“Typical,” Shawna sniffed.
“Relax, Blademaster,” Allen laughed, “They were all willing…very willing, actually.”
“The women or the wrestling opponents?”
“The women, of course. I mean, have you stopped to look at me since we’ve met? It’s almost divine, how good looking I am,” Allen laughed. Dormael let out a bark of laughter along with him. His brother’s confident manner always made him laugh. Shawna smiled and shook her head, turning back to the road.
“We decided that it would be better to hide in plain sight, so to speak,” D’Jenn said, “We will look like mercenaries, act like mercenaries, and accept jobs as mercenaries. It is the perfect cover. No one will think twice about us because we’ll be such a common sight in these parts. If we get paid to play river guards, then it will make the deception that much better. As soon as we enter Billingsley, we will be a mercenary company. That means no magic, at least not where anyone can see.”
Dormael grumbled about that.
“We’ll bid on jobs heading upriver as far as Jerrantis, and get off there. From Jerrantis we head into the grasslands, and to Orm,” D’Jenn said.
“How did you know this place was here?” Dormael asked, “Billingsly, I mean. You had to know that it wasn’t just some backwater village on the river. Else, you’d never have gambled on being able to buy armor in order for us to look the part.”
“It’s the last town of its size on the way north from Ishamael,” Allen explained, “so naturally there is a lot of business that goes through it. Local trappers, farmers, and such can come here and sell their goods without making the long trek down to the city, and the traders don’t have to pay the taxes that the city collectors charge in Ishamael.”
Dormael nodded thoughtfully.
“Plus, since the regions to the north are so sparsely inhabited, and to the south are so densely populated, there are always mercenary companies here bidding on short jobs to Jerrantis – hence, our disguise. We’ll just be one more band of sell-swords among many,” D’Jenn added.
“But wouldn’t that mean that there actually would be plenty of smiths there, selling weapons?” Shawna asked.
“No, actually,” Allen said, “Billingsley was a hovel before a couple of years ago. That fellow we passed on the road probably is the only one in the area skilled enough to make fighting equipment. Besides, we needed to ride into the town looking the part, instead of being seen buying extra equipment.”
“He still cheated you,” Shawna said.
“Yes, but at least he was honest about it,” Allen said, smiling. Shawna just snorted and went back to watching the road.
The sun was just beginning to set when Billingsley came into sight. The town wasn’t surrounded by a wall so much as a low wooden fence, and before the walls around the town there were new buildings standing and more going up, and the noises of saws cutting through wood and hammers beating on it rang out in the early evening. As they came closer, Dormael was astounded to see that three of the buildings that were newly-built were brothels, all stocked full of women leaning from windows and languidly standing in doorways. There was a steady stream of men coming and going from the pleasure houses; a few mercenary types but just as many that appeared to be townsmen and farmers. It was odd to find so many courtesans this far out into the country, and Dormael stared around at them in consternation as they passed. He noticed that Shawna’s face grew openly red as the women shouted to Dormael, D’Jenn, and Allen.
There were a couple of guards – men who would look more at home hoeing rows of crops than using the rusty old spears they held. Allen, riding at the head of their party, gave the guards a curt nod as the travelers rode through, and the men straightened up a little as they passed, the acknowledgement straightening their backs.
Inside, the town was bustling with activity, as if it were never meant to hold the amount of people that crowded the square and the streets. There was a makeshift marketplace that was closing up for the night, farmers loading unsold goods and bought ones into the back of carts and covering them with tarps. A scattering of men shouted at each other, doing what Dormael imagined was some last minute haggling, and there was a steady stream of workmen coming and going down the road that snaked down a low hill toward the river, some carrying loads of goods by hand, and some trundling along in carts.
But these were all normal sights. What Dormael hadn’t expected were the three buildings that resembled inns and brothels in general design, but the windows were all boarded up. There were hard-eyed men standing before the front doors to each building, nodding curtly to people coming and going, and sometimes tossing people bodily into the street from the buildings. Dormael could hear music coming from inside over the din of shouts and commotion in the crowded streets, which were under construction as well. Billingsley seemed to be growing, and fast.
Just as Allen and D’Jenn had predicted, they observed among the workmen numerous hard-eyed soldier types. They lounged on crates, drinking and watching the passersby with distant gazes, or stood among the men making deals as if playing bodyguard. Dormael regarded them as they passed, trying to look as if he knew his business. A few of them gave him respectful nods as they passed, and he noticed that even a few of them recognized his brother, either from his time as a mercenary or from his tournament victories. They would have to do something about that, eventually. If Allen was so easily recognizable, then they may as well leave signs pointing in the direction they’d gone for anyone who might be following them.
Allen walked his horse into the village square, leading the rest of the party, and perused all of four inns that stood there. Only one of them seemed to be of original construction, the other three newly built with fresh timber. Allen looked to D’Jenn, who only shrugged in answer, and finally selected one of the newer inns, a three story building that still smelled of wood sap and sawdust.
Two boys a little older than Bethany came out to take their horses when the companions dismounted before the inn. Allen tossed them each a bronze coin before stepping into the common room, and Dormael shot one last look around the square before following him. The setting sun cast orange light over the scene, alighting on the shoulders of the milling crowd and reflecting from the surface of the river in the distance. Bethany tugged on his arm as she ducked underneath it to pass through the door, and Dormael smiled down at her and followed her into the inn.
The common room was filled with tables and benches instead of chairs, and was about half full of patrons eating and drinking. A few people looked up at the party as they entered, but went quickly back to their meals or conversations, paying them only a passing glance. Dormael tried not to adjust his armor as Allen purchased rooms for everyone, and once the transaction was complete he stomped up the stairs to the third floor, relieved to be out of sight.
“I say we lay low for now,” D’Jenn said as everyone hesitated before the door to their rooms, “Allen, you head down to the docks and see if there are any jobs we can bid on. I’ll head to the common rooms and check around for the same.”
“Great,” Allen said, “So you get to have a few ales, and I get to smell fish. Sounds fair enough to me.”
D’Jenn shot him a glower before turning to Dormael, “Keep a watch for anyone suspicious. Even if what Jarek said was the truth, there could be other agents looking for us that we don’t know about.”
“Right,” Dormael said, “on your way out, could you have them send a bath up? I haven’t bathed since the tunnels…and you know…all that offal…” Dormael shrugged and left the rest unsaid.
“That sounds like a grand idea,” Shawna said, “have them send up two, please.”
“Are you two sure that one wouldn’t do for the both of you?” Allen asked with a wide grin on his face. Shawna snorted and ignored him, unlocking her room and going inside. The door slammed behind her, leaving the three men and Bethany in the hall.
D’Jenn opened his own room, tossed his saddle bags inside, and then shoo
k his head as he squeezed between Allen and Dormael, headed back toward the stairs. The brothers watched him go, and as Dormael was about to head into his own room, Allen grabbed him by the shoulder.
“Listen,” Allen said, “all joking aside, brother, are you feeling alright since a few nights ago? D’Jenn mentioned that Shawna had told him that she caught you talking to yourself.”
Dormael froze, caught unawares by the question.
Something in his expression must have betrayed his mind, because Allen’s grip tightened on his shoulder and he pulled Dormael around to face him. “Is there something I should know, Dormael?”
Bethany looked up at the two of them, her face a mask of curiosity and worry. Dormael stammered for a second, looking between the two of them and trying to come up with an explanation. He opened his mouth to say something, but he was saved by Shawna opening her door and putting her head out into the hallway.
“Am I interrupting something, boys?” she asked, peering at the two of them. Allen loosed his grip and Dormael saw him force a smile back onto his face before he turned around.
“Nothing, Shawna. Just trying to give my brother here some advice on looking the part, you know. Maybe you could give him a few tips on wearing that leather; it seems to be bothering him.” With that, Allen nodded to the two of them and followed D’Jenn’s path through the hall and down the stairs. Shawna peered suspiciously at his back as he left, then turned her scrutiny upon Dormael.
“It itches,” Dormael said, adjusting the leather battle kit again, “I’m just not used to it yet.”
“It takes time,” Shawna said, her tone indicating that she knew that Dormael’s armor had most definitely not been the subject of their conversation. “Bethany, dear, come along. We’ll have a bath and get some food in you.”
Bethany gave Dormael one last curious look before stepping into Shawna’s room, and Shawna regarded him with a similar look before smiling slightly and shutting the door. Dormael let out a tense breath, and with one hand he unlocked the door to his room, ducking inside. He dumped his saddlebags on the floor, and pulled out the object he’d hidden beneath them, and sat on the bed, thinking.
He opened the silver case and pulled the armlet from it, gazing into the depths of the gleaming red gem set into the smooth silver. He was struck by that odd sensation that it was gazing right back at him again, and felt an unsettling tingle start in his fingers at the touch of the thing. It was quiet for once, which Dormael thought strange. Usually it would have been singing that alien song to him before he’d even touched it, but now the artifact lay as quiet as a sleeping babe.
Tamasis had said that the dream had resonated with him, called to him.
Are you here? Dormael projected the thought, unsure of where to direct it. He hadn’t tried to contact the entity before on his own. Dormael’s only answer was the ringing in his ears that resulted from trying to listen inward. He sighed, feeling somewhat foolish.
Tamasis?
Nothing.
Dormael sat for a few moments, staring intently down at the artifact. The thought that this thing would be over a thousand years old was staggering, really. That is, if it actually was over a thousand years old. There were so many unanswered questions about it, and Dormael was having a hard time putting the pieces of this puzzle together – or rather, he was finding it hard to believe the stories on which he and his companions had based their plans.
There was a knock at his door and Dormael started in surprise, almost dropping the artifact. He moved quickly to his saddlebags, putting the armlet back into its case and stuffing the case back into his bags before hurrying to his door. He schooled his features before opening, his heart pounding in his ears.
A pretty young girl stood in his doorway, dark of hair and slim. She took in his leather armor with a wide eyed stare and cleared her throat before gesturing to the hallway.
“Excuse me sir, but we’ve brought up the bath you requested,” she said, bowing her head slightly.
“Oh,” Dormael replied, blowing out a breath of relief, “Yes. Thank you, bring it in.”
She nodded and gestured to two adolescent boys who pulled a large copper tub into the room, wrestling it into place and grunting with effort as they set it down on the dusty floor. Dormael nodded at the boys in thanks as they left, one of them gazing interestedly at his spear, propped up against the wardrobe, before hurrying back into the hallway. The girl, probably around her twentieth year, bit her lip and smiled sidelong at Dormael as she made a couple of trips into the hallway and back to the tub, filling it with buckets of steaming water.
Normally he’d be flirting with the girl, but today there were just too many things on his mind. She was pretty enough, but there was always the chance that Shawna might decide to pop her head in from next door, and if she found a pretty young woman in his rooms his chances would drop right back to zero. Dormael smiled at the serving girl as she went back out into the hall and closed his door behind her.
Dormael shot one last glance at his bags before grunting in frustration and disrobing. The armor proved to be easy enough to doff, and he was glad that Allen had chosen leather for him instead of some plated contraption or a heavy shirt of chainmail. Once naked, he stepped carefully into the bath and settled in for a nice, long soak.
Hours later, Dormael awoke in cool water, having drifted into a rare dreamless sleep. His hands were wrinkled like an old man’s from being submersed in the water for so long, but his body felt relaxed and clean for the first time in three days. He toweled off, dressed, and headed for the taproom downstairs.
“Thought you were going to sleep all night,” Allen said as Dormael sat on the bench next to him. D’Jenn and Shawna sat across from them with finished bowls of what appeared to be stew in front of them. The serving girl came over, and Dormael ordered a plate of food and a tankard of dark ale. Everyone waited patiently for him to complete his order and the serving girl to leave before leaning in to talk.
“I found us a job,” Allen said, “we’re leaving at dawn.”
“Details?” D’Jenn asked, taking a pull from his own tankard of ale.
Allen took a pull from his own tankard and breathed out in pleasure before continuing, “Big old cog in the harbor is carrying a load of furniture up to Jerrantis. She’s slow, but her cargo is virtually worthless, so no one is expecting it to be a hard run. None of the other companies seemed to want the job, and since we’re not here for prestige or excitement, I bid on it. I even got the employer to agree on a ten percent rate above the standard price of protection.”
“Good,” D’Jenn said, “should be just the kind of thing we’re looking for. Low profile, easy to blend in, and little chance for our actual mission to be compromised. Good work, cousin.”
“I rarely do any other kind,” Allen said, “I also got them to agree to take our horses – minus the pack train. Sorry about that, but there’s only so much room in their hold. I did include one horse for Bethany, so until we teach her to ride we can use it as a pack horse.”
“Sounds like just what we were looking for,” Dormael nodded, “I’ll talk to the innkeeper about purchasing the pack horses. Seeing as how they’re actually trained warhorses, I should get at least a fair price for them.”
“Don’t haggle too much,” D’Jenn said, “We want to be able to move in the morning.”
Dormael nodded and everyone settled in to enjoy a drink. The serving girl brought Dormael a steaming hot bowl of stew that had smelled almost like the Traveler’s Stew he and D’Jenn cooked on regular occasions. Everyone made small talk as Dormael ate, but for the most part they were all tired from the hard ride from Ishamael and the subsequent days spent on the road. One by one, they dwindled off to their own rooms, leaving Dormael alone with his stew and ale.
After he’d spoken to the innkeeper about purchasing their horses, and gotten as close to a fair rate as he’d thought he could get, Dormael headed upstairs for his own room. It was oddly quiet inside as he kicked off
his boots, and the feeling left him a little unsettled. He half expected Tamasis to pop up, as he always did when least expected, but of course he did not – since Dormael was, in fact, expecting it. He stripped to his smallclothes and stowed his woolen shirt in his bags, pulling out a lighter weight cotton shirt for the warmer weather that would undoubtedly be present the next day, and went easily to sleep.
****
Maarkov crouched, tense in the darkness, and listened to the sounds of boats rocking in the river, and ropes tightening and loosening with the slow rise and fall of the water. He watched one boat in particular – a sleek, small ship that Maaz had selected for their purposes – and waited for the two men on the deck to finish their conversation. One of them was obviously drunk, and the other one was well on his way.
Their voices barely carried down to the wharf where Maarkov waited, crouched behind a stack of crates that were lined up to be loaded onto one ship or another in the morning. He wore the strip of cloth wrapped around his face, but now the gesture was more than just an empty jab at his brother’s humor. This time, he wanted to hide his face from anyone who might be looking on.
One of the men on the deck of the boat at the end of the dock called a drunken goodbye to his fellow, and Maarkov heard his steps thump heavily past him on the wood of the wharf. He waited a full fifty-count before he tightened his grip on his weapons and stepped quietly out onto the dock, headed for the small river craft. It was time to kill.
An errant wind came up and blew out the lanterns hanging in regular intervals along the dock, leading the way to the ship – his brother’s power at work. He kept his steps as silent as he could, but sped his pace slightly as the lights went out on the dock. He heard the one man left on the deck of the ship mutter a curse as the single lantern hung on the gangway entrance blew out as well. Maarkov slid his dagger from its sheath as he heard the man walk toward the gangway to relight the lantern. Maarkov was only steps from it.
The Sentient Fire (The Seven Signs) Page 82
