Lord of the Rose (9 page)

The rider shrugged. “Yes, I took that into consideration. He’ll get lost up here, and it’ll be days or weeks—if ever—before he finds his way back to the Big Fat Guy.”

Dram Feldspar nodded, impressed with his companion’s thinking. As the sun paled the eastern horizon, they set their own more leisurely pace before eventually stopping for a mid-morning camp. For three more days they made their way through the foothills and green valleys of the Garnet Mountains. Finally they emerged on the western slope of the range, descending on a good, straight road to the flat Vingaard plains. Within sight, though still eight or ten miles away, loomed the walls and towers, the temples and taverns, of a gleaming, prosperous city.

“Welcome to the Free City of Garnet!” proclaimed a herald as the two riders passed under the wide open gate. “Bring your goods here to sell—or come here to buy! You want to work, we’ve got a job—you want to hire, we’ve got skilled hands and strong backs looking for work!”

“Sounds like a perfect world,” Dram muttered as they passed through the gate and joined a throng of travelers on the crowded main street. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

His companion shrugged. “Garnet’s better’n a lot of places
across these plains. No Solamnic dukes in charge here, at least.”

“Maybe we can shop out our services, then,” the dwarf said. “Make a few coins. Since we never got the bounty from Cornellus, we’re down to about three steel pieces. If we picked up some extra, we could while away the nights in one of these fancy-lookin’ drinking houses,” he concluded hopefully, gesturing at a whole street of decorated taverns and inns. Colorful signs advertised the Dragon’s Flagon, the Knight and Maiden, the Kaolyn Hole, and other inviting establishments.

“Why, look there—the Kaolyn Hole—makes me think of my own home, under the mountain. Ah, how I miss it.”

“You miss the dwarf spirits, that’s f’sure,” the man said. “But you’d go crazy in a fortnight if you tried to live underground again.”

Dram sniffed with the air of one who’d been greatly insulted then sighed, squinting at the sun as it slid downward through the late afternoon sky. “Never did think a mountain dwarf could grow so fond of that ol’ ball of fire,” he admitted, “but yer right—I get a kinda creepy feeling if I’m stuck in the dark too long, these days. That’s what hanging around with humans too long’ll do to a fellow!”

They rode along in companionable silence, enjoying the friendly bustle of the city after their long ride. It was the end of the business day, and merchants were folding up tents and awnings across several great marketplaces as people drifted away from the centers of commerce. A few vendors hawked the last of their fish, while others carted away wagonloads of woolen garments, kegs of beer, and casks of wheat to be saved for the next day of selling.

The taverns and inns sprang to life as the sky grew dark. The riders passed one called Granny’s Garter, where a number of scantily clad women danced on the upper balcony. Music, in the forms of drums, lutes, pipes, and mandolins, echoed in every street.

“This city was kind of a scum-hole when the Dark Knights
ran the place,” Dram said approvingly. “I thought it was the Solamnics who’d got the place back on its feet again—you say it ain’t so?”

“Hardly,” replied his companion. “You heard what the crier said. This is a Free City. Pledged by compact to none of the orders of knights. Rose, Crown, Sword—they all buy and sell here, but they don’t get to tax the commerce.”

“There are some knights now,” the dwarf observed. He gestured toward the front of a gilded building on a side street, nestled between an inn and a dance hall. “Recognize them horses?”

The man peered in the direction of the dwarf’s pointing finger, seeing two large war-horses and a scruffy mule lashed to a hitching rail.

“Yep,” said the warrior, reining in and dismounting. He lashed the gelding’s reins to a handy railing while he studied the huge horses.

The two steeds were easily distinguishable as knightly mounts, but it was the scrollwork on the saddles that marked them as the same two horses that had been tethered outside of Cornellus’s tavern high up in the mountains. The two companions settled themselves on a bench outside an inn on a porch that allowed them to keep an eye on the pair of warhorses.

“Say, what kind of place is that?” Dram had been scrutinizing the gilded structure, which reflected the setting sun off a myriad of gold leaves and scrollwork along the building’s upper façade.

“It’s a temple. To Shinare. They call her Winged Victory nowadays, but I think of her as a set of moneyhandler’s scales. She’s the goddess of merchants and other thieves,” the warrior said.

“Hmph!” snorted the dwarf. “In Thorbardin they call her the Silver Mistress. I keep my faith in Reorx, thank you very much.”

The human shrugged. “Each to his own. I put my faith in my brains and some keen steel.”

He leaned back on the bench and pulled his cap down low over his eyes, keeping his eye on the war-horses and the temple
of Shinare. They were outside an inn called the Roseflower, and a cheerful barmaid spotted them and brought them several mugs of ale—the place had the Coastlund Red that they both favored. Meanwhile the sky grew dark and the streets, lit by oil lamps, seemed to grow even brighter than they had been during the day.

“It’s two drinks for the price of one, today,” the barmaid mentioned casually on their second round.

“What’s the occasion?” asked Dram.

“Well, it’s in honor of Dara Lorimar’s birthday. She would have been twenty-two, today. My master was a loyal follower of her father’s, so he pays tribute to her memory—it’s a year and a half since she died.”

“This city owes a lot to Lorimar?” asked the warrior with an air of disinterest.

“To both of them,” the barmaid said proudly. “He freed us from the Dark Knights, and she was the Princess of the Plains, you know.”

“Huh?” the dwarf asked. “Royalty?”

“You know, from the prophecy,” the woman said. “A Princess of the Plains shall wed a Lord of No Sign—and Solamania will have a king, again.” She shook her head sadly. “Of course, it’s all just stories now, but it’s nice to remember.”

“Yes, worth remembering,” Dram replied, as the warrior ignored the exchange. After the maid left, the dwarf poked his companion in the arm. “Ain’t feeling too social, eh?” he asked.

The human shook his head. “People don’t know what they’re talking about,” he said bitterly. The two sat in silence for another hour until the barmaid brought them another set of foaming mugs.

“That was our last coin,” the dwarf remarked, after paying for their third round.

His companion simply nodded.

Finally the man stiffened and turned his head to the side. He watched surreptitiously as the two knights they had encountered in the stronghold finally emerged from the temple. They were
still dragging the hapless goblin, thoroughly shackled. They hoisted the creature onto the mule, mounted their horses, and started off at a trot toward the city’s western gate.

“Where do you think they’re headed?” asked Dram.

“Caergoth,” replied the man with certainty. “That’s where the Order of the Rose is, these days.”

“You know them two?”

The swordsman shook his head. “No, but the barmaid at Cornel’s called that one Reynaud. I’ve heard of Captain Reynaud. He’s a knight commander in Duke Crawford’s army.”

Dram whistled. “A damn good army, that one. I’ve seen it on the march—covers the whole horizon.”

“It’s a big one all right,” his companion allowed with a shrug.

They waited a good half hour after the knights had left. Night had fallen by the time they rose, led their horses down the side street, and tethered them outside the temple. Dram followed as the man approached the front door and tried the latch. It was unlocked, so they strolled inside.

They found themselves standing in a small, stone-walled chamber. There was a large gold merchant’s scale set up on a platform in the center of the room, with several rings of benches surrounding it. A huge pair of feathered wings, possibly a trophy claimed from a slain griffon, were prominently displayed on the far wall of the sanctuary.

A cleric dressed in white robes trimmed in gold emerged from a back room, bowing humbly before the two travelers.

“Greetings, Wayfarers,” he said. “Do you come to make an offering to Shinare of the Scales?”

“Not exactly,” said the human. “I wanted to ask you some questions about the Knights of the Rose. You work for them, don’t you?”

The cleric, a young man with cherubic cheeks and a rotund waistline, drew himself up stiffly. “I should say not! We may have common cause, as we try to bring order to this accursed place, but I do my god’s work, while they are in the service of their
duke! The knighthood has no official power here in Garnet!”

The swordsman seemed to ignore the priest, walking slowly around the chamber, his hands concealed beneath his cape. On the far side of the large scale one arm emerged as he pointed to a strongbox on the floor. “Is this where you take donations? From the knights?”

“No! How dare you imply—” The chubby cleric shrieked as the warrior, moving with sudden speed, snatched the sword from his back-scabbard, whipped it over his head, and brought it down. Blue flames were already crackling along the blade as the keen steel edge smashed into the chest, slicing through the planks of the strongbox as though they were stale pieces of bread.

A cascade of coins and gems spilled out.

The priest staggered backward, gaping in horror as the man reached down and grabbed one glittering item. It was a golden medallion in the shape of a rose attached to a slender gold chain.

“I see that that someone pays you well,” he drawled.

“Outrageous! Go at once! Know that that is a simple donation from a faithful follower!”

“Well, then, you can keep the simple stuff,” said the swordsman, tossing it toward the cleric, who caught it clumsily in both hands, fingers clutching at the fine chain. “We can find plenty that is more elegant among the rest of this.”

He held his weapon, no longer flaming, in one hand, as the cleric glared at him. Dram knelt and scooped fistful after fistful of coins and jewels into a leather sack. The dwarf paused for a second now and then to admire a particularly fetching gem but quickly filled the sack.

“That’s about all it’ll hold,” the dwarf said, hefting the bulging sack. He was visibly disappointed, for there was still a considerable fortune strewn around the stone floor.

“It’ll have to do,” said his companion.

“Yeah, I suppose,” said Dram regretfully.

“How dare you?” demanded the priest angrily. “When the duke hears of this—”

“The duke has no power here. Garnet is a free city. Remember?” the warrior chided.

“Your insolence will cost you dearly,” warned the priest. With a sudden gesture he spun away, seized a tassle hanging from the ceiling, and pulled hard on the line. A gong sounded.

“Tch-tch. You shouldn’t have done that,” Dram said, shaking his head. The swordsman was already moving, stepping close to the priest. He reversed the heavy blade and brought the hilt down, hard, on the cleric’s head, sending the priest sprawling to the floor, unconscious.

“Halt!” A strong voice boomed through the round chamber, even as the pair were racing for the door.

Both the dwarf and his human companion stopped, as if their feet were frozen to the floor.

Another priest, this one wearing a gown of pure gold, stalked into the room. He was older than the first, with a fringe of gray hair and a massive belly that swelled his garment. He stared at them with an air of command—clearly, he was the high priest of this temple.

“So even a temple is not safe from such villains and scoundrels. You will pay for your insolence on the rack! Duke Crawford himself will enjoy the spilling of your blood.”

“Magic! I’m stuck to the floor!” Dram snarled in rage, snatched his axe from its belt strap, but he couldn’t decide whether to hurl it—the high priest was too far away to be sure that he could strike him. “Damn your greedy god anyway!” he spat.

The human warrior, on the other hand, drew a deep breath and collected himself before calmly turning around, his feet gliding smoothly over the floor. “Duke Crawford has no power in Garnet,” he said.

The patriarch glared indignantly. “You blaspheme the Balance of the Scales! He will, soon enough. Though you’ll have breathed your last before then!”

The intruder calmly sheathed his great sword and drew out one of the small crossbows that he wore at his belt, concealed
beneath his cape. With a measured crank of his hand, he cocked the weapon.

“Cease!” cried the high priest, his fingers splayed in a gesture of command. “Drop your weapon.”

The warrior raised the crossbow, siting the weapon on the massive round target of the golden billowing robe. “Release my friend,” he said calmly.

“I command you both to remain!” shouted the cleric. “My power rules here!”

The
clunk
of the crossbow’s firing mechanism was the last sound he was fated to hear. The high priest groped at the dart that pierced his chest, looking in disbelief at the crimson rose—dyed in blood—that spread across his sacred garment. He collapsed with a groan.