by Robert Ryan
It was time to take thought for Esgallien. She was a lòhren. She would act like one. Time enough to cry later, when it did not matter.
Soon, there were even more guards, and against her will she turned her mind to thinking of a way to disguise herself better. She now carried the staff. It was not a common thing for a woman to use, though she was not the only one. From time to time old women as well as men used one to help them walk.
Her description would be circulating through the city. At any moment she could be stopped in the street. Every time a group of guards passed her, she walked slowly, as though she did not have a care in the world, and put the crowd between herself and them. But soon one of the guards that had seen her near the palace would recognize her, and then she would be dead.
The first thing she needed to do was to get off the street and give herself time to think and work through her feelings. She came to the Hainer Lon, a dangerous place for her, although the crowd offered even better concealment. Walking carefully, with the staff held upright against her body, she could almost hide its presence.
Soon, she found a place to hide. It was a sweetshop. She sat down at a table near the back of the room and ordered some of her favorite seedcakes. They were strongly flavored and nutty, bound together and sweetened by wild honey and dusted with exotic spices. She ate one quickly, and then another. They tasted good, and yet she paid them little heed. Her mood was too bleak to enjoy anything, and yet the everyday activity settled her and provided a chance to sort out her feelings.
She knew at once which one was strongest. Guilt. For some reason, the charred-man had gone after Lanrik. She did not know why, but she should have anticipated it and not separated. And yet remorse would not help him now. She must assume that he was dead, though the thought sent a stab through her heart. But she hardened herself. If he was dead, it was partly her fault, and she would have to live with that, if she could. But for the moment Esgallien needed her, and she must fulfill her mission regardless of how she felt.
And though she must assume that he was lost, a part of her did not, would not ever, give up hope. He was resourceful. He had nearly died many times since she had first met him, and yet somehow he always found a way to survive. He might do so again.
She remembered the first time that she had seen him, a dark figure in the deep shadows of the Shazrahad’s tent. He had defied a whole army, infiltrated it, got her out of their grasp and taken the commander’s prized sword with him. No, her heart would not give up on him, even if her head had.
Her next step must be to go to the Haranast where he had said to meet. He just might show. Though she knew that if he did not, a part of her would remain there for the rest of her life, waiting…
She ate another cake. Money was no issue; Aranloth had given them both plenty of coin to get by. The lòhrens kept a store of all the currencies of Alithoras. She put her mind to another question. How could she walk the streets, avoid guards, and get safely to the Haranast?
Nothing came to her, but she must think harder. She was a lòhren, was she not? She had to find a way. She would find a way. Temporarily, she was distracted by a troop of guards that marched down the street. She caught glimpses of their hard faces and seeking eyes from the back of the shop.
The crowd hushed as they passed. The place had been full of idle chatter, and yet it dimmed quickly when the guards came into view. Just as quickly, it bubbled up again when they were gone.
Without a doubt, they were looking for her. They would find her too, if she did not come up with something. But her thoughts kept straying to Lanrik. He no longer carried the shazrahad sword, imbued as it was with Aranloth’s lòhrengai. It was the only way he could have protected himself against the charred-man, but he had left that in Lòrenta. And for good reason. It attracted trouble to him like flowers drew bees.
She had a feeling that Aranloth’s real purpose in travelling to the Graèglin Dennath had something to do with that, and the mysterious prophecy that was behind it all. Certainly, he intended to fulfill his promise to Ebona, and yet where else could he get information on the sword better than in the land where it was forged? Even if that was dangerous.
She forced herself to focus on her own problems. She knew the city as well as the guards. How could she hide in a place where everyone might be either looking for her, or willing to turn her over to those who were? What did Lanrik often say? The best place to hide was in plain sight. That was such a Raithlin sentiment. Such a Lanrik sentiment. But how could she put it into practice? What was the opposite of what Ebona would expect her to do? She must go back onto the street. Yes – but the staff? It would surely give her away, and she could not discard it. It was her biggest problem, unless she somehow hid it in plain sight. Suddenly, she grinned to herself. It was a grim smile, tinged with memories of Lanrik, for thinking of him had given her the answers she needed and a definite course of action.
She got up, left the sweetshop, and strode once more down the Hainer Lon. Only now, she had a destination in mind.
She walked carefully, with her eyes wide open and her senses alert. Three times she saw guards, and three times she managed to put the crowd in the street between her and them, and hide the staff on the far side of her body. She was breathless from anxiety by the time she reached her destination.
She stepped into the shop. It was a place oppose the Hamalath, one of several where actors and dramatists bought clothes and equipment for performances in the open-air theatre.
She took an empty wicker basket from near the serving counter and wandered around, looking through the bundles of clothes and different materials. She pulled things out as she found what she was after, and then she went to the far corner where the makeup supplies were kept. She took what she needed from there and placed those items in the basket with the rest. After a final look around, she went back to the counter.
A young boy stood behind it, ready to serve, though he seemed disinterested in the whole process. He looked over her items, told her how much it all came to, and she paid. She did not have the time to haggle, and the goods were already cheap. Most actors were not well paid.
“Can I change in here?” she asked.
The boy obviously thought it a strange request, but he waved her toward a little room out the back.
“In there,” he said abruptly.
She went inside and put her new clothes on. It took her some time until she was satisfied. On the way out, she left the basket at the counter and gave the boy a goodbye wave. He ignored her, and she wondered what his problem was. But rude serving boys were all over the city. When she found a shop with friendly staff, she always went back. It did not matter that it was all fake, all part of the process of selling her things. She understood that, but all that mattered was that she had a good time. But despite the serving boy, this shop still gave her a smile.
She stepped onto the street, but no longer looked like Erlissa. Or Tamril. The makeup was of a dull gray tone, and it made the skin of her face and hands look old. And she wore a wig, a thing of real hair, long and gray and straggly. Her outer clothes, worn over the top of a new dress, were raggedy. Best of all, they were padded underneath with wool in all the right paces to make her look fat. And a good job they did of it, too. She wondered if she would look like that in truth one day. If she kept eating seed cakes, she would.
She pursed her lips a few times, working her mouth because it felt uncomfortable. It was dry, for there were balls of wool pressed into the sides of her cheeks. They made her face look fatter.
Now, she looked like an old lady who actually needed a staff to help her walk. She hobbled down the street, and looked carefully about her. Nobody paid her any attention. None at all. She might as well have been invisible. She was not used to that, but today, it suited her. She smiled, aware that brown dye stained her teeth and made them look bad. That made her chuckle, and she changed her voice as she did so into a semblance of a wheezy cackle.
Then she thought of Lanrik, and
the smile fell from her haggard face. To all the world she was a bitter old lady, and in truth, that was how she felt.
12. Into the Light
The charred-man twitched and shrugged.
Lanrik watched it. For a moment, nothing else in the world mattered. The creature would either dive into the water, or it would not. He would either live, or he would die.
From afar, he heard the sounds of bird calls in the park. The real world, the world of light and love and laughter, was within reach. But here, in this closed off and muted twilight, it was possible to believe that those things were only dreams. The charred-man was the one reality that counted, and the malice of Ebona that sustained and drove him.
Lanrik treaded water. His sword was heavy in its sheath, and his boots weighed him down. He should act. He should continue to flee this thing, but at the same time, he had to watch and find out what it would do. Had hope cheated him, faint though it was?
With a body-shuddering shrug and a spasm of frenzied twitching, the charred-man opened his mouth and screamed. Or scream it would have been if he voiced a sound. But though his head lifted, and his neck extended like a wolf howling his misery to the world, no sound broke the primordial stillness of the aqueduct. Instead, fire and smoke clouded the air before him as though he was a man whose breath turned into a mist-cloud on a cold morning.
The charred-man suddenly turned and lurched away, unable to force himself to dare the waters, no matter that the sorcery of Ebona drove him. That it pained him was obvious, and even in the midst of relief, Lanrik spared a though for the man the thing had once been.
For a moment, he closed his eyes. But he knew the charred-man had not given up. Nor had the guards. He must take the next step to get out of here, and disappear from those who sought him.
It seemed doubtful that the charred-man still had the power of speech, though there were other means of communication. Either way, he must assume that in time his pursuer would alert the guards of where he was last seen. Therefore, he must get out of the aqueduct swiftly.
He hoped Erlissa had been as lucky as he had. For though the creature had pursued him, the streets were not safe. They never had been from the very start of this quest, but they had only grown worse. The only thing he could do now was to get into the Haranast and hope to find her there.
The bright light from above drew his attention. There were several openings, some grated, others uncovered. No doubt at times of drought they would all be in use. At the moment, he saw no movement from above, and no activity of gardeners; but they would be there, or nearby. Still, it was the way out, for large buckets held by long ropes hung down and provided the escape he was looking for.
None of the buckets rested in the water. Most were visible, hanging just below the opening in the dome above, and a few were in various stages of suspension between.
He struck out toward the lowest one. The splashing was loud in his ears, for it echoed hollowly from the stone vaulted ceiling.
Reaching for the bucket, he found that it was too high. He treaded water, positioned himself better, and pushed up again as best he could. His hand caught the wooden side of the pail, but he could not get a proper grip and sank down once more beneath the water.
He came to the surface, more grateful than ever that his ploy with the charred-man had worked. For if the creature could swim, he would have been unable to continue fleeing from it. Yet he was still trapped, whether pursued or not, and he had to reason his way through the problem and come up with a solution.
After a few moments, an idea occurred to him and he took off his sword and belt. He tied the end of the belt to the hardened leather sheath. He held the naked blade with one hand, and with the other threw his improvised rope over the bucket.
Several times he failed, but he got better after a few attempts, and at length he managed to spear the sheath through the gap between handle and bucket.
Having done that, he brought the two ends of his improvised rope together and hauled himself up.
The bucket swung ponderously from side to side, but the rope fixed to its metal handle held. The buckets were quite large, and they were designed to haul up heavy loads of water. Somewhere above the end of the rope was fixed to a secure post in the ground, and he hoped that it did not move up there. Otherwise, a gardener might come to investigate.
He managed to stand with his feet on the bucket and one hand gripping the rope. With the other, he re-sheathed the blade and then threaded the belt back into the loops of his pants. It was a difficult job while holding onto a swaying rope, but he persisted until it was done. He could not climb until both hands were free.
When he was finished, he rested a moment. The rope stopped swinging so much, and he caught his breath. Climbing would not be easy, but he soon set to it, using his feet to hook the rope and provide some purchase, while he heaved himself up by his arms.
He rested several times, for the effort was great. His arms ached, and his legs began to cramp. But he could not afford to stop for long.
At length, he neared the opening. His eyes adjusted to the ever-brighter light, but he could see nothing except blue sky. It was the faded blue of late afternoon. The day had been very long and sudden weariness overtook him. But he knew that if he rested too long now, he would only cool down and stiffen up. He must keep moving.
It was too late to reach the Haranast today. Tomorrow, he would meet up with Erlissa, for the races started early each morning and ran at intervals until midafternoon.
With a final heave he lifted himself until his head cleared the opening, and he looked about him.
He was in the middle of the park. It was usually just called the park, though some people referred to it as Conhain’s Rest. It was a strange name for a place that the king had never been to, for the city was only built after his death, although some people said that his bones were reburied here years after the battle in which he had died. At any rate, there was a monument to him not that far away.
All about him he saw bright gardens and green grass. Nearby was some shrubbery, no doubt to hide the wells from those who enjoyed the park. But strangely, he saw no people. During the day there should have been scores, even hundreds wandering around or lying down. And yet it was eerily silent. He could not understand it.
He waited and watched. Soon, the answer was evident. There were people. They rimmed the entire perimeter of the park, many hundreds of paces away in every direction that he could see. But they were not civilians. He saw them move from time to time, saw the color of their uniforms, and the telltale jut of sword sheaths by their side. They were soldiers. Soldiers, and a scattering of Royal Guards. How could they have found him so quickly?
He watched some more, cursing under his breath. And yet they made no move to enter the park. They stayed just where they were, like a line of sentries, and did not advance toward him or conduct any kind of search.
Were they even here for him? The longer he watched, the more he doubted it, and yet why were they here at all, if not for him? They looked as if they were guarding something, but there was nothing of value here.
It was time to move. This was no place to be caught if a gardener, or anybody else, came along. He put the mystery of the solders to the back of his mind, and eased out of the well. The stone rim was smooth, worn from years of ropes rubbing along its surface, and he slipped out of it slowly, like a snake from a hole. He watched for any sign of movement about him, careful that his own movements were slow and steady so as not to attract attention.
He stayed low to the ground, using the Raithlin Crawl to move to the nearest shrubbery. Once there, he paused. For now, he was out of sight, but not out of danger. He had escaped the charred-man and the aqueduct. The park must be next, and yet he could not risk an attempt during daylight. There were too many eyes nearby, even for a Raithlin.
He moved though the bushes, seeking higher ground. There was none, but one shrub was taller than the others, reaching up ten feet or so and thick with dark folia
ge. He climbed it, careful of his weight on the small branches, and looked out.
There were no gardeners anywhere. None at all. And he saw that plants within many rows of flowerbeds had wilted. They had not been watered for some time.
It was all passing strange, a thing beyond his understanding, and he could see no reason for it. But the Witch-queen did nothing by accident, and a reason for the presence of the soldiers, a very good one, must exist.
The westering rays of the sun glared brightly now, a final fare of light at just the right angle to blind him, but soon it would set, and he would be on the move again. For the moment, he rested, secure in his hiding spot, and drying out. His leather boots would become stiff and uncomfortable, but that was of little matter. Running would not serve him now, only the skills of the Raithlin, for he would need to treat his next movements as though he was a scout in the wilderness, and his own countrymen an enemy army.
Dark shadows marched across the park. The first star twinkled high above. It was faint, but the sky deepened like a slowly shuttered lamp, and soon many more sprang into view.
He slipped down from his hiding spot and moved across the grass. He no longer crawled, but walked, seeking out and using all the low points in the ground, stalking between hedges and flowerbeds like a creature of the night that shunned men.
He moved toward the Hainer Lon. It was a better place to hide in the evening than it was during the day. And he no longer carried the staff. At night, he could get by without being overly worried of being caught, at least until the streets went quiet.
It was not the first time that he had to try to slip through a line of sentries. Even so, this would be difficult. The soldiers had been placed at twenty feet intervals. Ebona was taking no chances that anything would get into the park. Or, he supposed, get out of it. Although what would get in, or out, was still a mystery too deep to fathom.
