Mercury Mind (The Downfall Saga Book 1) (7 page)

“Geez, Mister. How do ya know all that?”

“I don’t really know. I just looked at him and it popped into my head.”

“Must be some of those things you forgot.”

The two of them made a game out of it for the next hour. Sitting on the edge of the fountain, they took turns telling each other stories about people who walked by. With nothing but their appearance, dress and movements to go on, they kept the stories simple; social class; occupation and marital status.

Pid could pick out only the most basic features of the people. Years of begging had taught him how to identify a likely mark and which people weren’t worth his time.

Donovan was different. He could, almost subconsciously, pick out tiny details that told the story. A woman with well-shaped nails that were coated in dirt underneath. A cooper with a slight limp and many scars on his arms and face, suggesting a more militant past. A man posing as a blacksmith, wearing a heavy apron, whose hairy arms and thick beard showed no signs of scorching from the heat of the forge.

The stories were highly superficial, but the two of them had a fun time pointing out the flaws of the posers in the crowd. They had no way to verify any part of the stories, but it was an enjoyable experience nonetheless.

“I should be going,” said Donovan, pushing himself off the fountain after spending the last hour with Pid.

“Yeah, I gotta get back to my spot. I wish I was as good as ya. I’d save time picking the right marks in the crowd. Ya should try being a beggar for a time. Ya’d be good.”

“Maybe I already am,” said Donovan, walking away without another word.

Joining the stream of people walking by, Donovan travelled through the Temple District without pause. The architecture around him was impressive, but with no recognition of the symbols hanging above their doors, they held no interest to him.

Crossing a bridge on the far side of the island, he entered a large open-air market which immediately assaulted his senses. He could feel the din of voices rumbling in his bones. Vendors everywhere were loudly hawking their wares, each trying to outdo their neighbors. The tables were garishly decorated in bold colors which stabbed his eyes. The smell of many unwashed bodies mixed with exotic spices from the food cooking over small fires, until it was so thick that it coated the tongue until you could practically taste it.

Walking between two rows of stalls, vendors shoved their wares in his face. “Feel this, good sir. The finest silk in the land, buy it for your lady. I give you good deal, only today.” He continued walking and the individual voices were absorbed by the crowd.

It only took a matter of minutes for the market to overwhelm him, and Donovan fought his way through the crowd towards its edge. Escaping into the first building he saw, he let out a sigh as he surveyed the interior of a quiet tailor’s shop. Bolts of cloth dominated an entire wall, a long counter sat on the opposite wall, and the interior was filled with rack upon rack of brightly colored clothes.

“You clearly have good taste, fine sir,” came a voice amidst the racks of clothes. A moment later a small, skinny man, dressed in an outfit that would put a peacock to shame, wound his way between two racks and gently shook Donovan’s hand. “I’m Seiriol and welcome to my shop.”

“Uh ... thanks,” said Donovan, not wanting to admit that he’d entered at random to get out of the bustling market.

“What are you looking for? Formal wear? Evening wear?” he said, wrinkling his nose in disgust as he examined Donovan’s drab cloak.

“I’ve been at Haven—”

“A wizard,” interrupted Seiriol, “How wonderful.” He grabbed Donovan’s wrist in a surprisingly firm grip, and pulled him through the racks of clothing towards the back of the shop, talking the entire way. “Most wizards have no sense of style. It’s one thing to do something extraordinary, but it’s another to do it in style. I’ll make you stand out from the crowd. Try this on.”

He shoved a lilac colored robe towards Donovan. It was so thin that he could see the creases on his hand through the material.

“It looks awfully thin, and it gets cold up in the mountains,” said Donovan.

“Heaven forbid that you’d wear it outside and drag the hem through the snow,” said Seiriol. Seeing the look on Donovan’s face, he put the robe back on the shelf and led him to another rack. “How about this?” He handed over a ruffled red scarf that resembled roses.

“A scarf would help keep me warm,” said Donovan, politely. He started to wrap it around his neck when Seiriol grabbed his hand to stop him.

“This is wasted on what you’re wearing. Come let us find you a suitable shirt.” Seiriol spent the next five minutes running his fingers along the racks of shirts before pulling out a mustard yellow shirt, at least two sizes too small for Donovan. “Let’s get these things off you, so we can try these on.”

He tried to remove the cloak from around Donovan’s shoulders, but Donovan shrugged him off. Taking the shirt, he rubbed the material between his finger and thumb, before he turned the sleeve inside out to check the stitching.

“This won’t do,” said Donovan. “Look at how loose this stitching is. It’ll start coming apart within a matter of months.”

“Months!” said Seiriol, putting his hand over his mouth in horror. “These garments are for events. They’re not rags that you wear every day. I think you’d have better luck searching the rubbish piles to find something that goes with what you’re wearing. Good day.” He spun on his heels and evaporated amidst the racks of clothes.

Shrugging his shoulders, Donovan found his way to the door and left the shop.

Skirting around the edge of the market, he kept an eye out for Osmont, when a stall caught his attention. A small, heavily tanned woman sat behind a table with her stub of a leg resting on a stool beside her. She wore a plain white outfit, remarkable in its simplicity, and was sewing a small doll in her hands. Spread around the stall were thick fur cloaks, simple and sturdy, with the least amount of highlights to make them fashionable. Donovan ran his hands over a dark brown cloak, with white fur around the collar.

“That one’s a little long for you,” came the woman’s quiet voice. “Try the black one on the other side.”

It was a midnight black color with thick, shaggy fur on the shoulders and around the neck. Donovan fell in love with a single touch, but took his time examining it. He checked every stitch on it, before finally throwing it around his shoulders and doing up the clasp around his neck. “How does it look?” he asked.

“Like you’ll overheat if you wear it in this weather, but it does bring out the violet in your eyes.”

“The stitching seems well-done. Have you been a seamstress your whole life?”

“I wouldn’t call myself a seamstress now,” she said with an energetic laugh. “I spent my life mending nets down in Chaylse, but the salt water’s a killer on my old joints.”

They spent several minutes haggling on a price, and Donovan was folding it up into a bundle when he heard Osmont’s voice from behind. “It looks sturdy,” he said. “You’ll need it if you spend the winter in the mountains.”

“I hope so,” said Donovan. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

“I hope so,” said Osmont.

“Are we heading back to Haven?”

“Not yet. I want to check out the lodgings to see if anyone remembers seeing you here.”

Donovan held out his arms and turned in a circle. “That doesn’t seem likely with this many people.”

“Don’t get discouraged. We’ll check the inns near the edge of town and check with the guards at the gates, before heading back this evening.

They continued along the south side of the Skyrah River as they headed east to a small bohemian section of the city. They spent the next hour talking to innkeepers, but none recalled seeing anyone Donovan’s size over the past few days.

They followed the south wall of the city back to the city’s south gate. The guards on duty didn’t recall seeing Donovan, but with so many people passing through the gates each day, he could have passed by a dozen times and they still wouldn’t remember him. They promised to talk to the other guards and send word up to Haven if any of them had seen anything.

Hot from walking through the crowds and discouraged from their lack of success, they went back through the Temple District and took a different bridge leading to the west side of the river. The west side of the river was primarily an industrial area, but there was a boardwalk along the river’s edge which contained many rowdy establishments. They finally had success at the fourth such establishment.

The sign outside had a picture of a large liver, with bloodshot eyes and a large leering smile, written below were the words
The Engorged Liver
. Despite the neighborhood, the inside was surprisingly clean and organized. A buxom lady with smoldering eyes and fiery red hair stood behind the bar. A few patrons sat at tables near the far wall.

“Let’s get some lunch while we’re here,” said Osmont, sitting down at a table facing the bar. The tables were made of a white wood, Osmont thought that they were possibly spruce, with deep gouges and stains on the top surface. Despite the unruly appearance, they appeared to have been cleaned regularly.

Donovan sat down opposite Osmont and looked around the room. A small stage sat beside the fireplace along one wall. The most surprising feature was the general lack of decorations around the room. Its barren appearance made it stand out from the other inns they’d visited.

“It looks pretty empty in here,” said Donovan.

“Don’t let it fool you. An inn devoid of decoration wouldn’t last long unless it was doing something right. People will start trickling in when their shifts end in a few hours.”

“My name’s Aine. What can I get you gents?” said the barmaid.

“Ciders for both of us, and whatever food you have ready,” said Osmont.

Aine disappeared through a door beside the bar into the kitchen, and the two of them relaxed in silence, glad to be free from the crowds of people. Aine returned with two mugs of cider a few minutes later.

“I didn’t expect to see you back here so soon,” she said, setting the mugs onto the table.

She had turned around and was heading back to the bar when Osmont snapped out of his reverie. “Wait. What? Was the boy here before?”

“He was here just yesterday. When the blokes he was with left this morning, I didn’t expect to see him back here?”

Donovan spun in his chair to face her, a broad grin splitting his face. “You know me? I was here? Who was I with? What were their names?” The words just kept pouring out of his mouth until she interrupted him.

“That’s what I just said. If you’re not going to listen then I won’t bother talking.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am.”

“Ma’am!” she spat. “If you weren’t so cute, I’d give you a fat lip for that comment.”

“I apologize for the boy,” said Osmont. “He’s going through trying times.”

She stood there with one eyebrow raised, staring at Donovan. Donovan ducked down and took a long drink of his cider to escape her gaze.

“I didn’t see much of the older fellow. He kept to his room most of the time, but the other guy was pleasant enough. He had a decent enough singing voice and he tipped better than most. I think his name was Edmon.”

“Eamon?” asked Osmont.

“That could’ve been it,” she said. “He was the plainest guy I ever met. You could train an average guy to be as boring as possible for his entire life and you’d still notice him more than Eamon. If it wasn’t for his songs by the fire, I’d probably already have forgotten about him.”

“Any idea which direction they were heading?” asked Osmont.

Aine shrugged her shoulders. “Most of his songs were about the sea, but he didn’t mention where they were going.” She headed to the kitchen to gather their food.

As soon as she passed through the doorway, Osmont leaned forward in his chair. “That means that they’re probably on the South Road. I’m going to get my horse and see if I can catch them. There’s a small village a gentle day’s ride along the road. If I don’t find them there, then I’ll come back to get you and we’ll return to Haven.”

“I’m coming with you,” said Donovan.

“I can travel faster alone. I want you to stay here and find out if Aine knows anything else. If I’m not back tonight, get a room and wait for me here. Under no circumstances are you to leave here until I come back. Understood?”

Donovan was taken aback. He had never seen Osmont this intense before and it took him a moment before he nodded in agreement.

“Good, here comes the food.”

A moment later Aine set two platters of food on the table and headed off to check on the other patrons. Delicious aromas wafted off of a thick stew and they both had half a loaf of a crusty bread. Osmont downed his meal so fast that he couldn’t possibly have tasted it. Pushing himself up from the table, he went over to Aine, whispered something in her ear, and slipped something into her hand. With a brief wave to Donovan, he rushed out the door.

Donovan sat there is silence, slowly picking at his meal. It was one thing to agree to wait here doing nothing, but it was another to be stuck all alone with his thoughts. An hour ago, it had seemed impossible that he’d find out about his past, and now Osmont was out chasing it down while he sat here doing nothing.

Aine stopped by when he had finished his meal, and after some chitchat, cleared away the dishes and went to pour him another cider.

A boy came through the door with a large case strapped to his back. He had a pimply complexion and looked to be about Donovan’s age. Dragging a chair onto the stage, he carefully set down the case, and pulled out a small harp. Sitting down on the chair, with the harp on his lap, he began to strum the individual strings.

“Not him again,” said Aine, setting down the mug of cider. “His music’s even squeakier than his voice.” Putting a fake smile onto her face, she headed over to see if the musician needed anything.

Donovan sat there for ten minutes listening to him trying to tune his harp. Finally, when his ears couldn’t take any more, he got up to introduce himself to the musician.

“Hi, I’m Donovan,” he said, stretching out his hand.