planned for this then? Knew you’d be betrayed?”
“Fairly certain, but I needed that information. Quick, man, before we are caught in the noose.”
Together they sped light-footed through the town, sounds of pursuit dogging them. Occasionally, they changed direction to avoid a patrol. Once out of sight of a squad of men, Danton climbed onto a roof and then scrambled up another. Brill hurried after him. Flat on their stomachs, they inched across the roofs, at times feeling roof tiles crack beneath them. The tip of Belle moon, visible on the horizon, heralded a huge ruckus at the other end of the town.
“Time to leave.” Brill unfurled his rope and tied it to the base of a chimney, then looked over the side of the wall. It was a long way down and the rope was not long enough.
“You’ll have to jump from the end. I suggest you roll,” Danton supplied after looking down.
“Roll? That looks like a refuse heap.” Just then a waft of stench reached them, confirming his suspicion.
Danton smiled. “Don’t sink then.”
“Sink or stink—both are bad options.”
The diversion at the gate had quieted. Brill assumed Danton’s men had withdrawn to the rendezvous point. The guards would renew their pursuit soon. Already they could hear voices along the walls. Brill grabbed the rope and lowered himself down, slowing his slide with his feet. Danton straddled the rope after him, ready to commence his climb once Brill was clear. Brill misjudged where the end of the rope was and fell, sprawling in the heap below. Danton, more controlled, landed on his feet, bending his knees to absorb the impact. The trash beneath stank terribly.
Brill took the rebel’s proffered hand. “Don’t even say it, Danton.”
Shouts erupted from the wall above them. A spear pierced the refuse to their left, releasing a pungent waft of stench. “Time to move,” Danton said.
The rebel leader led the way to the end of the heap and soon they were free of the town proper. Brill loped along behind. A sound like the rush of wind surged toward them. Danton turned and tackled Brill to the ground as something flew ov
erhead. “Bastards are using the dragon harpoons. Stay low and keep moving.”
In the darkness, they crawled until they were out of range of the harpoons and free of Gunner, and then Danton gave the signal to run. About an hour later, Brill dragged in a ragged breath. “Are we there yet?”
“Soon.” Danton peered behind them. “I don’t think they are pursuing us. Though it won’t be too hard to locate us. You smell bad—like rotting meat.”
“It was your idea to escape into the refuse heap.”
“But it was your clumsiness that clothed you in stench. You’ll need to wash or something. Dragons can scent you. You smell almost as bad as that corpse at the vineyard and you know how the dragon reacted to that.”
“The river?”
“Yes, downstream, though. Quick, this way.”
Again, Danton went ahead. Soon they were wading into the river, Brill stopping to scrub his clothes before letting the current take him downstream. Finding the correct landmark, they both climbed the bank and checked for signs of pursuit. Seeing none, they angled right toward the rendezvous point.
The carefully selected meeting place was a small clearing. It was empty when they arrived. Danton and Brill waited, trying not to be anxious, and soon Danton’s men emerged from cover. None was missing though Merl, Danton’s new deputy, had an arrow wound in his upper arm. Brill wondered where they were to meet with Squab.
“Well, what’s the word?” Merl asked, rewinding a bandage around his arm after Danton had inspected it.
“Salinda was here.” Danton’s voice was tense. “The Inspector—he calls himself Gercomo now, apparently—had her branded as a witch and a whore. He’d painted her with whore paint—you can imagine the rest. Though rumor has it she was rescued and rode away on a dragon. The party pursuing them was set upon by other dragons. The account does seem rather far-fetched, but the Inspector and a few others escaped to tell the tale. Later, perhaps one or two days afterward, a large quantity of goods arrived, ferried from upriver, accompanied by a sizable band of men. The Inspector left with his goods and Helm, the local constable, retired. My informant also let slip that the town has enough dragon wine to last two years.”
“Do you know this Helm?”
“The constable?” Danton nodded. “Him I know—indolent and greedy. Although I didn’t know that he was friendly with the Inspector.” He paused and rubbed his beard thoughtfully, his mouth turned down in a frown.
“So what do we do now?” Merl asked. The rest of the men gathered round to hear.
“We follow the wine.”
“And Salinda?” Brill asked, not quite convinced that Danton could drop his pursuit of her.
Danton shrugged. “I have to have faith that she is well. What else can I do? Someone rescued her, and if he did that, then I expect he will not harm her. If she knows about the wine, I think she would seek it out too. She knows how important it is. Perhaps our paths will cross. Our job is to get that wine … and get it out to where it is needed. We can’t let that bastard Inspector loose on an unsuspecting world. He was sent to the vineyard for a reason—someone wanted him out of the way forever—and I’m inclined to agree with their judgment.”
Brill wished that there was a way to get the wine without meeting the Inspector again. He looked Danton square in the eye. “We follow the Inspector and then what?”
Danton’s remaining eye had a hard glint in it and his mouth was grim. “No mercy, Brill. No mercy.”
PART TWO
The dregs of a rich man’s wine are a poor man’s feast
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Thurdon’s Gift
The hot wind lifted the dust and swirled it around Laidan’s feet as she trudged closer to Klester Valley. Up ahead strode Master Thurdon, the hem of his cloak richly coated in grime. “Can’t we rest, Master?” Laidan called to him, adding some extra forlornness to her voice.
Without stopping Thurdon pointed to the mountain range ahead. “We must reach Trithorn Peak as soon as we can. With sufficient speed we will reach Vanden before nightfall.”
“And can we rest a while there?”
Thurdon paused and looked back. A mass of wild silver and black curls haloed his wrinkled face. He pursed his lips as he narrowed his gaze.
“We will stay in town for the night and then be on our way, first thing.”
Laidan let out a happy noise. Thurdon turned and faced her. “I’ll have none of your silliness, young woman,” he said. “I won’t have you dressing in fancy gowns and making a fool of yourself while we are there.” He faced forward again, grumbling under his breath as he quickened his pace.
Laidan hated hearing Thurdon’s lectures. She looked down at her long and shapeless homespun tunic and patted it. Dust billowed out from its folds. She ran a few steps to draw even with Thurdon. “I don’t understand why looking clean and attractive is a bad thing.”
Thurdon glanced at her sideways. “Take my word for it. Better to be plain and insignificant in this world. Haven’t you seen what’s out there?” He pointed behind them and she nodded.
“But Vanden’s different. With the observatory so close what can happen to me or you in that town?”
“On the surface it might seem different from the other places we have been, but the motives of humans are the same in Vanden as anywhere else. The layer of civility is just that … a film disguising the true nature of things.” He paused and waved an insect out of his face. “Perhaps after this trip you should remain at the observatory. I’m getting old … too old to protect you … and …”
“Behind? I don’t want that—”
Thurdon increased his pace even more, forcing Laidan to hurry after him, adjusting her rucksack on her shoulder.
“We’ll talk about it later,” he said.
“But I want to talk about it now. Will you be staying with me?”
Thurdon kept walking, but chewed his lips thoughtfully. Waiting expectantly for an answer, Laidan kept pace with him, occasionally casting sideways glances in his direction. She thought about how years of walking everywhere with Thurdon should have inured her to hardship and increased her stamina. Yet she was bone sore and heart worn—sick of moving about, sick of always saying goodbye. The observatory employed Thurdon to gather information about what was going on in the world and to seek out pre-Shatterwing items, usually books, and bring them back for safekeeping. Laidan was sick of scrounging around in ruins and markets, always on the lookout for something Thurdon valued. She had a long list of things she would rather be doing, like wearing nice clothes and putting her feet up somewhere, where people were interested in the things she liked.
As she glared at his back, she recalled that Thurdon was also searching for someone, a person rather than a thing, but he never spoke about it. She was young, she supposed, too young to be told his secrets.
Of late, she had sensed a longing within her, a longing for something else … something other than life on the road. She was a woman now—sixteen—and she wanted more. They always returned to the observatory after their wanderings. It was the closest thing to a home she’d ever had. The old stone sanctuary would be forever associated with Garan … he’d been there in her earliest memories when he’d stared at her with his violet-colored eyes, making it obvious that he hated her for some unknown reason. During their last encounter, Garan’s behavior toward her had changed. He had tried to kiss her and, even now, she didn’t know if he’d meant to tease her or to woo her.
“Come on,” Thurdon called. “You’re dragging your feet. Vanden is over the rise.”
Freeing herself from her thoughts, Laidan looked up and around. The outfields were filled with orange cacti and stunted liaberry trees. The sun slanted lower in the sky, casting shadows and bringing some relief with a cooler breeze. “But I was waiting for an answer.”
“I know you were. Let me think on the matter a bit more.”
*
Vanden sat against a backdrop of dark, shadowed mountains and violet sky. Moonrise
was an hour away so the dusk was subdued and slightly damp. The townsfolk had retreated to their homes by the time Laidan and Thurdon headed for the prince’s manor house situated on the far side of the town. By custom they always stayed in the prince’s house, perhaps in recognition of the old man’s ties to the observatory.
All seemed usual to Laidan as they walked through the streets. When they reached the mansion house, they were halted by the house guards. Not long after, the house steward arrived and sent people scurrying to prepare rooms and make announcements. He was a rather small man with a hunchback. With him was a plainly dressed servant.
“Ned will show you to the reception room, Master Thurdon,” the house steward said, indicating the man standing behind him. He then peered up at Thurdon with a sideways smile and Laidan thought that he almost winked. “Your timing is impeccable. Dinner is to be served within this half hour …” The steward’s gaze took in their clothing, and he coughed into his hand. “Forgive me. I can see that you should be shown some quarters first so that you can refresh your apparel. May I send a gown for the young lady? I am sure there is a suitable one to be borrowed for the purpose.”
Thurdon’s eyebrows drew together and he said rather sharply, “Thank you—quarters would be welcome. Laidan has suitable clothing already.”
The steward bowed shallowly, his gaze sliding to Laidan as he turned away. Ned gestured for them to follow him then lowered his head and shuffled forward.
Ned warned them the meal would be served soon and added, without rancor, that the prince didn’t like to be kept waiting. After assigning another menial servant to them, Ned departed. Thurdon dispensed with the servant’s services as soon as he could. Guiding Laidan by the elbow, he steered her gently through the door. The room they had been allocated was the same as it had been when they’d stayed in Vanden during the previous visit. There was a raised stone bed for Thurdon along the wall, a pallet for Laidan behind the window curtain, a small table and three chairs made from recycled metal, and a large cistern of water in the far corner. It was luxury after so many weeks on the road, and also familiar.
Shatterwing: Dragon Wine 1 Page 15
