“Hang on, Maynard,” Jonmarc murmured, patting the caravan master’s shoulder. “Just hang on.”
The road was empty at this hour, and all Jonmarc could hear was the sound of the horses’ hooves and the creak of the wagon. Trent, Corbin and Zane rode three abreast behind them, their faces nearly lost in the shadows.
A dozen of the duke’s soldiers poured out of the darkness on both sides of the road. They were sorely mistaken if they expected the wagon to stop. Steen let out a battle cry and snapped the reins, driving the wagon straight ahead, faster than before. Soldiers cursed and shouted, but they got out of his way.
Guards were riding up on either side of the wagon. Jonmarc leveled his crossbow at the man on the right, squeezing off a shot that threw Jonmarc backwards in the bed of the wagon, but caught the guard in the chest, knocking him from his horse.
The second guard rode up on Steen’s left, hoping to knock him from the driver’s bench or snatch the reins from his hands. Steen was ready, with a sword in his left hand and the reins in his right. He might have left his work as a mercenary, but his skills stood him in good stead.
Jonmarc heard the clang of steel as Steen and the guard clashed. Steen edged the wagon over, hoping to run the rider off the road. Jonmarc reloaded, and caught the soldier in the back, high on his right shoulder as Steen brought down a hard strike that severed the man’s hand at the wrist.
Another soldier leaped from his horse and landed in the back of the wagon. Jonmarc kicked him hard in the face and then sent a quarrel between his eyes.
Half of the duke’s soldiers were down, but the remaining guards fought on. But now, Trent, Corbin, and Zane had maneuvered their horses to block the road, keeping the guards from following the wagon.
“We’ll hold them!” Trent shouted. “Go!”
“Trent—” Jonmarc had not been looking forward to saying good-bye to his mentor, but riding off into the darkness without a word wasn’t what he had in mind.
“Save it! We’ll meet you there.”
Trent wheeled his horse and went on the attack, bringing his sword down in a powerful stroke. Zane hung back, lobbing knives with deadly precision. Corbin scythed his hatchet in one hand.
Jonmarc stayed low, and got in one last shot. The quarrel struck one of the duke’s soldiers square in the chest, and the man cried out in shock and pain before he toppled from his horse. With a shout of victory, Steen took the wagon around a bend, and they left the fight behind them, though the sound of it carried for some distance.
“How’s Linton?” Steen asked when he dared slow the wagon.
Jonmarc glanced at their passenger. Linton’s skin was sallow and his breathing was ragged. He had long ago retched up the contents of his stomach and voided what was in his system, but the dry heaves wracked him, and from time to time, tremors seized his whole form.
“We need to get him to the healer,” Jonmarc replied, unwilling to voice his worry where Linton might hear. Steen dared a glance backward, and nodded worriedly.
“Hang on. I’ll get us there,” Steen promised.
To Jonmarc’s relief, no more guards appeared from the darkened byways. He wondered how Trent and the others had fared, and whether Ada had gotten the caravan on the move before the duke could make reprisal. Worrying about them kept him from worrying about Linton, who seemed to be fading before his eyes.
At this hour, the road was empty, so no one took note of the wagon rumbling along at top speed. Gradually, the land grew flatter as they neared the Nu River. Fraught as their errand was, Jonmarc could not avoid a streak of curiosity. The Nu River was the eastern border of the kingdom of Margolan, something he had never dreamed to see, let alone cross. On the other side lay four of the seven Winter Kingdoms: Eastmark, Principality, Dhasson, and Nargi. He had heard about the other kingdoms, but they had always been like something out of a storybook, not places he might ever actually see. Now that his goal of joining up with the mercenaries in Principality was nearly within reach, Jonmarc felt a jolt of nervousness and anticipation that was both unsettling and exciting.
“There’s the Nu.” Steen pointed ahead of them, into the darkness. Jonmarc listened, and he could hear the rush of water, and the distant sound of voices. Squinting, he could make out the shadows of the river banks from torches all along its edge.
“And there’s the Floating City,” Steen added. Jonmarc strained to see, but at this distance, it looked like a hodgepodge of shacks in the dim torchlight.
Up close, the Floating City was still a hodgepodge, but the buildings were houseboats, fishing vessels, and rafts, not shacks. Lashed together and bobbing with the current in an inlet, the Floating City glowed against the night, and Jonmarc could hear music and voices, and smell spiced fish and baked leeks.
“Is it always here?” Jonmarc asked.
Steen chuckled. “Except when it isn’t. The boats can cut their ties and float away if there’s a bad storm, or a large garrison heading this way. When things calm down, they tie back up again. Means that nothing in the city is ever in the same place twice.”
“Is it really a city? Or just a bunch of boats?”
Steen swept his arm to indicate the lights and boats. “Oh, it’s a city, all right. Think of each of those boats as a shop or business. Markets, pubs, inns, whorehouses, merchants, fish mongers, and grocers, bakeries and weapon-dealers— it’s all there.”
He glanced over his shoulder at Jonmarc. “The folks who spend much time here have reason to keep one eye out for trouble. The regulars are tight, and they’re wary of strangers. Let me do the talking.”
Steen slowed the wagon as a man approached from the darkness. The sentry was a large man, tall and broad, and torchlight glinted on the steel of the man’s sword. He spoke to Steen in words Jonmarc did not recognize, a languid, accented language that seemed as drawn out as the river itself.
To Jonmarc’s surprise, Steen replied fluently, gesturing to indicate Linton and Jonmarc. Linton’s name and his own were the only part of the conversation Jonmarc understood. The sentry looked into the back of the wagon, peered intently at Linton, then nodded curtly and took the reins from Steen, saying something that Jonmarc guessed was an offer to stable the horses, which Steen accepted.
“Come on,” Steen said, switching back to Common, the language spoken by most of the people of Margolan. “He says we can find Mama on her boat. He told me where it is. Let’s go.”
Between the two of them, they hefted Linton out of the wagon and carried him by the shoulders and ankles down the gangplank and onto the deck of the first boat in the jumble of ships. No one seemed to think it odd that they were carrying an unconscious man covered in vomit, which gave Jonmarc an idea of what passed for normal in these parts.
“That language you were speaking back there—”
“That’s the river patois,” Steen replied. “It’s the language of smugglers, whores, and blackgards of every manner— quite handy to know. It’s a bit of a mashup of the different languages spoken along the riverbanks, plus thieves’ slang and some words all of its own.”
“You speak it like a native,” Jonmarc commented.
Steen shrugged. “I’ve been around. You pick things up.”
Considering that the Floating City changed every time its denizens cut loose and tied back up, Steen navigated the rising and falling decks and the general confusion with aplomb. It looked like chaos to Jonmarc. Dozens of ships that hardly looked like they could stay afloat each bearing painted signs proclaiming the services or wares within, its narrow gangplanks crowded with ambling drunks, tired strumpets, and fast-talking shopkeepers anxious to make a sale.
Steen bantered his way through the crowd, calling out to people he recognized, and nodding to those who shouted to him. Jonmarc smelled fish and river water, cooked cabbage and onions, unwashed bodies and wet dogs, pipe smoke and dreamweed.
Abruptly, Steen turned up a small ramp leading up to an old houseboat. The paint was peeling and the hull looked as if it had
veered close to some rocks, but it was afloat, and larger than many of the other boats. The smell of stew and whiskey reached Jonmarc, and his stomach rumbled, despite his worry for Linton.
“Hey, Mama!” Steen shouted. He called out something else in the patois.
A large woman dressed in flamboyant colors ambled into view. She was very tall, and quite wide, with a broad, pleasant face and dark hair caught back into a knot. At first, her eyes narrowed, and then she recognized Steen and let loose a barrage of patois.
Steen bantered back, then grew serious, nodding toward Linton. When Mama recognized the caravan master, she let out an exclamation of dismay, and gestured for them to hurry up into the main section of the houseboat.
She led them through the front two rooms, which were set out like a tavern with a bar and a few tables, and into the back, where the boat held a couple of very small rooms. They laid Linton on a bed, and Mama leaned out of the room and shouted to someone.
A young man who looked a few years younger than Jonmarc came from around the corner, pushing his lank blond hair out of his eyes. Mama rattled off a string of commands, pointing and gesturing, and the young man nodded, then took off at a sprint.
“She sent for the Sister,” Steen translated.
Mama fussed over Linton like he was a sick child, pulling his soiled clothing off him and finding him a fresh tunic, then covering him with blankets when he began to shiver. When she had settled him the best she could, she strode back to where Steen and Jonmarc waited.
“Tell me,” she said in heavily accented Common. “Tell me what happened to him.”
Steen gave a colorful version of the tale, and to Jonmarc’s surprise, did not omit the details of their confrontation with the poisoner, or the fight with the duke’s guards.
“You bested Duke Ostenhas’s guards?” Mama said, and chortled in approval. “Damn. I wish I had seen it.”
Mama turned her attention to Jonmarc, as if she had only now noticed his presence. Again, she and Steen exchanged conversation in the patois, and Jonmarc was uncomfortably aware that whatever they were saying was about him. Finally, Mama nodded.
“Steen vouches for you,” she said, regarding Jonmarc as if taking his measure. “He says you fight well. Says you’re a good friend of Linton’s.”
“I do my best when it comes to a fight,” Jonmarc said. “And I owe Linton. He took me in when I had nowhere else to go.”
“Humph,” Mama said. “He says you do very well with a sword. Says you intend to join up with the mercenaries across the river.”
“If they’ll have me,” Jonmarc replied.
Mama snorted. “Oh, they’ll have you. Question is, how long will you last?”
Linton lay still, except when a convulsion jerked and trembled his frame. They waited for the mage-healer, and to Jonmarc it seemed like forever, though only minutes had passed. Minutes Linton did not have to waste.
Finally, the blond boy returned, leading a woman Jonmarc guessed was Sister Birna. She was thin as the reeds along the riverbank, with dark hair cut short like the cat-tails in the shallows. She wore the brown robes of one of the Sisterhood, a fabled community of female mages whose powers were so legendary that whispers of them had even reached the Borderlands where Jonmarc had grown up.
“Where is he?” Sister Birna asked, dispensing with pleasantries. She had intelligent eyes and a serious, but not severe expression. Mama motioned for Sister Birna to follow her, and led the way to where Linton lay.
“Sweet Chenne,” Sister Birna murmured. “How long ago was he poisoned?”
Steen filled her in with what they knew, and Jonmarc noticed that he and the Sister both spoke Common and not the river patois.
“Can you heal him?” Steen challenged. “Ada said that you had strong magic, as well as the healing gift.”
Sister Birna set her jaw. “If the poison has not destroyed too much, it may be possible.” She paused. “What can you offer me in payment?”
Steen’s expression hardened. “Name your price.”
“Passage with your traveling caravan to the Palace City,” the Sister said. “And a handful of silver when I get there.”
“Done,” Steen said.
Sister Birna nodded, and accepted the chair Mama pulled up near Linton’s bedside. “Then let’s get to work,” she said. “There isn’t time for me to be gentle.”
Jonmarc had watched Alyzza’s magic, and he knew that despite her protests to the contrary, she was a powerful mage, at least when her madness did not block her power. He knew the ways of hedge witches, like his late wife’s mother, workers who had a bit of magic, not strong enough to be a true mage. He had seen healers like Ada in action, pulling badly wounded men back from the brink of death. But he had little experience with real mages, and he was as curious about Sister Birna’s power as he was anxious to see her results.
Birna shooed everyone but Jonmarc from the small room. She placed her hands on Linton’s belly, and closed her eyes, chanting under her breath. Linton moaned and twitched, breathing shallowly. After a moment, Birna opened her eyes.
“The work that your healer and mage did have kept him alive this long and slowed the poison, but not removed it,” Birna said. “They did well, but not enough. Give me what you have left of the milk thistle.”
Jonmarc removed the small amount he had left after dosing Linton several times on the journey. Birna took it, and produced a bowl from the bag she carried. “I will need charcoal, turmeric, tea, and anise, and four large smooth, black stones.”
The blond boy nodded, then ran to fetch what she required. Birna collected the items in her bowl, then produced a small mortar and pestle from her bag and ground the items together, except for the tea, which she bade Mama steep for her. The four stones, each the size of a small fruit, she set out on the four points of the compass around Linton’s bed. When the tea was hot, Birna made a slurry of the ingredients and poured it into a cup.
Birna used a piece of charcoal to mark a circle around Linton’s bed. She drew the warding so that the four stones were on the inside. Then she walked widdershins around the circle, chanting as she moved, raising a curtain of power that sealed her in with Linton. The lambent curtain pulsed with golden light, glowing and dimming with Birna’s chant.
First, Birna took the tea slurry and lifted Linton’s head to help him swallow the mixture. Linton gave a weak moan, and Birna stroked his throat to help him swallow a few drops at a time. She reserved some of the mixture, and poured the last few drops onto her hands, then smeared it onto Linton’s belly in a slow, circular movement that mirrored the direction she had walked to close the circle.
Next, Birna rose and took up a smooth willow stick from her bag to use as an athame. Four times, once for each of the light faces of the Goddess, Birna circled the bed to the right, calling on the Sacred Lady for healing. And four times, once for each of the dark aspects of the eight-faced goddess, Birna circled widdershins, asking for death to be averted.
Finally, Birna squared her shoulders and pointed the athame at Linton’s belly. She drew in a deep breath, then spoke the words of power. Linton began to shout and convulse. Jonmarc started forward, but Steen grabbed him by the shoulder.
“Let her work,” he said. “There’s nothing to lose at this point.”
Violent convulsions seized Linton, and his body shook and writhed. Birna shoved a wad of blanket between his teeth so that his clenching jaws did not break his teeth. The cords on Linton’s neck stood out with the strain, and he sweated profusely, soaking the sheets. Birna was also sweating, and her face grew flushed with the effort.
Birna cried out in a strange language, a shout of command and magic and ancient power. Dark tendrils of smoke unwound from around Linton’s body and snaked into the four waiting stones. Linton convulsed once more, then lay pale and still.
Birna walked the path around the circle one last time. She let the golden curtain of power drop. The others started to surge forward, but she held out a warning h
and.
“Bring me a sturdy bag and a wooden box,” Birna ordered. “One big enough for the stones.” Once again, the blond boy ran to fetch what she required, and returned in a few moments. Careful not to touch the rocks, Birna used a piece of wood to roll the stones into the canvas bag, then dropped the wood in on top when all four stones were contained. She tied off the top with rope, and spoke quietly as her hands ran above the bag’s surface, careful not to touch it. Then she used another piece of wood to push the bag into the box, sealed it closed with magic, and stood.
“Take the box into one of the caves along the river, as deep inside as you dare to go. Bury it there. Mark it with the plague symbol, and forget where you left it. There is death in the box for any who open it.”
The young man gave the box a wary look, but did as he was bid. Birna smudged the circle, and stood back, allowing the others into the crowded sickroom.
Linton’s color had already improved, and his breathing was regular. He was covered with sweat, and Jonmarc was certain that Linton would have pulled muscles from the violence of his convulsions, but he was alive and looking well.
“He’ll live,” Birna said. “He’ll be weak for a while. Let him sleep. It was very close. He was nearly beyond my reach.”
“Thank you,” Steen said. Mama and Jonmarc echoed his gratitude. “I’ll make sure we keep our bargain,” Steen said.
Jonmarc moved closer to where Linton lay. “I’ll sit with him,” he offered.
Steen nodded. “I’ll come by and spell you after a bit.”
Jonmarc dozed in a chair while Linton slept. Several candlemarks later, a noise outside the room woke him, and he jumped to his feet, sword ready to guard the door. He sighed in relief when he saw Steen with Trent and Corbin.
“It took us a while to get rid of the duke’s guards,” Trent said. “Zane went back to help get the caravan moving. But we wanted to make sure you made it all right.”
“Glad to see you,” Jonmarc replied.
The Shadowed Path Page 32
