Ryle’s head came up. “Which fellow?”
Simeon eyed him hard for a second. “Tall man in a ragged coat. Intense face. Bald head.”
It took Ryle’s exhausted brain a moment to process. When the words finally got through, a tumbler snapped over in his brain.
A tall bald man.
There had to be more than a few of those in the realm, but right then, a particular memory stood out in sharp detail. A bald man in a ragged coat and scarf nursing a mug across the street on a misty morning in Shelling. He’d been watching Ryle, maybe glaring.
It seemed unlikely, and yet, he couldn’t shake the feeling. Had he seen the man since? Would he recognize him if he did? The man’s features had been hidden behind a scarf, and there were thousands of faces on the streets of Del’atre. Was their careful avoidance of towns and sleeping in fields for nothing? Was he watching the inn right now?
“Where?” Ryle asked.
“A friend in Purses mentioned him sniffing around. Another near Gates saw him as well. He might’ve been across the street from the Blossom an hour ago. I didn’t get a good look.”
If that was true, he’d probably seen Ryle wander in only moments before. Cold wriggled up his spine.
Simeon watched him closely. Whether to gauge his reaction, or for some other reason, Ryle couldn’t tell. Smoldering muck. “Any idea who he is?”
Simeon shrugged his thin shoulders. “Lots of folks in the Del. Lots of travelers. He didn’t look local, or Eastern to me.”
“And?” There was something else. Something he wasn’t saying.
Simeon didn’t respond. His eyes snapped to the door at the end of the room. An instant later, it banged open, and Lastrahn strode through. When Ryle looked back, Simeon was gone as if he’d never sat there.
“Tell me where he is,” Lastrahn said in lieu of a greeting.
Ryle remembered himself enough to stand. His body protested being forced back into action.
“Angle Street and Stump, Sir.”
The champion glared at him as he digested the answer. His loose hair didn’t quite conceal his scared cheek.
Drailey’s comments rushed to the surface. Ryle desperately shoved them away, trying to keep anything from showing on his face. Someday he might get answers from him, but this was not that moment. Simeon’s news meant they now faced a more imminent concern.
“That’s in the Flats,” Lastrahn said.
Ryle nodded. “Yes, Sir, but there’s something else.”
“I didn’t ask about anything else.” He glanced over to the milky sunlight filtering in through the room’s front windows. “His customers won’t be awake for hours. That means he’ll be closed now.”
When his gazed shifted back, it carried an accusation that this fact was Ryle’s fault. That if he would’ve hurried back, Ogrif’s shop would still be open and they wouldn’t be facing a new delay.
“I returned as soon as I could, Sir.”
Lastrahn glanced at the empty plate on the table. “I’m sure.”
Was there something else there? Some inflection to his words? Had Lastrahn heard about what he and Drailey had been up to?
Sheer fatigue might’ve addled his senses, but he risked broaching the subject of their pursuers again. “Sir, there’s something else you need to know.”
“Aide—”
“Sir, I think we’re being followed.”
Lastrahn glared and stepped aside, and Ryle got a clear look at the men in the corner. He hadn’t wanted to discuss anything in front of them. Muck. Well it was too late for that now. Ryle stepped closer and Lastrahn’s nose twitched.
He pressed on in a lower tone of voice. “I think a tall bald man is following us, Sir.”
“Describe him.”
“I, um, didn’t see him, Sir.” And right then he realized the precarious position he’d placed himself in. No, Sir. He wasn’t paying attention, but a stable hand at the inn did my job for me and noticed. He forged on. “I received information that a man has been making inquiries about us around Del’atre. I might’ve seen him before, in Shelling.”
Lastrahn’s face didn’t change.
A hundred accusations summoned themselves from the back of Ryle’s mind. All of them ended with, and you didn’t think to mention this until now?
Lastrahn drew a slow breath then looked Ryle over from head to toe. “Be ready to go in two hours,” he said, and strode from the common room.
Ryle was left feeling stupid, and useless. His head ached anew. And he hadn’t even mentioned the Skivers.
He was still cursing himself when a voice interrupted his thoughts. “Need anything else?” The blonde haired serving boy who had delivered his breakfast earlier stood a pace away holding a pot of tea in one hand.
He must look quite the sight, standing there in the common room. Gazing at nothing. What a morning. “Which way to the baths? He tried to ignore the look of relief on the boy’s face.
The boy pointed. “Take the stairs to the second floor. It’s the door on the end. Martha might not have the tubs warm yet, but there’s soap and water up there.”
He’d take what he could get. “Thanks.” Ryle gestured to his plate. “What do I owe?”
“Your meal is covered,” the boy and rushed to fill the businessmen’s waiting tea cups.
Of course it is, thanks to Lastrahn. Right then, that fact added to his frustration. But what the hex was he going to do about it? Demand to pay with coins he didn’t have?
He stomped upstairs looking to cleanse what he could with a bath.
The stairs led to a wood paneled hallway lined with doors. He knocked on the one at the end and when he didn’t receive a response, entered.
He found himself alone in a long room. Dim sunlight slanting in from small windows along the wall lit a half dozen copper tubs and folding lacquered screens of a style he hadn’t seen since Pyhrec. Only two of the tubs were filled with water, and as the boy had predicted, both were cold, but they looked clean enough. Shelves near each tub contained bars of yellowish soap and clean towels. Coat racks stood ready to accept his garments.
He hadn’t seen anything so civilized in weeks. It nearly brought a tear to his eye.
He selected the tub at the end of the room and started to get undressed when he spotted a well-polished mirror hanging beside the coat rack. He reluctantly paused and took a look. Exhaustion darkened his eyes, stubble coated his cheeks, and he’d soon need a haircut before his hair grew long enough to get a grip on. The rest was as terrible as ever. The features staring back looked too much like his father for his liking. Only his eyes stood apart and those belonged to his mother. Anger or sorrow, take your pick. There was a reason he avoided these things. He tossed a towel over it before he continued undressing.
Layers of dirt and grime coated his clothes. He grimaced as he peeled them off. He could get semi-clean pants and underclothes from his bags, but there was no time to wash his only jacket. He’d have to settle for beating some of the dirt out of it.
As he hung it on the coat rack, he glanced out the window and down into a small walled yard at the back of the building. Bins for refuse filled one side of the space and coops for chickens and pens for goats filled the other.
Little Ebi was down there, doing his best to dump a bag of trash as large as himself into one of the bins. When he finally managed, he scooped up a pail and fed the chickens. He grinned as he threw handfuls of seed. He might ramble but he seemed like a sweet kid.
Ryle smiled and then froze at the sight. Somewhere distant his hand let go of his jacket and it crumpled to the floor.
What had Simeon said yesterday? Something important. Something his sleep deprived brain refused to bring back for him. He gritted his teeth, breathed hard and got . . . nothing.
Stupid sleeping brain.
Well, he could take care of that.
He spun to the tub, grabbed hold of the sides, and plunged his head into the icy water. He kept his head down until his lips went numb an
d his lungs burned then snapped upright.
Cold water soaked through his shirt. He ignored it as his mind spluttered along in shock. What had Ebi and Simeon said? He saw them talking in the stable, but the words eluded him.
He plunged his head in again. His face felt like needles of ice were jabbed through his skin, but his mind was slowly coming around. As he jerked his head free, the words came to him like a hard slap.
“. . . you swore there were Praeters hiding in Del’atre because you saw a bald man across the street,” Simeon said.
And Ebi had muttered, “It was two bald people.”
Ryle stood shivering, and gripped the sides of the tub hard enough to make his fingers ache. He must’ve really been exhausted to not make the connection before. It was obviously what Simeon had avoided saying downstairs because the idea was ridiculous.
But only to anyone who wasn’t trying to stop a Praeter invasion.
His eyes squeezed shut as he tried to push through the fatigue and discover a fault in his logic. He found none.
Praeters were in Del’atre, and were almost certainly following him and Lastrahn. He agreed with Ebi, it was probably two of them. In his experience the bald headed bastards always travelled in pairs. A string of awful memories full of blood and smiling teeth helpfully lined up to confirm this. He shoved his past away and forced himself to take a deep breath. Come on, focus. Think it through.
What was this mysterious pair’s plan? More importantly, what was their motivation? Reports were that most of the Praeter delegation at Helador had been wiped out. That meant they had to want their own revenge on Vastroth, so their goal should align with Lastrahn.
But, something felt wrong. They’d had numerous opportunities if they wanted to align with the champion. And they’d stayed in the background, watching. That told Ryle they had another agenda. Blast, for all he knew they wanted this war Vastroth was plotting. Now there was a terrifying idea. Then again if they wanted the war, they could’ve tried to stop Lastrahn and hadn’t done that either.
He finally gave up trying to sort it out. He didn’t have enough clues to go on, and even if he did, what the hex could he do about it except what he and Lastrahn were already doing?
After a couple shaky breaths, he found the truth lying under the hard knot at the bottom of his stomach.
Not a blasted thing. His mission remained the same. They might have one more enormous obstacle to overcome, but they had to carry on. Ryle just had to do a much better job of keeping his blasted eyes open.
No problem. Not like that’s hard without sleep, without rest, without a single chaff sucking break.
He stared down into the water, observing his shaking twisting reflection for a moment then plunged his face down through his own exhausted expression.
Maybe he could drown the fatigue. It was worth a try.
Ryle returned to the common room, tired but cleaner in new pants and shirt, his hair damp and some dirt beaten from his jacket. He found Lastrahn in conversation with the Ferrel.
“You should get some responses by this afternoon,” Lastrahn said.
Ferrel wore her usual white jacket, and she tapped a thin stack of folded and sealed papers against one hand. She was sporting a larger mustache. This one curled upward across her pale cheeks. Ryle didn’t try to figure out how it stayed on.
“Perhaps,” she said. “It is a hard thing to estimate. It’s Bindings after all, Advent is in full swing, but we’ll do our best as always. Where do you want replies delivered?”
“I take it the Old Post is still around,” Lastrahn said.
“It is.”
“Then, there. As quick as possible.”
Ferrel inclined her head and disappeared through a side door.
When Lastrahn saw Ryle, he gestured for the exit, and left. Ryle sucked in a deep breath as he swept the disgusting cloak back around his shoulders, basically ruining his bath, and followed his master back into the chaos that was Del’atre.
No more screw ups. Let’s get the blasted job done already.
CHAPTER 28
Lastrahn and Ryle stood before the unremarkable alley pinched between sagging buildings. Down at the far end, Ogrif’s peeling green door waited.
Behind them in the street, a thin crowd of tight lips and cold eyes flowed past, more than a few Directorate guards among them. A river of hard edged people in constant motion. Holiday or not, they never relented.
Only the merchants running the carts along the edges of the street showed any hospitality, and then, only until they decided you wouldn’t part with any coins.
Most of them were closing up shop anyway. At mid-day on the Day of Bindings people were already heading to parties. Tomorrow might be the last day of the festival, but Ryle bet the celebrations during the coming night would be the wildest if not the largest of the week. In Pyhrec, they’d taken the idea of throwing off your bonds, of escaping confines, and breaking free, to extremes. He could only guess what would occur here.
Lastrahn’s gloved hands clenched and unclenched as he observed the alley. “You’d better be right about this place.”
Pretty sure. Unless Ogrif moved in the last twelve hours. “Yes, Sir.”
“Keep your sword close and watch your ass.” Lastrahn slipped between the buildings.
Ryle gave the street a good look and followed after Lastrahn. Praeters. Skivers. Guards. He was losing track of all the people they were avoiding.
The cobblestones were still slick under his boots, but now he could see the black muck that coated them. He did his best to step around the worst of it.
Lastrahn nodded to the door when they reached it. Ryle paused long enough to take a breath and focus. All of their efforts came down to this single thread. Only his future and the fate of the entire realm hung suspended by it. No problem.
He tried the dented brass doorknob and found it locked, of course. He knocked. No response. He pounded louder with the heel of his hand.
“We’re closed,” said a gruff voice that Ryle recognized as the big guard.
Lastrahn jerked his head toward the door again. Strange that he didn’t knock himself, but Ryle didn’t argue.
“We’re here to see Ogrif. We have business,” he said, trying to recall Drailey’s words from the night before.
“I said we’re blasted closed! It’s a blasted holiday! Come back tomorrow. Now get lost!”
Ryle didn’t argue that tomorrow was also a holiday, and pounded on the door again. This time he received no response, heard nothing further from inside.
He turned to the champion. If a glare alone could set fire to a door, Lastrahn’s would’ve gotten the job done.
Ryle pointed to the lock below the doorknob and mouthed, “Pick it?”
The champion nodded and told him to move aside with a flick of his fingers. Then Lastrahn picked the lock with his boot.
The door snapped open so fast it almost came off its hinges. Lastrahn rushed through.
Frozen muck. Ryle charged after him.
“One on the left,” Lastrahn growled.
Ryle was already turning in that direction when a nail studded stave rebounded off the doorframe with a heavy thunk. Only his quick entry saved him from a shattered skull. He dodged away, trying to clear his cloak and get his sword free. Neither happened. As if the blasted cloak hadn’t given him enough trouble already.
The smaller man from the night before loomed up. Recognition and anger filled his eyes, delaying his next swing. It gave Ryle time to grip his sword, but he had no space to draw. He drove forward instead. The guard’s forearm smacked into Ryle’s shoulder as he rammed the pommel of the sword into the man’s guts. He gurgled and stumbled back. Ryle went after him, rammed him again, then snapped the pommel up under his chin as he sagged forward. The man’s jaw snapped shut and a couple ivory flecks that were most likely teeth flew from his mouth.
A moment later the small guard joined his teeth in a limp heap on the floor.
Ryle spun back to the
room. Lastrahn had long since dispatched his opponent. The larger, bearded man lay boneless on the floor. The champion crossed the room with heavy, pounding steps.
Ogrif sat behind his counter as he had the night before. After their dramatic entrance he looked less surprised than Ryle expected.
“Lastrahn. How are you?” he asked.
“In a hurry, Ogrif,” Lastrahn said.
“If I’d known it was you, I would’ve opened the door.”
“I’m sure,” the champion said.
Ryle took up his same place against the left hand counter as the night before.
Ogrif appeared less pleased when he looked in his direction. “You again, whoever you are. Your little friend isn’t with you this time?”
Ryle expected Lastrahn to round on him, but only his scarred cheek twitched. He was sure he’d hear about it later.
“You’re looking as menacing as ever,” Ogrif said to Lastrahn. “What can I do for you?” He set down the coin he’d been inspecting atop a stack of others on the counter. “I was just heading home.”
Ryle’s eyes darted between both doors. He still wondered at why there were only two guards with all the merchandise that lined the walls.
Lastrahn rested his hands atop the counter and peered down at the man. “I’m sure you know why I’m here.”
“You need something of course. Like everyone who comes to Ogrif. I have many somethings.”
“Information.”
Ogrif scratched his ample belly through his shirt and tangle of necklaces. “Well, that is another thing. More fleeting perhaps. Like tiny bird on the breeze. Chirping today, cold on the ground tomorrow.”
“Hartvau,” Lastrahn said.
One of Ogrif’s pudgy fingers twitched, and the pendants against his chest tinkled like a wind chime. “What of him?”
“Let’s start with everything you know.”
Lastrahn wasn’t smiling and neither was Ogrif.
“And what are you offering me?”
“You owe me, as I recall, and quite a lot. You tell me enough, and I might consider us even.”
Gearspire: Advent Page 24
