Scholar of Decay (48 page)

Heavy Gray Clouds Hung Low in a Cold Sky and
masked the rising of the sun. Dawn brought only a pale light to Pont-a-Museau, barely enough for the hired coach to find its way along the esplanade to a townhouse near the center of the city.

Muffled in a heavy, multi-caped greatcoat, the coachman clucked encouragement to his horses and tried not to think about the stone that had fallen from the last bridge they’d crossed. The condition of the bridges were why he usually refused to bring his coach onto the islands, insisting instead that those travelers wanting to hire him take the omnipresent canalboats to the dock he maintained on the southeast shore of the river. However, when Jacqueline Renier had sent a purse of silver and a request for his services, it was an offer he couldn’t refuse. And the money, as generous as it was, had little to do with his acceptance.

Stopping the team by a haphazard pile of luggage, he lowered himself laboriously down from the high seat, spoke to the nervous servant on watch, and sent him to hold the horses while he began tying on the trunks. Bits of protruding clothing spoke of hasty packing. Hardly surprising, he thought, when Mamselle Renier was arranging the trip.

He’d just finished tightening the last knot when the door to the townhouse opened and three men emerged. One, the largest—though all three had probably towered over their neighbors—wore the clothing and manner of a personal servant. The other two were supposed to be brothers. The coachman couldn’t see the resemblance.

The older brother had a wild shock of silver-gray hair and a short beard the same color. There were dark shadows under his red-rimmed eyes, and he walked hunched over, as though he were in constant pain. The younger brother, a serious-looking man who seemed to be carrying the weight of the world on his broad shoulders, helped him down the steps and toward the coach.

When they drew closer, the coachman saw that the older man carried a box tight against his chest, clasped protectively in both hands. It was the box, or rather the way he held it, that caused him to walk as he did.

The servant reached the coach first. “You are to take us to the border?” The Borcan accent was thick, but the words understandable.

“I am.” The coachman narrowed his eyes as the servant began inspecting the coach. “It can meet yer approval or not,” he said, turning his head and spitting into the river, “but yer riding in it anyway.”

His passengers had as little choice as he did.

Apparently they knew it, for the servant nodded, left off his inspection, and merely opened the door as the other two arrived.

“Step up, Aurek,” the younger man murmured.

The wild-haired man made no response, but he did as he was told. As he stepped up into the coach, something in the box rattled like broken glass or china.

As the coachman wondered why anyone would bother carrying
debris from one country to another, the younger man met his gaze and held it. “My brother is not well,” he said as one hand rose to touch the bandage that protruded above the folds of his cravat. “I’d appreciate it if you could make the journey as smooth as possible.”

Long hours spent driving alone over empty roads had given the coachman much time to think and made him—he liked to believe—a bit of a philosopher. This young man had the look of someone who’d been plunged into the darkness of his own soul and barely made it out the other side. When the wounds of the journey healed—wounds that had nothing to do with the dressing on his throat—they’d leave deep scars that he’d carry the rest of his life.

Which won’t be too long if we don’t get moving. The coachman shook himself free of philosophy and nodded. “Smooth as possible,” he agreed, which was an easy enough promise to make as he had no control at all over the condition of the roads.

With his passengers safely stowed inside, he climbed back up onto the box and took up the reins. “Let ’em go,” he called out.

The servant holding the horses’ bridles released them and took off, as though anxious to be away—not that the coachman could blame him, all things considered. Having the attention of Jacqueline Renier fixed on his master’s household had to be unnerving for the poor lad.

There was room in front of the townhouse to turn, but only just, and for the first few moments all the coachman’s attention was taken up by the complicated maneuver involved in getting the team and coach headed in the right direction without dumping them into the river.

When he finally got them moving slowly along the esplanade, he felt the weight of a watcher between his shoulder blades and, without thinking, turned. A huge ebony rat, the largest he’d ever seen,
was sitting on the roof of the townhouse staring down at him. He swallowed, mouth gone suddenly dry as it met his gaze.

Taking the reins in one trembling hand, he raised his hat and bowed as deeply as his position allowed. Then he swiveled around in his seat and worked very hard at forgetting what he’d seen.

It was the only way to survive in Pont-a-Museau.

As he moved the horses forward as quickly as possible, he heard the disquieting sound of laughter from inside the coach.

Now you can find the
Forgotten Realms
^®
,
Dragonlance
^®
, Eberron
^®
, and
Dark Sun
^®
novels
you’ve been searching for as ebooks.

Hundreds of titles are available now, with more titles available every month.

Add them to your collection at
DungeonsandDragons.com