Angus Wells - The God Wars 01 (60 page)

 
          
"Likely
not," nodded the old man amiably, "and likely you'll live longer for
it."

 
          
Calandryll
smiled grimly: the one-legged man confirmed Bracht's doubts, but still Gessyth
was their destination and passage must be found somehow, regardless of the
dangers. He ducked his head in farewell, turning along the wharf, the ancient's
parting words ringing in his ears.

 
          
"You'll
find nothing in Gessyth, and death in the going."

 
          
"An
unfavorable prophecy," Bracht remarked.

 
          
"We
have no choice," he said.

 
          
"No,"
the Kem agreed, and they walked in silence along the cobbles, eyes on the
vessels moored in the estuary.

 
          
The presence of the Tyrant's soldiers was
more obvious now, knots of armored men with the scarlet puggarees wound about
their helms standing about the waterfront, their officers in conversation,
often heated, with sea captains who protested the seizure of their ships, or
accepted the claiming with resignation. A squad of archers was dispatched to
each vessel and as the morning grew older it became increasingly obvious that
passage must be hard to find. At
noon
they found a
tavern and reviewed their situation, deciding that the remainder of the day was
best spent in search of some corsair willing to undertake the journey.

           
It was a decision easier made than
implemented, for the warboats not marked with the Tyrant's flag were unmanned
and their inquiries as to the whereabouts of the masters were met with
evasions, or blank refusals. As dusk approached they had made little headway,
beyond learning that they might—perhaps—find some captain willing to lend an
ear in the taverns of the Beggars Gate.

 
          
They
ate dinner in the Waterboy and replaced their sweat-soaked shirts before
pursuing their elusive quarry.

 
          
The
quarter to which they were directed was hard against Kharasul's western edge,
as if ostracized, a maze of narrow alleys and small squares, noisome with the
reek of liquor and overrun gutters, rats busy among the spillage despite the
crowds thronging the streets. The taverns were no more fragrant, their common
rooms smoky, the i floors puddled with spilled drink, the men settled at the
tables hard-eyed, the women with them no softer. Calandryll realized that he
went with left hand about his scabbard, ready to draw the straightsword; and
saw that Bracht did the same, his eyes flicking constantly about.

 
          
In
three taverns the very mention of passage to Gessyth elicited roars of laughter
and the suggestion that they find some captain with mind sufficiently addled to
undertake the journey, but not bother sane men; and in others they received the
warily sympathetic looks that spoke of doubt as to their sanity. In one a man
promised to take them there if they would only purchase him a boat; and in
another the landlord warned them away, for fear their throats would be cut.
Toward midnight they found themselves in a square a little quieter than the
rest, the city wall rising above the plaza, buildings on three sides, painted
pale by the gibbous moon. They entered the closest tavern and called for ale,
experience by now prompting them to remain silent until they saw some likely
prospect.

 
          
The
drinkers seemed no different to all the others: swords at their sides and the
look of men ready to use the blades on a moment's provocation. Dark-tanned
faces eyed them with idle curiosity or open hostility, as if the very presence
of two men markedly not of their fraternity was occasion to seek a quarrel.
Calandryll thought that had Bracht not stood beside him, he must already fight for
his life, for there were no other Lyssians in this quarter and his looks set
him clearly apart from the swarthy denizens of the Beggars Gate. He sipped dark
ale, his belly already filled, and peered into the smoke haze, head threatening
to swim under the influence of the narcotic fumes drifting on the malodorous
air. Then straightened from his stance at the counter as a man sidled close,
aware that Bracht, too, set down his mug and let his hand fall, casually, to
the falchion's hilt.

 
          
The
man was short and thin, a coil of dark green silk wound about his head, a loose
tunic of the same color belted tight, the belt holding a curved dagger and a
short- sword. A livid scar ran down one cheek, from temple to beard, the dead
tissue dragging the eye askew. He smiled, showing teeth stained brown, and
nodded a greeting.

 
          
Calandryll
anticipated some invitation to entertainments more exotic than offered by the
tavern, such as they had received several times that night, but instead the
Kand said, "You seek passage to Gessyth," in a husky tone, more
statement than question. He sought to pitch his response at casual level.

 
          
"Do
you offer such?"

 
          
The
man beckoned him closer; when he bent his head he caught the waft of stale
wine.

 
          
"It
can be arranged." Disorganized eyes swept over the room. "For a price
best discussed elsewhere."

 
          
Bracht
moved to place himself on the man's farther side. "Why not here?" he
asked.

 
          
The
distorted eye closed in a grotesque wink and the smile grew broader.

 
          
"Too
many ears—too many
greedy
ears. The price will be high and should
these," a waved hand encompassed the crowded room, "leam that you
carry gold ..."

 
          
He
shrugged expressively. Bracht glanced at Calandryll, eyebrows raised:
Calandryll nodded slightly. Bracht said, "They might attempt to take
it," and as the man nodded, "as might you, did we follow you into
some alley where thieves wait."

 
          
"Sirs!"
An expression of hurt dignity .overtook the scarred features. "I am an
honest man. I followed you here to offer what you seek, having heard you asking
elsewhere. Do you choose to believe me a common thief I'll leave you."

 
          
He
moved from between them, halted by Bracht's hand on his shoulder. "Where
would you talk?" the freesword asked.

 
          
The
Kand looked up at the taller Kem, at Calandryll, and smiled again. "There
is a tavern named the Peacock," he murmured, "Close by the harbor. Do
you truly seek a vessel to bring you to Gessyth, I'll meet you there at noon
tomorrow."

 
          
"Honest
business is best done by day's light," Bracht said. "And by men who
call one another by their names."

 
          
"Mine
is Xanthese," the man said. "Ask for me in the Peacock at noon and a
ship shall be yours."

 
          
"At
noon," Bracht agreed.

 
          
"And
sirs," Xanthese murmured, "I'd advise you begone from here. Your
inquiries have raised some ... interest ... and it may be that folk less honest
than I might seek to part you from your coin. Walk wary, sirs!"

 
          
He
touched a hand to his forehead and disappeared into the crowd, swift as a
scuttling rat, was gone out the door before either moved to halt him.
Calandryll looked to his comrade.

 
          
"Do
we trust him?"

 
          
"I
think it wisest to trust no one," Bracht said, "though he gave sound
enough advice—let's quit this place, and keep our eyes open in the
streets."

 
          
"But
meet him tomorrow?" Calandryll asked. "At least he offers the chance
of a boat, nor sought to lure us into some alley."

 
          
"The
only chance, it seems," Bracht nodded. "Well attend this tavern at
noon and hear him out."

 
          
He
drained his mug; Calandryll followed suit, and together they pushed to the
door.

 
          
None
moved to follow them as they crossed the square and entered an alleyway so
narrow, the buildings to either side crowding so close, only a thin ribbon of
sky was visible above, the way below shadowy. Their shoulders touched as they
paced the street, hands on swords' hilts, ears cocked for pursuing footsteps.
The alley disgorged into a wider street, where blowsy women called to them from
little balconies and drinkers spilled out from the taverns, but no one sought
to halt them and, as best Calandryll could tell, there was no one behind.

 
          
They
reached the Waterboy to find the landlord waiting with a message of sorts: that
a woman had come asking after them, seeking a fair-haired young man from Lysse
and a dark-haired Kern freesword.

 
          
"A
blond woman?" Bracht demanded sharply. "With hair like melted gold
and eyes grey as a storm?"

 
          
That
he remembered the woman on the warboat so accurately surprised Calandryll as much
as the lyrical description, the landlord nodded enthusiastically.

 
          
"A
real beauty. But with a temper to match a fishwife. I told her the Waterboy's
guests value their privacy and she cursed me roundly—I thought she'd draw her
blade." He grinned, scratching his chins. "I've not seen her like—
some warrior woman from Lysse or Kern, I thought. I told her nothing."

 
          
"Good,"
Bracht said. Then, "Was she alone, or in company?"

 
          
"Alone,"
the landlord said, and chuckled. "She needed no company, not her.
Zirian—he's a fisherman—was in his cups and invited her to join him. When she
refused, he insisted—he fancies himself with the ladies—and she left him
unmanned."

 
          
Calandryll
gasped and the landlord chuckled some more, shaking his head. "Oh, she
didn't cut him—just," he raised a knee expressively, "robbed him of
such ambitions for a while. Though from the look of her I've little doubt she
can use that blade she carries."

 
          
"Did
she say anything more?" Bracht asked.

 
          
The
landlord shook his head: "No. Just wanted to know if I'd seen you."

 
          
"And
you told her no," Bracht said.

 
          
"I
did," the landlord nodded. "We mind to our business here in Kharasul.
Should I have done otherwise?"

 
          
"No,"
Bracht said. "And should she come again, let your answer remain no."

 
          
"My
word on it," the landlord promised.

 
          
"Our
thanks," Bracht smiled, and beckoned Calandryll to the stairs.

 
          
They
found their room and latched the door. Calandryll peered from the window, but
if the inn was watched he could see no sign of the observers and turned to face
Bracht. The Kem's face was thoughtful as he tugged off his boots.

 
          
"So,
the woman snaps closest on our heels. Best we find this boat Xanthese offers
and quit Kharasul as swift we may."

 
          
"I
thought her lost when the magic took her," Calandryll murmured "Who
is she? Does she act for Azumandias?"

 
          
Bracht
shrugged.

 
          
"For
Azumandias or herself, what matter? She's another hound baying on our
heels."

 
          
"A
hound with a warboat at her command," Calandryll said glumly.

 
          
"Hope
then that Xanthese's boat runs swift," Bracht said, stretching on the bed
with head in cupped hands and a contemplative smile on his face. "But she
was lovely, was she not?"

 
          
Calandryll
stared at him, frowning, hearing frank admiration in his voice. "You sound
moonstruck," he said; accusingly.