The Jackal of Nar (36 page)

“Start getting the horses tethered together, Patwin,” he said. “Use the cantle rings on the saddles to bind them to the carriage riggings.”

Patwin took the rope and tossed one end of it back to the carriage driver. “Do you think you can reach the riggings?” he asked.

“I can do it,” the man rumbled. While he began to secure the rope to his carriage, Richius trotted his horse into the mud. At once the hooves disappeared, and in two more paces half the gelding’s legs were mired. He gently coaxed the horse over to the side of the carriage where the girl awaited him, her knuckles white as she clung to the small door of the vehicle.

“Hold on,” said Richius. “Not much further.”

“I don’t know how to ride a horse,” she said nervously.

“All you have to do is hold on,” said Richius. “Leave the riding to me.”

After a moment he had reached her, his horse’s legs well buried in the sticky ooze. He put out his hand.

“Easy,” he said. “Just slide on.”

The woman took Richius’ hand, breathed deeply, then let go of the door. Richius grabbed her firmly around the waist and slid her onto the horse in front of him, sidesaddle.

“I have you,” he assured her. “Don’t be nervous.”

Once upon the horse the young woman’s face relaxed and she smiled broadly at Richius. He noticed at once what a perfect smile she had. He could smell her heady perfume, feel the firm ripeness of her body beneath the scarlet dress. Carefully, he adjusted his grip, making sure he neither crushed her nor let her slip from the horse.

“Thank you,” she said lightly. Like her driver, her voice had the pronounced brogue of the northern lands. “I was afraid we’d never get out.”

“It seems the roads around Karva aren’t as good as the others in Nar,” said Richius as he steered them out of the bog. “But you’re not from around here, are you?”

“Oh, my,” said the girl sheepishly. “Is my accent so plain?”

“A little,” admitted Richius. “You’re from Criisia, maybe?”

“From Gorkney,” she corrected. “We were on our way to Nar City when we fell into this hole.”

“Nar? Then we are traveling the same way, my lady. We too are heading to the Black City.”

“Are you going for the coronation?” she asked.

Richius laughed. “Oh, yes,” he said. “We will be there. The emperor has said we are to be his special guests.”

“Ooohh, how wonderful! Are you coming from very far?”

“Indeed, my lady. From almost as far away as you yourself. We’re from Aramoor.”

“Aramoor? Then it is your prince I go to see crowned king. Tell me of him, please. Do you know him?”

“I do,” said Richius. “For you see, my lady, I am he.”

The girl’s face did a remarkable trick of contortion. “
You’re
Prince Richius?”

“Soon to be King Richius, I fear. And may I ask who you are, my lady? You’re obviously of royal blood, yes?”

The girl didn’t answer. She sat transfixed, scrutinizing Richius.

“My lady?” Richius prodded. “Is there some trouble?”

“No,” she said at last. “Forgive me. I was considering something.” She looked away from him, catching her breath. “This is awkward for me. To be rescued from a mud pit by a king is, well, embarrassing.”

“It’s your driver who should be ashamed, my lady, not you. He shouldn’t have had you out on such roads. But may I at least know the name of the woman I’ve rescued? I must be able to brag properly.”

She smiled again. “I am Sabrina, daughter of the duke of Gorkney.”

“Well then, Lady Sabrina, it is an honor to meet you. I’m pleased you’ve come so far just for my king-making. But did you come all this way by yourself? Where are your guardians?”

She laughed, and Richius could feel her relax. “Gorkney has no Guardsmen, my lord. We are too small for that. Have you never been there? Aramoor is not so far from Gorkney, you know.”

“I have never been there,” said Richius. He had just about taken her all the way out of the bog. “But I have heard that it is quite beautiful.”

The girl looked away, a pensive shade drawing over her face. “Yes, very beautiful,” she said sadly. “More beautiful than any of the lands I have had to ride through to get here.” She smiled at Richius with a visible effort. “Perhaps one day you will see it for yourself.”

“I would like that,” replied Richius. They were out of the mud completely now. Patwin had already rigged the other horses to the carriage and was waiting for Richius to join them. Reluctantly Richius lowered the Lady Sabrina to the ground, in a place not too muddy for her fine shoes. She let her hand linger a moment in his before letting go.

“Thank you,” she said. “You are very kind.”

“It was my pleasure.”

He turned from her and steered his horse toward Patwin, who quickly tied the last bit of rope to the ring on his saddle’s cantle. When they were both satisfied that the knots that bound them all together were sound, Richius signaled to the carriage driver.

“Are you ready?”

“Yes,” said the man, taking hold of his reins again. “Not too fast, now.”

“We’ll take it slow,” answered Richius. He waited for each of his men to signal their readiness. Gilliam, the first man on the rope, gave him a curt nod.

“All right then,” said Richius. They each gave their horses a gentle nudge, and almost effortlessly the carriage began to move out of the mud.

“It’s coming!” said the carriage driver. “Give it a little more and she’ll be out.”

Richius gave his horse an encouraging nudge. The horse obeyed, digging its hooves deeper into the soft earth. Finally the carriage creaked and broke free, rolling out of the mud. Lady Sabrina gave a happy cheer.

“You did it!” she cried, rushing over to Richius.

“Good work,” said Richius over his shoulder. “Patwin, would you untie us, please?”

Patwin gave Richius a playful wink. Sabrina was looking up at Richius with plain adoration.

“Thank you, my lord. You have truly saved us.”

“It was a simple thing, my lady,” said Richius. “But you really must take better care. Why do you travel alone? You should have an escort.”

The girl dismissed the idea with a wave. “Until today we’ve traveled without mishap. We will be fine until we reach the Black City.”

“It isn’t safe,” said Richius, unconvinced. “We will accompany you the rest of the way.”

“No,” said the girl. “It wouldn’t be …” she stopped, correcting herself. “It won’t be necessary. Dason, my driver, looks after me well enough. He will see me safely to Nar.”

“I would feel better if there were others with you. It’s no trouble for us, really.”

She smiled. “It’s a generous offer,” she said, reaching out to take his hand. “But do not worry about me. We will meet again. Go on your way. I will be well.”

“Are you certain?” he asked. “It’s no bother at all.”

“There’s no need for it,” she assured him. “I am cared for, and we are close enough to Nar now not to be concerned.”

“Very well,” Richius conceded. “But your horses need rest badly. Will you at least see that they get it?”

She nodded. “I will make sure of it. Thank you, Richius of Aramoor. And remember my promise. We will meet again.”

Richius bowed his head. “I look forward to it.”

The girl curtsied, gave a small, secretive giggle, then turned and walked back to her carriage. She opened the carriage door and quickly disappeared into its dark recesses. The carriage driver waved at them, more in obligation than in friendship.

“Thanks for your aid,” he said brusquely before he turned his back on them. He gave the reins another snap and was soon on the move, bearing away the Lady Sabrina of Gorkney.

Progress came slowly the rest of that day, but a bright sunrise the next morning dried up the last of the floods and had them moving quickly again. The promise of Nar’s opulent hospitality drove them onward. Finally, at dusk of the second day out of Karva, they came to the hills of Locwala.

Night was wrapping its shadowy fingers around the earth, and the sun burned a hazy salmon in the western sky. The hills of Locwala were silent, but the air carried the unmistakable scent of the city. It wasn’t the pungent smell of horse farms or the brackish odor of seaports. Rather it was the smell of a mystery and a fabled place. Smoky and metallic, it hung in the evening like the odor of a blacksmith’s shop. And as he rode Richius thought about the city just beyond the hills. How enormous must it be, he wondered, that he should smell it here in the pristine stillness of a forest?

Tomorrow was the thirtieth day of winter.

He rode silently ahead of his men, leading them quickly along the narrow roadway. Something akin to a yearning blazed within him, for he knew that every hill might finally unveil the city he had traveled so long to reach. When at last he came to a tor with a strange glow behind it, he was suddenly sure that Nar was now only as far as an outstretched arm. Deliberately he slowed his horse. Patwin stopped beside him. They stared at the glow for a long, ponderous moment.

“We’re here,” Richius whispered.

Patwin sighed contentedly. “You go ahead,” he said. “You should be the first.”

Without a word Richius trotted his horse up the hill, and as he climbed the slope all the tales he had heard of Nar came alive in his memory. He would finally see which of them were true, and the thought made his hands tremble. Even his father had never been to Nar. He would be the first Vantran ever to look upon the works of Arkus. Slowly he crested the hill and Nar the Magnificent came into view, making the breath catch in his throat. A pale whisper passed his lips.

“Holy God …”

He had reached the Black City at last.

A
machine.

That’s what Nar was, Richius decided. A vast, staggering machine. He toyed distractedly with the knot of his sash as he rolled the notion over in his mind. Jibben, the house slave Biagio had assigned him, had given him the vermilion sash to wear at the ceremony. It looked striking against his pitch-colored uniform, but it was made of silk and the slippery fabric caused the knot to untie itself whenever he moved too abruptly. If there was a trick to tying a sash, he had never learned it.

He had heard that Nar was big, but never had he imagined anything quite so gigantic. Nor had the tales of Naren architecture accurately described the countless looming spires that dotted the city like stars on a winter night. The towers of Aramoor Castle were dwarves beside these giants. Hands reaching from a graveyard, that’s what Barret had called them. Not even the Iron Mountains seemed so high.

And then there were the fires. Nothing could have prepared Richius for these. They were everywhere, blooming out of Nar’s chimneys in crimson balls, noxious balloons popping high above the dark streets. From their place atop the hill Nar had looked like a huge, misshapen flame cannon, all metal and tubes, spitting steam and fire into the night sky. The air had turned acrid
even in the verdant hills, already alive with the rumbling of the city’s incinerators.

They had ridden through the city under a pall of disbelief, through filthy outskirts polluted with trash and urine, past the foundries of the war labs that belched black venom into the air, hard at work with the business of bringing Liss to its knees. And they had hardly uttered a word, for what could one say in the face of it all? This was Nar the Magnificent. It wasn’t at all what they had expected, but in its lavish garishness it impressed them nonetheless. They found folk of every ilk and color in its streets, and saw things as varied as potions and slaves for sale by overfed merchants. Here Richius and his companions were nameless, as niggling as the towers of Aramoor were to the monstrous bridges and cathedrals of Nar, and no one halted their begging or bartering long enough to notice them. Nor did they need to stop and ask directions to the palace, for it was visible to all, the city’s onyx jewel twinkling darkly at its center.

“Damn,” swore Richius, still fumbling with the sash. There seemed to be no right way to wear the thing, and he suddenly realized why his father had always conveniently “forgotten” his. But it was expected of a king of Nar to always wear his scarlet sash at state occasions, so he tried again to make the looping knot, managing only a tight, ugly cinch. He cursed just as Patwin wandered into the room, a shining scabbard of black leather and jewels in his hands. Out of the scabbard poked Jessicane’s bedraggled hilt.

“What’s the problem?” asked Patwin anxiously. He looked splendid in his uniform, one of the few items each of them had packed before leaving Aramoor.

“I can’t tie the blasted sash. It’s made of silk and the knot won’t stick.” Richius pointed his chin at the scabbard. “Is that it?”

Patwin handed the scabbard and sword over to Richius. “Yes. It’s a good bit nicer than yours, don’t you think?”

“Indeed,” said Richius, inspecting the scabbard. He had wanted to wear Jessicane at his coronation, and was glad that Biagio hadn’t protested. The count said only that he should have a scabbard that suited the occasion, and not wear the old ragged one he had been using. Upon seeing the size of Jessicane, however, the house slave Jibben had not been certain he could find a
scabbard large enough. Apparently there were limits to even Nar’s weaponry.

“It’s beautiful,” said Richius. “Where did Jibben find it? Did he say?”

Patwin’s face twitched. “I didn’t get it from Jibben.”

“Oh? Where did you get it?”

“It’s a gift from Biagio. He told me that Jibben couldn’t find a proper sheath, and that you absolutely had to have a better scabbard if you were going to wear your sword to the coronation. I suppose he purchased it for you himself; he didn’t say.”

“A gift?” exclaimed Richius, examining the scabbard more closely now. It was an extraordinary piece, finely fabricated from oiled leather and studded with gems along its spine. Jessicane looked all the older in it. “Where would he find such a thing? It must have cost a fortune.”

“No doubt Biagio has the fortune to spare. He probably bought it from one of those smiths we passed on the way here.”

“Oh, no, Patwin. Something like this takes time to make. It’s probably one of his own.”