Empire of the Saviours (Chronicles of/Cosmic Warlord 1) (26 page)

Jillan shook his head with a frown. ‘What about that boy the Heroes attacked and took away?’

‘What about him?’ Ash replied absently.

‘Well, it was my fault he was taken. Shouldn’t we see what we can do to help him or something?’

Ash stopped with hands on hips. ‘Are you mad? Just what is it you think we can do when the town’s Heroes have got him?’

‘Well, I don’t know,’ Jillan was forced to concede. ‘But we can find out where they’ve taken him, can’t we?’

‘Look,’ Ash said with an air of exaggerated patience, ‘we don’t know for sure that they did think he was you. He may be wanted for theft or something. And if they have got it wrong, they’ll soon realise their mistake and let him go, won’t they? He’ll be fine. Stop worrying about other people, Jillan, when you’d be far better off worrying about yourself. You’ve got enough on your plate as it is, don’t you think? Now come along.’

Jillan followed along, not entirely happy with how Ash was deciding everything for them, but not immediately able to gainsay his logic either. Besides, Jillan didn’t have any plan of his own as to how to go about finding Thomas Ironshoe or his parents in a place as big as Saviours’ Paradise. He didn’t know anyone here and he didn’t know how things worked either. Having little choice but to stick with Ash for the time being, therefore, he resolved to make the most of it. Anyway, he was curious about what an inn would actually prove to be like, for he’d never been allowed in one in Godsend. Inns were places where adults talked freely about the sorts of things they usually lowered their voices for when children were around. They were places where people sang and played at dice in front of a bright warm fire on a winter’s night. They were places where men and women drank themselves merry and where forbidden assignations took place. They were dangerous and exciting places.

‘Here we are,’ Ash announced in front of a door at the end of a row.

‘How do you know it’s an inn?’ Jillan asked.

‘All the sign you need is the state of the street just here, no?’

‘I suppose.’ Jillan nodded, catching a stronger whiff of urine and vomit here than elsewhere in the street.

‘Don’t worry. It’ll be better inside. Let me do the talking in here though, agreed?’

The inn was one big room with tables and benches set out, a serving bar in one corner and a narrow staircase leading to the floor above. The windows were small, making the place gloomy even though it was early afternoon and even though there were a few candles burning feebly on several tables. In contrast to the street outside, however, the place was relatively crowded. A group of four traders talked loudly and toasted each other enthusiastically as if they were old friends who hadn’t met in a long time. A hopeful-looking but largely ignored youth sat in one corner strumming tunelessly on a lute. Several old men sat alone, nursing their drinks and surreptitiously eyeing up a bored harlot. Two men were arguing about the price of some goods or other, and a spare surly looking fellow sat cleaning his fingernails with the tip of his knife while idly watching everyone else.

A serving girl moved as lazily through the place as the flies did, but it was the owner himself who came bustling over as Ash and Jillan found a small table for themselves against the wall and near the stairs. The owner was a smallish man – a good head shorter than Ash – but he had thick arms and a barrel chest. He did not return Ash’s ever-present smile, but there was no obvious enmity in his voice when he spoke.

‘Last two carvings sold no trouble. Can even let you have a drink on the house, woodsman.’

‘It’s good to see you too, Tapmaster Brimful. How have you been?’

‘None of your nonsense now or I’ll have my bladesman put you out,’ the innkeeper said with a curt gesture towards the surly man cleaning his nails. ‘I take it you have no coin.’

‘Not as yet, but—’

‘Then you’ll show me what you’ve got; we’ll agree a price; you’ll have a drink on the house and then be on your way before you can go upsetting my customers like you did last time.’

‘Now, hang on, that wasn’t my fault! That muttonhead—’

‘I don’t want to hear it!’ the innkeeper cut in harshly. ‘Just think yourself lucky I’m prepared to tolerate one of the Unclean under my roof, especially when the holy Saint’s in town. Don’t go abusing my generous nature by causing me any trouble, hear?’

Ash’s smile faltered, but he managed a stiff nod of agreement.

‘The Saint’s here?’ Jillan asked faintly, but the two men ignored him.

‘So what is it that you have brought me?’ the innkeeper urged. ‘Did you remember to carve benevolent spirits of the trees and nature like I told you? The Saviours forgive the People of this town, but such depictions are always popular. Or animal totems? Or a wooden phallus or two for fertility?’

Ash searched in his leather bag and pulled out a number of objects wrapped in cloth. The first was a carving of the black wolf, its skin stained with charcoal.

‘Fine. Well observed. It’ll sell. Make it look wilder next time, though, with more teeth showing.’

The next was a beautiful maiden with hair like a waterfall.

‘I think I’m in love. Do you see such women in your mind, woodsman? You must get lonely out there, eh?’

The third was a fairly ordinary toadstool.

‘What on earth is that? People can get the real thing whenever they like. Ridiculous. Leave it here as a candleholder and I’ll give you a second drink.’

And the last was a strange confusion and tangle of snakes, stemmed flowers, eels, curling ivy, salamanders and buzzing bees. They’d been rendered so faithfully that the mass looked to be moving in the candlelight.

The innkeeper took an involuntary step backwards. ‘By the Saviours, what have you done, woodsman?’ he breathed. ‘There’s no doubting your skill but why use it for this? It’s wrong. I don’t know how or why, but it’s wrong. Cover it up, quickly, before someone else sees it and word gets out to Minister Baxal or something.’ His words tumbled over themselves just as the chaos of life in the carving had done. The innkeeper was left panting and with a sheen of perspiration on his brow.

‘S-sorry,’ Ash mumbled. ‘I don’t know what made me carve it. I wasn’t really thinking of anything at the time.’

‘Well, I don’t want to see anything so monstrous again, if you please,’ the innkeeper insisted, his breathing coming more easily now that the carving had disappeared back into Ash’s bag. ‘So, let’s see. For the wolf and the maid, four silvers. A flagon for the toadstool. And one on the house.’

‘They’re worth twice that,’ Ash said hopelessly.

‘Well, try your luck with others then. Take it or leave it, but I may not have four silvers to spare later. Come on, that’ll be enough to buy your monthly supplies, as long as you don’t go spending it all on ale.’

‘Throw in another drink for the rareness of the maid’s beauty?’

The innkeeper hesitated, then relented. He spat in his palm and shook Ash’s hand. ‘That’s three ales then. You want the first now?’

Ash kept hold of the man’s hand. ‘Actually, I was hoping for some information as well. Nothing much, just some local news – why the holy one is here so late in the year, where I might find a man called Thomas, things like that.’

The innkeeper pulled his hand free and wiped it on his apron. ‘I have a business to run. I don’t have time for idle gossip, woodsman. Besides, such talk only seems to attract trouble, if you catch my drift.’

Ash gave him a pained expression. ‘You’re right of course, good Tapmaster, but if I can find this man Thomas, he might put some coin my way, coin that I will of course look to spend or invest with those who have helped me previously.’

The innkeeper hesitated, like everyone in Saviours’ Paradise never too quick to pass up the chance of extra coin. ‘Why don’t you invite my bladesman to join you? He’s more familiar with those who come and go. I’ll get that ale for you, and a light beer for the boy. This is Spiro.’

At a signal from the innkeeper, Spiro brought a chair over to Ash and Jillan and sat down with a nod. He had tanned skin and the sort of dark looks which were more common in the eastern region of the Empire, the region that saw the most unrest, and where a man lived by his wits and strength. Spiro was probably not a man to be trifled with. He waited in silence.

‘Er … may I offer you a drink?’ Ash ventured.

‘That would be welcome,’ Spiro said with a lilt that was not local. ‘What is it you want?’

‘They say the holy one is here. It is an
unexpected
blessing for the town.’

Spiro stilled and his eyes flicked appraisingly over Ash and Jillan for a second time. ‘Indeed. It demonstrates the benevolence and righteousness of the blessed Saviours that they ensure benefit for the People even when trouble is afoot.’

‘Praise the Saviours! Does this trouble originate in Saviours’ Paradise then that the holy one should come here?’

‘Indeed it does not, from what I hear. There has been foul murder in Godsend. The killer is said to be on his way here, perhaps wearing unusual leathers.’ Spiro’s eyes drifted to Jillan. ‘I’m sorry but I did not catch your names.’

The innkeeper returned and placed two foaming flagons and a half measure on the table. Jillan resisted the temptation to adjust the cloak that concealed his armour. He kept his expression as natural and neutral as he was able, but he was not sure how convincing he was. If only the bladesman would stop watching him like that.

Ash raised his flagon, acknowledged Spiro and Jillan with it and then took several large swallows before wiping the foam off his top lip. ‘Ah, that’s good! I am Ash and—’

‘I have heard of you.’

‘—a-and this is my cousin Owain from Heroes’ Brook.’

‘An unusual name, Owain,’ Spiro observed, still watching Jillan.

Ash laughed. ‘His parents have always had aspirations for the boy. He’s come to meet the daughter of a good family here in Saviours’ Paradise. They have great hopes for him, and Owain has great hopes of the daughter, eh, Owain?’

Jillan nodded mutely. He coughed and said weakly, ‘I don’t feel so good.’

‘You do look a bit green. He’s due to meet the girl for the first time in a few hours,’ Ash confided to the bladesman. ‘Why don’t you get some air while I talk to Spiro here? In fact, take a turn round the market and I’ll see you back here later.’

‘Y-yes, I think that might be a good idea,’ Jillan said and excused himself.

The woodsman’s a drunk and a waste of space
, whispered the taint.
Did you see the pathetic way he all but begged the innkeeper to buy his carvings? The woodsman’s Unclean. He has neither friends nor influence here in Saviours’ Paradise, but he’s desperate to be accepted. Once he’s into his cups, he’ll betray you to Spiro for the price of an ale. Forget him!

Jillan stepped out of the inn with a sigh of relief. The air cooled his hot cheeks and helped him get his nerves under control. The Saint was closer now than ever. The holy one always knew! Heroes could be heading for the inn even now.

He looked up and down the street, but all seemed quiet. He headed back the way they’d originally come and joined the press of people and wagons on the main thoroughfare. Movement was slow but at least no one would find him too easily in all this.

After a good while edging forward, Jillan found that the street he was on opened out as it met other thoroughfares, and then suddenly he was into the ordered mayhem of the market proper. Most of the wagons and stalls were set around the edges of the town’s vast Gathering Place – Godsend’s own centre would have fitted four or five times over in this place – but several dozen had prime position in the middle, with what looked like permanent display tables.

It seemed that everyone in Saviours’ Paradise had turned out for the market, for he couldn’t move more than a few paces without colliding with another body. Most wore the sort of finery that was only ever seen on temple days in Godsend. Those not rich enough to possess any sort of finery found a place from which they could ogle others, begged for coins or picked pockets.

The swell carried Jillan into the middle and he found himself standing before the stall of a giant man who could only be a blacksmith. Displayed on his table were gleaming knives, swords and axes of all shapes and size. These were far from being tools for mere farmers.

There was something hypnotic about the weapons and their shining surfaces. Jillan wanted to pick one up, heft it in his hand and feel its balance, but at the same time he feared the potential of the sharp, hungry edges. He needed a real blade with which to defend himself, he knew: the confrontation with Valor had proved that.

‘You won’t find better,’ the giant announced in a voice so deep that it was felt as much as it was heard.

Jillan blinked slowly and nodded.

‘Expensive, of course. I’d need to see gold, even for one of the smaller blades … or something valuable you might have in exchange.’

Jillan stared at his reflection in a long two-edged knife. The eyes that looked back at him saw right into his heart and held him in place.

‘Learned my craft in the east,’ the giant rumbled softly, ‘where they temper and cool their blades in the blood of their enemies. They say such blades give the owner the strength, knowledge and skill of any whose life and blood were lost so that the blade could be forged.’

Jillan had one item in his pack that the blacksmith might accept in exchange.
Give him Samnir’s blade, whispered the taint. It’s a dull and clumsy ceremonial thing, no use in a fight. Coming from the Great Temple, though, it’s probably valuable. The blacksmith could melt it down for something else
. He began to fumble for the chunky blade, which of course had inconveniently found its way to the bottom of his pack. He found an edge and traced along it to find the hilt. His hand brushed against several of the stones from his collection, which he’d forgotten about till now. Gripping the so-called weapon, he tugged on it, but it was caught on something and refused to come free.

‘Stupid—’

‘You, boy!’ called a familiar voice. ‘Over here!’

‘What have you got there?’ asked the blacksmith curiously as he glimpsed burnished metal. He loomed closer.