Floreskand_Wings Read online

  Because a large cart had lost a wheel on the Causeway and a huge crowd gathered to relieve the conveyance of its spilt merchandise, Ulran urged Versayr down a side street on a twisting turning detour over resounding cobbles amidst streets of washing and stalls.

  It was a lengthy detour and Ulran didn’t spare the horses or Cobrora. To their right towered the Doltra Complex – home of the wealthy – perched upon huge stone-block pylons and looking obscenely bright and clean in comparison to the dark and sullied earth surrounds beneath it.

  The Second City, thought Cobrora with irony, evinced a conspicuous change. Markedly fewer preparations for the carnival ensued here; the inhabitants were more reserved and few freely expressed opinion on the monarch and his infamous Edict.

  As speedily as possible through winding streets, they returned to the Causeway.

  At the tall Old City gates, Ulran reined in.

  The slave market was evidently closing; the bartering and ogling crowds had dispersed, apparently uninspired by the remaining merchandise: a willowy youth and a pregnant middle-aged woman.

  Ulran hailed the Slaver: “You!”

  Head jerking up, the Slaver grinned with a toothless mouth, “Me, Sir?” He fingered his flamboyant tunic then, his sixth sense seeming to apprise him of a potential sale, his hands rubbed oilily together. “You want to buy the boy, my Lord?”

  Ulran shook his head. “The woman – how much?”

  “But she can’t do much work – not far off term, I reckon... Now, the boy, he may be slender – but a little work’d soon build his muscles. Why not –?”

  “The woman, Slaver.” Ulran withdrew the purse from his belt, unfastened its strings. “How much?”

  The Slaver’s face contorted in thought, then: “Shall we say two sphands?”

  “You can say what you like, but I’m offering fourteen carsts – take it or leave it. No-one else will buy her – two mouths to feed and incapable of working for her or her brat’s keep.”

  Sighing resignedly, the Slaver nodded. “As you say, my Lord.”

  Ulran handed down a small gold sphand and four silver coins. “When you’ve closed down for the night, take the woman to the Red Tellar. Say Ulran sent her. My son Ranell will make the arrangements.”

  At mention of the inn and the innman’s name, the Slaver’s artful eyes widened and he nodded repeatedly. “Yes, sir, yes, I’ll do as you bid – straight away. You’ll not regret doing business with me, sir.”

  Taking up the hastily scrawled bill-of-sale, Ulran beckoned the gravid woman.

  Waddling a little with the weight of child, she stood before him in bare feet and, head held high, her eyes levelled on his, pupils glinting red in the waning sun.

  “When you enter the Red Tellar,” he said, “you’re a free woman. What is your name?”

  “Jan-re Osa.”

  “Well, Jan-re Osa, my son Ranell, will care for you in labour and after.”

  Shock showed but briefly in her deep brown eyes. There was unquestioning acceptance in her curt nod and she backed away.

  Ulran turned to Cobrora who had watched the whole transaction with avid curiosity. “Come, Cobrora, let us move on. It will soon be dark.”

  ***

  Directly opposite the slave market stood one of many city fanes. Gold-coloured in the form of a pyramid, the Fane of Jahdemore, Great-Lord of day, burned in the vermilion rays of day’s end.

  Upon a plinth at the head of the wide shallow entrance steps sat the imposing statue of the great Meshanel, Jahdemor’s prophet, his sightless eyes seemingly omniscient, a trick of light. Even at this early juncture in the carnival’s arrangements, the fane pillars, doorways and arches were garlanded with sweet-scented crimson sekors, the flowers of the Light-bringer.

  Blending with the shadows cast by the entrance columns stood two robed men whose stance and attention clearly had nothing to do with the worship of the god of light and strength, though the exquisite garb of one blatantly indicated that he was rich enough to do so.

  Rashen Pellore wore tattered dun-coloured clothes and old sandals and silently cursed his companion for drawing attention to them. He had no difficulty recognising Badol Melomar beneath the thin disguise of false goatee, moustache and shadowy cloak-hood. The ruthless head and innman of the powerful Open House Combine was too distinguishable because of his ugliness to go unnoticed, Rashen thought unkindly, inwardly chuckling.

  By the gods, Badol was simple! Yet, Rashen warned himself, this innman was also very rich and powerful: and, more dangerous still, he was incredibly greedy. No, he didn’t really have to be a mercenary of long standing to guess why Badol had approached him: the vendetta between the Open House Combine and the Red Tellar was no secret.

  “How did you know Ulran would be riding through here?” Rashen asked.

  “I have spies even in the much-vaunted Red Tellar. Spies everywhere, in fact,” Badol said, his tone containing an underlying threat. “So. Can I count on you, then?” he asked, peering down the length of his sharp nose. “To deal once and for all with that upstart?” Thick lips upturned in an unprepossessing scowl, he gestured with distaste towards the horseback figure bargaining with the sycophantic Slaver.

  Pointedly ignoring Badol, Rashen silently appraised Ulran’s powerful frame and effortless manner: not a movement wasted, wholly at ease. This was the first time he had seen the illustrious innman. He could see no talisman whatsoever dangling from the innman’s person or horse. Obviously a man in complete harmony with the gods, an enviable state of mind indeed, he mused, fingering his own snakeskin necklace.

  Rashen grinned. So unlike Ulran’s companion, though! From both sides of Cobrora’s palfrey and also from the tunic and belt, all manner of potion-pouches and talismen dangled and chinked.

  “As you well know, the Kcarran Carnival pulls all sorts of people from all over the country,” Rashen remarked icily, still studying Ulran. “There’ll be plenty of opportunists and fellow mercenaries employed as bodyguards for the rich and fat travellers. Don’t worry, I’ll have my men hand-picked by sunset and we’ll be on their trail at dawn.”

  Snatching a glimpse of Badol’s moist lips forming a protest, he added, “Soon enough... I mean, you wouldn’t want the foul deed committed on your own threshold, would you?”

  Badol paled, shook his head vigorously.

  “I thought not,” said Rashen.

  The Open House innman wrapped his resplendent cloak tightly about him and shakily proffered a small leather pouch; its contents jingled. “As agreed, then – half now, the rest when you bring me Ulran’s ruby ring of the Red Tellar?”

  Weighing the pouch thoughtfully, Rashen smiled darkly. He absently brushed his drab brown cloak. “What’s to stop me teaming up with Ulran and taking his ring with his permission, just to fool you and get your money?”

  Badol’s lower lip trembled, saliva dribbled, and his brows knitted together. “You – you couldn’t – I know Ulran. Nothing short of death would part him from that ring.”

  “For some men, even death has no power over them; remember that,” snapped Rashen, ill-at-ease with his contract of hire. Sometimes, he wondered why his blood flowed in the way of a mercenary. Abruptly, Rashen turned on his heel, threadbare cloak swirling, and flung over his shoulder, “I’ll be back within eight days... then you’ll be able to take over the Red Tellar, lock, stock and barrel, Badol Melomar!”

  The innman convulsed with a tremor of fear and stared coldly after the laughing mercenary who tossed and caught the purse of gold as though it were a mere plaything.

  That morning’s shaky resolve was now firm: the mercenary and his brood, whoever they might be, must be eliminated once the death of Ulran was assured. Mercenaries and creatures of their ilk knew no loyalty to employers, he was sure. No, he couldn’t risk them living, no, not at any price!

  Stroking the itching false beard and moustache, Badol Melomar glared at Ulran and his incongruous companion as they passed through the Old City gates. But his count
enance softened as he pictured the vast revenues of the Red Tellar at last within his grasp.

  ***

  “Why, Cobrora?” Ulran repeated as they rode to the Main Plaza, the largest square in Lornwater. “Let us just say I had a feeling of kinship with that unborn babe.”

  Cobrora nodded, not understanding, though it seemed there was some history concerning the innman and his origins. Perhaps all would be revealed on the journey.

  Unlike the two outer cities, the Old City was formed on a strict grid plan. Here, there were no outward signs of the forthcoming carnival. The tall buildings of the palace would have something to do with that, thought Cobrora.

  It was always the rich who stuck with Saurosen IV; and the rich lived in their mansions, here in the Old City or protectively closeted themselves in the Doltra Complex, cocooned, looking out at the world through the pretty smaltglass windows. But they didn’t see the real world, Cobrora realised, surprised at such thoughts. Ulran’s gesture with that slave woman had had quite an effect.

  They rode past a solitary fane festooned with the appropriate sekors of its god. There was one brothel across the square, which seemed to be prospering, eagerly making welcome the many newcomers to the city.

  The lowing of cattle and the stench of the livestock’s excrement engulfed them. A cattle market was still embroiled in the business of auctioning. Torches were lit to combat the deepening dusk, naked flames flashing in the frightened beasts’ eyes and upon their huge curved horns.

  Once at Dunsaron Gate, they had to pull their mounts to one side to make way for three loaded wagons bringing in the old shift of feldspar miners.

  The eyes of both male and female miners glared white and forlorn, bizarre sad contrasts to the theatrical black faces and pink mouths. Exhaustion was etched around their eyes and in the stoop of shoulders, bodies now permanently misshaped. They worked for a pittance and had little to look forward to, save their carnival which celebrated a good and memorable king’s reign. And now the worst king in recent history decreed there would be no more play, only work and more work.

  Cobrora suddenly felt all apprehensions disappear as they rode through the last city gate. To get away was like clearing the mind after a heady bout of mindsaur smoking, though that vice was only attempted twice.

  The road straight on led to the mines, but Ulran took another, less used track.

  Almost everyone kept clear of this road.

  Fresh disquiet assailed Cobrora, clutching a talisman, then another, strangling each evil effigy in turn; then whispering a succinct prayer to the most sacred gods for protection, for they were heading towards The Inn.

  Feeling at odds, Cobrora looked back at the exceedingly high outer grey-stone walls of the vast city of Lornwater.

  Home, with its defensive towers, its sinister crenellations spreading as far as the eye could see; the palace minars, the dominating Eyrie, all now bathed in silver moonlight. The moon was approaching its last quarter, its surface without blemish or crater, intensely bright, transforming the land into an eerie ghostlike place.

  Cobrora had never been outside the city when the gates were shut; now the sound carried, of the ponderous bolts thudding home.

  Loneliness fell with complete suddenness.

  A warm orange halo arched above the Three Cities’ forbidding silhouette. A distinctive thin streamer of blue-grey smoke issued from the smalthouse and joined the many other smoke-trails of the great city.

  Turning to look upon the vast night-sky, Cobrora shuddered involuntarily, wondering at the absurd relief felt on leaving the city a short while ago.

  The road was a little uneven in places where the recent rains had collected. On either side crouched shapeless bushes of muskflower: threatening, sinister. The stridulation of night-devils sent an uncomfortable tingling down the spine.

  Presently, the road curved gently downwards, to the shore of Lornwater Lake.

  “The Lake”, whispered Cobrora, unable to repress a shudder.

  The roan’s ears pricked and the animal shied.

  The evil waters – where to drink even a drop meant hideous death.

  Clasping talisman tightly, prayers tumbling from trembling lips, Cobrora looked down and across the expanse of still, dark water and noticed with unease that the surface bore no reflection, neither of the stars nor of the moon. No silvery ripples like the city ponds at night. No mirror-image of the window-lit Lornwater Inn by its shores.

  Cold clammy panic swelled up into throat, hands tensed to jerk on the reins. Cobrora wanted to halt, to yell for Ulran to stop, unwilling to have anything to do with either Lake or Inn. Yet, no sound came out and Sarolee tentatively cantered forward.

  “We’ll spend tonight here,” Ulran said, dismounting in front of Lornwater Inn.

  CHAPTER TWO

  INN

  In any posture whatsoever he understands that he is so doing, so that, however his body is engaged, he comprehends it just as it is... he acts with clear awareness.

  – The Lay of Lorgen

  “I conjure and I invoke thee, O Tanemag, strong King of the Dunsaron, by the name of Quotamantir who was your Master! I order thee to obey me, or otherwise to send at once to me Assel, Mardiib, Entrespir and Ost, that they will clear the pool and aid my sight!”

  Large dark eyes staring intensely at the shimmering stagnant pool, the alchemist licked his thin lips in concentration. He dropped the final ingredient – the viscera of a crested niedem newt – into the water.

  The splash was slight. Scarlet ripples began, widening. Then an alarmed gasp issued from the only spectator, Yip-nef Dom, the seventh King of the Yip, tenth dynasty of Arisa. Moving pictures formed in the blooded water, indistinct but nevertheless identifiable.

  Two men on horseback outside an inn.

  Faintly, could be seen the black impenetrable expanse of Lornwater Lake.

  “Are you sure the red tellar has brought them?” the king asked anxiously, his eyes gleaming in the light of the smouldering flames beside the pool. His glass eye glinted green, yellow, red and blue whilst his dark brown eye shone with a pinpoint of white in the pupil. A third eye, clearly a craftsman’s aberration, dangled upon a chain on the royal chest.

  Por-al Row nodded sagely while his insides quivered with fear.

  Yip-nef Dom leaned forward to see better and coughed on the stifling fumes. “Why did you order –?” His fleshy jowls wobbled in petulance. “Why did you countermand our – my – order, Por-al Row?”

  So, she has started sharing orders with him! Pretending not to hear his king, Por-al Row remarked, “See, my lord. They enter The Inn. I warrant come the dawn they’ll be on their way here!”

  Now Yip-nef Dom stamped his foot and upset a bowl of green slimy liquid. “But why?”

  Fuming inside, the alchemist shrugged his shoulders. His narrow jutting bones gave an angular aspect to the black silk robes patterned with esoteric symbols. “There are still plenty of red tellars in the mountains, sire. More than enough for our own ends. They’re bringing them in daily. Four hundred at the last count –”

  “We’ve been to a lot of trouble to capture these creatures!” The king’s glass eye moved slightly, threatening to pop out and fall into the Scrying Pool, as his face grew bright purple and his temple’s vein throbbed.

  “I was there at the beginning, sire, remember?” And Por-al Row shivered expressively at the memory.

  “Yes, yes, yes! But why let that one go?”

  Por-al Row could not even begin to explain; he could scarcely believe it himself. But the truth was that he had been mortally terrified: the bird had looked straight into his eyes, penetrating his very soul, and filled him with absolute dread. For in that moment he had seen –

  “Why that one?” demanded the king again.

  Damn General Foo-sep – the king must have learned of that incident through him! He emitted an exasperated sigh: “I’m only a Seer, my lord,” he said, slipping smoothly into the explanation he devised whilst in the mountain
s. “I do as my gods invoke. Their voices, they said, ‘Let one escape – the red tellar with a white patch on its throat – let it go.’ It’s almost the shape of a white sekor,” he mused.

  “But why do we need those men here? Tell me that.”

  “At the moment, sire, I can only guess –”

  “Guess?”

  Por-al Row hastened on before his liege had an apoplectic fit. “Perhaps we can enlist them in our cause against Lornwater. Everyone knows how unpopular Saurosen IV is. Or perhaps we can glean more knowledge of the city’s defences.”

  The shivering picture between the now receding ripples was stilled, showing two tethered horses by The Inn’s entrance steps. “Can’t you see indoors, then?” the king asked peevishly.

  A young ostler came out to lead the horses and mule to the stables.

  “Not inside The Inn, no...”

  ***

  Because The Lake was dark legend and this inn was associated with it, Lornwater Inn was not greatly patronised. Only travellers stranded outside the city after sunset found their way here, and then only with reluctance. In the summer moons, most would rather camp under the stars than sojourn at The Inn.

  History books had apprised Cobrora that the names of the land and everything in it derived from the Early Kellan-Mesqa, Floreskand’s original inhabitants. The City-Dwellers drifted up from Shomshurakand long before counting of years began. Yet the Kellan-Mesqa did not name Lornwater Lake: they denied its supernatural existence, never venturing near its shores.

  Ulran stood in the wide doorway, noted the solitary black cloak and black felt hat upon the peg to his left, then, expressionless, surveyed the interior.

  By Ulran’s side, Cobrora sensed some presence within the shadowy confines and briefly attempted to fathom the sensation, almost oppressive in its nature, but desisted at once as senses wavered, almost on the verge of becoming addled. Wiping a hand over damp brow, Cobrora looked around with eyes instead of mind.

  A place indeed where superstition could flourish with little need of imagination as fertiliser. The whole room reeked of age; not years, but millennia. Though everywhere was spotlessly clean, Cobrora was convinced that cobwebs could be seen by the score out of the corner of an eye, yet, when looked upon directly, there were none.