CHAPTER 25 #3
But here and now I was “a beautiful woman,” if only out of politeness, who wore a lovely dress and had amazing hair, and I was being escorted through the Citadel by a handsome knight of remarkable hotness ready to catch me if I stumbled. I let go and enjoyed the moment.
We reached the gates, where a young knight ran up to us.
Bellen issued a short order, and a carriage appeared as if by magic, pulled by a large roan horse and driven by a young male squire.
The carriage was a rectangular box on four wheels, with a single door at the front and square windows.
It was less a leisure vehicle and more a fortified transport like what Hreban had ridden in, although not nearly as ornate.
Bellen helped me into the carriage. Leaning on his hand was like resting your weight on an iron rail. He almost lifted me up into it.
Inside the carriage was a simple bench running along the interior walls. It could fit four people comfortably, maybe six if someone sat on the floor. No frills but so much better than walking.
I settled in and drew the blue curtain back on the window. Bellen was looking at me. His eyes were warm and still filled with humor.
“Thank you again, my lord.”
“Think nothing of it.” He looked at the driver. “Take the lady where she wants to go. Let no harm come to her. Then return here.”
“Yes sir.”
“My guard is waiting on the street,” I called out to the driver.
“I shall stop for him, my lady.”
“Until we meet again, Lady Maggie.”
“Until then, Lord Bellen.”
The carriage rolled forward. Now we just had to pick up Lute, and we would be on our way.
One visit down, one to go, and that one would be harder than getting in and out of the Citadel in one piece. I had to play this very carefully. It was our only chance to get at the Butcher before he killed again.
Centuries and centuries ago, before the capital became the sprawling beast it was now, a small fishing village had perched in the hills that touched the sea.
Sliced off from the rest of the coast by a forked river, the village presented a difficult target and promised very little plunder.
When raiders struck out of desperation, the fishermen retreated into ancient caverns dug in the hills by a long-forgotten people, waited them out, and then resumed their simple lives.
Years passed, kingdoms formed and fell, and eventually the potential of the sheltered harbor was recognized. A castle rose on a nearby hill to protect the fertile lands and the budding port. The fortress became a marker for the traders. Travel until you see kair toren—the castle towers.
People settled around the castle, seeking protection and the jobs the port promised.
The city grew, spreading outward, taking over more and more of the delta, until it swallowed the little fishing village, which became known as Old Town.
It lay in the southwest of the capital now, away from the busier docks.
Its smaller port catered to specific commercial ships, military vessels, and couriers.
Ironically, no fishing boats docked there anymore.
The fishermen had moved out, their huts had been leveled, and large estate-size dwellings sprouted in their stead, home mostly to mid-level merchants, who required quick access to the port.
Our next stop lay at the heart of Old Town, on the slopes of Fifth Hill.
I had allowed the Defender carriage to bring us over the bridge and let it go two blocks after that.
It rolled back the way it came, and Lute and I wistfully stared after it.
Like all soldiers, Lute prized getting off his feet.
“We should buy a carriage,” he said.
“Where would we put it?”
“We could build a cart shed.”
“Where?” There really wasn’t any space.
“By the river. Me and Will could build it.”
“Lute, have you ever built a cart shed before?”
“It’s a box. Four walls and a roof. How hard could it be?”
I looked around, trying to orient myself.
The main road, paved with darker gray stone, climbed up in front of us, winding around the hill upward.
The houses were invisible, set back from the street and hidden from view by solid walls, sheathed in flowering vines.
The people who lived here liked their privacy and didn’t react well when it was invaded.
Let’s see . . . the ocean was behind us, the green dome of the Trader’s Temple peaked through the houses in front of us. We were in the right general area.
“What now?” Lute asked.
“Now we wander around until we find the correct house.”
Lute nodded and leaned to look down the street.
“What are you checking for?”
“The Shears woman. She followed the carriage. I saw her.”
It made sense. The carriage wasn’t traveling fast. The main advantage of it wasn’t speed, it was comfort, and the city streets were crowded. A person in good shape could easily follow us, especially if she was one of the Shears’ agents.
“If she followed us, she won’t let herself be seen. That would be too obvious. Come on. Let’s look for the house. The sooner we find it, the sooner we can get this over with.”
Ten minutes later, I stopped before a wall with a gate crowned by a heavy wooden sign that hung on a massive chain just above it. The sign bore sharp, spiky script.
“Okulan,” Lute said with all the joy of a man spotting a hungry tiger.
“Can you read the sign?”
“No, but I recognize the writing. The old man has a dagger with that writing on it. He got stabbed during the battle of Sanderan and pulled it out of his gut. It nearly killed him.”
Sounded about right.
“What does it say?” Lute asked.
“The House of Morning Sky. The Clan of Harzi.” Apparently, reading Okulan was no problem either.
“Shit.” Lute stared at the sign. “I can see why you didn’t want him to know.”
The nation of Okula lay in the northwest and shared a border with Selva.
If you put Rellas where the US lay on a map, Selva would be Canada, and Okula would be Alaska, except that its weather was a lot warmer.
It was a big chunk of land surrounded on three sides by water, and it was populated by a conglomeration of clans.
Each clan was a state unto itself, and they competed and fought with each other.
The Okula were excellent sailors and good horsemen.
They raided and traded with both nations, and no one knew which of those two options they would pick in any given year.
Every three decades or so, the clans got antsy, elected a war chief, and invaded in force, usually Selva by land or southern Rellas by sea.
Twelve years ago, Everard had to repel a massive invasion.
His mother lost her life on the battlefield.
Clan Harzi had been on the forefront of that war.
After the invasion, Okula and Rellas resumed trade relations, which was how Clan Harzi ended up with this house in Old Town.
Rellas might have moved on, but Everard hadn’t.
He would never have let me walk into a Harzi clanhouse.
And if I had any sort of common sense, I wouldn’t enter one either. Unfortunately, it was our only option.
“Do we have to go in?” Lute asked.
“Yes.”
He stretched his neck and squared his shoulders. “Should I knock?”
“You should.”
Lute knocked on the gate.
The door swung open, revealing a girl in her late teens.
She was four inches taller than me, with a sturdy frame and a wide face.
Her skin was a deeper shade of beige with a cool undertone.
Her long auburn hair was plaited into an intricate braid, the tip of which had been bleached in the Harzi fashion and dyed to announce her clan color—a muted Carolina blue.
Her clothes also identified her clan: high-waisted blue and white pants, a pale cream tunic tucked into those pants, and a thicker, blue overtunic secured by a wide cloth belt. A slender sword in a soft sheath on her hip completed the outfit.
“Calm winds and tranquil sky.”
She stared at me. No response to the traditional greeting. Rude, but fine.
“I seek an audience with the orsi,” I said. “I bring a secret to trade.”
“The orsi is busy,” she said.
“Then I will wait.”
She pressed her lips together, turning her mouth into a hard, thin line.
The Harzi were foreigners in Kair Toren.
The city welcomed their merchant ships, the goods they brought, and the money they spent, but their presence in the capital was limited and Kair Toren never let them forget that they were perennial enemies who were closely watched.
Clan Harzi was one of the more powerful Okulan clans.
If we had been in Harzi Ar, the seat of their power, the sentry woman would’ve informed me that I wasn’t fit to kiss the footprints of the orsi, let alone ask for an audience, and slammed the door in my face.
But we were in Rellas, and I looked like a noblewoman.
They couldn’t simply ignore me. It wouldn’t be prudent.
“Follow,” she said.
Again, rude. At the very least, she should have observed the basic courtesy. They were on edge, which meant that I had guessed right. All was not well, and that would be to my advantage.
I followed her into the courtyard.
The house was two stories tall, built with dark gray stone and crowned with a steep blue roof that looked a little like a witch’s hat. Smaller structures flanked it on both sides, with their own steep roofs, forming a U-shaped courtyard, which we had just entered.
“You wait here,” the sentry said and turned to leave.
Three strikes. That was my limit.
“It seems Clan Harzi is so poor that they no longer offer resting stools to their visitors.”
She glared at me, and I glared right back.
“Should I have brought my own?”
The woman stomped into the house and returned with a small, embroidered quilted pad, which she placed on the stone tiles in front of the door. Just the rug. No stool to go with it.
Fine.
I knelt on the pad, resting my weight on my bent legs. Lute tried to catch me, but I waved him off.