Renegade Wizards (21 page)

After she’d gone, Thoma glanced at Hort before motioning
one of the soldiers over. The black-haired, pimply-faced young man approached cautiously. He had yet to fill out his uniform with any measure of confidence.

“Did a Vagros caravan come through here?” Thoma asked, almost whispering.

“Mmm hmm … a couple hours ago, I reckon. Queer sight, them, eh?”

“Yes,” Thoma agreed absently and tossed the boy a couple of coppers for the bother.

Hort, who’d been eyeing the exchange suspiciously, nudged his horse closer to Thoma. “What are you on about?” he asked with a whisper.

Thoma looked around to make sure Dumas was not watching them. “I didn’t lose the renegades,” he whispered back.

“What?” Hort said with a hiss. His features darkened. “You said—”

“It’s called a lie, you oaf,” Thoma said. He patted his friend on the shoulder. “I had to. This entire business with Dumas and the renegades smells peculiar.”

“Dumas doesn’t lie.”

“I know,” Thoma said. “But you must admit something is strange. Since when do we execute renegades?”

“We’ve killed,” Hort said, shrugging.

“But we don’t
execute,”
Thoma stressed. He looked over at Dumas, who seemed to be concluding her business with the officer on watch. “We’ll discuss this later. Say nothing to her for now.”

“So … the renegades. They’re with the Vagros caravan, aren’t they?” Hort asked.

“Yes,” Thoma said as Dumas walked back. She was staring at the ground, scowling. “We’ll discuss this later.”

Hort grunted, but Thoma knew his friend well enough to know the big man would stay quiet … for the time being.

Ladonna quietly closed the door to her room on the landing and tiptoed past the rooms of the others. From Par-Salian’s door came the contented rumbling of a deep sleeper. Ladonna didn’t blame him. Her body ached for the touch of comfortable sleep, for a night spent in a bed and not on a patch of hard earth. But a ball of energy filled her chest, dulling the exhaustion and exciting her. She couldn’t sleep even if she wanted to.

After the wizard recruited her and took her from the city to learn under Arianna, Ladonna had never again set foot in Palanthas until now. This was her homecoming, a moment filled with anticipation and trepidation, dread and excitement all in one terrible ball that sat in her stomach. She was desperate to walk the streets as a confident woman, no longer afraid of the shopkeepers and city militia that had chased her for much of her youth. And yet she still felt like the small child, afraid and alone except for her family of urchins and the woman who sometimes cared for her—when Ladonna would let her.

She continued past Tythonnia’s quiet door. Tythonnia wasn’t there; she knew as much. She was in the bathing chamber downstairs, the last of them to enjoy a long, hot bath. Ladonna chose that moment to leave, while her two compatriots were busy and likely not to miss her for a few hours.

Ladonna went downstairs and paused long enough to take stock of the adjoining tavern of the Wanderer’s Welcome, where the Vagros laughed loudly, drank, and enjoyed a warm meal served in their honor. She was hungry for a hot plate of whatever they were eating, but neither she nor the Vagros were comfortable around each other. She left them to their celebration and walked out the door into the courtyard and from there into the Merchandising District.

The streets and the shops filled with noise played a familiar refrain, and yet it all seemed so different. She kept
expecting to see familiar faces look back at her, perhaps even welcome her as a long-lost daughter of Palanthas. It was a foolish thought, she knew, but for all the trials she had faced here, it was still home. Perhaps it was home especially because she’d struggled so hard to carve out a place for herself. Perhaps that was why it stung a little that life continued on without her. Her return caused not so much as a stir, a ripple.

They’d probably remember me at Smiths’ Alley, she thought then chased that thought away. She wasn’t ready for that reunion yet.

Once she reached the Knight’s High Road, she walked down the slope of the street, toward the Old City Wall. Palanthas was mostly bowl shaped, the Old City at its pit and the New City rising up to the foot of the mountains. The rise and dip of hills prevented the bowl from ever being a perfect crater, but it gave Palanthas character.

From there, Ladonna’s gaze stretched out across the city, down to the green waters of the Bay of Branchala. A hundred ships of a hundred makes docked at her piers or floated languidly in her port. The city itself was tightly packed with homes and buildings. In the New City, trees dominated a modest number of blocks, while the interior of the Old City seemed like a forest. A few buildings and towers cleared the vegetation, but it was a marvel of planning that allowed the manicured forests and the clutter of structures to exist seamlessly.

The densest collection of buildings lay between the Old City Wall and the foothills that would eventually grow into the mountains. Atop the foothills lay the rich estates of mercantile and guild leaders, men and women not rich enough to live in the Old City on Nobles Hill but rich enough to dominate districts such as the Golden Estates and Purple Ridge.

The familiarity of it all invigorated Ladonna.

But it was not the Palanthas most familiar to her. Despite surviving her youth here, there were parts of the city she
never visited for fear of the city guards. No, Ladonna was more at home elsewhere. She headed toward the Old City Wall.

The poorer districts lay in the shadow of the Old City Wall, a double-battlement partition between new and venerable. The homes were more compact and closer together, creating alleys barely wide enough for one man and rooftops whose eaves almost overlapped. Along those roads, it was easy to travel by roof and never once set foot on the ground. That was why the Thieves Guild made its home there; they could travel above the city patrols and above observation.

As Ladonna approached the Old City Wall, she could see the unemployed men and women and the aimless children, sitting along the roofs, watching the traffic below them. The double minaret gate of the Old City came into view, as did the wall blackened by the soot of the chimneys at its feet. Ladonna continued forward, her eyes darting to dark alleys and building corners. Here and there, she spotted a red handkerchief tied to a post or the hanging sign of a business; or the faded mark of chalk on wood, a simple scribble that could have been mistaken for graffiti. In fact, she knew she was looking at thief marks, indicators that certain stores had paid the Thieves Guild for protection against robbery and harassment. Ladonna continued looking, taking in as much as she could. She was on a scouting foray. Tythonnia and Par-Salian stuck out like sore thumbs; they could never hope to blend in the way she could.

Shouts and squeals caught Ladonna’s attention. A pack of children were running through the crowd, half in play as they darted underfoot and half in work as they begged for steel or skillfully nicked something from one of the bins. Ladonna gasped at the children, at the reminder of her own past that seemed to return to her with the strength of a sharp slap. How much like her they were, wild and hungry, carefree yet crippled by the understanding of their own mortality. That was perhaps the lesson that most urchins learned
the quickest. Death and misery came to everyone, to them earlier than most.

Ladonna searched for someone specific to her needs. And there she found him, a young boy of perhaps six. Black hair, wild and unruly like a kender’s, and eyes like green fire. He was the age she had been when she lost her world. He ran and whooped with his friends, eager in spirit and hiding in the forest of adults and horses.

“Boy!” Ladonna said as he ran close by.

He stopped and eyed her suspiciously. “What?” he demanded, full of six-year-old defiance and unafraid of anyone.

Yes, Ladonna thought with a smile. He’ll do. She held out her hand; in it was the toy soldier that she’d purchased from the old woman at the High Clerist’s Tower as well as two copper bits. His eyes widened at the prize, but he did not approach … not yet.

“What’s that for?” he asked suspiciously.

Ladonna smiled. He was a tough little thing, already disciplined from life’s lessons.

“The soldier? Why, it’s your luck charm,” she said. She tossed him the figurine. He fumbled for it and dropped it. Quick as a mouse, he scooped it up with both hands. He eyed the coins.

“And that?” he said.

“Edoha,”
she whispered. “Know where I might find it?”

The boy’s eyes widened; she knew Thieves’ Cant, the secret tongue that allowed members of the guild to converse openly without fear of being overheard.
Edoha
was the first word anyone learned.

“Coins first,” the boy said nervously.

“No, no. Half now,” Ladonna replied, tossing him one coin. She showed him the second coin. “Where?”

The boy darted and vanished into the crowd.

Ladonna smiled. She didn’t expect to get an answer, but the
boy would mention the strange woman who knew Thieves’ Cant and had asked for sanctuary. She hoped that would be enough to start the ball rolling. As for the toy soldier …

Let’s hope it brings you the luck I never had, Ladonna thought. She continued moving through the crowd, relishing each memory and savoring the painful ones with an eager eye toward vengeance.

“But how can you be sure?” Tythonnia asked. She turned in her chair to look at Kandri, but the woman laughed and pushed her head forward again before continuing to braid her damp locks.

“I just know,” Kandri said. She was a dark-skinned woman in her forties, her face and hairline marked with a distinct scroll of tribal scars and dots. Her black eyes looked like they could drink in the world or offer it all the hope for which it could ever thirst.

The bow top wagon was small. Yassa slept in the bed at the front of the wagon, her alcove covered with lace cloth. She preferred the darkness, and whatever condition made such a young woman look so old also took its toll on her strength.

Still, Kandri was a patient and attentive partner. She took care of Yassa whenever her condition flared, and nothing seemed to diminish her white, polished smile. And for the past few days, she had been Tythonnia’s confidante.

“But how?” Tythonnia insisted.

Kandri pulled Tythonnia around in her stool and brought her face-to-face. “You,” she said. “You think your thoughts are evil?”

“I don’t know,” Tythonnia admitted.

“But you had them as a little girl?”

Tythonnia nodded.

“So you were an evil little girl?”

“No, of course not,” Tythonnia said.

Kandri smiled and urged her forward again. “A lot of people are eager to tell you who they think you are,” she said, “especially if you are a woman, but it’s none of their business. They see evil where there is none. They fear what is different from them. And then they’ll use the gods to attack you.”

Tythonnia shrugged. “I suppose.”

“When you pray to the gods, who else is there with your prayers?”

“What do you mean?” Tythonnia asked.

“When you pray. Who speaks for your prayers? Who delivers them to the gods?”

“No one, I guess,” Tythonnia said. “Just my own voice.”

“So why are you letting others decide your relationship to the gods? It’s not their concern.”

“But the priest of my village—”

“Fah!” Kandri said. “My marriage to Yassa was ordained by a priest of Mishakal. The priest of your village was blind … not his god, but him. Men are eager to ascribe their weaknesses to their gods. That way they don’t have to better themselves. They can wallow in their ignorance, turn it into arrogance, and then call it faith.”

Tythonnia was quiet a moment as Kandri pulled and weaved her hair into a tight braid. Yassa’s soft snoring filled the wagon, but it was soothing. It was the sleep of untroubled dreams.