Storm's Clouds, page 14
part #2 of Stormfall Chronicles Series
A long wagon appeared on the road, heading southwards. It was drawn by a large, bedraggled mule, with long ears and a tangled coat. The wagon had a box-like structure in back, with a faded tarp covering it. Metal wares rattled noisily as it bounced over bumps in the road, like a drawer full of spoons which had been shaken. The driver was clad in animal furs, with a dark, unkept beard and darting eyes. He slowed his wagon as he passed their campsite.
“Looking to exchange your groundhog, are you?” the driver said, a devious smile on his lips. “I could find you a fair price.”
“Move on,” she heard Baxter say – as he emerged from the woods. His hand was on the hilt of his sword. His voice was low, nearly a growl. “If I find you snooping around our camp, I’ll be finding a new sheath for my blade.”
“Only making a fair offer,” the driver replied.
“I said move on,” said Baxter, his eyes never leaving the wagon driver, his weight balanced forward on the balls of his feet, legs spread apart.
The wagon driver urged the mule forward and disappeared down the road. Baxter continued to watch until he was gone.
“Why did you try to start a fight?” Lynette asked, bewildered. Why was he still such a boy? She thought he would have grown out of that by now.
“He was the one who started it,” replied Baxter.
“The sentiment is appreciated,” Eirlon replied. “But I can take care of myself.”
“We don’t have time for diversions,” Lynette said firmly.
Baxter turned to her, a sad look in his eyes. “You really don’t understand, do you?” Baxter returned to collect the branches he had dropped and brought them to the edge of the fire.
Sharik shifted awkwardly where he sat. “Tea’s ready,” he said.
* * *
It was another three days before the city of Piombo came into view: a terraced array of white buildings which covered the two hills overlooking the city’s dockyards. The outer wall glimmered, a bright white in the distance. Lynette glanced over. Even Sharik’s eyes lit up when he saw the gleaming white city, peeking through the trees.
“We should be there in an hour or less,” Eirlon remarked. “Piombo is part of the trade alliance of Trevio. There should be plenty of opportunity to restock before we set out again.”
The road wound through the forestlands, then through scattered farmland, until the city walls loomed above them. Off to the east, among the foothills of the Trevio mountains, Lynette could make out terraced orchards. Carts and wagons of all variety made their way in and out of the broad city gates, their wheels creaking and groaning under the weight of their loads. The white, outer walls of the city were matched by the city houses and streets, all a dazzling white in the bright sunlight. Lynette leaned closer to Baxter. “A little bigger than Enbor?” she teased.
“A little,” Baxter replied nonchalantly. Then glanced over, realizing she might be expecting more of a reply. “Eirlon and I have been here a couple of times before,” he added. “Some cities are more white on the outside. Some less on the inside.”
Eirlon brought his wagon to a stop at the city gate, where customs officials approached to inspect his cargo. “Fine handcrafts and kitchenware for sale,” Eirlon replied to the guard’s questions, drawing out a copy of his trade guild certificate. The guards opened one of the boxes in the back of his wagon to verify the contents: a finely crafted enamel tea set. Lynette recognized them immediately as fae-craft. She doubted the customs officials could guess at their true worth.
“What about that?” a customs agent asked, pointing to Baxter’s spear.
“The spear,” Eirlon replied, “belongs to my armed guard, and is not for sale.” The official handed Eirlon a slip of paper, and the old gnome proceeded to the next station to pay the duty tax.
Lynette dismounted and led her horse forward, into the city streets. Eirlon might be a while, finishing his business. She was sore from the saddle and stretching her legs would do her good. The streets ahead were bustling with activity. Farmers hawking their wares, and shop vendors haggling with shippers over prices. She had forgotten how busy, noisy and full of activity a human city could be. It had been so long since she had set foot in one – or anywhere else outside of the Feyfell for that matter. It was all new and exciting.
She heard Baxter walking up behind her, leading his horse. “Don’t get too carried away,” she heard him say in a low voice. “Piombo has both its good and bad sides.”
Eirlon, finished with his business at the city entrance, was urging his pony and wagon onward to join them. “There should be an inn with reasonable rates and a stable for the horse and wagon just around the next street,” Eirlon said. The gnome glanced back to where Sharik was still standing at the city gate, apparently bewildered by the comings and goings of the city. “What are you waiting for, Sharik?” Eirlon called back. “We wouldn’t want to go anywhere without our famous dragon-slayer. I still owe you room and board for the night, for the pleasure of accompanying us on this journey.” Sharik blushed bright red and hurried to join.
Lynette snorted a half-laugh. Eirlon was having entirely too much fun at Sharik’s expense.
As they pulled away from the customs stalls Lynette heard a voice call out from ahead. “Unclean! Unclean! This is the filth our Lord Marcus Maximus warns of! Cast them out before they pollute the city!”
What on earth? Lynette searched for the source of the shouting. She spotted a robed figure ahead of them: a middle-aged, balding man with a staff wearing a heavy gold necklace. The necklace and the tip of the staff both bore the form of a large, outstretched hand, palm facing forward, like a ward spell. He was waving his staff, gesturing in their general direction. But what had caused the strange man to become so agitated she couldn’t fathom.
“Unclean! Begone from our sacred lands!” He continued to wave in their general direction. At first, Lynette thought the strange man was somehow reacting to her and Baxter. She looked herself up and down. She wasn’t dressed any different than usual. Just her travel clothes: a tunic and riding breeches. It took her a moment to realize the odd man was agitated by Eirlon – none of which made any sense to her. Did this odd man have something against merchants?
Baxter stepped forward, his left hand casually resting on the hilt of his sword. “Move along,” he replied. “This is not Fondio we’re standing in. Or do I need to tell the guards at the gate how you’re interfering with the commerce of the city?”
The strange man backed out of the way, allowing them room to pass, but continued to glare at them from the side of the road. Eirlon urged his pony on.
“What was that all about?” Lynette asked.
“They’re getting worse,” Baxter remarked.
“Nothing to concern yourselves with,” Eirlon replied. “They are free to say whatever they want, so long as they don’t interfere with the conduct of business.”
* * *
Lynette was still confused by the earlier exchange but didn’t dare to enquire any further – at least not until they had a chance to speak in private. Eirlon checked them into an inn, paying in advance for individual rooms – much to the delight of Sharik who thanked him profusely. Lynette smirked. It was the least Eirlon could do, after all the grief he’d given Sharik on the road. They had just unloaded their travel bags at the inn when Eirlon suggested Lynette and Baxter should go ahead and explore the city on their own. “We can catch up at the inn after dusk,” he said. “Sharik and I will canvas the taverns for any news of dragon sightings. Wouldn’t want our famous dragon-slayer to miss out on finding a real dragon,” he added with a wink for Baxter and Lynette. Sharik, of course, appeared a little less enthusiastic – but he could hardly find an excuse not to join.
Lynette, on the other hand, did hesitate. She badly wanted to have a bath. An opportunity to rinse the days of travel from her skin. Still, it wasn’t often she could visit a human city, much less a city so large and vibrant. Promising herself there would be time for a bath later in the day, Lynette made her way through the city streets and shops. Baxter followed behind to ensure she didn’t get lost.
Every street was new and exciting. Piombo was at least twice the size of Enbor, with new shops bearing wares from far-away lands behind every turn in the road. There were silk fabrics in vibrant colors. Earthenware pots painted with exotic designs. Birds and animals brought from the far corners of the earth – animals whose origins Lynette could scarcely guess at. And metal implements with stylized designs and symbols. Piombo truly was a port on the shore of the world, brimming with goods of all manner and size.
Although the silken fabrics were grand, Lynette had decided their travels would probably not permit her to pick out a new dress on this trip. Besides, the dresses she had seen were a little too revealing for her taste. She would have to settle for a smaller souvenir. Something better suited to packing in a saddlebag or knapsack.
She glanced over her shoulder. Baxter was trailing behind her, looking bored. While she did appreciate how she might not know her way around the city, it was nonetheless annoying to have a boy-chaperone trailing her. She glanced again. He was distracted, responding to some question about directions from a passerby. An opportunity to have a little shopping time without him. She darted into a nearby shop.
It was an outlet specialized in jewelry and smaller, metalwork curiosities. The sign outside had said something about “Fine Metalwork from Fondio.” There were several ornate, silver tea sets. Not really what she was looking for. Too large – and she was perfectly happy with the small set her stipend at the academy had paid for. Two cups and a tea kettle were all she needed. After all, a magical tea kettle which heated itself was far more practical than a silver one which did not. She began to browse along the shelves of smaller items. An intricate trinket caught her eye: a metal locket on a lightweight chain. The detail was so finely crafted, with a woodland scene inscribed into its surface.
“That’s not what you’re looking for.” She heard Baxter’s voice at her shoulder and felt his hand on her arm.
Lynette was startled. She hadn’t heard him behind her. She glanced up. His expression was stern, unyielding. “I was just looking.”
“It’s not anything you want to buy,” he told her, leading her out towards the entrance of the store – one hand on her arm, his other hand around her shoulder.
“But, I . . . Baxter!”
He waited until he had led her outside, into the street, then turned to her in a low voice. “It’s slave made. Almost everything in the shop is.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“It’s made by gnome slaves. They work in the mines and metalwork camps outside of Fondio. Groundhogs, they call them.”
“What?”
Baxter looked sadly at Lynette, wondering how he would get through to her. “I know I’m only a simple farm boy from Enbor. I can’t do magic spells. But I was raised at a port city, and we knew about such things. Groundhogs. That’s the slang they use in Fondio to describe the gnome slaves who mine the ore and fashion the metalworks which have made the city the wealthiest port in Trevio.”
“Slaves? I thought that was only on other continents. Beyond the Southern Seas.”
“Human slaves, maybe. But humans are harder to control. Fondio mostly exports its human slaves: criminals or those who couldn’t pay off their debts. Fondio’s economy is built around the slavery of gnomes. Smaller and easier to control. The wagon which passed our campsite a few days back? The one with the big box-shape in back? It belonged to a slave dealer. They capture gnomes from the northern lands and sell them to the slave markets in Fondio.”
Lynette’s mouth hung open. She had never imagined such a thing was still possible, much less accepted. “The man at the city gates? The one who called Eirlon unclean?”
“He’s part of the cult of Marcus Maximus. Trying to spread their religion. They believe all non-humans should be expelled or enslaved. They don’t feel much different about the fae. They pretty much rule the city of Fondio, behind the scenes.”
For once, Lynette was speechless. She had been so wrong, so naïve about so many things.
“Come on,” Baxter said at last. “Let’s get back to the inn. Eirlon will want to brief us on what he’s found before nightfall.”
* * *
Eirlon led the way to the seaport side of the town, his walking stick in hand, Sharik in tow. Eirlon had already found a willing buyer for most of the cargo he had been carrying and was in lively spirits. “You might want to wait outside,” he told the wizened conjurer as they came to the establishment he had been looking for. A sign for “The Salty Seagull” hung above the entrance. “This place can get a little rough, but it’s usually a good place to collect a few rumors or leads. We’ll go someplace a little less boisterous later.”
Sharik nodded his acquiescence, “Oh, don’t mind me,” he said, remaining dutifully outside as Eirlon entered the pub.
Shadows were growing longer in the city streets as the sun began its descent, but there was still plenty of time before nightfall. Sharik paced slowly in front of the tavern, the sounds of greetings, laughter and general conversation floating by in ebbs and tides as the tavern door would open and close. On the street, carts carrying goods rolled by, going to or from the dockyards. Pedestrians ambled along, some locked in conversation, others eager to go somewhere.
Sharik contented himself with studying the sign over the tavern. He glanced around, ensuring no one was paying attention to him, then quietly mouthed the charm for his little illusion. The bird carved into the sign appeared to move at his command, becoming animated, stretching out its wings, flapping them, before settling down to become just a carving in a wooden sign once more. A porter who had caught sight of the movement nearly collided with a loaded cart, as he stared up at the sign. Sharik only grinned to himself, waiting for the two of them to pass. Then he went about casting the charm again. The bird flapped its wings, shook its head, then collapsed into a wooden sign once more. A passing boy tugged at his mother’s sleeve, pointing to the sign, struggling to get her attention. She hurried him along. “We have no time for nonsense,” she told him. Sharik chuckled. City crowds were the same everywhere. He was quite amused with himself, until he heard someone shouting his name.
“Hey, are you the one they call Sharik?”
The elderly illusionist turned around, bringing his gaze back down to earth. He was surprised to be addressed by a stubble-bearded sailor, flanked by his two companions. All three had been browned by the sun. Muscular, with short breeches extending just below their knees, their accents betraying the distant ports from which they hailed. “Did you say something?” Sharik replied.
“I asked, are you the one they call Sharik?”
“Oh, it’s him alright,” said his companion. “I’d recognize the emblem of a royal court mage anywhere. He’s the one.”
The lead sailor gripped Sharik’s cloak by the collar, pushing him back against the wall. “There’s a bounty out for you, old man. Seems you burned down the royals’ summer manor. And I mean to collect.”
“I . . . I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sharik protested.
“Oh, it’s him,” repeated the sailor’s companion. “Pity the bounty specifies they want him alive.”
“Let him go,” they heard a voice say from behind them. The sailors turned to see Eirlon, his staff in hand, feet planted firmly apart.
“What did you say?” The sailor released Sharik, letting him fall back against the wall of the tavern.
As the sailor turned to face him, Eirlon jabbed the end of his staff hard, planting it deep into the gut of the sailor: just beneath the sternum, at the base of the ribs. The gnome leaped back as the sailor lurched forward, doubled over, emptying the contents of his stomach onto the pavement. With the sailor’s head at eye level, Eirlon swung his staff in a wide arc, striking squarely across the sailor’s temples – knocking him out cold.
The sailor’s companions, at first confused and startled by the aggressiveness of the little gnome, finally reacted – attempting to reach for their diminutive foe. But Eirlon had already reached into his pocket for a handful of magical dust, scattering it into the air. “Leika!” The powder burst into a flash of light, smoke and fire – blinding his opponents who moved to cover their eyes.
Stepping back, Eirlon drew out another handful of powder – this time from a different pocket and scattered it skyward. “Gysgunda!” The two remaining sailors collapsed at Eirlon’s feet. In a moment, both could be heard snoring loudly.
Eirlon grasped Sharik’s cloak, pulling him away from the tavern wall. A few passersby had turned to look, then quickly moved on. It didn’t do to get involved in someone else’s brawl on this side of town.
“This way Sharik. You draw entirely too much attention to yourself.”
Eirlon led the confused and befuddled mage back to the inn where they were staying, taking a circuitous route just in case someone had tried to follow them.
* * *
Lynette knocked on the door and waited, scanning up and down the hallway for signs of any curious guests. The inn where they were staying was less cramped than the inn at Caleborn. Lynette had finally had a chance to rinse herself free from the dust of the road. It had felt invigorating to be able to bathe again – even if she did have to heat the hot water herself rather than have it bubble magically into the tub. There had been so much she had wanted to wash off and forget, and not just from the dirt and toil of the road.
Lynette was wearing a lightweight, green dress this evening, the first time she had worn a dress since they had left the Feyfell. She felt feminine again, something not always easy to come by on the roads they traveled.
The door opened, and Baxter glanced out, startled to see her standing there in a dress. The lightweight fabric clung to her hips, accentuating her youthful figure, and its color complimented her wavy blonde hair.
“Well?” Lynette said. “Are you going to invite me in?”
“Oh yes, of course,” Baxter said, motioning her inside. He glanced up and down the hallway before shutting the door.
