“Danar?” The shopkeeper’s voice rose in pitch. “Danar, the son of Lord Jaxar?”
“Please, don’t—” Danar began.
Zevaron did not like the sudden leap of interest in the shopkeeper’s eyes. This was not the pleasure of serving a member of a royal house, it was something more, a flare of suspicion perhaps, or avarice—
“Let’s go!” He grabbed Danar’s arm, spun him around, and shoved him out the door. The shopkeeper barely managed to catch the idol Danar had been holding before it shattered on the floor.
Outside, Danar started to protest. “We’ve got a little time. You don’t have to—”
“Who’s the bodyguard?” Zevaron snapped. “You or me? Down here!” He darted into a side street and broke into a run.
Danar followed, his pack slapping against his spine. “But the soldiers were going—in the opposite direction—and that’s a dead end. All right, this way!”
Panting, Danar took the lead down a narrow street overhung with sagging lines of laundry. The buildings here were cramped, often a single block pierced by an occasional common entrance, very different from the spacious and private walled gardens of the hill district.
A naked child, not more than two or three years old, gawked at them while a young woman poured a jug of water over him. A couple of dogs, so thin their ribs stared from their dull coats, nosed in the piles of refuse. They scattered, tails between their hind legs, as Zevaron and Danar approached.
Out of sight from the main boulevard, they slowed to a walk. “There was no need to bolt like that,” Danar protested. “We had—a little more time. Now we’ll be remembered for certain—for such suspicious behavior. We acted like fugitives.”
Zevaron bit back a retort. He’d been the one who’d blurted out Danar’s name. He could not undo that mistake now. They had to keep moving, but in such a way as to not draw any more attention to themselves. “You’re right about not behaving like fugitives,” he admitted. “But that shopkeeper was on the alert for you, so word has already gone out, maybe a reward offered. Our best hope is still to find a riverboat captain who has reasons of his own to avoid notice. Preferably one just pulling away from the dock, if you take my meaning.”
They went west, then south, paralleling the main thoroughfare. For a time, they made good progress. The streets were not entirely empty, but the people they passed seemed incurious, bent on their own business. It was, Zevaron realized, a district of working men, poor shops, and barely decent living quarters.
The orderly arrangement of streets and alleys gave way to unpaved lanes, haphazard and twisting. They passed street shrines, set among the open-air cook shops, stalls of clothing and battered leather shoes, women selling apples from baskets slung over their backs, and clusters of old men hunkered down on tattered rugs. A half-grown boy sold water from a cart pulled by a huge reptilian beast, its hide peeling away in scaly yellow patches. A dancer performed on one corner of the square, accompanied by a drum beaten by a blind, bald-headed Xian and her own finger-cymbals. Women in fluttering veils that barely covered their skimpy wraparound gowns called out to passing men. Danar looked embarrassed, but Zevaron turned away, the sight abhorrent to him. He’d seen courtesans aplenty in Denariya, women of culture and influence who often amassed great wealth. It seemed to him that Gelon degraded everyone who lived within its borders.
“We are safe here,” Zevaron said. “If Cinath’s men approach, the market will disperse, and we with it. No one will have seen anything.”
Danar looked thoughtful. “I don’t suppose everything that happens here is legal.”
Zevaron tilted his head to the half-grown boy who was expertly picking the pockets of anyone who lingered to watch the dancer. In the shadowed doorways, more was bought and sold than the favors of the women in their garish costumes: hemp resin, dreamberries, elixir of poppies, and more. Chalil, the Denariyan pirate he’d sailed with, had sometimes carried such things, small items that brought high prices in the right markets.
Zevaron’s hand closed around the urchin’s wrist just as the boy reached for the strap that held Danar’s pack closed. “Not this time, my lad. Off you go to seek richer prey.”
The boy jerked free, flashed a defiant grin, and melted into the crowd. The dancing drew to a climax, the drumming faster and louder, like the beat of a racing heart, and the girl let out a series of ululating cries like those of the Sand Lands people.
As suddenly, Zevaron’s ears filled with the clash of steel on steel and something more, like the sound made by shattering obsidian or ice, but sharper and louder. His vision fractured. He still stood in the market square, but looked out on a very different landscape.
Before him stretched a plain and from it rose a wall of white, glittering and burning like ice on fire. A fissure cracked the fuming surface in a jagged hairline. It grew rapidly wider, big enough to engulf a horse, then a dozen horses, then a ship the size of his old Wave Dancer. Its depths exhaled a mist that curled and eddied in strange patterns, as if it had an intelligence of its own. Something moved within that miasma, clambering up from the pit. Rising into the day, it lifted cragged, impossibly deformed hands. Its head was still hidden, and Zevaron both longed to see it and shrank away, certain that . . . that what? He could not remember.
Dimly, he felt his own body take a step, one hand raised to shield his eyes, and tasted the sudden rush of acid in his mouth.
“Zevaron! Zev! Are you all right?” Danar grasped his arm, peering urgently into his face.
Zevaron’s vision leapt into focus. Before him lay the market, the dancer now bowing to her admirers, the old men on their carpets, the sellers and buyers in the shadows. He was sweating and shivering at the same time.
“I’m all right,” he lied. “Let’s go.”
* * *
As they drew closer to the river, the air changed and a fitful breeze sprang up. Zevaron tasted moisture, not the clean salt tang of the ocean but a dank, weedy smell. Slow broad barges, like the one that had brought him upriver to Aidon, were moored beside fleeter vessels, passenger craft and fishing boats. With Danar at his heels, Zevaron strolled from one drinking stall to the next, looking bored but in truth searching for the men he had spoken to before.
A thought hovered at the edge of his senses, a keening wail: I meant to take Tsorreh to safety in just this way. He thrust it from him, lest his grief overwhelm him.
He must have had a touch of sun-poisoning or bad food, for waves of queasiness spread outward from his belly. That would explain the vision he’d seen in the dancer’s square. Something sat like a lump of lead below his diaphragm, so that he could not quite catch his breath. Could a broken heart, broken hopes, hurt this much? Despite his efforts at concentration, at not thinking about Tsorreh, it was getting harder to keep his mind on what he was doing. They needed to get indoors, someplace dark and quiet where he could sit down.
“How about that place?” Danar pointed to a tavern on a corner. Colored streamers fluttered from its eaves.
“Ah, this looks more like it.” Zevaron indicated a ramshackle, weathered building.
Danar stared at the unpainted walls and the banner hanging in tatters above the warped door. “Here?”
Zevaron pushed the door open. He’d never been in this particular tavern before, but it felt as familiar as the Wave Dancer’s deck. In a blink or two, his eyes adapted to the dimmer light. He studied the shelves of pottery jugs and wooden kegs, and the men standing over their drinks or lounging around the collection of much-mended tables. At the counter, a barrel-chested riverman, one side of his mouth twisted by whitened, criss-crossing scars, took out a curved knife and laid it on the surface.
“Zev, are you sure this is a good idea?”
“Keep close and keep quiet, like a lamb in a den of jackals.”
Zevaron sauntered to the far corner, where he had recognized one of the Denariyan pirates he’
d spoken to before. He slid onto the single free chair, leaving Danar to stand behind him.
After a few preliminary remarks and the offer of a round of ale, accepted with a grunt and a nod, the Denariyan looked pointedly at Danar, “Thought it was a woman you wanted passage for.”
Zevaron shrugged. “Things change.”
“Not my business.”
“Right. It’s not.”
The barkeep set a pitcher with a cracked lip down on the table. The Denariyan refilled his tankard, lifted it in salute, and for a time, there was little conversation. With a sigh, the pirate lowered his cup. “You drinking?”
Zevaron’s mouth had watered at the smell of the ale, rough and sour though it would be. But his head had still not stopped spinning, and he dared not unsettle his stomach any further. “No, just buying.”
“In the market for a boat?”
“Passage. For two.”
The Denariyan’s eyebrows lifted, and he glanced from Zevaron to Danar and back again. “Special rates?”
Zevaron nodded. Chalil had used a similar phrase to indicate that discretion and speed were an essential part of the deal. They haggled a little over the price, and Zevaron paid him a third, with the second portion to come with the finding of the boat and the last, once they were safely aboard.
After the Denariyan slid out of the bar, Zevaron ordered another round of ale and pretended to drink, huddled over his dented tin cup. After a sip, Danar did the same.
Time passed. Men drifted through the bar, drank, carried on conversations in hushed tones, glanced incuriously at Zevaron and Danar, and walked away. The barkeep came over, looked into the pitcher, found it still half-full, and asked if they wanted to eat. Zevaron wasn’t hungry, but Danar looked too nervous to be sitting with only a mug of untouched ale. The barkeep brought wooden bowls of barley and fish, still wrapped in the leaves it had been steamed in.
“It’s taking too long,” Danar said, pushing away his half-empty bowl. “Something’s gone wrong.”
“Relax. These things take time to arrange.”
“I don’t like it. We’re just sitting here, waiting for the Elite Guard to catch up with us.”
“Best not to speak that name where it can be overheard.” Zevaron rubbed his eyes. He felt sick and unexpectedly weary, and his heart ached. He should be here with Tsorreh, talking about the freedom that lay before them. “There’s a time to run and a time to wait. And the time to wait is when the men we’ve employed are doing their work to get us out of here in the only way possible. Slowly. Carefully. Quietly.”
“But can we trust that man?”
“Look at it this way. If he gives us away, it’s his execution as well.”
Danar’s mouth fell open. He closed it and went back to pretending to sip his warm ale and pick at the remains of his fish.
After a time, the Denariyan came back, closely followed by a Mearan in the clothing of a barge captain. It took only a few minutes, using the coded phrases Zevaron had learned from Chalil, to establish the man was accustomed to “special cargo,” meaning smuggling both goods and passengers. Despite his uneasy stomach, Zevaron’s spirits rose. It was exactly the kind of arrangement he’d hoped for. The only drawback was that the barge, the Mud Puppy, would not be ready to depart until first light tomorrow. Danar looked as if he were about to burst out in objections, but Zevaron said, “Done!”
He paid the Denariyan the second part of his fee, and a portion to the captain, and then another, smaller amount to the Denariyan for the location of the worst brothel in the district.
Danar looked scandalized until Zevaron explained that, should the hunt for them reach the river district, that would be the last place the patrols would look. “Not because they wouldn’t raid a whorehouse, because they would, but because they’d be sure we would not dare take the time.”
They hired a room and a woman, went up a creaky flight of stairs, and paid an exorbitant price for another pitcher of sour ale. Zevaron handed the pitcher to the woman and stretched out on the floor. Even in his weariness, the inevitable bed-lice were not worth the dubious comfort of a lumpy mattress. Danar propped himself against the corner and rested his forehead against his folded arms. When Zevaron opened his eyes again, the woman was curled up on the bed, the empty jug at her side. She was snoring gently. Asleep, she looked even younger.
Zevaron blinked, trying to clear his head. He could not shake the uneasy sensation of having dreamed something intense and meaningful but without any specific memory of it. He felt a twinge of pity for the girl, but there was nothing he could do for her.
He pulled aside the greasy curtain and looked out over the lane. A gust of air brought the smells of human waste and rot. Across the narrow gap, an old woman emptied a bucket on top of a refuse heap. He could not make out her features, only the lighter color of her head scarf. Only a trace of brightness remained in the western sky.
It was time to find a place for the night. The tavern looked as if it had rooms for rent on the second floor, but it would not be prudent to return to the same establishment, in the event their presence had been remarked. Where there was one such place, he told himself, there would be others. He felt less tired now, although still groggy. He should be able to stay on guard most of the night.
I’ll sleep once we’re safely under way, trading watches with Danar. Let him do his share of the work when fewer things can go wrong.
Rubbing the sore place in his chest, he woke Danar. The girl roused at the same time. To Zevaron’s inquiry, she replied that her mother rented out rooms for a few coppers a night.
Outside, the street was no emptier than before but filled with a different sort of crowd. Most of the women, the smaller children, and laborers were gone. Lights winked on in drinking and eating establishments.
Outside the corner tavern, the one Danar had first pointed to, lanterns of colored paper had been hung on strings. The enticing aroma of fried pastries mingled with the curling smoke. A table had been set up outside the door, and a woman in a greasy apron was fishing bits of crisp dough from a kettle, dusting them with powder, crystallized honey most likely, and handing them out as fast as her customers could offer their coins.
Danar glanced at Zevaron, mutely pleading. Zevaron’s stomach gurgled, reminding him that they had not eaten since the fish at the tavern. Maybe hunger was what was wrong with him.
“Get us some,” he said, “and I’ll keep watch out here.”
With a grin, Danar waded into the little crowd. Zevaron turned slowly, trying to look casual as he scanned the intersection. All seemed as normal and undisturbed as things ever were in a place like this. Two seedy-looking men, obviously drunk, started a fight. A pickpocket, perhaps the boy from earlier, had chosen the wrong victim and was sent sprawling.
Zevaron relaxed, but only for an instant. A pair of armed Gelon, whether soldiers or ordinary patrol or royal guards he could not tell, entered the intersection. One of them carried a torch. They ignored the brawling drunks and moved across the square, stopping to peer into the faces of the younger men. They questioned one ragged fellow, who looked too terrified to give a coherent account of himself.
Zevaron turned toward the pastry seller, putting his back to the soldiers. As he did so, he glanced about for the quickest way out of the square. Not back the way they’d come. Too many onlookers, and too much could go wrong—
“Got them!” Danar’s clear tenor voice, with its unmistakable aristocratic accent, rang out. He emerged from the throng, and the light from the nearest soldier’s torch lit his face.
“You there!” The harsh-edged voice carried above the noise of the crowd.
Zevaron reached for his sword. His head whirled sickeningly, and his muscles felt as if they had turned to clay.
The soldiers now had a clear path to Danar. Danar stared at them, holding a pair of crullers by their thin wooden skewers. His
eyes widened as they rushed toward him.
No battle reflexes! Cursing silently, Zevaron yanked the sword free and lunged between Danar and the patrol.
“Run!” he yelled at Danar.
The first Gelon reached him, sword swinging. The heavy steel slashed down, with all the soldier’s larger mass behind it. Zevaron reacted without thinking. His early training, enhanced by years of practice on a pirate ship, took command. He caught the blow on the flat of his own sword, deflecting and blunting its full force. Steel whined and then hummed as, for an instant, blades joined and swept through the air in a single spiraling pathway. Now to end the dance with a flick that sent the other sword spinning free—
Zevaron’s stomach lurched and his skin went cold. He wavered, his balance broken. The swords jerked apart. Voices swept over him, people crying out, shouting, some of them almost upon him—
“Never mind that one! Get the boy! Jaxar’s cub!”
—and others dim and distant, the surging roar of a great army—
“Khored! Khored!”
The Gelon recovered with a grunt of surprise and raised his sword again. Overlaid on that image, Zevaron saw a thousand other swords, flashing in the sun.
He stood on a hilltop, looking down on the massed armies, knowing they waited only for his command. Snow-crystal clouds glowed across the horizon. Wind whipped his cheeks, tasting of ashes and ice.
Retching, half-blind, Zevaron lifted his hand to the gathering storm. Almost too late, he saw the hilt of the sword clenched between his fingers. Instinct and training took over again. Quicker than thought, he scrambled to his feet. He parried and fell back, fighting for balance.
The voices rose about him, a whirlwind—
“Khored! Khored!”
—and somehow, beyond all hope and reason, his mother’s voice sang in his blood, rising and falling in ancient rhythm.
May the light of Khored shine ever upon
you;
Shannivar Page 2
