Chasing the Prophecy

by Brandon Mull

“The port gates are the only entrances,” Jasher explained. “There is one on the west side and another on the east, both heavily guarded. The only access to the city proper is to follow the highway up from the port.”

  “There have to be hidden ways through or under those walls,” Aram said, surveying the city. “Durna is too big. Nobles. Criminals. They would grow weary of taking the long route. They would demand private passages. The city has stood for too long.”

  Bat, one of the two drinlings who had accompanied them on horseback, folded his brawny arms. “You’re probably right. But we don’t know of any.” After traveling with the group for less than a week, the drinlings had already lost their accents.

  “And we can’t steal a ship unless we access the port,” added the other drinling, a solid man named Ux.

  “Can’t we just stroll in through a gate along with the crowd?” Jason asked.

  “Possibly,” Jasher said. “Security will be tighter here than what you have encountered in the past.”

  “A governor called Duke Ashby oversees Durna for Maldor,” Drake explained. “He is competent and driven.”

  Ux peered at the city through a spyglass. “We’ve found security to be a serious obstacle. Of course the entrances are heavily monitored, but we’ve witnessed wandering patrols and random searches as well.”

  “We’ve been entering the city by water,” Bat said. “One at a time. Swimming. We reach the docks from the sea, looping around the huge defensive breakwaters in the small hours of the night. A two-hour swim at a brisk pace. The harbor is well guarded.”

  Jason looked out at the harbor. From their current vantage in a grove of tall, slender trees, they had an elevated view of the west side of town. The water of the Inland Sea looked gray-green under the predawn glow from the overcast sky. The port walls did not end at the water. Rather they extended out into the sea, encircling the harbor, with only a relatively narrow gap to allow vessels access.

  “Too hard of a swim for us?” Jason asked.

  “I expect,” Bat said. “Drinlings don’t tire.”

  “What about a small boat?” Farfalee wondered.

  “The harbor mouth is well illuminated,” Ux said. “The risk is great even as a lone swimmer.”

  “Then we’ll probably have to brave the gates,” Jasher said. “Which poses some problems. The whole empire is on the lookout for Lord Jason. Corinne is too regal and lovely. And we seedfolk are almost as conspicuous as you drinlings.”

  Jason glanced at the drinlings. Their golden-brown coloring was just outside the normal spectrum of human skin tones. And the coppery tint of their irises looked a little too metallic.

  “Which is why we enter Durna quietly and lie low,” Ux said. “Our kind would be detained on sight.”

  “My amar is gone,” Drake said. “I can cut my hair short and make sure my clothes cover the scar at the back of my neck. Farfalee can wear her hair long and just not roll it up over her seed.”

  “I suppose if I trim my hair shorter and don’t roll it I could pass as human,” Jasher said. He raked his fingers through his long tresses. “Let it barely touch my shoulders, subtly cover the amar without giving me away. I dislike the feel of it, but I’ve done it before.”

  “We’ll need nondescript clothing,” Farfalee mentioned.

  “These robes don’t blend?” Jason asked.

  Aram began to wheeze and grunt. Veins bulged in his thick neck. He backed away into the grove, looking for some privacy as he shrank with the veiled dawn. A couple of the horses neighed at his approach.

  Jasher looked around. “I feel too exposed here.”

  “We have operated mostly from the woods on this side of town,” Bat said. “We’ll see trouble coming long before they see us.”

  There were numerous groves on this wild part of the slope above the Inland Sea. Jason and the others had taken up position here in the night, after weaving between some of the farms and outlying settlements south of Durna.

  Aram returned, adjusting a smaller set of robes, face damp with perspiration. “You could let me go in alone and try to ferret out a secret entrance. I have experience with this sort of thing. We have plenty of money for bribes.”

  Farfalee shook her head. “I think Jason had it right from the start.” Jason tried to resist a proud grin as she continued. “We should flow into town with the morning crowd, in ones and twos. People come here to buy and trade. They come looking for work. They come for entertainment. The imperial guardsmen may be watching for Jason, but almost certainly none here have ever seen him. We dress as peasants. We look humble and hungry, and walk into the city with the rest of the unwashed masses.”

  “Bat and I could bring the swords,” Ux offered. “Jason’s and Corinne’s. Even sheathed they would draw interest. They look too fine. Unsheathed they would immediately give you away. We’ll swim them in.”

  “What about my armor?” Aram asked. “My sword?”

  “Your sword would drag us straight to the bottom,” Bat said.

  “We could use it to anchor a ship,” Ux grunted.

  “I could pose as a wealthy merchant,” Drake offered. “Well fed, well dressed, a debonair peddler of oversized weaponry.”

  Farfalee laughed derisively. “Why not portray a wealthy noble on a pilgrimage? We could supply you with riches and hire servants. Our weapons could be disguised in your armory.”

  “Don’t give me ideas,” Drake warned, eyes flashing with relish.

  Jason couldn’t shake the feeling that they were making this harder than it needed to be. “Do we have to take everything into the city?” he asked. “I mean, we’re only going there to steal a ship and leave. What if we reunited on the water?”

  Farfalee nodded pensively. “We would have to get hold of a smaller craft outside the city and rendezvous beyond the harbor mouth.”

  “There are many options,” Bat said. “Finding a small craft would not be difficult.”

  “What if Farfalee, Corinne, and one of the drinlings met us on the water?” Jasher proposed. “They could bring Aram’s gear, the torivorian swords, and the orantium. We shouldn’t need the globes for our hijacking. Success will depend on slipping away quietly.”

  “I would prefer to help cover the hijacking with my bow,” Farfalee said.

  “That would be ideal,” Jasher said. “It might not be wise. You and Corinne are too attractive. You’ll stand out more than the rest of us going into the city. With a tireless drinling on the oars, a rendezvous at sea might be a reasonable solution.”

  “We will need to know how to meet,” Farfalee said.

  “I can still swim into the city,” Ux offered. “Then I can swim out with the details. Bat could stay with you. Then the two of us can help you manage your boat.”

  Farfalee sighed. “My bow could be useful inside the city, but I admit that this alternative would reduce the overall risk.”

  “I’ll stay close to Jason,” Jasher promised. “Aram and Drake can make their way into the city separately.”

  “So no servants for me?” Drake verified. “Not even one? Maybe an older fellow? Or a kid?”

  “Maybe next time,” Jasher consoled. “For the present, we need to locate some apparel.”

  “I’ll go,” Aram offered. “When I’m small, I’m the least conspicuous of us.”

  “I’ll follow him,” Drake said. “The rest of you lie low and try to stay out of trouble.”

  * * *

  The following morning Jason trudged toward the western gate. He wore coarse, itchy trousers and a long shirt with laces over the chest. His dingy old boots had hard soles and were falling apart. Six copper drooma clinked in one pocket.

  He followed a wagon and a group of people on foot. The wagon kicked up dust, which he did not try to avoid, since he knew that whatever clung to him would improve his disguise.

  Aram had cautioned him to enter the city as part of a group. The crowd would pressure the guardsmen to hurry and be less thorough.

  Jason did
his best not to glance back at Jasher, who trailed him by a few hundred yards. Jasher was unarmed except for a knife. The seedman toted several pots and pans, as if he meant to sell them. His hair had been shortened to barely reach his shoulders, and he wore a flat twilled cap.

  The port wall loomed ever closer. Uniformed guards patrolled the top, coming in and out of view among the battlements. The others on the road paid little heed to Jason.

  At last the wagon slowed and then stopped in the shadow of the open gates. A bespectacled man in a raised booth watched the proceedings with a narrow gaze, quill in hand, parchment ready. Jason counted five soldiers on the ground.

  The man in the wagon began shouting answers about his cargo to the man with the quill. A pair of guardsmen searched his wagon, looking underneath and examining the bales and barrels in the bed.

  None of the people on foot were allowed to proceed without questioning. A line formed as the quantity of people seeking admittance outnumbered the guards. Jason felt nervous as he took his place in line. He struggled to keep his expression neutral. He avoided eye contact with the guards but tried not to deliberately look away from them either.

  The wagon was waved through, freeing up a couple of the guards. The line began to move faster. A husky man with a thick mustache and stubbly jowls confronted Jason. “Name?”

  “Lucas, son of Travis.”

  “State your business.”

  “I have to find Gulleg the barber. I have a bad tooth.”

  The guard grunted and squinted. “You’re not familiar. Where are you from?”

  “I’m up from Laga.”

  “Laga? Quite a trip.”

  Jason rubbed the side of his jaw. “A man back home tried to help but made it worse. I was told Gulleg is the best. I’ve been walking two days straight. Can’t sleep with the pain.”

  “Duration of your stay?”

  “I’m hoping Gulleg can see me today.”

  The guard harrumphed softly. “You were told right. Gulleg is good with teeth. Took care of my brother last year. Hope you brought money.”

  “Six drooma,” Jason said, jangling his pocket proudly.

  “Six?” the guard snickered. “Gulleg is no country barber. But he does have a soft spot for the downtrodden. He might find a way for you to sweat off the difference. You keep out of trouble. And keep off the streets. We don’t tolerate vagrants.”

  The hefty guard moved away, his attention shifting to a lanky man with a handcart. Jason strolled past the gate, praying that he looked less conspicuous than he felt. The exchange had gone as planned, right down to him not having quite enough money.

  Jason was not supposed to wait for Jasher. The seedman would follow as he chose. The next step was to find the Salt Sea Inn, a small establishment about ten buildings inland from the waterfront, on a road called Galley Street. The port of Durna alone had more structures and businesses than many of the towns Jason had seen in Lyrian.

  The main road leading away from the gate was broad and busy. Up ahead a pair of mounted soldiers was squabbling with a man, insisting he move his wagon. The teamster kept maintaining that he needed to unload supplies.

  Deciding he would rather steer clear of confrontations with soldiers involved, Jason turned down a side street. On one side of the lane a line had formed near a dilapidated cart, where a bony woman ladled chowder from a deep vat. The beige concoction looked thick and chunky. It smelled delicious.

  Jason had copper in his pocket, and he was hungry, but his orders were to proceed directly to the inn. He continued down the street, noticing other carts on the sides selling goods or food, although none were as busy as the chowder cart.

  Not one building in the port area stood taller than three stories, unless you counted the pair of bell towers near the water. The structures tended to be low, square, and solid—some residences, some businesses.

  After winding around for some time, and asking directions twice, Jason found Galley Street. It was narrow, grimy, and crowded, and it featured lots of inns. The air smelled of salt water and burned food.

  Not long after reaching Galley Street, Jason found a battered board hanging over a nondescript entrance. Weathered and cracked, the light-blue board held the words “Salt Sea Inn,” hand painted in black by an amateur. The establishment looked narrower than many of the inns on the street, and among the least prosperous. The Salt Sea Inn had small, grimy windows, and the unremarkable door was six steps down from street level.

  Jason descended the steps and entered. The common room reeked of fried fish, sweat, and wood smoke. Craggy men slumped at tables or at the bar, many of them alone. Jason saw no women, and no groups larger than three. He caught a few sidelong glances, surly looks that hinted he didn’t belong.

  Without a plan, Jason would have backed out onto the street and found another inn. But he was supposed to find the curly-haired barkeeper and ask for a room with a view of the coast. That was how Bat had explained Jason would connect with Nia and the other drinlings.

  Behind the bar a man with curly brown hair was wiping a mug with a dirty rag. A tiny hoop pierced one ear, and tattoos crawled across his wiry forearms. Jason crossed to him and leaned against the bar, hoping he looked less out of place than he felt.

  “What’ll it be?” the barman asked.

  “I need a room with a view of the coast,” Jason said.

  The barman smirked. “Nothing like that here, mate. Ashley can show you what we have. Ashley!”

  “One moment,” a female voice answered from the kitchen.

  A man seated at the bar swiveled to face Jason. He had a droopy face with rough skin and three parallel scars on his jaw. Silver teeth glinted as he spoke. “What are you playing at, bumpkin?”

  “Excuse me?” Jason said.

  “Look at the manners on this one!” the man chuckled, brushing shaggy hair back from his brow. “You smell like dung. Run back to your farm, boy. This place is for men of the sea.”

  Jason noticed that the comments had drawn the attention of some of the other customers. They appeared to share the sentiment. At best they looked amused by the prospect of trouble. Several expressions seemed hostile. Should he try to ignore the insult? Should he stand up for himself? He didn’t want to draw too much attention.

  “I could use bodies in my rooms,” the barman intervened.

  The man at the bar waved away the comment. “I can leave his body wherever you like. Go on, hayseed, scurry out of here. Last chance.”

  “Morley, I can’t have you running off paying—”

  “I’ll cover the cost of the room,” Morley barked. “Unless you’d side with a stranger over a regular?”

  Everyone in the room was watching intently. The curly-haired barman shrugged. “It’s your money, Morley.” The barkeeper locked eyes with Jason. “You had better go.”

  Jason was at a loss. He needed to connect with Nia. But if he started a fight, it could lead to lots of unwanted attention. Soldiers might get involved. Also, alone and unarmed he would probably end up dead.

  “Is there a problem here?” asked a voice from behind.

  Jason glanced back to find Jasher crossing the room. The seedman had already discarded his pots and pans. Jason felt relief at the sight of him, and also a bit embarrassed that he had messed up a simple task by seeming too out of place.

  “What’s it to you?” asked Morley.

  “I sent my servant ahead to book a room,” Jasher replied.

  Jason took the cue and gave a shamefaced half bow toward Jasher.

  Morley looked over at Jason and coughed out a harsh laugh. “Fine servant you found! What are you, brothers? Cousins? You two had better shove off. Take your comedy elsewhere. You picked the wrong inn.” Morley turned and hunched over the bar as if the discussion were finished. He picked up a bone off the platter before him and nibbled at the scant remaining meat.

  Jasher approached the man calmly, his expression serious but not overtly threatening. Most other men in the room watched with
interest, some hiding their attention better than others. Jasher stopped directly behind Morley. “Would you care to explain yourself?”

  “To a farmhand?” The man spun and stabbed a dagger at Jasher. The seedman twisted, avoiding the thrust, and grabbed Morley’s extended arm at the wrist. With his free hand Jasher seized Morley by his shaggy hair and flung him to the floor.

  Still clutching his dagger, Morley glared up at Jasher.

  “Stay down,” Jasher warned. “Isn’t there enough trouble in your life without seeking more?”

  “Who do you think—” Morley began as he started to rise. He didn’t get more out, because Jasher kicked him hard in the ankle, a quick sweeping motion that dumped Morley back onto the ground.

  Jason managed not to flinch away from the sudden flurry of motion. He tried to watch the crowd in case somebody attacked Jasher from behind. He noticed a bottle on the bar that might serve as a better weapon than nothing if things escalated.

  “Don’t try to get up again, or you’ll lose the option,” Jasher threatened. “Crawl out of here. Don’t provoke strangers. You never know who you’re speaking with.”

  “You somebody important?” Morley mocked. “Growing some nice carrots this year?”

  Jasher’s expression remained stern but controlled. “You assume too much, friend. I know what you are. I know what this place is. In your line of work, have you never played a part? Have you never dressed or acted out of character?” Jasher looked around the room in disgust. “How raw are the amateurs in this town if the patrons of an establishment such as this assume everyone is as they appear? Are we your first visitors from beyond the region?”

  The crowd seemed mildly embarrassed. The reaction made Jason relax a bit. They might manage to bluff their way out of this after all. Morley was temporarily at a loss for words. When he spoke, there was uncertainty in his tone. “We get word when talent comes in from abroad.”

  “Depends on the talent,” Jasher scoffed. “My business was not with anyone in this room. This may astonish you, but in my line of work, depending on the stakes, I don’t always want my business known. And now I have a roomful of attention. I had heard better things of Durna than this. I want your full name, Morley.”