Progeny (The Children of the White Lions) (42 page)

In a clear, high voice, Nundle called out, “Can you give us a moment, good sir? I would like to confer with my associate.”

“Associate?” repeated the bandit, clearly amused. “How fancy.” With a mocking wave of his hand, he said, “Please, by all means, little one, confer.”

Leaning over, Nundle tapped Pelter on the shoulder. The trader bent down, a concerned look on his face, surely wondering what Nundle could possibly want to talk about now.

Lowering his voice so only Pelter could hear, Nundle asked, “How far away is Lakeborough?”

“We’d make it by dark if we were still moving. If we walk, midnight. But trust me, Nundle, their offer is not serious. They’re here to rob us.”

Pelter had misunderstood why Nundle was asking the question, but that was fine.

Staring up at the longleg, Nundle whispered, “Whatever happens, just go along.” Sitting tall, he eyed the longleg waiting in the road. The brigand grinned wide.

“So, after conferring, little one, do you agree to our proposal?”

“Actually, I have a counter offer,” replied Nundle.

The longleg’s eyes narrowed as his amusement melted away.

“Are you jesting, little one?”

Nundle began to reach out for the golden Strands of Will, hurriedly plucking and weaving them into his favorite pattern. He quickly crafted eight small Weaves, one after another, directed them at the longlegs from the forest, and waited for the golden patterns to melt into the bandits.

Smiling, Nundle said, “This is
my
proposal: you help my friends here go over to that oak tree and drag it off to the side of the road. Then, as it is such a hot day, I suggest you head to the river for a swim and cool off.” He glanced at a few of the grime-encrusted longlegs. “It seems you all could use a bath, anyway. Then, after a nice swim, rent a raft and head down river for a few days. Do some fishing, perhaps?”

Pelter leaned over, hissing, “Are you mad?”

Nundle lifted a finger.

“Hold a moment…”

Almost immediately, most of the longlegs around the wagon began to talk quietly amongst themselves that perhaps the “runt was right.” Nundle frowned. His Weave could push them to do what he wanted, but it could not make them mind their manners.

The leader, however, and did not seem as agreeable. He stared at Nundle, a deep frown on his face.

“I think it is a fair offer, don’t you?” prompted Nundle.

The longleg’s eyes narrowed.

“I don’t know…”

The bandit was wavering. Strong-willed people needed a bit more encouragement than others did.

Nundle reluctantly pulled together a few more Strands of Will, crafted a larger Weave, and directed it at the leader. Glaring at the longleg, he said, “Move the tree, go to the river, and then go fishing.”

Pelter leaned over, whispering, “Keep up that nonsense, and they’ll beat us senseless!”

Nundle did not respond. Rather, he kept his eyes on the longleg in the road and waited. A few moments later, the bandit leader spoke.

“I think you’re right, runt.”

Pelter turned to gape at the brigand.

Nodding, the bandit said, “As soon as we help you with this tree, I
do
think we’ll go swimming. Then perhaps a little trip downriver.” The other seven longlegs all murmured their agreement.

Pelter and the three rivermen sat absolutely still in the wagon, shocked, looking at the bandits as if they were pigs standing on hind legs who were offering to do a little dance for them.

The leader turned and began to walk to the tree.

“Come on! I don’t have all day to waste here with this blasted oak!”

The other bandits moved with him and after a few more moments of stunned inaction, Pelter and his men hopped off the wagon and hurried to help the bandits pull, push, and drag the oak to one side of the road. Nundle sat in the cart and watched, praying he had not just done something terribly foolish.

As soon as the longlegs were done, the bandits hurried down the road, offering quick farewells of “Good memories, runt” as they passed Nundle.

Returning to the wagon, the rivermen stopped in the road before the horses. All four stared up at Nundle, a knowing look in their eyes. Nundle stayed silent, unsure of what they might say or do. Finally, Pelter spoke.

“How long will that last?”

Nundle shrugged.

“That? On them? Probably several days. It will wear off on some sooner than others. I suspect there will be a few disagreements when that happens. Let’s hope their little band falls apart.”

One of the other men asked, “Have you done anything like that to us?”

“No,” said Nundle. “Never.”

“Would we know it if you had?” asked Pelter.

With a wry grin, Nundle said, “Honestly, no, but I promise I have not. I know it is dangerous to…ah…‘suggest’ things in this country.”

The four men glanced at one another, not speaking a word yet saying quite a bit. After a few moments, Pelter looked to Nundle.

“You just saved me quite a bit of coin. Perhaps our lives, even. For that, I am grateful.”

The other men nodded slightly, grudgingly agreeing with Pelter.

“But when we near Lakeborough, Nundle, you will need to walk into the city on your own accord. We will keep your secret safe as thanks for your help, but I would feel better not rolling into town with you sitting beside me.” He looked genuinely upset about saying what he had.

Nodding, Nundle murmured, “I understand.”

The rivermen climbed aboard the wagon again. Pelter sat as far as he could from Nundle on the driver’s seat while the three men in the back sat straight, remaining awake for the remainder of the extremely quiet journey.

By evening, smoke rising into sky indicated a city of some size was near. When Pelter slowed to a halt, Nundle knew why. He climbed down, taking his increasingly ragged canvas bag with him. Pelter said his goodbye, but the three men in the back remained silent.

Nundle considered using the Strands to make sure they would not talk for a few days, but resisted the urge. These men had helped him and were kind, Nundle would not do that to them. Moreover, he was too close to a city now. There might be Constables near.

Pulling out a gold arcan, he tossed it to Pelter, saying, “Thank you for everything.”

Pelter caught the gold piece, studied Nundle for a long moment, and then tilted his head, a slight smile on his face.

“Perhaps all mages aren’t bad.”

Wearing his own small grin, Nundle said, “Some are quite nice, I assure you.”

“Think again about the Borderlands, little friend,” said Pelter. “I would prefer you don’t get eaten by a mongrel.”

Nundle’s grin faded.

Pelter snapped the reins and the horses and cart moved off. Nundle eyed the three men in the back with the lion pelts and smiled at them. All three gave a small grin in return. One man waved.

After waiting for the wagon to roll over the hill, Nundle hefted his traveling sack and started up the dirt road.

Nundle felt like an ant amongst herd of stampeding cattle.

Countless people rushed about, hurrying through the streets in one direction or another. The buildings lining the streets towered over him, every one of them with a flat roof upon which dozens upon dozens of vendors were hawking their wares. Hanging from the colorful awning-covered stalls were long poles with painted signs announcing whatever wares the peddlers sold. Sets of stairs laden with people climbed the buildings’ sides.

Nundle had apparently wandered straight into Lakeborough’s market district.

One the ground level, most shops had their doors open and proprietors standing outside, shouting for patrons to come closer. The sweet, spicy aroma of some sort of baked good caught Nundle’s attention, and he spent a short while following his nose to the source: a cream-colored bun layered with a honey, spice, and a thick slab of some kind of gooey sugar. Nundle ate two, stopping in the middle of the third as he started to feel queasy. The fat baker’s smile grew wider with each one he ordered.

He walked around the city for a while, trying to decide his next course of action. With the day nearly over, he would be foolish to travel overnight on the open road in a strange country without having a better idea of what the region was like. He needed to find a place to rest for the night.

He ducked into a shop that sold wooden platters and cups and asked the owner for an inn recommendation. The longleg gave him a short list of directions ending with “look for the blue sign with the bald, mustached man holding a cleaver over his head and yelling.” Nundle looked at the man oddly at the description, thanked him, and then headed back out into the streets as twilight arrived.

In no time at all, Nundle found himself standing before a tall, slate blue river-rock building, the few square windows glowing yellow from the light within. Reaching up on his tiptoes to lift the handle, he opened the door, stepped inside, and closed it behind him with a soft thud.

The mouth-watering aroma of something roasting washed over him, savory and good, a welcome contrast to the sweets on which he had gorged himself earlier. Round wooden tables filled the room, half of which were occupied, all but one by longlegs. A lone, dark-skinned tijul sat in the corner, draped in a green cloak. The quiet hum of conversation filled the room.

In the far wall sat a stone hearth, the fire within—along with a few dozen beeswax candles—filling the room with a warm glow. Some sort of black metal venting system ran from the hearth and through the wall, most likely to the outside. A long, simple, wooden counter ran the length of the room on the right, with two doorways leading elsewhere in the building. At the end of the bar, a flight of stairs climbed upwards.

Nundle moved to the bar and, with some difficulty, climbed atop one of the tall wooden chairs. A stout female longleg with a wide face stood behind the bar, looking out over the room with a confused expression. With a start, she noticed Nundle standing on the stool at the end of the bar by the door and rushed over.

“Pardon me, sir. I heard the door open from the back, but when I came out, I didn’t see anyone. Welcome to The Screaming Butcher. My name is Heriot. How may I be of service?”

Nundle smiled. He was so used to being looked down at—in more ways than one—by longlegs, it was going to take some getting used to being treated with kindness.

“I was hoping I could rent a room for the night.”

“Of course. The price for the room is ten copper ducats. Fifteen if you would like eveningmeal tonight and morningmeal tomorrow. Twenty if you would like to stable your horse for the night.”

Still unfamiliar with the monetary system here, Nundle reached into his traveling pouch, retrieved two silver arcans, and handed it over to Heriot.

“Will this suffice for the room, eveningmeal, and something to drink? I have no horse, so stabling isn’t necessary.”

Heriot took the coins, one side of it with the Nine Towers of the Strands etched on it and the other with an image of the sun rising—or perhaps setting—over a mountain range. The innkeeper stared at the coins for a moment, placed one between her teeth, bit it hard, and shrugged.

“Silver is silver. Welcome, sir.” Leaning forward on the bar and resting on her elbows, she said, “You know, we don’t see too many tombles in Lakeborough. What brings you to the area?”

“Well, you see—”

With a start, Heriot stood straight and said, “Pardon me, where are my manners? You paid for supper and here I go, asking questions. I am a terrible host. Would you like a plate of lamb now or shall I show you to your room first?”

The roast did smell delicious, but Nundle’s stomach was still full from the pastries.

“I’m fine for now, thank you. And as to where I’m from, I would be happy to tell you.”

The innkeeper had given him a wonderful opportunity to practice his tale explaining his presence in the duchies.

The story he told here was similar to the one he told the rivermen with some additional details learned from the Pelter and his men. When he mentioned that he intended to visit the Borderlands, Heriot’s eyes darkened.

“Oh, no…” The innkeeper shook her head. “Do
not
go there. Much too dangerous. Oligurts and mongrels roam freely now. And those blasted razorfiends, with their sharp blade quills and beady black eyes…” Heriot shuddered. “They are fearsome looking, they are.”

Nundle seriously doubted the longleg had ever seen a razorfiend.

Smiling, he said, “In my journeys, Heriot, I’ve found that the farther a story travels, the further it strays from the truth.”

“Perhaps,” conceded Heriot. “But do not take my word for it.” She pointed over his shoulder and into the room. “Those two men are from the Borderlands and claim to have seen the horde firsthand.”

Twisting around on the stool, Nundle spotted a table with two dark-skinned longlegs dressed unlike anyone else in the room. Both wore light tan, draping shirts and soiled white headbands wrapped around their foreheads. The thinner longleg on the left wore a thoughtful expression, nodding along as his companion talked, yet seeming not to be listening. The larger longleg on the right did not appear to notice his friend’s lack of interest, continuing to gesture wildly as he spoke. Both had close-cropped black hair and beards.

Nundle was not sure how he had not noticed the pair before. They stood out in the room like a blazing torch in the dead of night.

Heriot said, “They say they’re on their way to Freehaven to plead with the First Council. To hear them tell it, Duke Vanson can’t protect his own lands. Or is uninterested in doing so, if you believe the man on the right there.”

The story of the raids in the Borderlands piqued Nundle’s interest. Presented with the opportunity to learn more from longleg who were actually from there, Nundle intended to take it. Turning back to Heriot, he said, “Whatever they are drinking, bring them another. And bring me something as well. Nothing strong, though.”

Heriot nodded and moved through a doorway behind the counter. Nundle hopped off the stool and moved to the table with the two Borderlanders, receiving a few drawn-out looks as he crossed the room. Wondering if he might have some sweet bun stuck to his face, Nundle ran his hand over his face to check and found it clean. Apparently, he himself was the novelty.