“Welcome to the Cairs, cousin!” Fynn said happily. He opened hands to the massive city spanning the hills behind him. “There is no fairer city in the realm than Rethynnea, home to all races, friend to the friendless. Anything can be found here—for the right price.”
Ean had never been to the Free Cities, and he admitted the allure of the Jewel of the Cairs. Rethynnea’s Thoroughfare, which ran the full five mile strip along the seashore, was jammed end to end with shops in front of which stood carts, stands, kiosks, and anything else man’s imagination could use as a means to display his wares. As they rode, Ean passed merchants boasting pearls from the Northern Isles, colorful silks from the deserts of M’Nador, and emeralds, rubies and sapphires from the Bemoth mines. Everywhere he chose to look, treasures inundated his eyes—jems, flowers, masks and scarves, bolts of embroidered velvets and other pre-made finery, copper, silver and turquoise jewelry, stiletto daggers, the occasional sword of questionable history, and more food than anyone could imagine eating in a lifetime.
As could be expected from such a bustling sea port, Cair Rethynnea’s shell-paved streets were jammed with people from every known land—if the variance of clothing was any indication of their point of origin—and the heartbeat of the city was a high-pitched hum of languages atop the accompanying clatter of carriage wheels, hooves, animal brays, and the regular commotion of commerce.
“Veneisean crystal is cheaper in the Cairs than in Venesia itself,” Fynn was saying to any of them who cared to listen as they continued their slow progress down the wide boulevard, “and there’s no winery that stocks more fine Veneisean reds than those found in the Cairs.”
“As entertaining as this dissertation is, Fynnlar,” the zanthyr interrupted, all business, “the prince hasn’t come to the Cairs to sightsee and waste his father’s coin on needless trinkets. What news of the Vestal?”
Fynn turned him a begrudging look, but it was unclear exactly what he found most objectionable—the implied censure in his own spending habits, speaking of the Vestal, or speaking of the Vestal to Phaedor. “Raine awaits at our villa,” the royal cousin grumbled, “and we’ve a stop to make on his behalf along the way.”
Fynnlar was more subdued after that, his enthusiasm being apparently quashed by the zanthyr’s lack of interest. As they rode through the loud, crowded streets, Ean took the opportunity to inquire, “What news from the city, Fynn?” He glanced to the zanthyr riding just behind them and added, “Phaedor says there’s trouble on the currents.”
“I daresay,” Fynn remarked, still looking disappointed that no one wanted the rest of the tour. “A famous Healer vanished last week, the fourth to have been taken in recent weeks. Many Adepts are considering leaving the city, and the governor—among others—is taking radical steps to keep them here. Adepts are already in short enough supply; as point of fact, I’ll have to call in a debt to gain the services of an Espial for the Fourth Vestal. To top everything else, there’s talk that the Karakurt’s in town, which is really bad news for you. So, yes,” Fynn finished, casting Ean a disagreeable look, “I’d say there’s trouble all right.”
At the next corner, marked by a thick stone arch carved in the shape of two jumping dolphins, Fynn turned them off the Thoroughfare onto a winding boulevard that led through the gold district upwards toward the high hills. As they rode, Ean saw the silver-capped tips of two green pillars high upon the hillside.
“Is that…jade?” Cayal asked from somewhere behind, clearly espying the same towering columns.
“Those are the Pillars of Jai’Gar,” Alyneri supplied. She rode just behind Ean, between the zanthyr and Tanis. “They must always be constructed of the purest green jade. That pair marks the entrance to Rethynnea’s Avenue of the Gods.”
“Jai’Gar,” Cayal mused. “Is that one of the desert gods?”
“Their Supreme God,” she replied, “from which all others are but faces of his aspects.”
“I didn’t know you were so knowledgeable about the desert gods, Your Grace,” Fynn remarked.
“There is much you don’t know about me, Lord Fynnlar,” she returned primly.
“A deplorable circumstance. Surely we must take action to correct it,” and he gave her a suggestive grin.
“I’m quite comfortable with our relationship as it stands now, my lord.”
“But we have no relationship, Your Grace.”
“Exactly.”
Tanis had been staring at the pillars as they rode, watching them peeking in and out between trees and buildings. “Is that where the Temple of the Vestals is, my lord?” the lad asked Fynn. “On the Avenue of the Gods?”
“Yes, among other less savory temples,” Fynn said without turning.
Tanis perked up. “Like what?”
Fynn cast him a long eye. “Let’s just say there are some temples up there that people enter and never come out of.”
Tanis’s eyes went wide. “Really?”
“No, Tanis,” Alyneri said, giving Fynn a hard look.
“Well, they don’t come out the same anyways,” the royal cousin grumbled.
“So what is this errand, Fynn?” Ean asked then.
“I told you already. The Fourth Vestal requires the services of an Espial.”
“Doesn’t he have one?” Alyneri asked. “What of that Franco Rohre fellow?”
“The Vestal goes through Espials like Fynnlar goes through wine,” Gwynnleth noted.
“All I know is he needs the services of another one and I drew the short straw,” Fynn complained.
“But you have someone in mind,” Ean said.
“As luck would have it, he’s in town,” Fynn replied, “and as I said, he owes me a favor.”
“Who then would be this luckless fellow?” the zanthyr inquired.
Fynn cast him a sooty look. “A smarter man than me. He makes a point of not associating with the minions of enemy sorcerers.”
“If that is your only criteria for measuring intelligence, my lord,” Alyneri said, “it seems that much has been overlooked. Perhaps the man is merely a coward.”
Ean gave her a surprised look. Did I hear her rightly? he marveled. Did Alyneri just stand up for the zanthyr? He caught Gwynnleth looking at her strangely also, which confirmed that he hadn’t just imagined the exchange. Ean wondered what could’ve passed between Alyneri and Phaedor that she had become his advocate. He glanced at Phaedor and caught the zanthyr watching him in return; and while Phaedor’s green-eyed gaze was ever impenetrable, the prince had the idea that the zanthyr knew exactly was he was thinking. Ean gave him a long look packed with meaning.
The zanthyr just grinned and flipped his dagger.
***
The long-haired pirate grabbed the one-eyed thief’s hand before he could pull it back from the table. “Just a minute there, Smythe,” Carian murmured. He locked eyes—or at least one eye—with the bald man in a viperous stare. “I do believe I’ve seen that card before.”
Right then the four other men at the table scooted their chairs well out of arm’s reach, making a great scraping noise known in gambler’s slang as ‘the exodus.’
Smythe snatched his hand free and let it come to rest on his dagger instead. “Are you calling me a cheat, Islander?”
The pirate leaned back in his chair and crossed muscled arms, a move that looked casual but actually put his hands closer to the long, curved knives he wore at each hip. “Maybe I am.”
Smythe jumped to his feet, sending his chair crashing to the floor in a move called ‘the drop.’ Somehow his dagger had appeared in his hand.
Half-way through Smythe’s drop, Carian dropped too. Now they both stood glaring like predatory wolves, except the pirate held two daggers to the thief’s one.
The four other men scrambled out of their chairs completely. There was no name for that, nor was there a special name for the general hush and shuffling that spread through the room as people paused in conversation or stood to watch the imminent fight—it was just called the
hush and shuffle.
“You’re a cheat and a thief, Smythe,” Carian accused. “You forfeited the pot.”
“Touch that gold, pirate, and you’re one dead stinkin’ pirate!”
Carian cast the man a feral grin. “There. You just proved yourself an idiot.”
Smythe’s face darkened. He seemed to decide that he’d had enough of the audacious pirate and his overactive mouth, for in one swift move called ‘the launch’, Smythe was soaring across the table with his dagger aimed at the pirate’s throat. The thief collided with Carian, and they crashed to the floor.
The crowd closed in around them to watch.
***
Ean’s company parted ways outside the tavern where Fynn thought he’d find his Espial friend. Tanis and the ladies kept going, following Brody back to their new accommodations, while Fynn and the others went inside to meet Fynn’s Espial contact. Fynn took the tavern steps and made to open the door—
Whereupon his nose met immediately with someone’s hurling fist.
“Ow!”
It was inevitable that the brawl between the pirate and the thief would spread throughout the room.
Fynn swore in ill-humor and punched his assailant in the teeth. The man pitched backwards onto a table and then rolled off the other side.
While Ean and the others were scanning the room trying to get some feel for the melee, someone cried out above the noise, “Damn you thirteen hells, vran Lea!”
Fynn was nursing his nose, but he perked up at this exclamation and dove into the swarming sea of flailing arms, bodies, and the occasional chair. Ean and Rhys exchanged a pained look, and then they went in after him, with Rhys calling, “All right men, let’s break it up!”
It took about five minutes, with the well-trained—and much practiced—King’s Guard sparing no eyes, jaws or noses in their attempt to settle the brawl. When Fynn and Ean reached the core of the fight, they had to pull off many a man, and even beat a few in the back of the head with the flat of their blades, which resulted in no small number of indignant glares when all was said and done.
At last they got to the bottom of the pile. Rhys pulled off one man by grabbing his scraggly hair and yanking as hard as he could—to which the man protested as shrilly as a wench—and Fynn pummeled another atop his balding head with the hilt of his sword, whereupon the man collapsed without further ceremony.
The one man who remained standing had a long, curved dagger clenched between his pearly white teeth and another in his hand. His wavy black hair hung long to his waist, and the scruff of five-day beard shaded his lean jaw. It was impossible to know how long he had been standing atop the chest of the bald thief with a scar instead of a left eye, but the latter might’ve made some protest beyond his muted groans had the pirate not had one of his shiny black boots jammed into the thief’s open mouth.
As a reluctant hush settled through the tavern, Carian smiled around his dagger and proclaimed with good cheer, if a mite slurred, “Oh hullo, Fynnlar. Come to pay me at last, have you?”
“It’s the other way around, Carian vran Lea,” Fynn remarked with a steely gaze, “and yes, I’ve come to call in your debt.”
“This is your Espial?” Ean protested.
Carian turned to the prince for the first time, and Ean thought he saw recognition flash in his brown-eyed gaze before he looked back to Fynn. In an uncharacteristic display of magnanimity then, the islander stepped down off the thief, kicked him hard in the ribs and scolded, “I hold this matter settled, Smythe, you bilge-sucking blaggard. Dare cheat me again and your life won’t be worth your weight in salt.” He kicked the moaning man again in the gut and then sheathed his blades with a flourish of crossed arms. Then he grinned. “So. What did you want to talk to me about, Fynnlar?”
Fynn looked around at the wrecked tavern and its many bloodied and begrudging onlookers and offered a mite thinly, “Shall we share a drink to everyone’s health and call it a day?”
It seemed a grand idea.
The thief crawled off to endure his shame in private, Carian claimed his loot and medallion from the floor, and not too much later, the tables had been righted, those who could sit were sitting again, those who couldn’t had been carried or dragged away, and Ean, Fynn and Carian had righted the table where it all began and were seated around it sharing a drink. Rhys and the men settled into smaller tables surrounding the four, forming a protective buffer for conversation.
After thirstily downing his first goblet of wine and calling for another, Fynn settled elbows on the tabletop and peered at Carian. “What are you doing in town, anyway, vran Lea? I heard you’d vanished for the better part of a year.”
“Business trip,” Carian murmured. For some reason, his dark eyes were fixed candidly on Ean. “So what do you want, Fynn?”
“An acquaintance of mine needs to procure your more honest services.”
“Oh, those services, eh?” The pirate pulled out a leather pouch and set to rolling the leaf into a fag. He used a nearby oil lamp to light it, then exhaled a cloud of blue smoke and leaned back against the wall. All the while, his eyes never left Ean. “So you’re the man’s cousin,” he observed to Ean then. “That would make you a…rather important man, wouldn’t it?”
Ean found the pirate’s manner uncommonly strange. “Some might say so,” he admitted.
The islander raised brows. “But not you?”
Ean held his gaze. “I don’t think a man’s importance hinges merely on his birthright.”
“Indeed?” The islander gave him an appreciative look. He took another drag off the fag and let the smoke filter up around his nostrils while he watched Ean in silence.
Fynn frowned at him. “Look, do we have an accord or not, vran Lea?”
Carian seemed to have all but forgotten Fynn, for the pirate leaned over the table and pinned the prince with an assessing look. “Tell me…might you have a brother?”
Ean blinked at him.
“What’s the matter with you tonight, Islander?” Fynn complained. “That thief get in a lucky blow? You’re loopier than ever.”
Ean felt unnerved by the man, but not for any reason he could explain. He took a long draft of his ale to quell the feeling and confessed as he lowered the glass, “I had three brothers…once. They’re all dead.”
The islander leaned back and draped an elbow across the back of his chair, his dark-eyed gaze penetrating. “Sure about that, are you?”
“Carian, you go too far,” Fynn growled.
The islander’s gaze shifted to Fynn. He began blowing smoke rings at him.
Suddenly a shadow befell their table, and Ean spun in his chair to find the dark form of the zanthyr towering over him. “Shade and darkness, Phaedor,” the prince hissed as he settled back against his chair. “Must you do that?”
“Look Fynn,” Carian observed, motioning with his fag while gazing indolently at the zanthyr, “it’s the Demon Lord come to claim your debt at last.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Islander,” Fynn grumbled. “Even Belloth knows better than to trust a zanthyr with his handiwork.”
Phaedor’s emerald eyes fixed on the pirate, and he did not seem well-disposed toward him. “Well, Carian vran Lea,” he remarked, “I didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”
Ean choked into his ale.
“There now,” Carian leaned forward and clapped Ean on the back, casting him a frown of concern. “All right then?”
Ean wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and lifted incredulous eyes to Phaedor. “You know this man?”
The zanthyr gave him a withering look—clearly Ean should have known better than to ask the obvious. Phaedor turned back to Carian and observed in a deprecating tone, “I hope you’ve learned the value of patience by now, Islander. I already have my hands full protecting one man who can’t keep himself out of trouble. I do not need another.”
“I can well protect myself,” the islander retorted. Then he grumbled darkly, “What are you doing here an
yway? I thought you only lurked beneath rocks in T’khendar.”
“Where I might’ve left you to your eternity if not for my inherent good nature,” the zanthyr remarked. He looked back to an astonished Ean and motioned to him to make room at the table. While Ean moved his seat closer to Fynn’s, Phaedor eyeballed a nearby chair, whereupon it scraped across the floor of its own accord, spinning in the last so he could sit down. Which he did.
“Show-off,” Carian muttered.
Phaedor ignored him. Being a zanthyr, he was expert at selectively ignoring anyone he chose. He settled his wolf-keen gaze on Fynnlar then. “Have you bothered to ask what you were bidden, Fynnlar val Lorian? Or do you so easily forget why we’ve come here?”
Fynn glared at him sullenly. It seemed most everyone felt the child in the zanthyr’s company. “I didn’t forget.”
“The Fourth Vestal has need of your skills, Carian vran Lea. Take you exception to his need?”
Carian stared petulantly at him. Abruptly he leaned forward and demanded in a skeptical hiss, “Why are two val Lorian princes running errands for the Fourth Vestal?”
“Come and find out for yourself, Islander,” Fynn muttered disagreeably. “The more the merrier on the road to hell.”
Ean gave him a withering look.
“Carian?” Phaedor pressed, ever unshakable. “What say you?”
The pirate sat back again, and his gaze swept the faces assembled before him. He seemed to consider for a moment while his expression remained thoughtful. Then he shrugged. “Why not?”
“Excellent. Then let us go, gentlemen,” and the zanthyr was out of his chair and heading for the door before the others even managed to stand up.
Outside of the tavern, night was falling. The eastern sky had already darkened to a cobalt blue, paling only where it sloped to the western horizon.
Cephrael's Hand: A Pattern of Shadow & Light Book One Page 89
