Shadow of a Dark Queen (36 page)

The food was simple but welcome after the rations of the last three days, as were the abundant wine and ale. The men waiting for them weren't the
same riders that had met them on the bluffs. Those had been riders of the Jeshandi, Erik had been told, while these were city men, up from the City of the Serpent River.

A company of guardsmen were stationed with them, and their captain was known to Calis. They had gone inside the tavern to talk, while the mercenary company was left to itself outside. Every man had bathed in the river, drank his fill, and now they were resting before mounting up to ride.

Erik watched the horses with interest. Here was something he could understand. He saw that each mount was being given a snaffle bit, a cavalry saddle with a breastband, and saddlebags, with room for a sleeping roll or rolled-up tent behind the saddle's cantle.

Foster was walking nearby when Erik noticed something. “Corporal,” he said.

Foster halted. “What?”

“That horse isn't sound.”

“What?”

Erik moved between two rails of the corral fence and pushed past the milling horses near by. One of the horse trader's handlers shouted at Erik; he had tried to learn the language of this land on ship, and knew that man was ordering him to stay away from the horses, but he didn't have enough confidence in his ability to say he just wanted to look. He waved at the man as if returning a greeting.

Reaching the horse, he ran his hand down the left foreleg, picking it up. “Bad hoof.”

Foster said, “Damn their greedy hearts.”

The wrangler reached them, shouting at them to leave the animals alone. “You haven't paid yet! They are not yours!”

Foster unleashed his legendary rage. Gripping the man's shirt in one meaty hand, he raised him to his toes and screamed in his face. “I should have your liver for lunch! Get your master and tell him if he's not here before I lose my good mood, I'll kill him and every cheating whoreson of a city man within five miles!” He half pushed the man as he let go of his shirt, and the wrangler fell back against the horse, who snorted in protest and moved away. Turning, the man ran off to find his employer.

This exchange wasn't lost on the guards who came with the horse traders, and suddenly there were armed men in all directions moving to get ready for a fight. Erik said, “Corporal, was that wise?”

Foster only grinned.

A few moments later the horse trader was upon them demanding to know why they had assaulted his man. Foster said, “Assault? I should have your heads on pikes! Look at this animal!”

The man glanced at the horse and said, “What about him?”

Foster looked to Erik and said, “What about him?”

Erik suddenly found himself the center of attention of every man within view. He looked around and saw Calis and the leader of the city guardsmen coming out of the tavern. Someone had obviously alerted them to the possibility of danger.

Erik said, “He has a bad hoof. It's cracked and festering, and it's been painted over to look healthy.”

The man began a stream of protests, but then Calis said, “Is this true?”

Erik nodded. “It's an old trick.” He moved to the horse's head and looked into his eyes, then inspected
his mouth. “He's been drugged. I don't know what, but there are several drugs that will deaden the pain enough to make him not limp. Whatever they gave him is wearing off. He's starting to show a hitch in his walk.”

Calis came up to the horse trader. “You were given this commission by our friend Regin of the Lion Clan, were you not?”

The man nodded, attempting to bluff. “I was. My word is bond from the City of the Serpent River to the Westlands. I will find whichever one of my misguided retainers is responsible and have the man beaten. Obviously someone is attempting to curry my favor, but I will have no cheating of good friends!”

Calis shook his head. “Fine. We shall inspect every animal, and for each one we reject, you will be fined the price of a sound horse as well. This is one, that means we get one other sound mount for no charge.”

When the man looked to the Captain of the company that had accompanied the horse man, he smiled. “Sounds fair to me, Mugaar.”

Seeing no relief, the man touched his hand to his heart. “It is done.”

As the defeated merchant stalked away, Calis said, “Hatonis, this is Erik von Darkmoor. He'll be inspecting each animal. If you would see he's not interfered with, I would be in your debt.”

Erik extended his hand. The man shook it with a firm grip. He was a soldier of middle years, but only a little grey took away his youth. He was strong and looked like a seasoned fighter.

“My father would come back from the grave to haunt one such as that if he cast shame upon our clan,” said the guard captain.

Turning to Erik, Calis said, “Can you vet more than a hundred horses by first light tomorrow?”

Erik glanced around and shrugged. “If I must.”

“You must,” said Calis, walking away.

Foster watched a moment, then turned to Erik. “Well, don't just stand there. Get to it!”

Erik sighed in resignation and, looking around, called for some of the men in his company to lend a hand. He couldn't get another expert to magically appear, but he needed men to walk and jog the animals and move the vetted ones to another location.

Taking a deep breath, he began with the closest horse.

T
he barman
looked up.

The inn was crowded, and in the normal course of business, anyone entering should not have caused him to notice. But the figure who entered was not one of his ordinary customers, nor was the barman an ordinary barman.

The newcomer was a woman, tall and alert in her stance, wearing an all-concealing robe of sturdy weave, fine enough to mark her as more than a common street girl, but not so elegant as to mark her as nobility. For a moment the barman expected one or more men to follow her, escorts to protect her from the street's rougher denizens. When none appeared, he was certain there was nothing ordinary about this woman. She glanced around the room as if seeking someone; then she locked eyes with the barman.

She threw back the hood of the cloak, revealing a youthful appearance—though the barman knew well enough appearances were deceiving—with dark hair and green eyes. She was not pretty but striking, with a full mouth and good cheekbones. Her eyes were dangerous. Most men would have called her beautiful,
but most men wouldn't have known how dangerous she was.

A young bravo stepped up to intercept her before she could reach the bar. He was at the peak of youth, feeling too much the rush of blood and ale. He was nearly majestic in appearance, half a foot taller than six feet, with shoulders broad with iron plates, and enough scars to ensure that few of his boasts were challenged as lies.

“Here, now!” he said with a drunken laugh, pushing back a crested helmet so he could see better. “What is so wonderful a wench doing without my company?”

This brought a laugh from two of his companions and a disapproving look from the whore who had counted on all three of these soldiers making her night profitable. The woman stopped as the young warrior stepped before her, and looked him slowly up and down. “Excuse me,” she said softly.

The man-boy grinned and seemed about to say something. Then his smile slowly faded, until he looked down upon the woman with a puzzled expression. “I'm sorry,” he said quietly as he stepped aside.

His friends looked on in amazement and one stood up to say something. The barman produced a light crossbow and put it on the bar, with the bolt pointed directly at the protester. “Why don't you sit back down and finish your drink!”

“Hold on, Tabert. We spend a lot of gold here! Don't be threatening us!”

“Roco, you get drunk on cheap wine down at the market, then stagger up here to grope and fondle one of my girls until closing, when half the time you don't have enough to pay for her company!”

The girl who had been sitting with the three men stood up and said, “And the half of the time they have money, they don't have any iron left in their swords from all that cheap wine, and even when they do, it's nothing much to brag on.”

This brought a torrent of laughter and insults from the rest of the patrons of the commons. The third warrior, who had been holding the whore until she stood up, said, “Arlet! I thought you liked us!”

“Show me your gold, then I'll love you, darling,” she said with a grin lacking any affection.

Tabert said, “Why don't you three boys head on down to Kinjiki's and annoy his girls for a while. He's Tsurani blood, so he'll bear up under the abuse with better grace than I.”

The two companions looked ready to dispute this request, but the first, who had tried to stop the woman, nodded slowly and pulled his helm back down. Reaching under the table, he retrieved his weapon and shield. “Come on. We can find our fun somewhere else.” His two friends were about to protest when he bellowed, “I said come on!” The abrupt rage startled the others and they hesitated, then agreed, following him out of the room.

The woman reached the bar. The barman knew her first question before she asked. He said, “I haven't seen him.”

The woman raised one eyebrow in question.

“Whoever it is you're looking for, I haven't seen him.”

“Who do you think I'm looking for?”

The barman, a stout fellow with muttonchop sideburns and a receding hairline, said, “There is only one kind of man who would bring a woman like you searching, and one like that hasn't come by recently.”

“And what kind of woman are you taking me for?” she asked.

“One who sees things others miss.”

“You're very observant for a barman,” she countered.

“Most barmen are, though they learn not to show it. I, on the other hand, am not most barmen.”

“Your name?”

“Tabert.”

Lowering her voice, she spoke. “I have been to every shabby inn and dirty taproom in LaMut, seeking something I was told on good authority would be here. So far I get nothing but blank looks and confused stammering.” Speaking even more softly, she said, “I need to find the Hall.”

With a smile he said, “The back room.”

He led her through a small back room, then down a flight of stairs. “This storage room connects with others, below the city,” he said. He opened a door at the foot of the stairs and led her to the far end of a narrow hall. There was no door, only a small alcove doorway, hidden by a piece of cloth hung from a metal rod. As she reached the door, Tabert said, “You'll understand when I say if you're in this room, I can't help you. I can only show you the door.”

Miranda nodded, though she wasn't entirely sure of the meaning of what he said. She stepped through into the small room. As she stepped across the threshold and passed under the rod, she felt the energy emanating from it. For a brief instant she saw a tiny storage room, stacked high with a few empty ale and wine casks and some crates, but instantly she understood the barman's words. She willed herself into phase with the energies coursing down from the
metal rod, and an instant later she stood somewhere else.

The Hall was endless. Or at least no creature able to communicate had ever discovered the end of it. Miranda saw that every so often a doorway, a rectangle of light, adjoined the Hall on the sides. Between the entrances a grey nothingness loomed. That she could see at all was something of a mystery, for there was no obvious source of light. Miranda shifted her perceptions and instantly regretted it. The darkness she experienced was so profound it produced an instant despair. She returned her sight to the magically tuned vision she had employed, and again she could see. She considered the barman's words. “You'll understand when I say if you're in this room, I can't help you. I can only show you the door.” He knew of the magic portal into the Hall but could not empower anyone to enter. Only a talent like Miranda or a few others on Midkemia would have the means of entering the Hall and surviving once there.

She turned and looked at the door she had just stepped through, seeking to set it apart in her mind from the others, should she need to return this way. At first nothing out of the ordinary marked the doorway; at last she noticed faint runes hovering over the top of the door, difficult to see. She focused her attention on them and memorized the shape and formation, in her mind translating the glyphs to “Midkemia.” Across from the door, only a featureless grey void beckoned.

The doors were staggered on the left and right so that none faced another. She moved down and saw that the glyphs of the door on the other side of the
one through which she had entered bore a different mark. She memorized that one as well. If she were to be turned around somehow and lose sight of where she was, a series of familiar landmarks would prove useful.

After memorizing a half dozen of the nearest door glyphs, she continued on—assuming that, without information, one direction was as apt as another—and began to walk.

The figure in the distance appeared roughly human in shape, but it could have been a member of any number of races. Miranda stopped walking and watched. She was able to defend herself, but she thought it better to avoid rushing into trouble if she could avoid it. A door to her right provided the potential for escape, though she had no idea what was on the other side.

As if reading her thoughts, the figure yelled something, holding out its gloved hand to show it was holding no weapons. The gesture was less than reassuring, as the creature was otherwise bristling with more arms than Miranda thought anyone should be able to carry and still walk upright. Upon its head a full visor masked its features, while the body was covered in a material that looked as rigid as steel, yet gave the appearance of being more flexible. It was a dull, pale silver in color, almost white, and lacked the high reflective quality that most polished armor possessed. The creature carried a round shield on its back, giving it a turtle-like appearance. A longsword's hilt peeked over one shoulder, while what appeared to be the stock of a crossbow was visible over the other. At the right hip hung a short
sword, and an assortment of knives and throwing implements hung around the figure's torso. A whip was rolled up and hung from the left side of the creature's belt. And over one shoulder a
large sack was thrown.