Steel And Flame (Book 1) (12 page)

That was a temptation to think on all right, but Marik
debated whether he should test his luck.  He watched as man after man tried,
including Chatham.  The crowd’s shouts passed through his head like a spear
thrust and he kept getting jostled by men beside him who jumped or gestured.

Marik only saw one winner.  A young man about the same
age as himself landed his copper in a yellow pot.  The crowd who had jeered
when the losers missed erupted with cheers after one of their own triumphed. 
From comments he overheard, he picked up that the boy lived locally, helping
tend the sheep herds they raised collectively.

Clyyde rose from his chair to retrieve the thrown
coin.  He made a show of inspecting it thoroughly from weighing it on his open
palm to actually biting it.  Finally, he pronounced it authentic and reached
into his belt pouch, pulling out a ten-copper coin which he handed to the
grinning youth.  The crowd renewed its enthused cheers.  After he reclaimed his
seat, Clyyde tossed the copper coin into the pile at the stall’s bottom.

Marik finally took a turn after digging a copper from
his purse.  He stood on the green line and imitated the pose he had seen the
previous men perform.  The difficulty in throwing so small an object without
using his thumb would be the biggest obstacle.  His main priority with this
shot, he decided, was to keep from flinging his coin into a bystander’s head. 
After preparing for the toss, rubbing his fingers back and forth to keep the
coin from sticking to his flesh, he flung his arm, sending the coin flying.

He was glad to see the coin fly true along the alley
rather than into the crowd, and was amazed as the coin flew straight into one
of the yellow pots.  His amazement turned slack-jawed when his coin hit the
pot’s rear, then bounced straight back out to land in the pile on the ground. 
The spectators exploded into howling laughter mixed with cheers.  Even Clyyde
looked as if he wanted to laugh.

“So close, sooo close,
lad-o
,” Chatham wheezed,
crying with laughter.  “I thought it was the luck o’ the beginner until you
revealed yourself as a devoted follower o’ some god o’ sarcasm!”

This irritated Marik greater than it might have
otherwise, coming from Chatham.  He decided to return to the table and see how
the other two were faring.  Caught up in the crowd’s shouts, he had lost track
of time.  Since he’d watched so many throwers, he felt sure they must have
finished their meal and were busy with whatever they might be doing.  Marik had
never stayed in a road inn with them before so their habits were unknown to
him.

Much less time had passed than he feared.  The
throwers were quick, taking little time, and only twenty minutes had elapsed
since Chatham led him away.

Harlan gloomily inquired as he reclaimed his seat,
“How much has that idiot lost so far?”

“He’s only thrown three times.  Three coppers aren’t
so bad, I guess.”

“If he sticks to single coppers and doesn’t stay there
all night.  Last time he started throwing five and ten-copper coins and damn
near broke himself.  Kept saying one win would make it all up.”

Marik recalled his own elation upon making his coin
into a scoring pot on the first try, though it had not decided to stay there. 
He could see how seductive the game might become.  If he played any further, he
would limit himself to two tosses, then quit no mater how the throws landed. 
“It seems like a quick score, but then I only saw one winner in the last thirty
or so throws.  Pretty clever on the owner’s part.  He’d probably lose more coin
if he set up a regular dicing game.  I bet he hauls it in by the sack full.”

“That proves you’re smarter than Chatham.  But then, I
already suspected that.”

Marik accepted the compliment at face value while
their food platter arrived.  After all, how hard was it to be smarter than Chatham? 
It seemed like complimenting a farmer on how yellow his corn was.  “The promise
is alluring though.  Drop a copper in the center and win a silver?  Does he pay
a gold if you drop a silver in there?”

“Hanson would pay it, but hardly anyone ever throws
them.  The only ones who do are the brats of the various nobles passing through
the ford.  All the proof you ever need that they have too much silver if they
throw it away.  Usually it’s the ones who’ll raise the taxes after they return
home to get it back.”

“You sound like you pass through here often.”

“We do, but those were Hanson’s words, not mine.  He’s
not above taking all he can get, but he covers against loss.  That opening on
the center pot with the biggest payoff is a hair too small for a gold piece to
fit through.  Not that I’ve ever heard of anyone throwing a gold.”

Chatham reappeared with colorful accusations against
them for hoarding the food, intermingled with Harlan’s barbed comments about
his foolishness and gambling habits.  The food tasted good, consisting of ham
slices, small warm bread loaves and a type of cream soup Marik had never eaten
before.

The rest of the evening passed in the same manner. 
After leaving enough coppers to pay for his share of the food, he threw his
tosses down Hanson’s Alley, then listened to the minstrels who had tuned their
instruments during the meal.  Marik hoped to hear a ballad of courageous
warriors pushing back the forces of evil or one of the tales of mythic figures
he loved listening to.

But the songsters knew their audience.  They filled
the room with bawdy lays and crude cadences to the patrons’ cheers and
laughter.  Intermixed were popular comedic verses, such as ‘The Unlucky
Shepherd’ or Felix Drool’s mad attempt to ride across the kingdom on the edge
of a golden coin.  To judge by the wealth piling up inside the lute case left
open for the purpose, they would pull in a tidy sum by closing time.

His efforts throughout the day combined with the food
settling heavily in his stomach.  Exhaustion took hold over Marik.  Harlan gave
him the room key and, while he searched for Chatham to tell him he meant to go
upstairs, he noticed a greater number of women mixing with the crowd than
before.  They were dressed in the same low-cut bodices with laces down the front
as their server had worn, showing equal amounts of cleavage.  He might have no
experience in this field but he recognized working girls when he saw them,
despite Puarri’s Tavern being free of the type.  His thoughts were confirmed
when he saw a woman lead a man through one of several doors along the second
common room’s farthest wall.  A brief glimpse through the door revealed a small
room no larger than the tool closet at Pate’s, the space mostly filled by a
backless leather couch.

Chatham was holding one woman and laughing.  Marik
chose not to interrupt.  Harlan or Maddock would keep him informed if it
mattered.  In their room he selected the small cot under the equally small
window for his resting place.

After he unrolled his bedroll, he only managed a
single thought before sleep claimed him.  Only two days from Tattersfield and
he was already in a different world.  How far would he need to travel before he
finally found his father?

Chatham pounded Marik’s blade from his grip with force
enough to numb his entire arm.  The younger man bitterly reflected that Harlan
had the better measure of his friend than the man himself did.

Once left to his own ends in the Randy Unicorn,
Chatham kept calling for drink, throwing his coin down Hanson’s Alley and
rendezvousing with the working girls in Hanson’s Parlors.  Come morning he’d
been collected by his companions, who had spent a comfortable night in their
room, with a head fit to split and an empty purse.

This resulted in a foul attitude on Chatham’s part
that had lasted several days, his surliness interspersed with stinging insults
toward whomever attempted to drag him from his mood.  Marik had been hurt and
offended by this side of the otherwise jovial man.  Maddock soothed his
feelings and observing the other two receive the same treatment from their
friend helped in its own way.

To Marik’s dismay, it seemed Chatham’s mood only found
an outlet in their nightly sparring.  That first match had been an easy session
he now realized, as the taller man’s irritations drove him to a near
mercilessness pounding on his adopted pupil.  He knew Chatham was not doing it
deliberately as both Harlan and Maddock had spoken separately with him about it
but he felt it unlikely that he would master any swordsmanship by being driven
into the ground like a tent stake.

“How in the hells do you expect to take on so much as
a peasant child wielding a wet tunic when you fight like that?  Faster!”

Marik already worked hard as he could simply to
defend.  He became increasingly worried that Chatham would forget to pull back
with his sword and eventually injure him.

Maddock called an early halt, which suited Marik and
went uncontested by Chatham.  The brooding man jammed his sword home in its
sheath.  He went to perch on a large stone near the campfire.  Harlan brought
in fresh game to cook as the night descended.

*        *        *        *        *

Chatham eventually drew out of his mood before they
reached Spirratta.  They had journeyed through several towns and villages. 
This would be Marik’s first city.

In his talks with Maddock during the marks they walked
the roads, Marik had learned much that would come in useful during the search
to discover Rail’s fate.  While Galemar might have several hundred minor towns
across its face, there were only four cities with sizable populations.  The
capital city of Thoenar held the largest, mostly due to its higher number of
nobles and lords who gathered to preen in the king’s court.  That city lay in
the northern kingdom, far outside this journey’s path.  As far as their own
journey went, Maddock estimated it would take them two eightdays to reach
Kingshome from Spirratta.  What would happen then they could only guess.

Marik considered their destination, worrying over what
his next step should be once they reached the town.  He supposed that would
depended on what he learned once he found the chance to question people.  Of
course, finding the right people to ask would be a problem all in itself but he
thought he could count on Maddock to help him with that.  The barrel-like
warrior had taken a liking to the inexperienced youth and could help him wade
through any difficulties he encountered.

But future troubles could wait until the party arrived
at the formidable mercenary base camp.  At this moment, Marik’s interest
centered on the road around them.  They were a day and a half outside
Spirratta, one of the other three Galemaran cities.  The travelers on the road
had steadily increased since that morning.  Harlan assured him they would be
neck deep in merchants, farmers and peddlers by the time they arrived at the
gates.  Already wagons carrying various vegetables or fruits had joined the
main road, as well as men with enormous packs strapped to their backs.  Several
travelers streamed onto the road from side paths.

Never having been outside Tattersfield, Marik looked
forward to visiting his first real city.  The others had already gifted him
with numerous tidbits of advice seemingly designed to paint the city’s portrait
in ominous shades of danger.  What did he care about that?  He still eagerly
anticipated the experience despite the hoards of cutpurses, thugs and back
alley con artists his friends, Chatham in particular, kept describing.

Also, he wanted to make an effort to replace his
sword.  His father must have thought it would be handy to have a replacement
around or maybe he’d intended to sell it but never gotten around to doing so. 
Marik had long since concluded he needed something better.  His spars with
Chatham had taught him that much.  He definitely did not need his arm numbed or
his sword vibrated from his hands during a fight for his life.

But much as he wanted a better sword, he might not be
able to afford one.  Maddock’s explanations on life out here in the wide open
had included general prices for standard equipment.  The Tattersfield council
paid him fifty silvers for his cottage near the town’s edge.  He’d been in a
hurry to unload it and leave, a fact the council member had capitalized on, so
he had not negotiated the price.  Now he wished he’d been in less of a rush to
receive what coin he could.

It turned out that as low quality as his sword was, it
would still run nine or ten silvers, a price high enough to motivate a skilled
mercenary to rescue the wanting blade for his own profit.  To buy a higher
quality sword like Chatham’s might only cost him thirty or forty if luck shone
on him.  Marik dithered whether he should spend so much of his available coin
at once in such a manner.

Which presented a new problem.  How would he replace
the coin he was spending each day?  When leaving Tattersfield, vague notions of
perhaps working as a mercenary like his father had floated across his dim
concerns for the future.  Listening to his new friends’ stories opened his eyes
to how difficult it was to find contracts that would cover the expenses
involved, let alone provide a profit.

They had finally wearied of the constant search.  This
was the primary reason behind their decision to try joining a larger band. 
Lords who needed a substantial addition to their fighting forces went looking
for
them
rather than the other way around.  Maddock had explained he
would be content to let others handle the business dealings for awhile.  “Once
they haggle their way to an agreement, they will tell us where to go and what
to do.  It will be a nice change.”

With these enlightened thoughts illuminating his mind,
Marik walked on, wondering how he would make ends meet while his hard coin
supply dwindled.

*        *        *        *        *

The city of Spirratta came into view as they exited a
small wood.  It both succeeded and failed to meet Marik’s expectations.

Certainly it spread across the flatland ahead in an
impressive manner.  A twenty foot wall surrounded the entire city.  Except most
of the buildings could have come from Tattersfield.  No grand or majestic
edifices marked the elevated lifestyles of city folk.

After they drew closer, smaller details undermined his
first impression.  The walls were wood rather than the impressive thick stone
he had envisioned, and constructed primarily to block access by unwanted
visitors.  They sloped outward slightly from their base, the tops protected by
sharpened points set close together.  Guards aloft talking to each other along
one stretch revealed the walls to be thicker than they looked from the road. 
Also, the buildings near the walls were larger than they had seemed from
farther away.  Seeing the men above helped Marik judge the actual height of the
city structures.

He could see buildings through the open gate beyond
the line he stood in with Chatham and Maddock.  Harlan had stopped to talk with
a peddler who sat on a blanket by the roadside.  The peddler sold all manner of
items to people seeking entrance or departing through the gates.  No one from
within the city stopped at his impromptu shop.  Either there were much better
goods within the walls or, having just set out on their travels, they had not
yet discovered what they’d forgotten to pack.

Their group had come within sight of the city at
midday.  Several candlemarks of light still remained.  Despite this, Marik
wondered whether they would gain entrance before the sun descended behind the
horizon.  In the past mark, perhaps a dozen parties had been admitted through
the broad gates.  None were turned away, which struck Marik as a good sign.

The road at this point became stone.  It was the first
time Marik had seen paved roadway.  Workmen had taken stones that were either
naturally flat or hewn to size and laid them side-by-side.  No two stones were
exactly the same color or shape or size, forming an impressive mosaic.  He
could see the paving continued in like fashion through the open gates into the
city streets.

There were still twenty or thirty groups before them
when Harlan returned, looking neither cheerful nor disappointed.  “Did you find
what you wanted?”

“Yes.”

He offered nothing more, so Marik asked, “What were
you looking for?”

“A new spool of wire for my pheasant traps.”

“Couldn’t you find that inside the city?”

“The peddlers outside don’t charge as much.”

He showed no inclination toward further conversation
so Marik let it drop.  Even Chatham acted subdued.  Marik passed the time by
asking Maddock further questions about the city.

“There is nothing remarkable about Spirratta.  For
some reason, it kept growing until its population reached what it is today. 
It’s full of crafts and trades of many natures, since large populations that
can support luxury attract those who set up their shops.  Most of the city’s
craftsmen are more skilled in their calling than those you’ll find in the
towns, but Spirratta boasts none of the unique locations you find in the truly
large centers of civilization, such as Thoenar.”

“What are you talking about?”

“For instance, in Thoenar you will find the
Alchemist’s Academy.  It is a large complex in the city, home to many scholars,
not only alchemists as the name implies.  Anyone willing to pay for entrance
can attend their teachings if they don’t have a sponsor from within the
academy.  Also there is the Greater Library of the city, open to all, though
for a fee of course.  The palace complex of the king is there as well, as are
the primary churches of many different faiths.  While Spirratta holds a variety
of shops you have never seen, it contains nothing so grand as Thoenar’s
Cathedral of the Eternal Twelve.”

“This is the only city between here and Kingshome,
right?  There must be
one
decent weapons shop here.  I want to find a
good replacement for this chunk of ballast.”

A strangely queer look passed over Maddock’s face as
he replied, “I know a few shops inside Spirratta’s walls, yes.  It would be
good to closely look at many of the different weapons we have discussed, yet I
would advise against the investment in a finer weapon for now.”

Confused, Marik asked, “Why?  This thing is about as
good as a giant paring knife!  I’ve learned that much at least.  I need a
reliable sword for my journey ahead.”

“Yes, that is true.  But while you travel with us to
Kingshome, that would be my advice.  The final choice is yours, of course.  It
is merely a thought I have.”

Maddock would say nothing further on the matter. 
Well, no point worrying about it until he saw what the shops offered.

The line moved slowly.  Finally, as sunset arrived,
they reached the massive doors.

*        *        *        *        *

As large as it looked from outside, once inside the
city Marik thought it impossible for it to be
this
large.  Harlan led
them from street to street, around corners and through various districts. 
Marik felt certain they had traveled twice the city’s length from what he’d
viewed during their approach, yet they still wandered the man-made canyons of
building walls and stone streets.

They had finally made it to the gate, wide enough for
four wagons to pass through, and been questioned by the cityguard on post
there.  A portable desk rested to one side in addition to the several standing
cityguards watching everybody.  One beckoned them to the desk.  The guard on
the right, a tough leathery brawler, asked them their names.  Another guard to
the left, an average looking soldier all around, wrote on a scroll unrolled before
him.  Marik assumed he scribed the answers to the other’s questions.

After their names they had given their purpose;
traveling through, occupation; mercenaries, and estimated length of stay; two
or three days.  The second guard wrote at length, which made Marik feel
uncomfortable without knowing why.  Finally, they were permitted entrance after
the first guard narrated the basic conduct codes for the city of Spirratta.

At which point Harlan started navigating the maze. 
Harlan never displayed any hesitation when given a choice of directions so
Marik followed without comment.  What would he say if he gave his mouth the
chance to run?  Probably something he would wish he hadn’t.  Marik was well
aware that he gawked around like a country hayseed, and was not at all pleased
with himself for it.