It‘s the pits, trying to remember who I‘ve told what to, I thought. If this sword pulls Tarani and Antonia together—wouldn‘t it be wonderful to be able to tell somebody the whole truth for a change?
And what will Tarani think when she hears it? I wondered. I‘ve been lying to her about myself since the day I met her. I hope she won‘t hate me for it.
After we had eaten, Vasklar escorted Tarani and me into a private sitting room.
“And now, my friends,” he said. “I will not ask what happened in Eddarta. Thymas and the two Sha’um are missing, Rika is not at your side, and you come back to us in the manner of an escape. That speaks clearly enough of disaster. So I ask only: how else may I be of service to you?”
“Vasklar, we are grateful beyond words for everything you and your people have already done for us,” I said. “At this point, we need only what you would provide any traveler—time to rest, and food and water to send us on our way.”
“And where does your way lead?” Vasklar asked, squinting at me in the lamplight.
“Through Chizan,” I said. “Back to Raithskar.”
“A long journey,” Vasklar said. “From here to Chizan, what route?”
I exchanged a look with Tarani, and knew we were in agreement on this point.
“The quickest way possible,” I said. “Straight across the desert.”
Vasklar didn’t argue with us. “The Strofaan is the worst of the deserts,” he said. “And the quantity of water you would need—”
His voice trailed off as his mind turned inward, figuring. Tarani spoke into the silence. “Lonna is still with us, Vasklar,” she said. “She can carry small amounts of water. If you will provide that, and feed her when she visits—”
Vasklar smiled, his eyes nearly disappearing in wrinkles. “I am old enough that I recognize change when I see it coming,” he said, “but still too young to predict its nature. I do know that you two are special in the world, and the agents of change. And knowing this part of the world as I do, I must assume that change will be an improvement.
“Of course, we will provide whatever you need, my friends. Go now to your rest.”
We had been given one of the family’s guest rooms. Shallow, wide salt blocks created a big platform in one corner of the room, and it was covered by a rich, fluffy pallet.
A double bed, I thought. And the usual courtesy of asking what arrangement we preferred was noticeably absent. Either the Stomestad Fa‘aldu are getting crowded, or the way Tarani and I feel about one another is patently obvious.
We were exhausted, just out of one desert and very much aware that we were about to head into another one. Tarani and I slept together in that bed for eight hours and never touched except to kiss lightly morning and evening. There was no tension, no strain, no urgency. There was caring and togetherness and the pleasure of being secure among friends. I caught the look that told me Tarani’s dreams still disturbed her, but even with that, it was a comfortable time.
On the morning we were to leave, the courtyard was deserted. Tellor’s caravan had departed, unmourned and apparently quite efficient without us, two days earlier. Vasklar walked with us to the gate and, according to the ritual, returned our weapons.
“I would ask one favor of you,” he said. “When you reach Chizan, send word to us that you are safe. Speak to Pornon, at the High Crossing Inn. The Inn is our last stop for the slaves we help. Take this—” He handed us a thin strip of leather that carried inked Gandalaran characters that made no sense.
Code, I thought. The High Crossing Inn must be the “safe house” Jaris mentioned, and this is the way the Fa‘aldu find out a slave is safe, so they can release Jaris‘s commission for payment.
“Pornon will take it to a maufel who is also one of us,” Vasklar said as I took what he offered. “When we receive it, we will know that you are safe, and rejoice.”
Tarani was the one who brought up the logic flaw. “You will know we have reached Chizan,” she said. “Does that mean, necessarily, that we are safe?”
Vasklar chuckled. “I see your point. For escaping slaves, they are truly one and the same—the High Lord’s strength does not reach into Chizan.”
“Where do the slaves go after Chizan?” I asked.
“We have no idea,” Vasklar answered. “It is better that way, I think. They agree not to communicate with the Fa’aldu again after they have sent back their ‘safe’ sign.”
“Then how do you know they have truly escaped?” Tarani asked.
“By knowing that they have not been recaptured,” Vasklar said. “The Fa’aldu would hear if it happened. No one,” he said proudly, “who has reached Pornon in Chizan has ever been recaptured. Believe me, my friends, the former slaves who have passed through the High Crossing Inn are living now in Omergol or Raithskar, living free lives and, I trust, happier ones than those they left.”
I slipped the leather strip into my pouch. “We will send it back, Vasklar. Thank you for all you’ve done for us.”
He became serious. “You are one of the few who know my feelings about Eddarta, how I detest the slave system. When I say that I see in you the beginning of a welcome change, I am sincere. I am honored to be a part of it through any aid I have been able to offer you.”
There it was again—destiny. It crawled up my spine, flushed my face, and left me absolutely tongue-tied. The admiration of men like Vasklar humbled me and frightened me.
Impulsively and timidly, Tarani stepped up to the Elder and hugged him, then shouted with laughter when he hugged her back with surprising strength.
It seemed a good omen that we were sent into the desert with laughter as our farewell.
17
Vasklar hadn’t been kidding about the Strofaan Desert. I figured that, by now, I could count myself a connoisseur of deserts. On a one-to-ten scale for unpleasantness, the Strofaan rated around fifteen. When Thymas, Tarani, the two sha’um, and I had crossed its edge from Sulis to Stomestad, we had tasted the Strofaan, no more than that. It hadn’t been palatable then; as a steady diet, it was even less appealing.
As in most of Gandalara, there wasn’t much wind, so a nearly invisible fog of salty dust particles hung constantly in the air. We wore our scarves face-wrapped every minute, except when Lonna dropped down to us every day.
Knowing we could count on the bird to bring us water, we had stuffed our backpacks with bread, cheese, fruit, and dried meat—every portable foodstuff Vasklar could provide. We rested while the bird was there. We allowed ourselves to drink more than would have been wise, had we been carrying our own water supply, and ate our largest meal of each day. Then we traded Lonna’s full water bags for our empty ones and sent her off again. Other meals, between her visits, were eaten more or less on the run.
We had nothing to do besides cross that desert, so we did it as fast as we could. Zaddorn had taught me a special travel pattern, and Tarani and I followed it, running or walking for four hours, resting for one. The maps I had seen didn’t have the direct distance from Stomestad to Inid, the Refreshment House closest to Chizan. Apparently, it was too rough a trip to consider, if you didn’t have your own private flying water tank.
I had estimated ten to twelve man-days. With our faster travel pattern, and the discomfort of the trip encouragement in itself, Tarani and I made it to Inid in six days.
In spite of the hardship of the desert crossing, I was feeling good when we reached Inid. The physical pain of the surface wounds inflicted by the dralda in Eddarta—little more than an irritation, really—had faded during the trip to Stomestad, but the shivery memory of Obilin popping up out of nowhere had been a constant shadow in my mind. Crossing the desert, devoting every ounce of energy to the simple task of survival, had cleared away the mental dross of guilt and fear, and I was simply glad to be alive and with Tarani.
The crossing hadn’t involved deprivation, and this long run, so soon after the trip to Eddarta from Lingis, honed my body to a fitness level I was sure even Marka
sset had never matched. I felt strong and clean in a way water could never clean me. It was as if the sand had scoured away the past and left me ready to face the future.
Tarani seemed to share those feelings. Even though the Inid family welcomed us—Lonna had been making her waterruns to Inid since we had passed the midpoint of the desert—we stayed only one night, enjoying the luxury of eight full hours of sleep. Tarani seemed to be untroubled by her dreams. We were grateful for a bath, clean clothes, and more provisions, but we were eager to get on with what we had to do.
The Zantro Pass wasn’t an easy crossing—too high to breathe easily; lots of wind and rock and dust—but we didn’t have much trouble. Lonna, no longer carrying her waterbags, rode inside Tarani’s tunic. The bird had worked harder than either one of us during the desert crossing, and she showed it in thinness and shortness of breath. She deserved a little cuddling, and I didn’t begrudge Tarani’s solicitousness toward Lonna.
But their closeness, as always, reminded me of an uncross-able distance.
I could be happy right now, I thought, if Keeshah were with us, or even if I could talk to him. It still feels like an essential part of me is numb and useless.
We reached the slope that overlooked Chizan at nightfall. The lights and the smell of the city were equally noticeable.
“Can we not go past?” Tarani asked.
“You remember what the Zantil was like,” I said. “We’ll need rest, and a fresh supply of water, before we tackle the higher crossing. And we did promise Vasklar to send word back through Pornor.
“Don’t worry,” I said, putting an arm around her shoulders. “Rika isn’t here to identify me, and your headfur doesn’t show through the scarf. With our faces wrapped—” I sniffed the air. “—which is a survival tactic in Chizan, so no one will wonder about it—we’re indistinguishable from any of a hundred other travelers.”
Tarani sighed and nodded agreement. She pulled her water pouch from her belt, poured a little water into her cupped hand, and let Lonna dip some out. She drank some and splashed the rest on her face. The bird flew off to hunt as Tarani and I walked down into Chizan.
The city hadn’t changed noticeably from the time when Molik was running things. Water was still outrageously expensive; we bought some with the money Zefra had given to Tarani in Lord City which had been, through the generosity of our Fa’aldu friends, totally useless until now. I had retained my gold-filled belt through all the clothing changes, but those coins were too dangerous to spend here.
In Raithskar, though, I thought, they won‘t be as noticeable. They‘re a fair fortune, enough to build a house … one with room for several kids and at least one sha‘um.
Domestic bliss. I wonder if that‘s anywhere in my “destiny”?
The High Crossing Inn was easy to find—it was a three-story building made of mud-brick and stone located close to the eastern edge of the city. Like all other such establishments, it had a vlek pen for a back yard.
We’ll sleep with the windows closed, I promised myself. Remembering the flea-infested pallets we’d found in Chizan on our last visit, I added: and on the bare floor.
We went in the front door, past an opening on our left that led to the inevitable bar/dining room. A rickety table rested at the foot of the stairs across the smallish lobby, with a man seated behind it, draped over it, and snoring loudly.
“On second thought,” I whispered to Tarani, “we’ve got our water. Why don’t we move on tonight, and sleep just this side of the pass? We can cross early in the morning.” A daylight crossing of the Zantril had been bad enough; I had no desire to try it at night.
Tarani smiled. “I wonder that the plan did not occur to me,” she said. “But since we have come this far, let us at least deliver the message to Pornor.”
It did seem that we owed it to Vasklar. I walked over to the man asleep on the desk and poked his shoulder. He came awake quickly, and I stepped back from the dagger that appeared in his hand.
“We don’t want trouble, friend,” I assured him. “We’re looking for Pornor.”
He put away the dagger. “You found him. Sorry about pulling the knife; guess I knew falling asleep out here was risky.” He stretched and yawned, displaying broad shoulders. He was younger than I had first thought, and in good shape.
I took another step backward, and dug in my pouch for the leather strip.
“Vasklar sent this—” I began, holding it out to him.
He had taken it from me before I finished, and was holding it close to the lamp, reading it. When he looked up, he was smiling.
“I’ve been expecting you,” he said loudly. “Rooms and meals are on the house.”
“We won’t be staying,” I said, edging Tarani toward the door. She was going willingly. Something felt funny; she sensed it too. “Just send the message to Vasklar.”
I heard a brutal sound, and Tarani’s arm slipped out of my hand. When I looked around, she was on the floor, unconscious. A small man, thin and wiry, stood behind her.
Except for his size and the fact that he was holding Rika, I doubt if I would have recognized Obilin.
His face and neck were crisscrossed with healed scars; he wore a patch over his left eye. When he spoke, his voice grated out in a vicious whisper.
“This is what you left me to,” he said, making it clear that he was shouting inside. “But even dralda couldn’t kill me. Not me.“
The shock of seeing him was beginning to take hold, and I fought it off. He hit Tarani, I reminded myself, and let the anger burn away any sympathy for the mangled man. And hell do worse, if I let him.
“Sharam, of course, is dead,” Obilin continued. “Indomel finally figured out that you and the girl had escaped together; when the High Guard came looking for you, they found me. They took me to the High Lord, who accused me—much too late, of course—of having deliberately misled him.”
The ravaged man stepped over Tarani‘s inert body and came slowly toward me. I backed away, trying to assess what I saw. There were a lot of scars, but they looked to be shallow, and cleanly healed. His face might look like a sandflea track, I thought, but he seems to move easily enough. A slight limp on the right—not enough to slow him down much. His hands—scarred, too, maybe some loss of strength in the fingers? But Obilin never counted much on strength. It was his agility and quickness that made him a fighter to be reckoned with.
I don‘t think that‘s changed much.
How the hell did he know about this place? How did he get here so fast? In the name of conscience, what does it take to kill this man?
Obilin swaggered, the familiar movement confirming his identity, complete with the danger factor.
“You’ll be happy to know, Rikardon, that I confessed everything to the High Lord. Who you are. Who she was, and is. The illusionist. The whore. Indomel might have killed me, just for knowing how powerful she is. But I had a strong bargaining point.
“I knew where you were going. Exactly where you were going.”
I backed further, glancing over my shoulder to see how much more room there was before I hit the wall beside the stairway. Behind Obilin, a small crowd had clustered in the doorway to the bar. They were watching, fascinated, not even betting on the outcome of the imminent fight.
“Of course, I had to admit to Indomel that I’d been stealing useless slaves and selling them for a profit,” he said. “In order to explain that I had also been selling the ones who thought they were escaping safely with the aid of the Fa’aldu. They all come here, you see. On my last visit to Eddarta—the one during which the lady’s talent captured my fascination—Pornor approached me about the scarcity of his trade, and we struck a deal. At that time, Jaris was the only Fa’aldu agent in the mines. Now, thanks to my encouragement, there is one in every single mine.
“They send slaves here through the Fa’ladu system. Pornor sends back their silly coded messages, and the mine agent is paid. Meanwhile, Pornor acts as my agent and turns them over to Molik—Worfi
t, now—who, um, uses them in any way he sees fit.”
I thought of Yoman and Rassa, the two escaping Eddartans whose places we had taken. They had thought themselves safe, following the Fa’aldu instructions. I thought of Vasklar, of the people he thought he had saved.
“And what happens if Worfit doesn’t want them?” I demanded, letting the rage grow in me, waiting for the right time to move.
“He kills them,” Obilin answered with a shrug. “But he pays well for the ones he takes, and Pornor and I split the fee. It is a profitable venture.”
Why is he letting me keep him talking? I wondered, suddenly suspicious.
Too late, I saw the men on the stairway. They lunged at me, grabbed my arms, knocked away my sword, held me pinned. Obilin smiled, and seemed no more ugly now than at any other time I had seen that smile.
“No chances this time,” Obilin grated. The light mood vanished. The chatter was gone now; he let the hatred show. “Thanks to you, Rikardon, I’ve lost a very comfortable position in Eddarta. Oh, Indomel still thinks I work for him—that I came here on his behalf, looking for the lady. But I didn’t come all this way only to take you back to Eddarta. Oh, no. Not at all.”
He moved closer.
“This,” Obilin said, stabbing the air for emphasis “is private. I knew when I left that I wouldn’t be going back. That’s why I brought this along.”
He turned the sword; lamplight gleamed against its silvery edges.
“Worfit isn’t a selfish man,” Obilin continued. “In fact, I find him quite easy to work with. When he saw me, and heard my story, he agreed that I had at least as fair a claim on your death as he does.
“Do you want to hear the bargain, Rikardon?” he asked, his voice getting hoarser and rougher as he approached me. “I had the sword. I traded it to him for your life, on condition that I could first kill you with it. And it is a bargain, Rikardon. Your life isn’t worth a fleabite. Especially right now.”
The Well of Darkness Page 15
