Dethil the halfwit lamplighter walked through the streets of Alidis with his head half-buried in a fog of confusing thoughts. Even as a child it had been obvious that Dethil was not quite right, and his parents had abandoned him in the Barony of Arker, many miles from Alidis. He remembered little of his early childhood. What he did remember was hunger, cold, and a sense of fear that the crop would not come in before the frost. Even in prosperous Arker there were farms that failed, and his parent's little plot of land had been a marginal operation always. There had been nothing extra to support a child who would never amount to anything.
With the hard, realistic hearts of peasants they abandoned him on the side of a road. Dethil dimly remembered a long, hungry time of begging and nights spent in the vacant rooms of churches in towns like Bolter, Sister Rock and Pulflover City.
In Alidis the Brothers of Faith had a chapter house, and they put Dethil to work polishing church icons and sweeping the floor. For the first time in his life he had known some comfort and sense of belonging. Even the monks of the brotherhood could not support him forever, though, and it had been with some relief that they turned his care over to the Lord Mayor, who employed Dethil as a lamplighter and allowed him to live with two other poor boys in the little cottage by the river. Always in his heart lay the fear that it would not last and that the Lord Mayor would turn him out.
At midnight there had come a misty rain, and several of the lamps in the little village had guttered and gone out. Dethil had been awake to hear the rain, and he had taken it on himself to relight the lamps, lest some poor soul be forced to walk the town's streets without light to guide him. Dethil had been lost in darkness before, and it was one of his fears. He sympathized with any poor person walking without the lamps for comfort.
He did not wake Paet or Cherl, for they would have simply told him to go back to bed and forget the lamps. They might have made fun of him, like they nearly always did. Somehow the pittance he was paid as a lamplighter always managed to wind up in the pockets of the two younger boys, for they were sharper than Dethil and could usually persuade him to take part in dicing or tiles.
He walked through the few cobbled streets of Alidis, holding his glowing punk aloft and looking for lamps that had failed.
Alidis had only one tavern, and Dethil had only once been inside it. Although most of the townspeople found their way into the pub from time to time, for Dethil it served as a reminder of the day when Paet and Cherl had gotten him drunk in front of everyone.
He had not liked being drunk, and the laughter of the townsfolk as he repeatedly fell to the floor had remained bitter in his ears for months after the event had been completely forgotten by the rest of Alidis. Although he could remember little from day to day, some things remained as clear as crystal along the broken and twisted trails of his memory. He closely associated the sour taste of vomit with the tavern, and years later he still hung his head in shame as he walked past it.
A voice broke into his thought, and for a moment he thought he had imagined it. Then it came again.
"Help me, boy, please."
Dethil looked toward the source of the sound. An uncobbled alleyway lay to his right, and the voice emerged from it surrounded in a miasma of bad smells. Dethil lifted his lighting punk and blew on it, the long taper of smoldering hemp gave him just enough light to see. He drew in his breath sharply in mingled disgust and horror at the mangled human figure there. What he saw was a man, wrapped from head to foot in a muddied but once fine cloak, staring at him with empty eye sockets as black as the grave. Dethil stepped backward.
"I said please, boy, can you help me?"
Dethil was moved from disgust to pity in an instant, for he had a simple mind. Forgetting that the man was blind, Dethil nodded. It was then that he noticed the man's arms, for where the hands should have been were only poorly healed stumps, slickly coated in both muck and pus.
"I c…c…can help y…y…you. What d…d…does you need?" Dethil stammered. He was not really used to speaking much, for not many people in Alidis would pass the time with the halfwit, and he was usually only awake at night.
"It's me gold, boy. I've spilled it and I can't gather it together." The beggar gestured to the ground around his feet, and Dethil saw half a dozen gold coins lying in the mire. "If you help me put it in me belt pouch, I'll give ye a piece of yer own."
Again Dethil's mind made a quick shift. On the ground were six Mortentian gilders, each one of which represented as much money as the lamplighter could earn in a year. Although it never would have crossed his mind to steal the gold, the thought of having a gilder of his own to spend forced aside any reluctance he might have felt. It never crossed his mind to be suspicious of a handless beggar squatting in an alley with gold on the ground. He never thought to wonder how a beggar might have acquired it.
"Y…y…yes, sir." Dethil said simply, kneeling down to reach for the coins. He gathered the six he could plainly see, then he noticed the edge of another, just beneath the beggar's knee. He blew on his punk to better illumine the alley. If he had been wary, or the least bit clever, he might have noticed the shadow his action cast suddenly on the wall behind the beggar. The beggar's shadow at first seemed to reflect his visible shape, but a moment later, long, clawed hands seemed to grow from the stumps of his shadow arms and reach for him.
The simpleminded lamplighter was neither wary nor clever, and the seeker caught him with ease.
Chapter 13: Jagle Bay and Points north
Levin had never been the strongest of swimmers, but with his life on the line, he swam well. Half a furlong from the tavern he let go of the broadsword he'd taken from Elithea's room and let the murky waters of Jagle Bay have it. A few minutes later he kicked off his boots and let them sink as well. Less than a dozen yards from the inn it faded, then disappeared in the morning fog. He swam on in a circle of water and misty air, only an occasional muted sound from the waterfront letting him know he was other than alone in the brackish, muddy water.
The Dunwater River ran nearly clean between its banks by his father's holding, but here, more than fifty leagues south, the foul effluent of a dozen towns and the King's City gave it an unwholesome air. He knew enough waterfront lore to keep his mouth closed to the water. To drink the water of Jagle Bay was to risk sickness, dysentery at the very least. Lockjaw would kill him if the running shits didn’t.
Out of the mist a dim, squat shape emerged to his left. He turned and made for it, cold clear through and nearly exhausted. As he flung up a hand and caught the low outer coaming of the river barge, a pike blade landed with a meaty thunk on the damp wood beside it.
"Hold it, you." The voice was low and lazy, spoken in a Flanesi drawl, but the menace behind the blade was unambiguous. "Don't ya move, river rat."
Broad shoulders and a simple wide face beneath a leather boatman's cap emerged behind a waist high rail. "We ain't takin' on boarders. Shove off and find ya another boat." The pikeman's voice was that of a Flanesi bargeman, and Levin knew the type well from his riverside haunts.
"Wait a moment, good sir." Levin replied in his best formal voice. "If you would be so kind as to let me board, I have a proposition."
Another voice came from the pilot house of the wide grain barge. "He talks fancy enow. Let 'im come up, Kelder. We can always thow him back, eh?"
"Alright, Chieftain." Said Kelder, drawing his pike to lazy attention as he allowed Levin to climb awkwardly aboard. Levin saw that the grain barge was empty, riding high at anchor in the lazily swirling water. Three men, the pikeman, the boat's chieftain and another sailor formed a triangle on the deck, facing Levin with suspicion.
"Thank you, good sirs. I confess that the water was getting rather cold." Levin shivered as he spoke.
"Ya said something about a proposition, water rat." The boat's chieftain replied. "We're waitin." Aside from the pike in Kelder's hands, a ten-foot pole with a rusted blade mounted on the end, the other two carried truncheons with familiar negligence. The bo
at's chieftain had a short sword at his belt as well.
Levin attempted to compose himself and take on a dignified air. This was not easily done, as he was dripping and barefoot on the deck, wracked with an occasional shiver. He reached into his belt pouch and drew forth one of his half a dozen remaining gold eagles. "First, as a token of my good will, I should like to reward you for rescuing me from the bay." He tossed the weighty coin to the ship's chieftain, who bit into it once before placing it in his pocket, satisfied. Kelder harrumphed in surprise at the sight of the gold, and the sailor standing by with the truncheon, a short, lean, bearded fellow with a slightly piratical cast to his features, stepped forward slightly. The chieftain waved him back.
"Well, ya got our attention. Out with it." He said in a wry voice.
"Thank you, captain." Levin replied, deliberately flattering the barge chieftain by elevating him to the rank of a sailing master. "As you may guess, I've run into a bit of difficulty." Kelder nodded with a smile. "I noticed that your barge is riding empty. You wouldn't happen to be contemplating a journey back to Flana, would you?"
Three hours later, lighter by two gilders, Levin lay concealed beneath a casually stowed tarp in the empty hold of a Flanesi grain barge as it passed northward through the sea gate out of the King's Harbor. From the twin towers above the barge, the hold looked empty. During the summer, over a hundred Flanesi grain barges passed upriver out of this gate each month, and they were not routinely inspected. The soldiers watching the traffic noticed nothing amiss, not that they were looking for Levin anyway.
Once free of the sheltered harbor the spring winds caught the full sails of the barge, the lines were taken up and the mule team that had been towing the vessel waved off. The fog lifted slightly, and Levin came on deck to watch the collection of small towns north of the King's City slowly drift astern, one by one.
The boat's chieftain was a simple stalwart named, unimaginatively, Jo. Undoubtedly the name was short for some Flanesi jawcracker of a name like 'Jokellearium' or 'Chosepelium' or some such. The Flanesi were big on long names that invariably got shortened as they discovered the necessity to use them. He was thick in the middle and strong in the arms and legs, like nearly every river man Levin had gambled with in the King's City. He preened his one vanity, a pair of thick muttonchop whiskers, incessantly. He was also a distinctly practical man, especially about things like gold, and at forty-plus winters he was unlikely to find another opportunity to make so much as Levin offered for the simple task of taking a passenger twenty leagues upriver.
It was an agreeable situation all-round.
To pass the time the men sang old songs, boasted of adventures that had never happened and spoke in familiar terms of women they'd probably only imagined. They also gambled, and in two nights' dicing Levin had made back from the Chieftain just about all the gold he'd paid him, in addition to fleecing most of the crew. In a spirit of self-serving magnanimity he handed them back -most of- their money and played on. He kept the money he'd won back from Jo, however.
Three afternoons out of the King's Town the boat -the Flanesi don’t give their barges names any more than a Mortentian would name his wagon- docked at a small town on the eastern shore of the Dunwater. It was Aris, the last in a line of towns stretching along the banks for nearly twenty leagues north of the great city. It was also the last town in the Regency before the barge passed into the Duchy of Elderest, and it was time for Levin to part ways with the Flanesi.
They put him off at the town's single, broad wharf, and he shook hands all round before leaving them. Chieftain Jo smiled ruefully at the gambler. "That's the last time I'll take on a cardsharp as a passenger."
Levin put a gold coin in his hand. "Here's a fair price for passage from a desperate man." Levin forced the Flanesi to accept the coin, which had passed through both of their hands several times already. "And you have the gratitude of House Askelyne, should I ever be in a position to found such a house."
"If it's Elderest's men lookin' fer ya, you might be better served stayin' on the boat, son. We can keep ya out of sight all the way to Flana if ya like."
"No, my good man, although I appreciate the offer. I'll try to hold my luck in the Regency." He squinted southeastward. "I've a friend in Talere who should take me in."
"Well, that's a long walk and a long way fer ya to go. Ya come with us to Flana and I can assure ya of a safe place. The Duke of Flana has no love for House Elderest, certainly."
"No, chieftain. If they find me among you it will only bring you trouble."
"They want you that bad?"
Levin smiled and made a cutting motion across his neck. "Apparently just the topmost part of me."
Levin shared a meal with some of Jo's friends before leaving Aris. He bought a light riding horse from a sharp-eyed trader who from his hard bargaining obviously saw Levin's need, and made a great show of heading east. Less than a league east of Aris he took a country lane south, skirted the town and found the eastern bank of the Dunwater. He followed it south, using the river as a guide in the darkness. By midmorning he'd reached the King's Bridge at Sunntown, and he crossed unseen over to the western bank. He'd had no intention whatsoever of heading to Talere.
It wasn't that he didn't trust the boat chief to remain silent, but Jo was a practical man. Levin had no illusions that the gold of Elderest wouldn't persuade him to reveal Levin's destination. He had a long journey before him and he spared the horse as often as he could.
Chapter 14: Northcraven Duchy, West of the Redwater River
In Skundallah, the ancient and magnificent city of the ebon kings, Anrealla Bishota taught herself the language of Ara-an, the root language of Araquesh, so that she could read more about the god-tree. The scribes of the Wild Lands did not doubt that she sought only stories of Dula Vasta and of Hazrax the Black, whom they called Hashurax. Their rivalry was a famous thing, and Hazrax had once ruled the entirety of the Known World. Had they known she sought only information about the god-tree, and sought it so that she might obtain its powers, they would have hanged her immediately. They knew what the tree had done to the Khigrisi, their bloody-handed enemy from ancient days.
Still, hidden in dusty corridors in the royal libraries of the ebon kings, she found more information, and she read eagerly about the god-tree:
Days flowed like seconds, years like hours and centuries like days in the life of the great black tree. It grew until the temple built around it could no longer house it and had to be rebuilt, stronger. Its appetites grew concomitant with its girth, and every day its slaves brought it the flesh of man to consume.
The mind in the tree grew stronger, and those who had enslaved it became in turn its slaves. It grew in wickedness and in power and in dark, forbidden mystery.
Winter it never knew, for it lived in a land of ever summer jungle beneath a blistering sun.
It did not like the sun, for unlike other trees, it never needed sunlight to grow.
Only human flesh did it need.
A time of autumn never came to the tree, for its enchantment was such that it knew of no age but that of summer, endless growth and greed.
At the height of its power it knew but a single spring, a time spanning many years when it seeded a thousand saplings, like the brood of some monstrous spider, saplings that died and were in turn consumed by the tree.
Men with their own purposes carried away some of the vile tree's brood, for the power of the tree was such that men could use it, if they dared. It was an ancient and dark magic that fed on death and produced, in turn, death.
Anrealla read stories of the tree’s seedlings, horrible stories with bad endings, and heroic stories of temples razed, priests convicted, and trees burned.
But not every story ended that way. Some of the seedlings were never accounted for, and some were, in fact, never even looked for. She took the last of her fortune, hired a ship and a mercenary crew, and went looking.
Chapter 15: Lanae in the East Forest, Zoric Duchy
/> The wagon rocked violently, to and fro, and Lanae did her best to hold on to the bars. Sentinel no longer screamed defiance at each bump as he had when the journey started. Lanae doubted that even the sound of his powerful voice carried through the thick wooden walls and heavy drapes of the great wagon.
She wondered where they were going. To Zoric, most likely, or one of the many smugglers' hideaways along the Torth Island Waterway. The audacity of these men or whatever they were amazed Lanae. To steal a king's eagle and kidnap its rider was the height of crime in the Kingdom of Mortentia, and surely they would all die slowly and painfully for it. She, too, would probably die once they were captured. It had been her negligence that had caused the great eagle to be taken, after all, and Falante D'Cadmouth was not known to be a forgiving sort of king. He was too new to the throne to bestow clemency. At least she might be spared a slow death, she thought to herself. Her young age might gain her that much. She sighed hopelessly.
Lanae had no doubt that they would be captured. She had ridden on hunting missions before, and she knew that nothing on the ground would escape the eye of the great eagles once the hunt began. Never in the time she'd been a king's eye had an eagle turned up missing, but she knew that all nineteen of the other eagles would join in the search, as well as any local troops they could find.
There was simply no way that an object as large as this wagon could escape detection, especially as it had to travel on roads. The roads would be the first places searched.
Lord Jahaksi scanned the sky to the south with a cautious eye as soon as it was light. Like all of the Brizaki, man-Sesseri half-breeds, Jahaksi could see nearly as well in darkness as in daylight for most purposes. To see objects in the night sky, however, was beyond even his ability. So he had waited until dawn to look. Yesterday and the entire night had been spent moving as far away from the site of the taking as possible.
War of the Misread Augury: Book One of the Black Griffin Rising Trilogy Page 11
