The Exile and the Sorcerer (7 page)

“Take me with you.”

“Don’t be silly.”

“I mean it,” Sparrow said earnestly.

“I’m leaving the islands. It’s no place for a man.” Tevi looked at him curiously. “Why do you want to go?”

“I like you. You’re not the same as all the other women.”

Tevi groaned inwardly.

Sparrow dug holes in the sand with his fingers as he continued. “All the men like you. You talk to us as if you’re interested. The other women pester us. Some won’t leave us alone, but you’re the only one who acts as if you actually like men—as people, as if you want to be our friend.”

Tevi tried to cover her surprise. “I’ve got to leave Storenseg, and I can’t take you with me. The other women, they like men really. You’ll be safe here with them.”

“I’d rather be with you.”

“You can’t come with me.”

“I’ll miss you.” Sparrow was crying again.

Tevi put her arm around his shoulder. “I’ll miss you, too.”

Sparrow continued pushing the sand back and forth while he built up courage for his next sentence. “Can I spend the night here with you? To remember you.” Tentatively, he reached for her hand.

This time, Tevi groaned aloud and raised her eyes to the sky. Somewhere there was a goddess with a very poor sense of humour.

Sparrow drew back, hurt by her response. “You do like me, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do, but...look, if things hadn’t turned out how they did, I would have—” Tevi bit her tongue. She searched desperately for something to say. “I’ve got to go, and I don’t know when I’ll be back. It would be best if you tried to forget me, and sleeping with me tonight won’t help. Also, I don’t know what’s ahead of me, but I’d rather face it without the chance of being pregnant.”

Sparrow still wanted to argue, but Tevi did not give him the chance. “I think you should go back to your grandmother’s. I’ll escort you.”

Nothing was said as they walked to the village. At the entrance to Lizard’s family hall, they stopped. The square was deserted. Tevi was tall for a woman, her face level with Sparrow’s. Tears were forming in his eyes. On a sudden impulse, she took hold of his shoulders and pulled him to her. They kissed while his arms tightened around her, exploring each other’s mouths. For a moment, Tevi was tempted to change her decision just because Sparrow was the only person who wanted her. Yet finally, she pushed them apart. Sparrow stepped back, looking as if he was about to speak, but instead turned and disappeared into the hall.

Tevi walked back slowly. The moon lit familiar landmarks in harsh tones of black and white. She was overwhelmed by an unbearable sense of loss. This was the only world she had ever known; the fact that she did not like it hardly mattered.

Half a head taller than most of those about him, the middle-aged man wove between the jumble of stalls in the Torhafn market square. The first fanning of white hair at his temples accentuated his sharp features. Laugh lines around his mouth spoke of an active sense of humour, but he was not currently smiling.

The man, Verron, was aware that the quality of his clothing was attracting attention. The eyes of stall holders lit up as he approached. To his mind, the traders of Torhafn were no more honest than the pickpockets who were also sizing him up. Both groups were anticipating a well-filled purse, but Verron was far too experienced to fall prey to the cheap tricks of market thieves. He had seen it all before many times, although this did not mean he felt comfortable with his surroundings.

During his career as a Protectorate trader, Verron had been to many of the less attractive spots the world had to offer, yet Torhafn never ceased to impress him with its corrupt squalor. If a more sordid town existed anywhere in the world, Verron had no desire to see it, and particularly not after nightfall.

Centuries ago, Torhafn had been an elegant capital, the centre of a sorcerer’s empire. The sorcerer and empire were now long gone. Only the ruins remained. The town huddled around its harbour, squatting amidst the ruined masonry. Timber and mud shacks encrusted the ancient walls. In the middle of the shabby marketplace, with its potholes and stench of rotting fish, two rows of broken columns raised themselves above a field of dirty cotton awnings, like the clean white rib bones of an ox protruding from the earth at the spot where the animal had met its end. Filth smeared the ground.

A stall holder held a length of material across Verron’s path, flapping it to attract his attention. Verron neatly dodged both the vendor and his goods. There was nothing in the market he needed, and he did not have time to waste.

Numerous roads and alleys led from the square. Most were narrow, dark, and dangerous to walk down. Verron left the market on one of the wider streets, avoiding the tightly packed slums. Fortunately, he did not have to go far before he found what he wanted.

A group of mercenary warriors stood at a crossroad. The backs of their hands were tattooed with the red and gold swords of the Protectorate Guild, and their leather jerkins bore the badge of the recently formed Torhafn militia. The eldest was a granite-faced man whose hands were never far from his sword. As he approached, Verron made sure his own hands were clearly visible and away from any potential hidden weapon.

“Well met, fellow citizens. I’m Verron of Cottersford, a member of the Merchants’ Guild.”

The mercenaries assessed him for a few seconds before the eldest replied. “Well met, fellow citizen. Can we assist you?” The man’s tone was polite but guarded.

“I hope so. I see you’ve all taken contract with the local militia, but I wonder if you know where I can find some of your comrades who’re still available for hire.”

“No chance of that, I’m afraid.”

“Surely there must be some?”

“Not with how things stand.”

Verron raised his eyebrows, inviting the speaker to continue.

“The local bosses have hired every able-bodied warrior who can tell one end of a sword from the other.” The mercenary shrugged as he spoke.

“And a few who can’t,” another chipped in, contempt evident in her voice.

Verron pursed his lips. “So what is the situation at the moment?”

“What was the last you heard?”

“Before we left the Protectorate, we heard that the town council had created a proper militia to police the area. Has something changed?”

“
Town council
is an awfully grand name to give the bunch of thieves who run this place.”

“You don’t sound very fond of them.” Verron spoke ironically. The councillors were not his idea of pleasant company either.

“I wish I’d never come here. I just want to serve out my contract and leave with the same number of arms and legs I started with.” Several other mercenaries nodded their agreement. “As for the current situation, I don’t know whether it started with good intentions, but half a dozen gangsters have taken control of the so-called council. It’s my guess they’re going to use us to thin out the competition. Now everyone is hiring bodyguards. I’ve never minded a good brawl, but when the blood starts flowing, it’s going to be knives in the back down dark alleys.” The man’s jaw clenched in anger. “I’m a warrior, not a murderer.”

Verron pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling like a fool. He had enough experience to know better. He should have guessed.

“Considering that the town has so much contact with the Protectorate, you’d have thought some of the civilisation would have rubbed off,” someone muttered.

Verron shook his head. “Hardly. Torhafn just soaks up the worst the Protectorate has to offer. A large section of the population got here by fleeing justice in the Protectorate. Once they’re over the Aldrak Mountains, they tend to stick around. The rest of Walderim is reasonably law-abiding and wouldn’t put up with their nasty habits.”

“You sound as if you’re familiar with the town.” The eldest mercenary spoke again.

“Only too well. We’ve been through every spring for the last five years, and we’re always pleased to get away. Normally, we contract guild mercenaries before leaving the Protectorate, but when we heard a militia had been formed, we decided to wait until we got here before hiring guards. In hindsight, it was incredibly stupid of us.” Verron sighed. “Do you know if there’ve been any robberies on the road south?”

The mercenary shook his head. “There’s been no trouble that we’ve heard of. If it’s any comfort, all the bandits have come into Torhafn to join the militia. The town is set to explode. The hills are probably deserted. Are you in a large group?”

“Just my partner and two of our children.”

“Are your kids old enough to be much use in a fight?”

“No. They’re just ten and fourteen. Last year, we had our eldest with us. She’s handy with a crossbow, but she’s joined the Ostlers’ Guild and stayed behind in the Protectorate. We’ve got the youngster along in her place.” Verron could not restrain his grimace. The presence of his youngest child made it so much harder to risk the road south without an adequate escort.

“You could go back to the Protectorate.”

“We can’t afford to abandon this year’s trade cycle.”

“One of our captains is in town. Given the circumstances, he might sell you a dispensation to hire non-guild guards,” the mercenary suggested.

“I wouldn’t trust any non-guild warrior that I picked up here. I’m afraid we’re going to have to just take a chance.”

“Oh, well, we mercenaries know all about that.”

“I guess so, but thank you anyway for your time.”

“I’m sorry we couldn’t be more help. I wish you a safe journey.” The faces of the mercenaries looked genuinely sympathetic as they parted.

On his way back, Verron’s eyes frequently strayed to the fortified mansions on the hills overlooking the town, the homes of the gang leaders who ruled Torhafn. On previous visits, Verron had met some of the bosses. The elegance of their homes gave them a veneer of respectability, but hard-eyed henchmen always stood by, ready to follow any order.

The rest of Walderim, sandwiched between the Aldraks and the sea, was as civilised a land as could be found outside the Protectorate, but Torhafn was an ugly blemish on the country. It would, no doubt, stay that way until Walderim became part of the Protectorate, which was only a question of time. One day, a threat would come out of the Western Ocean sufficient to frighten the inhabitants into giving up their independence, swearing allegiance to the Coven at Lyremouth, and paying taxes to its sorcerers. Verron sighed. It could not happen too soon for his liking.

The two wagons with their cargo of merchandise still stood where he had left them, at the richer end of the market outside a warehouse. From their alert posture, it was obvious that his two sons, Derry and Kimal, were taking their guard duties seriously. Yet Verron knew the cargo’s safety lay with the protection money the warehouse owner was paying to one of the local gangs—at least, the money he hoped the owner was paying. The boys smiled at the sight of their father.

“How’s the haggling going?” Verron asked as he drew close.

“Last time I looked in, the merchant had tears in her eyes. I think it was something to do with her starving children. But I expect Mama will get the best of it in the end,” fourteen-year-old Kimal answered with a grin.

“I expect so, too. She usually does.”

Verron refrained from sticking his head through the doorway to witness the bargaining for himself. Over the years, he and his partner had reached a good working relationship, which involved the verbal side of business being handled by Marith. When money was involved, his partner could release a flow of rhetoric that would reduce Verron to giggles if he listened. Marith was a trader to the core of her being, and haggling was her favourite pastime. She would argue up the price of their goods as if her life depended on it. Not that she was tight-fisted—more that she took professional pride in never parting with a penny more than needed. It had been mainly at Marith’s urging they had delayed hiring the guards.

Verron leaned against the wall and tried to ease the frown from his face. It was unfair to blame Marith for their present situation, and they would most likely reach Scathberg without meeting any criminal more menacing than an innkeeper who watered down the beer. More immediate was the danger that, caught in the passion of bargaining, Marith would lose track of time. Nightfall was less than an hour away. For the sake of a few small coppers, they should not risk reaching their lodgings after sunset.

Already, the shadows in the miserable alleys were hardening. The market was closing down for the day. Stall holders shouted frantically; the perishable goods that were not sold would be wasted. Even in Torhafn, it was hard to make a profit from rotten fish. Last-minute bargain hunters moved between stalls, but their numbers were dwindling.

The remaining people were poorer, more wretched and, if not more villainous, probably more desperate. Around the edge stood groups of vagrants and casual labourers, still hopeful of a little more work. Most looked like deserters from a zombie army; the rest looked drunk. As the carts got ready for departure, the vagrants moved in, searching the rubbish for anything of value.

Verron was just reaching the decision to join Marith and speed the negotiations when he heard movement. The hanging over the doorway was pulled aside.