The White Mists of Power (6 page)

Lord Ewehl’s tone sounded disapproving. But the people looked contented to Adric. They seemed to be working hard and getting a lot done. He sighed and leaned his head against the curtain. “How much farther?”

“Not much,” Lord Ewehl said.

They rode for the next few miles in silence. Adric watched as the fields eased into hedges and then into trampled grass. Finally, around a corner he saw the spires of Anda, looking tall and spindly against the clear sky.

“We’re here,” he said, not caring about the excitement in his voice. Another road merged into the one they were on, and they suddenly found themselves in traffic. Another carriage pulled in ahead of them, and riders along either side. Adric looked at the horseflesh, and decided that it was of poor quality. The riders wore dusty clothes and had sweat trickles on their sunburned faces.

Lord Ewehl leaned his head out the window and looked around. “Congestion,” he said. “I hate the city.”

The rumbling of the other carriages mingled with their own, and the thud of the horse hooves grew louder. Voices cried out to one another, and Adric caught only part of the words, nonsense syllables mostly, it seemed to him. A stench grew in the air. He was able to recognize manure and rotted food, but there were other smells equally as foul blended in.

He looked out the window and saw a long wall that encircled buildings. Dozen of horses and carriages were going in and out a gate. The wall and gate were made of wood planks strung together. Adric squinted. Inside, he could see the edges of more buildings made from wood.

As the carriage pulled inside the gate, the noise and smell grew stronger. People, many in rags, their bodies unwashed and coated with dust and dirt, teemed against the carriage. More people, some without hands or with large sores covering their skin, cowered next to the gate. A man on a horse whipped them as he went by. Shouts, calls, whistles, an occasional whinny, and the rattle of carriages built to a cacophony in Adric’s head. A man stood on a large rock near one of the buildings, screaming something about the vengeance of the Old Ones. Hands pounded against the carriage, reached for Adric. Voices called for a coin, sir, just one, spare me some money, sir, I haven’t eaten in days. Adric wanted to shrink back into the carriage, but he didn’t want to miss anything. The city was nothing like he had imagined. It was thriving, alive on its own, and yet frightening at the same time.

The carriage stopped, and Adric had to grip the windowsill to keep from falling. The hands that were reaching suddenly grabbed on, and Adric heard a whistle, crack, and snap of the whip the footmen used to keep ragged people off before he saw the black tip draw blood. Adric gazed across the crowd at the buildings that seemed scattered haphazardly beside the roads. The buildings were top-heavy, their second story hanging out over the first. A woman leaned out an upstairs window and tossed the contents of a slop jar into the street. The liquid splattered people below, and one, a fat man wearing green velvet robes, shook a bejeweled fist at the building. Down the other streets the crowd seemed thinner. The edges of signs blocked his view. Dogs ran through the crowd and he thought he saw a chicken scratching at the dirt.

Adric gazed out the window. His stomach was jumping, and he felt as if he had to move. “I only have the day,” he said, “I want to see everything. Let’s move.”

He stood up. Lord Ewehl remained sitting. “I will stay with the carriage. One of the footmen will accompany you. Tell him when you want to go back, that we’ll meet in the usual spot in the center of town.”

“The center of town. Okay.”

“Wait.” Lord Ewehl reached into his pocket and pulled out a pouch. “You’ll need this.”

Adric took the pouch. He felt the coins clinking against the cloth. “Thank you,” he said. He let himself out the door. The sunlight seemed brighter. It was warm here, but the smells seemed less cramped, less closed up. He climbed down the steps into the crowd, and winced as unwashed bodies rubbed against him. He glanced up once to see a footman climbing down from his perch behind the carriage, and then he pushed his way through the crowd to one of the side streets.

As he got outside the throng, he saw merchants pushing carts and calling their wares. One had meats, another fresh fruits. Adric stopped one of the meat carts and bought a chunk of beef, but when he bit into it, the meat tasted rancid. He spat it out and looked for the merchant to complain, but the man had already disappeared. Adric tossed the meat aside, and noted with surprise that a dozen people dove for it.

He kept moving, deciding that he would buy something to eat later. On the corner a troupe of jugglers tossed sticks in the air. They were good, better than some who had come to the palace. Adric saw a merchant toss a coin into a hat one of the jugglers held out; Adric did the same. His coin, gold and shiny, caught the gaze of several bystanders, and they looked at him as if sizing him up. Perhaps they were beginning to realize who he was. He smiled and nodded. A prince should always be kindly to his subjects.

He turned down a side street and had to duck to avoid hitting the base of a sign advertising a cobbler shop. Here the noise was not as loud, but the garbage smell was stronger. A river of waste, spoiled food, and ruined lumps ran in a ditch down the center of the street. Adric sneezed and wondered why they didn’t keep the garbage in a central place as they did at the palace. Outside the city, on that patch of trampled grass, would do nicely.

There were fewer people on the streets here. The men wore well-tailored clothes and the women lifted long skirts as they daintily crossed the muck. The signs hung at odd angles, some jutting out into the street, all of them with words and symbols. The cobbler’s had a shoe, and the tailor had a needle and thread. Adric was leaning out so that he could see the others when someone grabbed him and shoved him against a wall.

Splinters ran up his back and into his shoulders. A man with a large, running sore under his eye and a mouth half empty of teeth held him by his arms. Adric squirmed. The man’s breath smelled like a dead animal.

“I want that pouch of yours, laddie.”

Adric blinked, and then recognized the man as one who had been watching him when he paid the juggler. The man must have followed him. Adric looked for the footman, but saw no one. Fear ran through him then, and a little panic. The man could kill him.

The man reached for Adric’s shirt. Adric shove a knee into the man’s groin. As the man let out an ooof of pain, Adric pulled his knife from its sheath.

The man’s eyes narrowed. He grabbed Adric’s wrist until the knife twisted free. It clattered against the side of the building as it fell. The man yanked the pouch from Adric’s pocket, then threw the boy aside. Adric tried to get his footing, but he stumbled and slipped in the muck. He landed, bottom first, in the river of garbage. Water splashed in his mouth and eyes, burning and tasting foul. He pushed himself up and out, looking for the robber, but the man was gone. Adric walked back to the side of the building. His knife was missing, too. His breath hitched in his throat. Lord Ewehl had known this would happen. He had planned to embarrass Adric, and it had worked.

Adric walked back down the side street, past the jugglers and into the crowd. The roadblock was gone. Carriages moved freely down the street. He scanned for the footman and saw no one. The footman knew where the meeting place was. Adric didn’t.

He let out a shudder. He was alone. And he was lost.

Chapter 3

Seymour couldn’t shake the smell from his nostrils: feces, garbage, human and animal sweat. The city reeked. He had been inside the gate for only a short time and he already hated the place. And the noise was almost as bad as the smells: people screaming at each other; carriages rattling; horses neighing; dogs barking; merchants hawking their wares. Each sound built on the next until they reached a rumbling din that had no substance, only a continual throb in Seymour’s head. He felt trapped here, unable to see the sky without something–or someone–blocking his view.

“I don’t like it here,” he said. They had walked for hours through the forest. His ears had strained for the sound of Dakin’s hounds, and all the time he had thought he would be safe once he reached the city, once he saw the gates of Nadaluci. He hadn’t thought that he would be frightened of the city too.

“You have a better idea?” Byron brought his hand down and adjusted his shirt. His face was streaked with dirt and sweat.

A merchant bumped Seymour with his wooden cart. Stepping back, Seymour stumbled against a woman carrying a baby. He stepped up on the wooden platform beside a stable, and leaned against the building as if it provided protection. “I haven’t heard any ideas,” he said.

Byron glanced at Seymour and then looked away. Byron had deep shadows under his eyes and his limp had returned. Seymour had suggested staying in the forest another night, but Byron insisted on coming to the city. He seemed to feel that they would be safer here.

A woman passed, dragging two children along. She crossed into the street ahead of a white horse bearing a retainer. The horse reared and its front hooves narrowly missed the woman. She pushed her children forward as if nothing had happened.

Seymour wanted off the street. He didn’t want to get trampled and he didn’t want to go deaf. The smell was making him nauseous. “Don’t you know anyone here?”

“I may know some people, Seymour, but I wouldn’t know where to find them. I still don’t understand why you can’t change a few pebbles into gold–”

“They’ll change back.”

“We’ll be gone.”

Seymour crossed his arms in front of his chest. “A man only has so much luck, and we might need it later on. I can’t guarantee that the spell would work.”

“What’s the harm in trying?”

“I don’t want to waste my luck on something that will fail,” Seymour snapped. The muscles along his back and shoulders were tight. “I only have so much luck.”

“Well, I only have so much energy,” Byron said. “We’ll have to stop here. I am not going any father than Nadaluci–at least for the night.”

Shouts of “Carriage! Carriage!” rose above the din. People on the street scurried to the side, parting like trees in a windstorm before the large, approaching carriage. Six white horses with gold braided manes and gold trappings pulled the carriage. Two coachmen sat on top and four groomsmen flanked the sides. The carriage itself was white, unblemished by the travel. Four white banners with a blue star in the center flew from each of the groomsmen’s stations. A woman gazed out the window, her face veiled by a thin white curtain.

Seymour coughed as dust rose around them. Byron coughed too, but didn’t take his gaze from the carriage. Seymour swallowed, barely able to wet his mouth. He was thirsty and hungry as well as tired. “Where are we going to stay, then?”

The carriage rounded a corner. The flags lingered for a moment, like a hand waving good-bye, before they disappeared. Byron turned. “We have no choice, Seymour. We stay here.”

People were streaming back into the streets. A beggar limped past, clutching a swollen arm that smelled of pus. Another beggar tugged on Seymour’s robe. “A spare coin, lad? Just one?” Seymour shook him off and turned his back, more in fright than anything else.

“I still don’t see how we can stay,” he said. “We don’t have any money, and I really don’t want to sleep on the streets.”

Byron ran a hand through his hair. It stuck up in tufts around his forehead. “I have an idea.”

A merchant in long sheepskin robes tossed a coin at a group of beggars. They dove for the money, pushing, shoving, and fighting among themselves. The merchant laughed and moved on. Seymour shivered. There wasn’t even charity here.

“What do you want me to do?” he asked.

“Follow me.” Byron stepped into the road, ignoring the horses much as the woman had. Seymour followed, dodging beggars and manure, wondering if the mud had been caused by rain or horse piss. The stench in the road itself was even thicker than it had been at the roadside. Byron walked quickly and Seymour had to hurry to keep up.

They stopped in front of a row of wooden buildings. Byron glanced at a faded sign advertising an inn. He grinned. He grabbed Seymour’s arm and led him away from the door.

“There’s a tavern inside that inn,” Byron said. “I want you to go in and see if there’s a merchant or a nobleman of my build. If there is, approach him, make up some kind of story, and find out where his room is. Then come tell me.”

“What kind of story?” Seymour’s hands had grown cold. When he was six, he had lied to his father about completing his first spell. His father had demanded to see it, and when Seymour hadn’t even known the incantation, his father had punished him by calling a whirlpool from the river and wrapping him in it. Seymour’s mother had found it, demanded his father stop, but by the time he had, Seymour had already been cut in a dozen places by the water’s sharpness. He hadn’t lied since.

Seymour wished he was that certain. If he didn’t want to attempt a spell, though, Byron’s idea was the only chance they had. Seymour grimaced. He couldn’t concentrate well enough in the noise to gather his luck web. He glanced at Byron. Byron nodded.

Seymour took a deep breath and walked to the inn door. The door was deeply carved oak. Seymour pushed and it didn’t move. He leaned against it and the door swung open slowly.

The place looked dark and gloomy. Dust motes rose in the light from the door. Then the door shut, cutting out the outside noise as if everyone out there had disappeared. Seymour blinked and saw nothing but darkness. Voices punctuated by laughter reached him. The low tones were a relief after the din of the street. He sneezed once, clearing the outdoors from his nostrils. The inn itself smelled of ale and greasy food.