The Schemes of Dragons wotd-2 Page 9

"Ah," Geim murmured wistfully. "Is she unhappy, then?"

  "Content enough, I think. A boatload of brats. But I guarantee you she's never forgotten how much better she might have done."

  At the mention of children Geim's eyes brightened. "The baby?"

  "A girl. Pretty and bright. You'd have been proud of her." Feirl gave the pole a listless shove. "Died at three of the pox."

  Something stung Geim down in the gut. On the shore a pack of toddlers bolted from a children's house, engaged in an excited follow-the-leader race while several mothers supervised. He sighed.

  Suddenly self-conscious, he turned. Toren shifted uneasily from foot to foot. Geim felt his face flush, grateful that Deena could not understand the words. "Fifteen years ago I was fool enough to get the chief's daughter pregnant," he said. Toren had the tact to merely shrug. Geim turned back and watched the village slide from view.

  ****

  Geim's mood remained black as the raft wended its way through one tributary after another, past islands, more villages, and foul-smelling backwaters. Finally they emerged into the main course of the Sha. Many of the craft they passed carried Ijitians as often as Vanihr. Geim caught Toren staring at their pale complexions.

  The southerner was rubbing his upper lip and frowning. Geim followed his line of sight, and saw that the tiller man of the nearest boat had a mustache. "Like Ivayer," Toren said presently.

  "Get used to it," Geim said. "On the northern continent all men have hairy faces. It's only here in Ijitia and its former empire that they shave. In imitation of our race, I suppose." He did not bother warning Toren that there would be those who would consider him effeminate for being unable to grow a beard. The southerner would encounter that sort of thing soon enough.

  The river traffic thickened. A canoe nearly collided with them. One of Feirl's brothers rapped it with his pole, nearly provoking a fight. In another half hour the first buildings rose above the treeline.

  Geim recalled the thrill he'd experienced the first time he saw Talitha. The city sprawled across the outermost large island of the delta, its southern edge devoted to the docks and markets where the Vanihr traded. The city itself belonged to the Ijitians. The people of the Wood, distrusting of large scale communities that reminded them of the Shagas, left the rule to others by preference, though their merchant's guild wielded considerable influence. The Ijitians, in deference to their neighbors, used chiefly wood and mud for building materials, avoiding the stone and crystal favored by the serpent men. To the young Geim it had been awe-inspiring. To his jaded older eyes, Talitha seemed shabby, small, and odoriferous, nothing compared to the principalities of the Calinin Empire.

  The raft bumped the pier. Feirl and his brothers tied it fast. The water clopped and sprayed between the craft and the pylon, salty from the rising tide. Geim handed each of the boys a market token, the closest thing to money that Vanihr used. At Feirl's suggestion they rushed off to bargain for something of their fancy in the marketplace.

  Geim handed the elder brother the rest of the payment and clasped his hand. "It's been good seeing you again."

  "The same," Feirl replied. "I'm glad that life in the north has not ruined you yet." He stole a furtive glance at Deena and Toren. "Though it brings you to journey with odd companions. He's a southerner, true?"

  Geim nodded. "A Fhali."

  Feirl's eyes widened. "They live almost to the Firelands, so I'm told."

  "That's true."

  Feirl shook his head. "Leave it to you to lead a colorful life."

  "It has been that," Geim admitted.

  "Good luck."

  They could use it, Geim mused. He bade farewell and they set off into the city.

  ****

  Geim noticed that Toren glanced constantly left, right, up, and down as they ambled past the vendors. The first time the southerner saw a woman with red hair he was so distracted he nearly bumped into a wagon. As they continued, the Vanihr faces became fewer and farther between, until some of the people they passed began to openly stare at them. They had now entered the Ijitian section. Vanihr normally stayed in the south quarter. Few, in fact, actually lived in the city; even the dedicated merchants were glad to be able to retreat to the forest. Crowded environments left the race too vulnerable to plague.

  "I'm hungry," Toren said. "When are we going to eat?"

  "When we get to the northern continent," Geim replied.

  "I can't wait that long."

  "Don't worry," Geim said.

  They turned a corner and stopped. Down the avenue loomed the largest building they had yet seen. Chipped blocks of ancient stone rose three stories high, fronted by marble columns. Along the rim of the facade, a row of broken, eroded statues arched over the square like carrion vultures. Toren gazed in fascination at the vaguely manlike figures, from their long reptilian snouts to their broad, leathery wings: Shagas.

  "They built this temple," Geim explained, glancing uneasily at the images of his people's historical foes. The works of art made it easy to understand why the race was known as the lesser dragons. "It's the only one of their structures left in Talitha."

  "Why was it not torn down?" Toren asked.

  "There was a ward around it for a century after the Ogshiel sacked the city. By the time it faded, the new settlement had surrounded it, and the Ijitians left it as a relic of the victory."

  Geim led them forward. One of several guards glared at them as they crossed in front of the broad stone steps and continued down the street. Geim strode up to a nondescript door on the far side of a nearby building and rapped.

  The cover of a peephole opened, revealing a tiny square of darkness. No greeting.

  "There is a shadow over the Dragon Sea," Geim murmured.

  They heard the sound of a heavy bar being dragged aside. The door abruptly opened. A small, portly Ijitian waved them hurriedly within.

  They found themselves in a wine cellar. Rows of oak casks stretched into the murk, the air heavy with the aroma of fermentation, dank stone, and spilled wine. The Ijitian swiftly replaced the bar.

  "Taking a long trip?" he asked Geim meaningfully.

  "Yes. News from the north?"

  "Tamisan has capitulated."

  Geim frowned. It was hardly unexpected, though he had hoped for another season or two.

  Their host produced three tapers and handed one to each of them, lighting them from his lamp. He led the way down a treacherously slick walkway between the barrels. They came to a stairway and descended past five landings to a small room lined with racks of bottled red wines. He pressed a subtly hidden latch and rolled back one of the racks, revealing a cobweb-hung corridor.

  "Safe journey," the man said.

  Geim waved the others after him. He nearly bumped his head on the corridor's ceiling, and frequently had to pull spider makings out of his hair. Rats skittered out of their path, the rustle of their tiny feet reverberating down the passageway. The air smelled stale.

  After three turns and several hundred paces, the tunnel opened out into a broad, low chamber. The walls and the floor were thickly covered in Shaga hieroglyphics. Toren glanced nervously at the symbols his candle flame revealed.

  "I don't like this place," he said.

  "We won't be lingering," Geim said, setting his taper in a holder on the floor. Toren and Deena, at his instruction, did likewise. The feeble glow scarcely reached the limits of the room.

  "We're under the temple, aren't we?" Toren stated.

  "Yes." Geim had pulled a small, round lens of crystal from a pouch. He exhaled on it, and held it forward. "Cover your eyes."

  The room erupted in daylight.

  Toren leaped back. Half the underground chamber was gone. In its place was a view of grassy, rolling hills. Immediately in the foreground was a cairn of earth and weathered rock that suggested the ruins of an ancient edifice. The land seemed uninhabited.

  "No trees," Toren gasped.

  "There are a few just on the other side of that knoll," Geim said, poi
nting. "Come. I'll show you."

  Toren hesitated. "After you."

  Geim shook his head. "No. The bearer of this goes last," he said, holding up the lens. He gestured to Deena.

  She smiled at Toren and stepped across the line between the chamber and the pastoral landscape. As she crossed, a burst of static electricity darted over her body. Then she was on the other side, beckoning to him.

  Toren swallowed and jumped across. Geim grinned at his startled expression, then followed.

  The humid air of the delta was replaced by the pollen-rich atmosphere of open countryside in early spring. Geim turned back to the wide window behind them. Their sunlit vantage made it impossible to distinguish features of the room they had left. The only things he could make out were the flames of the candles.

  He wiped the lens clean and put it away. The portal closed. The view in that direction now showed only green hills, blue sky, and grazing sheep.

  "Now, let's get some of that food you were wanting," Geim said.

  XII

  AS TOREN, GEIM, AND DEENA emerged from the portal, they were watched.

  The watcher's name was Hadradril. He was a wizard of the Ril, one of the elite cadre of magicians that studied under the Dragon himself-currently the lowest ranked of them, but that was no insult. The youth glowing from his lean, almost gaunt features was natural, not the result of longevity spells. That he had come so far so soon proved his ambition, ruthlessness, and talent.

  From his vantage behind a berry bramble two hills away, he made out only the simplest physical details of the new arrivals. The sun flashed off the blond heads of the two tall ones. They carried themselves like men despite lack of beards. The short one with the brown hair walked like a female.

  On another level, he sensed a great many facts. The last man to emerge possessed minor magical abilities, enough to activate the talisman that opened the portal, and wield simple magical weapons, of which he carried at least one. The woman had essentially no gift, though like her companions she wore a talisman of pursuit, calibrated for her use-which meant that she had been in contact with a major sorcerer.

  The other man interested him most of all. His aura blazed with green, snakelike filaments of energy, at least as potent as those Hadradril had seen emanating from his fellow Ril wizards. But the filaments coiled in wild, unchannelled patterns. Only a fraction of his power had been disciplined and brought under his control. He should have been put into training as a child; now, in adulthood, he might never be able to organize and tap his abilities.

  This was the quarry Hadradril had waited weeks to snare, the prize that Gloroc had sent him to find. While most of the other high magicians stayed safe in Elandris, hoping to win the Dragon's favor by keeping close and constantly in view, Hadradril had ventured into the territory of the enemy, and now had the means of quick promotion at hand.

  The newcomers closed the portal and set off down the hill. Hadradril let them go. The sun shone brightly. The grassy countryside, though vibrant with the green of springtime and beautiful to behold, provided few places to set up an ambush. He would be patient. He raised his talisman of pursuit. The necklace's gem pulsed with a steady, blue glow. He would not lose track of his prey.

  When the strangers had disappeared toward the nearest town, Hadradril brought his oeikani out of concealment, mounted, and followed at a leisurely pace.

  ****

  Toren gazed about, numb. First the city, now this. His hunger crawled into some hidden niche of his body and was forgotten, obscured by the unease of walking on land that he considered barren. The country rolled and spread to the horizon like the Flat, home of the Alahihr, the Vanihr's most hated enemies, who dared to cut trees down to plant their crops. He had seen the Flat once, but that had been from the safety of the forest. Here trees, when they occurred, stood alone in a sea of nibbled grass, while livestock dung decomposed in their shade. It was even worse when they reached the first of the cultivated fields.

  "What's wrong?" Deena asked.

  "This ground," he said, pointing to the upturned soil. "They grow food in it?"

  "Of course."

  He was in a land of sinners. Deena pressed him to say more, but he kept silent. He decided he lacked the words in her language to explain why ground crops were evil.

  Deena spoke to Geim, who seemed to grasp the problem. "This land is not barren because the folk cleared it," he told Toren. "It has been this way as long as they can remember. They grow food because the earth provides very little otherwise. Is that a sin?"

  "Men should not live without trees. They will go mad."

  "On the contrary," Geim said even-handedly, "most people in the north find this type of landscape soothing."

  Toren did not believe that. "What is the name of this place?"

  "We are in the nation of Irigion."

  "How much farther north is Serthe?"

  Geim paused. "Serthe is southwest of here. The portal dropped us in the center of the continent."

  Toren felt his home sail farther over the horizon.

  The farms became more frequent as they left the slightly rolling terrain and entered a broad valley. Fences rose around the pastures. Homesteads appeared. A shepherd boy watched them from a haystack, a horn hanging at his side-a dark-haired boy, with a pale complexion like that of Deena or the Ijitians Toren had seen in Talitha. Now it was Toren whose skin color did not belong, as the stare of the boy proved.

  They stopped to watch a farmer open a floodgate, to let water flow down a shallow canal toward his orchard. The orchard astounded Toren even more than the plowed fields. Trees, deliberately placed in rows, instead of allowed to sprout at random as nature intended. Even when they grew honest food, they did it sacrilegiously.

  As the sun grew swollen and red in the west, they reached the edge of a small village. Two armed men met them at the perimeter.

  "Your business?" the taller one asked. They startled Toren by using Deena's language.

  "We were told to ask for Mayor Korv," Deena replied. "And to show him this." She held out a copper coin. Toren briefly glimpsed the engraved image-a frog.

  The sentry took the coin. His eyebrows raised. "I will fetch him. You can wait at the inn. Vodd will take you there."

  "Our thanks, Goodman."

  The first man strode away. Toren, Geim, and Deena followed Vodd toward the hamlet's only two-story structure. The town bustled, full of laborers done with their day's work in the fields, or wives gossiping before preparation of the evening meal. Toren couldn't keep up with the new sights-people in skirts, men with beards, walls of clay brick, oeikani much larger than those of the Wood. The citizens blinked and pointed at the golden skins of the Vanihr. They made less of a fuss about the hair, though villagers who were blond tended toward darker, honey tones, rather than the brilliant yellow of the southern race. Toren could not help but notice that an unusual number of the inhabitants carried weapons.

  He picked up snatches of conversations-twice he heard "faces like boys" murmured behind his and Geim's backs-but for the most part the chatter blended into a chaotic buzz. Some of the people spoke the language that Geim and Deena shared, which, other than the familiar sound, completely washed over him.

  "What is this place?" Toren asked Deena.

  "The village is called Greenfield. Struth has an arrangement with the local officials-they keep watch on the portal exit, and provide hospitality for those who come through, in exchange for gold and certain gifts of sorcery."

  "Why are so many of them armed?"

  "Greenfield is near the border of Mirien, my homeland," she said wistfully. "Many of the people living here are refugees from the Dragon's invasion. They are wary of further incursions." That explained the presence of two languages.

  A pretty tavern girl greeted them inside the inn. "Visitors for the mayor," Vodd announced.

  "Then they'll want to sit in his booth," she replied, and showed them to an alcove. Toren chose the seat against the far wall, behind the table, g
rateful to slip out of conspicuous view.

  "We'll get you some new clothes soon," Deena said. "It will make you feel a little less out of place."

  "I like what I'm wearing now," Toren said.

  The front door opened, letting in Vodd's companion and a stout elder in a well-tailored shirt and kilt. The latter joined them in the alcove.

  He lay Deena's coin on the polished wood. "I'm Mayor Korv. How may I serve the emissaries of Struth?"

  "Food, a night's lodging, and a few supplies for the road," Deena answered. "We'll leave for the temple in the morning."

  "A modest request," Korv declared. "I'll tend to the first right now." He beckoned the serving girl. "You've just come from Talitha?" he asked when she was gone.

  "Yes."

  "Then you'll want news."

  "Yes. How go the Dragon's conquests?" Deena asked.

  The mayor's face clouded. "You've heard that he took Tamisan?"

  "Yes."

  "His main force is now moving slowly into Simorilia." He tugged his kinky, disarrayed beard. "We seem to be safe here for the moment. I hope it lasts."

  "It won't," Deena said.

  Toren had to listen attentively to be able to follow the dialogue. His command of the tongue still wavered, and Korv spoke with a different accent than Deena. He gave up, which was just as well because the conversation soon shifted into the other language, which the mayor seemed equally comfortable speaking. Geim asked him several questions.

  The girl brought bowls of stew. The rising steam smote Toren with the sharp, bitter aroma of unknown spices. He guessed that the meat came from the small, woolly grazing animals he had seen earlier that day. The vegetables looked like some sort of roots or tubers.

  "Are these grown in open fields?" he asked Deena, poking at a vegetable with a two-tined fork.

  "Yes," she answered. "That one is called nioc. It's very good."

  He glanced at Geim. His fellow Vanihr was shovelling his portion down with gusto. Toren did not know what to do. Every bit of the recipe offended the religious laws of his people. Even the meat came from livestock raised on treeless land. Yet he had to eat something sooner or later.