Inheritance Cycle Omnibus

by Christopher Paolini

  Roran had not anticipated so much traffic, but he soon realized that it could help shield his party from unwanted attention. Beckoning to Mandel, Roran said, “Drop back a ways and follow someone else through the gate, so the guards don’t think you’re with us. We’ll wait for you on the other side. If they ask, you’ve come here seeking employment as a seaman.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As Mandel fell behind, Roran hunched one shoulder, allowed a limp to creep into his walk, and began to rehearse the story Loring had concocted to explain their presence at Teirm. He stepped off the road and ducked his head as a man drove a pair of lumbering oxen past, grateful for the shadows that concealed his features.

  The gate loomed ahead, washed in uncertain orange from the torches placed in sconces on each side of the entrance. Underneath stood a pair of soldiers with Galbatorix’s twisting flame stitched onto the front of their crimson tunics. Neither of the armed men so much as glanced at Roran and his companions as they shuffled underneath the spiked portcullis and through the short tunnel beyond.

  Roran squared his shoulders and felt some of his tension ease. He and the others clustered by the corner of a house, where Loring murmured, “So far, so good.”

  When Mandel rejoined them, they set out to find an inexpensive hostel where they could let a room. As they walked, Roran studied the layout of the city with its fortified houses—which grew progressively higher toward the citadel—and the gridlike arrangement of streets. Those north to south radiated from the citadel like a starburst, while those east to west curved gently across and formed a spiderweb pattern, creating numerous places where barriers could be erected and soldiers stationed.

  If Carvahall had been built like this, he thought, no one could have defeated us but the king himself.

  By dusk they had acquired lodging at the Green Chestnut, an exceedingly vile tavern with atrocious ale and flea-infested beds. Its sole advantage was that it cost next to nothing. They went to sleep without dinner to save their precious coin, and huddled together to prevent their purses from being filched by one of the tavern’s other guests.

  The next day, Roran and his companions left the Green Chestnut before dawn to search for provisions and transportation.

  Gertrude said, “I have heard tell of a remarkable herbalist, Angela by name, who lives here and is supposed to work the most amazing cures, perhaps even a touch of magic. I would go see her, for if anyone has what I seek, it would be she.”

  “You shouldn’t go alone,” said Roran. He looked at Mandel. “Accompany Gertrude, help her with her purchases, and do your best to protect her if you are attacked. Your nerve may be tested at times, but do nothing to cause alarm, unless you would betray your friends and family.”

  Mandel touched his forelock and nodded his obedience. He and Gertrude departed at right angles down a cross street, while Roran and the rest resumed their hunt.

  Roran had the patience of a stalking predator, but even he began to thrum with restlessness when morning and afternoon slipped by and they still had not found a ship to carry them to Surda. He learned that the three-masted ship, the Dragon Wing, was newly built and about to be launched on her maiden voyage; that they had no chance of hiring it from the Blackmoor Shipping Company unless they could pay a roomful of the dwarves’ red gold; and indeed, that the villagers lacked the coin to engage even the meanest vessel. Nor would taking Clovis’s barges solve their problems, because it still left unanswered the question of what they would eat on their trek.

  “It would be hard,” said Birgit, “very hard, to steal goods from this place, what with all the soldiers and how close together the houses are and the watchmen at the gate. If we tried to cart that much stuff out of Teirm, they’d want to know what we were doing.”

  Roran nodded. That too.

  Roran had suggested to Horst that if the villagers were forced to flee Teirm with naught but their remaining supplies, they could raid for their food. However, Roran knew that such an act would mean they had become as monstrous as those he hated. He had no stomach for it. It was one thing to fight and kill those who served Galbatorix—or even to steal Clovis’s barges, since Clovis had other means of supporting himself—but it was quite another to take provisions from innocent farmers who struggled to survive as much as the villagers had in Palancar Valley. That would be murder.

  Those hard facts weighed upon Roran like stones. Their venture had always been tenuous at best, sustained in equal parts by fear, desperation, optimism, and last-minute improvisation. Now he feared that he had driven the villagers into the den of their enemies and bound them in place with a chain forged of their own poverty. I could escape alone and continue my search for Katrina, but what victory would that be if I left my village to be enslaved by the Empire? Whatever our fate in Teirm, I will stand firm with those who trusted me enough to forsake their homes upon my word.

  To relieve their hunger, they stopped at a bakery and bought a loaf of fresh rye bread, as well as a small pot of honey to slather it with. While he paid for the items, Loring mentioned to the baker’s assistant that they were in the market for ships, equipment, and food.

  At a tap on his shoulder, Roran turned. A man with coarse black hair and a thick slab of belly said, “Pardon me for overhearing your parley with the young master, but if it’s ships and such you be after, and at a fair price, then I should guess you’d want to attend the auction.”

  “What auction is this?” asked Roran.

  “Ah, it’s a sad story, it is, but all too common nowadays. One of our merchants, Jeod—Jeod Longshanks, as we call him out of hearing—has had the most abominable run of bad luck. In less than a year, he lost four of his ships, an’ when he tried to send his goods over land, the caravan was ambushed and destroyed by some thieving outlaws. His investors forced him to declare bankruptcy, and now they’re going to sell his property to recoup their losses. I don’t know ’bout food, but you’d be sure to find most everything else you’re looking to buy at the auction.”

  A faint ember of hope kindled in Roran’s breast. “When will the auction be held?”

  “Why, it’s posted on every message board throughout the city. Day after tomorrow, to be sure.”

  That explained to Roran why they had not learned of the auction before; they had done their best to avoid the message boards, on the off chance that someone would recognize Roran from the portrait on his reward poster.

  “Thank you much,” he said to the man. “You may have saved us a great deal of trouble.”

  “My pleasure, so it is.”

  Once Roran and his companions filed out of the shop, they huddled together on the edge of the street. He said, “Do you think we should look into this?”

  “It’s all we have to look into,” growled Loring.

  “Birgit?”

  “You needn’t ask me; it’s obvious. We cannot wait until the day after tomorrow, though.”

  “No. I say we meet with this Jeod and see if we can strike a bargain with him before the auction opens. Are we agreed?”

  They were, and so they set out for Jeod’s house, armed with directions from a passerby. The house—or rather, mansion—was set on the west side of Teirm, close to the citadel, among scores of other opulent buildings embellished with fine scrollwork, wrought-iron gates, statues, and gushing fountains. Roran could scarcely comprehend such riches; it amazed him how different the lives of these people were from his own.

  Roran knocked on the front door to Jeod’s mansion, which stood next to an abandoned shop. After a moment, the door was pulled open by a plump butler garnished with overly shiny teeth. He eyed the four strangers upon his doorstep with disapproval, then flashed his glazed smile and asked, “How may I help you, sirs and madam?”

  “We would talk with Jeod, if he is free.”

  “Have you an appointment?”

  Roran thought the butler knew perfectly well that they did not. “Our stay in Teirm is too brief for us to arrange a proper meeting.”

&nbs
p; “Ah, well, then I regret to say that your time would have been better spent elsewhere. My master has many matters to tend. He cannot devote himself to every group of ragged tramps that bangs on his door, asking for handouts,” said the butler. He exposed even more of his glassy teeth and began to withdraw inside.

  “Wait!” cried Roran. “It’s not handouts we want; we have business with Jeod.”

  The butler lifted one eyebrow. “Is that so?”

  “Aye, it is. Please ask him if he will hear us. We’ve traveled more leagues than you’d care to know, and it’s of the utmost importance that we see Jeod today.”

  “May I inquire as to the nature of your business?”

  “It’s a private matter.”

  “Very well, sir,” said the butler. “I will convey your request, but I warn you that Jeod is occupied at the moment, and I doubt he will wish to bother himself. By what name shall I announce you, sir?”

  “You may call me Stronghammer.” The butler’s mouth twitched as if amused by the name, then slipped behind the door and closed it.

  “If his head were any larger, ’e couldn’t fit in the privy,” muttered Loring out the side of his mouth. Nolfavrell uttered a bark of laughter at the insult.

  Birgit said, “Let’s hope the servant doesn’t imitate the master.”

  A minute later, the door reopened and the butler announced, with a rather brittle expression, “Jeod has agreed to meet you in the study.” He moved to the side and gestured with one arm for them to proceed. “This way.” After they trooped into the sumptuous entryway, the butler swept past them and down a polished wood hallway to one door among many, which he opened and ushered them through.

  JEOD LONGSHANKS

  f Roran had known how to read, he might have been more impressed by the treasure trove of books that lined the study walls. As it was, he reserved his attention for the tall man with graying hair who stood behind an oval writing desk. The man—who Roran assumed was Jeod—looked about as tired as Roran felt. His face was lined, careworn, and sad, and when he turned toward them, a nasty scar gleamed white from his scalp to his left temple. To Roran, it bespoke steel in the man. Long and buried, perhaps, but steel nevertheless.

  “Do sit,” said Jeod. “I won’t stand on ceremony in my own house.” He watched them with curious eyes as they settled in the soft leather armchairs. “May I offer you pastries and a glass of apricot brandy? I cannot talk for long, but I see you’ve been on the road for many a week, and I well remember how dusty my throat was after such journeys.”

  Loring grinned. “Aye. A touch of brandy would be welcome indeed. You’re most generous, sir.”

  “Only a glass of milk for my boy,” said Birgit.

  “Of course, madam.” Jeod rang for the butler, delivered his instructions, then leaned back in his chair. “I am at a disadvantage. I believe you have my name, but I don’t have yours.”

  “Stronghammer, at your service,” said Roran.

  “Mardra, at your service,” said Birgit.

  “Kell, at your service,” said Nolfavrell.

  “And I’d be Wally, at your service,” finished Loring.

  “And I at yours,” responded Jeod. “Now, Rolf mentioned that you wished to do business with me. It’s only fair that you know I’m in no position to buy or sell goods, nor have I gold for investing, nor proud ships to carry wool and food, gems and spices across the restless sea. What, then, can I do for you?”

  Roran rested his elbows on his knees, then knitted his fingers together and stared between them as he marshaled his thoughts. A slip of the tongue could kill us here, he reminded himself. “To put it simply, sir, we represent a certain group of people who—for various reasons—must purchase a large amount of supplies with very little money. We know that your belongings will be auctioned off day after tomorrow to repay your debts, and we would like to offer a bid now on those items we need. We would have waited until the auction, but circumstances press us and we cannot tarry another two days. If we are to strike a bargain, it must be tonight or tomorrow, no later.”

  “What manner of supplies do you need?” asked Jeod.

  “Food and whatever else is required to outfit a ship or other vessel for a long voyage at sea.”

  A spark of interest gleamed in Jeod’s weary face. “Do you have a certain ship in mind? For I know every craft that’s plied these waters in the last twenty years.”

  “We’ve yet to decide.”

  Jeod accepted that without question. “I understand now why you thought to come to me, but I fear you labor under a misapprehension.” He spread his gray hands, indicating the room. “Everything you see here no longer belongs to me, but to my creditors. I have no authority to sell my possessions, and if I did so without permission, I would likely be imprisoned for cheating my creditors out of the money I owe them.”

  He paused as Rolf backed into the study, carrying a large silver tray dotted with pastries, cut-crystal goblets, a glass of milk, and a decanter of brandy. The butler placed the tray on a padded footstool and then proceeded to serve the refreshments. Roran took his goblet and sipped the mellow brandy, wondering how soon courtesy would allow the four of them to excuse themselves and resume their quest.

  When Rolf left the room, Jeod drained his goblet with a single draught, then said, “I may be of no use to you, but I do know a number of people in my profession who might … might … be able to help. If you can give me a bit more detail about what you want to buy, then I’d have a better idea of who to recommend.”

  Roran saw no harm in that, so he began to recite a list of items the villagers had to have, things they might need, and things they wanted but would never be able to afford unless fortune smiled greatly upon them. Now and then Birgit or Loring mentioned something Roran had forgotten—like lamp oil—and Jeod would glance at them for a moment before returning his hooded gaze to Roran, where it remained with growing intensity. Jeod’s interest concerned Roran; it was as if the merchant knew, or suspected, what he was hiding.

  “It seems to me,” said Jeod at the completion of Roran’s inventory, “that this would be enough provisions to transport several hundred people to Feinster or Aroughs … or beyond. Admittedly, I’ve been rather occupied for the past few weeks, but I’ve heard of no such host in this area, nor can I imagine where one might have come from.”

  His face blank, Roran met Jeod’s stare and said nothing. On the inside, he seethed with self-contempt for allowing Jeod to amass enough information to reach that conclusion.

  Jeod shrugged. “Well, be as it may, that’s your own concern. I’d suggest that you see Galton on Market Street about your food and old Hamill by the docks for all else. They’re both honest men and will treat you true and fair.” Reaching over, he plucked a pastry from the tray, took a bite, and then, when he finished chewing, asked Nolfavrell, “So, young Kell, have you enjoyed your stay in Teirm?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Nolfavrell, and grinned. “I’ve never seen anything quite so large, sir.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes, sir. I—”

  Feeling that they were in dangerous territory, Roran interrupted: “I’m curious, sir, as to the nature of the shop next to your house. It seems odd to have such a humble store among all these grand buildings.”

  For the first time, a smile, if only a small one, brightened Jeod’s expression, erasing years from his appearance. “Well, it was owned by a woman who was a bit odd herself: Angela the herbalist, one of the best healers I’ve ever met. She tended that store for twenty-some years and then, only a few months ago, up and sold it and left for parts unknown.” He sighed. “It’s a pity, for she made an interesting neighbor.”

  “That’s who Gertrude wanted to meet, isn’t it?” asked Nolfavrell, and looked up at his mother.

  Roran suppressed a snarl and flashed a warning glance strong enough to make Nolfavrell quail in his chair. The name would mean nothing to Jeod, but unless Nolfavrell guarded his tongue better, he was liable to blurt out s
omething far more damaging. Time to go, thought Roran. He put down his goblet.

  It was then that he saw the name did mean something to Jeod. The merchant’s eyes widened with surprise, and he gripped the arms of his chair until the tips of his fingers turned bone white. “It can’t be!” Jeod focused on Roran, studying his face as if trying to see past the beard, and then breathed, “Roran … Roran Garrowsson.”

  AN UNEXPECTED ALLY

  oran had already pulled his hammer from his belt and was halfway out of the chair when he heard his father’s name. It was the only thing that kept him from leaping across the room and knocking Jeod unconscious. How does he know who Garrow is? Beside him, Loring and Birgit jumped to their feet, drawing knives from within their sleeves, and even Nolfavrell readied himself to fight with a dagger in hand.

  “It is Roran, isn’t it?” Jeod asked quietly. He showed no alarm at their weapons.

  “How did you guess?”

  “Because Brom brought Eragon here, and you look like your cousin. When I saw your poster with Eragon’s, I realized that the Empire must have tried to capture you and that you had escaped. Although,” Jeod’s gaze drifted to the other three, “in all my imaginings, I never suspected that you took the rest of Carvahall with you.”

  Stunned, Roran dropped back into his chair and placed the hammer across his knees, ready for use. “Eragon was here?”

  “Aye. And Saphira too.”

  “Saphira?”

  Again, surprise crossed Jeod’s face. “You don’t know, then?”

  “Know what?”

  Jeod considered him for a long minute. “I think the time has come to drop our pretenses, Roran Garrowsson, and talk openly and without deception. I can answer many of the questions you must have—such as why the Empire is pursuing you—but in return, I need to know the reason you came to Teirm … the real reason.”

  “An’ why should we trust you, Longshanks?” demanded Loring. “You could be working for Galbatorix, you could.”