“Is that odd?” Dormael asked.
“Aye, it's a bit unusual,” Finnelan said. He regarded Dormael with a cautious eye for a moment, and then cleared his throat. “Listen, I'm just a salty old Philosopher who got bored with my studies. Decided to try my hand at management, and I'm not too bad, if I do say so myself.”
“That's...wonderful,” Dormael ventured, unsure where Finnelan was going with this line of questioning.
“There aren't many of us Administrators, you know. Only ten, though they may add an eleventh next year, for a Chapterhouse being built in some town in the arse-end of the Teptian Mountains. We have a little meeting every season, the ten of us, to share news and such. All the Administrators say the same thing—wizards, heading back to Ishamael in droves. Save a few Warlocks—you lot are always going to far-off places. That's nothing new,” Finnelan said.
“Do you know why? We've been in Alderak since before the Solstice,” Dormael said.
“There's been a bit of talk. Lots of resentment for the Mekai. Apparently there are reports that the Galanians are gearing up for war again. I don't know the truth of it, but the rumor is that they're rounding up Sevenlanders within their borders. Looking for our agents, some say,” Finnelan shrugged. “Now, I'm just a salty old Philosopher, you see. I wouldn't know what sort of games you Warlocks play, but I thought you might have some insight.”
Dormael stared at him for a moment. “No. I've been doing something else entirely. I hadn't heard anything like that.”
The gods-damned Imperials again, Dormael thought.
“Well, I suppose that's fair enough. In any case, you should know that there's been a lot of talk about the Mekai, and the lack of response from the Conclave about all the rumors going around. The city will be crawling with wizards by the time you get there,” Finnelan grumbled, obviously under the impression that Dormael was lying to him. “Do you have any news to report?”
“Nothing of great importance,” Dormael shrugged. “The Imperials move around freely in Ferolan now, though everyone moves around freely in Ferolan.”
“True enough,” Finnelan nodded. “Will you be needing anything?”
“I need to requisition some funds,” Dormael said. “Just standard traveling money, nothing lavish.”
“Your sea captain almost cleaned me out,” Finnelan said. “I can part with a pittance, but nothing too great. The staff here doesn't work for free, you know.”
“Thank you,” Dormael nodded. “Anything you can do is appreciated.”
Around an hour later, Dormael pushed through the front gate of the Chapterhouse gardens, and into the streets of Mistfall. The conversation weighed heavily on his mind. He hadn't heard anything about Galanians rounding up his countrymen, but he had been out of touch for a while. If the empire was imprisoning Sevenlanders, the population would be simmering. Dormael hoped that things weren't as bad as Finnelan had described, and tried to banish those thoughts from his mind. He wanted to enjoy the stroll.
Mistfall was a city alive with people. They trotted to and fro on errands, and yelled happy greetings from second, or third-story windows. They screamed advertisements for their wares, or news of recent events, at large street intersections. Mistfall buzzed with the quiet energy to which only large cities can aspire.
The Crescent City was built of red bricks and gray stones. The outer walls were granite, dark and foreboding in the cool midday sun, but free of the scars of siege engines. Mistfall had never been tested in battle, though part of that was due to the Sevenlanders finding the sacking of cities to be distasteful. Ivy climbed the walls in many places, and the people who lived here did little to discourage the creeper vines from growing. Most Sevenlanders were fond of nature, and they preferred to add a little green flavor to the bare stone walls that surrounded the city. The city's leadership, however, regularly cut them down.
Looking out across the faces of the people, he spotted Orrisans, Runemians, Teptians, Farra-Jerrans, and even a few people from the savannas of Tasha-Mal. Mals were ever a nomadic tribe, hanging on harder to their traditions than the rest of their Sevenlander cousins. A strong and robust people, they hunted lions on the veldt, and held some of the most famous—or infamous, depending on your viewpoint—festivals in the entirety of the Sevenlands. Dormael greeted a few as they passed him, and the motley group of hunters raised their spears in return. They looked every bit the tattooed, nomadic people they were.
He strolled down the boulevards headed north from the Temple District, where the Conclave Chapterhouse was located, and meandered past the Conclave's docks. As he came farther north, the cries of merrymakers and merchants reached his ears as he neared the Western Tradefair. The Tradefairs were a long-standing tradition in Mistfall, as Sevenlanders from all over Soirus-Gamerit came to trade goods, stories, and to share in the company of their countrymen. They drew the attention of sharp businessmen from all over the world, who shipped anything and everything to Mistfall in order to ensure its passage under the eyes of so many possible buyers.
Tents and wooden stands carpeted the park that had been set aside for the Tradefair, and people of varied descent and dress moved amongst them. There were ale tents, and Dormael could hear the sounds of mugs clinking with toasts, and even a few drunken voices rising in off-key tunes. It brought a smile to his face to be home again, and hear folk songs that were familiar to him.
As the sun reached its noonday peak, the Golden Mug came into sight along the street. It was a large brick building, and above its open double doors hung a wooden sign with the painting of a frothy, golden mug. It was one of the most famous Inns in Mistfall, and a destination for many traveling musicians and storytellers. Even now, as he came within shouting distance of the door, the sound of clinking silverware and the din of conversation floated to his ears. Above the general racket, the sounds of a guitar lilted from the door like smoke from a pipe, playing something upbeat. Dormael nodded to the man at the door, and pushed his way inside.
He spotted D’Jenn, Shawna, and Bethany as soon as he walked in the door. D’Jenn, as always, had picked a table near the back wall of the common room, where he would be able to see the door. Dormael waved to them as he came in, and D’Jenn's fingers began waggling in the Hunter’s Tongue.
Look who is on stage, D’Jenn signed.
Dormael turned to see whom D'Jenn was talking about, and felt a wide smile come unbidden to his face. A woman balanced on the edge of a stool, cradling a guitar to her chest and plucking out a lively melody on the strings. Her fingers crawled over the surface of the neck like mad spiders, and she barely seemed to notice. She sang in time to the music, a sultry accompaniment to a Runemian folk song.
Her hair was a shining blonde, worn both loose and braided in different places. Odd bells and pieces of jewelry were woven into her hair, after the Runemian fashion, and a multitude of bracelets decorated her delicate wrists. She wore leather pants and a loose fitting shirt of some flowing material, and gilded shoes with golden buckles decorating the sides.
It had been a while since Dormael had seen her, but the seasons had only refined her beauty. They caught eyes, and he saw a smirk form on her face around the words she was singing. His heart beat a little faster as they acknowledged one another, and he shouldered his way to the bar to get a drink. Though it was still early in the afternoon, the Mug was packed with patrons in various states of drunkenness. By the time he had secured a pair of mugs, he realized that the music had stopped.
“You vagabond of a magus,” a sultry voice said from behind him. “Where in the Six Hells have you been the last few seasons?”
“Seylia,” he smiled, turning to offer the woman a drink. “It's good to see you.”
“I'll bet it is,” she winked, stalking forward to take the mug from his hand. She raised her cup in answer to his, and they both took a long drink. Then, without warning, she pulled Dormael's beard until his face was level with hers, and pressed her mouth to his for a brief, passionate moment.
&
nbsp; “Just so your woman knows who got to you first,” she said as she pulled away. She winked and drew back from him, favoring him with the full weight of a smile.
She had always been infuriating, and Dormael had never minded.
“She's not my woman, Seylia,” he sighed. “She's a friend.”
“And the child? Did you finally get some poor maiden pregnant?”
“What a cruel fate for a child that would be,” Dormael laughed. “No. She's not mine. Just follow me, I'll introduce you.”
Seylia gave him an odd look, but took his arm and allowed him to lead her back to the table.
She embraced D'Jenn as an old friend, eliciting a rare smile from him. They traded a few idle words as Dormael pulled a chair over for Seylia to use, and she began to go around the table making her introductions. With Bethany, she winked and produced a sweet with a flourish of her hand, tossing it to the girl from across the table. Bethany reached out with surprising agility and snatched the thing from the air, making it disappear into her own cloak in a blur of tiny hands. She beamed at Seylia, who smiled back and nodded at the girl, as if they had just participated in some odd ritual from which everyone else was excluded.
Then, she gave Shawna the traditional Sevenlander bow. “My, you're pretty for an eastern girl, aren't you?”
Shawna rose from the bow, her back stiffening. “I suppose.”
“I tried calling on the two of you at the Conclave the last time I was in Ishamael,” Seylia said, turning her back on Shawna and settling into a chair between Dormael and D'Jenn. “You were gone, though, predictably. I don't know why I even continue trying to be friends with you.”
“Because we always have the best stories for you, and Dormael has decided to pay for your drinks from now until the gods return,” D'Jenn said.
Dormael opened his mouth to argue, but stopped himself. He did end up paying her bill, most of the time. He settled for giving his cousin a dark look, which D'Jenn ignored.
“You forgot how much I love the two of you, though you treat me so horribly. All these years and you've never deigned to take me on one of your grand adventures,” Seylia smiled. “One day you're going to take me to Tauravon. I so want to see the Great River City.”
Dormael snorted. “Our 'grand adventures' never take us to places like that. You should have seen the last place we left. Beautiful town. The mud was the most pleasant brown color, and it came right up to your knees.”
“Come now, it couldn’t have been all that bad,” Seylia said, favoring Shawna with a considering glance. “I doubt a girl as pretty as this one came out of some mud-soaked hovel. Really, Dormael, you’ve got to stop picking up so many strays.”
Shawna’s face reddened, and Dormael winced.
“I didn’t pick her up, Seylia,” Dormael said, giving her a flat look.
“I’m not a cat,” Shawna clipped. She offered her hand over her cold, green eyes. “Baroness Shawna Llewan.”
Seylia took her hand, meeting Shawna’s gaze.
“I’m so pleased,” she smiled. “You can call me Seylia, dear—we’re all friends, here.”
“Of course.” Shawna regarded the woman with cold glare, but said nothing else. Dormael was surprised. Earlier in the winter, she might have demanded some respect because of her bloodline. Now, she remained silent.
“Seylia,” D’Jenn said, breaking the tension. “Why don’t you fill us in on what’s been happening? We’ve been in the east for some time.”
Both sets of eyes went to D’Jenn, but he stared them down with a blank expression.
“Well, where to start?” Seylia said, leaning back in her chair and pulling a knee to her chest. “The Rashardians have been restless. Apparently there has been fighting between warring factions out in the waste.”
“Rashardians fighting each other?” D'Jenn asked.
“That's what the rumors say, though I haven't asked much about it. For all I care, the Rashardians can kill each other until the gods return,” she said. “There has been some raiding into Tasha-Mal, and I think an attack on the Bastion. Those happen all the time, though, and the raids come up and down the coast like the seasons.”
“The Rashardians raid the Sevenlands?” Shawna asked.
“For as long as there have been Rashardians and Sevenlanders,” Dormael nodded. “Longer, probably.”
“I thought Rashardia hadn't been to war in ages,” Shawna said.
“Officially,” D'Jenn nodded. “But Rashardians have ever been our enemies. Our oldest stories involve tales of them raiding into the southlands, taking slaves and slaughtering entire villages.”
“Killing Rashardians is every Sevenlander's favorite sport,” Seylia said, rolling her eyes. “Unless you're talking about the northerners—Teptians, Farra-Jerrans, and Duadans. Those idiots, however, like to take trips into the Gathan Mountains searching for the Garthorin. If anything, they're even worse than the southerners.”
“Garthorin?” Shawna asked. “Are those stories true, then? The Gathan Mountains are full of man-eating monsters?”
Bethany, who had been laying her head on Shawna's side, perked an eye open at the mention of the Garthorin. Dormael wondered how often she pretended to be asleep, listening to their conversations. How much would she understand?
“True enough, depending on what kind of stories you've heard,” D'Jenn nodded, bringing Dormael's attention back to the conversation.
“Not much, just the sort of things you might expect. Stories about people being eaten alive by beasts in the forms of men,” Shawna said, giving D'Jenn a surprised look. “I would have expected you to tell me those stories were just as ridiculous as the tales about wizards.”
“In this case, it sounds about right,” Dormael said. “The Garthorin are not men—we know that much about them. There are accounts in the Conclave libraries of expeditions sent into the Gathan Mountains, and the sorts of things that they encountered. Chilling.”
“So they're beasts, then?” Shawna asked.
“Something like that,” D'Jenn nodded. “No one knows where they came from, but they've been there as long as most can remember. A long time ago, a magical barrier was erected to keep them confined to the mountains. Every now and then one of them will try and come down out of the passes, but they cannot pass the barrier. The magic kills them outright, leaving their corpse to mark the boundary.”
“I've heard that Teptian children make a game of hunting for the corpses,” Seylia said. “It doesn't always work out for them. More than a few have disappeared.”
“Does this magical boundary not protect them? Keep the children from passing into the territory of these...things?” Shawna asked.
“It's not a physical wall,” D'Jenn replied, shaking his head. “It's an invisible boundary, and people can pass back and forth with no effect. You wouldn't even know when you'd stepped across it.”
“And the children go hunting for these things?” Shawna asked, an incredulous look on her face.
“Teptians are all crazy that way. They believe that the only way to honor the gods is to beat each other half to death, or die in some glorious fight,” Dormael said.
“This coming from the man whose brother fights in the Gladiator's Ring?” Seylia asked.
“My brother is a perfect example of insanity,” Dormael smiled. “The Teptians have been made to fight their entire lives. My brother is a Gamerit—he knows better.”
“I'm not following any of this,” Shawna sighed.
“Oh, don't worry, dear. You'll learn eventually, I'm sure,” Seylia said, grinning at Shawna like an errant child. Shawna gave the woman a look that was more grimace than smile.
“Tept is in the northwestern Sevenlands,” D'Jenn said, passing out a new round of drinks as the serving girl deposited them on the table. “They've always been a strange people, even into antiquity. Every Solstice, they believe the gods must be honored with blood sacrifice.”
“That sounds archaic,” Shawna said, her lip curling in disgust.
“Maybe, but the bastards volunteer for the pleasure,” Dormael added. “They fight to the death in a huge spectacle. The more skilled the fighter, the greater the glory. Those who are killed are worshiped at their gravesites like demigods.”
“And your brother does this?” Shawna asked. “Fights to be killed for the honor of the gods?”
“No,” Dormael laughed. “Those are just the religious festivals, and only Teptians subscribe to that old belief.”
“I think they just like to fight,” Seylia sighed, twirling one of her blonde locks around a finger.
“There are, however, games of sport held in Tept every year,” D'Jenn said. “Warriors from anywhere can come and compete, and the prizes can be substantial. Those bouts are usually to the yield, or defeat, rather than the death.”
“Usually?” Shawna asked.
“Sometimes accidents happen,” Dormael said, “and sometimes two fighters agree to fight to the death for personal reasons. It doesn't happen often, but it does happen.”
“I see. So, your brother competes in these games, then?” Shawna asked.
“He does,” Dormael said. “In fact, he's been the Champion for two years running.”
“Is that so?” Shawna said, raising an eyebrow.
“It is,” D'Jenn nodded. “Allen is as skilled as they come. I'd be interested in seeing the two of you spar, actually.”
“Can women compete in these games?” Shawna asked.
“Certainly,” Dormael nodded.
“Even a pretty foreign girl like yourself,” Seylia said.
Shawna turned an empty smile on Seylia. “A pretty foreign Blademaster—don't forget that part, dear.”
“Is that so? How wonderful for you,” Seylia sighed, looking Shawna up and down with something of a dismissive air. She rose with a smile and tossed her hair over her shoulder. “I've got to return to the stage before the innkeep decides to keep part of my fee.” She bent over and gave Dormael a warm kiss on the cheek, lingering a spare moment longer than was proper. “Don't disappear on me,” she said.
With that, she sauntered away back toward the stage.
The Knife in the Dark Page 3
