Beyond the Moons (11 page)

“The best thing to do,” Teldin continued, relishing their gullible reaction, “is just never mention it. I wouldn’t want him remembering anything about it. Sometimes he gets nightmares and he’ll just tear a place up in his sleep.” The farmer gulped nervously as he glanced back at the dozing giff.

“So why you stick with him, mister?” asked the boy. Jacos shot his son a dark glance.

“He’s a friend,” Teldin replied hesitantly. “You can’t just leave a friend.”

“That’s enough of that now, boy. Let’s not be rude.” The boy looked disappointed that the topic was closed.

After that the conversation shifted to safer subjects. Teldin told of his cousins in Kalaman and the time he’d been there during the war. The boy was eager for war stories, and Teldin spun him a few yarns filled with dragons, flying citadels, and battles, to pass the time. Teldin was only telling stories he’d heard from others, but it made no difference to the boy. For him, the tales were all exciting. The lad’s enthusiasm made everything seem clear and simple again – who was good, who was evil, the heroics that were performed. It hadn’t quite turned out that way, Teldin thought.

By the time Teldin had exhausted the last of his war stories, the day was slipping into dusk. The rugged valleys were long behind them and ahead the road drew a straight line across the plain that surrounded Kalaman. The way was dotted with small villages and fields. Even after five years, most places showed some sign of the ravages of the siege and liberation of Kalaman. Houses were still abandoned, their owners long since fled or slain. Trench lines, crumbling and overgrown, still cut across fields. The woodland patches that grew in the wastelands were struggling to recover. Teldin remembered that nearly all the trees had been cut by the two armies. Ruins of earthworks and palisades thrown up by besieger and besieged stood in broken lines across the landscape.

It was not all ruined land, though. Teldin was surprised how much had been accomplished in five years. The survivors had resourcefully applied themselves to the task of rebuilding. Many of the houses were repaired with timber taken from the deserted palisades, the sharpened log

points now forming the corners of cabins. Trenches were converted to irrigation channels. Passing a cluster of shanties, Teldin saw the remains of an old wooden tower converted into a dozen small shacks.

A few leagues ahead, the familiar gray walls of Kalaman sat in a shadowy mass, small spires of the central fortress rising over the walls. Alongside was the glittering silver of the Vingaard River where it broadened into the great Vingaard Bay.

Teldin climbed into the back, where Trooper Gomja lay sprawled over a heap of orange peels. The giff had eaten a prodigious amount of fruit. Teldin had promised Jacos payment, but now he worried what the current price of oranges in Kalaman was. His purse was far from substantial. Still, given the recent events in his life, this was only a minor concern.

As the wagon neared the city gates, Teldin gently tried to rouse the sleeping giff. Grumblingly, Gomja batted away Teldin’s hand and tried to roll over, setting the whole cart creaking with his shifting weight. Not to be put off so easily, Teldin grabbed the giffs shoulder and shook hard. The alien groggily opened his eyes.

After haggling with Jacos, Teldin dug a few of his precious coins out of his small purse and paid the farmer. Fortunately, there must have been a surplus of oranges this year, because a few steel still clinked in the bottom of his purse. Climbing out the back of the cart, the pair approached the gate. Teldin caught himself worrying whether the giff would play his part correctly, then wondered briefly why he was even bothering to help the giff get through the gate. But he was.

Chapter Six

It took an hour and another of Teldin’s precious coins to convince the guards that Gomja was not a dangerous spy from the draconian lands. The farmer described the horrors Trooper Gomja had suffered and, fortunately, the giff played his part, muttering a few ominous phrases of nonsense to back up Teldin’s tale. Though not completely convinced, the guards decided the pair was harmless enough – the steel pieces saw to that. “Sign your names. You —” The sergeant of the guard pointed to Teldin — “you are responsible for this creature. If he does anything, we’ll put you both under arrest. Understand?”

Teldin suppressed a groan of dismay and nodded. Given the trooper’s penchant for creating trouble, Teldin didn’t dare abandon the giff in the city as he had planned. It appeared the giff would be coming with him for a little longer.

“They are very cautious here,” Gomja scornfully remarked as they passed through the gate. “Do they have enemies, sir?”

Teldin didn’t answer at first, concentrating on leading the giff through the crowd of hawkers that clustered around the gate, trying to ignore the stares his companion was getting. It would be nice if he could just disappear, Teldin thought, but there was no such luck. The path easily parted before them, no one very willing to come too close to the pair. “The people of Kalaman still remember the war,” Teldin explained. “The city is pretty close to the frontier. Kalaman citizens are not naturally trusting – or courageous. The guards, I suppose, make them feel safe.”

Gomja snorted contemptuously. “They’d be a lot better off to hire some muscle to go out and solve their problems, if you know what I mean, sir.” Before Teldin could answer, a vendor carrying a basket of pastries distracted the giff. The trooper’s nostrils flared as he inhaled deeply and started to follow the scent. The vendor quickened her pace, fearful of the hungry look in the strange creature’s eyes. As she disappeared into the crowd, a fruit stand caught Gomja’s attention and he veered toward that.

Teldin grabbed the giff’s sleeve. He could guess the trooper’s intentions and was determined to stop him before Gomja ate his way through every last steel in their purse. “Not now,” he snapped, steering his companion away. “We’ll go to my cousin’s. There I’m sure you’ll be fed. Probably have a nice roast or something,” Teldin pointed out as he turned them down a side street.

“Ugh – meat.” Gomja gave a slight shudder. Seeing Teldin’s puzzled look, the giff explained. “Our kind aren’t carrion eaters... I mean, not that you are, sir,” Gomja added hastily. “It’s just that fruits and vegetables are much better. These keep us strong, which is why we giff are such good soldiers.” For emphasis, Gomja slapped his chest, which boomed with a hollow thud. Teldin only nodded, filled with silent wonderment at this latest revelation of his companion.

Finding his cousin’s home took some time. It had been five years since Teldin was last in Kalaman. He had been in the tail end of the great victory parade, well after the siege of Kalaman, and there hadn’t been much time for visiting distant cousins. He had a vague idea of where the house lay, but since the war it seemed as if every street had been rebuilt or renamed. Teldin eventually gave up and accosted strangers, asking for directions. These were mostly fruitless, clipped denials punctuated by fearful glances toward the creature that stood behind Teldin. Finally, after making Gomja wait in the dark shadows of an alley, Teldin found someone who knew the way and was not ready to bolt like a rabbit at the approach of a stranger.

The directions led to a small street not far from the main square. There was a feeling of familiarity to the doors and windows on either side, but it was hard to be certain, in the darkness, that all was the same as Teldin remembered. He studied each entrance carefully, looking for a cobbler’s sign that swung over the doorway, announcing Master Trandallic’s trade.

At the fourth door, in a dark and dilapidated structure, Teldin stopped, Gomja almost walking into him. A canted iron bracket hung over the door, its chains missing the sign it once held. The door was off its hinges and propped clumsily in the entrance. The farmer gawked at the decay.

“Your cousins live here, sir?” Gomja rumbled in amazement.

“I thought so,” the farmer slowly answered as he scanned the decrepit structure. A scrap of signage on the door proclaimed the place the dwelling of a “Master Trand —” The rest of the name had long since rotted away.

“Go away, you beggars! There’s nobody there!” shrilled a voice from across the street. A shuttered window clacked open and a double-chinned woman leaned menacingly over the sill. “Trandallics left town years ago without even a word of where they were going, so just get on out of here!” Teldin stood stunned at the news. His cousins, his only hope, had vanished. Gomja took a menacing step forward only to be restrained by his companion.

“Let’s get out of here,” Teldin mumbled in dismay. He needed to find someplace quiet to rethink his plans. Grabbing the giff by the arm, the farmer dragged the alien out of the street. A flutter of cloth in a dark passage caught his eye. Stopping for an instant, Teldin darted into the alley and snatched the fabric off a line. It was a big, gray blanket, coarse in weave, but just the thing Teldin was looking for. Hurrying back onto the street, he tossed the cloth to the giff and hurried along. “Wrap yourself in that,” Teldin ordered. “I’m tired of trying to explain you.” His angry tone effectively discouraged the giff from arguing.

The pair walked for several blocks before either spoke. It was the giff who finally broke the silence. “Where to now, sir?”

Teldin paused, considering his scant options. He had been too upset to think. Everything had been staked on finding his cousins and securing their aid, but now that hope was dashed. They had left for parts unknown and he was alone – the giff barely counted – in Kalaman. The bazaar had been his next planned stop, there to get the cloak off and sell it. If nothing else, he could get a blacksmith to cut the chain. The bazaar, however, would not open until daybreak.

From the position of the moons Teldin guessed it was about two o’clock in the morning. There would be precious little open at this time. Kalaman was not a city noted for its endless entertainments. All the inns had closed their doors far earlier in the night. During the war, the waterfront always had something going, but Teldin could not imagine taking Gomja into one of those dives. He knew from wartime experience the type of folk who could be found drinking at this hour. “We wait for morning.”

“Where, sir?” the giff asked. A cool breeze blew toward the waterfront, kicking up scraps of garbage that littered the street.

“Anywhere we can find. All the inns are closed by now. Come on, let’s not stay here.” Teldin said dejectedly.

The two set out to nowhere in particular, crossing through the twisting streets, working their way to the north of the marketplace. Even though it was late, there were a few people on the street. Some might have been thieves or worse, but they drew away upon seeing the seven-foot, hulking shadow that followed Teldin around. Still, the farmer noticed that many mote were simply poor, sleeping under makeshift tents or huddled around fires. Some of the men he saw were crippled, missing one or both eyes, a leg, or an arm. Survivors of the war, he assumed. Like himself, few of these men saw any benefit from the return of the gods and their healers.

More disturbing were the others Teldin saw: whole families squeezed into little shanties, built in the shadows of grand houses of the city. Fitful coughs and whining cries came from these hovels. Refugees, Teldin guessed. The war had displaced so many people. Some of them had yet to return home. Others would never return, for their farms might still be in draconian hands. “This is war’s promise,” he sighed to himself. “We fought for these people, Gomja, and look what they got out of the great victory.” Right now, Teldin could not help feeling bitter. The giff looked at the farmer curiously, trying to understand the human’s attitude, but the sentiments were too foreign to the big alien. War was always a glorious endeavor in his eyes.

Feeling thoroughly desolate, Teldin chose what looked like a quiet, dry corner. “We’ll have to sleep here for the night,” he grimly announced as he scuffed the garbage away with his foot. The giff looked at their quarters and gave an unconcerned shrug.

“What then, sir?” the alien asked.

Teldin kept at the business of clearing away some of the rubbish. “Tomorrow, the market. I want to be there when it opens in the morning.”

“I hope we can get something to eat there,” opined the giff.

Chapter Seven

The morning was overcast and warm. A wet wind blew in over the sea wall, foreboding rain for the day. Indeed, the clouds made feeble efforts to that end, sprinkling fat drops haphazardly over the city. It was just enough to dampen the ground and transform the dusty cobblestones into slick grime. Teldin pulled his cloak tighter and wondered how it was that rain could be mud before it even reached the ground. It seemed as if every drop left a brownish smear on everything it hit.

Bad weather or no made little difference to the merchants in the great market plaza. They were already in their stalls and hard at work, hawking their wares. The narrow aisles were clogged with cooks carrying baskets, young parents pulling squalling children, and impoverished students hoping for a scrap of stale bread. Ramshackle structures of wood and cloth marked the offices of established businessmen while simple straw mats rolled out on the ground were all the farmers needed to display their wares. “Make way! Make way!” the poulterer’s servant shouted to the crowd as he pushed a handcart filled with plucked and gutted chickens to his master’s stall.

There was a government-imposed order to the whole place, run gleefully riot by the merchants’ entrepreneurial spirit. The supposedly straight rows of stalls thrust scattershot into the aisles as each vendor pushed his or her tables or mats farther and farther into the flow of traffic. The outer ring of the plaza was mostly food. Clustered around the street entrances were the fryers of hot breads, the boilers of dumplings, the sweet-sellers, and the soup-makers. The latter clinked spoons against bowls, trying to lure customers close enough to smell their wares, while the nearby sweet batters sizzled in hot oils. Old friends – the fishmonger from down the way, the leather cutter on the way to his stall, even rival cooks standing across from each other – traded jokes and gossip.