Fireblood (Whispers from Mirrowen) (15 page)

“That is understandable,” Annon said. “What we seek is information, not a deal.”

Dwyer shook his head impatiently. “Exactly. That is his business. Information. He remembers everything that anyone has ever said or written. Literally. I do not jest with ye, lads. For fun, he counts the mugs of ale and wine drunk in the Millpond each day as well as the number that are spilled. He gets his drinks for free because he tells the tavern master what to order and how much every moon cycle. He is never wrong, not that I have ever seen. He is uncanny, so they say. He is not like the crowd in the Millpond. He watches them, listens in, and feels what is going on in the room. He has the smell of it, you see. Drop a fistful of coins, and he can tell you how many ducats fell and whether they were silver or gold.”

Paedrin folded his arms. “He sounds rather boring. When can we meet him?”

Dwyer looked annoyed. “He accepts few visitors.”

“Take us to him, please.” Annon stepped forward, asserting himself as their leader.

Dwyer gave them another appraising look, scowling when he glanced at Paedrin, and then motioned for them to follow him into one of the rough, ramshackle clusters of buildings inside the disordered hive. It was dusk when they left the Millpond and getting darker with each step. Paedrin seemed to watch each sleeping beggar or drunk who shuffled along the path. He was tense and tightly coiled, expecting violence from every side.

Their destination was at the northern edge of town, a small two-story dwelling, a shop with a living place above doors. There was a lamp lit above stairs, but no light in the shop below. The shop was closed and locked, but Dwyer withdrew a key and opened it. As they entered, the room was full of books and paper, bottles of ink, and soft, padded chairs. The carpet was dirty and well worn. The place was rather shabby overall. There was a desk, a counter, riddled with scraps of paper and ink blots. A small staircase went from the back of the room to the upstairs floor.

“What do you sell?” Paedrin asked, looking around at the books and quills but seeing no merchandise. He could not discern what the man’s business was.

“Nothing,” Dwyer said, affronted. “I have no need to sell. I made my fortune nearly twenty span of years ago, betting on the Plague. When Erasmus said it was coming, I took all that I owned and bet it at the Millpond. I live quite comfortably on what is left and translate poetry.”

Paedrin stifled a chuckle with a feigned cough. “Poetry? Really?” For a stern man, he did not seem the type.

“You can be sure. I speak several languages and translate poetry from the original tongue into another. It is not as easy as you may think. Let me go upstairs and ask if he will see you.”

He went to the staircase and took the steps two at a time. There were voices above, and promptly Dwyer returned. “He will make an exception for the three of ye, but only because there is a Druidecht among ye. He trusts those folk.”

Annon felt a flush of gratitude.

Dwyer motioned for the stairs and then eased himself into one of the stuffed chairs, reaching for a book nearby and examining the binding and spine for a moment before blowing hard at the dust. Then he opened it.

Annon reached the stairs first and started up. Paedrin let Hettie go next and studied Dwyer for a moment longer. The lifestyle was not the ostentatious manner of one with wealth. He lived on the edge of town, in a ramshackle house. The brass lamp was soot-stained and had no frills. The stove was ordinary. The array of untidy books was a distraction to the eyes.

Paedrin followed Hettie up the stairs, watching Dwyer as long as he could, seeing no mark of nervousness or concern. They reached the top level, and Annon found the man pacing in the upper story.

There were books on the floor, stacks of them. Some were opened, others placed haphazardly. But what struck Annon immediately were Erasmus’s eyes. Or more precisely, the fact that they did not appear to look the same direction at the same time. His dark hair was shortly cropped; he was wide about the shoulders and skinny about the ankles. He did not look like a man of great wealth. First, he was too young. Second, his shirt was homespun, and he wore no shoes, only tattered slippers. He glanced at them, rubbing his mouth nervously, pacing back and forth by the window.

“Are you Erasmus?” Annon asked formally.

There was a twitch in the muscles of the man’s face, and he held up his hand, as if warning them to be quiet. “At so many paces per league, and then the walk from the Millpond to here. Yes, that must be it.” His strange eyes stared at them, but not directly at them. One of his eyes was crooked.

“What is it?” Annon asked, his voice lined with doubt.

Erasmus went to the large window facing the street. He tapped his bottom lip with a long finger and then pointed out the window. “It is too dark now to see it, but there was a smudge on the horizon. From a fire. A large fire. Same direction as the road, so the fire must have started on the road. By the size of the smoke
plume, it likely shut down the road. Which means goods will stop flowing and a lot of money will be lost and won tonight at the Millpond. It will delay the caravans ready to depart. It may ruin cargo.” He clucked his tongue, muttering dazedly to himself. He glanced at them, his brow wrinkling. “I’m assuming it was you folk who caused the fires and did so deliberately. Very foolish.” He clucked his tongue again, muttering to himself. “They will want you dead for sure. They murder for much less in this town. I imagine we do not have long before they track your path here.”

“The Preachán are a scheming race. They love those things which are precious, and they have an amazing gift for memory. I have once heard of a Preachán named Hollibust who could recite the name of every person living he had ever met. There are others, in Havenrook mind you, who have taken the power of the mind and exploited it to the point where they can read the minds of others.”

– Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos

P
aedrin looked at the cross-eyed Preachán with distrust. He did not bother to hide his expression. “What are you saying, Erasmus? That we were followed here?”

Erasmus fluttered his hands in annoyance. “No, no—don’t be a fool, Bhikhu. I doubt anyone at the Millpond has noticed the closure of the road yet. Yet. But there was smoke, and smoke comes from fire; it is in the exact direction of the only road leading to Havenrook. And by the looks of you, you just arrived today. Which means you were on the road, which means you were attacked by the thieves on the road and defended yourselves, and if this brother and sister have the fireblood as Tyrus Paracelsus has, then it is likely and probable that you set fire to the road and will cause losses of profit and an interruption in the flow of trade.” His hands stopped flapping. “Was I being clear enough for you, Bhikhu, or should I repeat several parts until you catch up? Wasted moments, wasted time. They will track you
here
, for undoubtedly you asked for me by name, and hence will bring whatever danger with you to my abode. Why have you come?”

Annon stepped forward, his expression taut. “We seek Drosta’s lair.”

“Impossible,” Erasmus muttered, shaking his head.

“What is impossible?” Paedrin asked, unnerved by the man’s flood of information and how he had assembled so much on such a casual greeting. It was as if he had thought about the situation for hours instead of just moments.

“Impossible. No, it is impossible. It cannot be done.”

Annon looked back at Paedrin, confusion on his face.

Hettie stepped forward. “What do you mean, Erasmus?”

The man whirled and walked to the window, muttering beneath his breath. His broad shoulders hunched, as if he were suddenly under a tremendous burden. His breath came out in quick gasps. He counted on his fingers. “Even if Kiranrao doesn’t know, he will. Forced march through the woods. Cruithne territory. Three-day walk. Two with horses, but risk losing shoes or laming half of them. Speed does not make up for the risk. Three days then.”

Hettie shook her head. “You are not making sense.”

He gave an abrupt hand gesture to forestall more questions. “Impossible. Kiranrao is the element I cannot account for or predict. Down too many branches this can go. I cannot provide a probable guess yet. Does Kiranrao know you are here?” He looked at them, but it was hard to tell which of them he was gazing at.

“You could say that,” Paedrin answered.

“Impossible,” he muttered. “We would make it to Drosta’s, but not back again alive. I will not go. Be gone. I do not have a price. It is not worth my time. Be gone!”

Annon held out his hands. “I did not understand what you were referring to. Why should Kiranrao matter in this?”

Erasmus coughed as he chuckled. “He has sought the treasure at Drosta’s lair for many years. There is a bounty for anyone who can lead him to it. He does not know that
I
know where it is.”

Hettie looked confused. “What purpose would he have in gaining more wealth? Why would it even interest him?”

Erasmus looked up, as if suddenly confused. “Who says that Drosta’s treasure has anything to do with wealth? There are a great many things in the world that no amount of coin will purchase. Drosta’s treasure is not in coin.”

Annon looked at Hettie and she looked back at him. “We were led to believe that it was,” he said.

Erasmus chortled. “Led to believe. By Tyrus Paracelsus. Imagine that. I cannot believe that your uncle would want Drosta’s treasure in that villain’s hands. It was put there to safeguard it.”

“What?” Paedrin asked, stepping forward warily. “The treasure was put there?”

“Of course, you silly sheep-brained Bhikhu. If you are going to hide something of enormous value from a Romani or the Preachán, you do not leave it in Havenrook. You put it in a fortress among the Cruithne. I know of it because Tyrus wanted to be sure that the safeguards could not be breached. He had me test the defenses. I could not break them. He was satisfied that it was safe.”

“Do you know what Drosta’s treasure is?” Annon asked. Paedrin could tell by the look on his face that he was genuinely worried now. Hettie looked flummoxed.

“No. Only
where
it is.”

“You must take us there,” Annon said. “My uncle knew we could trust you. That we could rely on you to…”

Erasmus quickly rushed to the window. “Torches in the street. They are already on the way here. You must go. Now!” He waved his arms and advanced on them, trying to shush them away. “Dwyer! Get up here! Our guests must leave.”

“Please!” Hettie implored.

“What you ask is impossible. Even with a day’s head start, we would be found out, and they would follow us to Drosta’s lair. Even with horses, we would…”

“I know, I know,” Annon said impatiently. “But we need your help, Erasmus. This is important.”

“It is of no concern to me,” Erasmus said, grabbing Annon by the fringe of his cloak and tugging him toward the stairs. “Dwyer! They must go! Out with them. Out!”

“But if you would…” Hettie said.

“They will be here in moments!” Erasmus said. “You do not have much time to escape out the back. We will delay your pursuers as much as we can. Return to Kenatos. Tell your uncle he was a fool for sending you here. Tell yourselves that you were fools for trusting him.”