The White Robe (7 page)

It was far too dangerous to take the horse further and Sansun would be safe in the woods where there was plenty of food and water until he could return for him. He buried the torc in its black bag, explained his plan to the horse and then left him to walk away from the edge of the woods and across the fields towards Wallmore.

Jonderill had left the fields behind around noon and had joined the roadway concentrating hard on avoiding loose stones which would bruise his bare feet whilst at the same time watching the city becoming larger and larger as he drew closer. He had stopped twice on the road; once to drink at a roadside well and once to help a carter unload and then reload his wagon because a wheel spoke had been in need of repair. For that he had received two copper gellstart, a hunk of bread which was at least two days old and a much welcomed ride to the city gates. Now he stood in line with families and traders, journeymen and farmers, waiting to get through the main gates and into the city.

The walls of Wallmore were massive; nearly three times the height of a man and the depth of a horse and cart. Firing slits penetrated the wall at regular intervals and soldiers with bolt bows manned the ramparts. It was nothing like open and peaceful Alewinder. By the time he reached the gates it was almost dark and most of those who had been in the queue behind him had given up any hope of getting into the city before the gates closed and were setting up camp outside of the walls for the night. Four guards were already pushing the massive gates closed and another two stood ready to drop the locking bar in place as he squeezed through. They all scowled at him.

“Papers.” snapped an irritated guard as he walked up to Jonderill with his hand out.

Jonderill tried to look innocent. “I’ve lost them.”

The guard looked him up and down in disdain. “We don’t allow beggars into the city at night. You’ll have to go before I lock you up.”

“I’m not a beggar,” said Jonderill. “I’ve got money and I’ve come to work for someone in the city.”

“Prove it.” Jonderill pulled the two copper gellstart out of the pocket of his robe and held them out in the palm of his hand. “Now isn’t that a coincidence? Two copper gellstart is the tax for staying here overnight.” The guard held out his hand and Jonderill looked at him defiantly. “If you want to come into my city you pay what I say you will.” Jonderill sighed in resignation and reluctantly handed over the two coins.

“Now who is it you want to see?” asked the guard as he pocketed the coins.

“I’ve come to see Callabris, King Borman’s magician.”

The guard gave a bark of laughter and waved the other guards over. “This one says he’s come to see the white robe do some tricks. Well you’re out of luck mate, Callabris don’t mix with the likes of you and even if he did he’s gone and won’t be back for a season. You two, chuck him out.”

Two of the guards grabbed Jonderill’s arms and dragged him to a small gateway which another guard unlocked and held open. The guards pushed him roughly through the door and slammed it shut behind him cutting off the sounds of their laughter.

Jonderill stumbled on the roadway and fell to one knee grazing it and the palm of his hand on the gritty road surface. He swore to himself under his breath and slowly rose to his feet hoping that nobody around had seen his undignified exit from the city. On the trampled land around the main gate carters and merchants were setting up camp for the night. Those with hand carts and single pack animals had gathered in one area and already a communal fire had been lit.

There was the smell of cooking food in the air and, as he looked around, he could see people gathering around a large cauldron donating bits of meat or fresh vegetables to the communal pot. Others were unrolling bedrolls or heaping packs around the fire as the travellers staked out their claim to the best sleeping places for the night as close to the fire as they could get.

Beyond the communal fire the owners of the larger wagons and the caravan drivers were claiming their own space, parking wagons, seeing to their stock and lighting their own fires to cook their evening meal. If any had noticed Jonderill’s forced exit from the city they didn’t acknowledge it but carried on with their evening preparations as if it were a well ordered routine. Jonderill brushed the dirt and specks of blood from his knee and hands, looked towards the distant forest which was fading into the gloom and tried to decide if he could make it back to the forest edge before total darkness fell.

The distant call of a sly hunter answered by its mate helped to make his mind up and he turned away, making his way carefully to where the communal fire lit up the outside of the city walls. As he passed the small hand carts draped with waxed covers to protect their contents from the evening dew, the smell of hot food coming from the cauldron suspended over the fire made his stomach rumble and his mouth water. It had been so long since he had eaten anything except burnt flour roots and over baked wild onions that the smell of fresh mushrooms, spiced beans and yard birds cooking together in a thick stew made his head spin.

He made his way through the small crowd towards the edge of the fire where two women, dressed in brown dresses tied at the waist with rough hemp belts, were cooking flour cakes on a hot stone. The younger of the two, with her hair held back by a scarf made of the same material as her dress, deftly turned half cooked flour cakes on a hot stone with a flat, broad knife. The older woman, as thin as a pike staff and with a sour expression, flipped the flat cakes off the hot stone and onto a platter which she held out to the people as they passed, nodding to each one as they took the offered food.

Jonderill took his place in the line but when he reached the old woman she pulled the platter of hot flour cakes out of his reach. “Where’s yer bit?” Jonderill looked blank and the old woman sighed in irritation. “What yer put in the pot, boy?”

“Nothing,” muttered Jonderill.

“Where’s yer coin then?”

“I don’t have any.”

“Then bugger off, this aint no charity fer bleedin’ beggars.” She shoved Jonderill out of the way and offered the platter with its hot flour cakes to the next person in line.

Jonderill went to protest but looking down at his bare feet, legs covered in dirt and poorly fitting robe he realised that he must have looked and smelled like a street beggar. He walked away with as much dignity as he could muster and made his way to where the bigger wagons and caravans were parked for the night hoping that someone would take pity on him. A number of small fires had been lit and pots of stew hung over several of them.

Others were tended by men or women who pushed wrapped bundles into the ashes to cook and one fire had a spit on two iron posts over it on which a pond wader roasted, dripping  sizzling fat into the fire. Everyone turned their backs on Jonderill as he passed by and ignored him except for one fat merchant huddled in a richly embroidered blanket and flanked by two armed guards. He followed Jonderill with his eyes as he passed and then spoke softly to the guard on his left.

Dejectedly, Jonderill walked to the edge of the camp and sat with his back propped up against a large everleaf; close enough to the camp to benefit from its protection but far enough away that the smell of hot food wasn’t a torment. It was a long time since he had been very hungry but he remembered the unpleasant feeling and the unhappy memories which went with it. He almost jumped when a tall figure coughed loudly beside him and he looked up to see one of the fat merchant’s guards standing next to him, relaxed but with his hand firmly on the hilt of his sword.

“My employer would like a word with you.”

Jonderill shrugged but didn’t move. “What does he want?”

It was the guard’s turn to shrug. “Don’t know, he don’t tell me his business but we’ve got a dozen wagons and not enough hands to manage the merchandise so perhaps he’s got a proposition for you.”

Jonderill looked across to where the caravan was parked well away from the others with its covered and guarded wagons. There seemed to him to be lots of people in the encampment, most of them armed. The camp’s fire was the largest he had seen and two huge cauldrons were suspended over it cooking more food than could be eaten by those he could see. The guard followed the direction of his gaze and gave a rough laugh.

“Stews about ready, could be that the merchant will exchange some of the surplus for a bit of hired help.”

His stomach rumbled again making his mind up for him. “Lead the way,” he said as he stumbled to his feet.

He followed the guard to the edge of the camp and then through the gap between two covered wagons grimacing at the smell of rotting flesh and animal waste as he passed by them into the light of the fire. The merchant sat in a portable chair as far away from the wagons as he could get. When Jonderill reached him the merchant looked him up and down with small beady eyes almost hidden in between heavy eyebrows and fat cheeks. He tapped a fat finger bedecked with rings against his painted lips and smiled. Instantly Jonderill knew he had made a mistake and took a step back into the guard behind him who gave him a shove forward closer to the merchant.

“Nice, very nice,” muttered the merchant. “Pity about the dirt but that’ll wash off. Is he alone?” The guard behind Jonderill gave a brief nod. “Good, I think I have a buyer in mind who would be pleased to purchase a strong young man.”

Realisation of what the smell had been from the wagons and what the merchant traded in suddenly hit Jonderill and he turned to run but the guard made a grab for him, catching his robe at the shoulder and at the same time hooking his bare feet from under him. Jonderill hit the ground hard and rolled, wrenching his robe from the guard’s grip and scrambling to his feet. Behind him another two armed men closed in blocking his exit.

He turned to face the new threat and in desperation threw two balls of flaming elemental fire at the approaching men. One of the guards knocked the ball away to one side with his sword but the other ball of flame hit the second man in his chest, igniting his tunic. The man screamed and rolled in the dirt to put the flames out and Jonderill took his opportunity in the confusion to run, but before he had taken two steps, a brilliant light and intense pain exploded in his head followed by total darkness.

*

Jonderill regained consciousness with a groan, his head throbbing in time to the beating of his heart. Wherever he was it was moving and his body and head was being jostled against a hard wooden floor. He came to the conclusion that he must be in one of the wagons he had seen in the merchant’s camp. When the wagon suddenly tipped into a pot hole his head banged sharply against the floor almost making him pass out again. His stomach roiled against the pain and the stench of the other bodies and their filth closely packed in the wagon. He tried to roll over and get to his knees, but his hands were firmly tied to rings in the floor so instead he turned his head to one side and vomited bile onto the wagon floor.

“Agh, puke, more stink,” croaked a voice next to him.

Jonderill turned his head away from the reek of his own vomit and tried to focus his blurred vision on the man who had spoken. “Where are we?”

“In Fubrig’s caravan on the way to Essenland’s silver mines, that’s if any of us live that long.” The speaker gave a hacking cough and spat red phlegm on the floor.

“But how? There’s no slavery in the six kingdoms.”

The man gave a cynical laugh. “Yer got anyone who’s goin’ to miss yer, boy? See, this is ‘ow Borman gets rid of those ‘e don’t want in ‘is kingdom; the ‘omeless and the beggars. ‘E sells them ter Fubrig and ‘e sells them to Essenland to work in their mines. Turns enough profit fer everyone ter turn a blind eye ter what’s goin’ on.”

“But King Porteous would never allow that to happen.”

“Where you been ‘iding mate? Porteous, the old windbag, don’t know owt about it, it’s that bastard Vorgret that does it an’ now that Porteous ‘as abdicated an’ Vorgret is king, there aint no stopping ‘im.”