Whhssst!
A bolt of chaos flew past Rahl and slammed into the still-moaning first attacker.
Rahl blinked. There was nothing left except a scattering of ashes and a few metal items, including a handful of coins, and the faint sound of fleeing footsteps echoed from the alleyway farther to the south.
Whhsstt
! With the impact of the second chaos-bolt, the body of the dead man vanished as well, except for similar leavings.
“Very nice, friend,” came a voice from behind Rahl.
He wanted to freeze, but instead he forced a smile and turned, still holding the truncheon.
A mage-guard stood there. Chaos played around her. She was another hard-faced woman, but not the one who had advised him to register. “You used a bit of order there. I do hope you’re registered.”
“I’m registered. The bracelet’s in my wallet.”
“Why don’t you put away the truncheon and get it out… slowly.”
“Yes, ser.” Rahl slipped the truncheon back into its half scabbard, then fumbled his belt wallet out and extracted the bracelet. He started to extend it.
“Just toss it to me. If it’s real, it won’t break.”
Rahl complied, lofting it gently.
The woman caught it easily without taking her eyes or senses off Rahl. Then she looked at the bracelet, and then at Rahl, alternating between the two.
For just a moment, Rahl could sense puzzlement. He also had the feeling that she had a headache and wasn’t in the best of moods. That bothered him, but there wasn’t much that he could do about it.
“You’re an outlander?” The mage-guard’s words were half statement, half question.
“Yes, ser. I work for the Nylan Merchant Association. I’m a clerk there.”
She tossed the bracelet back to him.
This time, he slipped it on his wrist.
“It’s a good thing I saw them attack you. Even registered, you could have had someone question your actions. Where were you going?”
“I was trying to find Hakkyl’s.”
“It’s up on the corner on the avenue ahead, but you should have kept on the boulevard until you reached the next street. Much as we try, the footpads like the alleys here, and they seem to know when we’re watching. You must have distracted them somehow.”
Rahl suspected she knew how… unfortunately. He inclined his head. “I’m indebted to you.”
She laughed softly. “You are indeed, but don’t let it bother you.”
“Did I do something wrong?”
“Not this time. You were attacked. Self-defense is allowed… if you’re registered.” She pointed to the coins still lying on the stone of the sidewalk. “By rights, those are yours. I’d appreciate it if you’d dispose of the other items, though. There’s a waste barrel at the edge of the next alley. That was where the other was hiding, but he’s long gone.”
“Yes, ser.”
She laughed, not unkindly. “If you keep walking in this area, I could follow you and clean up half the petty bravos in Swartheld. But that might be hard on you. This time, follow this street to the avenue ahead. If you stay on that, no one will bother you. Next time, use the main streets.”
“Thank you.”
“Thank you. You’ve just made the streets a bit safer.” She nodded, turned, and seemed to vanish.
Except this time, Rahl could sense the twisting of chaos-forces around her that made it so that his eyes kept trying to look away from her. After collecting the coins, almost a silver’s worth, and putting them in his wallet, and then taking the belt buckles and metal fastenings, he began to walk southward. He quickly deposited the metal in the waste bucket at the entrance to the next alleyway and hurried toward the avenue ahead.
Once he reached it, he glanced across to his right. Hakkyl’s was still shuttered, but the yellow-brick walls were clean, and the brasswork on the door shimmered even through the mist.
He crossed the avenue to look at the Triumph fountain, just three columns in the middle of a marble basin, with three streams of water spurting up and crossing before falling into the basin. At the western side was a smaller water jet that flowed into a watering trough, set so that pitchers could be filled above the trough and horses could drink. He did not sense anyone nearby.
Finally, he turned eastward. He had not gone more than a hundred cubits before he began to feel small and faint rain droplets on the back of his neck. He kept walking, but hurried a bit more.
The avenue he was following joined the boulevard on which the Merchant Association was located. In fact, where the two joined was where the parkway he often walked began. Once he crossed to the parkway, he looked for and found one of the stone benches that was shielded by the trees. He wiped off the damp surface as best he could with the cloth that had been wrapped around the bracelet and sat down with a sigh.
If the mage-guards were really there to protect people, why had the mage-guard waited to see what he did? Rahl was glad he had only struck each man effectively once. His lips tightened. He could just imagine the mage-guard acting like Puvort, telling him he’d gone beyond self-defense.
After a time, Rahl looked at the stone walk beyond the tips of boots that showed scuffs, despite his efforts to keep them clean and polished.
Plop… plop… A reddish droplet hit the light gray stone, then another.
The rain was so fine, and the air had been so dusty for so long that the leaves of the false acacias—and every other tree—seemed to be bleeding as the moisture formed a thin layer over the reddish dust and slowly washed it off, so that the droplets that fell on the stone walks and pavement were reddish splotches.
The rain was falling like drops of blood, slowly dropping, inexorably.
Rahl felt the same way, as though he were being bled of hope and possibilities, hemmed in on all sides. Recluce and Nylan had thrown him out, and everywhere he went in Swartheld, he had the feeling someone was watching, waiting for him to make a mistake. Daelyt was watching; Shyret was watching; the mage-guards were watching. And what could he do?
It was possible, he supposed, for him to try to get some ship’s captain to take him as the lowest form of seaman to get somewhere else, but… he had no skills at all useful to them, and he’d seen enough of life at sea to know that a ship would be another prison, and there wasn’t much chance that life would be any better in another land—and that was if the magisters didn’t go after him for going against their exile. And if he did that… he’d have no chance at all of returning to Nylan.
Did he anyway? Probably not, but he didn’t like the idea of closing that door. Not quite yet.
Late in midafternoon, closer to early evening, really, Rahl returned to Hakkyl’s, this time following the mage-guard’s advice about which avenues to take. As he walked up the brick steps to the brass-bound door, the muscular and dark-skinned guard outside studied Rahl.
His eyes took in the truncheon. “That ironbound lorken?”
Rahl nodded.
“You registered?”
Rahl lifted his left arm to reveal the copper bracelet. As the guard opened the door, he offered a polite smile. Behind it, Rahl felt, was a sense of amusement. “Enjoy your meal, ser.”
“I hope to, thank you.”
Although the guard said nothing, his confusion at Rahl’s Hamorian was obvious enough that Rahl could detect it almost without using his order-senses.
Inside the door was a dimly lit foyer with walls plastered in off-white. The floor was tile, but tile of dark and shining gray rather than the deep red floor tiling Rahl had seen in many buildings. A short man in a pleated green fharong without embroidery stepped up, his eyes lingering on the truncheon, then on the copper registry bracelet. “You wish to have a meal? We are not a tavern.”
“I do.”
“There is nothing less than half a silver.”
“That will be acceptable.” Rahl would not have agreed to that, but he’d been mistaken about the coins he had collected from the two who had attacked him. When he had actually counted them when he’d been sitting on the bench, there had been three silvers and four coppers in all.
“We do have a small table for one. This way.” The man turned and led Rahl through an archway whose edges were faced with green marble and into a dining chamber close to ten cubits wide and twenty long. Only a handful of tables were occupied, but all the men were wearing fharongs. At one table were three men about Daelyt’s age; at another, a gray-haired man and “a younger woman; at a third, two women who were close enough in appearance to be sisters. Rahl couldn’t be certain exactly who was seated at the corner table, where the lamp had been wicked out.
As he followed the greeter, he tried to pick up the whispers.
“… young bravo…”
“… truncheon… outland mage…”
“… too handsome to be a trader and too young…”
“Young or not…”
“Ailya…”
Rahl smiled at the last, but didn’t turn his head.
“Here you are, ser.” The greeter gestured to a table for two set against the right wall, between two other tables, both vacant at the moment.
“Thank you.” Rahl took the chair on the far side because that allowed him the best view of the other diners.
A serving girl moved toward Rahl, but the greeter met her well away from the table, murmuring quietly.
Rahl had to strain both his ears and order-senses to pick up what he did.
“Outlander… talks like an Atlan, maybe lived in Merowey as well… talk to him… find out what you can.”
That scarcely surprised Rahl, and he surveyed the table as he waited for the server to reach him. The cloth was a pale blue, and the utensils were of an ornate silvery bronze. He wondered if the metal were cupridium or just a Hamorian attempt at replicating the ancient material.
“I haven’t seen you before.” The serving woman was fully dressed from wrist and ankle to neck, but the dark blue fabric was thin enough that at times, as she moved, it clung closely to her well-shaped body. She didn’t look much older than Rahl, but there was a hardness about her.
Whether she was indentured or a slave, Rahl couldn’t tell, only that he doubted he could trust her.
“I haven’t been here before. What might be good for a meal?”
“Our burhka is the best in Swartheld, but if you like fish, the curried whitefish with quinoa is also good. The spiced langostinos with mint-cumin butter are tasty. We also have marinated goat skewers with cheesed lacers.”
Rahl was getting tired of food he couldn’t taste for all the spices. “Tell me more about the skewers.”
“An excellent choice, ser. The meat is from choice young goats and has been marinated for days in a mixture of olive oil and spices. It is grilled with sweet peppers and onions. It is six coppers.”
“What do you have to drink to go with it?”
“The dry red wine from the Nebatan Hills. That is three coppers a goblet.”
Almost a silver for a single meal? Rahl refrained from shaking his head. He hadn’t had much experience in expensive dining. It could have been that the meal he’d been treated to in Nylan by Magister Thorl had been that expensive, if not more so, but he hadn’t had to pay for it, and that did make a difference. “I’ll try the skewers and that wine.”
“Very good.” The server nodded and slipped away.
Rahl looked around the dining area. The three men had clearly lost interest in him, as had the older man with the younger woman. The apparent sisters were both sipping their wine, as if they had looked away moments before. With some concentration, he could make out the couple at the darkened corner table—a man and a woman, and the woman continued to wear a filmy scarf. They were absorbed in each other and talking in low and intense voices.
“Here is your wine, ser.”
Rahl glanced up at the girl. “Thank you.”
“You sound like you’re from Ada… but you’re not, are you?” The serving girl smiled warmly, and not entirely falsely.
“No. I was born a long way from there and here. What about you?”
“I’m from Sendyn, but there’s not much there.” Her hand brushed Rahl’s wrist as she reached across and straightened the three-pronged narrow fork. “Swartheld is more interesting. Don’t you think so?”
“I work a lot,” Rahl confessed. “I don’t know much except about the harbor and the trading areas.”
“You a mage for one of the traders?”
How could he answer that? After a moment, he laughed. “If you have any talent at all with order or chaos, you have to register as a mage. That doesn’t mean you really are one. I work for the Nylan Merchant Association.”
“Oh… do you know Chenaryl? He eats here sometimes.”
“He was the one who said I should come here.”
Her hand brushed his shoulder as she stepped back. “It shouldn’t be too long before your skewers are ready. I’ll make sure they’re just right.”
Rahl nodded, then took a sip of the wine. It wasn’t sweet, and it wasn’t bitter, and it went down easily.
The serving girl hadn’t seemed terribly concerned or upset about the mention of the Association, and Rahl had been led to believe that people in other lands were wary of anything connected with Recluce. Was her lack of unease due to her familiarity with Chenaryl? That suggested that the warehouse supervisor frequented Hakkyl’s more than just “sometimes.” It also suggested that Chenaryl could afford a silver a meal without trouble, and that concerned Rahl, because it supported his feeling that golds were being diverted.