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CHAPTER THREE

Druadaen craned his neck as they neared the gates that flanked the entry to Shadowmere’s protected docks. Each was an immense sheet of solid stone, controlled by machinery presumably housed in one of the two looming bastions that flanked the harbor mouth. They reminded Druadaen of treble-sized versions of the towers and gates that operated the locks of Dunarra’s canals. A similarly gargantuan arrangement protected the anchorage of the naval base at Galasmyrn, but there, the titanic mechanisms were housed in windowless edifices built into the high, thick walls that not only protected the fleet from attack, but from the weather that came straight off the ocean.

Here, well in the lee of a headland and away from the path of storms that came off the ocean some ten leagues to the west, Shadowmere’s harbor gates appeared decidedly anomalous, given the lack of similarly impressive walls to either side. There were walls, in fact, but they were barely more than what Druadaen associated with a frontier outpost: twenty-foot-high double-coursed stone without any sign of improvement other than crenellation and the implied promise of a wallwalk just behind it.

However, as Nolus had suggested, perhaps the city did not need walls after all. Rather than huddling behind it, the perimeter towers straddled the black water of the Mere-moat, which spilled into the bay just beyond the gates, spreading like twin runoffs of ink.

“Gives me shivers just looking at it,” Ahearn grumbled.

Umkhira frowned. “Still, that is a strange defense. The towers would be more formidable if one had to cross the moat to reach them.”

“That presumes,” S’ythreni said mildly, “that it’s easier to cross the water inside the tower… where no great weapons may bear on the behemoths that wait beneath its surface.”

Umkhira’s eyes widened and she may have paled slightly.

As Nolus had predicted, it was impossible to find a berth near the needlelike Moorax Tower, which was at the northern end of the docks; in the end, Atremoënse tied up over two hundred yards to the south. By the time her hawsers were around the bollards and cordage fenders were hung between her side and the pier’s stonework, Druadaen and the others were making for the gangplank, eager to be on their way.

“Hoi, you!” called Nolus. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

Druadaen waved and smiled. “Many thanks for the passage, Captain!” Which they’d said already, but perhaps the captain had been distracted and so, had forgotten.

But Nolus shook his head. “This is Shadowmere.”

Druadaen looked around at the others, who appeared as baffled as he was.

Nolus shook his head again. “In this city, your armor and weapons aren’t part of your luggage. You wear them in the street.”

Druadaen wondered if his expression was as dumfounded as the ones around him.

“Why?” Ahearn called up to the captain, who was leaning on the forward rail of the quarterdeck. “Thieves?”

“Gangs?” added Elweyr.

“Bigots?” asked Umkhira with a glower.

“Idiots?” sighed S’ythreni.

Nolus shrugged. “Take your pick.” He may have smiled. “As I said, it’s Shadowmere.”


Druadaen had, in the course of his years as a Courier, visited over three dozen port cities, excluding those of Dunarra and its closest allies. That did not include the smaller towns and even waterside hamlets where those ships had stopped to take on fresh water, provisions, chandlery, timber, or shelter from approaching storms. Since traveling with his present companions, that number had undergone further increase. But for all of that, he had never yet been in a place with so many strange sights and strange customs.

It seemed that there were at least three separate militias, all of which claimed to be the one in charge of the city. Messengers or factotums ran back and forth, wearing different combinations of colored ribbons, their meaning a complete mystery. Within the first five minutes they spotted or heard humans from at least twenty different nations, several pair of aeostu, two patrols—or possibly gangs—of mixed urzhen, and two beings that might have been related to the dog-legged hyek. Food vendors pushed through the throngs with trays trailing as many novel aromas as familiar ones. And while most of the crowd was neither armed nor armored, anyone who was not dressed for work in a trade or on the docks was either adequately equipped, adequately guarded, or noticeably wary.

Druadaen and the other four had, by instinct rather than plan, retracted into a tight group, S’ythreni following a step behind, as if daring cutpurses to try their luck. But so far as Druadaen could tell, they were not attracting any particular notice. If anything, other armed parties simply gave them a slightly wider berth. They returned the favor.

However, they soon found their northward progress blocked. Numerous ships were offloading newly arrived cargos to the warehouses on the other side of the wharf-following thoroughfare, resulting in a series of de facto roadblocks. The only answer seemed to be to push into the streets that led away from the docks, and once there, find an unobstructed route north.

A fine concept, Druadaen conceded shortly after, but not so successful in practice… because everyone else had the same idea. And if the crowds diminished somewhat, so did the width of the streets, rendering their progress only marginally better and far less direct.

Their detours revealed the eclectic mixture of buildings that seemed characteristic of Shadowmere. Old stone houses hemmed in recent wood structures, some little more than shacks. Former palaces that had partially succumbed to time or strife had been rebuilt into perversely ornate manors. Winding in between were streets of eye-gouging diversity. Frame-and-mortar facades with overhanging second stories sported weathered wood intarsia. Brick balconies vied with sandstone cupolas and ancient porticoes. Gables protruded from steep roofs, drooping as if frozen in weary frowns.

The deeper into these off-wharf streets they pushed, the more the crowds around them changed. People of means became fewer and were equipped not only with guards but almost overpowering pomanders—whether to ward off infections or the growing stink of the narrow lanes was unclear. The rest were a mix of sailors between voyages, traveling merchants, mercenaries, indigent scholars, and itinerant artisans.

But for every person with a clear livelihood, there were at least two others hoping to find a job, a purpose, or both. Minstrels, second sons of impoverished gentry, scions of fallen houses, and self-styled “adventurers” rubbed elbows—and on two occasions, were preparing to cross swords—with cutpurses, assassins, thieves, and fugitives, several of whom were drunkenly proclaiming their innocence to any who would listen. Druadaen speculated that some might even have been telling the truth. And finally, in every alley and on every corner, stranded refugees, escaped slaves, and émigrés without local friends, family or sponsors, begged for enough work or alms to survive just one more day.

From behind, S’ythreni’s voice was impossibly sweet. “Does anyone actually know where we are?”

“I think about sixty yards east of the wharf and seventy yards further north than we started,” Druadaen guessed.

Umkhira nodded. “That is approximately correct, but I mistrust such precise numbers.”

Druadaen smiled; he did too.

“Well,” Ahearn mused, “about now, I’m wishing we brought field gear.”

“Why?” Elweyr asked.

“Because at this rate, we’ll be camping on these pestiferous streets tonight!”

Druadaen saw a wide patch of sky to the left, headed that way in the hope that they could catch sight of Moorax Tower over the roofs there.

They emerged into a small square built around a cistern—or rather, what remained of it. S’ythreni pointed just above the opposite rooftops. “There’s the tower. We haven’t come as far as you two thought.”

Druadaen sighed. “I agree. Well, we’d better—”

The low growl of a dog came out of an alley that opened on the square. Two more emerged from a twisting lane opposite it.

The few people who had been crossing the square quickened their pace to exit it.

“You know,” Elweyr observed with a sigh, “half of the structures around us are ruined or abandoned.”

“Weapons,” Druadaen said, as calmly as he could.

The sound of metal clearing scabbards and sheaths rode over the top of more growling, this time from the gaping doorway of a particularly dilapidated building. A group of gulls—flying as a tight flock, like crows—appeared over a much-boarded manse behind them. They veered, swept low, and disappeared behind the roof of an adjacent building.

Ahearn hissed a question at Elweyr: “Faunamancer?”

Druadaen didn’t hear the answer; he was suddenly nine years old again, watching his family’s suddenly blank-eyed farm animals turn on them, their movements as spasmodic as marionettes manipulated by a palsied puppeteer. Then there were the birds: diving at them, clawing, pecking—

Druadaen bumped into something: Umkhira’s broad, solid back. She shot a perplexed glance at him; although he had not been aware of being part of the maneuver, they had all formed a tight, outward-facing ring.

Men in armor emerged from doorways in the side streets.

Druadaen shook his head, trying to dislodge images of the animal attack that only he had survived.

“I count four on my side,” Ahearn muttered.

“Six here,” S’ythreni answered. “And they’re looking to the roofs.”

“Waiting to let the birds start in on us?”

“No,” mumbled Elweyr, whose eyes were closed in concentration. “They’re watching for signals from whatever mantic is up there.” His voice became low, regretful. “Druadaen, you’re going to have to step out.”

Druadaen blinked: “What?” Fighting through the last memories of his parents, he understood what the thaumantic was referring to: the way that all mancery inexplicably unraveled when it came close to Druadaen. So if Elweyr was to bring his own powers to bear, he needed more space. Druadaen raised his sword and heavy parrying dagger into a guard position that favored defense over attack and moved forward.

Across the square, dogs leaped through the ruin’s doorway. Flying low, gulls gushed out of a narrow, flanking lane, crying madly. The armored men drew their own weapons and started toward the group at a measured pace—then halted.

The gulls’ cries became alarmed; they scattered upward. The dogs skidded to dusty stops, eyes blinking as they stared around, disoriented.

Unseen, two men behind the peak of the highest roof to the north began an accusatory exchange in heavily accented Commerce.

Their voices stilled as a single figure sauntered out of the western, and widest, lane. Armored in what looked like striated mail, the fellow’s hair was the salt-and-pepper that came with the onset of middle age. His world-weary tone was a match for it: “I think there must be some misunderstanding, here,” he called up to the persons on the roof.

“This is not your affair!” a voice cried down. “Begone! Now!”

As the last dog slunk out of the square, the man scratched his ill-shaven chin. “I’m sorry, but are you the militia?”

The voice that answered from the roof was equal parts sarcastic and contemptuous. “Why, yes: we are the militia.”

The man in the square sighed. “Ironic or not, you’re a poor liar.” He ignored angry mutters from the armed men poised at the mouths of three different alleys. “Let’s stop this nonsense. I think it’s about time for you to return to your barracks. Or ship. If that’s how you got here from Azanzral.”

A different voice from the roof challenged, “And what makes you so sure we are from that city?”

“Even if I were deaf, my ears would still be stinging from that bark-chewing accent you Sazzaxan’s bring from your capital. Come now, off you go.”

One of the men in the street stepped forward aggressively. “And who are you, to give orders to soldiers of Sazzax?”

“Oh, so you’re here in an official capacity? Well, that’s sure to be of interest to the city guard.”

The first voice from the rooftop was a sustained sneer. “The city guard? This is Shadowmere; there are at least half a dozen rabbles vying for that role. So pray tell, which ones do you mean to tell?”

“All of them,” the increasingly disgruntled man shot back irritably. “Unless, of course, you are here at the behest of one or more of them? Because the others would be quite interested to learn which of their number had broken the accord against foreign interference.”

The other voice did not respond to that challenge. “And why should we leave?” The men in the alleys stepped into the square, grinning. “What have we done? We are free persons in an open city.”

“Well, firstly,” the middle-aged man replied wearily, “it was quite obvious what you were about to do. Besides that, you should leave because I’ve asked you to. Nicely.” His voice was suddenly as gray and pitiless as his assessing eyes. “So far.”

The Sazzaxans looked at each other and stopped again.

Druadaen felt several of his companions about to move; he gestured for them to be still.

“You give bold orders for a single man,” retorted one of the rooftop voices.

“Firstly, I have asked, not ordered. Secondly, do I look like a mancer to you?”

The other rooftop voice cracked as it asked, “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Well, aren’t you wondering what happened to your own mancer’s little tricks?” Hissed, mutual imprecations arose from behind the roof. “Because if I didn’t put a stop to them, aren’t you the slightest bit curious—and concerned—about who did? And you haven’t even bothered to ask my name.”

“Not interested,” the deeper voice barked. He shouted a single, unfamiliar word. The men surrounding the square began moving again—but this time, toward the group’s would-be intercessor. “This is your last chance to leave.”

“Sadly, I can’t do that. And my own friends won’t be pleased if you try cases with me.”

The largest of the men approaching him chuckled. “Assuming any are here, they’ll soon be as likely to hit you as the men approaching.”

Umkhira cocked her axe; Druadaen rose a hand to still her, watching their intercessor carefully.

Who shook his head. “You think I haven’t planned for that? Well, come at me then—and learn your lessons.”

The men continued to close. A figure on the roof rose from concealment—

“This is over,” asserted a new voice from the smallest lane, which wound into the square from the north. When the Sazzaxan’s advance did not stop but only slowed, a hooded figure emerged from the shadows of the flanking buildings and the same voice added, “These five, the ones you meant to ambush, are under the Lady’s protection.”

Struck motionless by that phrase, the Sazzaxans seemed to be suspended between a surge of angry resentment and slowly growing worry.

“And who are you?” asked the man standing cross-armed on the roof. By way of answer, the figure slowly, deliberately, drew back its hood.

The weapons in Druadaen’s hands sagged momentarily—because the man’s appearance catapulted him back into yet another memory from his ninth year.

The man’s straight-features and high cheekbones were striking, but it was the hair that transported Druadaen back in time—to when the Lady of the Mirror visited Dunarra with an entourage led by just such a man.

This man, like that one, had severely straight, silver-white hair, evenly cut. But what made it unique was the dark tips which formed a fringe of night-black so straight that it would have been easy to believe it was painted there. It was the most distinctive natural hair coloration on all of Arrdanc, and marked those who bore it as persons from the reclusive nation known as Tualar.

Druadaen had encountered a few others from that land during his years as a Courier, enough to discern that there were individual distinctions in the general pattern. Which in this case signified that the Tualaran who had served as the commander of the Lady’s bodyguard when he was nine was either standing before him now, or had a near twin.

The Sazzaxans read something different, but equally profound, in the coloration of the man’s hair. The one on the roof disappeared; sounds of a scrambled retreat rose up from over its peak. The armed men in the square backed away slowly, but, once in the alleys, began to run.

When they were gone, the Tualaran walked over to the man who’d interceded on the group’s behalf. “I am in your debt, my friend.”

“Ah, think nothing of it. Just put in a good word for me and mine with the Lady.” As he said it, four other individuals stood up on separate roofs slightly farther back from the square. Their armor and equipment was every bit as varied as that worn by Druadaen and his companions.

The Tualaran nodded up at them. “They are already very high in her regard, but I shall not fail to acquaint her with this further proof of your quick wits and valor.”

They exchanged nods and as the middle-aged man swung about, he tossed a parting comment over his shoulder toward Druadaen and his companions. “You lot! You were wise to stay ready even as you stayed out of the parley. If you wish, seek me out before you journey on. Buy my bunch a drink, and we just might share a hint or two about avoiding Shadowmere’s pitfalls.”

The Tualaran glanced over at Druadaen as the other exited the square. “You could do worse than accept that offer.” He raised an eyebrow. “You seem to be staring at me.”

Druadaen nodded. “I think I may have, er, seen you before.”

His answer came along with the slightest hint of a smile. “I suppose that is possible.”

Ahearn was still looking down the alleys where the Sazzaxans had disappeared. “So do those bully-boys often come here to make trouble?”

The Tualaran nodded. “Often enough, but today, their main intent was to send a message.”

Umkhira huffed. “Messages usually involve words, not weapons.”

The Tualaran shrugged as he waved a lean fellow out of the shadows from which he’d emerged. “Shadowmere is a loud city, so loud that even shouting is no guarantee that a message will be heard. On the other hand, deeds—and particularly injury—cannot be so easily ignored.”

“So then who were the Sazzaxans trying to injure?” Elweyr wondered aloud. “Certainly not us. We are nothing to them.”

Druadaen frowned. “However, if they were aware that the Lady summoned us—”

The Tualaran sighed. “Striking at her through you might have been a factor here, but Sazzaxans’ motives are typically more layered, more complex.”

“Which seems typical of the trouble attracted by Dunarrans… or at least this one,” S’ythreni muttered, even as she bent a rueful smile toward Druadaen.

The Tualaran turned back toward the lane from which he’d appeared. “Suffice it to say that the sovereign of Sazzax feels himself at pains to remind the powers of Shadowmere that though they tend to prefer their immediate neighbors in A’Querlaan, they would be ill advised to let that affinity evolve into overt favoritism.”

Druadaen nodded. “And you have our deep gratitude for interceding when you did, but we do not know who you are.”

“I am the Warder of the Tower of the Mirror.” He smiled at Druadaen’s politely persistent gaze. “My name is Corum Torshaenyx.”

Ahearn was still intermittently glancing back toward the square. “And that fellow who showed up first, how should we call him and his lot?”

The Tualaran waved for the tall young fellow he’d summoned from the shadows to lead the way north. “If they wished you to have their names at this point, I am sure they would have shared them.”

“Well, how in the bloody hells are we to stand them a round if we don’t know how to ask after them? Does he have something against sharing his name?”

“I am sure he will make it easy to locate him. As for his name, he uses an alias.”

Umkhira frowned. “He refuses to connect his name to his deeds?” Her tone clearly expressed what her words only intimated: that such an act was devoid of honor or dignity.

Corum shook his head as they emerged on a wider street that paralleled the wharf. “In Shadowmere, it is not uncommon for real names to be kept secret. Aliases prevail, often to keep families and friends safe from vengeful visits by defeated adversaries.”

Umkhira emitted a revolted grunt as Ahearn leaned in. “Well, then, what does this fellow call himself?”

The Tualaran did not break his stride as he looked straight ahead and said, “Stormhawk.”

Druadaen stared. “You are joking.”

“I am not.”

Druadaen perceived a pause, as if Corum had suppressed a sigh at the last possible instant.

“Actually, ‘Stormhawk’ has a ring to it,” Ahearn muttered.

“Yes, you’d think so,” sighed S’ythreni, rolling her eyes.

“The human warrior has taken a proud battle-name,” Umkhira snapped. “What of it? Great Lightstrider warriors of similar age have often done no less.” She darted a look at her Iavan friend, as if daring her to utter another snide quip.

Elweyr’s voice was carefully neutral as he turned toward the Tualaran. “Is anonymity the only reason persons follow this, er, practice?”

Corum shook his head. “It is how the convention arose, but not why it has persisted. Now it is merely a means for recently arrived fortune-seekers to attempt to draw—usually unwarranted—attention to themselves. And then there are those who adopt an alias because… well, because their given names do not inspire confidence.”

Umkhira frowned again. “Why would one take up a new name rather than adorning their own by performing worthy deeds?”

“Sometimes, even the worthiest deeds are not up to such a task, Mistress Warrior.”

She shook her head in perplexity. “What do you mean?”

Corum shrugged. “There was a hero—renowned across all of Arrdanc—who might have been forgotten by now, had he not changed his name.”

Ahearn stared sidelong at him. “I mean no disrespect, but that sounds, well, unlikely.”

“Indeed!” Umkhira agreed fiercely. “I would hear this forgotten name, that I might judge for myself!”

The Tualaran met her eyes ruefully. “Derb Piggles.”

As the rest of the group glanced away or lowered their eyes, Ahearn’s mouth became a round, soundless “Oh.” But he was also the first to recover, leaning toward their second rescuer with a knowing grin. “So now I’m wondering if the hero-name by which we know him might be something as musical and memorable as Corum Torshaenyx, eh?” He punctuated his jocular speculation with a nudge to that worthy’s ribs.

The only reply was a dead-eyed stare.

Elweyr muttered at Ahearn before Druadaen could. “Tualarans frown on bragging and noms de guerre. And their names indicate their origins even more clearly than their hair.”

“Well, it’s easy to understand what you mean about the hair—I never saw the like—but I’ve no idea what you mean by their names.”

Corum inclined his head toward the thaumancer. “Tualaran family names all begin with a T. Additionally, each new generational cohort’s given names begin with the same letter, one that is distinct to their sex. In my generation, all the males were given names beginning with the letter c. For females, their given names begin with n.”

Ahearn stared in surprise. “Why?”

For the first time, Corum smiled; his teeth were very broad and very bright. “I have no idea how that tradition began. Whatever utility or significance this naming convention had has long since passed from memory. However, you should also become acquainted with the name of your actual savior”—he jutted a square chin at the young fellow leading them—“Cerven Ux Reeve.”

They looked curiously at the young man in light armor, who glanced back at them with a small smile.

S’ythreni almost whispered, “And he is our savior… how?”

“By alerting me to your arrival.”

“Really?” Ahearn exclaimed. “Given what we’ve heard about your Lady, I thought it might have been mancery at work.” He glanced at Cerven’s back. “Assuming the mancery wasn’t his, of course.”

The young fellow looked over his shoulder with a smile. “Well, keeping up with changes to the docking rota has been likened to a mantic art.” Smiles answered him.

“But to the first matter,” Ahearn pressed before Elweyr or Druadaen could stop him, “since the Lady certainly seems to have such abilities, why wasn’t she aware even before this admirably skilled lad?”

Torshaenyx nodded with the slow, deliberate tempo of someone determined to remain patient. “Such abilities are used only when the need is truly pressing.”

“And what defines that level of need?” Ahearn asked it so quickly that Druadaen never had the chance to anticipate that the swordsman might be so blunt. “What would prompt the Lady to use her powers, then?”

The Tualaran raised an eyebrow. “Keeping the peace. And not just on these docks.”

“Or even on all the docks on Arrdanc, yeh?”

Corum glanced quickly at Ahearn and then, just as quickly, smiled. “Aye, you almost caught me with that. Come, enough clever questions. We must quicken our pace.”

As they lengthened their strides to match the Tualaran’s, Druadaen subtly dropped back with Ahearn. “You took quite a risk, there.”

Ahearn suppressed a snort. “No, I didn’t—not so long as he thought me a buffoon. But he caught me out.”

“And you almost caught him off guard, which I suspect is no small feat.”

Ahearn shook his head. “Ah, but still, I didn’t get an answer out of him.”

Druadaen smiled. “Didn’t you? Now, let’s not lag.”


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