He had just started back towards the fire when he heard Mark shouting.
‘Stand still – right there! Show me your hands!’ The foreigner’s voice drowned out whatever anyone else was trying to say.
Another, unfamiliar, voice answered, ‘I didn’t see you. I can’t believe I didn’t see you.’ He didn’t sound that concerned that he might be run through in the next breath, but rather, someone genuinely surprised. ‘Four horses and three men— four men—’ Gilmour had come around the corner, ‘—and I didn’t see you. Gods rut a dog; you’ve got a fire burning and I didn’t see you!’
‘Hands, asshole!’ Mark, an arrow drawn full, didn’t notice his slip back into English.
‘My hands? What? What should I do with them?’ The stranger spoke calmly, apparently unafraid of the angry bowman.
‘Turn them over. I want to see your wrists,’ Mark said.
‘What an odd thing to—’
‘Now, asshole, or I will drill you through the neck.’
‘I don’t know why—’
‘Shut up,’ Mark interrupted, ‘and pay attention! I want to see the backs of your wrists, so turn your hands over. Do it now, or die. No discussion; your decision. I will not care, not for one moment, if your body rots on this hill for an eternity.’
The man stretched out his arms, causing his tunic sleeves to ride up his wrists, and did his best to show his hands from every angle. ‘I must say, I have been detained from time to time in my life, but this is the most curious demand I’ve ever heard,’ he said conversationally. ‘Where did you all come from? Is it magic?’
Mark ignored him. ‘Do you see anything?’ he asked.
‘No,’ Garec answered.
‘Nothing from over here either,’ Steven said, ‘and I’m getting nothing from—well, you know.’
Mark still held the arrow nocked. ‘What are you doing here?’
The man, who looked somewhat younger than Garec, was dressed in the ubiquitous leggings, a wool tunic with a leather bandolier and a heavy brown cloak. His hood was up, but he had made some effort to cast it back from his face, hoping that eye contact with his assailants might convince them of his peaceful intentions. Still waggling his wrists, he said, ‘My name is Rodler Varn. I’m from Capehill. I make, uh, well, deliveries into Gorsk from time to time.’ He indicated the bandolier with his chin. ‘A bit of root, that’s all, and not much. I’m not greedy. I take what I can carry and go in on foot.’
‘Fennaroot,’ Garec said, surprised, ‘you sell fennaroot in Gorsk?’
‘What’s fennaroot?’ Mark kept the arrow trained on Rodler’s chest but looked to the Ronans for clarification.
Gilmour said, ‘You remember your first day out of Estrad, Mark? The root I sliced for you?’
‘Oh, yes, right: it gave a real kick. We tried to get some in Orindale, but it was out of season or something.’
‘Malagon made it illegal,’ Garec added. ‘That’s why we had trouble finding it.’ He moved over to the man and opened one of the leather pockets in the bandolier. He held up a piece of nondescript dirt-covered root. ‘He’s telling the truth.’
‘It’s dope?’ Mark asked. ‘So you’re a drug dealer? Oh, that’s just terrific, the one person we meet out here is a drug smuggler.’ He chuckled and lowered the bow.
‘Fennaroot has many uses, Mark,’ Gilmour said, keeping an eye on Rodler Varn. ‘It’s not very powerful in its raw form—’
‘But let me guess,’ Steven interjected, ‘dried and crushed into powder, it packs a significantly more powerful punch.’
‘Yup,’ Mark said, ‘just sprinkle a little on your pancakes and you’ll be swimming the English Channel.’
Rodler, still exposing his wrists for their inspection, called, ‘Hey, Southie, can I come up now?’
Wheeling back, Mark drew the bow again and trained it on the stranger. Rage twisted his face and for a moment Gilmour feared he would kill the fennaroot smuggler. Mark’s voice was grim. ‘My family has put up with racism for generations, and where I come from, the appropriate thing for me to do right now would be to express my sincere outrage and disgust at your narrowmindedness. But guess what, asshole, we aren’t there, are we?’ Gita Kamrec of Orindale had called him a South Coaster in the caverns below Meyers’ Vale, but Mark had let it pass; there had been nothing pejorative in her usage, and she had obviously earned the respect of the numerous black members of her small fighting force. But that had been some while ago, before something fundamentally good had snapped inside Mark’s mind.
‘I don’t believe Eldarn will miss you,’ he continued. ‘They might pin a medal on my lapel. Ridding the world – even this rotting nightmare you call a world – of a racist drug smuggler might be the best thing I’ve done since I got here.’ Mark laughed, an unfunny sound that rattled around in the back of his throat and died.
‘Wait, wait, one moment, wait, please,’ Rodler begged. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t think there was anything—’
‘And that makes it even worse—’
‘But wait, wait, if you’re heading for Gorsk, I can get you in,’ Rodler was pleading. ‘I can get you past the patrols.’
‘We’ll be fine,’ Mark said, his tone still uncompromising.
The man fell to his knees. ‘I can get you silver, lots of silver. Is that what you’re doing out here? Or is it Sandcliff? I can get you into Sandcliff.’ His voice cracked in desperation; Mark grinned, wondering if he had pissed his leggings.
‘What do you know of Sandcliff?’ Gilmour interrupted, raising one hand to Mark as if to stay the execution – even if only for a moment.
‘The Larion palace, I can get in there.’ Rodler’s eyes were pleading; maybe the old man was the leader of this odd company. ‘That’s where you’re going, right? Sandcliff?’
‘How do you know?’
‘Well, you’re an old man, really old – what else would you be doing out here during this Twinmoon, running along the edge of the border and heading east?’
‘Adding ageism to your list of transgressions is not impressing me, shithead.’ Mark refused to look at Steven.
Rodler tried to explain, his voice still shaking. ‘You built a small fire in the lee of this rock, hoping the smoke will disappear in the twilight. You obviously have some magic, because I nearly stepped on you and I don’t generally miss four men, four horses and a burning campfire, especially when they’re directly in my path. So I’m guessing you have some cloaking spell keeping you hidden, or at least keeping people around you distracted by other things.
‘And him.’ Rodler pointed at Steven. ‘He looks fit enough to run from here to Capehill, so why carry a staff? He doesn’t need it for walking – his legs aren’t injured and he has a horse—’ Rodler’s half-guesses were coming more quickly now, ‘and I have never seen anyone this close to the border who hadn’t planned somehow to get into Gorsk. Of course, no one I have ever met along this ridge was going into Gorsk for benevolent reasons. Resistance fighters, root peddlers like me, even a few merchants, but no one comes this way to see the sights.’ Rodler paused in his rant to check on Mark, who still had a shaft nocked and drawn full. ‘But I know things about Gorsk – I’m well connected there. And I will never again use that term, I promise, and I am deeply sorry I offended you. No offence was intended, I swear. I’m telling the truth: If you want to get into Sandcliff, I can get you in.’
Gilmour gestured for Mark to lower his bow and, reluctantly, he complied, saying as he returned the arrow to its quiver, ‘If I get even the faintest hint that you are thinking of me or of my race as anything other than your equal – your better - you drug-dealing piece of mooseshit, I will drop you in your tracks. You will have no idea death is coming, but it will be final. Do you understand?’
Rodler nodded, still sweating.
Gilmour indicated he should join them around the fire. Mark bent to his coffee and tried to ignore the conversation.
‘How much do you carry?’ Garec asked.
&nb
sp; ‘Just this,’ Rodler indicated several pouches along the bandolier; it looked like they ran round his back as well, but he pulled his cloak close again.
‘We’re not here for your drugs,’ Steven said. ‘None of us are interested.’
Rodler calmed noticeably. He looked again at the hickory staff and asked, ‘That magic, then?’
‘I can get hockey games on it when the wind is right, but sometimes the audio is fuzzy,’ Steven said. Mark, in spite of himself, barked a laugh as Garec looked quizzical.
‘Not willing to tell me, huh? Well, what’s that language you and your— your friend speak? Asshole? Hockey?’
‘It’s the language we speak where we live. ’ Mark had used too many slang terms for him to believe they were anything but foreigners now.
‘A different place? A different world?’
Steven nodded. ‘You don’t seem surprised.’
‘My great-grandmother told my mother all about the Larion Senate – although I think they were all dead before even she was born. But she never forgot the stories about when magic and mystical things happened all over Eldarn. It wasn’t just the dark prince’s nonsense, but real magic, and fascinating inventions and ideas and innovations the senators had brought back here from— well, from somewhere else.’
‘Your great-grandmother was right,’ Gilmour said. ‘It was a magical time.’
Rodler smiled for the first time since joining them. ‘You sound as though you were there.’
Gilmour raised his eyebrows.
Rodler gave up. ‘So did you plan to cross tonight?’
‘We had thought about moving further east, at least across the Merchants’ Highway, and crossing there,’ Garec said, and then regretted divulging that much information, but neither Gilmour and Steven seemed upset with him for it.
‘You could do that, but there’s no need,’ Rodler said. ‘Right here is fine. There’s a big encampment back about a half day’s ride—’
‘We saw it yesterday,’ Steven agreed.
‘But that’s it until you reach the highway and the border stations.’
‘How do you know?’ Garec asked. ‘I thought you said you only make these deliveries from time to time.’
‘Sometimes more frequently than others.’ Rodler sniffed the air. ‘What is that? Burned tecan?’
Garec answered, ‘It’s called coffee and I recommend you try it barefoot.’
‘All right.’ Rodler shrugged and began pulling off his boots.
Steven didn’t attempt to explain. ‘What can you tell us of Sandcliff Palace?’
‘So I was right. That’s where you’re going.’ No one responded, so Rodler continued, ‘I think there must be some old Larion magic still working in that place, because you would never know it had been abandoned for so long. The grounds are a tangle and the forest has just about swallowed the place, but it doesn’t look at all run down. It’s as if its heart is still beating, and with a few folks to clear the brush, it would be back to the glory we all heard about as kids. It’s not falling down, or even dusty. The windows aren’t broken – well, one big one above the main hall, but that’s the only one I remember seeing – and the inside is as clean as my mother’s bedroom.’
Gilmour grimaced at the mention of the broken window, but quickly hid his embarrassment. ‘How did you get inside?’
‘I was in a hurry one morning after a business undertaking unravelled—’
‘Tried to sell to the wrong people?’ Garec interrupted.
‘No. It wasn’t a fennaroot deal. I was at the university.’
Steven frowned and Gilmour explained, ‘There is a small university near Sandcliff – the Larion Senators did much of their work there.’ He chose his words carefully: Rodler appeared to have been honest with them and it was clear he was not Nerak disguised, but he had yet to prove himself trustworthy.
‘So you were there trying to enrol in a class?’ Garec asked pointedly. ‘The universities have been closed since Prince Marek took the Eastlands.’
Rodler cast his eyes down towards the fire. ‘I make a number of trips up here. Some trips are more lucrative than others. Often I’ll stop by the university—’
‘Books,’ Steven interrupted. ‘You’re stealing old books.’
‘I do a bit of book business in Capehill, yes.’
Garec shook his head.
‘What?’ Rodler defended himself, ‘I have to make a living. How do you feed your family?’
‘I’m a farmer in Rona,’ Garec said.
‘You’ve come a long way from home since harvest, then.’ The quick-witted smuggler didn’t miss much. ‘When did you get all the crops in? A few days ago? You’re quite a speedy traveller.’
Garec didn’t back down. ‘I cover some ground, yes.’
‘You were saying—’ Gilmour interrupted.
‘What? Oh, right, Sandcliff, well, I was at the university and I ran into some Malakasian officials whose business ethics did not entirely align with my own and I had to run like a raving madman to get free. I figured they would assume I made my way back into town; so instead, I headed up towards the old palace. When I reached the lower gardens, I thought I was clear, but there they were, waiting.’
‘I understand they’re thorough about such things,’ Garec said.
‘So I moved through the lower garden – well, the brush – trying to find some cover. They’d fanned out and were hard on my heels when I found a grate, like a drainage grate for rain runoff, or melted snow, maybe, running through the gardens – I’ve never seen anything like it, it was a simple idea really, just an underground trench to allow for excess water to run down from the garden—’ He broke off, as if to rhapsodise further about the Larion drain, but a look from Mark brought him back on track.
‘There was nothing covering the opening now – I guess it might have been wood once, or maybe metal that rusted away, but either way, it was gone, so I crawled inside and made my way up the trench.’ The way he told the story, it sounded as if eluding Malakasian patrols was something he did every day. ‘The trench ran through a narrow breach in the wall into the scullery, just about wide enough for people to empty water pots or old beer barrels in, I guess, but I managed to squeeze through.’
Gilmour shook his head wryly. ‘I’m quite sure the Larion leadership never thought of that opening as a potential breach in the palace’s defences,’ he murmured.
‘It wasn’t much of one, I tell you,’ Rodler said, ‘it would take a rutting Twinmoon to get a decent-sized fighting force through there. The palace wouldn’t ever have been under any real threat from that trench, but we were always told it was hard to get into Sandcliff via the main entrance, what with all the spells and such, so I was surprised that I could just crawl into the place.’
‘So what did you find inside?’ Gilmour wiped a few beads of nervous sweat from his forehead.
‘Nothing,’ Rodler said, ‘I wasn’t raiding the place. Well, I did try to find the library – but really I just went in to hide while the prince’s squad tore the gardens up looking for me outside. I waited until they were gone and then thought about going back out.’
‘But not before you went looking for books,’ Garec reminded him.
‘Of course – I’m a businessman, just like anybody else.’
‘But you couldn’t get to the library,’ Gilmour stated more than asked.
‘Rutting mothers, no. I couldn’t get out of the stinking scullery. The doors, windows, nothing would open.’ Rodler pursed his lips. ‘That’s when I knew the place still had some leftover magic in it.’
Again, no one replied.
‘So that’s why you want to go up there, you want to tap into that force somehow – with that stick? Or is it you?’ He pointed at Gilmour. ‘You seem to know a lot about the Larion Senate.’
Gilmour shook his head. ‘I had a grandmother much like yours.’ He changed the subject swiftly. ‘How would you recommend we get into Gorsk?’
The sun had set by the time t
hey reached the river, but the water reflected moonlight in hundreds of tiny sparkles, illuminating a surprisingly bright path into Gorsk. ‘It will be cold,’ Rodler said, not bothering to whisper – unless a patrol was right on top of them, the perpetual background roar of the water would muffle their voices. ‘But we don’t have to be in it for long, a few hundred paces, that’s all. The patrols from the highway station come up to this river on that shore. Patrols from the encampment in the west come up as far as this shore. Neither patrols the centre … I’d prefer it a bit darker, but we ought to be able to pass by tonight without incident.’
‘What makes you so confident?’ Garec asked quietly.
‘I almost stepped in your campfire – if one of you isn’t wielding powerful magic to mask your whereabouts, someone is watching over you. I think we could be screaming songs and playing a bellamir and no one would know we had passed. But it’ll be very cold, so we have to move quickly.’ He gestured and moved into the water.
Steven shrugged and followed, leading his horse. The mountain water was icy-cold and for a moment he feared the horses would refuse to move, or worse, might bolt and give away their location, but apart from a few irritated shakes of her head, the mare allowed herself to be drawn towards the centre of the river. Their packs were tied onto the saddle, but he retained the hickory staff, warm in his hand despite the frigid, numbing cold in his legs, and Lessek’s key, an indistinct lump in his pocket. Rodler hadn’t commented on the curious cut and colour of the Gore-tex coats; he appeared to have learned when to keep his mouth shut.
They picked their way carefully upriver, but after what felt like an hour, Steven began to worry that he might never regain feeling in his legs. He was seriously considering an attempt to warm the water as it rushed by when Rodler turned and pointed.
‘Just up here, up past that big willow,’ he said, indicating a willow tree standing sentinel on the bank, its leafless branches hanging like the thinning hair of an ageing woman. Steven waited until Rodler was distracted and then quickly moved between his friends, drying their leggings and warming their feet with the hickory staff.
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