The Path of the Sword (44 page)

They pushed on through the crowded streets, toward the town's center, avoiding wagons and scampering children playing in the middle of the road who seemed oblivious to the passing carts laden to various degrees with pelts and produce and meat, jars containing who knew what, bland linens, rainbows of silks (which made him wonder if some enterprising individual had figured out how to peel the top layer from the surrounding shops and roll them up, intent on pawning them off to colorblind shopkeepers), tools for smithies and apothecaries, tools for millers and bakers, and a thousand other items that traders and merchants hoped to sell off at a ridiculous profit.

Then things got interesting. Jurel began to perceive a roar that sounded like the torrential rainfalls of spring coming from up ahead. He stood and scanned the road, wondering what would cause such a ruckus. The blinding buildings continued on either side, each one desperate to draw his attention, until, perhaps a hundred yards ahead, they stopped and Jurel could see what appeared to be a plaza of sorts. Intrigued, he leaned on the bench beside Kurin to watch.

They entered the plaza where, at the center, the road they followed intersected the East Caravan Route. The plaza was easily the size of Galbin's farm compound—Valik's now, Jurel amended bitterly—and it was teeming with folk from all corners of the kingdom and all rungs of rank; pale skin, dark skin, aquiline cheeks, heavyset, rail-thin, expensive silks and satins, ragged burlap, all of it and more was there in that square. The perimeter of the plaza was lined with more colorful shops, but these were constructed of stone, and each stood two stories tall, creating the illusion that this was a town in its own right located in the center of, but somehow apart from, the rest of Merris. A cobbled street ran along the inside of the perimeter giving access to the shops, and in the center of the plaza, hundreds of hawkers's stands were packed side by side. A spiderweb of alleys allowed citizens and visitors alike to wander among the stalls and browse for anything and everything they could desire. Hawkers hawked, people talked, and armored guards walked, striding through the crowd that parted before them like silk parts for a sharp blade, keeping order as best they could though every once in a while Jurel saw the scuffle of traded blows, like eddies in an otherwise slow moving river.

This was where the sound of a million raindrops was coming from, though it was not rain but the sound of a thousand and more voices all uniting into one overarching storm. The noise was deafening. Jurel struggled to distinguish singular voices but found the task nearly impossible and quickly gave up until one voice, rickety but exceptionally loud, reached his ear from a short way down the street.

“
Repent! Repent and rejoice!”
cried an old man standing on a rickety wooden crate. He was emaciated, with sunken cheeks nearly obscured by a long scraggly beard, spotted with bits of rotting food, his hair was an altogether unhealthy shade of yellow, and his legs were no more than twigs jutting out from under the filthy, tattered bits of rags he wore. Dark shadows surrounded fever bright eyes and he waved his arms wildly while he bawled out his tirade.

“
The time of reckoning is at hand! The voice of prophecy speaks for all to hear and we must hearken, and we must pray lest we are swept away in tides of black!”

“What is he talking about?” Jurel had to yell to be heard over the thrum of the crowd.

Kurin glared sharply at the old man. “Pay him no heed, Jurel. He's a crazy old man who's going to get himself arrested by the town guard for spouting his nonsense.”

Almost as if the old man had overheard them, his red-rimmed eyes fixed on Jurel and his tirade stumbled to a halt. He squinted for a moment as though in recognition, and Jurel found himself discomfited under the scrawny man's scrutiny. Jurel was about to look away when the man's eyes widened in shock.

“It's you,” mouthed the man, stepping back, stumbling from the crate he apparently forgot he was standing on.

Kurin snapped the reins for more speed, but they were trapped in the mass, unable to proceed any faster than a crawl. Fighting with the scrap of matted fur which was sliding down his arm, the old man backed away, staring at Jurel as though threatened. He raised a hand and pointed a long, misshapen finger, with most of its yellow nail torn away, at Jurel.

“By the gods,
save me
,” shrieked the old man. Spinning on his heel, he latched onto a nearby shopper, a well dressed lady in forest green satin wearing a stole the color of fresh cream, and screamed in her face. “It's him! We're doomed!” He spun again, drunkenly, almost tearing the sleeve of the startled woman and bolted into the crowd, his demon screams trailing after him until they faded into the milling mass with him.

The woman glared accusingly at Jurel, but all he could manage was a wordless shrug. With a sniff, the woman stormed away, adjusting her disheveled stole.

“What was that about?” Jurel asked.

“Who knows?” Kurin forced a chuckle. His eyes were haunted as he continued too casually, “Just some crazy old doomsayer spouting his gibberish.”

Jurel was not so sure. The man had recognized him. How, he did not know, but Jurel knew it was true. It bothered him, gnawed at him, even if Kurin seemed to dismiss it as he resolutely urged the tired horse forward.

Turning south onto the caravan route, they made progress in fits and starts. There were so many people in the street, so many horses and carriages, that they could not seem to travel more than ten paces before they were forced to stop again and wait for a break in traffic.

“Let's try something different,” Kurin said and turned onto a small byway heading into the heart of the city. The street he led them to was almost deserted—a relief after the overcrowded plaza. Within fifty paces, the stone facades gave way to wood, and the buildings, like the first houses they passed, seemed run down. The city's veneer was thin, Jurel noted, a film of cosmetics over a withered face. At least the deafening roar of the crowds had receded to no more than an ever-present hum, and as Kurin had predicted, the screaming colors turned muted, almost monochrome; Jurel sighed with relief that his head no longer felt it was being accosted by a very large hammer. Kurin wended his way through the streets as though he were a native of Merris, turning into new streets and alleys so frequently that Jurel quickly realized he was utterly lost. In front of an inn, Kurin reined in and stepped down.

“Here we are,” he announced, gesturing to the building in front of them. “The Traveller's Rest. This will do nicely.”

Jurel took in the inn, a wooden two story building that was in dire need of a fresh coat of paint, sprawled before them on the other side of a low wrought-iron fence and a few paces of muddy, trampled ground. There were windows along the top floor, and studying them, Jurel thought that, along with a fresh coat of paint, someone really should see to replacing the shutters, two of which hung lopsided, held up by a single hinge, while two more were missing entirely. Perhaps the windows themselves could stand a wiping down as well. The door, which was no more than a wide, uneven plank of cedar slathered in flaking green paint that was likely older than he, was closed, presumably to keep the chill out though Jurel had the sneaking suspicion that it was more effective in keeping livestock of the four- and six-legged variety in. He wrinkled his nose disdainfully.

“This is where we're staying?” Jurel asked trying to hide his dismay.

“Are you paying for the room? If you are, say so. I'll take us to the finest inn in town. I'm sure it will cost no more than a dozen gold pieces a night,” Kurin said as he walked through the gate and up to the front door.

“You don't have to get snippy,” Jurel called after him, and received an exasperated wave in response.

He waited by the cart, trying to look inconspicuous. He was no expert when it came to towns and cities but even he knew by the structures, resembling rat nests, crammed in against each other in various states of disrepair, ranging from very dirty to nearly uninhabitable, that they had come to a rough part of Merris. Mounds of refuse were piled in the alleys and overflowed into the street and the stench of dead fish and human waste threatened to render him unconscious. His instincts were urgently telling him that this was not the best place for a single man to stand about, whether it was daytime or not. A heartbeat later, there was a flicker of movement in an alley that faced onto the street. He saw nothing more, but from behind him there came a clatter; a small stone, dislodged from where it rested, skittered across the dingy wooden promenade.

From another alley, Jurel heard a low whistle, and he sidled his way around to the back of the cart, trying to keep his eyes on everything. When he reached the open bed, his arm snaked under the mounds of packs until, with a sigh of relief, his hand wrapped around the hard leather sheath of his sword. Slowly, he began to pull his prize out.

“I s'gest yer leave it right where tis, fella,” a voice called from behind him causing his heart to stutter in his chest. “Less vat is, yer wanna arrow in yer back, o course.”

The man that emerged from the alley was short, not even topping Jurel's shoulders, but he seemed to know how to use the shortsword that weaved menacingly in the air in front of him. Cold eyes stared out from under a shock of red hair and his face was pocked with nasty red welts as though he suffered from some disease. He was young; Jurel estimated he was no more than eighteen years old. A titter drew Jurel's attention and as he grazed his sight along the uneven rooftops across the street, black with the soot of old fires, he saw another young man taking a bead on him with a shortbow.

Jurel scanned the street, saw no one else in sight and felt his heart sink. The young thief laughed.

“Oh no, dere ain't no one round when me an ma boys decide t' ave a lil fun.” He chuckled. His accent was almost impossible to decipher;
fun
sounded like
foon
. “Why don yer jes han me over yer stuff an we'll be on our way.”

Jurel's mind raced. He wanted to give over the cart, to tell them to be his guest as long as they left him alone but the ringing in his ears seemed angry, outraged, unwilling to be cowed by a couple of local ruffians. A moment's hesitation was all it took for that belligerent side of him to win. If he timed it right, he could be behind the cart with his sword drawn before the archer could loose his shot. Perhaps if he showed them a little spine, they would back down.

“Now don be-”

Jurel cut him off by diving behind the shelter of the cart yanking his scabbard away to clear the blade. The thief yelped in surprise and rushed forward, swinging his sword down at Jurel with blinding speed. Jurel raised his sword and deflected the attack, but the thief returned with a back hand swing, aimed at Jurel's head. Jurel dove sideways, rolled through the mud and stood, bringing his sword up protectively in front of him.

Then he realized his mistake.

His instincts cried out, at the same moment he heard a twang and a whistle.

And time slowed as though mired in viscous mud.

He sidestepped, turning his head toward the whistle that came from behind, saw the arrow approaching, its fletching vibrating and its shaft writhing like a snake with the force of its flight, and in a motion so quick that lightning would have struggled to keep up, he languidly lifted his hand and picked the arrow out of the air as if it were no more than a ripe cherry. He glanced at the archer, saw the face ever so slowly opening in shock.

Time seemed to return to normal, crashing down and around him, jarring him, disorienting, but he let none of that show as he turned to face the thief, scowling with malice and barely tethered violence, brazenly displaying his back to the archer on the roof.

“Want to try that again?”

He hoped his attacker could not hear the thudding of his heart; he was sure that even if the thunderous sound did not draw the man's attention then surely he should be able to see it struggling to escape his chest.

The thief gaped at him, his mouth showing crooked, rotting teeth, and he backed away a step.

“Ow did yer-?” the young man breathed.

Jurel took a step forward, brandishing his sword. He was as stunned as the thief. How indeed, he wondered. He schooled his features, kept the scowl as intact as possible and he raised the arrow, still clenched in his fist. When it was right in front of his face, he tightened his grip. There was a brittle snap and he let the two pieces fall to the ground.

“Answer me,” Jurel grated. “Do you want to try that again?”

“N-no sir,” the thief replied, backing away another step. “I'm sorry, sir. Twon't appen agin, I promise.”

“Jurel? What's the problem?” Kurin called from the front door of the inn.

“Nothing. Just a minor misunderstanding. I think we have reached an agreement though, haven't we?”

In answer, the thief spun and fled, stumbling over his feet in an effort to put as much distance between them as possible. When Jurel searched the rooftops, he was relieved to see that the archer seemed to agree with his cohort.

When he returned to the cart, Kurin was staring at him with an indecipherable expression.

“What?” Jurel snapped, irked by the old man's scrutiny, still discomfited by the arrow that lay in two pieces on the road. The one that he had caught. In mid-flight. Like picking a cherry.

He could not say why these things still surprised him.

“You're just full of surprises, aren't you, young man?”

He ignored the question, contenting himself instead with retrieving his scabbard and reorganizing the packs in the cart. They quickly pulled it around the back of the inn and entered a stable, three walls of uneven wooden planks topped by a sagging thatch roof, and tethered their horse in one of three stalls. The dirt floor was covered in moldy straw and old manure; Jurel wrinkled his nose at the sickly-sweet odor, worried that their horse might fall ill in such dismal conditions.

“Aren't you worried that our things will be stolen?” Jurel asked, after filling a head bag with the last of their remaining oats (not trusting the bin filled with greenish bits that wriggled) and securing it to the mare's head. There was no one about. No stableboy, no guard, no one.