One old sot remembered something about a foreign queen’s arrival in Aidon; a sorceress, everyone said. His wits were so addled with chronic drink that he couldn’t recall more than that or even how long ago it had happened.
Zevaron planted a few hints of a reward for information about the sister of a patron, a woman of mixed Isarran and Sand Lands blood, he said to explain her coloring and in case Tsorreh had hidden her Meklavaran origin. Then he turned his back on the wharves.
The closer he got to the center of the city and Cinath’s palace in particular, the more armed guards he saw. Plumed helmets, bright armor, and sashes in the colors of the Ar-King were in evidence everywhere. At almost every major intersection and along some of the boulevards, patrols stopped anyone who did not look rich or did not look Gelon. Zevaron was not ready to test his ruse, not yet. The patrolmen reminded him too much of Gatacinne.
* * *
By the end of a week, Zevaron became increasingly frustrated. Perhaps the best way through the blockades was the
patronage of someone like Ranath’s cousin. The cousin—what was his name, Ottomar? Ottoren?—might have forgotten his offer, but Zevaron retraced his steps to the cousin’s compound not even knowing if Ranath was still in the city.
When Zevaron was ushered into the cousin’s garden, which was apparently where he preferred to conduct his interviews, the merchant shook his head.
“I’m sorry, but I’ve hired someone else for the job.” Ottoren sounded genuinely regretful. “I would have liked to oblige my cousin with patronage of one who did him such a service, but…” He shrugged his fleshy shoulders, meaning,
business is business.
“You should not have waited so long. What were you about, if I may ask?”
“I was—and still am—looking for the kinswoman of a friend,” Zevaron said. “He traced her here to Aidon, but cannot find her.”
Ottoren gave a mild snort. “This is a big city. A woman could be swallowed up and leave no trace, or a man as well.” His eyes narrowed. “She’s Gelon?”
“No, dark like me, but not Denariyan. Isarran and Sand Lands blood.”
“Not Meklavaran?”
Zevaron gave his stoniest look of incomprehension. “Why do you ask?”
Ottoren shook his head again. “I have nothing personal against them, mind you. I’ve traded with them for years and found them honest if not exactly affable. But if your—ah, friend’s—kinswoman has been taken as Meklavaran, I doubt there’s much chance you’ll find her alive. A few years back, right after Prince Thessar, may-his-soul-find-eternal-delight, conquered their city, things were different. People felt a certain—ah, sympathy, you might say—for them. Even those taken as slaves. Now…” He shrugged again.
“Were there any noble ladies captured and brought to Aidon at that time?”
“Let me see.” Ottoren rubbed his chin. “I remember hearing of one, but if you’re thinking it might be the one
you seek, I doubt it. One of my patrons mentioned attending a concert at the compound of one of the Ar-King’s own family—cousin or daughter’s husband, I can’t recall. Could have been his brother for all I know. He mentioned that he’d caught sight of an important Meklavaran hostage, as if she were one of the attractions of the evening. Poor thing, I can’t imagine what’s become of her. It’s not likely Cinath let her live.”
It took all of Zevaron’s self-control to remain still. He reminded himself that this merchant didn’t
know
, he was only guessing. He counted heartbeats, so loud they rocked his chest.
One, two
…
The merchant was staring at him with a slightly suspicious expression.
“An interesting story,” Zevaron said carefully, “but I do take your meaning. I thank you for your hospitality.”
Ottoren signaled for his servant to escort Zevaron to the gate. “I’ll keep my ears open for another position.”
“Thank you, and good day.” Zevaron bowed and took his leave.
* * *
For the rest of the day, Zevaron strode through the city, trying to wrestle his feelings under control. Although he kept to the poorer areas, his gaze often lifted to the gleaming houses on the hills, wondering if Tsorreh had lived—and died—in one of them. But he did not trust his temper enough to approach them. Not yet.
The woman Ottoren mentioned could have been Tsorreh, but she might also have been a lady of another noble house. Many of the great families had been scattered after the fall of Meklavar. And if it were Tsorreh, she might well have been spared the current persecution. He would have to find out more about Cinath’s relatives and where they lived, and a way around those patrols. So far, he had encountered no difficulty in passing as Denariyan, and any of a dozen stories might gain him access to the hills.
He headed back to the inn with brightened spirits. The
day was ending and he found himself surprisingly hungry. He stopped at an open cook stall for a tankard of barley-ale and a platter of savory pastries, dough stuffed with minced fish, herbs, and onions, then fried to crispness. The food was surprisingly good, and the stall owner did a brisk business as evening drew on.
It was almost dark when Zevaron returned to the inn. As he approached, he noticed several men lounging nearby. They looked no different from any of the other casual laborers of the neighborhood. Despite their air of indifference, he felt them come alert at his approach.
One man, who had been leaning against the side of the inn, straightened up and came toward Zevaron. His age was difficult to tell beneath the scarred, weathered skin, but his clothing looked too well-made for a gutter rat.
“Were you waiting for me?” Zevaron kept his voice soft, easy.
The man’s eyes flickered in response. “If you’re the one who’s been asking about a Sand Lands woman, came here three-four year ago. And offerin’ a reward.”
Zevaron hesitated. Until he was certain, he could not afford to pass up any possible trail.
“Interested?” the man asked.
“Could be. Depends on what you have. If it’s good…”
The man grinned, showing two missing teeth and the rest dark with decay. “Maybe it’s the one you’re lookin’ for, maybe not, price is the same. But this woman, my brother bought her as a slave to cook and clean, y’know. He treats her all right. If her family were to reimburse him, he’d sell her back, he’s got such a soft heart.”
That much, Zevaron did not believe. The brother would want a good deal more than what he’d paid. Zevaron would deal with that problem once he had found her. “Fair enough,” he said. “You’ll get your fee whether she’s the one or not. But you’ll get it once I’ve seen her for myself.”
The man shrugged, “Come on, then,” and led the way.
Z
EVARON watched carefully to see if the other men loitering outside the inn might follow, but they remained behind, continuing their desultory conversations. Of course, they might trail him once he was out of sight. If they did, however, they would be too far behind to take him by surprise.
At first, Zevaron’s guide kept to the open streets. Only a few men were about at this hour, making their way by the light of the occasional lantern hung over the lintel of a tavern. Soon they passed beyond the corners marked by inns and wine-shops. The buildings ran together, blocks of cracked stone walls and splintered eaves. The air turned stale, laden with the smells of unwashed bodies and garbage. At one corner, they surprised a dog pawing through a pile of refuse. The animal cringed and slunk away, but the man only laughed.
“What kind of work does your brother do?” Zevaron asked. If the man could afford to buy a slave, why was he living in this place?
“Tanner,” the man replied. “Can’t live among higher folk, not the way he smells.”
Zevaron did not know enough about the trade to tell if this were reasonable or not. He touched the hilt of his sword, making sure he could draw it easily, and went on.
Shadows clung more thickly as full night closed in. Clouds veiled the half-moon. Outside lanterns were few and widely spaced. Here and there, usually on a second story, Zevaron spotted dim, wavering lights, the kind cast by small oil lamps. It would not be enough to read by, but was probably all these families could afford.
The thought diverted Zevaron’s attention just as he and his guide entered a particularly dark corner. Zevaron’s senses snapped back into focus as his fighting instincts roused. He’d heard no sound, caught no flicker of movement. Alarm, hot and silvery, danced through his veins. The little space, bounded by walls on two sides, was too still, too quiet.
His hand sped toward the hilt of his sword even as the first figure launched itself at him.
No light reflected off the assailant’s knife, yet Zevaron gauged its size and length, knowing exactly where it would be in the next moment. His sword slid free as his body pivoted. The thrust missed him by a hair’s breadth. Propelled by his own momentum, the attacker stumbled forward. Zevaron continued his spiral movement, weight balanced like a dancer’s, sword curving through the air. The blade whispered through crude cloth and met flesh. He reversed the stroke into a sweet arc. A second attacker screamed.
Zevaron acted without thought, driven by years of drill and then more years of actual fighting. He whirled, blade singing, and felt the slight catch of skin, then the smooth liquid slash through muscle and sinew. Curses and ragged footsteps disappeared into the night.
Then he was standing alone in a pool of darkness, reeking of blood and piss and fear-sweat. Adrenaline shrilled along his nerves, and breath hissed between his teeth. His body shook with the pounding of his heart, the sudden dryness of his mouth, and most of all, with anger at himself.
Fool! Fool and pig-brained, slack-bellied son of a fool!
He cursed himself silently in the manner of the gutter denizens of Tomarzha Varya.
All in all, he’d gotten off lightly. He might have a few
sore muscles in the morning, but he didn’t think he’d been touched. He was too wrought up at the moment to be sure. His vision had sharpened, as it did in battle, and adapted to the dark. Though he searched the area, he found no bodies. He might have gut-cut one of them, which meant lingering putrefaction and death. There was nothing to be done about it.
Out of long practice, he wiped his sword on the tail of his shirt and sheathed the weapon. He was a distance from his inn, but the walk would do him good. He needed time to calm down and let the fever drain from his muscles. The chance of finding Tsorreh now seemed even more remote.
The street lay empty and quiet, except for the wavering voices from a tavern at the far left side. It was so dark, Zevaron could not make out the sign, although voices and flickering lights indicated the place was still doing business. A man emerged, pausing in the door. His form, slender under the typical Gelonian tunic and short cape, was silhouetted for a moment against the dimly lit interior before he passed into the darkness of the street.
Zevaron walked faster, aware that he had ended up in perhaps the worst district of the city. While he didn’t fear a second attack, neither did he want to invite one.
Silent and swift, two figures broke from cover. They converged upon the man who had just left the tavern. They judged the distance nicely, just out of easy hearing for anyone inside. Zevaron heard a cry of alarm, quickly silenced, accompanied by the sounds of fists on flesh, scuffling, and a body thudding against stone wall.
This was none of his quarrel, Zevaron told himself. He’d had enough senseless fighting for one night. He did not have time to get involved, and the attack would be over in an instant. The thieves would soon be off with the victim’s purse, leaving no lasting harm beyond a few bruises.
The attack did not break off as Zevaron had expected. The victim’s cries turned to those of real pain, not just surprise. That settled the matter. Zevaron freed his sword and
bolted in the direction of the fight. The two assailants had dragged their prey into an alley, very much like those Zevaron had darted down during the fight at Gatacinne. Both smelled of rotten food, stale wine, and urine.
Zevaron caught the sound of a body sliding along rough stone to the ground. He rounded the corner of the alley. By chance, the clouds parted at that instant. Moonlight revealed two bulky figures bending over a fallen third.
“You lift his shoulders,” one muttered, “and we’ll—”
“Riya! Riya!” Shouting the Denariyan war cry, Zevaron burst upon them. They whirled to face him.
Light gleamed on the edge of a long knife. Zevaron sent it spinning away. He sank into a fighting stance, sword lifted and ready.
“If you value your lives,” he growled in Gelone, “you will depart while you still can.”
They turned and ran. In that moment, Zevaron saw that they were masked.
The fallen man moaned, pawing at his chest. Zevaron secured his sword and knelt beside him. The light was too weak to see if the poor fellow was badly injured. From the noise he was making, he could breathe well enough.
“It’s all right,” Zevaron said. “I doubt they’ll be coming back. We’d best leave this place. Can you walk?”
The stranger cursed mildly but, with Zevaron’s help, clambered to unsteady feet. He bent over, twisting to face away, and vomited noisily.
“I’m afraid I must prevail on your good will for a little longer.” His voice was pleasant, and Zevaron realized with surprise that the other man could not have been much older than he was. “Could you—if you could help me home, my father will give you a reward.”
“I didn’t help you for money,” Zevaron said tightly. “But I can’t leave you here for the next scavenger. I think a newborn kitten could have the better of you just now.” He slipped the other man’s arm over his shoulder. The other was a little taller, but slender. “Which way?”
“Turn right here, and then straight until Old Fountain
Street, then up along the Avenue of Bronze to Cynar Hill. The house of Jaxar.”
“I’m a stranger here, as you see,” Zevaron said as they limped along. “I don’t know where that is.”
“You don’t know…” The other man sounded astonished. “You truly don’t know who I am.”
Zevaron felt a surge of irrational impatience. “You’re the son of the Ar-King himself, for all I know. I told you I didn’t chase those thugs for any hope of gain.”
All I want now is to get you home and off my hands.