CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Ahearn stared at his oldest friend, who slumped rather than sat at their assigned table. “Yer glum as a starvin’ crow, Elweyr.”
“I’m fine,” he answered, tugging irritably at the truce-bonding on his shortsword. The bell—lashed into the bond-knot to keep it from ringing—clanked as he adjusted the scabbard.
“Yer fine?” Ahearn persisted. “An’ when have you—or any mantic, fer that matter—ever been ‘fine’? You’re a gloomy lot by nature, so spit it out, man: exactly what rat is nibblin’ yer toes now?”
S’ythreni sat next to Elweyr, shot a knowing glance at him. “He doesn’t like the ‘rope-pub’ rules.”
“Well, which one of us does?” Ahearn asked, both hands out, imploring. “Y’think I like having my sword trussed like a hen for roasting?”
The others glanced at the thaumancer. They’d all made their peace with the first and foremost rule of the “rope-houses” that dotted Yu’Serda’s wider wharfs. You weren’t allowed inside the defining rope—or cable or railing—until your weapons had been “truce-bonded”: secured with knots that were not easy to undo and rang when yanked or cut apart. Elweyr just shrugged off their stares.
Ahearn leaned forward, but before he could press further, S’ythreni murmured, “It’s not his sword.” She rolled her eyes when Ahearn raised a single unenlightened eyebrow. “It’s the oath to refrain from mancery.”
Ahearn had hardly noticed that part of the rules when they’d been read out. “Ah, well now, that’s not so different from us tying off our weapons, is it?”
Elweyr sighed. “That’s not what bothers me.” Ahearn’s steady, questioning stare prompted an expansion. “I don’t like lying.”
“How have you lied?”
Elweyr glanced at his friend’s truce-bonded weapons. “You don’t have any choice but to obey. I do.”
“Aye… and so?”
“And so, they didn’t ask if I’m a mantic. And I can use thaumates which they’d never even notice.”
The conversation paused as a very fair serving-lad slapped down the drinks that had been the price of their entry. Cerven frowned at his as the fellow departed in a rush. “Does it not seem likely that the proprietors would have some method of detecting active mancery?” Intent on Elweyr’s response, he distractedly downed his drink at a gulp.
His eyes widened as he swallowed, then coughed and sputtered.
“What did you do, lad?” Varcaxtan asked in alarm.
“I… I drank the juice.”
“Lad, I can see that. Do you really think you’re the match of fire-fruit juice?”
“Evidently not,” Cerven muttered. “I… I feel strange.”
The dragon sighed, sent a long-suffering glance around the table. “Let me guess: this is not simply the juice of something called a fire-fruit?”
Ahearn was finally certain he could speak with a straight face. “Eh. No. Heh, hmm, eh, no. It’s made from a mash of roasted fruits. A mash that’s well fermented.”
“For a very, very long time,” Varcaxtan added with the solicitous concern that had been half of Ahearn’s inspiration to nickname him “Uncle.”
“Well,” Cerven said, staring at the tabletop. He started to tilt, righted himself. “Well!” he added, still staring.
They’d been seeking passage to Mirroskye for two days with nothing to show for the effort. The trader out of Menara had shown no interest in their services as defenders of his hull and, in the time they’d given him to think it over, had filled his remaining berths. So they were back where they started, but with an added challenge; they’d checked with the captains of almost every vessel in port, so the field of possibilities was far smaller than when they’d started.
“I am less than certain that captains of Davyara-Nadian ships frequent this pub,” muttered S’ythreni, “no matter what we’ve been told.”
“Why so?”
“Because it seems like too civilized a place for such boors.”
Cerven was staring into his empty cup as if more fire-fruit juice might have appeared in it while he wasn’t looking. “Such hard words are… are most unlike you, S’ythre—er, Alva.”
“I’ve got to ask; haven’t you listened to her these past eight moonphases?” Ahearn’s murmur was equal parts wry and wondering.
Which S’ythreni naturally heard and just as naturally ignored. “I think he means hard words without apparent cause.” She turned to the bleary-eyed lad. “Any Davyaran who calls himself Davyara-Nadian is not to be trusted.”
“Wha-wha—I mean, why, Alva S’ythreni?”
“Because the sazha of the Nadia family, which had been exiled generations before, was granted a pardon in exchange for military service against urzhen who’d broken a tribal treaty. The Nadians returned to the capital with trophies from that victory—and slew the entire ruling family of Davyara as they waited to congratulate the victors on the steps of the Sazhale, the palace of the Great Sazha.”
Cerven nodded, eyes so fixed on S’ythreni that he didn’t realize it when he took her cup instead of his and began draining it.
She sputtered in surprise. Ahearn caught hold of the lad’s wrist. “Here now, what do you think yer doin’?”
“Having my drink?” Cerven stated uncertainly, punctuating it with a belch that stunned him more than anyone else.
“Yeh had yer drink. And now half of hers,” Ahearn explained, prying his fingers off the cup. “Which is ten times more’n you should have.”
“More like twenty times,” observed Elweyr with a smile. After which he sat upright abruptly, eyes riveted on the gate. “Is that a—?”
“Davyaran,” finished S’ythreni with a nod. “Not wearing any orange, so not a Nadian. Well, maybe we can find a good ship here, after all.”
The fellow in question was allowed through the rope “gate” after his curved dagger had been truce-bonded. Ahearn silently congratulated himself and his companions on remaining unobtrusive as they watched the lithe fellow—until Cerven started craning his neck and asking questions in a whisper loud enough to wake zealots from dreams of their creedland. “’Zat him, there? What—is he walking or dancing?”
It’s a fair question, Ahearn allowed, smiling at the Davyaran. In the same moment, he hugged Cerven close enough to muffle his mouth in the space between his armpit and the side of his bulging pectoral. The Davyaran moved just as S’ythreni had told them one of their trained warriors might: long, fluid steps, every action flowing seamlessly into the next, the overall visual effect accentuated by his light, loose clothes.
“Mrmph—phrmphh!” Cerven’s breathless squall portended suffocation—just before Ahearn released him. “Sorry if yeh couldn’t breathe,” Ahearn apologized quietly.
The panting lad’s pallor seemed more a portent of nausea, however. “I could breathe,” Cerven replied with a fearful glance at the big man’s sweaty armpit, “but I couldn’t bear doing so.”
Ahearn resisted the impulse to smother him again for good measure. But the Davyaran had altered course to their table. “Hold yer peace,” he muttered out of the corner of his mouth closest to the wobble-eyed Cerven.
But the man dance-walked up to S’ythreni, instead. He bowed very deeply, and from that position, murmured, “I have no wish to intrude.”
“But you deem it necessary. Please be at your ease.”
He straightened smoothly, but glanced nervously at Umkhira. “I have no knowledge of how aeosti, my race, Dunarrans, and urzh could travel together, but I must warn you, it invites… rudeness, from the folk of this land.”
“And by rudeness, you mean—?”
“He means pillorying at the least, vivisection at the worst,” the dragon announced before the Davyaran could formulate a more courtly reply. “Is that the gist of what you intended to say, albeit with more euphonious and numerous words?”
The Davyaran gaped at the dragon, his mouth working mutely.
It was that reaction which renewed Ahearn’s awareness of just how incongruous a character the dragon had become when in a typical crowd. It wasn’t just the sly and almost sardonic expression on the large-featured face, marked by all manner of tribal tattoos. It wasn’t even the vague hint of arrogance imparted by the overly straight—and now clean-shaven—ox-neck. No, the truly arresting juxtapositions were the closely trimmed goatee and pencil-thin moustache—oiled and scented—and the vivid colors it had added to its garments wherever possible: oranges, magentas, and bright greens, all hallmarks of Ballashan court-wear. And whereas Ahearn admitted that his own manly pungency might not be pleasing, he could not fathom how any creature furnished with a nose could abide the perfumes in which the dragon apparently bathed. Any one of the many scents—flowers, barks, ambergris—was retch-worthy, but all of them together? It was a wonder that the dragon didn’t leave a trail of bodies in its broad downwind wake.
Umkhira glanced at the Davyaran, cutting her head toward the dragon. “Our friend R’aonsun is plainspoken,” she supplied.
That snapped the courtier-warrior out of his daze. “Plainspoken? Truly. Yet with words that are anything but plain.” He smiled at her, but was frowning as he did so. “Thank you for reminding me of my business, er, madam.” When she blinked in surprise, he shook his head. “My apologies; I do not know how your people would address you. We used to, in my land, but that died with the treaties.”
“The treaties?” she echoed doubtfully.
Understanding widened his eyes. “So—you are not from these lands?”
She shook her head. The others followed her lead, but his raised hand made clear it was unnecessary. “With respects, there was no mistaking the rest of you for anything but foreigners. Which is why I intruded, since you seem unaware how much unwanted attention the… the mix of your company might attract.”
“Due to—?” began Cerven, slurring the words.
“Due to me,” Umkhira nodded, frowning.
“I wish it was not true, but it is. Where are you from, if I may be so bold to ask?”
“My people hunt upon the Plains of Hasgar, north of Khassant.”
He frowned. “That is quite far. Many hundreds of leagues to the northeast, near the borders of the Consentium.”
She shrugged. “As you might measure it, yes.”
“And that,” added a gruff voice in which Ahearn heard the burr and buzz of a vaguely familiar accent, “is why they’ve no reck of how the Lady Lightstrider will be seen in these benighted lands.”
They looked behind their table.
Sitting mostly concealed by a row of old crates that served as a ramshackle counter for mugs and plates, a grizzled fellow was arranging a hide shawl so that the breeze would pass under as much of it as possible. “Damned hot, this thing,” he explained as they stared.
Cerven swayed over to get a better look, almost fell across Ahearn’s lap. “He’s a… he’s from… eh… ”
“Taruildor,” Ahearn answered, smiling at the man, speaking loud enough for the other to hear him. “Uplander, judging from the kind of hide.”
The grizzled man looked up in surprise. “Y’ ken me land, stranger?”
“Only by reputation,” Ahearn admitted, hastily recalling what Druadaen’s book had said of that people. “Your tongue is mostly Torvan and Connyl, if I remember right.”
“Well, you’ve the order of those peoples wrong, but I’ll forgive ’ee that.” He glanced at Umkhira. “The Davyaran dandy is right enow about how these folk see ye, Lady Lightstrider. They reck no difference between ye and yer kin, I’ll wager.” When Cerven stared, Varcaxtan supplied, “Down here along the coast, no one knows there are differences among urzhen.”
“The unwaller speaks aright, ’e does,” the Taruildorean agreed as Umkhira nodded. “Our own flatlanders aren’t much keener to the truth than the Ballashan, mind you, but we uplanders know. It’s we who fight urzhen in the mountains. And make peace with ’em. And make babes with ’em too, often enow.”
He smiled sadly at Umkhira. “O’course, beside your lands, our mountains are but hills and our farms and ranges feed nary a tenth the mouths—which means nay enow food and no deep places to hide. So rather than the great Hordeings of your own kith, urzh here must raid oft and again. And that’s why, from yonder sea to my mountains, every town has a wall.”
“Which is why,” Varcaxtan said, leaning toward Cerven, “he called me an unwaller.”
“Why? D’narra’s nothing but walls. I look’d atta map!” Cerven interjected.
“Those are our wallways, which were built to protect the canals behind them and put a roadway up where enemies can’t reach. But because they’ve never been breached, very few of our towns have walls.”
Cerven nodded vigorously. “So, e’en though theys urzh all over—all over th’ world!—is always differ’nt for ’em, wherever they are.”
Umkhira shook her head. “Except for one thing that never changes: wherever we go, we are reviled.”
The Davyaran made a faint bow in her direction. “I sorely wish I could contradict you but, Helpers know, I try to live within the currents of truth.”
“Aye, well’n it’s high time you come by me and we conclude our business, Fancy Man.”
The Davyaran smiled. “Coming by you means coming closer to that clan hide you’re wearing.”
“Aye, an’ what’s wrong with it?”
“The smell.”
“You nervy fop! Ye’d insult me clan’s totem, then?”
“Not your totem or your clan; just your irregular dedication to bathing.” He smiled and bowed to the group. “You will forgive me; I must arrange travel home.”
“Back to Zodera?” S’ythreni asked quickly.
“Alas, not so far as that, Alva,” he answered sadly. “Like you, I am not welcome in the capital. It has been a privilege to meet you all.” He walked—almost danced—around the end of their table to join the growling Taruildorean, who, Ahearn finally noticed, only had one arm with which to bear-hug the much younger Davyaran.
No sooner had he moved to the inconspicuous table behind them than a large group of men approached the rope-pub’s “gate.” Hovering somewhere between boisterous and belligerent, they derided or debated every point of the rules before consenting to them and entering the space with bellows for drink, food, and other services that were, to Ahearn’s imperfect knowledge, only offered in establishments with actual walls.
Elweyr scanned the new arrivals. “Can’t figure out where they hail from,” he mused testily.
“All over, from the look of them,” the dragon conjectured as he took a sip of the fire-fruit juice. He made a face, shuddered, set the drink aside.
Ahearn tried not to sound proud, but knew he was failing—miserably—as he launched into his answer. “Actually, there’s at least one from every Ballashan nation of the Littoral.”
Elweyr raised an eyebrow. Varcaxtan did the same, but with a small smile. Cerven swayed in a small, unsteady circle on his seat and breathed out vapors so densely acrid that Ahearn imagined he could see them. “Really?” the young Amitryean goggled. He gestured at the loud pack. “Which are which… are which?” he asked, confusing himself by the end.
Ahearn resisted the impulse to point. “See all the ones with beads on their clothes, either woven in or on tassels? They’re T’Oridreans.”
Umkhira’s eyebrows rose. “They are beautiful, but I see no other ornaments.”
“You won’t,” Ahearn explained. “Jewels, gold, all the rest were forbidden almost a thousand years ago by royal decree. For a while they were still allowed land pearls but they couldn’t keep from insulting each other—and dueling—over ’em. So now it’s all just beads.”
“Some look very similar,” Elweyr said, squinting.
“That’s because over the years, certain beads became tokens: of titles, positions, guilds, even royal or noble favor. And the little differences you can see? Those mean greater or lesser ranks within each.”
“There’s one wearing no beads at all,” Umkhira said, pointing to a thin man in rags, moving between the dozen newcomers with a jug of mead.
Ahearn shook his head sadly. “No beads means no rights. None at all.”
“So… a slave?”
“Less than that.” Ahearn had to unclench his teeth. “A slave is owned—and they’ve got a particularly rough lot here in T’Oridrea. But they’ve at least got one gray bead. But that fellow without a bead?” He shook his head. “Anyone can do anything to him at any time.”
Cerven was scanning the dozen men uncertainly. “Some are wearing thatches—ehm, sashes.”
“From Varda,” Ahearn said casually. “The shoulder drape has small badges that are a record of any challenges they’ve won.”
“You mean, duels?” asked the dragon.
“Could be, but it could be a contest or a legal trial, also. Except for the titles of their toffs, they’re a tough lot who’ve done away with a lot of the Ballashan frippery.”
“Is that why their clothes are so dull?” Cerven wondered. Without waiting for an answer, he added, “Almost as dull as the ones with um—wood badges?—on their tunics.”
“If you were closer,” Ahearn clarified, “you’d see those badges are all in the shape of axes, which marks them as being from Rettarisha.”
“The axe was the sign of authority among the ancient Torvan tribes,” murmured Elweyr as if remembering a history lesson.
“Who made up over half of Rettarisha’s population when the last Ballashan empire fell.” Ahearn couldn’t help canting his voice a bit lower as if sharing a secret. “Now, if you got close enough, you’d see that each of those axes is carved from a different wood. ‘Aromatics,’ they’re called, and each one of the ancient tribes claimed one as their own. These days some of that wood is still burned in censors in the halls of their rulers. Sometimes it’s even set into the hafts of their weapons.”
Varcaxtan smiled. “All of which carry ‘the smell of nobility,’ according to Rettarishan aristocrats.” His tone became dark. “Their peasants call it something different, though: the smell of blood.”
Ahearn nodded, managing to conceal his chagrin. Leave it to a damned Outrider to know a detail that isn’t in Druadaen’s blasted book! On a moment’s reflection, however, Ahearn allowed that this particular tidbit of local color sounded too grim to have made its way into a scholarly tome.
“Ai-hai!” cried a startled patron in the midst of the new arrivals. “What’s happened to this pub? Were one of the ropes cut?”
“Why?” asked a genuinely surprised voice from further back in the pack.
“Why, look what’s drinkin’ in here with us!” The source of the voice—a man almost as large as Ahearn—stepped forth, pointing with a quivering index finger.
Straight at Umkhira.
A-hey and here we go. Ahearn turned toward her; she noticed his steady gaze an instant before realizing that she had become the object of the other group’s attention. Umkhira frowned at her friend but flicked her eyes in assent. They’d foreseen the possibility of just such bigotry and had made plans for dealing with it—mostly by ignoring it as long as possible. A fight—even a fierce dispute—could lead to being detained by authorities who had regard for only two things: beads of high rank or a bribe of high value. And they had neither.
“I thought this was a ’spectable establishment!” the big man said. “But they let Bent in here, now! And a sow, no less!”
Umkhira began to rise. Ahearn’s palm pushed down toward the tabletop as the dragon muttered in her direction. “If you mean to continue searching for Druadaen and Indryllis, you must keep your head clear.”
“And your weapon truced,” added Elweyr from the other side.
“Now you boys, don’t hold her back!” shouted her sizable tormentor as a few intervening patrons scattered away from the wharf planks separating the two groups. “Bent-bitch loins are always ready for a bit of masculine entertainment.” He guffawed, pawed at himself with one hand and reached out toward her with the other.