The Malmillard Codex (9 page)

The cookshop blazed with light. Succulent
smells drifted out the unglazed windows, to gather like clouds end
and entice the passers-by.

Val paused outside the open doorway and
stooped to peer inside. Not seeing Madryn's lean, black-clad figure
inside, he looked up and down the street. He was still shaky from
his encounter with…whatever had been in the alley.

What had happened while he had lain there,
unconscious, in that dank and smelly abode? Why had no one, in this
village that lived off thieving, stolen his weapons, his money, his
boots, while he lay there helpless? These and other questions ran
round and round his weary mind as he stood like some great bronze
statue before the cookshop.

"You must be starving, Val," a voice
whispered in his ear.

Val jumped, bumped into an inoffensive
burgher and sent him sprawling against a dirty stone wall.

"Carefully," laughed Madryn as she helped
the man to his feet and brushed him off. "Your pardon, sir, but my
friend hasn't eaten all day and he has a mighty appetite."

The man, quite small himself, looked with
careful consideration at the height of Madryn, the breadth of Val,
and the weapons of both, and decided that he had no complaint
whatsoever in the matter. He offered a weak smile and scurried
away, to disappear into the darkening street.

"Come along and tell me about your day,"
Madryn said, taking Val's arm and leading him into the shop. "Was
Daemon well?"

Val nodded as they stepped over the
threshold.

Clamor and steamy smells rose like a wall
before them. A narrow, deep room cluttered with tables large and
small, the shop reached away into a dim distance towards a huge
fireplace that belched out a pale gray smoke through and around its
collection of pots and kettles and pans.

A tall young man came toward them through
the crush, his dour face as white as uncooked dough. "You are
staying at the Raven and have ordered supper," he informed them in
tones that showed he would brook no argument on the subject. Then,
without waiting for a reply, he led them to a table set for two in
a relatively quiet corner near the door.

Madryn unbuckled her swordbelt and hung it
on an unoccupied chair, then settled into another with a sigh of
relief. "Sit down, Val. You look like you could use a bottle or two
of wine." Her anger of earlier in the day had dissipated…or had
it?

Val hung his sword beside hers and sat down.
Should he tell her of his adventure in the alley, he wondered?
Yes…of course…Val opened his mouth….

A harried boy, his apron stained with an
archipelago of greasy spots, arrived at that instant with a deep
tureen clasped to his hollow bosom. He set it down with solicitous
care, then dashed off and returned with two wide shallow bowls,
spoons, and a long loaf of brown bread on a tray.

"Soup," the boy announced unnecessarily,
dealing out the bowls and spoon and dishing up helpings of a savory
liquid swimming with unrecognizable chunks of green and brown.

A sturdy woman, her face a reverse mirror
image of the dour young man's, approached their table. "Welcome,
welcome," she sang, "welcome, most honored guests. My sister gave
orders that I was to treat you well, so ask for what you wish, I
pray you."

"This is an excellent beginning, madam,"
Madryn said around a mouthful of soup. "A pair of bottles would not
be amiss."

"Our best wine, Leone, my son," trilled the
woman as she danced away on cheerful feet.

The dour-faced young man trudged over with a
dusty bottle and two mugs in his hands. He ripped a cork out as if
it had done him an injury and poured both mugs to the brim,
emptying the bottle in the process. Then he stamped away, the spent
bottle hanging from one morose hand.

"What strange coupling produced that most
opposite of sons?" wondered Madryn as she tasted her wine.

Since Val had been wondering the same thing,
he grinned weakly and shook his head at her echo of his own
thoughts.

Too soon, the soup was finished. Val wiped
his mouth on his hand, seized his mug and downed the contents with
one huge gulp. The fiery wine coursed through his veins, adding
strength to his weakened muscles, clearing his still-addled
brain.

"I was walking around the town earlier and…"
Val began, anxious to tell Madryn of the strange happenings in the
alleyway.

"And I have found us a ship to Lakazsh; it
leaves tomorrow at noon," she interrupted. "I'm…eager to be shut of
this pestiferous place, and we need to get to Lakazsh before the
yearly caravan leaves for the mountains. If we don't, we'll have to
travel alone, and that's not the safest way to journey to the Janus
Ridge."

Val nodded. "While I was walking," he began
again, "I entered—"

The harried boy reappeared with another
tray, his return timed to coincide with the emptying of their soup
bowls. Piling the dirty bowls on top of each other, he dealt out
two plates already heaped with grilled fish and bread.

Madryn leaned closer to her plate and gave a
suspicious sniff. She picked up a piece of fish that had fallen
away from the bones and popped it into her mouth. "Good," she
mumbled. "Do go on, Val. You were walking in town. And?"

Val opened his mouth—then shut it. What
could he tell her? The images were fading away even as he tried to
grasp them. He remembered little more than awakening in the alley,
a dirty boy slapping his face.

"It's a strange town," he said at last.

Madryn nodded. "Well, we won't be here much
longer, and that's a relief. Eat your supper."

They exchanged no more words as the fish
disappeared, followed by huge slabs of yellow pudding that tasted
faintly of grapes.

At last, they were both replete and sleepy
after too much food and wine. Val had almost managed to still the
questions that still plagued him. He leaned back in his chair and
gazed about the crowded room.

Madryn's hand locked onto his knee under the
cover of the table. Val just managed not to jump; he also just
managed not to let a silly smile spread across his face.

"Those three, there at the table closest the
door. I think they're watching us," she whispered, her lips barely
moving.

Val glanced about the room again, his eyes
moving idly as one who has dined too well and is interested in
nothing. The three that Madryn pointed out—two men and a woman—were
armed with swords and daggers. They sat, sipping from mugs, their
eyes playing over the entire room.

Except for the table where sat Madryn and
Val.

"Yes, you're right," Val nodded, his voice
loud as if he were far gone in drink. "It's time for bed."

Madryn nodded and rose, shoving her chair
back so hard that it bounced off the wall behind her. The resultant
clatter, falling as it did in the midst of a momentary silence,
brought heads turning toward them from all over the room.

Except for the heads of the three near the
door.

"I believe it's
time to return to the inn, don't you, Val?"

Val groped for his swordbelt at Madryn's
whisper; he watched as she rose to her feet and began to clumsily
buckle her own belt.

The three at the table still did not glance
their way.

Val buckled his belt and checked his boot
dagger as Madryn tossed coins on the table to pay for their meal;
then they made their way to the door.

The three who had been so carefully not
watching them rose and followed them out the door. Outside, it was
full dark, with a sickle moon riding high in a starry sky. For the
moment, the street was empty. Val followed Madryn toward their
inn.

There was a rush and a clatter behind them,
just as they reached the mouth of an alleyway. Pale moonlight
glinted on steel, on ruddy bronze, as a stern voice ordered
"Halt!"

Val's sword sprang from its scabbard like a
living thing; Madryn's was already out. Without words they
maneuvered back-to-back, Val with a fleeting sense of surprise at
her skill and knowledge. But he had no time to wonder long. A
sliver of steel came flashing towards him; he flung up his sword to
meet it. Sparks flew in the dim night. The clang and clash rang up
and down the street, as from the shadows there sprang the watchers
that always appear when trouble erupted.

Madryn parried the thrust of a slender blade
with surprising skill, even as Val tore his eyes away and fought
off an attack from a short woman who knew full well which side of a
sword to grasp. A sighing gasp echoed behind him and he heard the
sound of a body collapsing onto cobblestones.

Another filled the gap thus created, with
another behind him, Val noted with quick glimpses over his
shoulder. Then he had to give up watching Madryn as his own blade
was engaged again and again. Strong blows, slashing at throat and
belly, aiming for a kill instead of a crippling. This was no robber
attack, meant to steal their coins and blades. Nor were they after
an escaped slave, to take him back for vengeance. These people
wished Val and Madryn dead.

Why?

The crowd grew; the townsfolk had not had
such an entertainment in a long while. Val could feel Madryn's body
behind him, her back pressed to his. He struck out, flinging away a
blade seeking his throat, then yelled at her over his shoulder,
"Run!"

To Val's surprise, the maddening woman
laughed at him!

"Not this time, Val." Madryn disposed of
another attacker with a quick, vicious thrust. Then she shouted,
"Tax collectors!"

At once, the gawking bystanders were
transformed into a yelling mob. The three who had first attacked
them, added to the other four that had been waiting in the alley,
were overcome by a mass of club-wielding, rock-throwing, enraged
and murderous townsfolk.

"Now we run!" Madryn shouted. Seizing Val's
arm, she raced with him, twisting through the angry mass of people
to the safety of their inn's front door.

The innkeeper was waiting for them. They
shot inside and she slammed the door to, barring it with a stout
board.

Panting, Madryn leaned against the wall, her
tawny hair drooping about her sweaty face, her sleek leather boots
spattered with mud and filth.

To Val, she had never been more
desirable.

"How did you know to shout that?" he
gasped.

"A guess," she grinned. "But a calculated
one, in a village as poor as this."

***

Val patted Daemon's glossy neck and
whispered soothing words into a twitching, upright ear. The two of
them stood on the shore next to the quay. Tied to the ramshackle
pier was the
Atria,
her stout, broad outline not looking
particularly seaworthy to Val. But then, he'd never been to sea, so
he didn't think he had much right to judge.

Daemon tamped one hoof in irritation; the
sodden earth that coated the shore was stuck in his hooves and as
he stamped, great clots of mud the color of dried blood flew in all
directions.

Madryn stood on the spotless deck of the
tubby craft. She was arguing with the captain, a small man with the
widespread legs of a sailor. Up to now, Captain Zenobio had had
little trouble understanding Madryn's speech, but he had suddenly
lost the habit of it. He gabbled and shook his head as she held out
a handful of silver coins.

"This is the price we agreed upon, Captain,"
Madryn insisted. "Half now, half when we reach Lakazsh."

The captain shook his head; it was wrapped
in a colorful red cloth woven in the southern plains and
traditionally worn by sailors. He spat over the side of his craft,
his study legs braced for the waves that did not enter this
peaceful harbor.

"More," he said. "The horse will take up
valuable cargo room. Another three pieces of silver or you find
another way."

Madryn shrugged and handed him another coin.
"The rest when we arrive," she said.

A stream of profanity gushed from the
captain's mouth around stumps of teeth that resembled brown fence
posts rotted from bad weather.

Val watched the bargaining continue as he
thought back over the events of the previous evening.

***

The streets outside their inn were empty;
they could see no one as they gazed down from the window in the
corridor. No fallen warriors. No stricken saviors.

No one at all.

"Why were they after us?" Val looked at
Madryn in the pale moonlight trickling in through the unshuttered
window.

She shrugged. "I don't know." She closed the
shutter and latched it. "Could have been a number of reasons."

Val took her arm and spun her around to face
him. "They were after me, of course," he said, not caring that his
fingers dug into the flesh of her upper arm.

Madryn gave no sigh of pain, nor did she try
to shake off his fierce grip. "I don't think so. But even if they
were, what could we do about it? Give you to them? That's not one
of our options, Valaren."

Val looked up and down the corridor. All
doors were closed. Even so, he lowered his voice to the merest
whisper…though the intensity in that whisper was louder than if
he'd shouted the words. "I'm not Valaren," he said. "I'm Valerik.
An escaped slave. And if they catch you with me, we're both dead.
I'm leaving tomorrow. Alone."

Could he leave her?

"No. We're both leaving tomorrow." Madryn
shook off his hands with an ease that surprised him, then strode
towards their room at the end of the hallway. At the door, she
paused, looking back at him. "Well? Are you coming in? Or do you
want to sleep out here?"

Val looked at her, standing impatiently, one
hand on the latch. An image of her naked body rose before
him—stripped, whipped and cast out, to be hunted by a pack of
ravenous hounds. A chill went through him at the very thought; a
chill that had gone through him dozens, hundreds of times since
they'd met and begun this strange journey together.