A warrior's joyrney

Chapter 13

Tol passed the early part of the night sleeping in the doorway of the Riders’ Hall. It was late when Relfas found him, shaking him roughly awake and demanding to know what he was doing there.

“No one would let me in,” Tol said sleepily. Relfas grasped his hand and hauled him to his feet. “Where are your bruising tribal women?”

Tol yawned. “The palace kitchens. I told them to stay there.” Within, the Riders’ Hall was much like the barracks at Juramona, only grander. Where the provincial hall used wood, the Daltigoth building used finely cut stone. Tol followed Relfas up a narrow stair to the topmost of four floors. The youngest and least senior of the empire’s elite warriors bedded down here, while older and more favored men occupied larger quarters on the lower floors. Settling himself on a bunk in a back corner, Tol fell asleep again in an instant.

Day began early. The young nobles turned out and ate a hearty breakfast at the long table in the center of the hall. They were served by a gaggle of scarlet-clad boys. As in its Juramona counterpart, women were not permitted even as servers in the Riders’ Hall. The married lords had to sleep apart from their wives, who were comfortably housed in the vast Imperial Palace.

Once fed, Tol’s comrades fell to preparing their finery for the upcoming conclave. Sharp smells of polish, saddle soap and oil filled the hall. Shield-bearers from the city’s hordes assisted the warriors. The ceremony surrounding the laying of the cornerstone for the Tower of Sorcery was to take place in four days, when the moons Luin and Solin would meet in the constellation of Draco Paladin, the great dragon-god.

It didn’t take Tol long to prepare, for he had little in the way of possessions, and his sword and dagger were still in Valaran’s hands. He had only to polish his leather boots, belts, and braces, and to scrub the tarnish from his armor. A pair of Daltigoth shilder offered to do the work, but Tol politely declined. He said he preferred to take care of his own equipment, the better to know its condition. The two youths departed, smirking at the funny ways of provincials.

His chores completed, Tol was at loose ends by midday. He slipped outside, determined to have a look around the Inner City.

The great plaza was being cleaned in preparation for the ceremony. An army of drudges moved across the mosaics, wielding brooms, while a smaller band of lackeys scooped up the piles of dust they left in their wake and hauled them away. A company of the Inner City Guard paraded across the entrance to the palace, relieving the men who’d stood watch since midnight. No courtiers or high officials were stirring yet in the square.

Inevitably, Tol made his way to the garden surrounding the wizards’ college. It was too early to meet Valaran-the sun-clock on the inside wall showed it was six marks till sunset-but he was decidedly curious about the sorcerers.

The garden at the wizards’ college was surrounded by a low stone wall, decorative rather than defensive. There were neither gates nor guards, just a simple flagstone path leading into a deserted garden. Tol felt uneasy when he entered its shaded calm, but Valaran had said the mages didn’t object to visits. Besides, if they were concerned about trespassers, surety there would be guards.

Newly leafed trees closed overhead, blotting out the sky. Fallen flower petals had drifted across the path, their perfumed thickness deadening his footfalls. A clear, musical tinkling wafted on the breeze, conjuring the memory of the wind chime he’d seen in Prince Amaltar’s tent at Caergoth.

He passed three stone pillars, each half again as tall as the one before it. For a moment he thought he saw inscriptions on them, but when he ran his fingers over the cold granite, the surface was smooth.

Voices whispered behind him. Tol snatched his hand back and whirled, but saw no one. The breeze died, and the chiming sound ceased. The canopy of leaves was still, blocking out the sunlight. Shaking his head at his nervous imaginings, he continued his slow progress through the beautiful grove.

Another path intersected his at a right angle. He looked left and right, wondering which way to go. For an instant he thought he glimpsed pale gray robes disappearing behind trees in both directions.

Disconcerted, Tol decided he’d gone far enough. He turned to retrace his steps, but discovered to his shock the path behind him had disappeared! Where moments before he had trodden on gray flagstones, there was now a thickly growing cluster of oak and elm trees.

His hand dropped to his hip, seeking the comforting handle of his saber. Of course it wasn’t there; Valaran still had it.

Tol turned around-and received yet another shock. The intersecting path was gone as though it had never been.

“Magic,” he muttered, glancing nervously over one shoulder, then the other. He went on, having no path to lead him back.

He soon came upon a four-sided clearing filled with blooming red roses. The flower, he knew, was sacred to Manthus, god of wisdom. The path led directly to the sea of blooms and thorny stems, so he was forced to wade knee-deep through crimson flowers. Thorns made little impression on his stout leather trews, but the aroma of roses filled the air in overwhelming strength. Coughing, he held a kerchief over his nose and pushed on. The flagstone path resumed on the other side of the clearing.

Ahead, he could see the colonnades of the wizards’ college. Off to his left was the rough wooden scaffolding he’d glimpsed on his arrival at the Inner City, Just now it was deserted.

Using the scaffold to keep his bearing, Tol left the path and was able to navigate through the closely growing trees without too much trouble. He emerged in a sunny, diamond-shaped courtyard directly in front of the wizards’ college. A number of robed clerics and sorcerers were sitting on stone benches around the courtyard. When Tol came into view, they stood up and gaped at him in alarm. The closest ones hurried away, as if he were some ravening fiend come to attack them.

A woman in white robes approached. Hollow-cheeked, she was very advanced in years, her hair completely white. She stood very straight, though, and did not lean on the tall staff in her hand.

“Who are you? How did you get here?” she asked sternly.

“Forgive me, lady,” Tol said, bowing his head. “I mean no harm. My name is Tol of Juramona.”

When he raised his head again, other robed figures stood behind the woman. A rotund, red-faced man asked, “How did he get so far?”

“I don’t know, Oropash,” the woman replied. “Helbin, was the Wall of Sleep properly invoked?”

“The wards were properly placed. I saw to it myself,” answered a more youthful man at her right hand. His sand-colored hair was tightly curled, as was his thin mustache. “No one could possibly have gotten through!”

The old woman looked from Helbin to Tol and back again, white eyebrows rising significantly. Young Helbin flushed.

To Tol she said, “Come here, young man. Don’t be afraid. I am Yoralyn; come to me.”

Tol’s feet crunched on the bright quartz gravel. He wasn’t afraid, but many of Yoralyn’s colleagues obviously were. He halted several paces from the startled mages and spread his hands.

“I’m not armed,” he reassured them. “I’m visiting Daltigoth with my liege lord, Enkian Tumult, marshal of the Eastern Hundred. We’re here at the emperor’s command, for the laying of the cornerstone of the great tower.”

Yoralyn consulted a smooth sphere of amethyst in her hand. “He speaks the truth,” she said. “His aura is as innocent as a child’s.”

“Then how did he penetrate the Wall of Sleep?” demanded the rotund mage, Oropash.

The younger sorcerer, Helbin, advanced and stared Tol in the eye. He was tall and vigorous-looking, more like a warrior than a priest. Over his robe he wore a loosely draped mantle of faded red silk. Each of his fingers bore a ring. He extended one hand, palm out, and waved it in front of Tol.

“I perceive no sensation of power,” he muttered. “I sense no counterspell or amulet, but there must be a reason! An ordinary person could not pass through the barrier without succumbing to its influence!”

Their agitation, and the speculative gleam in Yoralyn’s pale blue eyes, unnerved Tol. “I’m sorry,” he said, backing up a step. “I’m not sure what happened. But I’ll go at once-”

“No, stay,” said Yoralyn. “Come this way.”

Helbin and Oropash stood aside, allowing Tol plenty of room to pass. The two sorcerers, fearful but curious, followed Tol as he trailed the old woman to a nearby fountain. A silver stream spewed from the mouth of a dragon statue in the center of the pool. The statue was three paces tall and carved from a single block of emerald.

As he passed, Tol realized the fluid flowing from the statue’s mouth wasn’t water, but quicksilver. A droplet splashed out of the pool onto the low marble wall surrounding the fountain’s basin, and then, like a living thing, the silver globule rolled up the stone slab (against the slope, Tol noted with astonishment) and dropped back into the pool.

More sorcerers joined the procession. They emerged from other side paths or simply appeared out of the air on the grassy lawn. Scores had congregated by the time Yoralyn halted at the foot of the ramshackle scaffolding, Inside the scaffolding, a single course of masonry had been laid, enormous cyclopean stones two paces high and as wide as a tall man could reach.

Yoralyn regarded Tol silently with a disconcertingly piercing stare. He stammered, “I’m truly sorry if my coming has caused a problem.”

“It has, Tol of Juramona. We defend the Vale of Sorcery with a special conjuration, intended to keep out all those not of our orders. Yet you wandered in without apparent difficulty. Moreover, none of us seems to have felt the disruption of our solitude. We find that gravely disturbing. Who are you?”

Tol gave her a brief account of his coming to Daltigoth.

“So, you’re the one who slew Morthur Dermount?” Helbin said at the end of the tale.

Tol acknowledged this, saying, “He gave me no choice but kill or be killed.”

“No blame attaches to you,” Yoralyn assured him. “Morthur was a wild mage, an unregulated practitioner of the black arts. He was trained by rogue elements of the Red and Black Robes. It’s a pity we couldn’t have discovered the names of his mentors, but…” She shrugged, then said, “You possess his ring, do you not?”

Reluctant to part with so powerful an object, Tol simply nodded.

“We would like it returned to us. It is not lawful for an untutored person like yourself to use it.”

“Must I give it up? Lord Enkian awarded it to me as a spoil of victory. It does not work when I wield it.” He described his inability to use Morthur’s ring at the Dalti bridge and told of Miya’s success.

A sustained murmur went through the crowd. Helbin and Oropash held a hushed conversation with Yoralyn. At length she silenced the group with upraised hands.

“Master Tol, we have no quarrel with you. You seem a good and honorable man. Something is amiss, however. Your immunity to Morthur’s soporific spell, and to our protective enchantment, is unheard of and most troubling.”

“You must give us Morthur’s ring,” Helbin said, and it was more an order than a request. “There may be something in it that helped you defeat our wards.”

Tol didn’t want to comply. The large sapphire ring was his prize from a hard-fought struggle. “I care nothing for the ring’s power,” he argued, “but I would like to keep it. Lord Morthur-or Spannuth Grane as I knew him-did much harm to me and my people, and his ring is the only trophy I have.”

Helbin seemed disposed to overrule him, but Oropash said reasonably, “Let us study the ring during your visit here, Master Tol. Once we’ve delved into its secrets, you may have it back.”

Tol looked to Yoralyn, who nodded in confirmation. Satisfied, he loosed the lacings of his belt pouch to produce the ring.

A fresh wave of agitation rippled through the throng of mages.

“You have it with you?” Yoralyn exclaimed.

Tol paused, two fingers buried in the pouch. “I do. What’s wrong with that?”

Turning to her fellow wizards, Yoralyn declared, “I did not sense the ring’s power on the boy. Did anyone here?”

From the fresh consternation on every face, it was obvious no one had. Helbin asked for the ring, extending a hand. Tol dropped it on his open palm. The mage closed long fingers around it. His eyes shut momentarily, then sprang open.

“The ring is consecrated to Nuitari. It is potent still!” Helbin exclaimed.

“You must give it back to him immediately,” Oropash said quietly.

Helbin did so, and Tol, his eyes wide, returned the ring to his pouch.

Eyes firmly closed, Oropash said, “I cannot see the ring when the boy possesses it!”

“Nor can I!”

“It vanishes as soon as it touches his hands!”

Every sorcerer in the glade began talking at once. The disorder of their thoughts caused strange displays-a cloud of coal-black butterflies appeared over one mage’s head; another’s lost all color and took on the appearance of a snow sculpture; flames played about the feet of a female mage.

“Calm yourselves!” Yoralyn cried.

The manifestations instantly dissipated. The sorcerers quieted, looking chagrined at having lost control.

Yoralyn came to Tol, tightly clutching her staff with both hands. Up close, he noticed the staff wasn’t wood, but some kind of animal limb, covered in greenish-black hide.

“The ring, please.”

He again took it out and gave it to her. She handed it to Helbin and seized Tol’s large hand in her dry, gnarled fingers. Her grip was powerful, and Tol didn’t struggle against it.

“Where are you?” she whispered. “I cannot find you. You are here in my hands, but invisible to my inner eye!” She released him abruptly. “I would know more of this,” she said, more kindly. “Will you return and speak with me again?”

“If you wish, lady. I will be in Daltigoth and at your service, until the foundation ceremony is done.”

Yoralyn addressed the assembled wizards. “Go back to your studies. I will see to the stranger. The source of his immunity to magic will be found, I promise you.”

“I will assist,” Oropash offered, with a gracious bow.

“As will I,” put in Helbin. He regarded Tol with open hostility.

The other mages slowly dispersed. When only Yoralyn, Helbin, and Oropash remained, Tol asked the woman where he could find the fountain of the centaurs.

“Centaurs? Oh, you mean the Font of the Blue Phoenix,” she said. “It faces the end of the west wing, yonder. Why do you seek it? Are you a devotee of the god?”

Tol colored a little. “I was told to meet a friend there.”

Yoralyn’s wrinkled face showed amusement for the first time. “Oh, you seek Valaran.”

“You know her?”

“No one else from outside comes to the Font of the Blue Phoenix.” She folded her arms. “But it is a sacred site, not a trysting place for young lovers.”

“We just met,” Tol protested. “She wants me to tell her about life in the provinces!”

“And what do you want from her, Master Tol?”

Her pale blue, almost white, eyes bored into his own, forcing him to give serious consideration to her question. Valaran was a strange girl, educated and observant, hot like his hearty companions Kiya and Miya. Although they had met only once, she had made a strong impression. Her openness and cleverness in saving him from discovery intrigued him. But what did they really have in common? Why should he seek her out?

“I want to know her better,” he decided aloud.

“I suppose you do,” Yoralyn said cryptically. “Very well. It’s not as though we can keep you out. In the future, please enter the garden Valaran’s way: Keep to the path along the wall of the Inner City; it will lead you without fail to the Font of the Blue Phoenix. For a few hours each day we leave an open passage in the Wall of Sleep there, just for her.”

Tol thanked her. Before leaving, he said, “I lodge in the Riders’ Hall. Summon me, and when duty permits I will come.” He bowed awkwardly and hurried off to the fountain.

Helbin clenched his hand around Morthur’s signet. “I will purge the ring,” he said.

Yoralyn nodded, and he departed. She turned to Oropash.

“Have the boy watched,” she ordered. “I would know what Master Tol does, and with whom. Use your best spy.”

Oropash’s round face showed alarm. “Is he dangerous?”

“I cannot tell,” Yoralyn said. “If his immunity to magic is a wild talent, then he’s an aberration, nothing more. But if he’s an agent of a rogue mage, even an unwitting one, he may be the most dangerous person in Daltigoth. In either case, we must know the truth. See to it at once.”

“It shall be done.”

The Font of the Blue Phoenix proved to be a beautiful shrine to the god of nature. A veritable mountain of jade rose up from a shallow pool forty paces wide. A golden disk hovered over the gemstone island, fixed in place by no visible means. All around the circumference of the basin, droplets of water fell from open air, an endless rain from a cloudless sky.

Surrounding the central isle of jade were life-sized figures of animals-horses, dogs, rabbits, deer, ancient elk, wild oxen, a crouching panther, wolves, eagles, crows, vultures, and doves. All were rendered in a startlingly lifelike fashion. Had they not been in various colors of marble, Tol might have taken them for living creatures.

Also clustered around the jade pinnacle were representations of the world’s sentient inhabitants. Although elves, men, ogres, dwarves, gnomes, and kender were all present, a trio of rearing centaurs stood higher than the rest, providing the inspiration for Valaran’s name for the fountain.

Tol circled the pool and saw other, more legendary beings: bakali, the lizard-like minions of the Dragonqueen; bull-headed minotaurs; and other strange creatures for which he had no names.

It was still too early to expect to see Valaran. Tol sat to wait for her on the sculpted marble rim of the fountain and pondered his meeting with the mages. Did they think him immune to magic? Grane’s spell had put him to sleep quickly enough in his family’s hut years ago. Of course, the fellow’s conjurations had failed in the Great Green and on the road to Daltigoth. Although he pondered these contradictions long and hard, he couldn’t find any answers. Growing bored finally, he reclined. The patter of falling water, the stillness of the clearing lulled him, and he dozed, one arm laid across his eyes.

He dreamed, and his dreams were strange indeed. In one of them he was ranging over the hills of his homeland, hunting with a bow in his hand. Far ahead, Kiya and Miya called to him to hurry. Suddenly, a plump brown rabbit broke cover and dashed in front of him. He loosed an arrow that found its mark. Running forward in triumph, he found a marble statue of a rabbit, pierced by his arrow. Blood trickled from the wound, staining the white stone.

A cold wind gusted over him. With dreamtime swiftness, the landscape changed from green hills to an unfamiliar bleak winter clime. He was alone. Kiya and Miya were nowhere to be seen. Mountains filled the horizon.

Suddenly, Tol knew a menace was behind him. He spun about, sword instantly in his hand. All he could see was a figure silhouetted against the sky, far away. It was a man-a man who meant to kill him.

Something cold touched his face. Tol flinched and struck out. He rolled off the fountain ledge and awoke when he hit the grass. In a flash he was up, ready to fight.

Valaran regarded him quizzically. In one hand she held his sheathed dagger. Slung over her shoulder was his saber and sword belt. The weight of it dragged down her pale yellow gown, exposing a smooth and slender shoulder.

“That’s a fine greeting,” she said. “I bring your stupid heavy knife and sword, and you throw a punch at me.”

Breathing hard, Tol lowered his fists. “You shouldn’t sneak up on me.”

She dropped his dagger and shrugged off his saber, letting it fall heavily to the grass. In her other hand she carried a canvas satchel. Tol bent over the pool, scooping cool water to his feverish face. Valaran seated herself on the edge of the fountain and watched him.

“I’ve already learned one thing about country people,” she said. “They don’t have any manners. Do you know how hard it was to sneak out of the palace carrying that big sword? And I wasn’t even certain you’d be here.”

He took her hand and bowed low, as he’d seen noblemen do. “Thank you, my lady,” he said fervently. “How can I repay you?”

She jerked her hand free, but he saw a touch of color come to her cheeks. “Now you’re being silly.”

Valaran opened her satchel. It was full of books. She read aloud the wooden tags affixed to the ends of the scrolls. “A History of Sancrist Isle, Customs and Practices of Balifor, Genealogy of the House of Pakin.” She looked up at him-her green eyes were striking-and added, “But I’m glad you came today.”

Tol smiled. “Really?”

She looked down at the scrolls. “Really. I’ve read all these before”-his smile froze into a frown-“and I hate being idle when I can learn something. Please tell me absolutely everything about yourself.”

Tol was charmed anew. Despite the plain appearance she cultivated, and her sharp tongue, there was something very winning about Valaran. She didn’t seem quite so young today. Her shape beneath the fine yellow linen was proof of that.

Tol did as she bade. He told her of his early life, his family, of farming, and, as modestly as possible, how he’d saved Lord Odovar from Pakin rebels. She listened, silent and attentive, until he described the capture of Vakka Zan.

“I’m a Pakin, you know,” she told him calmly, then smiled at his astonishment. “Much removed, of course. My great-great-grandfather, Ersteddin Valdid, married the youngest sister of Pakin Zan. My great-aunt, Darali, was set to marry the Pakin emperor Ergothas III, but he died before the arrangements were complete.”

“Is being a Pakin held against you here?”

“Not really. My father has always been loyal to Prince Amaltar. He was the prince’s tutor for many years, and now he’s his chamberlain.”

It was Tol’s turn to listen. Valaran spun a fantastic story of dynastic marriages, palace politics, suicide, murder, and madness. Tol found it appalling, but Val recounted it with great verve, even pride. She spoke of the assassination of Emperor Pakin II, providing much more detailed insight than Tol had previously heard.

“A courtier, Lord Bathastan, and three subverted servants slew Pakin II in front of the entire court. They stabbed him with daggers.”

“What happened to the assassins?”

“Tortured. Killed.” She said it as calmly as Tol might have said, “Hungry. Ate dinner.”

Conversation lagged. Valaran leaned down to close the satchel at her feet. Her long hair fell forward, sunlight giving the brown mass a red sheen. Sitting up, she regarded him thoughtfully.

“What do you want-?” they both began in unison. Laughing, Valaran gestured for Tol to speak first.

“What would you most like to do?” he asked.

“See the city,” she replied immediately.

That puzzled him. “But you live here.”

“I’m never allowed outside the palace grounds. Oh, when I was two my mother took me to a healer in the Old City, but I don’t remember it.”

Tol was astonished. “You’ve left the Inner City only once? How old are you?”

She feigned offense. “Rude question! Or it would be if I were one of the empty-headed lackwits in the Consorts’ Circle. They’d faint at such impertinence. I’m seventeen years and two months old. What about you?”

“Country folk don’t reckon time as closely as city people do, but I think I’m over eighteen now-maybe nineteen.”

An idea came to him of a sudden, and he jumped to his feet. “Valaran, let me take you outside! I’ve been wanting to see some of the city myself.”

She regarded him skeptically. “You don’t know your way about. We’ll be like two blind kender with our hands in each other’s pockets.”

“My men, the Juramona foot guards, are quartered by the canal somewhere. I’ll tell Lord Enkian I’m going down there to visit them.”

Valaran stood slowly, green eyes shining. “Aren’t you afraid? I’m forbidden to go out without my father’s permission. We’ll be punished if we’re caught.”

“A warrior does not fear reprisals, only failure,” he said gravely. This made her chuckle, the rich sound bringing a grin to his face.

They concocted a plan. Although prohibited from leaving the Inner City, Valaran had a fair amount of freedom otherwise. Her father would not miss her if she went out after supper. Tol would meet her at sunset, by the palace kitchens. He was sure Kiya and Miya would help him smuggle her out.

Valaran shook his hand like a comrade, then hurried back to the palace to prepare for her illicit foray. Tol waited a bit, then left the Font of the Blue Phoenix, nightmares and magical immunity forgotten.

The Dom-shu sisters were not disposed to be helpful.

When Tol arrived at the kitchens after making excuses to Lord Enkian-who, frankly, cared not a whit if he left-he found Miya and Kiya chafing to get out in the city themselves. The idea that one sister should stay behind so Valaran could masquerade as her was flatly rejected.

“Why should we do this for a stranger?” grumbled Miya.

“You’d be doing it for me,” Tol said, annoyed. “I ask little of you. Can’t one of you oblige me in this?”

They wrangled awhile, then the sisters agreed to gamble for the right to go with Tol and Valaran. He imagined they would match for it, or do evens-odd, but instead Kiya found four big butcher knives and leaned a chopping block against the wall as a target.

“Nearest each corner wins,” said Kiya. Miya agreed with a grunt.

Holding the iron point between her thumb and forefinger, Kiya hurled one knife after another at the block. Her throws were formidable; each knife came within a finger’s width of its intended corner. Miya frowned and worked the big blades free. Standing beside her sister, she gripped the knives by their oily wooden handles rather than the blades. Her first three throws were no better than Kiya’s, but the last imbedded in the very peak of the chopping block’s upper right corner. Miya whooped in triumph.

“Don’t fret, sister,” she said. “While you’re here, get the palace cooks to teach you how to make real food instead of dragon-bait!”

Kiya responded with a pungent metaphor, so Tol stepped between them. “My thanks, Kiya,” he said, giving her a brotherly hug. “I owe you a favor.”

The Dom-shu slipped on the sandals Tol had insisted they wear in the capital, then stole outside. In moments Valaran arrived. She wore a dark blue hooded cloak that covered her from head to toe.

Immediately, Kiya noted a snag in their plans, saying, “She’s tiny; she’ll never pass for me.”

Valaran was more than a head shorter than the lofty tribal women.

“I have it!” Miya said, smacking a fist into her palm. “Husband, get on the other side of her!”

Tol winced at being labeled the mate of the Dom-shu, but he stood on Val’s right while Miya flanked her left. At Miya’s command, they grasped Valaran’s elbows and hoisted her up.

“Light as a bird,” declared Miya.

Valaran vowed they were crushing her arms, but Tol said, “Be easy. We just have to get past the guards.”

“But I have no feet!”

It was true. The hem of Valaran’s cloak now floated above the ground, and no legs or feet were visible below it.

“The dark will hide that,” Tol said, and the three of them bid farewell to Kiya.

They headed down the lane to the south gate. As it was used only by victualers and tradesfolk, the guards there were surprised when the trio appeared before them. The guards’ poleaxes clashed together, barring the way.

“Who goes there?” snapped the sergeant of the guard.

“Tol of Juramona and his wives.”

The soldier held up a shielded candle. Yellow light fell on their three faces. Valaran did not arouse suspicion by trying to avert her face.

“I know you, sir,” said the guard. “You command the footmen of Lord Enkian, do you not?”

“That’s right,” said Tol. Valaran didn’t weigh much, hut the burden was starting to tell. His arm quivered with the strain and he fought to keep his voice normal. “I’m heading down to the canal district to visit my men. I have Lord Enkian’s permission.”

“Ah, you’re a Rider of the Horde, sir, you don’t need to prove anything to us!” They withdrew their arms, and let Tol and the women pass. “But tell us some time how you bested Lord Morthur, will you, sir?”

“Surely,” Tol said, flattered. “I shall.”

They moved away from the gate, careful not to seem too eager. Out of sight of the friendly guards, they set Valaran on her feet.

“You’re becoming known,” said Miya. She looked back in the direction of the gate. “I should have asked them for money.”

Tol opened his mouth to protest such dishonorable behavior, but Valaran pulled at his hand. “Let’s go! I want to see everything!”

The road descended a steep hill, curving slightly to the right. Valaran threw back her cloak to free her arms. She started to lower her hood, but Tol stopped her.

“No sense announcing who you are,” he warned. He cautioned Miya to refer to their companion only as Val.

Valaran had studied a map of the city and she announced this avenue was called Bran’s Way. It was lined on both sides by two-story warehouses-brick at ground level, timber above. Here were kept all the stores for the Inner City, as well as tribute and trade from every corner of the empire. Torches burned on iron stanchions outside the door of each warehouse, and well-armed watchmen stood guard, each with a halberd on one shoulder and a brass alarm bell in his hand.

Not until they reached the first crossing street, called Saddler’s Row, did they encounter traffic. Carts and wagons, single riders on horseback, and a modest crowd of pedestrians moved in either direction. Far down Saddler’s Row the lighted doorways of taverns and theaters beckoned. Miya and Valaran were ready to go that way, but Tol insisted they at least try to find Narren and the Juramona soldiers.

The closer they came to the canal, the brighter the lamplight and the thicker the crowds. Valaran was enchanted. She stopped to listen to a slanging match between a pushcart vender and a woman who apparently didn’t have the price of a grilled sausage. Words were getting quite heated as Tol dragged her away.

“Wait!” she pleaded. “She just called him the three-fathered son of a pox-riddled goatherd. I want to hear his response.”

“Keep moving! We’ll end up in the middle of a knife-fight,” Tol said.

Farther along, they came across two gnomes, pink-pated fellows with silky white beards, who had set up a table at the edge of the street. They were demonstrating an apparatus of their own design. Four flattened glass globes turned on spindles, while a rack and pinion allowed them to move backward or forward, up or down.

“With the new Solar-Optical Domestic Stove Lighter, you’ll never have to buy fire again!” proclaimed the green-clad gnome. They were so alike only their clothes set them apart.

“My estimable colleague is correct,” said the other gnome, who wore brown clothing spotted with gray patches. “The Solar-Optical Domestic Stove Lighter is clean, dependable, reliable, safe-”

“Sounds like the perfect husband,” said Miya.

The small crowd chuckled appreciatively. Ignoring the interruption, the gnome in green resumed his spiel. “Throw away your flint and steel! Forsake dangerous and smelly tinder boxes! The Solar-Optical Domestic Stove Lighter makes all those old-fashioned items obsolete!”

“Excuse me,” said Valaran, stepping up to the table. “Do I understand from the name this device uses sunlight to ignite fires?”

Both little men first looked surprised, then immensely pleased. “Just so, lady, just so!” said the brown-shirted gnome. “It’s so nice to meet an educated person so far from home.”

“Thank you. However, I see one grave problem with your invention.”

Twin looks of approval changed to displeasure, and Valaran added, “How does it work at night?”

If she’d slapped the gnomes, she could not have stunned them more. The gnome in green faced his colleague and punched him on his cherry-red nose.

“Imbecile! How will it work at night?”

“Who are you calling imbecile?” retorted Brown. “I have a diploma from the Institute of Higher Gnomish Engineering-”

“I wipe my nose on your diploma!” Green shouted. “I dribble gravy on it too! How can a stove-lighter work without the sun?” A new thought seized him, and he shook with emotion. “Or when it rains?”

Brown attacked Green, and the two gnomes rolled on the ground, locked in a furious embrace. When they fetched up against the table, its folding legs collapsed, sending their invention crashing to the pavement. Instantly, scavengers converged on the broken device, ransacking the gnomes’ goods while the two fought on.

Tol and his party moved past. Miya, looking back at the melee, said, “They’re crazy. Why use that big thing when flint and iron fit in the palm of your hand?”

By the canal, boats and barges were tied up for the night. The streets were crowded, and waterfront taverns were doing a roaring business.

Valaran’s head swiveled left and right as she tried to take it all in. Catching Tol’s eye, she smiled, dimple dancing at the corner of her mouth.

As they strolled along the plank quayside, Miya said quietly, “We’re being followed. Since the gnomes’ table. Stocky fellow, dressed in black. I can’t make out his face.”

Tol chanced a glance. He saw no one of that description, but trusted Miya’s woodland instincts. They were acute, even in the city.

Sword and dagger reassuringly in place, Tol kept his expression pleasant for the girl’s sake. “Let’s find Narren and the men,” he said. He took Valaran’s hand, and was pleased when she didn’t pull away.

They visited four inns before they found the Juramona company. The fourth spot was called The Bargeman’s Rest, and it was a sprawling place, combining dock, boathouse, wineshop, and hostel.

Standing on his toes to see over the crowd, Tol spotted Narren and five of his men leaning on hogsheads, drinking from the short tin cups favored by Daltigoth’s tapsters. Narren hailed him. Tol elbowed his way through the press, drawing Valaran after him. Miya hung back a few steps, watching their backs.

There was much cheering and back-slapping as Tol was reunited with his comrades. Narren spoke for all when he said, “Who’s the kid, Tol?”

Valaran flushed scarlet. “Mind your tongue, rascal!”

Tol cut her off by squeezing her hand tightly. “This is a friend-Val.”

“Want a drink, friend Val?” said Narren, offering her a cup.

She would have taken it, but Tol got it first and drained it down. Out the side of his mouth he said to her, “Better keep your wits about you here!”

Miya sidled up and spoke in Tol’s ear. “He followed us inside. Over there, by the pile of rope.”

This time Tol saw him. Dressed in black as Miya had said, the stranger seemed to blend into the dark corner.

Cutpurse? Thief? Crimper? Drunken idlers on the canal often found themselves kidnapped and put aboard outgoing barges, forced to work off the price of their passage. This fellow looked too well-heeled for such lowly work. Tol made a swift decision. Straightening his sword belt, he told Miya to keep Val out of the way.

“Narren, Gustal, with me,” he said. The three of them wedged their way through the noisy crowd, straight for Tol’s black-garbed shadow.

The fellow didn’t react to their obvious approach, even when they effectively boxed him in against the wall. Instead, the stranger pushed the hood of his cape back slightly from his face, revealing he was masked. A fitted black cloth covered his entire head, leaving only dark eyes visible.

“Gentlemen,” he said, voice muffled as it came through a thin slit cut in the hood.

“You’ve been following my friends and me,” Tol said. “Why?”

“You’re mistaken. I often come here.”

“Who are you?” demanded Narren. “Why do you hide behind that mask?”

The fellow shrugged. “I’m no one. My face is my own concern.”

Tol dithered. Miya had seen the stranger follow them here, but perhaps he was telling the truth. Perhaps his presence was nothing more than a coincidence.

The stranger put two fingers in a pocket on the front of his tunic. Tol and his friends tensed, but he brought out only a silver coin.

“Have a pitcher on me,” he said. “No hard feelings?”

Before Tol could accept or decline, Gustal cut him off. Somewhat the worse for drink, Gustal said belligerently, “I say we yank that hood off, get the truth out of him!”

Gustal made a clumsy grab for the mask. In a flash, the stranger’s hand went beneath his cloak and came out holding a long, thin dagger. Swift as a striking snake, he drove the blade upward into Gustal’s belly and then withdrew it, all in one smooth, practiced motion.

Astonishment bloomed on Gustal’s ruddy face. He sagged to his knees and fell heavily against Narren, sending them both sprawling. By the time Tol looked around for him the stranger had slipped away.

“He’s dead!” Narren cried, pulling himself from beneath Gustal’s weight.

Tol already knew by Gustal’s staring eyes it was true. The suddenness, the pointlessness of the death shocked and sickened him, but he had to put aside his feelings. Even as Narren spoke, a woman nearby saw blood flowing and she screamed. The inn erupted.

“Juramona!” Tol yelled, trying to rally his men to his side.

Close to a hundred bargemen, stevedores, serving women, and assorted jetsam of the canal district filled the inn. They didn’t take kindly to being manhandled out of the way as Tol’s soldiers fought to come to their commander’s aid. What started with shoving and oaths quickly developed into a brawl. Stools and wine jugs flew.

Tol leaped onto a table, scanning the melee. He saw Miya pull Valaran to the far wall. By tribal custom, the Dom-shu woman would defend Tol’s guest even at the cost of her own life.

Narren shouted, “There he goes!”

Tol followed his pointing hand and saw the hooded stranger running down the quay. He jumped down from the table and started to give chase. Narren tried to follow, but was tripped from behind and swallowed by the fracas.

The man had a head start, but Tol was soon treading on his heels. The masked killer spun around. Torchlight flashed on his deadly blade. Tol parried quickly, and the murderous weapon was knocked away to splash into the canal. The hooded man vaulted nimbly over a boat upturned on the shore, and produced another dagger.

“Go back, Master Tol,” the stranger said, scarcely panting from his exertions. “Look to the chamberlain’s daughter, or she’ll burn!”

Tol risked a glance at The Bargeman’s Rest and was horrified to see fire spreading over its roof.

“Who are you?” he demanded. “How do you know me?”

The stranger shook his head. “Nothing happens in Daltigoth that I don’t know about. I’ve no orders to kill you, but I will do what I must, if you try to interfere with me.”

Tol hesitated, torn between his desire to avenge Gustal’s death and the need to make sure Valaran was safe.

“If you love the girl, go to her!”

With those words, the hooded stranger melted into the darkness. Wasting no time on fruitless regrets, Tol shoved his sword into its scabbard and raced back to the burning inn.

The fire watch had arrived on the scene. They formed a bucket brigade from the canal to the blazing inn. Tol sorted through the crowd until he found first Miya and Val, then Narren and his men. Soot-stained and bruised, the Juramona footmen had managed to clear the room after an overturned lamp set the rope stores afire.

Impulsively, Tol took Valaran in his arms and kissed her. Surprised, Valaran stiffened for a moment, then responded in kind.

Miya shook her head. “Kiya will be so mad! A gnome fight, wine, a tavern brawl, a fire, and our husband kisses the skinny girl-she missed everything!”