Shanakan (The Fourth Age of Shanakan Book 1) (5 page)

There had been a tavern back in Samara called the Kalla Tree. It was owned by a northerner, and you could be sure of hearing northern accents if you went in. That had been Delf’s first acquaintance with the name, and come to think of it, it had been Wulf who had first taken him there after they met on one of the few building jobs still happening back then.

After a while a few prosperous-looking men drifted over in ones and twos to where they were sitting and looked them over.

“Who are you?” one of them asked.

“I am Wallace san Banison Kalee,” Wulf replied. It was a long time since he’d used that name. “This is my friend Delf Killore. We were builders in Samara, but there’s no building there any more, so we have come north to seek honest labour.”

“Did you see anything of bandits on your journey?” another asked.

“We saw their sign. There was a walled place to the south of here, and another village that had been wiped out.”

This was apparently news to the men. Some seemed startled. Others looked grave. They were questioned further and a debate started about how the village could protect itself.

One of the men detached himself from the debate. He was about fifty with grey in his hair and beard, but well fed and better dressed than most.

“We would expect an honest day’s work in return for food and board,” he said to Wulf. “We have no money.”

“We must eat after the harvest, father,” Wulf replied. “A small share of the harvest would permit us to live.”

“It is fair,” the man said. “There is much to be gathered – more than we need, but keeping it is another problem.”

“Bandits?”

“Them, and the ones from White Rock, though the latter generally don’t kill. You said you were builders. What did you build in Samara?”

“Houses, a guild hall. We worked on repairs to the citadel.”

“Not much building here, but I’ll wager you have some fine stories to tell.”

“Several winter’s worth, without doubt,” Wulf replied.

“Then you may work for me, Wallace and Delf. My name is Tarbo. The agreement is food and housing while you work, one fifth of what you gather, and you must eat with the rest of us come evenings. Take my hand to seal the deal and I will arrange accommodation for you, and show you where you are to work today.”

They shook hands. One of the other men broke from the conversation about defence and berated Tarbo.

“What is this?” he said. “You are shaking hands with these strangers before we have had an opportunity to question them.”

“You have missed your opportunity, Palan. They are not strangers, but my two new field hands, Wallace and Delf.”

“You know that we all need more labour, Tarbo, our crops will wither else.”

“I’m sure I can spare them some of the time if I get a third of what they gather in return,” Tarbo smiled.

“A third? You are a bandit yourself, Tarbo,” one of the other men said. It was clear that the deal had been done, however, and in a short time they found themselves out in the fields and issued with crude digging tools. Tarbo introduced them to a young man who was digging out deerfruit from the earth.

“Brono,” Tarbo said to the young man. “I have two new field hands for you.”

“I saw them go by,” Brono said. “I wondered if you would hire them.”

“This is my son,” Tarbo said to Delf and Wulf. “He will be your task master. I will see you again come evening.” With that he turned and strolled back to the village, leaving others to get on with the work.

“Your father is shrewd,” Wulf remarked.

“He is the wisest man in the village,” Brono said. “And you are among the luckiest to be working for him. You will not find a more generous master.”

He quickly showed them the method of digging up the fruit, which proved simple but energetic, and showed them the limits of their work area and his father’s plantings. It was a very big plot.

It was soon apparent that they were in no condition to work a full day, and laboured on at about half Brono’s pace until evening came. At that time they helped to carry in the day’s harvest with Brono and two other hands who had been working the fields. Delf reckoned that they had dug out about one hundred and fifty fruit each, and so had earned themselves thirty apiece. There were many more days’ work ahead of them.

By the time Brono led them back to his father’s house it was quite dark and Delf ached in every muscle that he possessed. Tarbo was waiting for them by the door and ushered them in to sit around his table, which was large and already piled high with food. The house was filled with an excellent smell, and even Wulf looked expectant.

Tarbo set cups of ale before each of them, and Wulf laid his hand on Delf’s to stop him drinking.

“The custom is to first drink two toasts,” he whispered.

One of the other field hands stood and raised his cup.

“To the mistress of the house,” he declared, and drank down the cup in one draught. All followed suit, and Tarbo filled their cups again.

“To the master of the house,” the man declared, and all the cups were emptied again.

Tarbo filled all the cups a third time and placed the jug in the centre of the table.

“Now you may drink as you wish,” Wulf said.

“Now I do not need a drink quite so much,” Delf replied. “I like this custom.”

“It is only at harvest meals. Most of the time the meals are simpler and less.”

“Wallace, Delf, do not talk amongst yourselves,” Tarbo called across the table. “You have travelled in the south, and seen much of the world. Be so good as to tell us some tales of your past, such as may entertain us.”

“Master Tarbo,” Wulf replied. “I do not much have the gift of pretty speech myself, but my friend here can near cast a spell with his words.”

They all turned their gaze on Delf, who was caught with a mouthful of bread and a slice of deerfruit on his knife. He held up his hand while he swallowed.

“Master Tarbo, ladies, friends,” he addressed them. “My friend here means to starve me, but I will gladly ignore the urgings of my stomach to repay your most excellent hospitality.”

They laughed at this.

“Delf, you may save your stories for later when the food is finished, but tell us something of your home. Is it true that Samara is the greatest of all cities?”

“I have never seen greater,” Delf replied, “and I have travelled the coast from east to west. Tell me, how many people live here in this village?”

“Since you arrived this noon, one hundred and eighty-seven.”

“And how many in the nearest big town?”

“Simbaronne has at least two hundred houses. Perhaps five hundred live there. It is very busy.”

“So it is,” Delf paused. “But Samara, when I first went there had nearly one hundred and fifty thousand inhabitants. The buildings rise forty feet above the streets, making dark canyons of them. The great market had a thousand tradesmen selling wares on a market day, and there were four hundred people there who did nothing but sing and tell tales for a living.”

“I am amazed, it is true,” Tarbo said, “but you speak of Samara in the past. What of it now? Has it changed?”

“Much. It fell from greatness with the coming of the Faer Karan. It was once the seat of kings and the heart of the world. Nobody remembers how it was in those days, but in recent years it has fallen further into chaos and disorder. Less than a hundred thousand live there now. Factions fight over the scraps that are left, the markets have closed, and the soldiers from Ocean’s Gate bleed the city dry.”

“What is Ocean’s Gate?” one of the field hands asked.

“Another fortress, like White Rock, and another Faer Karan place.”

The table lapsed into silence.

“I apologise,” Delf said. “I have done the company a disservice with my doleful tale.”

“We asked,” Tarbo said. “You told us. No fault lies with you.”

“But I will make amends. I will tell you tales of a tavern called the Kalla Tree, where the second best ale in the world is served.”

Wulf snorted.

“Are you telling this tale?” Delf asked. “Or are you eating?”

They laughed again, and Delf began to entertain them.

Serhan walked the battlements, looking out at the wooded plains which lay far below him. It had become a habit since his first exploration of the fortress. It was here that the massive structure of the walls was most apparent. He could run his hands across the huge cream-coloured stones; feel their smoothness, their cool strength. They had been here longer than anything, longer even than the Faer Karan, and their ancient, worn texture excited his mind. They had been put here by men, and what men they must have been to build such a thing.

As a boy he had sometimes been permitted to play with the others, to run wild in the forests that darkened the slopes above the village. He had quickly discovered that he did not have the best head for heights. Others would walk along the sheerest edges above killing drops, balanced and composed. Dared though he was, Serhan could never do this. Always his weight shifted away from the cliff, and he became clumsy and awkward. Here he was higher than any cliff he had ever known, and yet it was not the same. At the full, dizzy, arrogant height of the great walls he had the sensation that the world was a map, that he could see it all laid out and revealed, and he liked that feeling. It was as though he could grasp the entirety of the land and hold it intact and complete within his mind. He had learned the names of all the villages within sight, and knew the destinations of all the roads, but truly it was all just words. He had yet to pass through the gates a second time and yearned to explore. The roads called him to follow them to their hazy and distant mysteries and he waited anxiously for a chance to obey that call. The simplicity was an illusion, of course, but it was comforting.

His reverie was interrupted when a guard approached him purposefully.

“Er, Lieutenant Serhan,” he was uncertain – the rank was not real and Serhan was not a guard officer, didn’t dress like one, and didn’t act like one. The guard were all having difficulty with his status. He was something they hadn’t dealt with before; a civilian with guard rank.

“Yes?”

“The colonel says that the Faer Karan want to see you at once, Sir.”

“Thank you.”

The guard retreated and Serhan lingered for a moment, looking out at the plains. He loved the view. It was easy to see how it might go to a man’s head, being above everything like this, surrounded by strength and history.

He walked down the steps that led to the courtyard and crossed the open space to what he now thought of as the Faer Karan stair. He was aware that many eyes followed him, and he made his step lighter. They should know that he did not fear an encounter with their masters, even if this was not entirely true.

At the top of the stair in the torch-lit gloom he struck the door three times with his fist and waited for it to open. Although he struck it hard the door was very thick and his fist made a timid sound. Perhaps he should acquire a sword or a dagger to strike it with, as Grand had done.

A respectable time later the door opened and he stepped into the ante chamber, quickly kneeling. For all Gerique’s lack of formality he would take no chances with the doorkeeper.

Balgoan emerged from the shadows and stood above him silently for a time.

“Come more quickly next time, mortal man,” it said eventually. There was a definite menace in its voice. It was right though. He was already getting careless, and he had hardly begun. The illusion of control, of security was only that. His life could still be snuffed out in a moment of annoyance. There was a delicate balance between the doorkeeper’s wish to please Gerique and its dislike of the man before it.

“I am sorry, Faer Karani. I will do as you instruct.” The danger was very real. He was still unimportant here, no more than a curiosity. Balgoan allowed the moment of uncertainty to lengthen.

“You may enter,” it said and turned away again. Serhan went through the door into the inner chamber. At first he could not see Gerique, but spotted it curled up in a corner near the windows like a vast cat, reading.

“My lord, you summoned me,” he said.

“Yes, I have a task for you.” Gerique uncurled, deposited its book on the rug and approached. Its movements were incredibly graceful, like the wind in long grass, or a rising swell on the sea. The beauty of motion was so perfect that it seemed unnatural.

“I have been invited to attend a discussion at Ocean’s Gate,” it said, and its deep smooth voice was a delight to his ears. “The master of that fortress is dissatisfied with his status, and will doubtless seek to elevate it at my expense, so I expect there is some scheme in train.”

“Why would you go then, my lord?”

“It would be impolite to refuse, and that, too, would be a small victory for him.”

“What then is my task, my lord?”

“You will travel with me. I will take a number of guards, as is the custom. It is most likely that some harm will be directed against them, but it cannot be done while they are close to me, as this would constitute a crude insult, and lower the status of the perpetrator. His only other way would be to cause me to say or do something foolish, which I do not fear. Your task is to discover the mechanism of the plot so that it can be avoided.”

“I understand.”

“Now go. Tell Grand that he is to assemble an honour guard of fifty and be prepared to leave at dawn tomorrow. You will be part of that guard.”

“As you instruct, my lord.”

He left quickly and made his way down to the courtyard, and then back up to the officers’ quarters where he found Captain Grand engaged in cleaning and polishing his weapons. His chambers smelled of oil, and his table was covered by glinting, sharp metal. Serhan related what had passed between him and Gerique.

“I don’t like it when he does this,” Grand said. “Putting his best troops at risk raises the stakes on both sides.” He put his head out of the door. “Sergeant!” He had an effortless way of raising his voice.

The sergeant arrived at the run.

“Honour guard tomorrow dawn,” Grand instructed him. “Your section and one other – you know which one. I want them to gleam, sergeant. I’ll inspect an hour before we go.”

“Sir.” The man departed at a run.

“Probably best if you go as one of the troops, Serhan,” Grand said. “Less conspicuous, and I can post you somewhere you won’t be missed if you feel the need to wander off.”

“That works for me. I’d better go and get a uniform.”

Grand put a hand on Serhan’s arm to stay him.

“How are you going to do this?” Grand asked. “It might be a game to the Faer Karan, but our lives are at stake.”

Serhan spread his hands.

“I honestly have no idea. I have a few tricks up my sleeve, but until I get there and start poking around I’ll have nothing to work with. Whatever happens is going to be subtle. You’re not going anywhere unless Gerique tells you to, and they’re going to know that. Just be careful, and I’ll do my best. Between us we should get through this.”

“Right. Still not happy about it,” Grand said. “Now get some sleep. I’ll have someone wake you two hours before dawn.”

Serhan left, and walked slowly back to his quarters trying to work out ways he himself would go about separating Gerique from his guard. At least he’d have time on the journey to figure it out. Ocean’s Gate had to be four hundred miles away.

*              *              *              *

The following morning he realised that he’d been over optimistic.

When the honour guard had been lined up in the courtyard, inspected, and inspected again, Gerique himself appeared and moved to the space in front of the column where he proceeded to cast a spell. Serhan listened as keenly as he could, but he was not positioned in the first ranks of the guard and could not hear all that the Faer Karani said.

When the spell was complete a cloud of black smoke appeared to roll up from the ground and form itself into a square about fifteen feet on each side. It stabilised, and smoothed until it was like a sheet of black mirror.

A black door! Serhan had heard rumours about them, but to see one! And Gerique was intending to take his whole honour guard through it to Ocean’s Gate. Everything changed. Transport through a black door was instantaneous. He had no time to think or plan. No time at all. He felt a cold sweat break out on his brow and fought against a momentary panic.

Gerique stepped through the door and the honour guard followed him, two abreast, at the trot. In a moment he was moving, the door approached and he stepped through. It was like passing through a curtain of cool water, but emerging dry on the other side. It took an effort not to stumble when stepping through the blackness, but he managed and found himself jogging into a vast hall.

Grand stopped the column and began to assign the guard. Eight men were posted to the chamber that contained the black door. It would remain open as long as Gerique was here as a symbol of his connection to White Rock. Grand beckoned Serhan.

“You,” he said. “Remain in the hall outside the chamber. Stay alert.”

Then he was gone down the corridor, following Gerique to whatever discussion was to take place. Serhan looked up and down the passageway in which he stood. It was about twenty feet wide and the same in height, all cased in stone, but with great wooden beams across the ceiling, and there was a noise. He listened for a moment and realised that it was the sea, the crash of waves on a rocky shore. It reminded him of childhood.

There was a window and he went to it and looked out. A hundred feet below him, and as far as the eye could see lay the ocean. They really had travelled, in the blink of an eye, four hundred miles. He drank in the view.

The task. He pulled himself away from the window and checked that there was nobody in sight. He knew three spells, passed on to him by his masters in the village, and now he spoke one of them, and in a moment was all but invisible. He knew from experience that he was still just detectable when he moved, only as a distortion, a shadow of motion, but still visible. When he stood still he was impossible to see.

How to begin? He had no idea of the layout of this fortress, but what he could see through the window suggested many levels below him and few above. He walked quickly to the end of the corridor and found a stair that led both up and down. He chose to go up, but there was nothing to be seen, only two or three doors that were securely locked, and no sound from behind them.

He walked back down, passed the floor where he had started and came to another corridor. This looked more promising. Noises could be heard distantly, and he followed them until he came to what looked like a barracks room. There were a few men there, talking about people and places he did not know. He listened for a minute, but none of it seemed consequential, so he moved on through the barracks area until he came to a door that led outside.

The courtyard was similar in size to the one at White Rock. The arrangement was different, of course, but he positioned himself on the north side, pressed against a wall, close to a buttress where nobody would pass close by, and watched the doors.

The sea was to the south, and he reasoned that the Faer Karan would have their chambers on the south side. From what he had seen of the Faer Karan at White Rock they were as fond of views as any other creature, and the view here was all the sea.

In a few minutes he had identified the doors where people came and went, the ordinary doors, and those that were less used or even avoided. These unpopular doors would be more rewarding, he guessed, but also more dangerous.

He picked one and went to it, making sure that he was not observed in any way. He opened the door, slipped through, and shut it behind him. It was very quiet now. The staircase was dark, and he stood for a moment more trying to pick out sounds, but there were none. He moved up the stairs and came to a door. He listened again; nothing. He opened it and found a bare room, not even a stick of furniture.

Up two more flights and there was another door, more silence, another empty room. The whole stair was deserted, it seemed. He smiled wryly to himself. It was the more obvious explanation for the lack of activity, but it had not occurred to him.

He went back to the door that led to the courtyard. This was one of the most dangerous moments. The door must be opened without any idea of what was passing on the other side. He pushed it open an inch and listened. He heard no footfalls, and eased it open until he could slip out. It was badly timed. A group of guardsmen was walking directly at him, passing by, and he had no time to close the door behind him. He pushed it, leaving it a little ajar, stepped quickly across their path and stood, waiting for them to notice the accusing gap that remained.

The men were talking easily among themselves. He caught a few words of their conversation, and as they passed by the open door, not noticing it in the least, his interest was piqued by what they said.

“I wish we had a reason for doing it,” one of them was saying. “It’s dangerous going into White Rock lands at any time, but with no reason …”

He shut the door quickly and stepped after the men.

“It’s an order,” an older man replied. He looked senior, an old soldier used to discipline. “You don’t question orders, not from them; not from me either if you don’t want a kicking.”

“But how do we know what we’re looking for?” the younger man asked.