Chasing the Prophecy (Beyonders) (25 page)

“I’ll stay close to Jason,” Jasher promised. “Aram and Drake can make their way into the city separately.”

“So no servants for me?” Drake verified. “Not even one? Maybe an older fellow? Or a kid?”

“Maybe next time,” Jasher consoled. “For the present, we need
to locate some apparel.”

“I’ll go,” Aram offered. “When I’m small, I’m the least conspicuous of us.”

“I’ll follow him,” Drake said. “The rest of you lie low and try to stay out of trouble.”

*  *  *

The following morning Jason trudged toward the western gate. He wore coarse, itchy trousers and a long shirt with laces over the chest. His dingy old boots had hard soles and were falling apart. Six copper drooma clinked in one pocket.

He followed a wagon and a group of people on foot. The wagon kicked up dust, which he did not try to avoid, since he knew that whatever clung to him would improve his disguise.

Aram had cautioned him to enter the city as part of a group. The crowd would pressure the guardsmen to hurry and be less thorough.

Jason did his best not to glance back at Jasher, who trailed him by a few hundred yards. Jasher was unarmed except for a knife. The seedman toted several pots and pans, as if he meant to sell them. His hair had been shortened to barely reach his shoulders, and he wore a flat twilled cap.

The port wall loomed ever closer. Uniformed guards patrolled the top, coming in and out of view among the battlements. The others on the road paid little heed to Jason.

At last the wagon slowed and then stopped in the shadow of the open gates. A bespectacled man in a raised booth watched the proceedings with a narrow gaze, quill in hand, parchment ready. Jason counted five soldiers on the ground.

The man in the wagon began shouting answers about his cargo to the man with the quill. A pair of guardsmen searched his wagon, looking underneath and examining the bales and barrels
in the bed.

None of the people on foot were allowed to proceed without questioning. A line formed as the quantity of people seeking admittance outnumbered the guards. Jason felt nervous as he took his place in line. He struggled to keep his expression neutral. He avoided eye contact with the guards but tried not to deliberately look away from them either.

The wagon was waved through, freeing up a couple of the guards. The line began to move faster. A husky man with a thick mustache and stubbly jowls confronted Jason. “Name?”

“Lucas, son of Travis.”

“State your business.”

“I have to find Gulleg the barber. I have a bad tooth.”

The guard grunted and squinted. “You’re not familiar. Where are you from?”

“I’m up from Laga.”

“Laga? Quite a trip.”

Jason rubbed the side of his jaw. “A man back home tried to help but made it worse. I was told Gulleg is the best. I’ve been walking two days straight. Can’t sleep with the pain.”

“Duration of your stay?”

“I’m hoping Gulleg can see me today.”

The guard harrumphed softly. “You were told right. Gulleg is good with teeth. Took care of my brother last year. Hope you brought money.”

“Six drooma,” Jason said, jangling his pocket proudly.

“Six?” the guard snickered. “Gulleg is no country barber. But he does have a soft spot for the downtrodden. He might find a way for you to sweat off the difference. You keep out of trouble. And keep off the streets. We don’t tolerate vagrants.”

The hefty guard moved away, his attention shifting to a lanky
man with a handcart. Jason strolled past the gate, praying that he looked less conspicuous than he felt. The exchange had gone as planned, right down to him not having quite enough money.

Jason was not supposed to wait for Jasher. The seedman would follow as he chose. The next step was to find the Salt Sea Inn, a small establishment about ten buildings inland from the waterfront, on a road called Galley Street. The port of Durna alone had more structures and businesses than many of the towns Jason had seen in Lyrian.

The main road leading away from the gate was broad and busy. Up ahead a pair of mounted soldiers was squabbling with a man, insisting he move his wagon. The teamster kept maintaining that he needed to unload supplies.

Deciding he would rather steer clear of confrontations with soldiers involved, Jason turned down a side street. On one side of the lane a line had formed near a dilapidated cart, where a bony woman ladled chowder from a deep vat. The beige concoction looked thick and chunky. It smelled delicious.

Jason had copper in his pocket, and he was hungry, but his orders were to proceed directly to the inn. He continued down the street, noticing other carts on the sides selling goods or food, although none were as busy as the chowder cart.

Not one building in the port area stood taller than three stories, unless you counted the pair of bell towers near the water. The structures tended to be low, square, and solid—some residences, some businesses.

After winding around for some time, and asking directions twice, Jason found Galley Street. It was narrow, grimy, and crowded, and it featured lots of inns. The air smelled of salt water and burned food.

Not long after reaching Galley Street, Jason found a battered
board hanging over a nondescript entrance. Weathered and cracked, the light-blue board held the words “Salt Sea Inn,” hand painted in black by an amateur. The establishment looked narrower than many of the inns on the street, and among the least prosperous. The Salt Sea Inn had small, grimy windows, and the unremarkable door was six steps down from street level.

Jason descended the steps and entered. The common room reeked of fried fish, sweat, and wood smoke. Craggy men slumped at tables or at the bar, many of them alone. Jason saw no women, and no groups larger than three. He caught a few sidelong glances, surly looks that hinted he didn’t belong.

Without a plan, Jason would have backed out onto the street and found another inn. But he was supposed to find the curly-haired barkeeper and ask for a room with a view of the coast. That was how Bat had explained Jason would connect with Nia and the other drinlings.

Behind the bar a man with curly brown hair was wiping a mug with a dirty rag. A tiny hoop pierced one ear, and tattoos crawled across his wiry forearms. Jason crossed to him and leaned against the bar, hoping he looked less out of place than he felt.

“What’ll it be?” the barman asked.

“I need a room with a view of the coast,” Jason said.

The barman smirked. “Nothing like that here, mate. Ashley can show you what we have. Ashley!”

“One moment,” a female voice answered from the kitchen.

A man seated at the bar swiveled to face Jason. He had a droopy face with rough skin and three parallel scars on his jaw. Silver teeth glinted as he spoke. “What are you playing at, bumpkin?”

“Excuse me?” Jason said.

“Look at the manners on this one!” the man chuckled, brushing shaggy hair back from his brow. “You smell like dung. Run
back to your farm, boy. This place is for men of the sea.”

Jason noticed that the comments had drawn the attention of some of the other customers. They appeared to share the sentiment. At best they looked amused by the prospect of trouble. Several expressions seemed hostile. Should he try to ignore the insult? Should he stand up for himself? He didn’t want to draw too much attention.

“I could use bodies in my rooms,” the barman intervened.

The man at the bar waved away the comment. “I can leave his body wherever you like. Go on, hayseed, scurry out of here. Last chance.”

“Morley, I can’t have you running off paying—”

“I’ll cover the cost of the room,” Morley barked. “Unless you’d side with a stranger over a regular?”

Everyone in the room was watching intently. The curly-haired barman shrugged. “It’s your money, Morley.” The barkeeper locked eyes with Jason. “You had better go.”

Jason was at a loss. He needed to connect with Nia. But if he started a fight, it could lead to lots of unwanted attention. Soldiers might get involved. Also, alone and unarmed he would probably end up dead.

“Is there a problem here?” asked a voice from behind.

Jason glanced back to find Jasher crossing the room. The seedman had already discarded his pots and pans. Jason felt relief at the sight of him, and also a bit embarrassed that he had messed up a simple task by seeming too out of place.

“What’s it to you?” asked Morley.

“I sent my servant ahead to book a room,” Jasher replied.

Jason took the cue and gave a shamefaced half bow toward Jasher.

Morley looked over at Jason and coughed out a harsh laugh.
“Fine servant you found! What are you, brothers? Cousins? You two had better shove off. Take your comedy elsewhere. You picked the wrong inn.” Morley turned and hunched over the bar as if the discussion were finished. He picked up a bone off the platter before him and nibbled at the scant remaining meat.

Jasher approached the man calmly, his expression serious but not overtly threatening. Most other men in the room watched with interest, some hiding their attention better than others. Jasher stopped directly behind Morley. “Would you care to explain yourself?”

“To a farmhand?” The man spun and stabbed a dagger at Jasher. The seedman twisted, avoiding the thrust, and grabbed Morley’s extended arm at the wrist. With his free hand Jasher seized Morley by his shaggy hair and flung him to the floor.

Still clutching his dagger, Morley glared up at Jasher.

“Stay down,” Jasher warned. “Isn’t there enough trouble in your life without seeking more?”

“Who do you think—” Morley began as he started to rise. He didn’t get more out, because Jasher kicked him hard in the ankle, a quick sweeping motion that dumped Morley back onto the ground.

Jason managed not to flinch away from the sudden flurry of motion. He tried to watch the crowd in case somebody attacked Jasher from behind. He noticed a bottle on the bar that might serve as a better weapon than nothing if things escalated.

“Don’t try to get up again, or you’ll lose the option,” Jasher threatened. “Crawl out of here. Don’t provoke strangers. You never know who you’re speaking with.”

“You somebody important?” Morley mocked. “Growing some nice carrots this year?”

Jasher’s expression remained stern but controlled. “You assume
too much, friend. I know what you are. I know what this place is. In your line of work, have you never played a part? Have you never dressed or acted out of character?” Jasher looked around the room in disgust. “How raw are the amateurs in this town if the patrons of an establishment such as this assume everyone is as they appear? Are we your first visitors from beyond the region?”

The crowd seemed mildly embarrassed. The reaction made Jason relax a bit. They might manage to bluff their way out of this after all. Morley was temporarily at a loss for words. When he spoke, there was uncertainty in his tone. “We get word when talent comes in from abroad.”

“Depends on the talent,” Jasher scoffed. “My business was not with anyone in this room. This may astonish you, but in my line of work, depending on the stakes, I don’t always want my business known. And now I have a roomful of attention. I had heard better things of Durna than this. I want your full name, Morley.”

Morley put away his knife. Fear twinkled behind his eyes. “Don’t be that way. I was just having a laugh. Maybe the disguise worked too well.”

Jasher met eyes with many of the men in the room. “Is this space secure?”

He got a few nods and grunted affirmations.

Jasher turned back to Morley. “It better be. So help me, friend, if this sparks trouble, you’ll answer to fiercer men than I.”

Morley got to his feet. “These are good lads. You’re in safe company.”

Jasher gave a curt nod. “Then let’s pretend we never spoke and that none of us have heard of the Order of the Noose.”

At this last phrase Jason noticed many eyes widen. A majority of the men turned away. Morley set some drooma on the counter and hastily limped toward the door. Jasher posed like he was considering
what to do next. Jason tried not to draw attention.

The bartender cleared his throat. “My apologies for your trouble, sir. You’re welcome to a room here, on the house.”

Jasher surveyed the area. Nobody met his gaze. “I’d prefer to pay,” he finally said in a lowered voice. “I’m more at ease when others are indebted to me.”

The barkeeper bobbed his head. “As you will. Ashley?”

A woman scurried around the counter, eager to please. She had reddish hair and a broad build, and wore a conciliatory smile. “Right this way, if you please.”

Jason followed Jasher, keeping silent as he tried to play the role of humble servant. Ashley led them into a comfortable room, closing the door behind them. She mentioned a couple of amenities as she handed Jasher the key. He thanked her.

“Did you have to mention the Order?” she asked.

Jasher shrugged. “The circumstances required intimidation. I had to sound like somebody to be reckoned with. You’ll notice I didn’t directly claim membership.”

“Well, you certainly got their attention,” Ashley said.

“She knows what we’re doing here?” Jason verified.

“Ashley and her husband are part of the resistance here in Durna,” Jasher said. “They’re harboring a third of our drinlings.”

“Sorry about the cold reception,” Ashley said. “The local smugglers have claimed the Salt Sea Inn as their own. The arrangement has advantages. Since most of the aristocrats smuggle goods to some degree, the smugglers keep the authorities from snooping around much. But the clientele can be unruly, and lately they’ve been more territorial than ever.”

“So the Order of the Noose is a smuggling ring?” Jason checked.

“A secret order,” Jasher said. “Most laymen have never heard the name. It is never mentioned casually. Even the boldest smugglers
only refer to the Order with reverence.”

Ashley folded her arms. “Now every smuggler in town will be wondering what business the Order has here.”

“Better than them speculating about seedmen and drinlings,” Jasher said. “The Order seldom, if ever, crosses the emperor. If word trickles up to the local soldiers, it shouldn’t create much of a stir. Your patrons will be curious, but they won’t look too hard. The Order has too deadly a reputation.”