A World Without Heroes

by Brandon Mull

  Ferrin began reattaching his fingers one at a time. “This is the most complicated game in all of history. I have no idea what you mean.”

  “Wait. I’m just laying groundwork. I have to define a lot of stuff before you’ll be able to understand. I wish we could play a few innings. It’s much easier to pick up when you can see the game being played.”

  “I don’t care about baseball,” Rachel moaned, her face buried in her arms. “I’m trying to sleep.”

  “You can tell me more once we get on the road,” Ferrin told Jason. “Despite the long night, we should set off early today, just in case.”

  The horses acted restive returning to the road, so Ferrin let them canter along the lane for a good distance before slowing to a walk. This time, under the light of day, Jason enjoyed the ride. Despite feeling a little sore, he could see how people could develop a passion for horseback riding.

  When the horses walked, Jason continued explaining baseball. Rachel added occasional clarifications. Ferrin began to grasp the concepts, and eventually the displacer could explain the difference between a ground-rule double and a double play. He even came to appreciate the necessity of the infield-fly rule.

  Not long past noon they came to a small hamlet of low earthen buildings with thatched roofs. One of the houses had a corral fencing in a pair of horses. Ferrin dismounted in front of the door, handing his reins to Rachel.

  A bald man with a hook nose answered the knock.

  “Hello, friend,” Ferrin said. “We borrowed these horses from a man in the town down the road. For a fee would you see that he gets them back?”

  “The one without the saddle is Herrick’s horse,” said the man.

  “The others were taken from the same stable. By necessity we borrowed them without permission. No doubt he will be most anxious to see them returned.”

  The bald man eyed Ferrin warily. “No doubt.”

  “Jason, pay the man eight drooma—three ones and a five.” Jason began fishing out his money bag. “Three for your trouble, sir, and five for Herrick. Please convey our apologies.”

  Jason climbed down from his horse and handed the bald man the money.

  “Can I have your word the horses will be delivered as described?” Ferrin asked.

  “I don’t give my word to thieves,” the man replied.

  All friendliness vanished from Ferrin’s countenance and expression. “And I don’t deliver valuables via unsworn men. Swear or return the money.”

  The man looked uncomfortable. “I swear all will be as you say.”

  “Show no disrespect to thieves,” Ferrin pressed, in an icy tone. “You know who claims to rule this land. Many of the best men living work outside the law. Along with the most dangerous.”

  The bald man looked thoroughly cowed. “I take your meaning. Forgive my words.”

  “I will forgive when you deliver on your pledge,” Ferrin said, finally turning his back on the man.

  The bald man accepted the reins from Rachel and Jason and began walking the horses toward the corral. Ferrin started down the road.

  “You can be harsh,” Jason said.

  Ferrin smirked. “Among my many professions my favorite was acting.” He slapped Jason on the back. “We are honest men again.”

  “And women,” Rachel added.

  “Precisely,” Ferrin agreed.

  Ferrin stopped at a seemingly random house, larger than most along the road. He knocked.

  A disheveled woman answered. “We are weary travelers,” Ferrin said. “Do you know where we might purchase some food here in town?”

  “There is no inn. All I can offer is rabbit stew.”

  “Three bowls for two drooma?”

  Her eyes widened. “Come in,” she said, smiling hospitably.

  Ferrin winked at Rachel and Jason. Leaning toward them, he spoke for their ears only. “With a few drooma in your pocket everyone is your friend.”

  CHAPTER 13

  NICHOLAS

  The key to traveling without provisions,” Ferrin explained on their third evening after leaving the road, “is learning to recognize a bubblefruit tree.”

  They stood in a dense grove surrounded by a sea of heather. “What do they look like?” Jason asked.

  “Gray, mottled bark. Slender trunk. Rarely more than three or four times the height of a man. And broad, ferny foliage. Look for linear groupings of tiny leaflets.”

  “Right here,” Rachel said, pointing to a nearby tree that fit the description.

  “Do you see the bubblefruit?” Ferrin asked.

  Jason walked over to the tree, squinting intently in the fading light. “No.”

  “That is why you must learn to recognize the tree. The fruit grows only on the highest limbs.”

  After Jason climbed the tree to procure a bunch, Jason and Rachel each ate a fruit, chasing them down with long sips of water. Jason recalled eating a bubblefruit hybrid at the Repository of Learning. The hybrid had tasted superior to the natural fruit. It seemed so long ago.

  After abandoning the horses, Ferrin had suggested they forsake the main road to confuse any unfriendly pursuers. The diverging path wound through hilly country of heather and flowering weeds interspersed with mountainous bushes Ferrin called oklinders. The biggest oklinders rose over a hundred feet high and spread nearly twice as wide, the dense, spindly limbs abounding with dark, glossy leaves nearly all the way to the center.

  Ferrin had explained that near the center of any oklinder hung moist white bulbs larger than watermelons, which were considered delicacies. Despite the delicious juice inside, few had the will to harvest them, because they were typically guarded by venomous thorns and colonies of aggressive wasps.

  As they journeyed, Ferrin taught Jason and Rachel how to forage. They gathered nuts and berries, and used their crossbows to shoot bigger rabbits than Jason had ever seen. Each shot was carefully chosen, as they only had a single quarrel for each crossbow and could not afford to split one against a stone.

  “Tomorrow we should see Trensicourt,” Ferrin predicted, munching on a bubblefruit. “I will not be able to enter the city with you.”

  “Why not?” Rachel asked.

  “Too many men in that city would prefer me dead. Years ago I was beheaded within those walls, part of a group execution. They failed to recognize I was a displacer. I feigned death for most of a day, trusting the word of a friend. The friend lost her life restoring my head to my body, and I only barely escaped. Trensicourt can be a delightful city, with enough money and the proper connections.” He gave a wry smile. “But offend a nobleman over a woman, and the city turns on you.”

  “Then we’ll part ways?” Jason asked.

  “Nonsense. I’ll not lightly abandon fine traveling companions such as yourselves. Besides, I still owe you for saving my carcass. Unless you intend to remain in Trensicourt. I was under the impression this was a temporary visit.”

  “It should be a short stay,” Rachel affirmed.

  “Then I will await you in the first town north of Trensicourt, at an inn called the Stumbling Stag.”

  “How long will you wait?” Jason asked.

  “Until the sea dries into a desert,” Ferrin said.

  “Be serious,” Rachel said.

  “How about a fortnight?” Ferrin proposed.

  “A what?” Jason asked.

  “Two weeks,” Rachel supplied.

  “Should be long enough,” Ferrin said. “If you do not join me, I will move on. Might I ask your business in Trensicourt? I am familiar with the city. Perhaps I could be of service.”

  Jason glanced at Rachel. They had not yet disclosed their true mission to the displacer.

  “We’re looking for a man named Nicholas,” Jason said. “He once worked closely with Galloran. We can’t share more particulars, because the information could endanger you.”

  Ferrin grinned. “I love intrigue. But by all means, if you feel it is necessary, keep your secret; I’ll trust your judgment. Nicholas, you sa
y. You can’t mean old Nicholas Dangler, the weapons master?”

  “We might,” Rachel said. “Did he know Galloran?”

  Ferrin frowned. “That is a name to mention with care, especially in Trensicourt. Yes, old Nicholas is a fallen nobleman. His family was heavily favored by Galloran. But once Galloran failed to return from his quests, the aristocracy turned on his favorite pets. If you want Nicholas Dangler, you’ll need to inquire around the Fleabed, the poor district near Southgate.”

  “People in Trensicourt don’t like Galloran?” Jason asked.

  “The people?” Ferrin asked. “The people adore him. There was never a more popular prince, and his disappearance has lionized him, turned him into a myth. It’s the current aristocracy who despises him. Never openly, mind you. They try to spread rumors to undermine his memory, and they have studiously ruined those who were once his staunchest supporters.”

  “Good to know,” Rachel said.

  “Take care in Trensicourt,” Ferrin advised. “Its politics are cutthroat. With little warning the city can become most unpleasant.”

  Early the next morning Trensicourt came into view as the threesome topped a ridge. From the elevated position they gazed out over a lush valley of cultivated farmland crisscrossed with watercourses, hedgerows, and low fences of piled stones. Across the valley loomed a long, sheer plateau, crowned by the walls and towers of Trensicourt.

  “Amazing,” Jason breathed.

  “It’s a real city!” Rachel exclaimed.

  The imposing city wall ran along the brink of the plateau, with square guard towers spaced at increments along the mighty granite rampart. A buttressed road doubled back and forth from the valley floor up to a yawning gate. Behind the wall rose the tops of buildings, some flat, some domed, some gabled, and overshadowing the entire scene soared the lofty towers of a proud castle. The rising sun cast a rosy glow over the landscape, glinting warmly off glass and gilded spires.

  “I will draw no closer to Trensicourt than this,” Ferrin announced.

  “Thank you for guiding us,” Rachel said. “We’ll meet at the Stumbling Stag.”

  “If we don’t get decapitated,” Jason added.

  Ferrin peered back the way they had come. “I’ve had a persistent feeling that we’re being followed. I generally trust my intuition in these instances, but I’ve encountered no direct proof. Either our tracker is supremely talented, or my intuition has deserted me. In either case hurry to Trensicourt. The gates close at sundown. Don’t dally, and watch your backs in the city.”

  “We’ll be careful,” Rachel promised.

  Ferrin bent down and pulled off his shoe. From inside he removed two pellets, one gold, the other silver. “You’ve been paying my way and feeding me,” Ferrin said. “I would have helped more, but the robbers took my copper and bronze. You may have need for gold and silver in Trensicourt. Either is worth enough to serve as a tempting bribe.”

  “We can’t take this,” Jason said.

  “I insist,” Ferrin said, waving a dismissive hand. “If you have no occasion to use it, bring it back to me. I’ll feel better knowing you have it, and you will owe me nothing should you spend it.”

  “It’s very kind of you,” Rachel said.

  “You can’t imagine how seldom those who know I’m a displacer treat me like a person,” Ferrin replied. “In case I wasn’t clear, you may not want to mention our friendship inside the city. It could have negative consequences. I hope we meet again.”

  “So do I,” Jason said.

  “I’ll create diverging trails, just in case we are being followed. You two should get underway. Crossing the valley will require much of the day. Safe journey.”

  “Safe journey,” Rachel replied, giving Ferrin a hug.

  Two or three hours of daylight remained when Rachel and Jason arrived at the foot of the road that climbed from the valley floor to the gates of Trensicourt atop the plateau. Neatly paved with red, square stones, the road rested on ingeniously constructed abutments braced against the face of the plateau. Jason had never witnessed a comparable feat of engineering. The precarious road was wide enough for large wagons to pass each other as they ascended or descended without bothering the foot traffic progressing along the railed walkways at either side.

  By the time Jason reached the city gates atop the steep roadway, his calves burned. He felt relieved to find the great gates open wide, allowing traffic to move freely in and out. The guards at the gate, wearing feathered helmets and clutching tall halberds, paid him and Rachel no special attention as they entered.

  Once through the gates they advanced up a cobblestone street overshadowed by tall, closely packed buildings. They came to a square with a fountain at the center. The majority of the water spouted from the upturned mouth of a hefty stone man struggling with armfuls of bulky fish. Lesser sprays of water issued from the mouths of the fish.

  At the end of one long avenue rose a wide marble building with a golden dome surmounted by a slender spire. In the other direction loomed the castle, topped by pennants rippling in a breeze that Jason could not feel down in the square.

  The crowd in the square milled about, a mixture of peddlers hawking their wares, shoppers dickering for better prices, farmers driving wagons or pulling handcarts, and an occasional fashionably appointed carriage slicing through the throng.

  Jason noticed three scruffy boys dashing through the crowd, playing tag. They looked about ten years old. “Hey, come here,” Jason said to a skinny one with big ears as he dashed by. The boy reluctantly answered the summons, and his two friends took off.

  “What is it?” the boy asked uncomfortably.

  “Do you know the way to the Fleabed?” Jason asked.

  The boy glared, eyes darting between Jason and Rachel. “Got nothing better to do than mock strangers?”

  “We’re not teasing,” Rachel said. “We’re looking for Nicholas Dangler.”

  “The Dangler?” the boy chuckled. “Somebody dare you to knock at his door?”

  “Something like that,” Jason replied.

  “Everyone knows where the Dangler lives,” the boy said. “Leastways everyone who’s ever set foot in the Fleabed. I’m not from the Fleabed myself, but I could find the Dangler’s door easy enough.”

  “Two drooma?” Jason asked, taking the cue.

  The boy brightened. “At your service.” Jason handed over two pellets, and the boy stared at them as if he held diamonds. When the boy awakened from his temporary trance, the pellets disappeared into a pocket. “Follow me.”

  The nimble boy led Jason and Rachel away from the castle, toward the huge domed building. After traveling several blocks, they left the main avenue, soon veering to continue south beyond the enormous domed structure. They entered a maze of narrow, filthy streets and alleys. The buildings began to look like poorly stacked boxes. Furtive eyes peered through boarded windows, and lonely figures dressed in layers of worn clothing roamed the alleyways. Jason kept a wary eye on the people around them. Beneath his cloak one hand remained on his knife.

  The boy led them around a battered lean-to in the mouth of an alley, where an old woman huddled behind a curtain of tattered rags. On one side of the alley a single solid building stood in contrast to the haphazardly overhanging levels on the opposite side. A gang of thin urchins scattered as Jason and Rachel followed the boy forward.

  The boy stopped and pointed. “Up on the left is the Dangler’s door. Whether you knock is up to you. Will you need help finding your way out of here?”

  “I think we’ve got it,” Jason said, unsure how long they might converse with Nicholas Dangler. He figured he could always hire another guide.

  The boy looked up expectantly.

  Jason fished out another drooma. “Thanks.”

  The boy stashed the pellet away and dashed off without another word. Rachel stepped nearer to Jason. “Is this safe?” she murmured.

  “Has anything been safe?” Jason replied, his eyes following the boy as he ran aw
ay. “It makes me sad to think of all the kids growing up here.”

  “I can’t think about that,” Rachel said, her eyes misting up.

  Jason sighed. “At least the Dangler’s door leads to a sturdy building.”

  “There aren’t many in the neighborhood,” Rachel agreed. “I’m surprised this part of the city hasn’t collapsed into the alleys.”

  “Let’s knock.” Jason approached the door and tapped it three times with his knuckles. The heaviness of the door dampened the sound. After waiting for several seconds, he knocked again, pounding this time.

  “Maybe he’s not home,” Rachel said after a moment.

  As Jason knocked a third time, locks disengaged, and the door whipped inward. A woman stood there, nearly his height, her shoulders broad, her dark hair tied back. She wore a sleeveless tunic, her bare arms plump with muscle. “What do you want?” the woman asked.

  “We’re looking for Nicholas Dangler,” Jason said.

  Her challenging eyes shifted from Jason to Rachel and back. “Nicholas is ill; he can’t abide visitors. If you want to commission work, I am running his enterprise. We could set up a consultation.”

  “We specifically need to speak with Nicholas,” Rachel said.

  “Then you should have visited years ago,” the woman responded.

  “Please,” Jason persisted. “We’re strangers to this city. We really need his help. Galloran sent us.”

  The woman sneered. “Your ridicule lacks invention.” She slammed the sturdy door.

  “Should you have brought up Galloran?” Rachel asked.

  “Jugard said that Nicholas used to work for Galloran,” Jason replied. “The problem is she thinks we’re kidding.” Slipping a hand into a pocket, he knocked again.

  “Careful,” Rachel said. “She looked like she could beat you up.”

  After a few bursts of knocking, Jason began to incessantly pound. When the door opened again, the woman held a sword. Behind her an older, smaller woman leveled a fancy crossbow at Jason.