The Singing Stones of Rendor, page 5
part #1 of Eidolon Series
“What’s your business here?” The constable’s scowl grew deeper as he examined the document.
“The Traders Guild offices.” L’don held out his hand and waited for the return of his wallet. People behind him began to grumble while the guard pretended to study.
A voice behind L’don complained, “Get on with it, Mondrin. You’ve seen him before. Let him through.”
The guard cleared his throat and sneered. “Room 124.” He slapped the wallet shut then handed back the unfolded document. He waved L’don through.
L’don placed his wallet and credentials in his breast pocket as he walked to the painfully familiar guild offices. He arrived in time to find the little pot-bellied manager yawn as he unlocked the double doors. The man ignored him as he entered the expansive room filled with cluttered desks, leather-bound books, scrolls and musty air. The manager opened windows to the outside and readied the office for business. L’don waited. A litany of signs above desks identified each section and each clerk. L’don only cared about one—Foreign Registrations.
The manager emerged from a back room with a cup of hot coffee. He went to an elevated desk and sat under a sign which read, ‘Manager’. Clerks soon filed into the office. Most disappeared into the back room. When they returned with their own cups and sat under their own signs, they opened ledgers, trimmed quills and filled inkwells.
L’don’s renowned patience grew thin—again. He hated to come here, and he envied his young partner’s impetuous habits. Half of this place would be dancing to A’wyn’s tune if she were here. The other half would likely be dead. Not something I’d like to explain to the Prime Councilor, however. Especially from prison.
The clerks had all taken a desk. L’don gritted his teeth while he stared at the empty desk under the Foreign Registrations sign. He strode to the manager. “I need to see the registration book for foreign trade representatives. Where’s your clerk?” L’don stabbed an impatient finger at the empty desk.
“Come back at noon.” The manager lifted his coffee cup and casually slurped in the steam and sludge.
“I’d like to see it now, please.” L’don met the manager’s gaze with an iron glare. If anything tried his patience more than A’wyn Bowyer, it was a bureaucrat.
“Identification.” The manager held out an inky fingered hand, unfazed by L’don’s irritation. He slurped his coffee again.
L’don presented his wallet and waited for the inevitable display of authority.
The manager played his role to perfection. He set his cup down, opened the wallet with a casual disdain, unfolded the vellum charter, straightened his ink-stained cuffs then mounted a pair of spectacles low on his narrow nose.
The familiar itch of weaves formed at L’don’s fingertips as his tolerance waned. He clamped his fist, drove his fingers into his palm and snuffed out the threads. How can the Hospice Trade House put up with such ineptness? I hate this backward, incompetent twit. If this were the Royal Trade House I’d have this man’s gullet by now.
“Ah, yeth.” The manager’s lisp and high nasal voice grated at L’don’s sensibility. “Mr. L’don Bankth of the Royal Trade Houth Antiquitieth Board. I believe you’ve been in before, haven’t you? You’re earlier than uthual.”
I can’t believe A’wyn thinks I sound like this fool. I don’t lisp. “Yes. May I see the ledger now?”
“Come back at noon.”
“Why not now?
The manager gave him a peevish smile and pointed to the empty desk under the Foreign Registrations sign.
L’don didn’t bother to follow the finger. He spoke through gritted teeth, “I’m well aware the clerk isn’t here. Perhaps you could help me.”
“I’m quite buthy, Mr. Bankth.”
“There’s . . . no . . . one . . . here.”
“My clerkth are here, thir.” The manager must have thought this explained everything anyone would need to know. He picked up his coffee cup and began to take a drink. He grumped then whistled to a young man behind him. “Get me thome coffee.”
L’don smacked the desk with his hand. “I’ll get it myself.” He strode to the empty desk and lifted a ledger from the top drawer. On a hunch he riffled through the pages to the date he and A’wyn arrived in Carol’s Lee. He worked back from there. Lady Luck finally availed him. A tinker from the eastern realm had arrived two months earlier than they had. Master Merchant Willim K’Las Potts, emissary for the Merchants Trade House. That’s him, the tinker outside the gates. He followed the entry across the page to a column titled, “Sponsor.” A long narrative described the origin and date of the charter. It brought a rare smile to his face. Ah, Sir Tomas Campanill, eh? That’s close enough. I’ll wager they’re related. God’s I wish I had thought of this sooner.
A heavy hand pressed on L’don’s shoulder. Instinctively he grabbed the hand and set a weave on it. He turned. A fist caught his eye.
~~~
L’don woke and saw the floor move under him. His feet dragged behind him. Men’s boots on each side of him took long strides through a pair of doors. Heat rose from the hot paving stones in front of the customs house. The men hurled him into the crowded marketplace. He landed on his face. He rolled over, rose to his elbows and squinted through a swollen eye at the manager. Two constables flanked the bureaucrat. An arc of people had stopped to watch as the drama developed.
“Uthe of the weaving artth in the cuthtom houthe ith forbidden.” The manager stuck a hand inside his belt and pushed out his pot belly. He smirked and gave his coffee cup a royal lift. “Next time I’ll have you arrethted.”
L’don eased himself to his feet while the bureaucrat and constables resumed their duties. The crowd muttered their disappointment and continued their private tasks. L’don pulled up his shirt and wiped his face. Blood and dirt smeared the torn linen.
~~~
Willim watched the scene from an open second story window of the customs house. The battered man looked up and for a moment their eyes met. Willim knew the face. When the crowd below dissolved and the bloodied little man wandered off, he shook hands with his host. “Thank you, Sir Arginald. I believe the Merchant Trade House will be quite pleased with this arrangement. Good day.”
His business with the Hospice Trade House emissary finished, he walked down a flight of stairs to the Traders Guild office.
“Good morning, Mr. Pensand.” Willim extended his hand.
“Ah, thank you Mr. Potth. A good day to you, too.” The manager smiled and shook Willim’s hand.
“I believe I have an export manifest here which needs to be corrected, is that right?”
“Ah, yeth, I believe we do.” Mr. Pensand opened a file drawer and drew out two long sheets of parchment. They haggled for a moment while Willim slipped two silver coins in the manager’s palm. The manifests were quickly approved, stamped and sealed.
“Before I leave, I wonder if you would tell me about your encounter with that fellow who did some inappropriate weaving here, today.” Willim listened quietly as the manager expounded on his steadfastness and quick reaction. The names and origins of two antique collectors were uncomfortably familiar. When the manager showed him the register L’don Banks had seized, a chill bristled the hair on his sweaty neck. Only one question remained, were they Inquisitors? If they were, he and his family would likely encounter them soon. He needed help.
~~~
A’wyn leaned her chair back and folded her arms. “What happened, somebody stuff you in a keyhole?”
L’don approached with his usual calm demeanor. Inside he broiled with anger. “It’s time you shut up and listen. Our tinker is back. If you fail to do as I tell you I’ll have you on a henge loom by the summer solstice.”
“If it’d get me out of this heat I’d—”
L’don kicked the chair out from under her. He pressed her to the grimy pub floor with a knee on her chest and a hand to her throat before she could recover. She became rigid. Her eyes grew wide with tension as her hands grabbed his wrists. L’don cast a cautionary eye at the few patrons seated at other tables. A bored wench gathered some mugs and went to a back room. When no one challenged him he said in a hushed tone, “I’m through with your impudence.” He set a weave around her throat and drew it tight.” If you do anything to hinder me, by the gods, I’ll crush your pretty little neck.”
Her voice rasped as she gasped for air. “All right.”
He eased the tension in the weave and leaned toward her. “I’m fed up with you, so listen carefully. This tinker is a master weaver. He saw me, so he’s probably expecting us. I don’t want to take any chances with him. Do you have your long pirn with you—you know, the pointy stick we use to extend our reach?”
She nodded. “In my skirt pocket.”
He released his weave and sat in a chair. She sat up, rubbed her neck and came nose-to-nose with him. He scrutinized her gaze for any deceit. “He may only have one tone, but he’s still dangerous. Don’t underestimate him. He’s likely been trained by Enforcers . . .
he may even be one. This is your first encounter as my apprentice. So, when we find him, stay alert and follow my lead.”
The sweet smell of a rum stained apron announced the innkeeper’s arrival. “That’ll be a silver and eight.”
L’don got up and pushed his chair to the table. “Pay the man.”
A’wyn made her way to her feet and towered over L’don. Behind her green eyes he saw the thought of rebellion, but she soon moved her gaze to the innkeeper. “Why? I only had one beer.”
“You heard me. Silver and eight.” The innkeeper stood a little taller than A’wyn’s six foot frame and not at all intimidated by her. “We saw you settin’ weaves and you broke my chair.” He pointed to the chair then to a sign on the wall.
One thread, a coppery coin,
Two threads, a silvery coin,
Three threads, a pillory joined.
By order of the Hospice Trade House.
A’wyn huffed and untied the coin pouch on her belt. She muttered as she dug out the money. “Eight coppers for a chair, absurd.” She dropped the coins in the man’s hand. “That’s usury. There should be a law—”
L’don grabbed her forearm and forced her out the pub door. Burn my soul, I hate losing my temper. That was reckless. Luckily they only saw two threads. Why did I get stuck with this infuriating cow? She may be good with a longbow, but she has no wits as an Inquisitor.
L’don and A’wyn blended into the bustle of the docks. They made their way to the street which led to the southern gates of Carol’s Lee and the tinker’s wagons.
~~~
K’Las sat at a neighbor’s campsite and tended the embers in their brazier. A cauldron of stew bubbled above it. A large family of Kennerites owned the tents, goats and horses which comprised the camp. They wore those long woolen robes all desert people wore who were from the Black Sand Sea. It was the hottest place on the world of Rendor—or, so they claimed.
A dark weathered man and his equally sun-dried wife sat with him. The man had a large mop of black hair which fell over his brow and into his eyes. A long stringy mustache covered his lips. When he blinked or talked his hairs danced. K’Las tried not to laugh. The man’s wife wore a big hat. Its brim spread wide enough to shade her and K’Las together. Her voice had laughter in it, but her face frowned a lot.
Three men from the Kennerite clan sat across from them. None of them appeared the least bit happy. They talked of weaves and ancient tales about evil wizards and warriors. He would rather play with the other kids than be with these glum people, but his father told him to stay put. At least they talked about magical things, which he loved.
His father had said something would likely happen. He might even be able to help. He held the bitter end of a cord which lay buried under loose soil. It ran from him to his father’s shaded trading table on his left some ten yards away. When the hair dancer or the shady lady signaled he would pull the cord. They seemed like nice people, but they were awfully annoyed now. He didn’t quite understand why. Maybe it’s just the heat.
K’Las reached into a sack and drew out some hand sized pieces of charcoal. He dropped them in the brazier.
“Sit down, K’Las.” The shady lady tugged on his shirt. She and her husband were from Carol’s Lee and dressed in the loose fit clothes and broad brimmed hats typical of the sub-tropical port. Even K’Las and his mother had adopted the garb. Except for the white shirt and trousers, his father kept to the age old tradition of a bright yellow silk hat and the elaborate blue vest his tinker clan wore in the eastern realms.
The shady lady nodded toward his parents. “Looks like our guests have arrived.”
K’Las sat and tried not to look. He gripped the end of the cord with both hands then peeked to his left. A man and very tall woman walked up to his father’s canopied trading table. That’s the tall lady momma doesn’t like. I remember them.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Potts.” The little man removed his hat and laid it on the table. “I’ve learned a few things since our last meeting. May I ask a few more questions?”
“Fair greetings, Mr. Banks. And, to you also, Miss Bowyer. I’m honored you remember my name.” Willim lifted the hat from his table and hung it on a canopy post. “I am honored to help any scholar in search of our true history. Was my information of any use to you since last we met?”
Miss Bowyer leaned over the table. “Mister, you sent us chasing feathers in a hurricane. There weren’t any tinkers or traders at Honor Bay, or any of the islands along the coast.”
Mr. Banks pulled Miss Bowyer behind him and muttered something to her. He acted angry and patted her neck. She stepped behind Mr. Banks as he faced Willim. “Please excuse my young apprentice, sir. She’s not used to the heat and the traveling we’ve had to endure. Fortunately we didn’t have to go through the Kenner Kingdom and the Black Sand Sea. She’s too fair skinned for that, I’m afraid. However, in her defense, it was all for naught. Nothing came of it.”
“No artifacts at all?” Willim lowered his gaze in thought. “Hmm, that is truly curious. The ancient realm of Rios is known for its jeweled relics, especially near the Great Southern Henge. In fact I’ve come across a few since then. I’ve seen some ruby bracelets and diamond earrings in Carol’s Lee—”
“Those aren’t the trinkets we’re interested in, Mr. Potts. You may recall we’re searching for henge keys.”
K’Las recognized the feigned shock on his father’s face. “Mr. Banks, you know full well those are controlled items.” Willim leaned to the small man and murmured loud enough even K’Las heard it. “Only the priories have those. As an emissary of the Merchants Trade House I’d face death if I possessed such an item and didn’t turn it in. Truly, sir, you don’t think I have one.”
K’Las couldn’t see Mr. Banks face, but the man shifted his feet and took something from inside his vest. “Mr. Potts—or, should I say Mr. Campanill—we know you have one.”
Willim stepped back, drew out a pirn from his sleeve and raised it toward the little man. “Perhaps you confuse me with my benefactor, Sir Tomas Campanill. Your open accusation and threat is without basis. I have no desire for a confrontation. Please return your pirn to its sheath.”
Bowyer moved to Mr. Banks’ side and took an archers stance. She raised her pirn and set it near her ear like an arrow. Willim her obvious target.
Banks raised his pirn to shoulder height and likewise targeted Willim. “Like you, Mr. Campanill, I have no desire for a confrontation. If you lower your pirn and allow us to search your camp for the henge key my partner and I will leave you in peace.”
“It would be a violation of established laws for anyone to search a diplomat’s belongings without cause. If you desire such a search, go to the Hospice Trade House and present your evidence. Until then, good day.” Willim’s expression became troubled—anxious.
K’Las got up. What’s wrong? He recognized the tension in his father’s stance. Papa never shows fear. It didn’t seem real. He’s trying to draw them into doing something.
Banks lunged toward Willim. He appeared to miss. Willim swept his pirn in front of Banks’ rod. B’Tris emerged from behind a wagon, pirn in hand. Bowyer moved to get behind Willim. K’Las saw his chance and began to pull the cord.
“No, too soon. Wait for it.” The shady woman stayed his arms. The Kennerites gathered around K’Las.
The red-haired woman stepped over the buried cord.
“Now.”
K’Las pulled hard and heaved the cord high. It sprang from the ground in a curtain of dust toward the woman’s legs. He nearly lost his feet when the cord rebounded as it tangled her feet. The Kennerites touched the cord with their own pirns. “What are you doing? Help me pull.”
The cord lurched and stiffened then went slack as the woman fell to the ground. K’Las dropped the rope and ran through the dust toward his father. He found him on the ground, silent. His mother grappled with Banks in a desperate brawl to hold the little man down. K’Las attacked Banks. His feet kicked at the man’s legs.
“K’Las, get out of my way.” B’Tris continued to struggle with Banks, unable to do more than yell. Banks lay sprawled on the ground. His right side seemed paralyzed. The pirn in his left hand attempted to parry B’Tris’ efforts to touch him. His deflections became less and less effective.
A Kennerite man pulled K’Las off while he cursed, swung and kicked at the man who hurt his father. Three more men joined B’Tris. The little man finally succumbed. Bowyer lay tangled in the cord with the Kennerites standing over her. She, too, lay still as if frozen.
K’Las wriggled free of the man and went to his father. The hair-dancer man and shady lady knelt by Willim and swept their hands over his body. “What are you doing? Is he hurt?”
