A Thread in the Tangle (14 page)

“Aye, it turned your hair all red.”
 
Oenghus ignored her glare.

Seeking solace, she turned towards the sack of provisions.
 
And her mood brightened considerably when she saw that Oenghus had remembered to bring strawberries.

“You know I’m not quite sure if it’s greed or pure laziness,” Marsais continued their discussion.
 
“If it was greed, then he’d be investing his wealth, instead, after he became lord mayor, he sits in his manor reaping the rewards.
 
It’s almost slothful.”

“That sounds familiar,” Oenghus chuckled heartily.
 
“Although I’d interject Archlord and tower in there.”

“Hmm, that’s an awfully big word for a barbarian.”

Oenghus ignored the remark.
 
“You should lend him Isek Beirnuckle for a month.
 
Your assistant would have this whole Isle looking like a Mearcentian trade port.”

“O by the gods, no!
 
I’d be forced to deal with every petty squabble and irksome question that came along.”

“If you don’t like it, then why are you Archlord?” Isiilde asked, offering Marsais a strawberry.

“Thank you, my dear.”

“Aye, Marsais, tell her why you’re the Archlord,” Oenghus urged, baring his teeth in an ominous grin.

“Because Isek likes to know what’s going on,” Marsais answered, but before he could continue, something caught his attention and he trailed off.
 
Despite his distraction, Carrothead and Applehead kept plodding dutifully down the road while their driver stared into the dense mist.
 
Isiilde followed his gaze, squinting at the spot that he was studying, but since there was nothing there (except a puff of fog that faintly resembled a rabbit) she couldn’t imagine what held his attention.

“Don’t bother, Sprite,” Oenghus grumbled with impatience.
 
“I doubt even the gods know what he bloody sees.”

“See what?” Marsais blinked, clearly disoriented.

“What were you looking at?” Isiilde asked.

“Was I looking at something?”

“You were looking at the mist,” she reminded him.

“Ah, well then, I guess that answers your question,” Marsais beamed and waved an elegant hand in dismissal.
 
“Where was I?”
 
Isiilde tilted her head, shrugged, and then bit into another strawberry.

“Isek and his rumor hoarding ways,” Oenghus kindly supplied as he side-stepped a dung heap.

“Ah yes, you see, Isek is a ravenous collector of information and this addiction of his drove him to cast my name as Archlord without my knowledge.
 
What’s it been—eighty, or has it been a hundred years already?”

“I stopped keeping track of years in general,” Oenghus shrugged.
 
Isiilde mulled this statement around her mouthful of berries.

“So—you didn’t want to be Archlord, but Isek did, so he’d know everything the Archlord knew?”

“Precisely!”
 
Marsais’ grey eyes twinkled with appreciation as he regarded Isiilde.

“Why didn’t he just cast his own name?”

“Because my friend has a rather nefarious reputation and prefers to lurk in the shadows.
 
As he put it to me so many years ago, a seer born before the Shattering sounds better as Archlord than a former spy.”

“And you get your own tower,” she pointed out.

“Exactly.”
 
Marsais looked pleased.

“And since Isek is a cowardly bastard, whenever something dangerous comes along he throws it on Marsais,” Oenghus interjected.

“Then I throw it on Oen,” Marsais explained.

“So everyone’s happy, Sprite.”

“Then what do you do exactly?” Isiilde asked.

“Entertain you.”
 
The nymph couldn’t help but laugh at his flippant reply.

Eight

T
HE
TOWN
OF
Drivel was poorly named by a man who was unburdened both by foresight and a merchant’s enterprising spirit.
 
The first explorer to discover the horse-shoe shaped bay was a pessimistic soul who saw only the mudflats and pathetic fishing huts speckling the sheltered coast, evidently lacking the imagination to give a proper name to what would eventually become the largest port on the Isle of Wise Ones.

While there was no comparison with the elegance of Whitemount, Kambe’s capital, Drivel certainly had its own charm.
 
Numerous docks stretched from the curving shore like thin fingers, reaching into the calm, deep waters that allowed massive merchant vessels to drop anchor.
 
Along the curving shore, wooden shanties littered the mudflats, tilting in the shadows of the solid piers and rickety planks that led to stout warehouses, stores, taverns, and cobblestoned streets, lit with blue, ever-glowing lamps.

And farther up, dotting the surrounding hillsides, were sprawling palaces owned by merchants, ship owners, and officials who clearly had more foresight than the fool who first named the safest harbor on the Isle.
 
They greedily reaped the rewards of the Wise Ones who enchanted and sold their goods for exorbitant prices.
 
While travelers poured in from the farthest reaches of Fyrsta, trading, selling, and partaking of all the sordid splendor that could be found in the bustling port.

Isiilde was treated to an unrivaled view of the city when their wagon crested the final hill leading into Drivel.
 
The city was much as she remembered it from the year before, still huddled in its haven, safe from the turbulent seas of the Fell Coast.

A gust of sharp wind swept up the hillside and buffeted their wagon as they navigated the final, snaking road.
 
Isiilde tugged her cloak firmly about her and leaned into Marsais, trying to focus on the gulls that circled over the harbor while he worked the brake and kept a tight rein on the horses.

It never failed, whenever she rode down the final stretch of steep roadway, fear seized her, sending her heart racing.
 
And as always she wished that she had decided to walk down the hill, promising herself that she would the next time.
 
Unfortunately, it was far too late to climb down now.

“You look worried, my dear,” Marsais observed, sparing a glance at the shivering nymph.

“Are you?” she squeaked.

“Aye, he’s worried what’s gonna happen when he tips over my barrels of brew.
 
Ease up on the bloody brake, before you snap it, Scarecrow,” Oenghus warned.
 
With those ominous words, the wagon lurched.
 
Isiilde grabbed onto Marsais’ sinewy arm for support, squeezing her eyes shut.

“By the Pits o’ Mourn,” Oenghus swore.
 
“It looks like every bugger on the Isle has come today.”
 
Curiosity triumphed over fear and she cracked an eye open.

A long line of travelers stretched along the road, waiting to pass the guards’ inspection and (hopefully) enter the formidable gates.
 
When Marsais eased the wagon to a stop at the back of the line, Isiilde stood, peering over heads, and through the distant gates, eager for her first glimpse of the festivities beyond.

As with most port cities, half the population consisted of travelers and drifters, so the inns were plentiful and always full.
 
But today, the festival had brought everyone into the cobbled streets.
 
There weren’t many inhabitants on the secluded isle who would miss a performance by a Xaionian troupe.

“Why are they stopping everyone?” Isiilde asked.
 
Generally, the gates were manned by two bored looking guards who waved everyone through with admirable indifference.

A number of eyes from the line drifted towards the nymph.
 
When she noticed their lingering stares, she quickly sat back down.

“With a crowd like this they’re probably confiscating weapons,” Oenghus said, reaching up to unclasp the long folds of his kilt from around his shoulder.
 
He gathered the billowing cloth and tucked the folds into his belt to conceal the war hammer hanging from its belt hook.

“I don’t think that will work, Oen,” she said, dubiously.

“No, but this will.”
 
He reached into the wagon, pulled out a heavy jug from the bed, and set it by her feet.

“Isn’t bribery illegal?”

“Who said I was offering bribes?”

“The guards might.
 
Then you’ll be thrown into the lock up
again
,” she said, stressing the last.

“Ah, it’s not so bad, Sprite,” Oenghus said, shrugging a broad shoulder.
 
“The local militia know they can’t really keep me locked up if I didn’t want to be in there.
 
We have an agreement of sorts.
 
I stay in their jail to make them look good, and in exchange, I get free room and board.”
 
He tugged his beard as he chuckled, low and rumbling.
 
“Besides, it gets rowdier than a pleasure house in there.”

“O, do the guards dress up in corsets or do you?” Isiilde quipped.
 
Marsais chortled at her goading comment.

“By the gods, girl, what’s got into you?” Oenghus frowned, returning her glare.

“I had to spend four days with Rashk when you were thrown in jail for disorderly conduct two months back—I still don’t know what you did and now I find out you enjoyed it.”

“I thought you liked Rashk.”

“I’ve never had to watch her eat before.”
 
Isiilde’s stomach lurched in memory.
 
“I thought the little piglet in her garden pen was a pet.
 
I didn’t know she was going to eat it while it was still twitching.”
 
She wrinkled her nose, wishing she hadn’t eaten earlier.

Oenghus chewed thoughtfully on his pipe, and finally offered, “Would it help if I told you they tortured me?”

“No, but it would help if I told Marsais that Isek had to borrow coin from his coffers to bail you out of prison on three different occasions.”
 
Isiilde smiled innocently at her grumbling guardian.
 
“It would also help if Marsais knew that you owed him thirty crowns for the bail and a hundred and fifty for the tavern you ruined.”

“But you wouldn’t tell him, right?”
 
Oenghus asked, his black beard twitching with equal parts irritation and amusement.

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Oen,” she replied, primly.

“Hmm, interest on a hundred and eighty crowns—that’s a fair profit for not doing much,” Marsais mused.

“You flea-bitten scoundrel,” Oenghus growled.
 
“Only a back biting bastard would charge a friend interest.”

“I wasn’t planning on it until you called me a scoundrel,” Marsais pointed out, receiving a crude gesture from the hulking Nuthaanian in reply.

“You’ll notice, Sprite, that back-biting, flea-bitten, and bastard doesn’t offend him.”

“So what
did
you do to offend the good and proper folk of Drivel this time?”

Oenghus glanced at Isiilde, scratched his beard, and replied, “I’ll tell you later.”

Isiilde started to protest, but they were nearing the checkpoint and a flash of gold caught her eye.
 
Two paladins, dressed in gleaming mail and golden tunics, stood just inside the city gates, inspecting the crowd with keen eyes.
 
She quickly pulled her cowl over her ears, hoping they hadn’t noticed her.