Shadow of a Dark Queen (15 page)

T
he wagon
halted.

Helmut Grindle pointed. “Krondor.”

Erik, sitting in the back of the wagon, turned and looked over the shoulders of Grindle and Roo, who had been driving. Erik had been impressed to discover that for once his friend really could back up his claim. He drove the team like an experienced teamster; obviously, Roo's father had been good for something besides getting drunk and beating up on him.

Erik looked down the long winding road known as the King's Highway. They had turned south after Grindle had passed the last toll station, entering the road near a town called Haverford. Twice before that patrols of armed soldiers had ridden past, but at no time did they even pause to look at Roo or Erik.

As Roo snapped the reins and the wagon started down the road toward the city, a patrol of city guardsmen rode toward them. Erik sat as calmly as he could in the rear, attempting to look as much like just another wagon guard as possible. Roo's hands knotted on the reins and the rear left horse snorted at the tension in the line, not sure if she was asked to
change pace or direction. Roo forced himself to relax and the two of them watched as the soldiers approached. Then, abruptly, the guards pulled up. “There's a long wait,” said the guard sergeant.

Grindle asked, “What's the holdup?”

“The King has entered the city. South gate by the palace is sealed off for his retinue. Everyone else is forced to use the north gates,” he said, waving in the general direction Grindle's wagon was headed. “And the gate watch is searching the wagons.”

Grindle swore as the guards rode off.

Roo and Erik exchanged glances. Roo shook his head slightly, indicating Erik should say nothing about the wagon search. In conversational tones, he said, “That's some city.”

“That she is,” replied Grindle.

Krondor sprawled at the head of a large bay, beyond which an expanse of blue stretched off to the horizon: the Bitter Sea. The old city was walled, but an extensive foulburg—the part of the city outside the walls—had grown up over the years, until now it was much larger than the inner city. Inside the walls, the view was dominated by the palace of the Prince of Krondor, which sat atop a hill hard against the south side of the bay. Ships, looking like tiny white slips of paper, rested at anchor or sailed in and out of the bay.

Roo said, “Master Grindle, what do you think are the best commodities to ship from this city?” Erik suppressed a groan as the merchant began his long answer. In the days since joining up with Grindle, Roo had been pestering the merchant for ideas on making money. At first the man was reluctant, as if Roo would somehow steal a thought from him and
he'd be the poorer for it. Roo made several statements as if they were fact that got the old merchant going, telling the youth he was an idiot and would end up ruined before he was twenty years old. When challenged as to why, he'd open up with a sound argument. By cleverly asking questions, Roo would turn the conversation into an ongoing lecture on how to conduct business.

“Rare, that's the thing,” said Grindle. “You can hear there's a shortage of hides for making boots in Ylith. So corner all the hides in Krondor you can. By the time you reach Ylith, you find some lad from the Free Cities has already imported ten wagonloads of hides and you're ruined. But rarities! There are always rich men looking for fine cloth, precious gems, exotic spices, and the like.” Glancing around to see he was not overheard, he continued. “You can build volume in commodities. You can be the largest wool shipper in the West, but one plague of anthrax on the sheep herds, one ship sunk on its way to the Far Coast, and bang!” He slapped his hands together for emphasis. One of the horses cocked an ear at the noise. “You're ruined.”

“I don't know,” said Roo. “People may not have money to buy luxuries, but they have to eat.”

“Bah!” said Grindle. “Rich people always have money to buy luxuries. Poor people often don't have money to buy food. And rich people may eat better than poor, but one man can only eat so much, no matter how rich.”

“What about wine?”

Grindle launched into a discussion, and Erik sat back, turning his mind to the last few days. At first bored by the chatter, Erik discovered there was a lot
about the business world that was interesting, especially in terms of risk versus reward. Grindle claimed he was only a modest merchant, but Erik was beginning to believe that was intentional understatement. The cargo in the wagon was an odd mix, a half-dozen bolts of embroidered silk, a dozen small jars carefully lashed together with huge amounts of cotton wadding for protection, some wooden boxes with heavy cord tied around them, and some odd sacks. The boys never asked what was in the packages and Grindle never volunteered. From the course of the recent discussion, Erik assumed the man traded in precious goods, small but of high value, and wore poor clothing and drove a modest-appearing wagon to throw off suspicion. Erik suspected Grindle might have gems or some other cargo of small bulk and large value there.

The first night together, Erik had noticed that while the wagon was dirty on the outside it was clean in the back where the cargo lay, and it was very well repaired. The wheels had recently been reset and the work had been first-rate, with the hubs properly packed and the iron bands on the wheels carefully attached with more than the minimum number of nails. The horses were likewise more than they seemed. Grindle kept them modestly dirty, though not enough to pose a health problem, but they were scruffy-looking animals until you examined them closely. Their hooves were trimmed at the proper angle and the shoeing was absolutely masterful, as good as any Erik had seen. The animals were more than sound, they were fit and well cared for; every night Grindle supplemented their roadside grazing with fresh grain from a bag he stored under the wagon seat.

Roo clucked and rustled the reins and the wagon rolled forward again, moving in behind a long line of
wagons that were stretching along the highway toward the city. Grindle said, “This is the longest damn wait I've seen in my life!”

“It doesn't look like we're moving any time soon. I'll go look.” Roo handed the reins to Grindle.

Erik said, “I'll go with you,” and leaped down off the wagon, following after Roo.

As they moved along, several wagon drivers were standing up in their seats, attempting to see what the delay ahead might be. Ten or so wagons ahead of Grindle's, they encountered a teamster heading back toward the end of the line, muttering curses.

“What's the holdup?” asked Roo.

The man didn't even look at them as he said, “Some damn nonsense if you ask me. They're searching the wagons before they even reach the outer edge of the foulburg. Couldn't do it at the city gate, proper like. No, they set up a second search point down at the creek bridge. I guess they just have to ruin a man's chances of a hot dinner. It'll be hours before we get through.” The man reached his own wagon, five ahead of Grindle's, and swung up to take the reins from his apprentice. “Prince's funeral—every noble in the West and half from the East in town—and market day, yet they're climbing through every wagon and looking at every man coming in like they were on the hunt for the King's own murderer.” The man's comments descended into general muttering, peppered by some colorful obscenities, as Erik motioned for Roo to come away.

Out of earshot of anyone in the waiting line of wagons, Roo said, “What do we do?”

Erik said, “I don't know. With all this funeral stuff going on, it may be something else they're on the
watch for, but it could be our necks if they are looking for us.” He thought a minute. “Maybe we wait until dark, circle away from this road, and see if there's another way into town less watched. And there's still the problem of getting into the city proper behind the wall.”

“One at a time. If we can get into the foulburg, we can find a way through the walls, I'm certain. There's always a way in and out of a city for folks who don't want too much attention drawn to themselves.”

“Thieves and smugglers?”

“Yes.”

“What if we circle the city and strike out for another port?”

“Too far,” said Roo. “I don't know how far Land's End is to the west, but I remember my father swearing a blue streak when he had to go there. Almost half again as far, he'd say. And I don't know what sort of ports there are to the north.

“Besides, on the road, without Grindle's wagon, we'd stand out like we were painted red.”

Erik nodded. “Well, we'd better go back and say something to Grindle so he doesn't get suspicious.”

“He's suspicious already, but he's not overly curious, which is better,” answered Roo. Then, with his infectious grin, he added, “Besides, I think he likes me. He says he has a daughter I should meet, and I'll bet you she's as ugly as he is.”

Erik had to laugh. “Going to marry for money?”

As they approached Grindle's wagon, Roo said, “Only if I get the chance.”

Grindle listened as they explained the delay, then said, “Are you going on ahead?”

Roo said, “I think so. We can get through the gate
faster if we go now, and you're safe from any marauders, so you don't need our company any longer, Master Merchant. We've got business near the port, and the sooner we can get there the better.”

“Well then, the gods' speed to you, and if you ever return to Krondor, drop by and tell me how you're doing.” To Roo he said, “You're a rogue and a liar, boy, but you have the makings of a good merchant if you'd just stop thinking everyone else around you is slower than yourself. That will be your undoing, you mark my words.”

Roo laughed and waved good-bye to Grindle as Erik shouldered his travel bag. They walked down the line of wagons until they were sure they were out of sight of the merchant, and then they angled off, away from the King's Highway and toward a small farm to the north.

Erik swatted a persistent fly that refused to stay away from his face. “Got the little bastard!” he said with satisfaction.

Roo waved away several others and said, “Now, if you could manage to kill all his little brothers and sisters, as well . . .”

Erik lay back on a bale of straw. The farm was deserted, looking as if the entire household had gone into the city for some reason. It was a well-tended smallholding with a house, two outbuildings—one a privy and the other a root cellar—and a barn. They had found the barn unlocked and wagon tracks leading away, so Erik supposed the farmer and his family had been stuck somewhere in that long line of people waiting to get into the city or had gotten there earlier in the day.

Erik and Roo were waiting for sundown before attempting to cross the open fields to the east of the city and make their way into the foulburg. Roo was confident that once they found a likely inn he could find someone to show them the way into the city for a small fee. Erik wasn't as certain of the plan, but had nothing to offer by way of an alternative, so he said nothing. They sat at the rear of the barn, beneath the hayloft.

“Erik?”

“Yes?”

“How do you feel?”

“Not bad. My shoulder feels like new.”

“No, I don't mean that,” said Roo, nibbling on a long straw. “I mean about everything—killing Stefan and the rest.”

Erik said nothing for a long while; at last he said, “He needed killing, I guess. I don't feel much of anything. I felt very strange when he went all limp after you stuck him. I felt a lot worse when that bandit got in the way of my sword point. That made me feel sick.” He was quiet for a minute. “It's odd, isn't it? I hold my own half brother so you can kill him and don't feel much—not even relief because of the way he abused Rosalyn—but a complete stranger, a murderer probably, and I feel almost like vomiting.”

Roo said, “Don't be so hard on murderers. That's us, remember?” He yawned. “Maybe you have to be holding the blade; that robber dying didn't bother me, but I can still feel the way it was when I stuck my dagger into Stefan. I was sure mad at him then.”

Erik let out a long sigh. “It doesn't do to dwell on this, I think. We're outlaws and there's nothing to do for it but try to get to the Sunset Islands. There's a
legacy of some sort waiting for me at Barret's Coffee House, and I mean to go there, then find the first ship heading west.”

“What legacy?” Roo sounded intrigued. “You never mentioned it before.”

“Well, ‘legacy' may be too big a word. My father left something for me with a solicitor and litigator at Barret's Coffee House.”

The sound of a wagon in the distance brought both young men to their feet. Roo peered out the door. “Either the farmer got tired of waiting in the line or he's back from morning market in the city, but either way the entire family seems to be riding in the wagon and we can't get out without being seen.”

“Come on,” said Erik, climbing the ladder to the hayloft. Roo followed and found what Erik had been looking for, a door outside. He knelt and said, “Stay back against the wall until they've unhitched the wagons and gone inside. Then we'll jump down from here and head into the city. It should be about time, anyway.”

Just then the door to the barn was heaved open, and a child's voice shouted above the loud creaking, “Papa! I didn't get to see the Prince.”

A woman's voice said, “If you hadn't been hitting your sister, you would have seen him ride by.”

Another male voice, an adult's, said, “Papa, why do you think the king named Nicholas Prince instead of Erland?”

“That's the business of the Crown, and none of mine,” came the answer as the wagon rolled into the barn, backed in by the farmer. Erik peeked over the edge of the loft and saw the farmer sitting in the wagon seat, letting his eldest son push the horses backwards as
he kept an eye on things. They had obviously done this hundreds of times, and Erik appreciated the ease with which they ensured the horses did exactly what was asked, keeping the wagon intact and those riding in it safe. They continued to talk.