Luck in the Shadows Page 26

  “Greetings, little Alec.” Hwerlu’s voice rumbled richly from the depths of his huge chest. “The light of Illior shines brightly in you. It must please you to see that legends can be real.”

  “It does,” Alec told him. “I never imagined centaurs were so big!”

  Laughing, Hwerlu threw back his black mane and pranced in a circle, his broad hoofs shaking the earth beneath their feet. He stopped abruptly, however, and trotted across the clearing.

  “And here is another legend! My lovely Feeya,” he proclaimed as another centaur stepped into the circle of trees.

  Feeya was a sorrel, and only a little smaller than Hwerlu. She had the same coarse mane of hair running down her back, but the skin of her human torso was otherwise as smooth as any woman’s. A heavy torque like Hwerlu’s was her only adornment, but Alec quickly saw that he had no cause for embarrassment for she had no breasts, centaurs suckling their young in the same fashion as horses. Her broad features were not beautiful by common standards but, taken for what she was, she had a beauty of her own.

  Hwerlu gallantly brought his lady to meet Alec. “She does not speak your tongue, but it pleases her to hear it.”

  Alec greeted the golden centaur. Smiling, she lifted his chin and spoke to him in her own curious whistling language as she inspected his face with apparent interest.

  Standing behind Alec, Seregil answered her in the centaur tongue. With a toss of her long mane, Feeya nodded to them both and went to admire Klia’s new horse.

  “What did she say?” asked Alec.

  “Oh, a greeting like Hwerlu’s. I thanked her for you.” Seregil sat down at the base of a tree with a contented sigh.

  “Are there a lot of centaurs in Skala?” Alec gazed at the pair of handsome creatures across the clearing.

  “No. They live mainly in the mountains across the Osiat Sea. A few large tribes still roam the high plains there. Magyana brought Hwerlu and Feeya back to Rhíminee with her a few years ago. That’s her tower there, to the left of Nysander’s.”

  “Nysander’s friend?”

  “Yes. Magyana’s a great traveler. She went to learn more of centaur ways. Hwerlu was curious about her magic, it being so different from his own, so he came back with her. He’ll go home when he’s satisfied.”

  “Are you a wizard, too, then?” Alec asked Hwerlu, who’d returned.

  “I cannot make fire without fuel, or fly through the air like the Orëska wizards. My power lies in my music.” Hwerlu indicated the large harp that hung in the branches of a nearby tree. “I sing healings, charms, dreams. I think now maybe I should sing a healing for you, Seregil. I still see sickness in your face.”

  “I’d be grateful. Your cures don’t leave a foul taste in my mouth like those of the drysians. In fact, I think I’ll spend the afternoon here. Alec, why don’t you get a horse from the stables and go for a ride? It’ll do you good.”

  “I’d just as soon stay here,” Alec objected, having no desire to go wandering around the city by himself.

  “And watch me sleep all day?” Seregil scoffed. “No, I think it’s time we got on with your education. Just go around the Ring once, then come back and tell me what you saw.”

  “The Ring? I don’t even know what that—”

  “I’ll show him,” offered Myrhini. “I have to get back to the barracks anyway. It’s on the way.”

  “There now.” Seregil blithely ignored Alec’s silent appeal. “Already you’re consorting with centaurs and wizards and riding about the streets with a captain of the Queen’s Horse Guard. Keep your hood well up, though. I’m not ready for either of us to be seen just yet. And be careful! You’re not larking about in the woods anymore. Even in daylight, Rhíminee can be a dangerous place. And for Illior’s sake, find some gloves! Your hands are in poor enough condition as it is.”

  Myrhini pulled a pair of gauntlets from her belt and tossed them to Alec. “Come on, boy, before he finds something else to fuss about.”

  Still dubious, Alec followed her to the stables behind the main building where a groom saddled a spirited horse for him.

  Leaving the shelter of the magical gardens for the first time since his arrival in the city, Alec was pleased to feel the cold, sweet winter breeze against his face again.

  Golden Helm Street was lined on either side with high garden walls. Craning his neck, Alec caught glimpses of statues, carved pediments, and the tops of columns decorating houses more imposing than any temple he’d seen in the north. After several blocks, the street opened out into one of the paved circles he’d noted during his first ride through Rhíminee with Nysander. Here they turned down a side line.

  “What are these for?” he asked, looking around.

  “It’s a catapult circle, part of the city’s defenses,” Myrhini explained. “The streets that lead out from them are straight to give the defenders a clear shot at any approaching enemy force. There are circles like this all over the city. The Ring and the market squares by the main gates are defensive positions, too, killing grounds in case the gates are breached.”

  “Has Rhíminee ever been attacked?”

  “Oh, yes. The Plenimarans only got in once, though. The last full-scale attack on the city was over forty years ago, though.”

  Two Hawk ended at Silvermoon Street, a broad avenue bordering the Queen’s Park. Ornate public buildings had been built against the park wall. On the other side stood villas larger than any he’d seen so far.

  Blue uniformed guards saluted Myrhini as she and Alec rode under a heavy portcullis and onto the palace grounds.

  “Those are the barracks there,” she said, pointing out a collection of long, low buildings just visible beyond the dark bulk of the Palace.

  At the edge of the broad parade ground that fronted the barracks they reined in to watch a company of riders practicing a battle turn. Tugging his hood back into place, Alec let out a low whistle of admiration.

  Each rider carried a lance, and their green pennants snapped smartly in the breeze as the horsemen rode the length of the field in an even rank. Reaching the far end, they wheeled sharply about, lowered their lances, and charged forward with bloodcurdling yells. Wheeling again, they threw their lances down and drew swords to practice cuts to the left and right.

  “There aren’t many sights finer than that, eh?” Myrhini asked, following them with her eyes. Her horse shifted restlessly, anxious to join its fellows in action.

  As they sat watching, a trio of riders rode over from the direction of the barracks—two noblemen and a stern, pale-eyed woman in a green uniform and golden gorget. The older of the two men was imposing in black velvet trimmed with silver and furs. A jeweled chain of office hung across his broad chest. The other man was much younger, perhaps late twenties, with a small blond mustache and a narrow tuft of hair on his chin. Although he was dressed richly in red velvet laced with gold, he struck Alec at once as someone of much less importance than the others.

  “General Phoria,” Myrhini said, saluting the officer. “And greetings, Lord Barien and Lord Teukros.”

  “I trust your troop will be ready for inspection this afternoon?” the general asked crisply, returning the salute with a hand lacking the last two fingers.

  “At your command, General!”

  Phoria’s pale stare raked over Alec as if she had only then registered his existence. “And who is this?”

  “A guest of the wizard Nysander, General. I’m escorting him to the Ring.”

  Alec stole a sidelong glance at Myrhini but knew better than to butt in; General Phoria had thawed noticeably at the mention of Nysander.

  “You haven’t the look of a wizard,” she remarked.

  “No, General, I’m not,” Alec responded quickly, taking his cue from Myrhini. “I’ve come to study in the city.”

  “Ah, a young scholar!” The older man smiled approvingly. “I hope you’ll stay long enough to see the Festival. It’s the great glory of the city.”

  Alec had no idea what the man wa
s referring to, but nodded politely and did his best to look respectful. Fortunately General Phoria was impatient to move on. With a final curt nod, she and her companions rode on toward the Palace.

  Alec let out a slow breath. “Was that the same Barien Klia spoke of?”

  “Lord Barien,” Myrhini cautioned. “Lord Barien í Zhal Khameris Vitulliein of Rhilna, to be exact. He’s the Vicegerent of Skala, the most powerful person in the country after the Queen herself. The other one was his nephew, Lord Teukros í Eryan.”

  “And the general?”

  “In addition to being the high commander of all Skalan cavalry regiments, General Phoria is the Queen’s eldest daughter. You just met the future queen, my friend. Come on now, I’ll write you out a pass.”

  Dismounting in front of one of the barracks, Alec followed Myrhini into the wardroom. A handful of soldiers sat around a table, intent on a bakshi game. Seeing their senior officer, however, they leapt up to salute. Myrhini returned it and sat down at a nearby desk to write out the pass. After a few curious glances in Alec’s direction, the soldiers went back to their game.

  Sealing the pass with her signet, Myrhini handed it to Alec. “Show this at any gate of the Ring and you’ll have no problem. There’s one into the Ring just beyond the last barracks. Get your horse and I’ll let you through.”

  Outside again, she led Alec to a heavily guarded gate near the Palace.

  “You can’t possibly get lost,” Myrhini assured him. “Stay between the two walls and you’ll come all the way around the city and back to here. It will be easiest for you to go back to the Orëska House by way of the Harvest Market. Just follow the Street of the Sheaf to the Fountain of Astellus, then down Golden Helm until you sight it again.”

  Myrhini’s directions sounded simple enough, but Alec felt a bit of his original apprehension returning when the postern gate clanged shut behind him.

  Looking around, he found himself in a very pleasant park with trees and carefully tended carriage paths. A number of enterprising merchants had set up shop here and many elegantly dressed patrons strolled among the gaily painted booths. Others rode or drove in carriages along the paths, the men in colorful surcoats or robes beneath heavy capes, the women muffled in rich furs, gems sparkling on their gloved fingers and in their elaborately curled and braided hair. Many were accompanied by tame animals and Alec smiled to himself, wondering if he and his father had trapped any of these hawks or spotted cats. They’d certainly sold enough of them to the southern traders.

  Riding north at a trot, he soon reached the first gate. The guards inspected his pass briefly, then waved him through into the bustle of the Harvest Market.

  This market was considerably smaller than the one by the Sea Gate, and not as busy at this late season. A gate leading out of the city stood open for carts, and numerous inns and taverns faced onto the main square. Checking street markers to satisfy himself as to where the Street of the Sheaf entered the square, he crossed the square and reentered the Ring to continue his assigned ride.

  This next section was used as pasturage for livestock. He rode past small flocks of sheep and cattle grazing from hay racks under the watchful eye of the children who tended them. Large cisterns had been sunk into the ground here and there along the inner wall. Although the herds he observed were not large, it was evident that should the city ever be besieged, enough animals could be kept within the walls to feed the defenders for quite some time.

  Skirting the northern perimeter of the city at a canter, Alec began to notice signs of human habitation; rough plank shelters huddled at the base of the walls, many of them connected by well-trodden paths. The denizens of this shanty settlement had the sullen air of impoverished squatters. A litter of refuse marked the boundaries of their tiny holdings; thin children and thinner dogs wandered among the shacks, picking through the cast-off belongings of their neighbors and watching passing strangers with a predatory eye.

  As he rode past one of these ramshackle hovels, a grimy child in a torn shift popped up almost under his horse’s feet, begging for coppers. Alec reined in sharply to avoid trampling her and was instantly surrounded by a crowd of motley little beggars, all clamoring for money. A lank-haired woman appeared in a doorway, beckoning to him in a harsh, lewd fashion. Except for a tattered skirt, she wore only a shawl draped over her shoulders and this she let fall away, calling out something to him.

  Alec hastily fished out a few coins and cast them behind his horse to clear the children from his path. But the shacks became more numerous as he rode on, as did the knots of beggars and idlers of all descriptions.

  The next gate was in sight when he noticed three men watching his approach with undisguised interest. As he came nearer, they rose from their seats in front of a tattered tent and stood next to the roadway. They were big men, any one of them more than a match for him, and all wore long knives in plain sight.

  Alec was considering whether he should turn back or simply kick his horse into a gallop when a group of uniformed riders came into sight from the opposite direction.

  The winter sun glinted off their helmets. They wore the same dark blue uniforms he had seen at the gates and carried heavy truncheons and swords. The prospective footpads quickly disappeared among the shacks as the riders came on. Alec rode quickly on to the next gate and into the Sea Market.

  The huge square was every bit as overwhelming as the first time he’d seen it. Stopping for a moment to get his bearings, he spotted the open thoroughfare of Sheaf Street in the distance and set out toward it, following one of the wider lanes threading through the marketplace in that direction.

  The smell of spiced lamb brought him to a halt. Looking around, Alec quickly spotted an old man grilling skewers of meat over a brazier nearby. A bit more at ease now, he decided to stop and eat. Dismounting, he purchased meat and cider and sat down on a convenient crate to watch the crowd stream by.

  This isn’t so bad after all, he thought. Six months ago where had he been? Wandering alone through the same mountains he’d known all his life. Now here he sat in the heart of one of the most powerful cities in the world with fine, warm clothes on his back and silver in his purse. He was beginning to enjoy himself after all.

  He was just finishing when the dull, uneven clang of a bell rang out over the general noise of the square. Joining the crowd at the edge of the street, he worked his way forward through the press.

  A dozen blue-uniformed guards were escorting a tumbrel cart down the avenue in his direction. A tall pike had been set upright in the back of the cart; a man’s head was fixed on its point, the slack jaw quivering at every bump and jolt. The glassy eyes had rolled upward, as if avoiding even in death the expressions of scorn and revulsion that greeted this final progress. A placard had been nailed just below it, but the writing on it was obscured by streaks of drying blood.

  Alec spat out his last mouthful of meat and lowered his eyes as the cart drew abreast of him. It seemed that no matter where he turned today he was confronted with bits of dead bodies. Suddenly a hand slid under his arm from behind.

  “Are you unwell, young sir?”

  Unpleasant breath bathed his cheek. Turning, Alec found himself in the supportive grip of a scrawny young ruffian. The fellow’s sallow face looked as narrow as an ax blade, an illusion not alleviated by his prominently arched nose and buck teeth. An unruly lock of sandy hair kept falling over one eye and he reached up to push it away with one hand without relinquishing his hold on Alec’s sleeve with the other. His garments had once been fine, but judging by their worn appearance and the sour odor that rose from them, Alec suspected their owner to be a denizen of the northern Ring.

  “I’m fine, thank you,” Alec replied, disliking the stranger’s insistent hold on his arm.

  “Some don’t care for such sights,” the other said, shaking his head, though whether it was at the sight of violent death or the lack of stomach for it, Alec could not guess. “When I seen you, I says to myself, ‘There’s one that migh
t keel right over!’ Perhaps you ought to sit down over here, ’til the spell passes. Quite an end for old Lord Vardarus, eh?”

  “I’m fine,” Alec repeated, pulling free at last. “Who’s Lord Vardarus?”

  “You was just looking at him. If you’d have looked in the back of that cart, you’d have seen the rest of him headed for the city pit. Executed this morning for plotting to kill the Vicegerent his self, as I hear it.” The man paused to spit wetly. “Filthy Leran traitor!”

  Vicegerent! thought Alec, recalling the jocular fellow Myrhini had introduced him to at the parade ground. Now, here was something to report to Seregil; Lord Barien must have just been coming from the execution of his own would-be murderer. Alec made a mental note to ask Seregil what a Leran was.

  “You all right then, young sir?” his erstwhile rescuer asked again.

  “For the last time, yes!” Giving the man a curt nod, Alec stole a glance over his shoulder, looking for his horse. When he looked back, the fellow was gone.

  Shaking his head in bemusement, Alec set off again.

  The seaward section of the Ring was more heavily guarded; his pass was closely inspected by the watch before he was allowed to enter. Beyond the gate, the open ground had been divided into a series of huge corrals that held the herds of horses belonging to the various military units of the city.

  Hundreds of animals milled about beyond the fences on either side of the roadway, their rich odor permeating the air. The workshops of regimental farriers, harness makers, and armorers were scattered among the enclosures, and the craftsmen added their own noises to the din. Signs posted at the gate of each corral displayed the regimental emblem, as did the uniforms of the soldiers standing guard. Alec quickly spotted the helm and saber device of the Queen’s Horse Guard, as well as the flame emblem worn by the blue-coated riders he’d noticed around the city. Other uniforms were new to him. Soldiers wearing sky-blue tunics stitched with the shining white outline of a soaring hawk stood guard over several herds made up entirely of white horses. Another group wore deep purple, with scarlet serpents forming a complicated knot as their emblem.