Time passed quickly while Wynn readied for what came next. Unable to squelch her curiosity about the notorious free port of Drist, she thought of High-Tower’s fuming shock, if and when he learned she’d ignored his warning. Then someone rapped softly upon the cabin door.
“Wynn?” Chane rasped.
She peeked through the porthole and saw that dusk had come, but the dimming light outside wasn’t completely gone. Somehow he’d come early again. Before this trip, he never roused on his own until full darkness.
“Yes, come in.”
He stuck his head in.
“Grab the chest,” Wynn said. “We’ve made port.”
Not long after night’s first bell, Chane fidgeted anxiously on deck. The harbor was so crowded that the crew had to wait their turn to even dock the ship.
“Ah, dead deities in seven hells,” Wynn muttered under her breath.
Chane frowned at her language, but he could not argue with the sentiment. And he still felt wrong inside. Whatever side effects he suffered from Welstiel’s concoction had faded to lingering, nagging nervousness. At least now that the fluid had been tested, he knew its purpose.
It would keep him from falling dormant.
A fervor of deck activity pulled him from his thoughts. The crew’s demeanor had changed drastically. Half the men strapped on cutlasses, while others began hauling cargo on deck before any signal that the ship could dock. One sailor climbed to the crow’s nest with a large crossbow and a case of quarrels strapped to his back.
Chane grew more uncertain about Wynn’s chosen destination.
By the light of massive pole braziers, six long piers jutted from the port far out into the water. A vessel filled nearly every available space, except for the largest ships, which anchored offshore.
Looking over the piers, Chane could not help his rising trepidation.
Too many people, uncomfortable numbers, filled the port even at nightfall. Dockworkers and sailors clambered everywhere, hauling cargo to and from ships, handling mooring and rigging, and shouting over the general din. A medium-sized schooner pulled away from the nearest dock and finally drifted past, out beyond their ship’s prow.
“Weigh anchor! Gentle to port!” their captain shouted.
Their smaller vessel drifted inward and soon settled in an open slot. Chane, along with his companions, stayed clear as sailors threw mooring lines to dockhands below. Once the ramp was lowered, four armed sailors sprang forward. Two ran down to stand post at the ramp’s bottom, while the other pair took stations at the top, watching all activity below.
Chane looked about and saw similar safeguards on other vessels. He had never seen sailors behave in such a fashion in Calm Seatt or the king’s city of Bela in his country. Perhaps High-Tower’s warning to Wynn had been legitimate. What kind of business did their ship’s captain have in this place?
“I do not like this,” he whispered.
The city loomed before them, couched between dark, high hills cresting above the shore to the north and south. Buildings of mixed sizes and shapes, dingy and worn by coastal weather, were so closely mashed together that only a few vertical roads showed between them. Warehouses lined the shore, and the air was tainted with myriad scents, from fish to oiled wood, salt brine to people and livestock. The stench of burning wood, coal, and oil from the immense braziers tainted all other smells.
“Look at all of them,” Wynn whispered, but she was not looking into the city.
A wild array of people hurried about the docks and milled around the large bay doors of warehouses. Every color and form of attire that Chane could imagine was scattered among them.
Caramel-skinned Sumans in colorful garb led goats harnessed in a line. A group of even darker-skinned people he had never seen, with tightly curled black hair, were dressed in one-piece shifts of cloth, or pantaloons and waist wraps of strong colors with ink black patterns. They tried to navigate a cart of cloth bolts, perhaps silk, around a cluster of garishly armored men. Another band in hides and furs leaped off a thick-hulled vessel with many oars raised upright around its one square sail. This group shoved their way down the dock with shields and broadswords in hand, as if waiting for someone to challenge them. They had to be Northlanders, a people Wynn had mentioned a few times.
The number of Numans was almost overwhelming. Some dressed like vagabonds, while others wore finery beneath voluminous wool cloaks.
“Go ahead,” the captain barked.
Startled to awareness, Chane turned.
The captain waved them forward. “The ramp’s secure.... Off with you all.”
Chane had his new sword strapped on, but he picked up his old one that had been left leaning against the chest. Couched in its cropped sheath, he strapped it over his other hip. Ore-Locks appeared no more pleased than Chane at the sea of people below. The dwarf wore his broadsword, and his grip tightened on his iron staff. Shade let out a quiet rumble. The dog hated crowds in general, and this crowd hardly qualified as general. Only Wynn seemed undaunted, with a tense eagerness on her face.
“I will lead,” Ore-Locks said.
With his own bulky bag lashed to his back, he hefted the chest onto his shoulder, keeping one hand free for his staff. Chane waved Wynn and Shade onward, and brought up the rear as they descended the ramp. Ore-Locks’s bulk proved useful in clearing the way up the dock.
Once they approached the shore, Chane spotted a floating walkway along the rock wall beneath the piers. Between every other pier post were switchback ramps and stairs leading upward from the lower floating platforms for small boats.
“Vanâkst Bäynœ,” Ore-Locks growled.
Chane looked up to find the dwarf had stopped and was scraping his boot on the shorefront’s cobble. There was a line of dung left by the passing of the Sumans’ goats. Passersby gave it no notice.
“This place is a giant gutter,” Ore-Locks said quietly, shoving on through the crowd.
With little choice, they made their way through the throngs. Chane kept close behind Wynn, ready to jerk her back in an instant.
“Ore-Locks is not wrong,” he said. “This place appears to be little more than a haven for pirates and smugglers.”
“That’s because it is,” Wynn replied without looking back. “Keep moving.”
Chane slowed. She had known this and still gone to secret lengths to bring them here?
“Wynn!” he rasped. “How could you—?”
“Look over there,” she interrupted, pointing. “That might be a row of inns.”
“Inns?” he repeated.
“There is no guild annex here. We’ll have to fend for ourselves.”
They entered the city’s edge beyond the waterfront, and Chane grew more irritated by the moment. Wynn had willingly walked them into a lawless port, and now nosed about for an inn like some traveler on holiday?
“You cannot stay here,” he said. “This place is not safe.”
She turned to face him. “I’m in the company of a majay-hì, an armed dwarf, and . . . and you. I could hardly be safer.”
Ore-Locks waited on them, his expression flat. Shade ceased growling and pressed up against Wynn’s leg and hip. Chane was speechless, aghast at Wynn’s nonchalance.
“We can’t just stand here arguing,” she told him.
He clenched his jaw, finding his voice. “Fine . . . where is this row of inns?”
“That way,” she answered with a flick of her hand.
The gesture almost made Chane heave her over his shoulder to toss her back on the ship.
Again Ore-Locks led, and Chane brought up the rear, watching anyone who came too close. But the farther they went, the more the crowds thinned. In a block and a half down a poorly cobbled street, they soon passed only hard-looking, worn women in faded, low-cut gowns, sailors swilling from clay bottles, and a mix of what might have been merchants, both prosperous and shabby. Everyone kept to his or her business or pleasure, as if expecting others to do the same.
Chane passed
a small shop of rough-cut planks. A simple sign above the door had one word written in four different languages: the first said “Apothecary” in Numanese. He slowed as notions rose in his thoughts.
“What?” Wynn asked. She had stopped a few paces ahead.
“Nothing,” he answered, but he noted the shop’s location.
Ore-Locks occasionally drifted to either side of the street, examining eateries, taverns, or inns along the way. Chane could tell nothing from the fronts of these bland, almost neutral establishments. He guessed at the gambling, coin bending, and other illicit endeavors that went on behind their closed doors.
He would not have Wynn sleeping in any such place.
But as naive as she could be at times, she was no fool. As he watched, her brow wrinkled every time Ore-Locks cast a quizzical glance her way before some establishment. When she shook her head, they moved on.
“What about that one?” she said suddenly.
Chane followed her gaze.
At the street’s end stood a large, well-situated, three-story building nearly half a block wide. Constructed of thick planking with not too badly cracked sky blue paint, its white shutters were stained by city smoke and filth. The building sported a sweeping, ground-level veranda with two armed guards standing by the front columns.
As Chane followed Wynn, he was uncertain whether the iron grates over the windows were a good sign. The guards were relaxed but watchful as Ore-Locks stepped between them to the front door. Guards could also be a good or bad indication. A white sign above the door held one gilded word in only Numanese: DELILAH’S.
Wynn hurried up to the nearest guard, a stout man, cleanly shaven though rough featured. As Ore-Locks peered through the open front door, both guards eyed Wynn. The closest nodded respectfully.
“Commander Molnun, at your service,” he said. “Welcome.”
“Does this establishment offer rooms?” she asked.
“The finest in Drist.”
“And secure?” Chane asked.
The “commander” looked Chane up and down with only his eyes, never moving his head.
“Yes, sir . . . the best to be had.”
Chane looked the man over in turn. His outer leather tunic did not hide hints of a chain shirt beneath it, likely with quilt padding under that. Though properly closed, the tunic was a loose fit; the commander valued mobility over show. His sword hung low rather than being cinched against his belt like some preening noble wanting to look dashing would wear it. This one had to be ex-military.
If the establishment hired standing mercenaries, it would not be cheap.
Wynn seemed to realize this, too, and cast Chane a troubled glance.
“I will pay,” Ore-Locks cut in, perhaps guessing the problem. “We should stay here.”
Chane warmed with discomfort but did not argue. He should have procured more money by now. The commander nodded to Ore-Locks.
“Be certain you carry a lodger’s voucher whenever you plan to leave and still return.”
Chane nodded and reluctantly ushered Wynn in.
As Wynn followed Ore-Locks through the weatherworn, hand-carved front door, she tried to stifle her growing annoyance with Chane. Much as she was accustomed to his overprotective nature, tonight he was dangerously close to overbearing. He’d known from the start that this journey would hold surprises. True, Drist was worse than even she’d expected, but they were here. They—he—had better make the best of it. But once inside, she stopped thinking about Chane at all.
A huge oval rug of deep brown with a circular pattern of white flowers and light green, leafy vines was spread under her feet. The foyer walls were stained a rich shade of cream, with amber curtains on the windows from the high ceiling to the polished wood floor. From somewhere unseen, the soft, resonant tones of a skillfully played wooden flute filled the air, which was scented lightly with sandalwood.
“Oh . . . no,” she said softly.
Unlike the old guild hotel in Chathburh, the interior here was in its prime. This was going to cost more than she’d first feared.
She half turned left to see a solid walnut counter with gold inlay. The young man behind it was well dressed in a white linen shirt and black satin vestment. His face was oval, and his skin was as olive toned as hers. His hair and eyes were both light brown, like hers.
Chane stared at him.
“May I help you?” the young man asked politely, and his gaze dropped briefly to Shade. “I am Mechaela. What do you seek this evening?”
The question seemed odd. What would weary travelers seek besides lodging?
Two men, dressed similarly to this host, walked past Wynn and into a wide parlor on the right. Neither was armed, and Wynn took a few steps, peering after them.
Low couches of plush padding filled that room. Small tables held crystal vases loaded with fresh flowers, though where such came from in late autumn, she couldn’t guess. Seascape oil paintings of unimaginable clarity graced the walls.
She spotted an archway at the far side that led into another room of similar decor. Three men sat playing cards at a polished obsidian table. Their finery might have marked them as nobility, if this had been any city but Drist. A willowy girl appeared from out of sight and poured wine for the gentlemen. Her gown of overlaid gauze was a bit revealing.
To the far left of the nearer room was a tall set of closed doors. Closer still was a curving staircase that stretched upward. What kind of place was this?
“Three rooms,” Ore-Locks said.
Wynn turned back to find him at the counter with the young host. He was already untying a lanyard strung with punched dwarven coins, or slugs.
“Two rooms,” Chane corrected, and looked down at her. “You are not staying here alone. I will sleep on the floor.”
Wynn bit the inside of her lip, not wishing to make a scene.
Mechaela raised an eyebrow, but said nothing, though he did glance at Chane’s and Ore-Locks’s sheathed blades. He reached out with one finger to tap the long iron staff leaning against the counter.
“Of course, you’ll need to relinquish your weapons. You can retrieve and return them upon coming and going.”
Chane blinked. “No.”
Ore-Locks appeared equally surprised.
Shade rumbled, perhaps sensing the sudden tension.
“Chane!” Wynn whispered. Would he ever stop being so difficult?
“No,” he repeated.
“Is there a problem, gentlemen?” said a smooth voice from behind them.
Wynn spun around.
A slender woman stepped out of the parlor. Delicately built, she was far taller than Wynn. Her teal silk gown, embroidered with curling vines of white blossoms, was so smoothly fitted that it moved with her, revealing her subtle curves. Shining black hair hung in long, faint waves that sparkled in the foyer’s lamplight, though her bangs were held back with a band of polished silver.
She had skin the shade of soft ivory, perhaps a bit warmer, and eyes so deep blue, they mesmerized Wynn at first. Her lashes were long, and her eyelids were powdered to match her gown.
She was . . . unreal. Even Ore-Locks appeared stunned at the sight of her.
“Is there some confusion?” she asked.
Her tone didn’t imply a true question, but her voice was almost a breathy echo of the flute’s resonance. This was a woman who could stop almost any man in his tracks at twenty paces—maybe fifty.
Unfortunately, Chane was not one of those men.
“I will not relinquish my swords,” he said.
“I am Delilah, owner of this establishment,” she answered, and her gaze passed over Ore-Locks with polite interest.
Wynn felt Chane’s hand settle on her shoulder.
“I do apologize,” Delilah went on, “but all patrons, regardless of what they come for, must leave their weapons before entering. Do not be concerned. Your safety—your needs—are secured and assured by my staff.”
Wynn glanced nervously about. Their needs? Sh
ouldn’t that be obvious?
“How,” Chane challenged, “when your interior guards do not carry weapons?”
“Mechaela requires no weapon,” Delilah answered.
Her eyes traced a smooth path from one newcomer to the next, perhaps assessing who truly made the decisions, and a smile spread across her small mouth.
“And what needs bring you to us . . . sage?”
Wynn was a bit stunned. She wore only her short robe over her elven travel clothes, yet this woman knew what she was, and that she was supposedly in charge. Wynn glanced through the parlor arch at the lounging furniture, and into the room beyond that, and at the other woman in the revealing gauze dress....
Chane sucked in an audible breath and exhaled. “Domvolyné!”
Before his meaning sank in, Wynn felt his fingers clench her cloak’s shoulder and tunic. He jerked her backward toward the front door.
“We are leaving,” he said.
“Oh . . . oh . . .” she stammered, flushing red in the face.
A domvolyné was a house of leisure in Chane’s country. Wynn had just walked them all into a high-line brothel in the middle of a pit called Drist.
“What is wrong now?” Ore-Locks asked, and stared blankly at Chane.
There were no brothels among the dwarves.
“Oh, please, please,” Delilah called, suppressing a brief laugh with delicate fingers. “Forgive me. I meant no offense—only a playful jest. We can accommodate you. . . . We care well for all our patrons, by their own needs.”
Behind the counter, even Mechaela was hard-pressed not to smile.
Wynn grabbed the doorframe before Chane could haul her into the street.
“Chane, stop it. It could be the same—probably worse—everywhere here.”
“Yes, there is worse,” Delilah added, no longer amused. “Mechaela, they will need the quieter and more peaceful of our accommodations.”
He nodded. “I will place them properly in the east side of the second floor.”
“But,” Delilah added, “you must leave your weapons.”
Wynn looked to Ore-Locks, hating to turn to him for support. He sighed and handed over his iron staff before beginning to unbuckle his sword. A startled Mechaela fumbled a bit under the weight of the staff. Wynn looked back and up to Chane, his expression curled in a silent snarl.
Of Truth and Beasts (Noble of Dead Saga Series 2 Book 3) Page 11
