Wytchfire (Book 1) (17 page)

“A thief? Looked more like a half-starved lizard to me!”

“Probably was,” Rowen admitted. “Half starved, that is.”

Hráthbam’s expression soured. “Now I wish you’d let him take what he wanted.”

“Some merchant you are!”

Hráthbam shrugged, eyes straight ahead. “I
inherited
my fortunes, Locke. If ever you thought otherwise, now’s the time for amends. Were you to say I’m too soft hearted to be a merchant, you and my wives would have that in common.”

Surprised, Rowen said nothing.

They’d gone halfway up King’s Bend now. Rowen’s eyes strayed southward, toward the spiderweb of thin, worn paths breaking off the main road and leading back down the summit toward the grim, smoky slums. The Dark Quarter. These paths were even more rowdy than King’s Bend, filled mostly with beggars, cutpurses, and prostitutes.

One of the latter, a pale young woman clearly naked beneath a translucent gown trimmed in lace and pearls, sidled up to the wagon. She was wearing a long, extravagant wig of knee-length dark curls, and her eyes were heavily painted in ochre. A burly, expressionless man—probably her protector—followed a step behind. The prostitute caught Rowen’s eye.

“Want to see the gods, big man? I’ll have you screaming their names for fifty cranáfi!”

Rowen blushed, grateful that Hráthbam sped the wagon past her.

“Gods, she’s just a child!” Hráthbam swore.

Rowen winced. “The poor will do what they must to survive. Age doesn’t enter into it. Believe me.” Reflexively, he moved his hand to Knightswrath’s dragonbone hilt. The hilt was cool now—not like it had been in the depths of Cadavash—but it reassured him nonetheless.

Rowen scanned the wagon one last time for thieves and returned his attention to the Red Watch. They were close enough to the summit now to dissuade most would-be criminals. That only made Rowen more anxious because it meant they would have to deal with the city guards soon.

The great walls of Lyos loomed over them now, bristling with battlements, black-and-scarlet banners, and bored, pacing soldiers. Just ahead lay a broad, open gateway and a raised portcullis. The portcullis glinted in the sunlight, though here and there, rust speckled the iron. Nearby, a dozen pikemen made a token effort to control the flow of traffic in and out of Lyos. Rowen noticed without surprise that the guards turned away beggars but welcomed merchant wagons—for a price. Rowen saw coins exchange hands, copper glinting in the midday sun.

“May as well take out your coin purse,” Rowen said. “They’ll tax you to enter the city. More like a bribe, really. But pay it, or else they’ll confiscate your wagon.”

Hráthbam’s glower made it clear that he did not think much of the suggestion, but having never been to Lyos, he took Rowen’s advice.

“And say nothing of the dragonbone,” Rowen added, “or else they’ll think you’re rich and charge you twice as much!”

“It’s a good thing you made me take off my rings, then.”

Their wagon fell into line behind a column of other merchants. Most of the other merchant wagons bristled with stone-faced mercenaries. The sight of so many grizzled warriors in stout, expensive brigandines reminded Rowen of his own days as a hired sword. He’d had armor then, good weapons, and plenty of coin for food and comforts.

All of which I sold to buy my way into the Lotus Isles—for all the good that got me!

Rowen’s face burned until he imagined it matched the shade of the unruly red hair that had been the object of so much teasing from the other aspiring squires on the Isles.

After what felt like an eternity, their turn came. A scowling, middle-aged pikeman wearing an officer’s crest on his tabard walked over, gave Rowen a cursory glance, then asked Hráthbam a few quick questions about their business in the city. Hráthbam answered, saying nothing of the dragonbone. Instead, the Soroccan said he had come to Lyos to sell spices. The officer nodded absently, clearly uninterested. Then he demanded a fistful of copper cranáfi. Once Hráthbam reluctantly handed them over, the officer delivered a bored, endlessly rehearsed speech about how they would find the King’s Market and the nearest inn. Then, he waved them into Lyos.

Rowen felt a pain in his right hand. He realized he’d been clenching his sword’s hilt so hard that his fingers cramped, his knuckles white as the bones underneath. He opened his fingers.

I’m sorry, Kayden.

Then, the sounds of the city washed over him.

Chapter Thirteen

A Kind of Homecoming

T
he inside of the great city, mercifully, bore little resemblance to the dirty, disarrayed crowds and paltry street vendors set up along King’s Bend. Lyos itself was almost exactly as Rowen remembered it: beautiful, well manicured, and woefully insincere. Still, the sight of the groomed trees, exotic gardens, and running fountains was a welcome respite from the open road, to say nothing of his brief glimpse of the slums he had once called home at the base of the hill.

Here, inside the city, cobblestone paths and marble walkways framed wrought-wood shops and small, quaint homes built from bricks of white mud. Around the homes, children played in small yards near mothers spinning wool or tending gardens. Here and there, broad clay basins caught rainwater that could, in turn, be used for public washing.

In the distance sat the aerie: the high, slender tower stocked with birders and their messenger pigeons. The king used the pigeons for diplomacy, his captains to convey information in times of war. The poor could use them to communicate with faraway friends and relatives, too—for a hefty price. Rowen had received the message from Kayden that way, just as word of his death had arrived on gray wings.

Rowen shook his head, trying to scatter his thoughts. As he’d told Hráthbam, Lyos had privies and bathhouses aplenty, drawing water from the Burnished Way via a marvelous, covered aqueduct that fed a massive underground pool deep inside the hill, this in turn feeding wells and water screws throughout the city. But many of the bathhouses had fallen into disrepair over the years, and only the wealthiest citizens of Lyos could afford to regularly frequent those that remained.

Hráthbam slowed to let a small crowd pass: street washers and men with carts paid to collect and empty chamber pots—the poorest people of the inner city, only a little better off than the slumdwellers of the Dark Quarter. Mostly children and young women, half nude, they made slow, lackadaisical rounds with buckets and rags.

Not far away, a young mother bathed her small child before she casually removed her own plain sarong and bathed herself, washing the garden dirt from her hands, her dark hair held up by a comb of bone.

Rowen’s face flushed. The sight of the pretty young mother excited him far more than that of the prostitutes who moved amid the Dark Quarter like vultures. He felt ashamed, suddenly reminded of his bedraggled appearance. He resolved to trim his hair and beard and bathe as soon as Hráthbam was settled at the inn or the King’s Market—whichever the Soroccan chose first.

He was about to ask when Hráthbam said, “The way you spoke of this city, I expected to see children roasting dead rats for supper!”

“They do. Just not here. At the base of the hill, in the slums. Here, things are better. But I spent most of my time in the Dark Quarter.”

Hráthbam nodded absently, his green eyes drinking in the sights around him. He waved to a group of merchants who walked past, all of them dressed in simple cloth wraps. The men scowled back and said nothing.

“Put your jewelry back on,” Rowen suggested. “They’ll happily greet you then!”

Though Rowen was half joking, Hráthbam obeyed. Then he guided the wagon through the streets toward the King’s Market. A growing din reminded them of the chaos of King’s Bend, but upon their arrival, they saw that the market was clearly in a better state. A seemingly endless sea of merchant tables had been set up inside a huge open area at the center of the city, prompting trade of all kinds: not just wheat and turnips from nearby farmlands, but also lemons and cloves from Ivairia; capers, silk, and dried fish from Sorocco; water clocks and sundials from Atheion; even potions and powders sold by copper-skinned women from Quesh in their bell-trimmed hoods and veils. Thanks to the proximity of privies and clean water, the market smelled less of filth than spice, leather, and cooked meat. Though Rowen had already eaten some of Hráthbam’s stew only hours earlier, his stomach growled.

Judging by the number of pacing uniforms, the bulk of the Red Watch had been deployed here to oversee trade and keep order, leaving relatively few to patrol elsewhere. Hráthbam chuckled, mirroring his thoughts. “No wonder things are such a mess outside the gates!”

“Kayden always said swords go where the money is. Do you want to set up in the market now or find an inn?”

Hráthbam looked at him as though he’d gone insane. “To the market, you dunce! I have a fortune in precious ivory to sell!”

Rowen concealed his disappointment. He’d hoped that his employer would choose the latter, although he had not really expected him to do so. Rowen dismounted from the wagon and led the way. They advanced with great difficulty through the crowded square until they found an empty spot where the previous vendor had just left. They claimed it at once. Rowen unhitched the horses and led them behind the wagon, tying them in the shade of a poplar, away from the crowds but still close enough that he could watch over them.

Hráthbam, meanwhile, hurried to unload the wagon. The merchant dragged down a table and chair by himself, covered the table with a bright silk cloth sewn with the maritime iconography of his homeland, and began displaying his new assortment of dragonbone.

Rowen watched, arms crossed, Knightswrath close at hand. He doubted thieves would be bold with so many guards nearby, but he quickly felt hard pressed trying to keep an eye on Hráthbam’s wares
and
the horses tethered in the distance at the same time.

As expected, the crimson-swirled shafts of dragonbone sold—but slowly, and not for nearly as much as Hráthbam was expecting. Rowen quickly guessed why and cursed himself for not anticipating this earlier. Only a few days’ travel separated Cadavash from Lyos. Wealthier merchants must have already conceived of Hráthbam’s plan months or even years before. As rare as dragonbone might be in the world at large, the markets of Lyos had plenty of it. After a few hours, Hráthbam was forced to steadily lower his prices until Rowen feared the big man was about to cry.

Rowen ignored the temptation to console him, his own patience wearing thin. His eyes scanned the crowds, on the lookout not just for would-be thieves but for a mist-eyed young woman with platinum tresses as well.

He cursed himself.
If she really did come here, would she be wandering around the market where anybody could see her?
Still, he found himself catching his breath each time he spotted golden hair in the distance, only to be disappointed.

Rowen considered asking the Red Watch about her, but that would only get him branded as a lunatic. He might simply listen to the gossip of the city folk around him, but he had already strained his ears listening for some mention of a mist-eyed wytch found wandering the city, to no avail.

Maybe she changed her mind.
He did not know whether to feel relieved or disappointed.

By the time the sun was sinking beyond the western battlements, flashing orange through the gardens and marble walkways of Lyos, Rowen realized a hard truth: she was not there. Something must have happened. Or else she’d simply changed her mind. Or she’d lied.

He sighed. He and Hráthbam exchanged glances. The Soroccan’s disappointment clearly matched his own, albeit for different reasons. The market was clearing now. Without a word, they sullenly loaded the few remaining scraps of dragonbone and the rest of Hráthbam’s wares into the wagon, rehitched the horses, then made for the nearest inn.

Luck was not with them. The first three inns they checked had no rooms, and all three of them looked too expensive for Hráthbam’s sour mood, anyway. The merchant finally settled on a decidedly cheaper and more dismal inn with a name Rowen could not pronounce, located in a small section of the eastern city that appeared to be just slightly better off than the Dark Quarter. The inn had a stable with a guard though, and Rowen hoped that he might at least sleep on a real bed tonight. But if Hráthbam intended to buy his room or at least allow Rowen to spend a few of the ten copper cranáfi in his pocket so he could buy a room himself, he gave no indication of it.

Rowen, temper frayed, finally pressed the matter. Hráthbam glowered at him then insisted he sleep in the wagon. They had stabled the horses but been forced to leave the wagon outside. Though the stable guard assured them it would be safe, Hráthbam did not like the look of the man—an imposing but unscrupulous-seeming fellow who was missing three fingers and half an ear, common punishments for thieving.

Rowen was inclined to agree, but he kept this to himself. Ruefully, he made his way into the stables to check on the horses. When he was certain they’d been properly cared for, he returned to the wagon. Above him, Armahg’s Eye shone faintly through a veil of blue-black clouds: a bad omen among almost any people he’d known.

A chill ruled the air, and Rowen shivered. Hráthbam had at least thought to send out a serving wench with some bland fish stew and watery ale for him, but this did little to protect him from the chill. Rowen tried to pass the time by striking up a conversation with the stable boy and the guard—the only other two people nearby—but neither answered with more than a grunt. After a while, Rowen deduced that the stable boy was mute while the stable guard was another story and simply seemed to lack manners as well as digits.
Best keep my eye on that one
.

Sleep evaded him, and he had no heart to practice his sha’tala.
He tried to read the Codex Lotius, but this too gave him no comfort. He thought of Sneed again. Rowen wondered what had compelled him to leave the Codex Viticus behind; Sneed could not even read it and had rather seemed to prefer the Codex Lotius with its colorful illustrations. Rowen told himself that he’d left the ponderous tome as a reward, but now, he wished he’d kept it so he could sell it himself.

When this is done, maybe I’ll track down Dagath after all! Gods know I won’t have anything better to do.

Then he thought of Jalist. Rowen hoped he’d reached the Throng and joined them without incident if that was really what his friend wanted to do.

Maybe I should have gone with him. Ah, but then I wouldn’t have a rusty sword and memories that are probably slowly driving me crazy!

Rowen picked up Knightswrath and studied its exquisitely-carved hilt again. He wondered if he should sell it after all. He also wondered if Hráthbam would still have given it to him had the merchant known about the dragonbone hidden under the hilt’s ratty leather.

Rowen cursed himself for thinking this. The Soroccan was a far cry better than any other man Rowen had ever worked for. And if the merchant kept his word, Rowen would still have ninety more copper cranáfi in his pocket before this was all over. Silwren be damned. If he never saw her again, if he never truly understood what he’d seen in that strange well in the deepest levels of Cadavash, at least he’d have enough coin to start over somewhere.

Rowen permitted himself the fantasy of buying a good sword, some leather armor, maybe even a horse. Then he’d at least be back where he’d been before he gave up being a mercenary and went to the Lotus Isles in the first place.

But that’s not what I wanted.
He’d thought many times about going north and squiring for an Ivairian Lancer, but everyone knew the realm had been wracked by famines and unrest for decades. He doubted he’d have much luck. He could always return to the Lotus Isles with a false name and try to train at a different temple—once he had enough coin to buy his admittance again—but the laws of the Knighthood were nothing to scoff at. If he was recognized, he’d be put to death.

As he lay in the wagon, tired more from despair than physical exhaustion, he rested one hand on Knightswrath’s hilt again. This time, he thought he felt a flicker of heat in the hilt but, half asleep, he took it for a figment of his imagination.