Chapter
1
It
was the last night of the annual harvest festival, and the cavernous
banquet hall of the merchants’ guild was overflowing with guests.
Beneath the high, vaulted ceilings they gathered, dressed in their
fanciest clothes and adorned with their most dazzling jewelry. Iron
braziers blazed fiercely on dark-timbered walls hung with elaborate
tapestries. Overhead, on gaudy chandeliers, hundreds of beeswax
candles lent their light and subtle aroma to the huge room.
Every
one of Hohvenlor’s merchant families was represented, from the
simplest of traders to the powerful merchant lords. A few dull
bankers and stoic lawyers trailed alongside their richest clients,
just in case their advice or opinion was required. The guild
alderman, bearing with him his own small cluster of favor seekers and
flatterers, wandered among the throng, shaking hands and sharing
toasts.
News
and gossip was exchanged, partnerships forged, deals brokered,
illicit assignations planned. Liveried servants drifted through the
hall, bearing silver platters piled with sweet desserts, while to
quench thirst and dull senses, they brought dark ales, thick meads,
and a large variety of expensive wines.
Amid
the finery of the assembled guests was one young man more
ostentatiously attired than most. He wore a thick doublet and
leggings of black velvet, generously trimmed with cloth-of-gold. His
cap and half cape were of black silk and edged with sable. The belt
and shoes he wore were of soft, black calf skin, with diamonds
glittering on the buckles of both. More gemstones sparkled on ringed
fingers, and a ruby the size of a thumbnail hung on a heavy gold
chain about his neck. He circled the room slowly, a goblet of deep
purple Ilohrian wine in one hand, the other tucked into his bejeweled
belt.
Not
yet twenty, the young man was handsome and he knew it. He had a long,
aquiline nose and a strong, square jaw. His wavy black hair and
crystal blue eyes drew many admiring glances from the women in the
hall. The young man was not distracted by these other women, however;
his attention was focused solely on one.
He
watched as she moved gracefully around the room, pausing briefly to
converse with one party or another. She inclined her head to some,
smiled brightly at others, allowed a fortunate few to lightly kiss
her hand. If she was aware of his presence, the weight of his stare,
she gave no sign of it. And his were far from the only eyes that
followed her. He waited impatiently until she drifted off to the edge
of the banquet hall, near the patio.
It
was an unseasonably warm night, and the patio doors had been opened
wide onto the darkened garden beyond.
There
she stood in the doorway, hands clasped in front of her, staring out
into the shadows. Hair the color of spun gold fell over pale
shoulders left tantalizingly bare by a simple, yet elegant gown of
green silk. The only jewelry she wore was a pair of small emerald
earrings set in silver clasps. The raw beauty she possessed needed
little enhancement.
“Dathina,”
the young man murmured, coming up behind her and grazing her elbow
with his hand.
“Eriston,”
she said evenly, stiffening at his touch and taking a small step away
from him.
“You
have not responded to my letters. Nor has your father responded to my
proposal.”
Eriston
moved around so that he was standing in front of her. They were of
the same height, though his eyes met hers only for a moment. His gaze
quickly dropped to travel down the length of her silk-encased body,
pausing lewdly when he reached the swell of her breasts and the curve
of her hips.
“Do
my words not please you?” The innocence with which this was asked
was ruined by his lecherous stare.
Dathina’s
eyes, as green as her gown, flashed in irritation. “Nothing about
you pleases me, as I have made clear on many occasions.” She
crossed her arms defensively over her chest. “Our fathers have been
rivals, nay, enemies, since before you or I were born. How could you
possibly imagine that mine would either desire or consent to a
marriage between us? Especially as I myself do not desire it?” She
shook her head in mock disbelief. “As for your letters, the only
use I have for them is as kindling for the hearth fire.”
Eriston
scowled, his fingers tightening around the goblet of wine. “I could
have any woman I want, Dathina. You should be flattered I chose you.”
Laughter
spilled from her full lips, drawing glances from nearby guests.
“Flattered?” she exclaimed incredulously. Her eyes twinkled with
scorn as they roamed over Eriston. “Look at you! How much of your
father’s hard-earned coin did this ridiculous costume cost? You are
a spoiled, pampered fop. You care only about yourself and your
appearance. Perhaps these other women are interested.” Dathina
waved vaguely over her shoulder. “I most certainly am not.”
Eriston
stepped closer to her, anger contorting his features. “How dare you
speak to me that way!” His raised voice drew more attention from
their neighbors.
“You’re
drunk,” Dathina scoffed, sniffing the air between them. “As is
usual, I imagine.”
She
turned to walk away, but Eriston grabbed her arm and held her fast.
“Take
your hand off me.”
“You
will be mine, Dathina. You and your father will see the sense of it.”
“Never,”
she hissed. “Leave my family and myself alone.”
She
tried to pull free from Eriston’s grasp, but he only tightened his
grip and pulled her nearer. Dathina responded with a loud slap that
had dozens of eyes turning to stare in their direction.
“You
are nothing but a foolish boy, Eriston, a boy trying to play a man.”
She shook off his suddenly slack hold. “Do not touch me again.”
With
that, she stormed off into the crowd, many of whom were twittering in
shocked amusement. Eriston flushed brightly in anger and
embarrassment, his cheek burning from the slap. Trying to ignore the
stares and snickers, he spun on his heel and strode out into the
empty patio. He drained the last of his wine before tossing the
goblet away. It fell soundlessly on the thick grass of the garden.
Eriston’s
jaw clenched and his hands tightened into fists as a fierce fury
surged through him. Behind him, in the hall, he imagined he could
still hear Dathina’s mocking laughter, see the snide smiles of the
other guests. He had to restrain himself from turning around and
lashing out at them. Instead, he focused all of his ire on Dathina
and her father.
How
dare they refuse him? Who did they think they were? For
months, he had been wooing her, an untold number of flower bouquets
and small gifts along with his many letters. Her silence had been
galling enough, but now this very public refusal. It was too much.
Dathina would regret humiliating him like this. Eriston’s face
reddened anew as he recalled the scorn in her eyes.
There
were few merchant families who stood above his own in either wealth
or influence. Certainly not any of those smug eavesdroppers behind
him and not the Vandens. Someone of their
station did not say no to someone of his.
He would make Dathina and her father pay for their insolence. His own
father should have crushed Amund Vanden long ago. I
will do what my father has been unable—or unwilling—to do for so
long. I will see you both
on
your knees. You will beg for my mercy.
Thick
clouds filled the night sky, blotting out the moon and stars and
shrouding the harbor in heavy darkness. The wind was blowing gently
from the west, down from the cold mountains and out to sea, carrying
with it a faint mist of rain. Hohvenlor’s harbor was vast, capable
of holding over five hundred ships, and at this time of year, it was
near full. Tonight, it was a maze of black shadows bobbing lightly at
anchor, planks groaning and halyards creaking.
At
the southern end of the harbor, lay a large, four-masted vessel. She
had eased out of the dry dock only days before and was still awaiting
her maiden voyage. On board the grand ship was a skeleton crew of a
dozen men to guard her decks. They were bored and restless, and the
inclement weather had them huddling in their cloaks. As they stood
listlessly at their posts, their tired eyes were all turned toward
land. None of them saw the three longboats approaching from the
seaward side of the ship.
On
muffled oars they glided slowly, stealthily, across the ebony surface
of the water. There were thirty men aboard, clad in black, with faces
and hands begrimed with soot. As they drew nearer, the longboats
changed course to come at the ship bow on, where two massive anchor
chains disappeared into the water. The first longboat bumped
soundlessly up against one of the chains and four of the men swiftly
climbed up the slick iron links to the hull of the ship. Pulling
themselves up to the railing of the main deck, they paused, peering
about to ensure that they were unobserved, and then over the railing
they went.
The
two guards asleep under the quarterdeck were roughly bound and gagged
before they even knew what was happening. A long moment passed as the
four raiders scanned the main deck, noting the positions of the other
guards. Then they secured three rope ladders to the deck railing and
tossed them down to the waiting longboats. Immediately, the remaining
men began ascending the ladders to join their comrades. Drawing
iron-studded cudgels, they crept across the deck, the whispers of
their bare feet on the wooden planking swallowed by the night.
Amidships,
another pair of guards fell with barely a sound. They were quickly
trussed and left where they were. As the raiders approached the poop
deck, they could see faint pinpricks of orange, and the night breeze
brought with it the scent of tobacco smoke. Beneath the raised
platform of the helm were the officer’s quarters. There were three
doors but only one with a sliver of dull light around its edges.
The
leader of the raiding party, a broad-shouldered man with a short chin
beard, gestured his men forward in a rush. He and two other men
wrenched open the cabin doors while the rest swarmed up the steps to
the helm. In the captain’s cabin, the bearded leader surprised a
man in rough-spun nightclothes in the midst of a cheap bottle of
wine. His cudgel cracked against the man’s skull, knocking him
senseless to the floor. Above, on the poop deck, shadows clashed with
shadows as the last of the ship’s guards were subdued with muted
thumps and grunts.
The
bound guards were all dragged to the bow and lowered into one of the
longboats which was promptly cut adrift. The other two longboats were
hauled up and lashed to the deck railings. The leader began calling
out orders, softly but firmly, to his men, all experienced sailors.
With practiced speed they carried out their tasks, preparing the
captured ship for sail. The anchors were winched up, the rudder was
unlocked, the enormous sails unfurled and set. Soon, the first gusts
of wind were tugging at the great sheets of canvas. At the helm, the
leader slowly brought the ship about, and within moments, they were
moving steadily toward the open waters of the sea.
As
they passed the squat form of the keep guarding the harbor entrance,
lanterns and torches could be seen flickering along the walls.
Predawn departures were not uncommon, so the watchmen in the keep
were more curious than concerned. A few shouted challenges issued
from the walls, but they were unintelligible and the ship passed by
unheeding. As they left the calm waters of the bay behind them, the
bearded leader allowed himself a small sigh of relief. The difficult
part of their mission was complete. All that was left was a very
short voyage, the first and last voyage that this ship would ever
make.
The
harbormaster noticed the ship’s absence at first light. A message
was duly sent to one of the larger warehouses crowding the wharves. A
more urgent message was then dispatched from the warehouse to a fine
manor high up on the city slopes. Amund Vanden, the old merchant who
dwelt there, was roused from his slumber. While much of the city
still slept, he and several of his guardsmen saddled their horses and
clattered through the quiet streets. Down to the docks they rode,
where they boarded two small, swift caravels. One headed north, the
other, with the merchant aboard, sailed south, both ships hugging the
rugged coastline. It did not take long to find the stolen vessel. The
cloud of smoke was visible for miles.
The
caravel dropped anchor offshore and Amund was rowed to the beach. He
stepped out of the rowboat and into the surf that slapped coldly at
his ankles. Before him, languishing in the shallows of this lonely
stretch of coast, were the smoldering remains of his ship. The main
deck had burned almost completely away, exposing charred ribs and
splintered masts that reached forlornly toward the sky. She was to
have been the new flagship of his trading fleet; now she was naught
but a blackened ruin. He had named her the Tavania,
after his late wife, making this loss both financial and personal.
Something that Tarent Dennoch would be all too aware of.
There
was little doubt in Amund’s mind that his longtime rival, or more
likely, his son, Eriston, was responsible. To go to all the trouble,
all the risk, of stealing the ship only to destroy it was not the
work of pirates or anyone else. This was the Dennoch family sending a
message.
This
was an act vastly more brazen, and vastly more costly, than anything
either of the two merchants had engaged in before. If he was to
believe the stories and rumors, both from his daughter and many
others, then Eriston was a cruel, amoral man. Tarent would never have
stooped to something like this on his own. Clearly Tarent’s son was
wielding an unhealthy influence over him.
Was
this simply a response to Dathina’s, and his own, refusal of
Eriston’s marriage proposal?
The young man was addled if he thought Amund was going to let his
daughter marry the son of Tarent Dennoch. Or
was this something else?
Up until now, Eriston had done little to involve himself in his
father’s business or in the rivalry he shared with Amund. Perhaps
this was his first step. If so, it was a very serious one.
Amund
ran his hands through his thinning hair, sighing in angry
frustration. He was getting too old for this sort of thing; he lacked
the stomach for it. The merchants’ guild and the city watch would
have to be notified. He would let them conduct their own
investigations. Neither of them would take this blatant piracy
lightly. As much as he may want to punish this act of destruction
personally, he could not afford an escalation. Who knew what else
Eriston was capable of? Who knew how far he was willing to go? I
will let the city authorities deal with this reckless act of
thievery, while I will do what I can, what I must, to protect my
business, my family, just in case. Reboarding
the rowboat, Amund ordered the oarsmen back to the caravel with a
troubled heart.
The
squall that had been battering the Blue
Mistress all
morning was at last beginning to abate. For hours, the captain and
crew had been doused with cold rain and colder sea spray as the
wide-bodied merchant vessel had pitched and rolled in the rough ocean
swells. They were eight days out of Skoden, their holds laden with
tanned elk hides and thick wolf pelts, casks of salted cod, bales of
raw wool and a host of lesser trade goods.
His
experienced eyes taking in the skies around them, the gruff captain
barked out orders to his first mate. Though soaked to the bone, the
crew carried out these orders with more spirit and efficiency than
usual. They knew that with fair winds they would soon reach their
home port.
Standing
on the poop deck behind the captain and the helmsman was a man set
clearly apart from the rest of the crew by both his inactivity and
his appearance. He stood with his feet widely spaced to brace himself
on the unsteady deck, his strong hands firmly grasping the railing. A
long oilskin cloak that almost succeeded in keeping him dry shrouded
a tall frame that was lean but muscular. His hair, which the rain had
plastered to his skull, was shoulder length and so pale as to appear
almost white. His skin, which had once been fair, was now bronzed
from years of living in climes warmer and sunnier than his own. An
intricate pattern of dark-blue tattoos, runes, and ancient script,
danced along his hairline from forehead to ear. Another small strip
decorated his chin, and the backs of his hands were covered with
mystic symbols. Eyes that were the color of the storm clouds above
stared not at where the ship was going but rather where it had been.
For while the sailors’ home lay ahead, Tijodrin’s home, which he
had not seen in almost five years, lay behind them. Five long years
as an outsider, an outcast, an exile.
The
journey from Skoden to Hohvenlor was a long one due to the necessity
of skirting the Shattered Isles. The savage storms that frequently
ravaged the Isles, and the treacherous whirlpools scattered among
them, made ordinary sea travel all but impossible, forcing ships to
give them a wide berth. This journey marked the closest Tijodrin had
come to his homeland in those five years, but even from the height of
the crow’s nest, he had seen nothing but the thick mists that clung
to the very edges of the Isles.
How
he longed to see the high, windswept mountains with their perpetual
mantles of snow, the roaring waterfalls that tumbled down from the
lofty peaks. He wanted to hunt in the thick dark forests, stalking
bear, boar, and stag. He wanted to walk the quiet stately halls and
sheltered grounds of his family’s estate. He wanted once again to
feel the exhilaration of piloting his skyship between the many cities
of his people. That wish, though, could not be; not now, not ever. He
had seen much of the wider world, but all he really wanted to see
were his own lands.
Above
him, the skies were beginning to clear and the rain was fading. A
ragged shanty broke out among the sailors, and the captain ordered
the sails let out to their fullest. With a strong and steady wind at
her back, the merchant ship leaped forward and began carving through
the sea with vigor. With a deep sense of melancholy, Tijodrin watched
as the ship’s wake carried him further and further away from his
home.
Chapter
2
By
early afternoon, two days later, the Blue
Mistress was
comfortably settled in her assigned berth in the great harbor of
Hohvenlor. Sunlight shimmered brightly off the placid waters of the
bay, while overhead, gulls and terns wheeled about, their shrill
cries piercing the air. Surrounding the Blue
Mistress
was a swarm of local vessels, while larger ships bearing the flags of
a dozen different nations were dotted about the bay: everything from
coracles, fishing skiffs, and small galleys to sleek warships,
lateen-sailed caravels, and huge, triple-decked galleons. Trade was
the lifeblood of the city, and goods from all corners of the known
world flowed into its markets.
The
crew had already begun to haul up the cargo as a pair of harbor
officials stepped aboard. They greeted the captain with perfunctory
nods, accepting the ship’s manifest from him, and then began to
inspect both it and the cargo. Tijodrin picked up the two packs
containing his meager belongings, called out a brief farewell to the
captain and first mate, then strode down the gangplank.
As
he moved briskly along the weathered dock, Tijodrin stared through
the forest of ship’s masts to the city beyond. Hohvenlor was the
capital of the kingdom of Athlorn and one of the largest cities in
the world. The city lay sprawled across a long, narrow hill that rose
from the banks of the River Averell. The massive, crenelated outer
walls were built of smooth, pale stone, stood more than sixty feet
high, and were wide enough for five horsemen to ride abreast along
their length. The walls were supported by thick buttresses, and at
regular intervals, they were studded with enormous square towers.
Halfway
up the sides of the hill, the city was girded by a second wall almost
as formidable as the first. Sturdy buildings of stone and timber
covered the hillside, crisscrossed by a network of cobbled streets,
alleys, and steps. There were only a few buildings over three stories
tall, and hardly any over four, but here and there the spires of some
grand temple or monument, or the tower of some ambitious lord, rose
above the rooftops. Also filling the city’s skyline were the many
trees that dotted Hohvenlor’s streets, its public gardens, and the
private gardens of its wealthier residents. At the summit of the
hill, the majestic fortress of the Athlornian kings kept a stern
watch over the city. Fierce battlements topped its soaring walls,
while its eight mighty towers seemed to pierce the very sky.
To
the south, a rocky headland separated the bay from the Averell. At
the tip of the headland perched Seaguard Keep, its towers bristling
with catapults and bolt throwers. North and west of the city, the
land climbed in a series of steep ridges covered by rich farmland and
thick forests. Surmounting the ridges and looming over all else was
the row of sheer stone peaks known as the Pillars.
Between
the walls and the waters of the harbor was a dense thicket of
buildings, most of which catered to the great industry of trade.
There were the large warehouses and offices of the merchant lords as
well as the small shacks and drying sheds belonging to the local
fishermen. Lining the quays were cheap inns and flop houses, ale
shops, and brothels, everything that was required to satisfy the
needs of the hordes of sailors and poorer travelers that passed
through Hohvenlor.
As
he reached the end of the dock, Tijodrin’s gaze was drawn to the
offices of the Tholenian merchants’ guild, which stood aloof and
apart from the rest of the structures crowding the harbor. The wide
docking platform next to the guild office was empty, for which
Tijodrin was thankful. By their own laws, Tholenian merchants were
not allowed to enter inside the city walls, but there was always the
chance of encountering one of his countrymen in the quayside area. In
all the times he had come to Hohvenlor, it had not happened, and he
dreaded the moment were it to occur. He did not wish to see the pain
and humiliation of his exile mirrored in a stranger’s eyes.
Stepping
down from the salt-stained planks of the quay, Tijodrin gladly put
his booted feet back on solid ground. Before him, the square stone
slab of Harborwatch Tower jutted out into the edge of the bay,
connected to the city walls by a high parapet. In its shadow lay the
fish market, which at this time of day was deserted, but for a few
touts ambling about and a handful of laborers lounging in the shade
waiting to be hired for some menial task.
Reaching
the Harbor Gate, Tijodrin joined the steady stream of people all
waiting to enter the city. At the wide mouth of the gateway stood a
squad of green-cloaked city watchmen in heavy ring mail and bearing
long halberds. They gave Tijodrin hard looks but waved him through
just the same.
He
moved slowly through the huge corridor of stone, re-emerging into the
golden sunlight and onto Crown Road. The broad, flagstoned avenue led
from the Harbor Gate and marched through the heart of the city,
leading up to the fortress itself. Along the way, it was fronted by
the best shops and inns, the offices of the powerful money lenders
and counting houses, and many fine apartments and larger dwellings.
Most of the building walls that faced the street were brightly
painted or tiled over, and colorful signboards and tradesmen’s
symbols hung from above their doorways.
The
street was congested with two-wheeled carts, four-wheeled wagons, and
porters all piled high with goods. The din of horseshoes and
cartwheels on stone rang harshly in Tijodrin’s ears after so many
quiet days at sea. Peddlers walked the street loaded with merchandise
that they pitched noisily to shopkeepers, residents, and passersby.
Some of the side streets were even more cluttered, with vendors and
makeshift stalls, scribes and tinkers squatting on doorsteps,
liveried servants and messengers hurrying to and fro on various
errands. Though Tijodrin well knew there were darker, meaner streets
about Hohvenlor, this display of wealth and prosperity was the city’s
public face and the only one most visitors ever saw.
Before
long, he reached the clamor of the main market square, a wide space
bordered on three sides by numerous grand buildings, including both
the merchants’ and artisans’ guilds as well as the imposing
temple of Eitan, the patron deity of Athlorn. The fourth side of the
market was open to Crown Road, and the motley collection of stalls,
tents, and tables that filled the square were in danger of spilling
out into the avenue. The noise of the street was quickly drowned out
by the shouted claims of the many vendors and of voices raised in
hard bargaining.
Tijodrin
kept to the edge of the teeming market, ignoring the hawkers and
watching instead for the pickpockets and cutpurses who would be
roaming the crowd in numbers. More than once, he slapped away hands
tugging at his sleeve, not caring if it was an attempt at distraction
by some light-fingered street urchin or simply an overeager vendor.
Continuing on, Tijodrin quickly turned onto the Street of Arches and
gladly left the chaos of the market behind him.
Halfway
down this quiet, well-maintained street, he came to the Silver
Dolphin, a modest, three-storied inn surrounded by a low wall. The
wide entry through the wall bore a beautiful arch of black iron
fashioned in the shape of a leaping dolphin. Tijodrin entered the
grass- and cobble-covered yard, which was partially shaded by an old
hickory tree. To the right stood a small carriage house and stables
and a narrow passageway that led to the garden at the rear of the
inn. The front door of the inn was propped open, and he strode over
the threshold and into the common room.
Four
rows of trestle tables and benches occupied the center of the room,
while a dozen small tables were arrayed along the walls. One wall was
dominated by a massive fireplace of rough fieldstone, the other by a
long, polished oak bar. Large windows on two sides of the room kept
it well-lit and well ventilated.
“Welcome
back, my friend!” the booming voice of Rodwin, the owner of the
Silver Dolphin called out. He came out from behind the bar, setting
down the tankard he had been cleaning and drying his hands on his
apron.
Rodwin
was just shy of forty, a stout, jolly man with thick, black hair and
a drooping mustache. His round, fleshy face seemed always to bear a
smile, and his eyes always held a glint of good humor. Tijodrin
shifted his packs to one shoulder and extended his hand to Rodwin.
The innkeeper grabbed Tijodrin’s hand in both of his meaty paws and
pumped it heartily.
“Good
to see you again.”
“You
as well,” Tijodrin said, returning Rodwin’s smile.
The
innkeeper’s wife, Aneka, poked her head out of the kitchen to greet
him with a wave of her flour-coated hands. She was as plump and
good-natured as her husband. It was their friendly demeanor, as well
as her marvelous cooking, that kept a steady stream of customers
coming through their door.
“I
can smell the salt of the sea on you. By which ship did you arrive?”
“The
Blue Mistress.”
“Ah
yes...,” Rodwin frowned in concentration. “Captain Ralby’s
vessel, correct?”
Tijodrin
nodded in reply. The innkeeper’s knowledge of Hohvenlor’s ships
and their masters was as impressive as always. Letting go of
Tijodrin’s hand, Rodwin reached out to take one of the packs from
him. At the same moment, Adar and Alar came padding over, their paws
clicking loudly on the smooth slate floors.
The
tradition of keeping hearth hounds was so old that no one was quite
sure how it had started, but every inn and tavern in Hohvenlor had at
least one. Many, like the Silver Dolphin, had two. If nothing else,
it provided Rodwin and his fellow innkeepers with good night
watchmen. These were large herding dogs with thick fur the color of
ash. They were brother and sister and guarded the hearth at the
Silver Dolphin as their sire had done before them. Both dogs nuzzled
at Tijodrin’s hand, and he rewarded them with scratches behind
their ears. They were usually indifferent to everyone other than
Rodwin and Aneka but had taken to Tijodrin upon his initial visit,
and even after his nearly year-long absence, they had clearly not
forgotten him.
“You
came from Skoden?” Rodwin asked, leading his guest across the
common room toward the staircase.
“Aye.”
“How
was the journey?”
“Stormy,
but otherwise uneventful.”
“It
has been a rough season so far. Many a ship has arrived in our harbor
fairly limping.” Rodwin huffed his way up the first flight of
stairs, his breath getting heavier with each step. “These damn
stairs are growing steeper by the day, I swear it.”
“What
happened to your nephew?”
Rodwin
and his wife had no children of their own but employed a number of
relatives from both sides of their family.
“Wastrel,”
the innkeeper gasped, shaking his head. “Just like his father.”
He
let out a long wheeze when they reached the top of the stairs,
fumbling in his pocket for a key. Finding it, he opened the first
door on his right and breathlessly waved Tijodrin inside.
It
was the same room he had stayed in on his previous visits, small and
sparse, but more importantly to him, clean and quiet. There was a
very comfortable bed and a simple round table with a stool beside it.
The double window was thrown open and overlooked the garden below.
Rodwin placed the pack he was carrying on the floor near the foot of
the bed. Tijodrin placed the second pack beside it.
“Any
idea how long you will be staying with us this time?” Rodwin asked,
mopping at his sweaty brow.
“No.
I have one minor errand to attend to today. After that, I will be
seeking further employment.”
“Hmm,
I will see what I can do for you in that regard.”
“Thank
you.”
“Anything
else you need at the moment?”
“Only
a bath,” Tijodrin smiled ruefully.
“I
will have one drawn for you down the hall at once. Will you be
joining us at dinner?”
“Of
that you can be certain.”
“Good,
good. Until later, then.”
Smiling
broadly, the innkeeper backed out of the room, pulling the door shut
behind him. Tijodrin could hear him whistling merrily, but
tunelessly, as he tramped back down the stairs.
Unpacking
his spare clothes, Tijodrin vigorously shook them out before hanging
them on several pegs by the door. Then he took out his mail shirt and
sleeve shield, unwrapping them from their cotton coverings and laying
them on the table. A brief inspection assured him that they had
remained untarnished by the salty air, but he doubted that his sword
had been quite so lucky. Removing a small stoppered bottle of oil and
a square of rough silk from one of his packs, he carried them over to
the stool. Sitting down, he slid his sword out of its scabbard and
laid it across his knees. Dribbling a few drops of oil onto the silk,
Tijodrin slowly began to clean the blade, wiping it from crossguard
to tip.
It
was a traditional Tholenian broadsword, four fingers wide, with a
long haft so that it could be used effectively with either one hand
or two. The sword was beautiful in its simplicity. No gems studded
its pommel, no gilding or gold filigree gleamed upon it. It was a
sword made for the hand of a warrior not the hip of some dandy. The
weapon had been in his family for generations, bequeathed to him by
his father the day he became a skyrider. The sword and his sleeve
shield, given to him by his skyriding clan on that same day, were the
only things he had left of his old life. That and the memories.
It
was first his grandfather, then his father, who had taught him how to
use the sword. Even before it became apparent that he possessed the
talent required of a skyrider and would need proper weapons training,
Tijodrin’s father felt strongly about developing his son’s skill
at arms. A renowned master had been brought to the estate to tutor
Tijodrin in all manner of weaponry, but his father remained
responsible for some of his schooling with the sword. He was a great
teacher, but a hard one. Tijodrin suffered far more scoldings, and
far more bruises, from him than he had from the weapons master. His
father had not wished for his son to be the soft, idle sort of noble
that so many of his friends and peers would grow to become.
Though
in his youth Tijodrin had often bridled at the strictness of his
father, in more recent years he had grown quite appreciative of the
physical and mental discipline his father had instilled in him. He
wondered what his father would make of the man he was now, the man he
had become after five years of living by his sword and his wits.
Tijodrin
sheathed his sword and put away the oil and cloth. He sniffed at the
clothes he was wearing. After more than a week on the Blue
Mistress, it wasn’t
just the sea he could smell. It was time for that bath.
Half
an hour later, freshly scrubbed, Tijodrin padded back to his room,
where he changed into a clean tunic and trousers. Over this, he
pulled on his mail shirt and sleeve shield. His sword went into a
baldric that ran across his shoulder, while his long knife was tucked
into a belt sheath. From one pack, he removed a battered leather
wallet bulging with letters, which he secured between his mail shirt
and tunic. Sliding on his sturdy boots, Tijodrin made his way
downstairs and out of the inn, promising Rodwin he would return in
time for dinner.
In
the fading light of the afternoon, Tijodrin strode further down the
Street of Arches before turning east down a winding side lane and a
series of short steps. Soon, the fine shops and dwellings were
replaced with shabby tenements, squalid workhouses and storefronts
with no name or sign to indicate what sort of shadowy business went
on inside. The streets narrowed so much that two people could scarce
fit between the buildings. Overhead, upper floors shouldered outward
until they almost touched, blocking out most of what little daylight
remained. Refuse of every description was littered about, and weeds
sprouted up amid paving stones that were uneven, cracked, or missing
altogether.
This
was the Warrens, the most disreputable area in Hohvenlor. A haven for
thieves, cutthroats, and a host of other criminals. Hooded eyes
watched him from doorways and windows—footpads sizing up a
potential victim and whores sizing up a potential customer. Tijodrin
returned their stares with bold ferocity. The footpads retreated into
the shadows to await easier prey, while the whores responded with
lewd suggestions and flashes of pale flesh.
Eventually,
he came to a small open space that could only very generously be
called a square. It was an area of dirt and patchy brown grass with
bits of rotting wood, broken masonry, and other debris strewn about.
The middle of the square was currently occupied by the prone figures
of two men, whether dead or merely passed out Tijodrin could not
tell. Four buildings surrounded the area, and a more ramshackle
collection of structures could hardly be imagined. A tenement that
looked abandoned and in danger of falling in on itself, a dank bawdy
house with rusty iron bars over its lone window, and two taverns as
decrepit as any he had ever seen. It was to the tavern on the left
that Tijodrin turned his attention.
The
Withered Man occupied the whole of a single-story building that
leaned drunkenly against the larger building behind it. Thrown
together with roughhewn timbers, it’s few windows were all heavily
shuttered and its door was a patchwork of several pieces of
mismatched wood. The rag-draped skeleton on the crooked sign out
front was desperately in need of a fresh painting. Scowling, Tijodrin
strode across the square to the tavern and pushed through the flimsy
door.
If
the outside was a wreck, the inside was even worse. Candles burned
weakly in wall lanterns and on some tabletops, while the sunlight
barely peeked through the shuttered windows. The fireplace in the
corner had partially collapsed and was now only useful as a resting
place for a mangy brown dog. The bar was nothing more than a sagging
plank of pine laid across some empty ale barrels. A short, bald man
stood behind it, staring suspiciously at Tijodrin. The air was thick
with the acrid smell of skral,
the cheap narcotic so popular here in the northern lands. Half a
dozen men sat at the battered tables scattered around the room,
puffing on large pipes of the stuff, each in varying states of
oblivion. Tijodrin wrinkled his nose in disgust as the clouds of
skral
were not quite enough to mask the odor of stale beer and unwashed
bodies. The man that he was looking for was easy to spot as he had
been unflatteringly, and thus accurately, described.
Obrik
sat at the least worn of the tables, one cluttered with half-empty
plates and several wrapped blocks of skral.
He was a corpulent
man with a double chin drooping over the collar of his tunic, a tunic
that had once been fine but was now stained with wine and sweat. He
was chewing noisily on something, and his greasy beard held the
crumbs of at least one meal. A scrawny girl wearing a thin cotton
shift was slumped against Obrik’s shoulder. Tijodrin could not help
but notice the collection of bruises that covered her arms.
Standing
on either side of the table were two huge men in loose trousers and
leather jerkins. Short stabbing swords and thick, curved daggers hung
from their belts. Seeing Tijodrin’s gaze fall upon their master,
the heavily muscled giants uncrossed their arms, their hands falling
to sword hilts. One of them lumbered around to stand in front of the
table.
Tijodrin
withdrew the leather wallet and stepped purposefully toward the
table.
“Letters
from Harnir of Skoden,” he announced over the giant’s shoulder.
The
hulking bodyguard turned his head in Obrik’s direction, and the fat
man responded with a grunt. The bodyguard shifted to one side, just
enough to allow Tijodrin to get past. Placing the bulging wallet on
the table, he pretended not to notice the bodyguard taking up
position directly behind him. Obrik glared up at him through bleary
eyes as if Tijodrin had interrupted something more important than
another unneeded meal. Belching loudly, he wiped his mouth with the
back of his hand.
“An
islander,” he muttered, easing his bulk forward and resting his
elbows on the table.
Next
to him, the girl stirred from her slumber and gave Tijodrin a
yellow-toothed smile. She could not have been more than twelve or
thirteen.
“Didn’t
think they let your kind wander out of the guildhall.” Obrik’s
sneering tone implied a strong support for that particular
restriction.
Tijodrin
said nothing, only regarded Obrik impassively. Opening the wallet and
removing the letters, Obrik jabbed his finger at the empty chair
opposite him.
“I’ll
stand,” Tijodrin said flatly. He did not wish to spend any more
time in this man’s presence than was necessary.
Obrik’s
eyes narrowed, but he shrugged and started sifting through the
letters, carefully checking the wax seals on each of them.
“You
know Harnir well?” He asked, tapping a dirty fingernail on the
parchments.
“Well
enough.”
What
Tijodrin knew was that Harnir was a minor merchant who traded in
information as much as in goods. He was also a smuggler, a fence, and
possibly, even a spy. As unsavory as he was, Harnir had a certain
amount of honor, of decency. The same could not be said of this foul
person in front of him.
“Everything
seems to be in order,” Obrik muttered again, sounding almost
disappointed. He tucked the letters back in the wallet and slipped it
inside his filthy tunic. “I am surprised Harnir would trust an
islander. I have always heard that your ilk are dishonest.”
“Perhaps
you have also heard that we do not take kindly to insults,”
Tijodrin replied, his eyes growing cold.
The
warning in those eyes went unheeded. Obrik said something in a
dialect that Tijodrin did not understand, but by the way the girl and
the two bodyguards laughed, it was clearly crude and at his expense.
Tijodrin gave the fat man a small smile, though it was anything but
friendly. It was a smile that promised malice. Slowly, and with
obvious reluctance, Obrik withdrew a small handful of silver coins
from his belt pouch and slapped them on the table. Tijodrin scooped
them up and placed them in his own pouch.
“Care
to spend any of that now?” Obrik leered, jerking his thumb at the
skinny girl.
She
rewarded Tijodrin with another wan smile and pushed a few loose
strands of tangled hair out of her eyes. Making no attempt to hide
the expression of contempt and revulsion on his face, Tijodrin
started to turn away from the table. A hand like a slab of granite
came down on his shoulder, holding him firmly in place.
“I
did not dismiss you,” Obrik growled.
“I
do not require permission from the likes of you.”
“Arrogant
cur! You would be wise not to disrespect me in my place of business!”
“Were
I you, I would not be so quick to claim this cesspit.”
As
Obrik’s face darkened in anger, Tijodrin sensed a surge of movement
from behind him. He hunched his body forward so that the fist
intended for the back of his skull found only air. Grabbing the edge
of the table with both hands, Tijodrin shoved it into Obrik’s ample
chest. Then he swept up the chair and turned to swing it at the
bodyguard behind him.
The
chair was poorly made, shattering against the man’s body and doing
nothing more than momentarily stunning him. Tijodrin was on the man
as quick as a panther. He unleashed a pair of punches to the
bodyguard’s stomach that had him doubling over. As the man’s head
came down, Tijodrin’s knee came up, cracking the bodyguard’s jaw
like an eggshell.
Pushing
the collapsing guard away from him, Tijodrin moved to face the second
guard. The giant had drawn his short sword and was advancing on
Tijodrin with loud curses. Tijodrin brushed aside the sword with his
sleeve shield, then drove the heel of his hand into the bodyguard’s
nose, crushing it in a spurt of red. A heavy clout from the sleeve
shield smashed against the bodyguard’s head, knocking him to the
floor.
Meanwhile,
Obrik had pushed the table away and was shouting for aid. From one of
the tavern’s back rooms came the hurried thumping of booted feet.
With a swift kick, Tijodrin sent the table smashing into Obrik’s
body again, then turned to face the new threat.
Three
more men burst into the room, their steel already bared. Tijodrin’s
sword hissed ominously out of its scabbard as the men charged him in
a mad rush. He knocked aside the first blade, letting the attacker’s
haste carry him past. Ducking under the swing of the second man,
Tijodrin lunged forward, his blade sliding easily between the man’s
ribs and plunging out of his back in a gout of blood. In one fluid
motion, Tijodrin pulled his sword free and spun to catch the
descending blow of the third swordsman. With a deft flick of his
wrist, he sent his opponent’s weapon clattering to the floor.
Before the man could react, Tijodrin’s sword was chopping clear
through his forearm. Screaming in pain, the man stumbled back against
the wall, spewing crimson.
The
first swordsman came after Tijodrin again, swinging his weapon
hesitantly. Dodging to the side, Tijodrin brought his sword flashing
down to slice through the back of the man’s ankle. He dropped his
sword and fell shrieking to the floor, his bloody foot flopping
uselessly. Tijodrin silenced him with a hard crack to the side of the
head with the flat of his blade.
The
two huge bodyguards were now beginning to recover their wits, and
their feet. The first wobbled upright, groaning and clutching at his
shattered jaw. Tijodrin sent him back to the floor with a brutal kick
that cracked his kneecap. A second kick cracked at least one rib. The
other giant flailed wildly at Tijodrin with his short sword, his face
a mask of blood. Tijodrin lunged swiftly at him, his sword piercing
the man’s shoulder. Another clout to the bodyguard’s head with
the sleeve shield tumbled him down onto his comrade.
Springing
over the fallen pair, Tijodrin brought his sword whistling down in a
two-handed blow that hacked Obrik’s table in half. Kicking aside
the broken halves, he placed the tip of his sword under Obrik’s
bulging chin. Rage and fear battled in the man’s eyes as his
henchmen’s blood trickled down the length of the blade to stain his
throat.
Beside
him, the girl was curled up in a ball, whimpering softly. The barman
and the other patrons were cowering out of sight, while the mongrel
in the ruined fireplace slept on. There were no further sounds of
reinforcements, only the painful moans of the wounded and the dying.
“Our
business here is concluded,” Tijodrin said in a low, menacing
voice. “I want no further trouble from you or I will return and
burn down this fetid hovel with you still inside.”
Slowly
and deliberately, Tijodrin wiped his sword across the shoulder of
Obrik’s tunic, removing the remaining blood from the blade. With
one last withering look around, he carefully backed toward the door,
not sheathing his sword until he was outside the tavern.