The man nodded. “How much can you pay?”
Arlian hesitated. “I’m not sure,” he admitted. The truth was he wasn’t entirely sure the money was there at all, or how he could get his hands on it if it was—the innkeeper was not simply going to let a stranger carry a keg out of the cellars, no questions asked. “I still need to settle a few accounts. You’ll be here until tomorrow’s dawn?” That would give him one night to get what he needed.
The guard nodded. “But the caravan master may hire all the men he needs before that,” he warned. “In fact, I hope he does—I hate traveling with overconfident fools and insufficient defense.”
Arlian’s expression turned woeful, and the man in black smiled.
“There will be other caravans,” he said. “They gather here every so often. Perhaps instead of accompanying me to Lorigol you’ll find some other teacher bound southward to the Borderlands, or west to the mountain tribes. Go get your sword and armor, and…”
He stopped in midsentence and considered Arlian thoughtfully.
“Do you know how to choose a sword?” he asked. “Or armor?”
Arlian shook his head. “I was only eleven when my father died,” he said.
“But you’ve lasted this long without him.”
Arlian shrugged.
The man in black studied him. Then he looked around the plaza. Finally his gaze returned to Arlian.
“Do you have the money with you? Enough for a sword?”
“No,” Arlian admitted. “But I should have it by some time tonight.”
The man snorted, and gestured at the western sky, where the sun was much nearer the horizon that the zenith. “I can hardly hope to see you equipped by dawn if you don’t have the funds until tonight! But I don’t know that I like this caravan master that much in any case; he should have had his full complement of guards by now, and I shouldn’t have to do his recruiting. I’ll tell you what, my would-be lord—if this caravan doesn’t have twelve good men signed on by morning, I’ll stay here and take your money and see you properly fitted out, and we’ll join the next one that comes along, if it’s headed somewhere worth going. Would that suit you?”
“I believe it would,” Arlian said cautiously.
Indeed, it might prove ideal. If the next caravan did not depart until some days had passed, he might have time to learn some basic swordsmanship from this man, he might be able to rescue the women, and then carry them all away with him when the caravan departed.
He didn’t want to commit himself too completely, though; he might not be able to get the money at all, and he did not want to be responsible for costing this man his employment.
The guard seemed confident that he could find another job readily enough, though, and Arlian didn’t doubt it was true; certainly, had Arlian been hiring guards, this man appeared formidable and experienced enough.
“Well, then,” the man in black said. “Go and settle your accounts, and I’ll see you in the morning.”
“And what name shall I give when I look for you?” Arlian asked.
The guard smiled. “They call me Black,” he said, hooking a thumb under his leather tunic and displaying it. “And you?”
“Lanair,” Arlian said—he thought that alias was still safe enough.
“Then perhaps I’ll see you in the morning, Lord Lanair,” Black said. “Or perhaps not—I may be gone by the time you rise, if all goes well. Or you may be gone, if those accounts you wish to settle aren’t cooperative, eh?”
Arlian managed a nervous laugh. “The morning, then,” he said. He essayed a quick bow, then turned and made his way through the crowd toward the inn.
16
The Blood of the Grape
The interior of the Blood of the Grape was as crowded as the plaza. Harried boys and women were carrying trays back and forth through the throng in the common room; every chair was occupied, and most had someone standing behind them, waiting for the present occupant to finish.
Arlian had not anticipated anything like this when he heard Rose describe Lord Kuruvan’s hiding place; he had expected a quiet little inn like the Weary Traveler, not a vast and crowded caravansary.
The caravan merchants would surely have made most of their preparations elsewhere—in Manfort, or on their estates, or in the surrounding towns. This was only a final gathering place for the wagons and travelers.
The caravan’s personnel had certainly gathered, though, and they were obviously enjoying this chance to obtain food and drink in a civilized setting before venturing out into wilder lands.
Although, Arlian realized, those lands might not be that much wilder; surely there were other inns, other caravansaries, on the roads to the east. The route to Lorigol could be peppered with such establishments, neatly spaced, each one day’s journey from the last—at least for part of the distance. If the entire route were safe, there would be no need to travel in caravans in the first place.
Arlian knew little of geography beyond what he had been able to see from the Smoking Mountain, or what his grandfather had told him; he had no idea how far Lorigol was from Manfort, or what lay between, or where the ships that sailed from that port might trade. For the first time in his life that ignorance troubled him. He realized he didn’t have any very clear idea how long he would be gone if he signed onto a caravan.
Those were all matters he could worry about later, he told himself; for now he needed to focus on getting at Lord Kuruvan’s gold. He looked about, trying to think what he should do next.
He had originally thought he would take a room at the inn—though that might have been difficult in any case, since his entire remaining fortune, after settling at the Weary Traveler, consisted of eight coppers and a tiny silver coin of uncertain value—and then sneak out of his room at night, find his way down into the cellars, and carry off the keg. If it was there.
That was clearly not going to work; this place was full of people, and even if he could still somehow get a bed he was sure he wouldn’t get a room to himself. He doubted that he could move about the place, even in the middle of the night, without waking anyone.
He found himself a corner in which to stand, dropped his bundle to the floor, and watched the crowds while he tried to puzzle out a plan.
The steps were easy enough to spell out: He needed to get down into the cellars; he needed to find the keg; and he needed to get the gold out of the inn.
He had intended to sneak down into the cellars by night, but it belatedly occurred to him that he might not have been able to do so in any case; the cellars were probably kept locked. If so, his original scheme wouldn’t have worked at all; he was vaguely aware that there were ways to open locks without the appropriate keys, but he certainly didn’t know any of them.
That might complicate matters.
At present he didn’t even know where the cellar door was, but that would be easy enough to remedy—he could just follow one of the servers.
Once in the cellars, finding the keg should be fairly easy—how many kegs marked “sour wine” would there be? But getting it out through a crowd like this would not be so simple. He could not possibly hope to get it out unseen.
For a moment he considered ways he might simply carry it out openly—could he claim to be Lord Kuruvan’s representative, come to fetch it?
No. The innkeeper would surely demand at least a letter from Kuruvan, and there might well be a prearranged password, or some other means of verifying his right to the keg.
Could he switch it with another keg, and claim that he was a merchant in the caravan and it was his own property?
No, there would almost certainly be paperwork of some sort. He couldn’t expect to get away with that.
Carrying a keg out openly wasn’t going to work; someone would want to know who he was and where he was going. It would take an incredibly audacious thief to simply walk in and carry a keg away, but it wasn’t impossible that it had been tried. He’d been successfully audacious back in Westguard, but he couldn�
��t rely on it.
Besides, how big was this keg? How far could he carry it? Where would he take it? Would the innkeeper notice that it was gone?
Then a thought struck him. He didn’t really want the keg at all; he wanted what was in it. Suppose he were to knock the bottom in, take out the gold, and leave the empty keg where it was? A real keg of wine would make a mess, but gold wouldn’t leak out on the floor.
He had no tools to stave it in, but there would probably be something down there to tap the barrels of ale, after all.
He prodded his bundled belongings with one toe. He had only a tiny purse, one intended for a woman, that Sweet had given him; that would surely not be big enough for the booty he was after. He had no proper sack or chest, but he ought to be able to find something he could wrap the gold in quickly. One of his shirts, perhaps.
If he knotted the sleeves, then tied the collar shut—or just used the sleeves as sacks …
That might work. He might not be able to fit all the gold at once, if the keg were actually full—but that hardly seemed likely.
Then another, better thought struck him. He had another pair of stockings, in addition to those he wore. He could use those as sacks. They might not hold very much, but then he didn’t know how much was there.
He just needed to get into the right part of the cellars, and to be left alone there for a moment or two.
He considered the crowds, then knelt, opened his bundle, found the hosiery, and tucked it into the waistband of his breeches. Then he rolled his belongings back up and replaced the belts.
The next step was to hire an accomplice. He stood again and scanned the crowd. Then he stepped back to the door and looked out at the plaza.
He saw no promising candidates inside, but outside there were several children scattered about, in various attire. Some were helping load wagons, or running back and forth, but a few were merely standing and watching.
Arlian made his way toward a group of these—three of them, two girls and a boy, the oldest no more than ten, all three of them wearing little more than rags. As he drew near one of the girls happened to glance in his direction, and he caught her eye and beckoned.
She quickly slipped away from the others and came near him—but stopped out of reach and looked up at him warily. She was no more than eight, he judged, and woefully thin and dirty.
“Good evening,” Arlian said cheerfully. “Would you be interested in earning a little money?” He held out one of his coins.
She nodded enthusiastically.
Arlian knelt, bringing himself down to her level, as he fished two more coins and added them to the first.
“In a few minutes,” he said quietly, holding out the coins, “I’m going to go into the inn. After I do, I want you to count as high as you can—can you count to a hundred?”
She nodded again.
“Good. Then count to a hundred, or even more if you like. Then go to the back door of the inn and find someone who works there, and tell him that a man named Lord Inthior wants to speak to the proprietor right now. He can’t leave his wagon so he hired you to send the message. Do you understand?”
She nodded.
“Can you do that? Can you remember that, and say it?”
She nodded.
“Let me hear you say it, then.”
“Lord Inthior’s at his wagon and he wants to talk to the innkeeper right now, and he’s really mad about something!” she piped, in a high, clear voice.
Arlian smiled. “Very good.”
“And I count to a hundred first, or more, so you have time to get somewhere.”
The girl was clearly not stupid or naive.
“And when the proprietor comes out, you don’t see Lord Inthior anywhere, he must be gone.”
“I guess he got tired of waiting,” she agreed.
He handed her the three coins. “Do this, and you’ll have three more later tonight. Fair enough?”
She nodded.
“And in case you’re thinking this might be too dangerous and you’d be better with just the three, here’s the best part,” Arlian said. “If anyone suspects anything and gets mad, you can tell the truth and say I paid you. I’m Lord Inthior’s cousin. I’m not going to steal anything; I just want to check something while the proprietor’s not looking.”
She smiled broadly, obviously relieved—until then her expression had been utterly serious. “Oh, good,” she said. “Thank you, my lord; I’ll do what you said.” The three coins disappeared; Arlian didn’t see what she did with them.
“Good,” he said, getting back to his feet. “I’m counting on you.”
She nodded; he smiled at her, then turned away and headed for the inn.
Once inside it took longer than he liked to find the proprietor of the Blood of the Grape; the staff was busy, and not sure just where their employer was at any given time. At last, though, he found himself face to face with a formidable old woman.
“Lord Kuruvan sent me,” Arlian said. “You may have heard about a recent disturbance in Westguard?”
“I might have,” the innkeeper agreed.
“Well, there was a disturbance,” Arlian said. “And as a result of that incident, my uncle is concerned about his investments.”
“Everything’s fine here,” the woman said. “It’s busy tonight because of the Lorigol expedition, but we’ve had no trouble. You can tell your uncle he’ll have his rent on time.”
Arlian hid his surprise and quickly revised what he had planned to say; it had not occurred to him that Kuruvan might own the inn, but of course it made sense. What better place to leave his cache than on his own property?
And that explained how Kuruvan could be sure the innkeeper wouldn’t get curious and investigate what was really in the keg—Kuruvan had probably brought the keg here himself when the innkeeper wasn’t around, and as the owner he would have had free access to the cellars—or anywhere else. The innkeeper probably didn’t even know the keg was there, let alone what was in it.
That should make Arlian’s job easier.
“Of course,” he said. “He was never in any doubt of that. However, he asked me to look around and make certain that everything is in order.”
The innkeeper—not actually the proprietor at all, Arlian now realized—frowned. “Look where? At the accounts?”
“No, no—he wouldn’t trust me to do that. Just to see that everything here is as it should be. He asked me particularly to make sure that no one’s hiding in the cellars—I understand some scoundrel had concealed himself most cleverly in Westguard, and my uncle is concerned lest that be repeated here. If you would permit me to see the cellars for a moment, I can satisfy myself that his fears are groundless and be on my way.”
“Hiding in the cellars?” She plainly thought the idea was ridiculous.
Arlian shrugged. “This fellow reportedly hid in an attic for several days in Westguard.”
The innkeeper looked him in the eye, then glanced over his clothing.
“You’re Lord Kuruvan’s nephew?”
“Well, yes,” Arlian said. “My name is Lanair.”
“Do you have a letter, or other credentials?”
Arlian shook his head. “No. But I’m not going to take anything, or look at the accounts; I just want to poke around the cellars enough to satisfy Lord Kuruvan.”
She stared thoughtfully at him.
He sighed theatrically. “I know my appearance is a disgrace, and I should have a letter,” he said. “But I don’t. My uncle insisted I come here immediately, lest the villain escape.”
“Well, come on, then,” she said. “I don’t have time to argue about it. You’ll have to leave that with one of my staff, though.” She pointed at his bundle.
“Of course,” he agreed.
When that was arranged, she led the way to the cellar door. They had to step aside as a serving wench emerged with a tray of brimming mugs of ale, but then the innkeeper led the way down worn stone steps into the cool, lamplit gloom.
For a moment, as they reached the bottom and stepped onto stone pavement, Arlian felt an unreasoning rush of terror; the stone walls and lamplight were so reminiscent of the mines that on some level he felt himself flung back in time, trapped and enslaved again. Then he recovered and looked about with interest at the barrels that lined either side of a passage ahead.
In addition to wall-mounted fixtures, a shelf mounted between two barrels held four brass lamps similar to those used in the mine, all lit; the innkeeper took one of them down and led the way along the passage between the two rows of barrels. “Beer and ale and cider on that side,” she said, waving to the left, where a dozen huge tapped barrels were racked side by side against a stone wall. “Then the ordinary red and white over here,” she continued, indicating the right, where nine or ten smaller barrels, only two of them tapped, formed a barrier separating the passage from the unlit remainder of the cellars. Two gaps in the row provided access to that dark space beyond.
Arlian nodded as he maneuvered past a serving maid drawing ale from a barrel, noting that a tap, a corkscrew, a hammer, and a crowbar hung from hooks below the shelf of lamps, each tool on a leather thong. He stooped to glance under the framework supporting the barrels, acting out his ruse of searching for a concealed fugitive.
He had expected the innkeeper to turn to the right and take them through one of those gaps in the line of barrels, into the main part of the cellars, but she did not. At the end of the passage stood a heavy wooden door; the innkeeper marched directly up to it. She transferred the lamp to her left hand and fished a key from her pocket with the right to unlock it.
“The superior wines,” she said as the door swung wide.
The room beyond was unlit, perhaps fifteen feet square, with only the single entrance. All four walls were lined with wine racks, most of them full; some of the bottles were clean and new, others gray with dust and cobwebs, and others at every stage between. Wooden cases holding more bottles were stacked chest-high in the center of the room, leaving only a narrow walkway around the sides.
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