Wigg had explained to him then that the improper combination of their energies would result in the total destruction of everything they knew. Supposedly Tristan, the Chosen One, was to be the first to successfully join these opposite powers for the good of the land. Just now it seemed such a day was far off, indeed.
“Joshua remains our only key to the answers about the flying creatures,” Wigg added. “But we must wait until he awakens. Then we shall tend to his health. He has been through a great deal.”
A dense, almost palpable silence reigned, the only sound the occasional snapping of the wood burning in the fireplace. Tristan looked down into the face of the sleeping consul as a sad, ironic notion suddenly came to him.
Even this injured consul has more freedom than I do now. I have been a virtual prisoner in this cavern of marble. Perhaps even a criminal in my own country—for crimes I was forced to commit. But tonight, at least, I will see the graves of my family—wizards or no wizards.
Feeling the need to check on his still-fragile sister, the prince walked slowly to the door. Wearily, he faced the others. “I will meet with you both again in the morning,” he said. “Now I go to see Shailiha.”
He turned and walked through the door, leaving the two wizards lost in their contemplations.
CHAPTER
Three
The afternoon was darkening as Geldon carefully guided his bay mare through the ragged streets of Tammerland. A rainy night was coming, and he made a mental note to be sure to leave the city early enough to avoid it. The strengthening wind occasionally picked up litter from the unkempt streets, blowing it around into little maelstroms of filth and debris. It only added to the general drabness and oppression that now characterized this place.
Such a pity, the hunchbacked dwarf thought. This city must have been magnificent before the coming of the Coven and the Minions of Day and Night. Perhaps the wizards and the Chosen One can somehow make it so again.
Out of habit he reached up to his throat, the place where he had once worn the collar of the second mistress of the Coven. He would never forget the jeweled band of slavery he had worn for over three hundred years, until Wigg had removed it after the fall of the sorceresses. But all of that sometimes seemed a thousand lifetimes ago. The members of the Coven were all dead, and their soldiers, the Minions, were stationed far away in Parthalon, the nation across the Sea of Whispers. Tristan had ordered the Minions to stand down from their violence. They were to rebuild Parthalon, helping the citizens there to regain free and useful lives.
Geldon could see evidence of the Minions’ depraved butchery as he went down the various streets. As was their custom, they had used the blood of their victims to paint obscenities and symbols of their victory on the walls and buildings, just as they had done in Parthalon. Geldon knew that the psychological stain of what they had done would remain long after their horrific, telltale artwork had vanished.
He patted his horse to take his mind from the butchery, then smiled to himself at how clever the two wizards living in the Redoubt were. Fearing that the horses would be stolen from the palace stables above ground, Wigg and Faegan had converted a small part of the Redoubt to underground stables, and the horses were now boarded there full time, along with the tack and feed. It had become a part of Geldon’s duties to care for them, and he loved his job.
He had ridden his bay mare out one of the many secret tunnels leading out of the Redoubt. Each of the winding tunnels exited in a different area of the palace or its surrounding landscaping. Their entrances were cleverly disguised, and he had to be very careful never to be seen entering or exiting. From the palace it was only a short ride into the heart of the city. But each time he visited this place it depressed him.
He was headed for the section that had once been the center of Eutracian culture and commerce. Most of the storefronts and shops had been long since looted, but there were still a handful of them open, their owners apparently well heeled enough to pay hired thugs to protect them. This was also the place where most of the idle citizens now seemed to congregate, as if being together would somehow add to their own safety.
The area known as Bargainer’s Square was now a hotbed of whores, thieves, con artists, mercenaries for hire, and beggars. But it was the place where he was most likely to pick up the latest gossip. He knew the danger factor there was high, especially for a hunchbacked dwarf whose size might well make his self-defense more problematic.
As he approached the huge, cobblestone square he could see that it was unusually busy today. In fact, the place was literally teeming with life. He kept his pace slow and his head down, purposely trying not to invite attention. No one need tell him that simply being a hunchbacked dwarf might be enough to invite harassment from rowdies looking for fun.
Street whores with come-hither glances brazenly plied their trade in the open. From many of the alleyways could be heard the homely, visceral sounds of crude, urgent intercourse. Oftentimes the men could be seen standing in line, waiting their turn. Beggars approached him at every corner. Some of them seemed truly needy, while others were simply looking for a coin or a piece of bread to get them through another day without having to work. He bit his lip as he went along, almost crying at what he saw. Some of the unfortunates here were mere children. Orphans, he assumed. Lost and alone in a giant world not of their making, many were filthy and starving.
He would sometimes come across the menacing eyes of those he knew to be the most dangerous—the killers for hire. Professional assassination had become a healthy business since the loss of the Royal Guard. There were many citizens who were more than happy to spend the necessary kisa to eliminate a wealthy relative, adulterous spouse, or more successful business rival. Kisa, the gold coin of the realm, was the only thing that guaranteed survival. And what these mercenaries were willing to do to get it was without limits. With enough money, virtually anyone here could be killed, with no trace remaining of the assassin.
And then there was the final group of unfortunates. The hobbling, crippled souls who were wounded, and nearly dead. Those who had somehow survived the clash with the Minions, but had lost an arm, a leg, or an eye. These men and women were the ones who seemed truly lost, walking the streets as if in a daze. Their eyes were constantly searching, but they seemed to recognize little. Every such encounter with the Minions, Geldon knew, bred such poor souls like flies. And it was plain to see that many of them here were soon to lose it all to the ravages of their quickly advancing gangrene. They had apparently never found anyone of the craft capable of properly tending their wounds.
Thank the Afterlife Tristan has not seen this, Geldon thought. There would be no end to the rage and sorrow he would feel. As if mere cloth could somehow protect him from the horrific scene, he slowly pulled the hood of his robe up over his head and traveled on.
Geldon had made six other such visits to the city. He had purposely not been trying to find out too much, for fear of seeming overly inquisitive. The last thing he needed was undue scrutiny. But he had struck up several potentially valuable acquaintances—people he thought he could now trust enough to tell him at least some semblance of the truth. It was to the first of these he steered his mare.
Familiarity first, the wizards had warned him. Then and only then should come the questions.
He stopped his horse in front of one of the more rowdy, notorious taverns and looked down at the partial amputee seated on the walk. The fellow’s legs were gone just below the hips, no doubt a result of the Minions’ carnage. What was left of his squat body was strapped to a rather poorly made wooden box. Around both of his hands were wrapped dirty bandages, and in each fist he gripped a handle. Each handle was connected to a separate block of wood. In this way he could move along much faster than one would have ever imagined. He would repeatedly extend the blocks of wood before him, then lift his body-box upward and forward, placing it down into the space between them. He was known only as Stubbs, and his dark, dirty hair and black eye patch were al
ways the same. He seemed to be quite sure, as he looked up at Geldon, that at least a few kisa were about to come his way. He smiled, several of his front teeth missing.
“And how are you this fine day?” Stubbs asked the dwarf, his greedy smile far from retreating. “Have you come for yet more supplies?”
Geldon took a quick look around the unusually crowded square before responding, making sure there was no one else within earshot. “Yes,” he said simply, continuing to gaze down at the cripple.
“For the life of me, I don’t know why you don’t get a wagon,” Stubbs added, rubbing a hand over his grizzled, salt-and-pepper chin. “It would make life a lot simpler, and you wouldn’t have to come into town so often.” Reaching out, he placed the blocks one step in front of his truncated body. Hoisting himself into the space between them, he moved a little closer to the hooves of Geldon’s horse. He used his good eye to look up at the dwarf. “Nobody honest ever comes to this part of town ’less they have to. That is, unless they’re in need of a good time from one of the ladies.” He winked knowingly. “I could do with a bit of that myself, if you know what I mean.”
Geldon opened the leather cinch bag that was tied around his waist and took several low-denomination kisa from it, holding them casually in his hand. He jingled them lightly together. “Perhaps I could help you with that,” he said softly.
Stubbs took another of his small leaps forward, his eyes shining with greed. “What do you need, m’lord?” he asked quickly. “I can get you anything you want: liquor . . . women . . . or perhaps there’s someone you’d like to see out of the way?”
“Just some information,” Geldon answered shortly. He looked around again, pausing to let a group of loud, drunken men go by. “Why is Bargainer’s Square so busy today?” he asked. “I’ve never seen it like this.”
Stubbs tilted his head and smiled again, holding out his hand. Geldon flipped one coin down. Before he knew it, the cripple had bitten hard into it, testing its worth. Stubbs smiled with approval. “News is there’s goin’ to be some kind of big announcement today, and very soon now,” he said conspiratorially.
“What kind of announcement?”
Stubbs just smiled. Geldon tossed down another coin.
“They say it’s goin’ to be big doin’s, and has to do with somebody important.” Again he stopped. Yet another coin came down.
“Who?” Geldon asked.
Stubbs smiled nastily. “The prince,” he said softly.
Geldon froze. That’s impossible, he thought. No one knows Tristan is here.
He tried to keep his composure. “What about the prince?” He pursed his lips as if the information he had just paid for had been a bad bargain. “I don’t know very much about him, much less care, and I’ve half a mind to come down there and get my money back.” He glared angrily at the cripple. “There must be more to it than that.”
“Only that there is to be some kind of announcement in the Hog’s Hoof Tavern, in about one hour,” Stubbs said. “I swear to the Afterlife, m’lord, that’s all I know.”
Finally believing him, Geldon tossed down one more coin. “Consider that to be a down payment on my next visit,” he said sternly. “As for now, do the smart thing and erase me from your memory until you see me again. We never talked.”
“Yes m’lord,” Stubbs said gleefully. He headed off, leaping and bounding awkwardly across the cobblestones of the square, aiming straight for the first of the street whores he could find, happily holding out his kisa like a schoolboy entering a candy shop.
But the amusement Geldon felt at watching Stubbs quickly vanished as he turned his horse toward the Hog’s Hoof. His thoughts were darkening with every moment. No one, as far as they knew, was aware that the prince and Wigg had returned to Eutracia. The thought of some kind of announcement about Tristan unnerved him. And the only way to learn more would be to go to the tavern—a prospect he was not particularly fond of.
The Hog’s Hoof had the worst reputation in all of Tammerland, and had long been known as a gambling house, a haven for criminals, and a brothel of the most perverted standards. Geldon had been there only one other time, during one of his first trips into the city. He had quickly left in fear of his life. Still, he had no choice but to brave the place again. He owed Tristan his freedom and his life—a debt he would never stop trying to repay.
Dismounting in front of the great, overbearing edifice of the tavern, he tossed the leering brutes on the sidewalk several coins to watch his horse, then stepped inside the belly of the raucous, human carnival that was the Hogs’s Hoof.
It was exactly as he had remembered it. The noise, smells, and laughter coming from the various areas of the great front room seemed to have a unique, dangerous texture all their own. A very long, hand-hewn bar of highly polished hibernium wood stretched from one end of the rear wall to the other. The rest of the entire room seemed to be a mass of tables, chairs, and men in various stages of drunkenness. Women worked the room constantly, either serving liquor or plying their other trade, trying to entice the men into going upstairs. There were many takers.
But everyone was not always happy in this place, and he knew a fight could break out at any moment. Anxious, oftentimes angry men leaned over the gaming tables, seemingly trying to throw their money away as fast as possible. From the far corner of the room he could see more of them standing in a small crowd, yelling down at the floor and throwing their kisa into the circle before them. There was obviously a cockfight going on. And the vast majority of the men in the room were armed, wearing both sword and dagger.
The square, open room was two stories high; on the second floor, the chambers of the whores opened onto a railed balcony that overlooked the main tavern below. Scores of oil lamps hanging from the elaborately carved ceiling gave off a harsh, glaring glow, and the various hues of red, the predominant color, gave the tavern a cheap, glaring, dangerous cast. The entire place smelled of liquor, sweat, and greed.
Carefully walking through the crowd to reach the bar, Geldon realized that it would be the man standing behind it who would most probably be the best source of information. The dwarf laboriously hoisted himself up onto one of the relatively high chairs.
“Ale,” he said simply.
The man behind the bar gave Geldon a curious look. Then, with a slight smile, he poured the dwarf a tankard of the tavern ale. Geldon took a draught of the strong, bitter swill, smiled his approval to the bartender, and jangled several kisa down on the bar top.
The server was an older man, with a liquor-induced, ruddy complexion. He had a shiny, bald head, save two tufts of unruly, white hair on either side. He wore a white, stained apron that did little to cover his protruding stomach. But underneath it all Geldon could see that this man was heavily muscled, and no doubt exceptionally strong. He probably needs to be, the dwarf realized.
But the server’s demeanor seemed kind, so the dwarf decided to chance a conversation.
“Bargainer’s Square is very busy today,” he began casually, “and so is the Hog’s Hoof. I’ve never seen so many people here.”
“Business is good,” the man said. He began wiping glasses with a cloth that was less than clean. “Rumor has it that something is going to happen here, and very soon. I don’t know what it is, but if I were you I’d keep my ears open, say little, and be prepared to leave in a hurry if need be. In my opinion, we were all given two ears and only one mouth for a reason. And that is because we should listen twice as much as we talk. One never knows what’s going to happen next in this place, and drawing attention to yourself is never a good idea.”
Excellent advice indeed, Geldon thought. He was beginning to like the fat, red-faced man behind the bar, and he decided to press a little. “My name is Geldon,” he tried.
The man nodded. “Rock,” he said.
“Rock?”
“Yes, Rock.” He smiled. “Can’t you imagine why?”
Geldon smiled back as he looked at Rock’s bulging arms and large, gnarl
ed hands. “Yes,” he said. “Indeed I can.”
Rock leaned forward a little, motioning for Geldon to do the same. “Like I said, something is about to happen,” the barman whispered. “And I think it has to do with—”
Suddenly Rock’s voice trailed off as he looked up to the door at the other side of the room. He swallowed hard, then straightened back up, saying nothing. His face had lost some of its color, and he stood stock-still, as if waiting for something. The entire room had also gone amazingly silent. Geldon turned around, trying to see what it was that would stop such a powerful man dead in his tracks.
Someone had entered the tavern. Standing in the doorway, the stranger was backlit by the streetlight outside, and Geldon could not make out his features. As he walked farther into the large room it became clear that he was very well known. Tables and chairs screeched and scratched out of his way as he moved forward. No one spoke. As the man finally came into view, Geldon knew that he was looking into the face of a cold, professional killer.
It was true that a great many such men had sprung up since the assault by the Minions, but somehow this man was different. Geldon could immediately tell that he would not only be one of the fastest, most efficient of assassins, but would also have absolutely no remorse regarding his chosen craft. This one was a true professional.
He was tall, just a bit taller than Tristan, yet also quite thin—almost emaciated. His face was long, narrow, and angular, his leanness showing up in the gray hollowness of his cheeks and the sallow, almost sunken eyes. His aquiline nose ended just above a fairly small mouth, and his eyes were dark and piercing, their gaze missing nothing. Long, dark hair reached almost to his sharp jawline. His broad shoulders and narrow hips moved quickly and gracefully, almost like a dancer.
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