City of Jade: A Novel of Mithgar
Page 21
“We’ll work our way down to Argon Ferry Town,” said Pipper. “We hear it’s grown back since the war, and is quite prosperous with trade.”
“I’d watch out for them Rivermen, if I were you,” said Finster.
“Don’t worry,” said Pipper. “We know what they did back in the Great War of the Ban. And before that what they did at the Race and on Olorin Isle.”
“Robbers and traitors,” said Binkton, nodding.
The very next day, with the help of footmen, the Warrows laded their iron-gray, flame-painted, secret-paneled trunk, loaded as it was with chains and locks and ropes and other gear, onto the southbound Red Coach. The footmen also tossed up to the top the buccen’s duffle bags, filled as they were with clothing and costumes for the Fire and Iron act, along with their personal kits. Finally, waving good-bye to Graden Finster and his boy Pud and a small gathering of townsfolk, as well as a few soldiers from the garrison, including the captain, the Warrows boarded the coach on their journey to acquire fame and glory, along with some of the good King’s coin.
As the coach trundled out of town, Pipper turned to Binkton and asked, “Nervous?”
Binkton scowled. “Nervous, me? Pah. I mean, after all, what can possibly go wrong?”
26
On the Road
FIRE AND IRON
MID AUTUMN, 6E6
Three rainy days and thirty-seven leagues after leaving Junction, Binkton and Pipper arrived in Luren, a town at the confluence of the Rivers Hâth and Caire, which then became the River Isleborne, those waters to flow on westerly and ultimately reach the Ryngar Arm of the Weston Ocean.
At the layover, they took rooms in the Luren Ford Inn, the establishment of two brothers who had fled from Gothon after a short-lived rebellion, the brothers having been on the losing side, or so it was they said. Others claimed the brothers were fleeing from harsh Gothon justice, having defrauded a handful of royalty. Regardless, when the brothers discovered that Binkton and Pipper were the Warrows they had heard about from Red Coach passengers who had previously fared through, they asked the buccen to stay on a few days and stage their performances at the inn. And although the ceilings were not nearly high enough for Pipper’s aerial show, nor for Binkton’s “Spikes of Doom,” still Fire and Iron had many acts that required no lofty overhead. After a bit of negotiation, Binkton and Pipper agreed to a six-day stay, for that was when the next southbound Red Coach would come trundling through, given the weather got no worse. And so, they offladed their gear and took up residence at the inn.
That evening, in a short performance, with their sleight of hand and patter, they had the onlookers in stitches, finding eggs and newts and other such oddities nestling in and about various audience members’ persons. Pipper juggled and Binkton escaped from tightly bound ropes, and they announced that on morrow eve and those after they would put on a full performance.
The next day they visited the local gaol, and while Pipper entertained the city watch, Binkton wandered about seemingly at random, but at last he invited the captain and his warders to come to the performance that night, and to bring their best irons, from which he would escape.
That evening, fair-haired Pipper, in scarlet and saffron and gold, put on a show of acrobatics, where he backflipped through flaming hoops, and landed on the chest, and vanished as black-haired Binkton appeared. As usual, some in the audience declared that Pipper was hiding in the chest, but when it was opened and tilted forward for the patrons to look within, no Pipper could be seen. As men carried the chest offstage, the Luren watch shackled Binkton hand and foot and tied him up in a sack. They cinched the last knot, and as instructed returned to their seats. The sack wriggled and thumped about, but finally came to rest, and a plaintive voice called out from within: “Would someone get me out of here?”
Even as the Luren watch grinned in triumph, “I will,” called a voice from the back of the audience. When the spectators turned to see, the dark-haired Warrow in gray and white and black strode among the tables and to the stage, where he released the yellow-haired shackled Warrow in scarlet and gold and saffron.
“How did t’other Warrow get in there?” cried someone, “And the first one get out?” called another, even as the dark-haired buccan reached forward and took the suddenly unlocked irons from the fair-haired other and returned them to the captain of the city watch.
The Warrows bowed to the applause and then stepped into the wings, and after a moment returned to center stage and took another bow. And Binkton said, “As you can see, I simply escaped the bag when someone wasn’t looking while Pipper took my place.” As some in the audience laughed, while others scratched their heads, Binkton turned to the commander of the watch and asked, “Captain, is your gaol as unsecure as that bag?”
“No one has ever escaped our cells,” testily replied the man.
Binkton smiled. “Well, how about we wager the best meal this inn has to offer that I will be out in a trice.”
“I accept.”
“We’ll need a reliable witness,” said Binkton, “just to prove that you and I are not in collusion.”
“I’ll be that witness,” cried someone.
“As will I,” said another, his voice rasping like gravel in a sieve.
One who had volunteered was the mayor of Luren, but the other, the raspy-voiced one, was a broad-shouldered Dwarf, who stood and said, “Brekka Ironshank, at your service.”
He was the first Dwarf that Binkton and Pipper had ever seen. Dressed in leathers and standing some four-feet-six, he sported chestnut hair and a like-hued forked beard, and his shoulders were perhaps half again as wide as those of a man.
The spectators called out their approval of the Dwarf, for the honesty of Châkka was legendary. Oh, not that they didn’t trust their mayor, but a Dwarf, well, his word would be unimpeachable.
Brekka stepped among the tables and came to stand with the Warrows, and he bowed to the gathering. Then as he turned and shook the buccen’s hands, he quietly said, “Nice trick, changing clothes and donning wigs, for surely most Humans think all Waerans look alike and cannot see the differences between you twain.”
Pipper looked at Binkton and shrugged, for clearly the Dwarf had discovered that he and Binkton had switched identities to perform the Buccan in the Bag trick, with Binkton in the sack becoming Pipper, while Pipper in the wings became Binkton.
At the mark of noon the following day, just as in Junction Town, spectators stood at the gaol, while Brekka and the watch captain and a thoroughly searched wrist-shackled and ankle-chained Binkton went inside, the Warrow shuffling. Pipper remained outside and paced back and forth and bit his lower lip and wrung his hands, his head down, as if worried.
From within the building there sounded a clang as the cell door was slammed to, and a rattle of keys and a clatter of a lock being thrown. A moment later the captain and the Dwarf reappeared, and the captain, twirling the ring of keys, said, “He’s tightly fastened away and in irons.”
“These irons?” a voice asked.
Brekka stepped aside, and just behind stood Binkton, the fetters in hand.
The crowd whooped in glee.
A few days afterward, Pipper and Binkton, along with Brekka, caught the next southbound Red Coach. The day was overcast with dark clouds, and light fell blear on the land. Under the glum skies, the coach trundled out from Luren and across the ford and into the forest of Riverwood, a broad treeland that would extend along both sides of the route for nearly seventy miles. The way between Luren and Gûnarring Gap was known as Ralo Road, stretching nearly three hundred fifty miles in all. But ere they reached the Gap, they would have to fare through the Grimwall Mountains, lying some eighty miles away, there where Ralo Pass cut through that mighty chain. After that they would cross Gûnar itself, a land sparsely populated.
As they rolled through the forest in dreary morn, Pipper looked out the window at the passing gloomy woodland and said, “Oh, Bink, it looks grim out there, as if the forest doesn’t want us here. The tre
es seem on the verge of reaching out to grab us, and who knows what they might do?”
“What?” said Bink. “Trees reaching out to snag us?” Binkton shook his head. Where Pipper came up with such wild notions, Binkton didn’t know. Oh, not that his cousin wasn’t full of good ideas, for more than once he had come up with madcap schemes that really were quite clever. Yet time after time throughout their entire childhood and unto this very day Pipper had come up with harebrained imaginings to the point of fright, and Binkton always had to calm him down. But then again, time after time Pipper had also devised things that Binkton admired, things that perhaps in his entire lifetime he never would have thought of himself—things for the act, or pranks to pull, or quite practical things. And Pipper was always full of stories, and his curiosity seemed boundless. Binkton both looked forward to and somewhat deplored what might pop out of Pipper’s imagination next.
Binkton sighed. “Pip, they are just ordinary trees.”
“Are you certain?” asked Pipper, staring out the window, his eyes wide. “I mean, they look rather ominous to me.”
“Brekka, would you talk some sense into this buccan?” asked Binkton. “Tell him that trees don’t grasp anyone.”
Brekka slowly shook his head. “In the Gwasp—a swamp in Gron—I am told there are trees that scream like women, and woe to the one who rushes to the rescue, for there are ropy tendrils that live among the roots and grasp the would-be hero and hold him fast. Then those clutchers and the so-called tree feed on the captured person.”
“Oh, lor, oh, lor,” moaned Pipper. “I’ll dream about those awful things through the night.”
“He’s just joshing us,” said Binkton. “You are, aren’t you, Brekka?”
“Nay, wee one. What I say is true, or so I was told.” As Binkton and Pipper both gasped in dismay, Brekka gestured toward the forest. “Yet these are ordinary trees, and not those foul things of the Gwasp. So fear not, Pipper, Binkton, the trees here are quite benign.”
“Are you certain?” asked Pipper, yet doubtfully looking at the woodland.
In that moment the sun broke through, and the forest stood awash with light, banishing the gloom.
“Ah,” sighed Pipper in relief.
Binkton, too, relaxed.
After riding a moment in silence, Pipper asked, “Where are you bound for, Brekka?”
“I am on a journey back to my home in the Red Hills,” said the Dwarf. “I am returning from a three-year apprenticeship in Blackstone in the far-northward Rigga Mountains, where, among other things, I learned to set gemstones into sword and axe blades.”
“Oh, Bane and Bale were set with blade-jewels,” said Pipper, “Bane being returned to The Root after the Dragonstone War.”
“I’ve heard of those weapons,” said Brekka, “one a sword, the other a long-knife.”
“Bane is the long-knife,” said Pipper. “But it’s like a sword to a Warrow, being as, um, being as tall as we are.”
Brekka laughed, and Binkton asked, “Do you make weapons like Bane and Bale?”
“Would that I could,” said Brekka. “But those two were made by Dwynfor the Elf, and are magical. Glow with an arcane light when Grg draw near, they do, and such magic is beyond me.” Brekka sighed and patted a double-bitted axe that was never far from his reach. “But I do make fine steel weapons such as this in the Châkkaholt armories of the Red Hills.”
“And now you’ll be able to fit them with jewels,” said Pipper.
“Aye.”
“I say,” said Pipper, his eyes lighting up, “perhaps you could fit Bink’s bow with a gemstone. He’s a fine archer, you know—or perhaps you didn’t know, but that is neither here nor there. Me, I use a sling instead. But a jewel in his bow, well, that would look splendid.”
Binkton frowned. “I don’t need a gemstone in my bow, Pip; it’d probably just weaken it.”
“Not if it were done properly,” said Brekka. “I would put it just above your grip, and not in one of the arms. You see . . .”
Much of the rest of that day, Brekka explained the ins and outs of setting jewels into weapons—into hilts, pommels, blades, helves, butts, grips, and such, and both Pipper and Binkton fell quite asleep during the drawn-out oration. Other passengers nodded off as well, but Brekka continued to detail the fashioning of such as the road slowly rose toward the distant mountains, the Dwarf talking to himself as much as to anyone else.
Three days and several changes of horses later they reached the way station among the foothills at the base of the col. In the morning they would hitch up a fresh team and take a second unladed team in tow, for the pass itself was some twenty leagues from end to end, and, but for a few pauses partway through to feed and water and change teams, there would be no stopping, barring a broken wheel or such.
“And barring attacks by the Grg,” growled Brekka as he oiled his crossbow that eve.
“You mean Spawn?” asked Pipper, his eyes wide in speculation.
“Of course he means Spawn,” snapped Binkton.
“What I meant, Bink, is, are any likely to be there?”
Brekka set aside his crossbow and took up his double-bitted axe and said, “It’s the Grimwalls, Pip, one of the haunts of the Grg.”
Pipper’s eyes widened. “Rûcks and Hlôks and Ogrus, you mean?”
“What else would he mean?” growled Binkton.
“Do not forget the Khôls,” said Brekka.
“Ghûls,” said Binkton before Pipper could ask.
“We’ve never seen any,” said Pipper. “No Rûcks, Hlôks, Ogrus, or Ghûls. What do they look like?”
Binkton groaned. “You’ve read about them, Pipper.”
“Yes, but I would have someone who has actually seen them tell me from firsthand experience.”
Binkton started to protest, but Brekka pushed out a palm to stop him. “Ükhs are about a head or so taller than your folk. Dark they are, and skinny-armed and bandy-legged and have bat-wing ears and viper eyes; some Humans—notably the Harlingar—call them Goblins. They mostly use cudgels as their weapons, though some have skill with crooked bows loosing black-shafted arrows, poison-tipped, for the most part. Hröks look about the same as their smaller kindred, though their limbs are straighter. They stand about Châk height or a bit taller, and they use scimitars and tulwars as weapons and loose black-shafted arrows as well. Trolls, now, they also resemble the Ükhs and Hröks, though they stand about ten or twelve feet tall. They have stonelike hides that arrows do not penetrate, but they can be killed by a shaft through an eye or the roof of the mouth. The soles of their feet are tender, and caltrops do great damage to them. They fear fire. Like all Foul Folk, they also dreaded the withering death of Adon’s Ban, but that is no longer in effect. Oh, and Troll bones are stonelike as well, and the Trolls fear water, for they sink like rocks and drown should it be over their heads. Their weapons of choice are great, long, thick, heavy iron bars—warbars, which they sweep through their enemies, mowing them down like a reaper cutting wheat. As to the Khôls, man-sized and dead-white and corpselike they are, and they use cruelly barbed spears and ride Hèlsteeds. Khôls are a most fearsome foe, for ordinary steel—whether they be piercing or cutting or crushing weapons—does little harm to them, though they can be killed by a silver blade or by a weapon of
“See, Pipper,” said Binkton, “you knew all of that.”
“Yes, I know,” said Pipper, a tremor in his voice. “But hearing Brekka actually describe the Spawn out loud is like to give me the blue willies.” He paused and then added, “I’ll probably be riding a haggard horse all darktide.”
Binkton’s eyes softened, and he said, “If you have a nightmare, Pip, I’ll waken you and we’ll wait till you settle down again.”
Pipper reached out and touched his cousin’s arm and said, “Thanks, Bink. I can always count on you.”