Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
I had naively thought that time and distance would erase Kardonan from my brain, but as soon as I stepped onto the streets, now that I wasn’t consumed with worry about what I would face in the palace, the city around me felt as familiar as breathing.
The sounds of horses’ hooves clopping on the cobbled streets, the low, ever-present murmur of the crowds that never truly disappeared during waking hours, and often beyond, and the cries of the merchants fighting to be heard and noticed over the crowd.
The strident chords of a lute cut through the cacophony at random intervals, overpowered until it wasn’t.
I recognized the smells too, probably even more than the noise.
Horseshit, rotten food, grilled meat of indeterminate origin, stagnant water, human waste—it should have been disgusting, and oh, it was, but it was also home .
How twisted was that?
I tugged the hood of my cloak lower over my forehead, hoping it camouflaged my ears well enough. Avoiding Kardonan had become a habit over the years, and only partially because of Kason and his ilk. They were reason enough to stay out of the city, but far from the only one.
I probably should have mentioned that to Kason before we crossed the city’s threshold, come to think of it.
It would have been best to hold off until after dark to begin my search for someone who could help the queen, since the majority of my brethren preferred to conduct their business in the shadows, like civilized beings.
However, I hadn’t suggested that for two reasons.
One, I wasn’t sure I could have endured holding vigil at the queen’s bedside any longer.
And two, it had been years since I’d set foot in the city limits, and I needed time to get my bearings and discover if the good sources of information had changed in the interim.
I hoped not, but if they had, I’d track them down.
Despite my lengthy absence, this was my town.
My first stop was an ancient tavern called The Drunken Pumpkin.
It had been around for as long as I could remember, and in the same rough shape as it was now.
The interior was dim and too hot, thanks to the blazing, over-large fire in the hearth, and the floors were sticky with substances I didn’t want to think about.
A table in the corner, farthest from the hearth, was occupied by three men, all gray-haired or bald, nursing tankards as they talked in low tones.
Probably solving all of Kardonan’s problems, if not Woshos’s.
I took a seat at the bar, its shiny wooden surface worn smooth by a million sleeves over the decades.
A gesture at the barkeep earned me a tankard of my own, and I put a coin on the bar—not a copper piece, the price of the ale, but a gold.
The barkeep, a woman in her middle age, judging by the lines bracketing the brown skin next to her eyes and mouth, narrowed those watery brown eyes at me in suspicion.
“I ain’t got change for that.”
“I don’t want change. I want information.” I nudged the coin toward her with two fingers.
She grunted and, quick as a striking snake, made the gold coin disappear. “What?”
“Tell me who’s in charge of the witches of Kardonan.”
She scoffed and produced a rag from her apron to wipe the counter. “Ain’t no one in charge of the witches, son.”
“That’s bullshit, and we both know it.” I leaned forward. “Is it Allemud still?”
Her eyes narrowed again, her lips hardening into a firm line. “Mayhaps. I’m just a simple?—”
“Oh, don’t give me that. Barkeeps are the knowledge keepers of Kardonan. Always have been, always will be.” I sipped my ale. Not bad—a little bitter, but it would go well with a hearty stew. “What’s the latest? And what’s your name?”
“Dags,” she said reluctantly, then blew out a breath before continuing. “Word is there ain’t too many witches to be found with Allemud these days.”
“Has he run them off?” Wouldn’t have surprised me at all—Allemud always had been a dick.
Dags shook her head. “Not so far as I’ve heard. They’re just…gone.”
My heart skipped a beat. “Witch-hunters?” But witch-hunters wouldn’t go after all the witches—only the ones breaking the law. And as shady as Allemud was, not everyone who went to him for protection or to find a community that accepted them was a criminal.
She shrugged. “No one knows.”
Well, that wasn’t good. “Know where I can find Allemud?”
Her lips twisted up. “Word is there’s an abandoned temple on Water Street that he’s squatting in.”
I wrinkled my nose. Please let it not be a temple for Rhianough.
I heard that.
Suppressing a sigh, I tilted my tankard and drained it. “My thanks,” I said, putting it back on the bar.
Dags grunted, and I took that as my cue to leave.
Finding the temple wasn’t difficult. Water Street ran perpendicular to the docks, housing many warehouses and a few less-than-reputable shops, along with a brothel favored by sailors who were in town for a night or two, if memory served.
I’d picked my share of pockets in the pub on the ground floor of the brothel when I was young, but never got much for my effort.
The buildings along Water Street looked like they were one good storm away from tumbling down—not nearly as picturesque as Harbor Avenue, directly by the docks.
The city cared about the avenue, since it was the first thing many visitors saw, but this street?
They couldn’t care less. The paint on the clapboard buildings was chipped and faded, with a board here and there all but falling off.
The cobblestones of the street were uneven, with some missing altogether, and it stank—stale urine, brine, rotten fish.
Ugh…now I remembered the main reason I stayed far away from here.
The temple was on the far end of Water Street, closest to Harbor Avenue.
Built of stone rather than wooden clapboard, it was in the same disrepair as everything else, with the added charm of two boarded-up front windows.
It made it impossible to tell whether anyone was inside.
That was probably intentional. I wouldn’t be surprised if, behind the boards, the windows were perfectly intact.
Thankfully, the symbol carved in the stone above the door was not Rhianough’s snakes, but another god’s, one I didn’t recognize.
Helchio , Rhianough supplied with a huff. I haven’t seen him in an age .
“What is he the god of?” I murmured.
Ships and fish and dreams, what else?
“Of course. How stupid of me to ask.”
I continued past the temple, as though the building held no interest for me, debating my next move. I supposed I could just…knock on the door. I was there on official palace business, after all. What a frightening concept.
I looped around the block, marched up to the temple door, and knocked.
Surprisingly—or not—no one answered.
“Rude,” I muttered, knocking again. When I got no answer a second time, I called out, “Allemud, I know you’re in there! It’s Mokido. Open the?—”
Without warning, the door burst open. Before I could step back, a hand grabbed my tunic and yanked me inside.
The door slammed behind me, and I could see nothing of the dim interior as my eyes struggled to adjust. My ears told me there was more than one person nearby, though, and my nose said they weren’t doing the best at keeping this old temple clean.
My nostrils twitched at the scents of dust, mold, and unwashed bodies. How pleasant.
“Gods’ balls, Mo, have you forgotten how to keep a low profile? Been out of the city too long.”
I recognized the voice, particularly the derision in its tone, even if I couldn’t yet see the speaker. “And good day to you, Allemud. How’s business?”
Allemud snorted. Receding footsteps in his unique heavy-soft gait, which came from the replacement of one of his feet with a wooden prosthetic, told me he was retreating into the temple. “Business is business, as always. What’s it to you? Why are you darkening my doorstep, Mo?”
I trailed after him, my eyes finally adjusting to the candle-lit temple.
If Helchio’s temple had once been grand, there was no trace of it now.
I assumed the floors were polished stone at some point in the distant past, but they now bore so many years of dust and grime that I could barely see them.
Makeshift beds and bunks were scattered in the open spaces off the main corridor, down which Allemud was currently thumping, his wooden foot harsh against the stone.
Some were empty, but many had people of all sorts sitting on them, watching me follow Allemud—old, young, sprite, human.
They were all wary, their bodies tense in a way that told me they were ready to bolt at the first sign of trouble.
I pushed my hood back, revealing my ears and hair, and some of that tension eased.
Allemud led me to an alcove that held ragged chairs with ratty upholstery fraying at the seams. At least they looked clean enough and didn’t smell. He chose one of the seats, and I took the other as he dug a pipe out of the crate set next to his chair.
Allemud was a Nirum, one of a short, stubby race of beings blessed with copious amounts of body hair—male or female—and horns atop their heads.
Allemud’s dark-brown hair cascaded over his shoulders in multiple thick braids, some of which were woven into his impressive beard.
I spotted strands of gray here and there that I didn’t recall seeing before, but it wasn’t like I’d cataloged Allemud’s appearance the last time I’d seen him.
We weren’t friends, not by any stretch of the imagination.
I didn’t know if his abrasiveness was a cultural trait, since very few Nirum emerged from their mountain homes to dwell in cities, and I didn’t know the story behind how Allemud came to be in Kardonan.
Honestly, I didn’t really care. He was an asshole, and that was all I needed to know.