A Rage in the Heavens (The Paladin Trilogy Book 1) (4 page)

He will be leaving, she thought suddenly. Today, tomorrow at the latest, my Father will take the Eastern Road and leave our village behind both in thought and in distance.

That thought was like sunlight breaking through a bank of rainclouds, spreading illumination as if to enable her to see clearly the shadowy shapes that had surrounded her. Her Father had been distracted for days now, his mind elsewhere, a vague frown replacing the good humor which always seemed to mark his face, his eyes looking beyond the bounds of the village. She could even see how the incident with the Priest now fit the pattern.

“It’s as if he has been hearing a voice in the distance,” she whispered to herself. “A voice too faint and far to discern the words. And now, today, that voice is speaking clear at last.”

Shannon swallowed hard and almost wished she had a cup of the woodland wine to wash away the sudden fear. The thought was disturbing because it was no mere fantasy, no fancy flight of words. It broke upon her as a cold reality as solid as the ground on which she stood, and more, far more, she knew that her certainly came because she, too, could now hear some distant sound, too indistinct for any clarity, like a far off trumpet sounding bravely…summoning…her.

Shannon’s body actually shivered for a moment at that thought, a physical revulsion at losing him, at being left behind, at…being denied.

Denied? Denied what?

Shannon looked again at the shadowy copse of woods standing high on the hill above the village, the trees now discernible as oaks spreading their branches to the sky above, and she sensed for just a moment all the things she could not see, the trappings of a distant power that had always existed invisibly on the edges of her life, the distant hints of glory. A glory that had always been clear to Darius, a glory that was summoning him once again.

The tremble returned, shaking her body from ankles to the crown of her head, a quiver that had nothing to do with revulsion. Her eyes stayed on the grove of oaks, her heart surging for reasons she did not know. For reasons she did not need to know.

“One thing is certain, Father,” she promised him softly. “You are not going to make this journey alone.”

CHAPTER 3

Hasty Journeys

“No current pass, no entry, woman,” the guard snapped. “Next!”

“But I don’t understand, Sir,” Adella said in her sweetest voice, still blocking the old woman who stood, waiting impatiently, behind her. “There’s never been a problem before.”

“Orders,” the guard said, the gentle voice taking some of the edge off his own. His gaze wandered for just a moment from the rich, full lips to the flowing black hair and the fine figure wrapped in the peasant’s smock, then back to the high cheek-bones and the lovely sky blue eyes, flanking a prominent nose, the one feature that kept her from being a dazzling beauty. Then he blinked and focused again, his expression telling Adella she would not be able to wheedle her way through the gate. “We’ve increased security to keep out smugglers. Don’t you know how many thieves are about?”

“I’ve heard something of it,” Adella answered faintly.

“You’ll have to go to the main gate to apply for a new pass,” the guard replied, reaching past her for the old woman’s papers.

Adella let out a long sigh, stepped aside and leaned against the stout outermost wall of Jalan’s Drift, eyeing the long line of people waiting to gain entrance. It was no more than the usual daily crowd: local farmers carrying their goods to market, peddlers looking to sell their wares in the richest bazaar in all the region, travelers simply trying to pass through to the Southlands beyond. That line will wind out of sight, she knew, when rumor of the barbarian invasion comes to the Drift.

She was tired and sore, grimy beneath the smock, having made the journey from the ruins of Carthix Castle to the gates of Jalan’s Drift (a distance of some 250 leagues) in the phenomenal time of only two days, thanks to the aid of the mercenary pegasus who had been intended to help her escape the outraged lord of Carthix Castle rather than Regnar’s murdering hordes. The pegasus had carried her nearly three quarters of the length of the continent, though at an exorbitant price, for as he was quick to point out, their original arrangement had been to elude a few guards, not an invading army. Her eyes went back for a moment to the morning sky with its spots of white clouds. Walking did seem such an awkward and slow means of travel after soaring through the heavens on silver wings, and it helped her understand the snobbish superiority that aerial creatures so often showed to their earth-bound counterparts.

She shook her head. The pegasus had put her down a few miles from the Drift where she had changed from armor to a peasant girl’s smock in the morning darkness, and then she had quietly joined the small daily groups converging on the Drift. Through the walls of Carthix Castle, through the slaughtering Northings, through all the long leagues in between, only to be denied entry by a slip of paper. One of life’s hurdles, Adella told herself philosophically as she let the expired pass fly away on the wind. We’re judged by the hurdles we clear.

She glanced up the wall to the parapet where several red-cloaked Magistrates, the highly-respected policemen of the Drift, were visible and immediately rejected any thought of trying that path, at least in full daylight. She was dressed as a young woman going to market and was thus limited to that disguise, Bloodseeker and her leather armor carefully hidden away in the magical “bottomless pouch” which was one of Adella’s most useful items. The pouch was about the size of a coin purse and never weighed more than a few golden dinars, but it opened into a space the size of a large traveling trunk. It could act as a secret treasure chest, a convenient cache for disguises, or a hidden scabbard for Bloodseeker. At the moment, it was serving as all three.

She turned back to studying the immediate problem of gaining access to the Drift. It would be child’s play to relieve one of the people in line of their papers, but unless she took the time to assume a new disguise, the guards were likely to remember her. Walk the two miles to the main gate and apply for a new pass? Not wise since all her papers were forgeries.

Enough, she thought. She reached into her coin purse and produced a dozen golden dinars, glancing at the front group waiting to enter the gate. She chose a small boy of about seven years.

“Here, Youngster,” she called, and with a flick of her thumb and finger, she sent one of the gleaming coins spinning through the air towards him. As she hoped, the surprised child grabbed at the coin and missed, knocking it into the middle of the group, its brightness catching every eye. One person dove for it, then a second, the orderly line beginning to dissolve.

“Try again!” she said, sending another and then another coin into the excited crowd. People from farther down the line caught sight of the rolling coins and rushed forward, the crowd becoming a mob at the promise of quick gold.

“There’s enough for all!” she laughed, throwing a handful into the air directly before the gate. Every person in the line saw those coins, and the riot was on.

“Stand back there!” cried the guard in alarm. “Stand back!”

Half a dozen guards rushed forward, and Adella charged into the fray as well, but only for a moment. She quickly and easily spun to the edge of the crowd and rolled through the open gate, while the guards struggled to restore order. Once inside, she slipped rapidly along the inside wall for a distance before stepping calmly out, straightening her hair and assuming the air of a housewife on a shopping trip.

Nearly a mile away stood the second great wall of the Drift, and whereas the first ended against the sharp peaks of the Mountains of the Winds, the second was anchored at each end against the great fortresses of Stonehold and Rockwall, standing directly against the sheer mountain cliffs and still blocking the entire gap. Adella was paying more attention to the defenses than usual, knowing the first real test in their long history was likely to come within the next few weeks. All the armies of the Southlands would be required to man and hold the great outerwall, and it was generally believed that no enemy could breach even that first line if it were stoutly defended. Adella’s eyes narrowed. The walls of the Drift might be thicker than those of Carthix Castle, but the monstrosity she had seen looming out of the morning mist three days ago would have no greater trouble smashing through this stone.

The wide sweep of the area between the two outer walls was known as the Smoking Fields, the place where any activities requiring fire were conducted. Off to one side were a host of smithies and stables where the horses of the Drift were housed and cared for, while further off were the fumes and sparks of the ironworks and forges, their stench and flames kept as far from the Drift’s center as possible. To the other side was the Butcher’s market, a dozen shabby lanes of open-air booths where every kind of meat, fish, and poultry was sold, supported by the pens and slaughterhouses kept discretely in the distance. Closer in were the cooking pits and smokehouses where some of the meat was cooked or cured, and the morning air was already heavy with the rich aroma of roast beef and pork.

Adella headed into this busy market, listening to the lively bargaining as the city dwellers tried to drive down the price and the butchers steadily resisted. She let herself wander through the various stalls, arguing prices along with everyone else, and by the time she approached the next gate, she had a dozen eggs, a small haunch of pork, and a brand-new pass that gave her access even through the fourth wall of the Drift. The guards on duty at the second wall smiled at her and the pass, waving her through without a question.

The area between the second and third walls was covered by the Green Fields, the place slightly smaller and more crowded than the Smoking Fields. Here the farmers from the surrounding countryside brought their daily produce to offer to the people from the Inner Walls, and the booths showed a fine selection of fruits and vegetables. Most of the produce was still from the winter stores, the spring crops a long way yet from yielding, but that simply made the bargaining even livelier. Still, as she made her way past the various stalls, Adella realized that even this bounty could not feed the city for long, especially if it were crowded with a mob of refugees flocking down from the north.

There was real pleasure to be back among the well-remembered sights and smells, the swirling, chaotic energy of the Drift, a place unique in all the land. It was a city founded entirely on trade, unlike the Southlands and the newer Provinces of the Plains where a landed aristocracy took most of its money from crops and grazing animals, and that difference affected the culture, the atmosphere, and even the politics of the city.

Adella was experiencing some odd pangs as she made her way through the busy markets. The streets of the Drift were among her first memories, a homeless orphan befriended and nurtured by thieves who found their mothering instincts stirred by this large-eyed waif, and it was here where she learned to gingerly lift a coin pursue from a fat merchant’s pocket and to vanish into thin air at the approach of the magistrates. She had been here when the Red Plague had marched through the streets, killing one in three, and she had robbed the dead and cared for the living, nursing paupers, beggars and fellow thieves back to life. And it had been here as a young woman she had run afoul of Anthar the Black, a murderous and feared warrior who swore to make an example of this upstart thief. She had lured him beneath the catacombs of the city, goaded his rage in the echoing maze, and led him into a deadly trap that drowned him. And from his cold, wet hands, she had taken the silver sword called Bloodseeker.

She passed two young men speaking eagerly of the weekly sporting games, a farmer smiling broadly as he bundled leeks for a customer, a woman leading a wide-eyed child by the hand. All of this was very much in jeopardy, she realized, the danger already marching inexorably down out of the north. She shrugged uneasily, forcing the thought aside. This is a business, she told herself. Not a charity.

Beyond the third wall was the true beginnings of the city proper, the Peddler’s Market where the trade folk made their homes and offered their wares. This was the busiest and most crowded part of the city, and the bargaining was always fastest in the morning as people haggled over new goods set out the night before. Here, the sheer variety of goods was simply overwhelming, and each product had its own lane where a dozen or more merchants offered every conceivable size, color, flavor, style, or concentration. There were shells and scents from the Southern Ocean, sugars and herbs from the Spice Islands, healing muds from Lake Moreno, swords from Warhaven, leather works from the Plains of Alencia, armor from the Dwarf Holds of the Mountains of the Winds, woven goods from the tribes of the Painted Plains, and rare stones and gems from as far away as the Earth’s Teeth. Anything that could lure coins out of people’s pockets and purses was on display in the endless bazaar of Jalan’s Drift.

Adella soon spotted small patrols of the red-cloaked Magistrates moving through the booths, watching for pickpockets, sneak thieves, and other illegal activity, and she unobtrusively avoided them, making her way slowly but purposely through the maze of merchants. Small make-shift signs gave some reference for people lost in this labyrinth of goods, and she eventually found what she sought: a placard showing a necklace with the runes of the jeweler’s guild beneath it. She moved down the street and quickly came to a familiar booth with the name of Carac above it, a shabby, overloaded little stall with a very fat, aging man behind the counter.

“Good Morn to you, Carac,” she said lightly.

“Good Morn…” the man began with a smile, but then his face went ashen as he recognized his customer. He blinked, thinking quickly, and when he finally decided he had done nothing to warrant a hostile visit, the smile returned.

“Good Morn to you, Ma’m,” he said, falling in with her disguise. “And what might I offer you this day?”

“A little information, I think,” she said softly as she examined a strand of poorly made jewelry, already knowing the only things of value in this stall were inside Carac’s balding skull. “I only just arrived and need the news. Why the change of passes?”

Carac shook his massive head. “They’re having yet another crack-down. This time against people smuggling in goods without paying the duty. The damned red-boys are making it hot for everyone.”

Red-boys were the scarlet-cloaked Magistrates, financed by taxes from this, the richest trading city in the region, and they were so numerous and active that any illegal activity within the Drift was apt to draw their unwanted attention.

“Crack-down on smugglers?” Adella repeated. “Does that include the fences?”

“Especially the fences,” said Carac. “Stolen goods bring the highest profits.”

Curse the luck. Had all the Fates turned against her? “What about Connors?”

“He decided to take a holiday while they’re stoking the fire here. I heard he’s working the river south of Alston’s Fey.”

“Durkin?”

“They broke his shop, and he had to run,” the fat man said sadly. “I heard he’s shifting what’s left of his trade to Maganhall.”

“Burke?”

“Come now,” Carac said. “He died before you left.”

“That’s right,” Adella frowned. Connors and Durkin had been her main contacts within the Drift, and there weren’t many others, thanks to the watchful gaze of the Magistrates.

“Del Garro is still operating,” the fat man volunteered.

“I’d rather give my goods away,” Adella responded. She frowned again, thinking. “What about young Jeremy? He was starting to put together a nice business when last I heard.”

“True,” admitted Carac. “And a smart lad, Jeremy. The red-boys grabbed him last week, but all they found on him were forged papers. They’re holding him in the Debtor’s Gaol, but my bet is he’ll be free again in a few days.”

“Of all the confounded luck…” she said, though her gentle expression never changed, and the other shoppers passed by without a second glance.

“What’s a few days?” Carac asked with a shrug. “Jeremy can be counted on to beat a simple forgery charge.”

“I fear my goods are perishable,” Adella answered, knowing that rumor of the fall of Carthix Castle would all too soon be circulating in the bazaars. She paused, glancing around the maze of booths and making some shrewd calculations. She nodded slowly, her eyes narrowing as she made her decision. If the Fates had turned away from her, then it might take an act of daring to again catch their eye. To cast more gold upon the winds. “Can you hold a package for me?”