The Sentient Fire (The Seven Signs)

by D. W. Hawkins

  He wondered idly, as he soaked in the hot water after he had washed himself clean, what Alton and D’Jenn would think about his midnight games with Lyssa. He felt sure that D’Jenn would laugh and shake his head, but would Alton think anything of it? Would he find it insulting or improper? Dismissing the notion, he laughed quietly to himself and leaned back to soak his hair and the top half of his long, now un-braided goatee. Alton would think it funny, he was sure.

  Later, as the heat was quickly leaving the once warm bathwater, Dormael climbed out regretfully and dressed. It wasn’t often that he got to enjoy a bath like this, and he savored it every day he was here. He dried off with the brown towel the servants had left him, and put on his clothes once more. He surveyed himself in the mirror.

  It was alarming, his appearance with an un-braided goatee. It was bushy and curly and just wouldn’t seem to sit down and behave. He didn’t see how D’Jenn dealt with it. Sitting on the edge of his unused bed, he contemplated his and D’Jenn’s next course of action as he slowly and deliberately braided his beard back into submission.

  There wasn’t much that he and his cousin could do without the girl waking up and talking to them. All they had to go on were their speculations, the increasingly odd evidence that surrounded her arrival, and that strange way the magic seemed to jump out of them when they were near her. If it weren’t for the last, Dormael would have been long gone by now, but there was just something incredibly compelling about the girl.

  Finishing his last plait, he tied the end of his beard into a small, stylized weight to keep it from blowing in the wind, and wrapped a long leather string around the knot to hide it and firmly secure it in place. He seized his magic once again, and separated the accumulated dust from his clothing and sent it out the window, cleaning his garments quite effectively. He grabbed his long quarterstaff from where it was leaning beside the door, and left the room quietly for the hallway outside.

  Stepping to the door across the hall from his own, he used the top end of his quarterstaff to rap politely on the portal. D’Jenn answered his knock almost immediately, and giving Dormael a hand gesture that said “wait a minute”, he grabbed up his morningstar and shrugged into his cloak. Performing a last minute check to make sure he had everything he needed, he stepped out into the hallway with his cousin.

  “It’s going to be a cool morning,” said D’Jenn, “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the weather here in the east.”

  “It’s not too much different from the Sevenlands,” said Dormael, “it gets cold there as well.”

  “Yes, well the cool spells usually stick to the northern tribelands, and Soirus-Gamerit doesn’t usually get much of it,” D’Jenn grumbled. He strapped his morningstar onto his belt, and together the cousins descended the stairs that led to the ground floor.

  “So, what do you think we will need coz?” asked Dormael, stepping out into the hallway that led into the main wing of the manor.

  “Well, mostly I just wanted to get down to the docks and see if we can buy passage over to Soirus-Gamerit or Duadan, and listen to the rumors coming into the city. More of an information gathering venture than a shopping trip,” explained D’Jenn.

  “You sound confident that we can persuade the girl to come with us,” noted Dormael, raising an eyebrow at his cousin.

  “Even if she doesn’t like the idea,” D’Jenn said, “I think Alton will ask you to smuggle her out of the country. She has obviously made an enemy of someone powerful, if that arrow meant anything, and if she was running that means that someone was chasing. Alton will want to protect her, and here you are coz: Shawna’s midnight savior, a man who has gained his confidence and friendship. You’ve already shown that you care, if for more reasons than Alton knows at the moment, by staying and waiting to see if she comes around and how she is doing. You’re the least likely explanation if anyone comes here looking for her, because no one important really knows that you and Alton are friends, because you weren’t before. I think you’ve gone and gotten yourself well trapped, coz. Shawna is your charge now, whether you like it or not. I’m willing to wager that he’s been thinking of asking you for that favor for a couple of days now. It’s only a matter of time.”

  Dormael laughed lightly to cover up his surprise at his cousin’s shrewdness. He was right. Dormael had seen it coming, but had purposefully not thought about it. He had a weakness for pretty girls, and this time it had gotten him into the middle of something he didn’t know anything about and wasn’t sure he wanted to be a part of. He groaned inwardly at the thought of Shawna being his “charge”.

  D’Jenn wasn’t hungry, so instead of going to the dining hall for breakfast with Alton, Dormael sent a servant to let him know that he and D’Jenn were going out into the city this morning. The two men left the entrance hall by the oak double doors that opened out into the front lawn and walkway. Alton’s manor was well concealed from the street by trees that had been planted all along his stone fence. They were mostly bare and dotted with golden and orange leaves now, but Dormael thought that in the warmer months they would be lush and quite pleasing to the eye. Leaving the grounds by the large, iron gate that opened with only the slightest of creaks, the cousins stepped out into the cobblestone streets and began strolling idly towards the Docks District.

  There were a fair number of people going up and down the street outside, but the usual crush and hubbub of port cities was quieter here than in other areas of the city. Most of the crowd in this area was made up of well-dressed merchants hurrying to some unknown place, sometimes with guards carrying large chests, and sometimes without. Dormael even saw one merchant walking up and down the line of a large caravan, which appeared to be loading to leave. As they came around a bend, other areas of the city opened up before them and they both stopped to take in the sight.

  The area around Ferolan was mostly seaside cliffs, some of them deadly. In the summer the hillsides almost glowed green in the sunlight, the grasses that blanketed the grounds shining defiantly back up at the sun. The grasses were tinged brown for now, though, withered and awaiting the warmth of spring. Ferolan had been built into a small valley next to the sea, which contained the only beach for miles on either side. It was a rocky beach, and up and down the cliffs the sea constantly crashed into the rocks with a timeless, eroding force. Over time, Ferolan grew from the small fishing village it had once been to spill out over the sides of the small valley and onto the sharp hills above, dotting the hillsides with buildings and webbing them with streets.

  The result was that Ferolan was a very hilly city. If you weren’t walking uphill you were walking downhill, and most everything sloped inexorably towards the wharves. It was a beautiful site, but though it was easy on the eyes, it was most definitely hard on the feet. Dormael looked around and took in the houses and other buildings dotting the hillsides and the valley, the large city wall snaking up and down the hills at the mouth of the valley, and the long wharves stretching like reaching fingers out into the ocean, with the ships bobbing slowly in the gray-blue waves between them

  The Merchant’s District was built on the northern hillside of the valley, so that it looked down at most of the city’s poorer districts and trade districts, and across at the Lord’s March, where the Lord of Ferolan and his toadies made their homes. Ferolan Castle stood starkly on the highest hill in the city, crammed as close as possible to the seaside cliff, and facing down at the city. Its gray stone walls were a large contrast to the rest of the city, whose roofs were mostly of reddish tile. It gave the impression of a rock sitting in the middle of a flower bed. Dormael smiled at the thought.

  “You know,” said D’Jenn, gazing across the valley at the castle, “that is the only defensible position in the entire city.”

  “I think it was meant that way,” stated Dormael, pointed down at the docks, “any sea-borne attack will have to battle uphill the entire length of the city. Sure, they would make short work of it, but by the time they make it to the top, they’re al
ready tired, and the high ground gives the archers in the castle an advantage in range. If the attack came by land, there is still only one direction that the approaching army can attack from.”

  “A despicable act, attacking a man’s home,” stated D’Jenn, shaking his head, “Think of all the innocents that would die in such an attack; craftsmen, merchants, women, and children. Sometimes I think that easterners have absolutely no custom, no morals.”

  “I agree,” assented Dormael, “but I think it is more of a matter of the means versus the end. Here in Alderak a man will go as far as he has to go to get what he wants, and that’s reflected in their military tactics. Most men will, anyway. At home, sometimes the price is not worth the prize. True, by our customs an attack on a city is unheard of, but here they are raised this way…to believe it is perfectly acceptable. It’s a ‘means to an end’. I can almost hear one of them saying it.”

  “Still,” D’Jenn went on, “you have to admit that it’s effective. To lose an entire city to an enemy…,” D’Jenn shook his head at the thought, “that would be an incredibly disheartening turn of events, wouldn’t you say?” Dormael nodded, and the two men began walking again.

  The cousins walked slowly down the cobblestone streets, meandering their way down to the docks. They passed from the Merchant’s District to poorer residential areas and finally into a teeming market area and the buzz of the city revealed itself in bustling fashion. Hawkers were crying their wares in booming voices, people were coming in and out of shops along the street, and some were loitering outside gazing into windows that displayed everything from herbs to pastries to weapons.

  Dormael and D’Jenn dodged through the crowd, trying their best not to jostle passersby but usually only succeeding in getting jostled themselves. D’Jenn had to grab the wrists of two small boys who had tried to cut his purse strings, and flash his morningstar at a young man who had been following them. All three melted back into the crowd in turn, looking for easier prey. Finally, breaking through the tumult, the cousins turned onto a dockside street that seemed to have only alehouses built along the landward side.

  “Whiskey Row,” explained Dormael, at D’Jenn’s questioning look, “The finest welcome any seafaring man can ask for in Cambrell. There’s nothing but taverns and brothels on this street. Of course, more than sailors make their way down here.” Dormael nodded his head at a well dressed man being thrown out of a large two-story building on the corner of Whiskey Row. He was holding his hands up in protest as half dressed girls screamed at him from the doorway. A large bear-looking fellow was roughly pushing him backwards into the street.

  “A little early for that,” commented D’Jenn as they watched the scene.

  “Just a bit,” replied Dormael, “But maybe it’s late for that chap.” D’Jenn laughed and nodded as if he were remembering similar nights in his own life, and the two continued down the street. They passed several taverns; most of them closed up until later in the day, but a few of them open for business. The cousins waved at the wenches upon passing the two story brothel, which were hanging out of windows and beckoning them up to have a drink. As D’Jenn had said, however, it was a bit early for such things, so they passed on by and continued down Whiskey Row.

  The street itself was cobblestone, just like most of the streets here in Ferolan, but the sea spray created a humid atmosphere and the path was frequently slippery and wet. Whiskey Row marked the official beginning to Ferolan, and it was built about fifteen hands higher than the docks that stretched out to their left. Staircases were set in intervals along the street, heading down to the harbor below them. On their right were the alehouses, brothels, the occasional inn, and some that were combinations of all three. Ahead of them, the cousins could see the end of the street, which ran almost head-on into a cliff face. On top of the cliff face was another district of the teeming city, and the cousins could see people sitting on the edge of the cliff, watching the boats and enjoying the sun.

  “Must be quite a view from up there,” commented D’Jenn.

  “It’s quite a fall too, right onto the roof of some tavern over there,” chuckled Dormael, “Imagine sitting in that pub when it happened.”

  D’Jenn laughed in reply, and the cousins dodged a drunken man who had stumbled into their path. He appeared to have been beaten up sometime earlier that morning or maybe last night. Slipping on the wet cobblestones beneath his feet, the man fell painfully on his rump, but somehow managed to hold on to a bottle he was clutching in his right hand.

  “You alright there, friend?” asked Dormael, stifling a laugh as the man tried to gain his feet again.

  “Fine…just fine,” the drunken man slurred as he swayed up to his feet.

  “Looks like you’ve been in a healthy tussle, mate. What happened to you?” D’Jenn asked, staring at the swollen eye and broken nose. The man had dried blood all over his tunic.

  “Gods forsaken Galanians, come around askin’ questions,” The drunken man replied, swaying dangerously once again, until Dormael grabbed his shoulder to steady him.

  “Who?” asked Dormael sharply, suddenly interested and listening raptly.

  “Gods damned Galanians,” replied the drunken man, shrugging off Dormael’s steadying hand irritably and almost falling over once more, “Came into the Fish Head last night,” he said, jabbing a thumb at a large inn behind him, “started yellin’ over all the commotion that they was lookin’ for some girl. Redhead, I think they said. Said that she’d stole somethin’ from ‘em and that we’d do well to tell ‘em if we’d seen her out walkin’ around or anything. Well, I told them bastards that if they was lookin’ for a redhead, there was plenty of ‘em upstairs willing to do just about anything for a few silvers and a couple of drinks. Then, I says to them that this is Cambrell, not Galania or the Empire or whatever it is they call it these days, and that they gots no business comin’ in and harassing people like that. Well, that’s when they got rowdy and drug me out into the street. Beat me good, they did, and I reckon that somebody would’ve helped me if it hadn’t been for the City Guard bein’ with ‘em. Gods damned bastards,” he repeated, spitting onto the street to accent the comment.

  “You’re sure that they were Galanians” asked D’Jenn.

  “Gods damned right I’m sure,” the man snapped, “I been there plenty of times, what with the captain carryin’ loads of this or that to Shundov after them Galanians took it over. Recognize them big red swords on their surcoats in any rainy weather, I would. Weren’t just regular soldiers either, they was some kind of elite soldier…higher up in the ranks, mark me.”

  With that the drunken man pushed between them and swayed on down Whiskey Row, muttering under his breath. Dormael and D’Jenn looked sharply and understandingly at each other, and then began to walk quickly towards the Fish Head Inn. Dormael had a sinking feeling growing in his belly, and it had nothing to do with the pastry he had eaten this morning.

  The Fish Head was one of those large establishments that combined alehouse, inn, and brothel all under one roof. All your favorite sins gathered in one place, Dormael thought as he and D’Jenn stepped into the smoky common room. There was something cooking that filled the air in the inn with a spicy smell to go along with the smoke and what smelled like the remnants of vomit. Although these places were normally deserted this early in the morning, Dormael was surprised to see a number of people breakfasting. Clearly the Fish Head was enjoying an unusually lively trade in long-term guests. Perusing the room with one look, he and D’Jenn sat down at the bar.

  The bartender was a slim, dark-haired woman who looked as though she had been pretty some years ago. She was sleepy-eyed and exhausted-looking now, though, and she was idly dipping an iron stein in a keg full of water. She looked up at the two cousins and forced a smile as they sat down.

  “Fancy an ale, gentlemen?” she asked, giving them her full attention as they were the only two sitting at the bar.

  “Two,” replied D’Jenn, giving her a generous tip of one
full silver coin. She raised her eyebrows in surprise but did not question his offering. She turned to the shelf behind them and pulled out two tankards and bent low behind the bar to dip them in a large barrel. Smiling, she straightened back up and sat the tankards on the bar in front of the two men then leaned forward on her elbows to talk to them.

  “You two look strange,” she remarked, gazing at Dormael’s braided goatee and their outlandish dress, “where do you come from?”

  “Orris,” lied D’Jenn, “came over on a trading ship to go to Tauravon. We’ve heard it’s the wonder of all Alderak.”

  “I’ve never been there,” the barmaid said dreamily, “but I wish I could go with you. The Great River City…it sounds beautiful.”

  “Indeed,” commented Dormael, taking a pull from his tankard, “So, dear lady, we heard that some soldiers came in last night and broke off the festivities. Were you here when it happened?” He slid another silver coin to her across the bar, and she took it conspiratorially, hiding it down her blouse and leaning forward to whisper to them.

  “Well,” she began with a furtive look around, “They did come in last night. They were big men, wearing chainmail and carrying swords, every one of them. They said that they were looking for someone, a redheaded girl carrying two swords. They said she was some kind of criminal from the Empire, and that she might have come here to find a ship. Told us that if anyone saw anything to come up to the Castle and tell them, or to find a City Guardsman and report it. Beat up one of my patrons, too. They were none too friendly, I’ll tell you that. They didn’t even look at the girls.”