by Cheryl Dyson
******
The rest of the night passed uneventfully. Toryn let Davin and Redwing sleep. He hadn’t slept well, expecting hired assassins to burst through the door at any moment. Davin awakened shortly after dawn and Toryn checked the dressing on his head before applying a different poultice and re-bandaging it. When the task was finished, Toryn nudged Redwing in the ribs with a toe.
The Falaran sat up, rubbing his side. He threw Toryn an irritated look. “There are gentler ways to wake someone up, you know,” he protested grumpily.
“Forget it. I’m not kissing you.”
Redwing stared at him and Toryn chuckled at his own wit. Even Davin smiled.
“I know you always wanted to,” Redwing responded, too late for it to be an effective comeback.
Toryn threw a vest at him. “Let’s get moving. I’m starved.”
They stowed their gear and tromped down to the main room, which was more crowded than it had been the night before. They located seats and a woman brought them warm pastries and a selection of hot drinks. Toryn and Davin eagerly gulped cups of hot Bodorii coffee. Toryn had not had coffee since leaving Redol. He was surprised when Redwing shuddered at the bitter taste and drank sugared tea instead.
“Coffee is damned hard to find in Redol,” Toryn said. “When the ship comes in, the tribes gather.”
Davin nodded. “It is highly sought. One of Penkangum’s primary trade items. I have missed it. Remind me to purchase some before we leave, although I shudder to pay Targan prices.”
They had finished eating and were enjoying their beverages when Lena appeared and murmured something to Davin. He gestured to the others and they followed her into the back room. The doorway led into a large kitchen where a cook hovered over several large pots. A boy busily scrubbed dishes.
Lena handed Davin a sealed leather packet and gestured to the back door. Davin took the pouch and went out, followed by Toryn. Redwing trailed behind. They entered a small alley and walked past several closed doors. Davin opened the packet and shook out the contents—three round pebbles. Toryn looked at him curiously, but Davin did not explain.
“Come on,” he said and tossed the rocks aside. He led them through a maze of streets and alleyways until Toryn was thoroughly confused. He was uncomfortable enough in this city without being lost in it. At last Davin stopped at a doorway and knocked. The portal opened silently.
“The Three Stone Inn,” Davin explained as they entered. The room was small and dark, lit only by a single candle. A man lurked in the shadows.
“Your name?” he demanded.
“Davin of the Lavender Hills.” Another packet was handed to Davin before the man rose and departed. Davin tucked it into his shirt. He crossed the room and opened another door that led to the common room of the inn. It was deserted, so they passed through and exited onto the main street before walking a short distance to a small tavern. They entered and found a table near a window.
Toryn ordered ale while Davin opened the package. He withdrew a thick stack of parchment and examined it closely. The others sipped their drinks and remained silent. Davin scrutinized each word and finally stacked the papers together and placed them back in the oilskin pouch.
“They seem to be in order,” he said. The door opened and Whitey strode in. After chatting amiably with some patrons, he walked over to their table. His eyes widened when he viewed the bandage on Davin’s head.
“Why, Davin—?” he began.
“Don’t bother, Whitey. You’ve already written yourself a secure place on my list of people never to trust. I would rather not move you to the list of people to destroy. For Lena’s sake.”
Whitey puffed himself up with indignation, an action that impressively swelled his muscular chest beneath his tight leathers.
“Surely, you don’t think that I—?” he huffed.
Davin held up a hand. “Never mind. Did you bring our horses?”
Whitey nodded somewhat sulkily. “They’re out front.”
“We’ll be on our way. Thank you for your help. I hope things go well for you.” Davin stood.
Whitey cleared his throat for a moment. “Davin,” he said. “You will not—?”
“Seek revenge? No. Out of respect for the friendship we once had. I wish that it had never gone wrong.”
Whitey studied him closely for a moment and seemed to search for words. His expression grew bleak, but finally he nodded and turned away. Davin’s jaw tightened. Toryn wondered what had happened to cause such a rift between them. He looked at Redwing for a moment. There was such a tenuous cord binding him to the Falaran. He valued Redwing’s friendship, but knew the enmity between their countries would always be between them. It was a sobering thought.
Davin followed Whitey outside and took up the reins of his horse. Whitey grinned at Redwing as he took up Darkling's reins. “Good luck on your quest, Falaran,” Whitey said.
Without another word or even a hand raised in farewell, the three of them left Whitey and rode toward the city gates. The day was warm for late spring, bordering on hot. The sky was clear and blue and people were jammed into the streets, buying and selling.
“That was too easy,” Davin commented as they pushed their way through the crowd.
“Easy? You were nearly killed,” Redwing replied.
“I’m not sure Whitey will settle for ‘nearly’,” Davin said.
It took them a half-hour to reach the East Gate and Toryn marveled at the difference between it and the Sea Gate. Davin had been right. Twin towers of stone rose high into the air, spreading arms of brick that encircled the city. Four guards sweltered before the gates and more were visible in the towers above. A veritable battalion of soldiers and tax collectors worked both sides of the portal, searching incoming and outgoing parties while ignoring blustering protests and hysterical cries.
They made their way steadily toward the gates. Davin shot one glance at Redwing, his only sign of nervousness. As they drew closer to the exit a tax collector noticed their approach and motioned to them.
“Davin!” The cry rang out over the noise of the crowd and Davin drew rein. Lena fought her way through the mob. At last, she reached Davin and tore open one of the packs on his saddle. She withdrew a small leather packet. Davin looked at it suspiciously and she nodded.
“Danaan seeds,” she murmured, softly enough that Toryn barely caught the words. “Contraband. Whitey—I don’t know what he is doing! He’s changed so much. I could not let him do this.”
“The papers—?” Davin asked.
“The papers are good,” she assured him. “Word would be out on the street if he gave you false documents. He would be out of business in a week.”
Davin nodded. Lena put her hand on his knee and looked at him earnestly.
“For what it’s worth, Davin,” she said, “I am sorry.”
“It’s not your fault,” Davin replied. “Never let him force you to believe otherwise.” He touched her hand for an instant and then nudged his horse toward the tax collector, who by now gesticulated angrily at them. Lena’s hand hung in the air for a moment as though in an arrested farewell as she looked after him. Then she turned and faded into the crowd.
Davin handed the packet of papers to the tax collector. The man stared at him through beady eyes while scratching a beaked nose. He perused each paper so thoroughly that Toryn began to think he analyzed the composition of the ink. His brows drew down over his eyes and his gaze switched from the parchment to Davin suspiciously.
“Council couriers, eh?” he asked finally, drawing the words out as though tasting each letter. Davin nodded. The man stared at Toryn and his brows went up and down and couple of times. He scanned the papers again before glaring at Davin.
“This man is a Redolian,” he hissed slowly, gritting the last word through clenched teeth.
“Yes,” Davin replied calmly. “He has been granted residency by the High Merchant Banaal and given courier status, as clearly stated on page four,
paragraph two.”
The tax man stared at him and then flip-flip-flipped through the papers. He read again with agonizing slowness. A trickle of sweat found its way down Toryn’s spine and he fought the urge to itch. Redwing shifted in his saddle. The horses cocked hind hooves and dozed.
At last the man muttered something unintelligible and scrawled his signature on several of the papers. Davin relaxed almost imperceptibly and Toryn suppressed a sigh of relief. The papers did not release them from the mandatory search of their belongings, however, and it appeared that Lena had truly protected them. The medicines Verana had given them were carefully examined even though the rest of their belongings attracted no more than casual interest. The searchers were thorough, however. The process took nearly an hour and Toryn was mentally exhausted when they were finally allowed through the gates and rode into the uninviting countryside of Penkangum.
A crowd camped outside the gate and a long line of merchants awaited search by the tax collectors prior to entering the city. The line stretched an incredible distance. Frantic merchants fanned cartloads of fruit to keep it from rotting while others walked up and down the line, trying to hawk their wares.
Davin looked at the crowd sympathetically. “Sometimes, it takes a week to get in,” he said. “Paragor is even worse and it has three gates.”
They picked up their pace and put Targo behind them. They rode toward Paragor and Ven-Kerrick beyond.
