One Realm Beyond (30 page)
Bridger returned with a strong demand.
“You should be taking care of this. Come talk to Penny Lunder.”
Cantor sauntered back with his hands clenched in his pockets. At the counter, he folded his hands on the top and leaned forward. Penny Lunder took notice of his serious pose.
“Is there something I can do for you?”
“Ahma raised me. I’m sure you know her name.”
“Certainly, she’s one of the renowned.”
“When I returned from Effram, our home had been burned to the ground. I inquired in the nearby village, but no one could give me any news.”
Penny Lunder drew a sharp breath. “She’s missing?”
Cantor nodded.
“I haven’t heard any rumors.” She glanced at the clock on the wall. “It’s too late today, but tomorrow you must come back, and I’ll send you up to the recorder’s office. If anyone knows where she is, he will.”
“Thank you.” His hands began to shake again, and he wanted to bolt from the building.
She handed him a key and schedule and he tucked them quickly inside his tunic and thrust his hands back into his pockets. Penny Lunder reiterated they had rooms in the west wing of the Moor. Totobee-Rodolow’s and Bixby’s rooms were on the east wing of the same building.
“Shouldn’t Bridger have a key as well?” asked Cantor as he backed away.
“We find that most mor dragons just shape-shift their finger into a key. It’s something they learn at a very young age.” Penny Lunder smiled at Bridger, who nodded.
After obtaining directions, the two left the building.
Cantor trotted down the many steps, glad to be out of the
hall and away from the nasty influence of pens and such. But he also regretted not having time to examine the artwork.
“That certainly didn’t take long.”
The street was loud, and using his voice he might not have been heard.
“I think Penny Lunder was anxious to close up shop and go home.”
Bridger agreed.
“She took your inquiry about Ahma seriously.”
“Yes, she did.”
“But . . .”
Bridger didn’t finish his thought.
Cantor spoke aloud. “What?”
“I think Feymare would have a better chance of finding her.”
“Why is that?”
Bridger reverted to thoughts. Cantor got the feeling that he didn’t want anyone to overhear this conversation.
“Because he’s not like us. He’s not tied to one realm
,
one system of planes
,
or one universe. He’s not even tied to the normal progression of time.”
“That’s why he could deliver us to the front of the council building five minutes earlier than it was when I last looked at the clock?”
“Exactly.”
“What is he
,
then?”
“A Primen warrior.”
Cantor continued to walk, but his mind no longer registered the street, the people, the noise, or the smells of dinner being prepared in a hundred places nearby. Bridger’s revelation shook his beliefs.
Primen warriors were mentioned in the Volumes of Lore. These volumes were second only to the sacred word given by Primen himself. Some people believed the tales to be true.
Others regarded them as elaborate legends of things that might have happened. In the Volumes of Lore, Primen warriors were messengers from Primen himself. They instructed ordinary people, protected them, sheltered them, gave them temporary powers to withstand an enemy. Accounts of their activities had diminished over time and had completely disappeared at the same time Chomountain, the great wizard of Primen, had ceased functioning.
“Hey! Watch where you’re going!”
Bridger pushed Cantor out of the way, just as a man with a heavy handcart struck the curb.
Cantor fell, and someone fell on top of him. The cart filled with ball squash and melons of all sizes tilted. Cantor covered his head just as produce bounced all around him, and a large melon cracked against his head. Juice ran down his cheeks.
Bridger fussed at the crowd. “Don’t steal the man’s fruit. Help him set up his cart and pick up what can be saved.”
The weight of the person on top of him was lifted. He pushed up on his elbows. The red pulp of a squashed melon dropped from the back of his head to the sidewalk.
Bridger growled. “Now, I said put the stuff back in the cart. None of you are poor enough to have to steal food.”
Cantor got up on his hands and knees.
“Put me down,” someone complained.
Cantor stood. “Bridger, you still have that man in your hands.”
The dragon took note of the squirming captive. “Oh! Sorry! I forgot I had you.” He placed the man on his feet and went back to harassing the passersby. “There’s lots here we can save.”
A man sat on the curb, his head resting in his hands. Cantor approached him. “Are you all right, sir?”
He looked up and started when he saw who spoke to him. He jumped to his feet. He stammered a bit, and his voice trembled. “I’m all right. Are you? You would have been crushed by my cart if your constant hadn’t given you that shove. A ruffian with a load of scrap metal passed me and his wagon clipped my cart. He just went on.” The man put a hand on Cantor’s sleeve. He still looked shaken. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Yes, yes, you needn’t be so worried.”
The man wrung his hands. “You’re not going to report me, are you, sir? I’d never do anything to disrespect a realm walker.”
Cantor looked at him closely. The poor man was afraid. In fact, he was terrified.
Cantor shook his head. “No, no. This isn’t worthy of a report.”
“Oh, thank you, thank you. I have a stall in the Blinness Way Market.” He gestured to his cart. The words
Blinness Way Market
decorated the side in bright orange outlined in green. “If you stop by, I’d be delighted to have you pick from my finest fruit to refresh yourself. Anytime, anytime. I’m a friend to the realm walkers, a real friend.”
“Yes, I’m sure you are.”
Bridger had organized urchins to clean up the broken fruit, and he’d given them permission to take the broken pieces home. People and dragons still had to pick their way through the sticky wreckage, but most of the fragments had been disposed of.
The cart owner took the opportunity to get back in the
flow of traffic. Cantor heard his loud sigh of relief as he left the disaster behind.
“That was odd, Bridger.” Cantor still watched the man as he traveled through the crowd.
“What was?”
The man had been swallowed up by the traffic and could no longer be seen.
Cantor turned to look up at his friend. “That produce man was terrified because he recognized us as realm walkers.”
Bridger shrugged and examined his sticky hands. “I need a bath. You do, too.”
Cantor laughed. Melon juice dripped off his hair and down his neck, trickling under his collar and down his back.
“You’re right.”
They started walking again.
Cantor bumped Bridger’s arm with his fist. “Thanks for saving my life back there.”
“Oh, I don’t think I exactly saved your life. Maybe saved you from being a cripple with crushed legs for the rest of your life. Or you could have been struck in the midriff and had crushed ribs and broken arms. Even if that heavy cart had broken your back, lots of people survive such an injury. You wouldn’t have been much use as a realm walker, though.”
“Well, I was going to tell you that you did a good job of keeping order and getting people to help clean up. But I’m afraid that would have you rambling again.”
“Do you know the song about the rambling rose?”
“I think you sang it the other night.”
“Yes, I probably did. We should work that out in parts. I’ll take the bass, and you can have the tenor. Or we could reverse
that if you like. But I get tired singing falsetto. And it isn’t pleasing to the ear.”
“Bridger, I think this is the Moor.”
Bridger looked the long white building over and nodded. “Ah, home for a few weeks at least. I hope we find Bixby and Totobee-Rodolow.”
Mentioning home and finding in the same bit of conversation slammed into Cantor’s contented mood. Ahma. Home. Odem. Gone. But Odem and Ahma couldn’t be dead. He felt sure he’d know if Ahma no longer lived. And he’d probably know if Odem was dead. He had to find them.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would know more.
B
ixby sat cross-legged on her bed. The lighting in the barren room left a lot to be desired, so she sat on the end of the bed next to the window where the sun streamed in. With her hands, she worked at embellishing a piece of lace. When she was done, the small scrap of fabric would become a fancy cuff, one she could wear with many of her outfits. She’d fashioned flowers and leaves out of ribbon in shades that would go well with her quiet wardrobe.
She and Totobee-Rodolow had gone shopping for the third day in a row. Bixby couldn’t believe the wonderful finds she had purchased in the marketplaces — fabric, beads, ribbons, and fine, thin metal she could mold easily in any way she chose. Totobee-Rodolow said there was only one more market
to explore, and they would do that tomorrow. Imagine being in a city with four large markets.
Totobee-Rodolow usually came in so they could go through their purchases together and marvel at the wonderful finds a second time. She’d gone to the main building to check for messages, an errand that should have taken fifteen minutes. Concern edged around Bixby’s thoughts. Her dragon was late.
Voices in the corridor brought her to her feet. She flew across the room and flung open the door. Totobee-Rodolow and her companions sauntered down the hall. With a squeal, Bixby dropped her cuff and ran down the richly patterned carpet to jump into Cantor’s arms. Before the startled young man could object, she released him and grabbed Bridger around the neck.
“I’m so glad to see you.” She kissed the dragon’s scaly cheek, then turned to glare at Cantor. “What took you so long? We’ve been to some amazing places in the city. But you haven’t missed anything that you would think important. We start our rounds on Monday. We haven’t seen Dukmee yet. And I’ve eaten so much wonderful, fantastic, yummy food!” She looked down at her thin, waiflike body. “And still I could be mistaken for a fishing pole.”
She released Bridger and hugged Cantor once more. She leaned away from him a bit and sniffed. “You smell good. Like soap and melon.”
He sighed in relief when she stepped away, but she ignored his attitude. He cast a rueful look at Bridger before he answered.
“I almost collided with a market cart. Bridger pushed me out of the way, but I still got bombarded by falling fruit. I think my hair will smell for a while.”
Jesha wound around Bixby’s ankles, complaining in soft mews. Bixby bent over to pick her up, then cuddled her close.
“I missed you too. You are such a fine cat. Here, smell Cantor. Don’t you think he smells good?”
Bixby stepped closer to Cantor and sniffed again. This time she breathed in slowly, relishing the fragrance.
She turned the cat to look directly in her face. “Oh, no. I don’t think so at all. I much prefer he smell like melon and not fish.”
Cantor’s cheeks pinked, and he turned away from Bixby and the cat to concentrate on Totobee-Rodolow. “Bridger and I are starving. We came to ask where to eat and to see if you two could come with us.”
“Marvelous, darling. Of course we will take you to the best restaurant nearby. Do you need to be economical?”
“No, I have plenty of traps with me.” His tone lowered and so did his head.
Bixby frowned. “Why does having money make you sad?”
His solemn expression worried her. “The traps are from Ahma’s cache. When we went to visit on our way here, we found her cabin burned to the ground with no sign of her or her livestock.”
Bridger took over the narrative. “Cantor went to the village but no one knew anything. His Ahma stored the traps in a hamper under the floorboards. The fire hadn’t reached them.”
Bixby’s heart twisted. “Did you ask at the registry for news?”
Cantor didn’t speak, so Bridger continued. “He did, but Penny Lunder couldn’t help. She recommended asking at the recorder’s office tomorrow.”
“We’ll do that,” said Totobee-Rodolow, “but I have additional resources we’ll use.”
Bixby raised her eyebrows, remembering all the people Totobee-Rodolow knew. Their second day in the city, they’d
met Clarart the doorman and had lunch with him at a sidewalk café. He’d been funny and informative, joking about the doings of many of the people dominating Gilead’s social life. In between humorous anecdotes, though, he’d soberly relayed more serious news of plots and intrigue.
Everywhere she and Totobee-Rodolow went, they ran into old acquaintances of the dragon. Bixby’s admiration of Totobee-Rodolow grew as she watched the way everyone welcomed her warmly and eagerly imparted little bits of information they thought might interest her.
“Will we talk to Clarart again?” she asked.
Before his sister could answer, Bridger jumped in. “Oh, I forgot. We came across Feymare in one of the less busy streets, and he requests a meeting tomorrow. Half past one. Conicaty Bridge.”