Luck in the Shadows (7 page)

“By quite a margin,” replied Seregil cheerfully. “Let’s move on before we lose the light.”

The late-afternoon sun cast a mellow glow across the valley. Picking their way down the stony slope, they struck the main road leading along the river toward Wolde. The Brythwin was low, its course laced with gravel spits. Stands of ash and willow grew thickly along the banks, often screening the river from view.

A mile or so before reaching the lake shore, the road curved away from the river to skirt a dense copse of trees. Reining in, Seregil studied the wall of branches for a moment, then dismounted and motioned for Alec to follow.

Bare willow branches stroked over them, catching at hoods and harness as they pushed their way through to a clearing beside the river. A tiny stone cottage surrounded by a wattle and daub fence stood on a rise close by the water’s edge.

As Seregil approached the gate a brindle hound came rushing at them from around the corner of the cottage, growling and showing its teeth. Alec retreated hastily back in the direction of his horse, but Seregil stood his ground. Muttering a few low words, he made some sort of sign with his left hand. The dog skidded to a halt on the other side of the gate, then skulked back the way it had come.

Alec gaped. “How did you do that?”

“Just a little thief’s trick I picked up somewhere. Come on, it’s perfectly safe.”

A very old, very bald little man answered Seregil’s knock.

“Who’s that?” he demanded, peering blankly past them. A deep scar, faded white against the old fellow’s leathery skin, ran in a ragged line from the top of his skull to the bridge of his nose.

“It’s me, old father,” Seregil replied, slipping something into his outstretched hand.

The old man reached to touch Seregil’s face. “I thought as much when Crusher went quiet like that. And not alone this time, eh?”

“A new friend.” Seregil guided the blind man’s hand to Alec’s cheek.

The boy remained still as the dry fingertips ran swiftly over his features. At no point were names exchanged.

The old fellow gave a rheumy chuckle. “Beardless, but no girl. Come in both of you, and welcome. Sit yourselves by the fire while I fetch something to eat. Everything’s as you left it, sir.”

The little house consisted of a single room with a loft overhead. Everything was neat and spare, the old man’s simple belongings arranged with care on shelves along the walls.

Seregil and Alec warmed themselves gratefully at the cheerful blaze on the hearth while their host shuffled about with practiced efficiency, setting out bread, soup, and boiled eggs for them at the scrubbed wooden table.

Seregil wolfed his supper and disappeared into the loft. When he came down again he was dressed in a bard’s embroidered tunic and striped hose. A traveler’s harp of dark wood inlaid with silver was slung over his shoulder. He’d washed again, too, Alec noted in mild surprise. He’d never met anyone who set such store by washing.

“Do you recognize me now, boy?” Seregil asked in a haughty, slightly nasal voice, giving Alec an elaborate bow.

“By the Maker, you really are Aren Windover!”

“You see? What you remembered about Aren wasn’t his face so much as his flamboyant manner, the gaudy clothes, and the affected way he spoke. Believe me, I do all that with good reason.
When you get right down to it, aside from the fact that Aren and I are physically identical, we’re nothing alike at all.”

Their host let out a dry cackle from his corner by the fire.

“As for your appearance,” Seregil continued, “I’ve set out some things for you upstairs. Go clean yourself up, then we’ll see about your hair. Aren would never allow any apprentice of his to look so unkempt.”

The loft was as sparsely furnished as the room below, containing only a bed, washstand, and clothes chest. A dusty candle burned in a dusty sconce and by its light Alec saw a broadsword hanging on the wall above the bed, its scarred scabbard blackened with age. On the bed lay a tunic of russet wool, a new cloak, a pair of soft doeskin breeches, and a belt with a sheathed dagger and a pouch. Opening the latter, Alec found ten silver pennies. A pair of high leather boots sagged against the bedpost. Both clothing and boots were clean but worn—more of Seregil’s castoffs, no doubt.

Lucky for me I met up with someone my own size
, Alec thought, inspecting the boots more closely. As he’d expected, there was a dagger pocket stitched inside the left one. Pulling on the boots, he slipped his Skalan coin and five of the pennies into the knife pocket as a precaution against cutpurses; his father had taught him never to carry all his money in one place when he went into a town.

As he dressed, he could hear Seregil plucking away at the harp below. After a moment there came a light ripple of notes and scattered snatches of melodies.

He plays as well as he sings
, thought Alec, wondering what other talents would reveal themselves as he got to know Seregil better. Below the music, however, he suddenly caught the sound of quiet conversation. After a moment’s hesitation, he crept to the edge of the loft and strained to hear more. Both men were keeping their voices low and he could make out only bits and pieces.

“… days ago. They seem peaceful enough, but why so many?” the blind man was saying.

“No doubt …” Seregil’s voice was harder to hear. “I suppose, with the mayor.”

“Aye, calling himself Boraneus, claims to be a trade envoy for the Overlord.”

Overlord?
thought Alec. He’d heard that term before! And hadn’t Seregil as much as said he’d been sent north to see what
the Plenimarans were up to? Holding his breath, Alec inched closer to the edge, trying to pick up the thread of the conversation.

“Did she know him?” Seregil was asking.

“… last evening … dark, well favored … a sword cut …”

“Which eye?”

“Left, she said.”

“Illior’s Fingers! Mardus?” For an instant Seregil sounded genuinely startled. The old man muttered something, to which Seregil replied, “No, and I’ll do my best to see that he doesn’t … more demon than …”

Both men were silent for a moment, then Seregil called out, “Alec! Have you fallen asleep up there?”

Alec quickly rolled his old clothes into a bundle, then paused a moment longer for the guilty blush to pass.

The look that Seregil gave him as he hurried down the ladder betrayed only impatience, but he was certain he could feel Seregil’s eyes on his back as he busied himself with packing away their traveling clothes.

Seregil tucked his harp under one arm and went to take leave of their host.

“Luck in the shadows,” the blind man said, clasping hands with them at the door.

“And to you,” Seregil returned.

W
olde—largest of the isolated trade centers scattered across the northlands—owed its prosperity to the Gold Road, a narrow span of the Gallistrom River, and a tiny yellow flower.

The Gold Road began to the north in the foothills of the Ironheart Mountains, where gold had been mined from time out of mind. At Kerry, the precious metal was smelted and molded into round, flat ingots called baps and sewn into square sheepskin bales stuffed with wool. This wool, shorn from the mountain sheep native to the region, was especially soft and fine and had since become another source of wealth for the region. The original purpose of the bales, however, was merely to protect the gold, for the road was fraught with hazards, not the least of which were bandits. Weighing as much as two men, the bales were difficult to steal but floated if they were lost in one of the many rivers that crossed the route. Loaded onto ox-drawn wagons, the bales were carried on to Boersby, where they were packed onto flatboats and taken down the Folcwine to the Mycenian seaport of Nanta.

The country between Kerry and Boersby was desolate except for a few settled districts. The caravaneers traveled in large groups with hired swordsmen and archers to protect them.
The last safe refuge between Blackwater Lake and Boersby was the town of Wolde on the banks of the Gallistrom River.

Unlike the placid Brythwin, the Gallistrom was dangerous, deep, and broad. From its source in the Ironheart, it swept down through the great Lake Wood into Blackwater Lake. Originally the only safe crossing was a slow, precarious system of ferries. Wagons waiting on the shore for the next raft across were easy prey for bandits. Many others were lost to the river itself when strong spring currents overturned the rafts, sweeping away men, oxen, and gold.

At last a wide stone bridge was constructed and the tiny settlement that had sprung up around the ferry site grew into a village. The area had riches of its own, as it turned out. Dye-yielding plants of many sorts grew in profusion between the lake and the forest, among them the yellow wolde from which the town took its name. With these plants nearly any color could be produced, many in rich hues superior to anything produced in the south. Dyers, weavers, fullers, and felters set up shop there and suddenly the wool of Kerry was in great demand. Bolts of soft, lustrous “Wolde cloth” were now sought almost as eagerly in the south as the golden baps. By Alec’s day, Wolde was a wealthy guild town centered around the bridge and protected by a stout wooden palisade.

The sun was nearing the western horizon when Alec and Seregil rode up the lake shore to the town walls. Across the water they could see the many colored sails of fishing boats making their way back to town for the night.

“It’s early for the gates to be closed, isn’t it?” remarked Seregil as they reined in. “Any time I’ve been here before they’ve been kept open until well after dark.”

Alec looked the palisade over. “The walls are higher, too.”

“State your names and business, if you please,” a disinterested voice called from overhead.

“Aren Windover, a bard,” Seregil announced, dropping into Aren’s slightly pompous manner. “I am accompanied by my apprentice.”

“Windover, is it?” The sentry leaned over the parapet for a better look at the newcomers. “Why, I remember you! You played at the summer fair and was the best of all the bards that come. Pass through, sir, and your boy.”

A horse postern swung inward. Alec and Seregil ducked their
heads and rode inside. The sentry, a youngish man in a leather jerkin, extended a long-handled toll basket down to them.

“That’s one copper a horse and a silver half penny for each rider, sir. We’ve not seen a proper bard or skald since you was here last, you know. Where’ll you be staying this time through?”

“I mean to start at the Fishes, but hope for better before I leave,” replied Seregil, motioning Alec to pay the toll. “By my recollection, it’s early in the day for the gates to be locked. Aren’t there more guards than usual?”

“That there is, sir,” the man replied, shaking his head. “There’s been three raids on the caravans within the last couple of months, two of ’em within ten miles of the town. The caravaneers are mad as scalded cats over it, claiming the town’s supposed to guard the road. But the mayor, he’s more worried about Wolde itself being attacked. We’ve been building up the palisade and standing extra watches ever since. It all seems to have calmed down, though, since them southerners showed up.”

“Southerners?” Seregil’s feigned surprise was not lost on Alec.

“Oh, aye. Plenimarans, of all people! An envoy called Lord Boraneus come to set up trade, as I hear it.”

Boraneus?
Alec stole a glance at Seregil; this was one of the names he’d picked up eavesdropping at the blind man’s cottage—that and another, something starting with
M
.

“Brought a mess of soldiers with him, too,” the gatekeeper went on. “Must be two score or more. We didn’t know what to make of it when word first come that they was on the way, but it turned out to be a good thing. They made short work of them bandits, I can tell you! The taverners claim they’re a rough lot, but they pay well, and in silver. I warrant you’ll pick up a good piece of trade with ’em yourself.”

“I have the greatest hopes.” Throwing back his cloak, Seregil produced a silver coin from his own purse and flipped it to the man. “Thank you for your most helpful information. I hope you’ll drink my health at the Three Fishes.”

Pocketing the coin happily, the sentry waved them through.

Within the palisade the road wound through the center of the town toward a market square that spanned both sides of the bridge.

The streets here were stained with the colorful, foul-smelling runoff of dyers’ shops. In the more prosperous lanes, raised wooden walkways had been built to prevent patrons from staining
their garments with the mud. Gatherers’ carts trundled from shop to shop all day, loaded with shipments of pigment-bearing plants and minerals. The poorest of children had bright rags on their backs; even the pigs and dogs that wandered the neighborhood displayed a startling diversity of color. The clack and thump of the weavers’ looms filled the air and lengths of freshly dyed cloth, hung to dry on racks strung between buildings and over the streets, gave the area a perpetually festive appearance.

This was familiar territory to Alec, and he felt a twinge of sadness as he looked around. The last time he’d been here his father had been alive.

“That’s the mayor’s hall there, where that Boraneus fellow is staying,” he said as they entered the open square at the center of the town. Too late he recalled that his knowledge of Boraneus’ whereabouts had also been gleaned while eavesdropping.

Seregil looked over at him, an unreadable expression on his face, and Alec added quickly, “Important visitors always lodge with the mayor. It’s the custom here.”

“I’m lucky to have so well versed a guide,” Seregil replied with quiet amusement.

The large, elaborately decorated hall stood beside the Dalnan temple. Guildhalls and craftsmen’s shops lined the sides of the square on this side of the bridge. The Temple of Astellus commanded the other side of the river, and with it the fishermen’s guild, a tavern, more shops, and several inns.

Seregil took the lead here, riding across the bridge into the Lake Quarter. As they neared the waterfront, the streets grew narrower and more winding. The stink of the dyers’ quarter was replaced by the pungent odors of fish and damp nets.