The Gate of Bones (23 page)

“I think Trent does more than I do, but, really, he's just a character in a movie . . . ah, play.” Jason leaned back, lacing his fingers behind his head. “I think he's interesting. He makes a point of teaching that: one—not everyone is really what we expect them to be, so you shouldn't be labeling them; but at the same time, two—if they have a certain nature, you can't be expecting them to be anything else.”

“Ah.” The dragon let out a soft, rumbling purr which might be because of what Jason had just voiced, or might be because of the velvety goodness now melting in his mouth. “Still . . .” and he paused to roll his tongue about his large mouth, savoring the bite of cake. “A play is more than just entertainment, it often has life truths buried in it. You seem to be pondering a few in this favorite of yours.”

“In a way. It proves there are good and bad people in all walks of life, and you have to look at each person separately, you know? You can't just lump 'em together and say, everyone who wears a hat is evil or something like that. Then, too, it says something about the basic soul of a person. We have a fable about that . . . it goes something like this.” Jason stopped. “Do you know what scorpions are?”

The dragon dipped his head. “I have met them in my travels. Nasssty creatures.”

“Exactly. Well, spring rains have been heavy and every place is flooding and the only safety for this group of animals is to get to high ground, but to do it, they must swim a river. Most of the animals make it, after a struggle, and the strong, agile fox helps many by taking them over on his back. Finally, all that's left is the fox and a scorpion. The scorpion has been pleading for help, but none of the other animals would take it over. The fox is his only chance and he begs the fox to swim him over. ‘Don't do it,' the fox's friends advise him from the other side of the river, but the scorpion says, ‘Don't listen to them. I promise not to sting you and I want to live!' After a few moments' hesitation, with the river rising higher and higher, the fox agrees, for it is a smart but helpful beast. So the scorpion hops on and they dive into the water. The river is raging and the fox is nearly exhausted as he swims close to the other side. Suddenly, the scorpion lashes his tail out and stings him . . . once! Twice! Thrice! And the fox feels the poison burn through him, and begins to die, sinking into the waters. ‘Why, oh why,' he cries to the scorpion. ‘Now we shall both die.' And as the river takes them, the scorpion says, ‘But it is my nature to sting and you knew that, foolish fox.' ” Jason looked up at the sky as it darkened toward night. Somewhere below, Tomaz was escorting Rich and Stefan to Naria, and everyone was preparing for nightfall.

“A wise man who wrote that play.”

“Very. It reminds me of Isabella and Jonnard.”

The dragon rumbled lowly. “Ah. Now I have some sense of the train of your thoughts.”

“Do you?”

“Your enemies bother you.”

He nodded slowly. “I guess they do. I think I'm fairly certain of their natures, though.”

“The problem then becomes . . .”

Jason unlaced his hands and sat up, looking intently at his draconian friend. “I think it's me I'm unsure of.”

“Part of the infinite process of living, for many people.” The dragon flipped his tail barb slightly. “It is a worthy pursuit to know oneself, one that many fear to understand and most never quite achieve.”

“I think I need to know the answer a lot quicker than that,” Jason said dryly.

“As long as you understand the answer is flexible. Perhaps not flexible but . . . evolving. Yes. The answer evolves as you do. Sometimes for better and sometimes for worse.”

“That makes sense.” Jason got to his feet.

“You don't seem comforted by it, though.”

“Not yet.” He smiled slowly. “I'll let you know.”

“Do that.” The dragon let his spiny face whiskers rattle as he drew his head down and nudged Jason slightly. “Again, thank you for the cake.”

“Welcome. I'm glad you enjoyed it.”

“Very much so, though it is not the sort of thing I would normally eat. I much prefer a nice charbroiled haunch of red meat, but it is good. As for the other quandary in your life, I might suggest patience. I have been called very patient by my colleagues. I can stalk prey for a very, very long time before I decide to attack.”

Jason shifted uneasily. “I'm not sure knowing that makes me feel better.”

The dragon laughed then, a real rumbling, thundering laugh, finishing in a spout of steam out his nostrils. “I am not stalking
you,
dear boy! But if I were, you wouldn't know it.” The dragon dropped one scaled eyelid in a slow wink that unnerved Jason altogether.

He fished out his crystal and cupped it. “I think it is definitely time to go,” he told the dragon and before they could exchange another word, he had Crystaled himself to the academy grounds. Jason let out a soft sigh of relief. He didn't want his friend reading any more of his thoughts that night, particularly the ones where he had almost decided he would have to break his vows of being a Guardian for Haven. It was
not
in his nature to lie.

 

Renart stretched his back and flexed his hands as he reached to light another lantern, the shadows in his office cubby growing darker and the papers he scribed on getting a bit harder to read. As the wick took and flared, and he positioned the lantern, the office glowed brighter. He took stock of his work. Only, what . . . three more journals to copy and his work in here would be finished. For the month, anyway, when caravans would bring in their goods and their own ledgers. He might, yes, he might actually be able to wheedle a small five or six days to himself, which would give him ample time to visit Avenha and take a look at its rebuilding and, with any luck at all, see Pyra again as well. Although she hadn't invited him as a suitor, neither had she thrown him out, and he hoped he sensed a certain liking on her part. Upon his return to the Trader Guild's offices and warehouse, it seemed Mantor had spoken well of him, for his load had lightened a bit and the other traders were no longer so openly disdainful. Perhaps his days of being disbarred were drawing to a close!

He flexed his fingers yet again, as he reached for a new pen. In the muted corridor beyond, the hustle and bustle of the junior clerks and the trading ambassadors had grown quiet, for it was the dinner hour, and many had gone to the inns, or the sumptuous dining room for esteemed higher traders at the other side of the guild offices. Being more eager to finish his work for the night and remain ahead of the pace, Renart had elected to skip his own dinner, and the interruptions of the others as well.

Downstairs, he could hear the chime at the guild's front door. The lobby noise often did not filter up to him, but it being so quiet now . . . Renart paused a moment to eavesdrop as a young apprentice scampered to the door and, panting faintly, pulled it open with a small squeak of its huge bronze hinges.

“Trader Fremmler here, to speak to the Trader Guild masters with an offering.”

Renart dropped his pen on the desk and grabbed it before its newly inked nib point could splatter ink everywhere on his neat ledger pages. Fremmler! That blackheart? The man had been cast out for life! What could he be doing here? Even if he hadn't known of Fremmler before, his own exploits had been thrown into his face as if he were following in the man's corrupt footsteps. According to the guild, Fremmler's trading habits had been as bad as murder. Yet he sounded as if he were proposing a trade!

Renart got to his feet slowly, well aware that the lumber joints in the massive, old building tended to creak with every movement. Yet, this was information he had to hear and if the apprentice did his job, he would lead Fremmler into the small antechamber for audiences and summon a master trader, one of the Guild Leaders, to talk to him. It would be up to the master to throw Fremmler out, or summon town guards to jail him for his audacity. Either way, Renart itched with curiosity to know what was going on.

He slipped off his boots and crept in stockinged feet to the small storage cupboard down the hall, where paper, ledgers, pens, nibs, ink, and the Spirit knew what else were stored by the shelf full, closed the door, and lay down on the floor. Here, he'd learned as a young apprentice himself, here things could often be heard through the flooring of what transpired in that antechamber. Sure enough, he heard the young-ling downstairs usher Fremmler in, offer him a drink against the dust of his travels, and ask him to have a seat while he announced Fremmler's arrival. Moments passed but not many. Renart fought to keep the dust from irritating his nose. He scrubbed at his nostrils twice against persistent tickles.

Heavy boot steps announced the arrival of not one, but two trade ministers! The moment the first spoke, Renart knew which two it had to be, the Guild leader and his assistant. One Renart thought well of, as he'd served him several years as an apprentice, but the old gent, Shmor, he thought of warily. Shmor had all the power, and it was he who'd demanded Renart's disbarment. Now Renart realized it was because his actions had left Shmor out of the exchange and powerless over the Magickers. Renart took a long, slow breath and pressed his ear closer to hear all the better as Shmor made noises of outrage at the unwanted guest.

“Fremmler! Your presence was never to darken the Guild offices again. Must I summon the guards?”

“Shmor, Gammen.” Fremmler sounded composed, even a bit amused. “I may no longer be a trader in standing with your guild, but I am here, nonetheless, representing a deal.”

“Deal? Deal? What position are you in to offer a deal? You are disbarred!” Shmor's gravelly voice rattled and vibrated through the very timber of the floor Renart lay upon listening.

Gammen coughed. It was the dry cough of his many lectures, a sound Renart smiled at in memory. “It would be wise, Fremmler, if you left now. Otherwise, there are consequences. Your tattoos are branded and your standing dismissed.”

“I am well aware of the consequences. However, I represent a party who could care less about the Trader Guild and its petty rules. I have a deal. Listen or not. There is always the smugglers' market where one can make a profit.” Shoe leather squeaked, as if Fremmler pivoted on one heel to walk away.

Another cough. “We are all well versed in your acquaintance with the thieves' market. So, considering the stake, why have you come to us first?”

Renart smiled. Leave it to Gammen to cut to the chase ahead of Shmor who might talk in circles for days as if negotiating a great treaty and trying to leave the details so vague that no one but he would quite understand all the ramifications. No, Gammen was direct.

“My Principal requested that I come here first.”

“Then you are handling the interests of another. Why would they choose an outcast to deal for them?”

“Do they not know better, you mean?” Fremmler let out a snorting laugh. “They know very well what they do.”

Shmor let out a grumbling sound and ended up saying, “I would hear this deal, then. But make it quick, for you tread on very thin ice.”

“The deal is this . . . we have goods to sell, foodstuffs, against the coming winter. Grains, cured meats, the usual gourds and fruits that can be laid down in cellars. We know that some of your towns and villages have meager stores due to misfortunes.” Fremmler sounded intensely bored.

A dust curl seemed to be inching Renart's way and he shifted to pull a fine linen handkerchief out of his pocket and lay it over his face. A sneeze now would nearly be fatal.

“It seems your Principal is well versed in our needs.”

Shmor let out another grumble, overriding whatever else Gammen might have been saying, at least to Renart's hearing. “Let us dispense with whatever pretense to pleasantries we might throw at each other. Who is your Principal?”

“Such a disclosure is not always required.”

“In this case it is.”

Gammen coughed faintly. If his old teacher said something under it, again Renart could not catch it.

“Lady Isabella of the Dark Hand,” answered Fremmler to Shmor's challenge.

“Outrage!”

Gammen coughed in earnest, as if choking on his words, and for long moments, Renart could hear nothing clear or of any worth. He got to his feet reluctantly. Whether they dealt with him or not, he knew now what Fremmler wanted. What brass the woman had, to steal from them, and then sell the goods back. Yet it would be bought. It had to be. Their people needed their harvest against the oncoming hard seasons.

Back in his tiny office, he pulled on his boots, thinking. He'd send word to the Magickers of this new ploy. There was nothing that could be done and it would likely not win Isabella any new allies other than the outlaws she'd already drawn to her side. But it might. Yes, with enough cunning, it could be twisted, and Shmor probably would not stop the rumors for it would look just as bad for the traders to be dealing with what amounted to blackmailers. No, Shmor would want as good a light as he could cast on it. He might even say that he'd found a generous benefactor who agreed to help them in their time of need. The common people would never know the difference.

Renart frowned. He'd tell Pyra, too, and Mantor, of course, and the chieftain would, no doubt, have ideas of his own.

Renart stood up quietly, easing both feet deeper into his boots. He had much to do after hours tonight, and here he'd hoped for a good rest! Sitting down, he dove into the account ledgers once more, copying with a swift but legible hand, his mind scarcely taking in the task he did.

Oil in his lantern had sputtered more than once, signaling being close to having burned out when he finally put down his pen, swept away the used nibs into a small cup where they would be repaired or given to schoolchildren for their lessons, and closed the drawer on his paper. The hubbub of returning diners had come and gone and he was nearly the only person still in the building, or at least the only one working. Master traders might still sit in the back, in the lounge, partaking of a good brandy and chatting in front of the fireplace, mulling over Fremmler's latest audacity and the signs of a harsh winter headed their way. Some might even be talking of philosophy and the Spirit, and others might be snoring quietly, their day finished.