Artesans of Albia: 01 - King's Envoy (12 page)

“Just as well,” commented Cal, “or the poor horses will hardly be able to move.”

“Don’t exaggerate,” said Rienne. “You’ll be glad for what we’re taking at some point, you’ll see.”

They speculated about what might happen when they reached the garrison, but as they only had Paulus’ mysterious hints to guide them, it was pointless. Taran was glad to abandon the topic as thinking about the Staff only raised anxieties and bad memories. The prospect of travel had helped keep them at bay and he was relieved when Rienne suggested they retire.

The next morning was bright and chilly. Taran took a last look at the bolted and padlocked cellar door, collected his gear, and followed his friends into the street. He closed the hastily repaired cottage door and turned the key in the lock. The drapes had been drawn to keep out prying eyes. Paulus met them outside the tavern and accepted the key from Taran.

“Best of luck,” he said. “Don’t forget, ask for Major Sullyan. If that doesn’t get you in, ask to see Captain Tamsen. He ought to remember me. And don’t worry about the house, I’ll see it’s alright.”

“Thanks, Paulus. I’ll owe you a good few nights behind the bar for this,” said Taran. He was desperately hoping the village would be safe from raiders while he was gone.

“Don’t think I won’t collect,” laughed the barkeep. “Go on, be off with you.”

Taran led the way to the livery where their mounts were waiting. Stablelads helped arrange the saddlebags and held the horses’ heads while they mounted.

Cal eyed his piebald cob suspiciously. “I hope this thing’s reliable.”

“Quiet as a lamb, sir,” said one of the boys, grinning as he held the bridle. “Usually ridden by an old lady to visit her daughter in Shenton.”

“I’ve heard that one before,” muttered Cal, taking the reins. The stocky little cob did seem very steady and gradually Cal relaxed.

Taran set a gentle pace, following the high road north toward Canstown. It was a major route and well traveled, so the road was in good repair. There were other travelers on the road and once, in the distance, they even saw a Roamerling camp.

‘Roamerling’ was a derogatory Albian term for the nomadic people of the First Realm, Endomir. To escape their homeland’s ferociously icy winters, these dark-skinned wanderers haunted the other realms during the cold months. Traveling in their close-knit family groups, they peddled herbs and cures, and the favors of their sloe-eyed girls. They were shunned and treated with scorn by Albians during daylight hours and trusted by no one. Under the anonymity of night, however, villagers would often visit the noisy circle of wagons and firelight to part with their gold and indulge in furtive pleasures.

Taran saw Cal watching the nomads with a wistful eye. “Do you miss the time you spent with the Roamerlings before I met you, Cal?”

Cal smiled briefly, his teeth very white against his dark skin. “Not really. I’m still grateful they took me in after my family threw me out, but I knew I couldn’t stay with them forever. I did learn some interesting skills from them, though.”

Taran grinned back. “Which skills are you talking about? Pick-pocketing or playing the whistle?”

Cal patted the silver longwhistle in his pocket. It never left him and the haunting tunes he produced often entertained his friends. “One resulted in the other,” he laughed. “Thank goodness you found me that night, Taran. You saved me from a life of petty crime.”

They rode on, leaving the Roamerling camp behind. At midday, they stopped for a snack, and then continued on for the better part of the afternoon until reaching the major crossroads that would take them to Tolk. This was a much larger city, laying far to the west. As usual, at a crossing of the ways like this, people were camped: traders and travelers like themselves, all taking the opportunity to hear other wayfarers’ gossip.

“I think we’ll stop for a breather, too,” said Taran. “You never know, we might hear something interesting.”

They dismounted and tied the horses to a railing. They joined the cluster of people sitting or standing under a copse of trees. Judging by the trampled ground, this was a popular rest site.

Their fellow travelers hailed them, eager for news. Taran and his friends traded inconsequential village gossip, careful not to mention their real business. Most of what they heard concerned the raids; everyone was talking about the unrest. One man even knew of a pitched battle that had occurred recently near his village. More importantly, he also knew the raiders were definitely Andaryans.

“Crack fighting unit they sent to sort it out,” he said, relishing the tale. “From that garrison to the northwest, they were. Fighting was very fierce, by all accounts, and I heard the demons were unusually savage. Managed to wound one of the garrison’s senior officers and kill a few of his lads, although eventually our boys ran off the demons. Thank the gods.”

“How long ago was this?” asked Taran, as the flesh of his arms tingled ominously.

“A few days,” replied the man. “Been any fighting over your way?”

Once all the stories had been told, Taran thought to ask whether there were any inns on the road. Only one, he was told, about two hours farther. He drew the others away, hoping to reach the inn before nightfall. It was growing colder as the afternoon wore on and he felt the need for a warm fire and supper. The news he had heard had unsettled him badly and he rode in troubled silence.

When they finally reached the inn, it was very unlike their tavern at home. Obviously a major stopping point for wayfarers, it was much larger than they were used to, having two or three common rooms and a couple of small private rooms. It also had plenty of rooms to rent and horse stables. They gave their horses to a couple of young stablehands and followed the aging landlord, who introduced himself as Milo, to the rooms they had rented for the night. After dumping their bags, they freshened up and trooped down to the commons for some roasted meat stew and some ale. Once replete and feeling nicely drowsy, they lounged by the huge fire, listening to the other guests.

The inn wasn’t crowded as the traveling season was nearly over. Soon the roads would become increasingly wet and muddy, and only those with the most pressing business would be on them. The trickle of information that night was disappointingly light. There were two merchants on their way back from a trade fair, a family returning from visiting relatives in Tolk and interestingly enough, two Kingsmen who stayed in a corner and appeared to be watching the other guests as closely as Taran was.

The murmur of conversation was too low for the Journeyman to catch, but from what he could see, the merchants were busy counting their profits and discussing the new clients they had made at the fair. The family was obviously tired from its long trek from Tolk and retired early. The two swordsmen, both hard-faced young men wearing combat leathers with no rank insignia, sat drinking ale in silence.

Taran, Cal and Rienne decided to retire. As he passed the bar, Taran caught the landlord’s eye. “We’re planning to call in at the garrison tomorrow,” he said. “Could you give us directions?”

The landlord raised his brows. “I can, aye,” he said. “What do you want at the Manor? Not many people go knocking on their door and if you don’t mind me saying, you’re all a little too old to enlist. No offense.”

Taran ignored the man’s jocular tone, he didn’t want to be drawn into giving too much away. “We have some information that might be helpful to them, that’s all. I didn’t know it was called ‘the Manor,’ it sounds like a strange name for a garrison.”

“Not really,” smiled the landlord. “Local people call it that because it was originally Lord Blaine’s manor. When King Kandaran was killed during the civil war, Mathias Blaine came out in support of his son, Prince Elias. It was Blaine’s men and military expertise that allowed the Prince to regain the crown. In recognition of his support, Elias made Blaine General-in-Command. Since then, he’s been turning his manor and lands into a garrison of some prestige.” He pointed to the swordsmen, adding, “Those are two of his lads. Maybe they could help you?”

“Thanks, but I think we need to speak with someone higher up the chain of command,” said Taran. “If you could just give us directions?”

“As you wish,” shrugged the man and told Taran the way to the Manor.

As he turned to leave, the innkeeper added, “You’ll be lucky to talk to anyone more senior than the gate guard, you know. The place is pretty empty at the moment, what with all these raids going on. It’s a bad business if all that’s going to start up again. There can only be a couple of companies at the most left at the Manor right now, and one has only been back a short while. Brought in quite a few wounded, by all accounts.”

Taran nodded. “Yes, we heard. Thanks for the directions. Can the horses be ready straight after breakfast?”

“Of course. Have a pleasant night.”

The following morning, stiff from riding and strange beds, the three travelers gathered their bags, paid for their rooms, and rode on. It was a glorious autumn morning with warm, bright sunshine, cool wind, and trees in the full glory of their changing colors. There was no one else on the road but the local farmers were out in their fields, gathering the last of the harvest. One or two waved as the little party rode by but most were too involved in their work and didn’t even glance up.

At noon, Taran called a brief lunch stop, and shortly afterward they came across the final turn that would lead them to the Manor.

The countryside became increasingly wooded; gone were the fields and farmhouses. The track they followed wound between forested slopes and marshy stands of alder and birch. The autumn sun didn’t reach far between the trees and the air grew colder and slightly damp. They began to shiver and hoped they were nearing the end of their journey.

After a few miles of riding through the quiet woods, during which they frequently caught sight of an impressively tall and well maintained stone boundary wall, the trees drew back from the road. Soon a gap in the wall came into sight, protected by tall and heavy wooden double gates. In one gate there was a smaller sally port that opened to reveal a sentry carrying a crossbow. He had clearly been alerted by the sound of their horses’ hooves and he watched them warily.

Taran halted his horse and handed the reins to Cal. He dismounted and approached the guard, who continued watching in silence, his weapon loaded but pointed away from Taran. The Journeyman smiled, trying to ignore his misgivings. He failed.