by David Gross
“Thamalon will have a fit if you go without a guard.”
“Only if you tell him that I went,” said Tal.
“You don’t think he’ll send someone to look for you if you’re gone that long?”
“You can imitate my handwriting, can’t you?”
“I haven’t done that in years,” said Chaney. “I’d need to practice.”
“Fine, I’ll leave you some samples. Check in with Eckert every couple of days. If there’s an invitation from Stormweather, just write an excuse. If it’s Mother, write that I have a previous social engagement. If it’s Thamalon, say I’m meeting a merchant from Turmish about importing musical instruments.”
“They believe that crap?”
“Works every time,” said Tal. “Well, maybe they don’t believe it, but they leave me alone if I make the effort to concoct an excuse.”
“How are you going to keep Eckert quiet? He can tell the Old Owl that you left town without mentioning the werewolf business.”
“I’ll deal with Eckert,” said Tal, “but there is something else you can do for me.”
Two days later, Tal was ready for his journey. Traveling to Yhaunn and back would take no more than a tenday. That left Tal a comfortable margin before the next full moon, when he would need to confine himself to the cage once more. If he needed more time, he could ride hard and make the return trip in only three days.
He wore a heavy woolen jacket over a simple blue tunic and his leather riding breeches and long boots. Over it all he threw a heavy gray cloak with ties rather than an expensive clasp. With Perivel’s big long sword in a simple leather scabbard and a plain bundle of clothes and rations slung over his shoulder, he looked more like one of the Hulorn’s outriders than a young noble of one of Selgaunt’s richest families.
He said his farewells to Eckert and left the tallhouse at dawn. Chaney awaited him outside.
“Ugh,” said Chaney by way of greeting.
“I thought I’d have to go looking for you,” said Tal. “Sorry to get you up so early.”
“You didn’t,” said Chaney. “Long night. Don’t ask.”
Tal suppressed a laugh but honored his friend’s request. Chaney had probably drunk too much, gambled too much, or dallied too long with one of the tavern wenches he favored—probably all three. A few months before, Tal would have been at his side, indulging in the same wild behavior and providing the muscle to back up Chaney’s barbed witticisms.
They walked up Alaspar Lane, turned west on Densar’s Alley, and snaked around side streets before heading north on Galorgar’s Ride. Passing beneath the fabulous water horses carved on the Klaroun Gate, they stepped onto the High Bridge. The wide span joined Selgaunt with Overwater, on the far bank of the Elzimmer River. To each side of the road were crammed tiny shops and ramshackle alehouses, the first and last effort by the petty merchants to separate travelers from their coins. Even at this early hour, the bridge was noisy with haggling voices and the rumble of cartwheels.
Beyond the High Bridge lay Overwater, a bustling staging ground for caravans and passenger carriages to the capital city of Ordulin. Tal had briefly considered booking such passage, but the convenience was outweighed by two other concerns. It was simple enough to give a false name when hiring a carriage, but there was always a chance that one of the other passengers would recognize an Uskevren. Moreover, the carriages traveled at a leisurely pace, taking five days for a journey that would take a lone rider only two.
Halfway across the High Bridge, Tal smelled grilled sausages and fresh bread as he and Chaney passed a tiny bakery beside the eastern rail. Far below, boatmen poled their barges across the Elzimmer, ferrying goods and passengers to the caravan staging area in Overwater or out into Selgaunt Bay.
“You want something to eat before setting off?” asked Chaney. He eyed the sausages greedily.
“Eckert made breakfast,” said Tal, “but you go ahead.”
“Ah …” Chaney made a show of searching for his purse.
“Don’t you have any change left?” The day before, Tal had given his friend a big leather purse containing more than a hundred gold fivestars.
“You said you wanted a really good horse.”
“For that much, it had better have wings,” warned Tal. Still, he chuckled and put a pair of silver ravens in Chaney’s hand. “Get me one of those little loaves with the cheese inside.”
“Um, why don’t you get the food?” said Chaney, returning the triangular coins and looking over Tal’s shoulder.
Tal followed his glance and spied a short, pot-bellied man standing beside a shallow alley between a fishmonger’s shop and a cartwright’s shack. The man was shorter than Chaney but with fish-white skin and thinning hair that formed a laurel around his head. He ignored Tal and impatiently crooked his finger at Chaney.
Tal turned back to Chaney. “Trouble?”
“No,” said Chaney, but he glanced at Perivel’s sword over Tal’s shoulder. “I just need a word or two with this fellow.”
“I hope she was worth it,” joked Tal.
“Believe me,” said Chaney, “she wasn’t.”
Tal sighed. He knew it was more likely a gambling debt than an offended brother or husband. “Need some money?” he offered.
“It’s not that,” said Chaney. “Don’t worry. Won’t be a minute.”
He hurried across the cobbled street and disappeared into the alley with the short man, who put his arm around Chaney’s slim shoulders in a patronizing gesture that Tal instantly disliked. He strained to hear what was happening, but the din of the traffic was too great.
He looked at the triangular silver coins in his hand, then slipped them into his jacket pocket and strode over to the cartwright’s. He stood as close as he could without revealing himself to the alley’s occupants. While he wanted to respect Chaney’s privacy, he knew that some of the boaters lingered near the bridge to collect the reward for murdered bodies dropped from the High Bridge. It was already daylight, but Tal did not like the look of the man who had summoned his friend.
He cocked his head to listen and could barely make out some murmured words. Then he heard a painful gasp followed by hoarse coughing and retching.
Tal ran around the corner.
The space between the two little buildings was cluttered with junk. Stinking pots of fish heads and offal lined the wall of the fishmonger’s. At the far end was the stone bridge railing, rising three feet above street level.
Chaney was pressed up against the cartwright’s shack. Two big men held his arms fast. One of them was bald, with an elaborate web of gold hoops and chains linking his left ear with his left nostril. It was the latest fetish among Selgaunt’s elite, but Tal doubted this bruiser had bought it originally. More likely, some foolish young nobleman was walking around with a torn earlobe and nostril. The other big man was a hairy brute whose patchy beard barely concealed the network of scars that had ruined his face.
In the hammy grip of his captors, Chaney looked more thin and fragile than ever. The pot-bellied man dealt the beating. His eyes never left Chaney’s as he spoke in a harsh whisper.
“… too late,” he was saying. He grunted as he delivered another punch to Chaney’s gut. Around his hands he wore hard leather strips studded with iron. “What made you think—?”
The man’s rough voice cracked as he felt himself suddenly lifted from the slick cobblestones and hurled six feet away, where he smashed into the fishmonger’s waste pots.
The men holding Chaney released him and took a step toward Tal, hesitating when they saw the big sword in his pack. Tal grinned back at them and tossed the sword and pack aside. The bald man raised his fists and stepped forward.
Tal was faster, stepping into the attack and batting away the man’s guard with his left arm. His right fist flattened the man’s nose and snapped his head back against the shack wall. Stunned, the big man sank to one knee. He shook his head, sending streamers of blood across both cheeks. The nose-ring fell away t
o dangle from his ear alone.
The other bruiser stepped between Tal and the pot-bellied leader, who shook fish guts from his arms.
“Stay out of this,” he warned, glowering at Tal. “It’s nothing to do with you.”
“Go back, Tal,” said Chaney. He remained where the brutes had held him and looked shaken but not seriously hurt.
The scar-faced man gave his boss a hand up, but he slapped it away and struggled back to his feet on his own. He was soaked from the waist down. “Listen to your friend.”
“Chane,” said Tal, “you know I can’t just stand by and let—”
“Please, Tal,” pleaded Chaney. “We’re just going to talk.”
“That’s right,” agreed Potbelly. “We’re just having a little philosophical discussion.”
Tal hesitated. He knew he was making things worse for Chaney, but he couldn’t stand the thought of letting him suffer a beating.
“Then talk,” said Tal, “but touch him again, and we’ll find out whether you can swim.”
“On second thought, maybe this does involve you,” sneered the man. He glanced at his henchman and nodded at Tal. When they hesitated, he shouted, “Get him!”
By the wall, Chaney slapped a hand over his eyes.
Tal made a quick feint toward Baldy. When the bald man obligingly flinched, Tal turned quickly and kicked Scarface in the stomach. The man doubled over with a whoosh of breath.
Baldy threw his meaty arms around Tal’s shoulders. He was even stronger than he looked, lifting Tal off the street. Tal shot an elbow into his gut, and the man relaxed his grip for an instant, only to shift it into a choke hold. Tal felt his eyes bulge from the sudden, crushing pressure. He shifted his weight to pull the man forward, but Baldy had his feet firmly planted and kept his hold.
Scarface staggered forward, still winded but recovered enough to slam his fist into Tal’s sternum. He raised his fist for another blow, then fell over backward to reveal Chaney standing behind him, a heavy wooden spoke clutched in both hands.
Tal shoved Baldy backward, forcing him against the fishmonger’s wall. The bruiser kept his hold, but then Tal jerked his head backward. The man’s head cracked against the wall once, twice, and finally a third time before he sank to the street.
Tal staggered away, rubbing his throat and gasping. He looked for Potbelly, but the pale little man had made his escape. Near the street, Chaney peered back toward the city before turning back to Tal.
“We had better get out of here before the Scepters show up,” he said.
He tossed his improvised club aside and threw Tal his pack. They emerged from the alley and headed north. Only a few questioning glances from the nearest merchants followed them.
“Listen, Chane,” said Tal. “I’m sorry—”
“Couldn’t be helped,” said Chaney. “After all, I can’t expect my bodyguard to stand aside while some creep roughs me up, can I?”
Tal made a weak smile. Chaney had called him his bodyguard since Tal first defended him against bullies some ten years before, when they were boys.
“Of course, I can hardly stroll back through town unattended now,” said Chaney. “You got enough money for another horse?”
Four days later, Tal and Chaney rode past the high walls of Castle Narnbra and descended into the port of Yhaunn. The midday sun shone through a light shower of rain, but it was still clear enough for a grand view of the city. It was set within a vast rock quarry whose gray cliff walls rose up to the encircling walls.
From the vantage of the castle entrance, Tal could see some of the city’s most famous buildings, including the graceful spires of Glassgrafter’s Hall and the four domes of Ordulin’s Manshion, a huge and famous rooming house. Not far from Orgulin’s was a tall, round tower that could only be Moonshadow Hall. Its soaring walls were adorned with basreliefs of graceful winged devas and other celestial beings. They were miniscule at this distance, but Tal thought he recognized the shapes of owls in place of gargoyles above the seven gates to the temple. The building reminded Tal of an overgrown playhouse, with its multiple entrances and a central courtyard open to the sky.
Elsewhere, the city seemed impossibly crowded by small houses. Some of them were so narrow that two could fit into Tal’s Selgaunt tallhouse, which he considered rather cozy. The buildings were especially dense near the harbor, where the stiltways rose four stories above the street. The bustling market district was a dizzying conglomeration of shops and alehouses linked by rope bridges, ladders, swings, ramps, and even more improbable connections above street level. The waterfront was open to Yhauntan Bay, a gray expanse filled with trading cogs and barges.
After they secured lodging at Orgulin’s, Tal immediately ordered hot baths and refreshments brought to their room. While waiting for the tubs, Tal composed a brief note of introduction and paid one of the inn’s boys to deliver it to Moonshadow Hall.
Within an hour, two pairs of house boys arrived and set a couple of deep wooden bathtubs before the fireplace. With precise economy, they filled the tubs with hot water from the cauldron above the fire. As the boys worked, a maid set out a warm jug of brandy with two small cups, as well as dishes of candied fruit, spiced lamb, seeded bread, and pickled onions. Then she arrayed the clean clothes neatly while Tal and Chaney stripped off their travel-sodden garments and handed them over for laundering. The servants left with the dirty laundry and a coin for each of them.
Tal and Chaney stepped into the hot water with hisses, then sank down to their chins with sighs of contentment. For a long time, they let the heat dissolve the knotted muscles and cold aches of the journey while they sipped warm liquor and nibbled from the tray between them in contented silence. Only after Chaney had refilled their cups for the second time did Tal broach the subject that had been troubling his mind since they left Selgaunt.
“Who were those men on the bridge?” he asked. He was surprised that Chaney hesitated before answering, since he’d had the past three days to formulate an excuse for his latest predicament.
Chaney slowly slipped under the surface of the water. He remained submerged so long that a faint, irrational anxiety plucked at Tal’s imagination. Before he became concerned enough to grab his friend by the hair and pull him out, Chaney raised his head out of the water. Rather than answer the question, he grabbed a bar of soap and began lathering his hair.
Vexation paced along the back of Tal’s mind, but he did not repeat himself. Instead he followed Chaney’s example and scrubbed himself clean with a lavender-scented bar before leaning back to soak up the heat again. The warmth gradually reached his bones as he tried to empty his mind as Master Ferrick had taught. The meditation was much easier while sitting in a hot bath, he soon discovered. He had almost pushed away the question of Chaney’s trouble when a house boy returned with his reply.
Tal gave him a penny and broke the wax seal to read the note.
“That was quick,” said Chaney. “Will she see you?”
“It doesn’t say,” said Tal. “But I have an audience tonight with someone, if I want it.”
“You probably have to impress some functionary first.”
“Probably,” said Tal.
“Want me to go with you?”
“No,” said Tal.
He folded the vellum sheet and exchanged it for his glass on the small table between the bathtubs. Both he and Chaney sipped their drinks and settled back into the silence that had fallen over them since the fight at the High Bridge. Tal wanted to know more about Chaney’s problem, and he felt it was only fair to tell him since he had confided everything in his friend. Still, while he felt compelled to intervene when it came to blows, he would not stoop to nagging Chaney.
While he waited for Chaney to share his secret, however, Tal would drag his friend no further into his own private affairs. Maybe it was petty, he realized, but maybe it was prudent. If Chaney were mixed up with hard criminals, not just a few cheated gamblers or a gentleman’s loan gone sour, then Tal had to consider h
ow to limit his own involvement. Despite his relative independence from Thamalon and the rest of his family, he knew better than to invite real trouble back to Stormweather.
He only hoped Chaney was not in real trouble, and he wouldn’t know until Chaney confided in him.
Tal was surprised to find that Dhauna Myritar was a short, plump woman of perhaps sixty or as many as eighty years. She had brown skin and eyes of no particular color, with laugh lines that reminded Tal of Mistress Quickly and perhaps also Maleva.
The high priestess wore her fine blue and silver gown as comfortably as a fishwife would an old shawl. It was all bustles and lace with a fantastical collar that rose high above the top of her head. In her coifed hair she wore a silver tiara of six crescent moons surrounding one perfect disk in the center. It should have looked ridiculous on her, but somehow it did not.
“May Selûne guide your steps in the night and bring them to the new dawn,” she greeted him. She had an air of comfortable formality, as though she’d said the words a hundred thousand times but still meant them honestly.
She handed the bright ceremonial scepter to one of the three young novices attending her before dismissing them from the room. It was a small, comfortable antechamber, thickly carpeted and appointed with furnishings that looked more appropriate for a gentleman’s lounge than a temple. The servants had left a decanter of wine so white it was nearly silver, and the high priestess gestured for Tal to pour her a glass.
He obliged with practiced grace learned more from the stage than a courtier’s habit, careful to hand it to her delicately and say, “Your grace.”
“Thank you, Talbot,” she said. She sat back and put her slippered feet up on a stuffed footstool. “You may call me ‘Dhauna’ when we’re alone. Why, I feel as though I know you already. Oh, don’t look so surprised. You are not stupid, and you needn’t pretend to be.”
“No,” said Tal. “Of course Maleva told you about my problem.”
“Oh, much more than that,” she said.
