Wytchfire (Book 1) (19 page)

Rowen stood in the King’s Market for a while, uncertain, wind rustling his tangled red hair. Then, as darkness shrouded the city, penetrated only by the occasional flicker of lamps and torches, he headed for the nearest tavern. Hunger gnawed his stomach. And for once, coins filled his pockets. He ate his fill of bread and thick, spiced stew, plus a slab of charred, peppered salmon, then drank until a thick fog settled inside his head. At last, alone in a room crowded with strangers and a lively melody played by a brightly dressed troupe of minstrels, he pondered what to do next.

Was it true that Cassica was in danger? He’d heard such rumors but had put little stock in them. Just as Syros was famous for its archers, Cassica was known for the skill of its men-at-arms. But what use were such things against magic?

He listened to the common room’s chatter, hot with whispers of battle. Some even insisted that Cassica had already fallen. A few spoke fearfully of the possibility that the Throng would march on Lyos next, but most dismissed this. With these, Rowen was inclined to agree. After all, assuming Cassica had been taken, what was the point of seizing such a great city, only to relinquish it to the Dhargots?

The Dhargots had been massing their legions for years: charioteers, phalanxes swelled by conscripts and slaves, highly trained war elephants, all poised to expand their bloody empire from the western peninsula across the Simurgh Plains. Rowen himself—along with his brother, Jalist, and a handful of others—had worked both for and against Dhargots in the past. He detested fighting alongside them. Their sanction of slavery and their penchant for disemboweling captured enemies thoroughly sickened him. But fighting against them was worse. For all their chilling cruelty, the Dhargots boasted discipline that rivaled even the Isle Knights’. And just as greatwolves always hungered for flesh, the Dhargots always hungered to expand their territories, take slaves, gain riches, and sow fear. If this General Fadarah was smart enough to conquer so many of the Free Cities of the Simurgh Plains, surely he must recognize that so overextending his lines only welcomed the Dhargots to sweep up behind him!

No,
Lyos is safe—even if Cassica is already gone. We’re too close to the Isles, too friendly with the Knights.

But Silwren’s words nagged at his mind. She had said that Lyos was in danger. Rowen did not know her, did not even know if he could trust her, but he sensed she was telling the truth.

She’ll be here—sooner or later. I just have to decide what I’ll do when she gets here!

But what would he do in the meantime? Glancing across the tavern, he saw a squad of guards from the Red Watch engaged in a drinking contest, guzzling their mugs so quickly that ale spread like bloodstains down their red tabards. An answer came to him. He ordered another ale.

Rowen had found a room at a modest inn called Dyoni’s Bane. The inn’s name reminded him that Hráthbam had used the phrase more than once. Rowen cursed himself for not asking what it meant while he had the chance. He tried asking the serving girls there, but none of them seemed able to understand what he was saying. So he went to his room and slept instead.

He woke to sunlight streaming through the eastern window, into his eyes. He resisted for a while but then roused and dressed himself, forced himself to chew some sweetbitter for his breath, splashed his face with water from the basin laid outside his door, and made his way down to the streets. He adjusted Knightswrath on his hip, wishing he’d taken the time to trim his beard or cut his hair first. But he did not want to wait any longer. He thought of the decision he’d made the night before. It seemed no more asinine now than it had then, which he took as a good sign. He asked around, and all the guards he spoke to directed him toward the gates. So Rowen made his way out to King’s Bend.

He spotted a weathered-looking sergeant, dressed in a red tabard emblazoned with a black falcon. He approached the man, saying simply that he wanted a job. The sergeant scowled at him then waved him toward the captain of the Red Watch. The captain was just exiting the privy, a tired scowl on his face.

“Captain Ferocles, another recruit!” the sergeant called.

The captain—a barrel-chested man with short-cut dark hair, a thick beard, and skin suntanned the color of leather—sized up Rowen with a quick glance. Then he said, “Hired.” The captain turned and barked orders at the nearest soldiers, as though he’d already forgotten Rowen was there.

“Cassius, get your lazy asses over to Beggar’s Drop. Epheus said another drunk fell—or jumped—off the ledge last night. This one was a merchant’s kid, so now we have to pretend to care about stopping dumb bastards from killing themselves.” He turned to a different man of the Red Watch. “Poska, since you were so kind as to show up late for duty, you get the pleasure of emptying the buckets.” He gestured to the privies. The other soldiers laughed.

Rowen shifted from foot to foot, unsure what to do. Finally, he cleared his throat. Neither the captain nor the sergeant looked up. The captain removed a flask from another soldier’s hand just as the man was about to drink, drank it himself, then passed the flask back. Then he turned to Rowen. “What in Fohl’s hells are you still doing here?”

Rowen blinked in surprise at the man’s gruff tone. “Begging your pardon, Captain... thank you, but what am I supposed to do now?”

Captain Ferocles stared at him for a moment then burst into laughter. The nearby men of the Red Watch chuckled, too, and Rowen felt his face turn the color of their tabards. “Why, try not to get your guts carved out, of course!” the captain said. “What’s your name?”

Rowen bowed in the fashion he’d learned on the Lotus Isles. “My name is Rowen Locke.”

The captain rolled his eyes. “Lovely. Another brooding washout from the Isles!” His statement drew more laughter. Rowen’s fists clenched at the insult. “It’s pretty simple, Locke. You’ll be paid ten copper cranáfi from the tax coffers on the last day of every week in which you don’t get yourself killed. Die, and we’ll pay the balance to your family instead—if you have any.”

The other soldiers snickered at this.

“In the meantime, report to Quartermaster Phews in the barracks for your uniform. He’ll also set up your shift schedule and fix you up with a bunk—rather, a board with some straw on it. Once you’re dressed, haul your pompous ass back here and get to work!”

The captain gestured to King’s Bend. “We’ll start you out here. What we do, boy, is keep order here as best we can. Simple as that. If you see a fight, break it up. If you see a pickpocket, grab him. Don’t kill anyone you don’t have to. Don’t bash anyone you don’t have to. If I find out you’ve broken either of these rules, I’ll kill you myself.” The captain yawned. “Over there, just off the bluff, is the Dark Quarter—” He stopped himself and squinted, scrutinizing Rowen again. “But you already know that, don’t you?”

Rowen nodded, surprised.

“Figured as much. You have that look.” The captain continued. “Well, in case you’ve been away, I’ll fill you in. Not a damn thing’s changed. The gangs still control the Quarter—which is just fine by us, since we’re outnumbered and underpaid. So stay out of the Quarter unless I tell you otherwise. When you’re in the city, whether you’re on duty or not, keep yourself armed. Keep your eyes open. Men sneak up from the Quarter sometimes and look for women or children to... you know.” He grimaced meaningfully. “If you catch them doing that, or trying to, do us all a favor and cut the man’s throat. So long as you have a good reason and a reliable witness, and I’m not suspicious, I won’t ask questions.” He yawned again. “Speaking of questions, do you have any? The correct answer is no.”

Caught off guard, Rowen hesitated a moment then shook his head accordingly.

The captain said, “Good. Oh, and one more thing, we practice every day with weapons and bare hands. All
of us, even me. You look like you can handle yourself, but some of those bastards in the Quarter fight every bit as good as those Knights you trained with. So stay sharp. Miss drills because you’re drunk, in bed with a whore, or any other reason that doesn’t involve you recuperating from a stab wound, and you’re through. Understood?”

Rowen nodded. Captain Ferocles waved him off, as though forgetting him again. Rowen had no idea where the barracks were, nor could he even remember the name of the quartermaster, but he knew better than to ask.

He hurried through the gates. A metallic creak made him look up at a raised portcullis followed by a column of murder-holes. The captain called after him, “I’d welcome you, boy, but wherever you were before this, you were probably better off!” Rowen guessed that must be an old joke by now, but once again, the other soldiers broke into laughter.

Rowen’s first week in Lyos made him wonder if he might have been better off leaving after all. As Captain Ferocles had said, nothing much had changed.

As much as Rowen detested the cutthroats and would-be rapists, he especially loathed dealing with all the half-starved thieves. Some looked even more destitute than the man who had tried to rob Hráthbam’s wagon outside the city gates. Technically, Rowen’s duty was to apprehend these desperate souls and turn them over to Red Watch interrogators, ignoring their pleas for release.

This thought chilled Rowen’s blood, for he had seen the results of such things as a boy. Since the thieves rarely had valuable information to share, the interrogations often degenerated into rote punishment, usually a flogging followed by a severed finger or a notched ear. On matters like this, no clear laws existed, and no one in the Red Watch seemed inclined to press for change.

Unwilling to see that kind of punishment visited upon those who most often wished only to feed themselves and their families—something he’d done himself more than once—Rowen contented himself with merely apprehending thieves and returning what was stolen. Besides that, he broke up fights when necessary and generally minded his own business.

The work wore on him, dreary and nerve-racking. Still, even when his shifts ended at sundown, he could not bring himself to leave a place where he knew his uncharacteristic temperance and quick eyes were sorely needed. So he would stay and try to help the other soldiers maintain order as best he could. He thought this might earn their favor. Instead, this earned him nothing but a bloody nose from a drunken brawler’s fist and, from his fellow soldiers, the reputation of being a showy fool.

Before long, Rowen abandoned this practice. Better instead to settle himself in the nearest tavern. So, partly out of homage to his absent friend—gone now for two weeks—he returned again and again to Dyoni’s Bane. Often, he visited the inn while still dressed in his faded scarlet uniform, the blackness of the falcon masking the ale stains on his sleeve.

One day, as Rowen downed another flagon of warm ale, he glanced down at his tabard with sardonic appreciation. He’d noticed the first time he dressed in his new uniform that if the restitching was any indication, no less than three soldiers had probably worn—and died in—this tabard before him. Likewise, the leather armor he’d been given left much to be desired: heavy but poorly balanced, thicker at some points than others, and poorly treated besides. It had reeked so badly of blood and stale sweat when he donned it that at first, he’d gone to bathe twice before he realized the stench was not his own.

Rowen missed the light but stronger armor of the Isle Knights, each piece capable of near-blinding brilliance when polished, even though he’d been allowed to wear it only a few times during training. He squinted at the insignia of a falcon on his breast until he could imagine it was a crane instead. “I shouldn’t be here,” he muttered, his slurred voice lost in the noise of the crowded tavern.

Two weeks had passed with no sign of Silwren. So far, he’d saved almost nothing since all his meager earnings went toward staying at an inn. Though he preferred being alone, he considered simply moving into the barracks—which were free—then leaving Lyos for good once he’d saved enough coin. More and more, he wanted to head west, perhaps toward Cassica.

Maybe Jalist was right. I should have joined the Throng.
He did not relish the thought of fighting for the Shel’ai, but what did it matter? Five years ago, would he ever have even considered joining the same Red Watch that had beaten and killed more than a few of his acquaintances when he was a boy?

Maybe El’rash’lin, that strange, deformed man, would appear to make sense out of this madness. Hadn’t the sorcerer saved Hráthbam from death after their battle with the greatwolf—then appeared again and magicked Rowen right out of the depths of Cadavash? One moment, he was deep inside the dragon priests’ temple. The next, he was out in the open, beyond the gorge and the mad priests within, still holding Silwren in his arms.