Chapter 25
Manage they did, for four days, until they came in sight of the river.
Traffic had picked up enormously, first farm carts and the occasional postrider, then merchants with wagons and carriages with noble crests on the doors.
There were even several gnoles among them, who waved to Dog Violet.
She waved back, but seemed oddly subdued.
The Dervish wasn’t sure why, and while he might, with extreme reluctance, discuss feelings with a human, he didn’t think that Dog Violet was willing to do the same.
Then again, given how ragged her rags had become, maybe she was just embarrassed to be badly dressed.
Ancestors knew that the Dervish felt the same way often enough.
He’d shed the blanket cloak as soon as they started seeing other people on the road, even when the breeze was cool enough to chill him through.
Edmund kept his, proving that he was either smarter or less vain, possibly both.
This was probably for the best, as the Dervish was still suffering the aftereffects of unrequited lust, and the blanket was not an object of desire for anyone.
(Well, almost anyone. Somewhere out there was doubtless a person who grew feverish at the sight of sodden wool blankets with mildew starting around the edges.
The Dervish had seen enough to believe this as an article of faith.) Regardless, it kept him from ogling Edmund, who probably did not want to be ogled, or even if he did, was probably intelligent enough to realize that the Dervish was a walking mass of trauma and it wasn’t worth the effort.
But at least I’m very pretty trauma. Surely that’s worth something.
Even if there hadn’t been the awkwardness between them, there was also precious little opportunity.
Their stash of money was not infinite, and so they stayed in the cheapest possible accommodations, which meant sharing quarters with a dozen other people in the bunkhouses by the inns.
The Dervish might, in extreme circumstances, have been willing to do it anyway and damn the listeners, but Edmund would undoubtedly die of embarrassment on the spot.
Still, things had gotten easier between them. Edmund could make eye contact again and jokes were nothing more than jokes, and the Dervish tried not to flirt beyond the baseline level required to prove he still had a pulse.
And, as the city grew closer and closer, he tried not to think about the possibility that Scholar Andraste could free him from the sword.
When Edmund had told him that Andraste was a dedicate of the Forge God, he hadn’t given it much thought. It would have been nice if they were a completely secular scholar, but you’d expect someone interested in swords to be in service to a god of the forge.
He’d known plenty of blacksmiths. He knew they weren’t all like the smith who’d trapped him in the sword.
Hell, he’d even done a little smithing himself, under Father’s Brother’s watchful eye—just enough to shoe a horse, a skill he had largely forgotten.
Sarkis had always said that the blacksmith was the second most important person in any mercenary troop, after the cook.
(Commander had come in a distant third.) The Dervish didn’t feel the prickle of unease about blacksmiths that he did about priests.
Even so, there was a distinct possibility that this scholar would want to take the sword apart to see how it worked, which could be very uncomfortable.
If it works, it’s worth it. And if it doesn’t work, you’re no worse off than you were before.
He looked up as they reached the river crossing.
The line up to the ferry passed through a gate where guards scrutinized each passing wagon, poking into straw and peering into barrels.
Caravan wagons came in for extra attention.
While they virtually ignored the two men and the gnole, the Dervish watched them opening up a peddler’s wagon and investigating every nook and cranny.
“We’d never have gotten Francis through this without setting off a riot,” he murmured to Edmund.
The locals seemed very accepting of gnoles in their midst, but a seven-foot-tall pillbug was another matter entirely.
According to Edmund, there weren’t even legends about creatures like her. “What are they searching for?”
“Slaves. It’s illegal in Archenhold, but if you come overland, this is by far the easiest route to cross over to Anuket City’s territory, where it’s … erm … legal-ish.”
The Dervish grunted. Smuggling like this would be useless for bringing in large numbers.
He could guess what kind of slaves the smugglers would try to get through—high-value, either skilled or exotic.
Someone had tried to kidnap him to be sold as a bed slave once.
He’d spent a very uncomfortable evening in a cramped room with six other people.
Fortunately their captor had not learned the lesson that a slack chain is a garrote waiting to happen, and the Dervish had strangled him with the aid of the young woman on the other end of the chain.
The six of them had hopped, rather awkwardly, to a nearby blacksmith, who had obliged by striking the chains off.
Then they’d all shaken hands and gone their separate ways.
Come to think of it, that may count as a good deed. I should add it to my tally.
The ferry ride was not terribly long, but the Dervish could see why most people used it.
The river was wide and deep, and while individual vessels doubtless crossed it all the time, most of those would be small and maneuverable.
And probably charge a very high fee from the smugglers, I’ll bet.
Likely subject to random searches at the docks, too.
Edmund gripped the railing. To the Dervish’s surprise, he was looking back the way they had come. “Problem?”
The scholar shook his head. “Just worrying about Francis.”
“She’s fine. If anyone spots her, the mosquitoes will take them out before they can do anything rash.”
“A gnole thinks humans should have taken away the sign about eating human meat, though.”
Edmund groaned. The Dervish patted his shoulder and turned his face toward the opposite bank.
He could see the city on the far side of the river, or at least the dock district, which seemed to be outside the city proper.
The ferry fetched up against the dock and passengers began hopping off, though those with animals had to wait until the ramp was lowered.
The hollow clomp of wood under Sweetness’s hooves changed to a flatter click as they left the dock and reached the road.
“We’re here,” Edmund said, pointing. “Archon’s Glory. Finally.”
The city of Archon’s Glory was, Edmund said, the capital of the city-state of Archenhold, which was spelled differently for reasons that the Dervish initially didn’t care about.
Then Edmund went into a long digression about how Archenhold was founded, which apparently involved a group of travelers lost in the Vagrant Hills for months, facing unimaginable perils, including giants, deer-men, and something called a tree-kraken.
“When the survivors finally staggered out and were free, they said that they weren’t going another step, and built a town south of where Archon’s Glory is located now.
But they didn’t actually go far enough from the Vagrant Hills, you see. ”
“They didn’t?” asked the Dervish, interested despite himself.
“No. A hundred years later, the hills came back and ate most of the city.”
Dog Violet shook her head. “A gnole doesn’t like landscapes that move around.”
“No, the citizens weren’t fond of it either.
They tried to burn the hills out, which didn’t work terribly well.
There were things in the woods that didn’t appreciate it at all.
Eventually a woman named Stone-arm negotiated some kind of truce with the hills, although the details are extremely vague.
Depending on which story you believe, either she sacrificed herself to appease the hills and died at the age of thirty-five and the first Archon took her name in gratitude or she appeased the hills and came back to become the first Archon, and died at the age of ninety-four. ”
“That seems like a significant difference.”
“I imagine it would be to her, certainly. Anyway, the city was returned—spat out, according to some of the texts—about eighty miles northeast, and became Archon’s Glory.”
“A gnole thinks this sounds like a green snake-hunt.”
Edmund glanced over to the Dervish. “A green snake-hunt means a load of—”
“Believe it or not, I got the gist.” The Dervish shook his head.
“I agree with Dog Violet. Unless they took all the surrounding farmland and dropped it along with the city, you’d be trying to feed a large population without access to your existing supply lines, and that doesn’t even begin to cover water. ”
“That is a very good point.” Edmund’s gaze sharpened with something that looked a great deal like respect.
“Yeah, well.” The Dervish didn’t know whether to be pleased or annoyed. Did Edmund think so little of his intellect? “I’m a mercenary. Supply lines I know.”
“Anyway, most scholars agree with you that it was impossible, and more likely what happened was that Archon’s Glory was in a better location anyway, the Elkinslough River being a much more traversable waterway, and the initial city was abandoned, and the whole story was nothing more than an origin myth. ”
The Dervish had become fairly good at reading Edmund over the last few weeks. “You don’t agree?”
Edmund made a wavering gesture with his hand. “It’s certainly more plausible. But I’ve actually been in the Vagrant Hills, and I find that I can imagine them stealing a city without much trouble. They were very strange.”
“Huh.” He considered this. “Nothing in your story explained why the city is spelled differently than the country, though.”