The Summoner (11 page)

Her gaze turned once more on Tris. “You must defeat Arontala. You must find a way to destroy completely the soul of the Obsidian King. All hope rests with you, my child.” And before he could ask her any of the questions that echoed in his mind, the apparition vanished, and with it, the dream, leaving him startled and awake, chilled with sweat.

The fire was out, and a light frost clung to the ground. But the morning cold was not the only reason for the chill Tris felt. Never in his life had a dream felt so real. Tris realized he was shaking, and let out a breath that misted in the morning air.

While Carroway rounded out the last watch, Tris gathered wood and rebuilt the fire. The chill of the dream had still not left him, and he could hear Bava K’aa’s voice ringing in his ears.

Gratefully, he accepted a cup of the strong hot drink Harrtuck brewed over the fire.

“We’re not too far from the last place I’d heard Vahanian was doing business,” Harrtuck said, leaning against a tree, his face wreathed with the steam that rose from his mug. What the ghosts at the inn had not left for them, Harrtuck had obtained at the last village. The goods were minimal, but more than sufficient to keep body and soul together until better could be earned.

Tris stretched, more saddle‐sore than he had been in his life, ruefully becoming aware that a prince’s life during peacetime made one painfully out of training.

Harrtuck noticed his discomfort and flashed him a wicked grin. “Give it a week, Tris,” he chuckled. “You’ll harden up.” Tris took cold comfort that even Soterius looked stiff and sore.

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Harrtuck, however, seemed none the worse for the past.few days’ adventures though he was a dozen years older than Tris and his friends, tribute to hard years on the road with the king’s army.

“Why would Vahanian agree to be our guide?” Soterius asked, seating himself slowly by the fire and gratefully accepting the warmed rations Harrtuck dispensed. Soterius looked more dour than Tris could recall, and kept a bit more distance.

“Because we’re going to pay him, for one thing,” Harrtuck replied. “Because he owes me a few rather large favors, for another.”

“Large enough to die for? We’re rather dangerous to know these days.”

Harrtuck shrugged. “I wasn’t planning to announce who you were when we were introduced, if that’s what you mean. Vahanian’s used to running questionable cargo. There are things you ask, and things you don’t. It won’t be the first time he’s run contraband that could get him killed.” He paused. “I know you don’t care for hired swords, Soterius, but sometimes, they’re a necessary evil. And Jonmarc Vahanian can be trusted. That’s more than can be said for some.”

“He’ll probably want us to travel with a caravan, at least part of the way,” Harrtuck went on, chewing at a piece of roasted meat. “Most caravans are always looking for hired swords. Good mercenaries don’t want to wander around waiting for action with a bunch of rug merchants, and since even wealthy caravans pay less than noble Houses, what swordsmen a caravan gets usually leave as soon as they’ve gotten a little experience.”

“Hired swords, huh,” Tris replied skeptically.

“Not such a bad life, given the alternatives,” Harrtuck replied, pausing to sip his steaming drink.

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“Your meals are free, for one thing. That’s nice when you’re out on your own. And caravans are full of interesting types,” he added dryly.

“It will make for a little slower progress than traveling alone,” Harrtuck continued, “but we won’t be as clear a target. Jared’s likely to guess that you’ll head for your uncle’s kingdom, and he’ll send people to look for you. As part of the caravan, you’ll have safety in numbers. And if you can keep the bandits away, it’s not a bad way to see real life in the kingdoms,” Harrtuck added, finishing his drink and setting it aside on a stump. “That might be most interesting to you, my prince.”

It was true, Tris thought. He knew little of the common life. He had had the classic royal training, fostered out to his uncle’s for several years in his teens, been coached and prodded by a herd of tutors and advisors. But of the people themselves, he knew little. It might, as Harrtuck said, be interesting indeed.

“At least, that’s what I think he’ll recommend,” Harrtuck said, stretching. “But with Vahanian, who knows?”

“So where do we find this legendary adventurer?” Soterius asked acidly.

Harrtuck shrugged. “Well, that’s the hard part. Last I heard, he was trading near Ghorbal, on the river. We’ll start there. Of course, there’s no guarantee he’s still there.” He spat. “Hell, there’s no guarantee he’s still alive.”

“That’s a day’s ride, at least,” Soterius objected.

“Most likely,” Harrtuck agreed. “But it’s in the right general direction, so if we can’t find him, we’ll have lost no time.”

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“Sounds reasonable to me,” Tris replied.

“I’m for anything that raises our chances of making it north alive,” Carroway put in. “I’ve got far too many ideas for stories to die just yet.”

Ghorbal was a thriving small city, at the crossroads of the main routes between Margolan, Principality, the river and roads east through Eastmark and Nargi. Caravans made Ghorbal their resupply stop before heading north into the very profitable territories of Principality, or to unload the “unorthodox” supplies banned by the sour‐faced Nargi priests before heading into the eastern theocracy. A thriving black market existed in the Nargi borderlands near Ghorbal, where knowing the right people and paying the right bribe made it safer for smugglers to double their profits by moving contraband into the unfriendly kingdom. Further south, the river was watched by Nargi garrisons, and traders foolish enough to venture past those borders never returned.

The Tordassian Mountains lay between Ghorbal and Principality to the north, a place of treacherous passes and dark forests. That combination had served to discourage unwanted incursions from its northern neighbor, though the gems and gold of Principality and the wealthy markets of Eastmark drew intrepid traders despite the hardship. A major trade route wound north just above Ghorbal, to the best river crossing into Dhasson in over a month’s ride, and through the passes into Principality with its rich mines and then to Eastmark’s fabled court. That made Ghorbal a popular supply outpost. The Nargi, on the eastern banks of the Nu River downstream and to the east of Ghorbal, had no official interest in Ghorbal’s wares, though smugglers found the northern border of Nargi to be a profitable market—trade to which Margolan patrols turned a blind eye. Although patrols were frequent south of Ghorbal along the river border with Nargi, above Ghorbal, they were few, leaving the flatland to the traders and the mountains to the outlaws.

Ghorbal nestled in a curve of the Nu River’s largest tributary. The Nu was the wide, swift trade artery for points south and west. Although further north the Nu would become wild and nearly 88

unnavigable, between Ghorbal and the Southern Sea, it was a trader’s dream.

They left their horses tethered in a copse on the northern side of the city, as a precaution, Harrtuck explained, which permitted them to make their way through the city on foot and have a ready escape should one be needed. Ghorbal stretched out across the river plains, a tumble of low, white buildings and vast open market areas. They could hear its bustle even before they entered the city, and the morning air smelled of horses and incense, market animals and cooking meat.

“Busy place,” Soterius observed as they squeezed between a trader leading a loaded cart and an obese merchant with a donkey laden with Cartelasian rugs.

“Keep your wits about you,” Harrtuck warned under his breath. “Ghorbal is not a place for the timid.”

“Great,” Carroway muttered. He glanced around, then brightened as he saw a minstrel performing not far away. “On the other hand,” he added, not taking his eyes from the bard, “this might not be such a bad place after all.”

“Assuming Vahanian is even here,” Tris asked, uneasy in the press of people, “Where is he likely to be?” Although Carroway had reapplied the dark dye, which masked his white‐blond hair, Tris still felt vulnerable, as if the four of them stood out in the crowd, an easy mark. The sooner they left Ghorbal, the happier he would be.

Harrtuck shrugged. “Might not even be in town any more, for all I know. He doesn’t make his money standing still,” he chuckled. “Actually, given the ways he’s made his money, he doesn’t stay alive standing still.” The older man stopped to get his bearings. “Been a while since I’ve been in Ghorbal,” he rasped, looking around. “But there are two good places to start. One’s the marketplace, just over that way,” he said, gesturing north. “And the other’s the Dragon’s Bane 89

Inn, over in the East Quarter,” he added.

“Where do we start?” Soterius questioned.

“We start with both,” Harrtuck replied. “You and Carroway head for the Inn. There won’t be anything remarkable about a soldier and a minstrel going to the Bane, unless they arrive together,” he said, glancing skeptically at Carroway. “Separate, but stay in sight of each other.

Soterius, you follow Carroway. Carroway, keep your eyes open.

“Tris and I will head for the market. We’ll rendezvous back at the horses at dusk. This may take a few days,” Harrtuck warned. “If you find Vahanian, tell him Harrtuck has an offer for him and tell him that there’s gold in it for him,” he added with a grin.

“We just walk into the Inn and ask for him?” Carroway asked, perplexed.

Harrtuck raised an eyebrow. “There’s few in Ghorbal don’t know Jonmarc Vahanian, for good or bad. Those at the Inn were rather fond of him, last I knew, since he paid his bills and didn’t often break the place up.”

“Sounds like a great guy,” Soterius muttered.

Harrtuck ignored the comment. “Time’s wasting, boys,” the armsman growled. “Wouldn’t be surprised if Jared’s sent troops as far east as this, looking.”

“This just keeps getting better and better,” Carroway replied darkly, as he and Soterius headed off for the Inn.

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The closer Tris and Harrtuck got to the market, the tighter the press of bodies became in the winding streets of the city. Finally, the streets opened on to a large market area, a forest of vendors’ carts, flags waving with pictures of their wares, smelling of leather and spices and roasting meat. All around them, vendors haggled with patrons, their voices rising. Other merchants hawked their wares, calling out to passers‐by and holding up their goods for inspection. The cacophony of voices mingled with the clatter of carts and the staccato of hoof beats. From somewhere in the market, the sound of a minstrel rose above the din.

“Where do we look?” Tris asked, uneasy in the crowd.

Harrtuck shrugged. “Could be anywhere. Might not be here at all. If the fates are fair, he’s in a Nargi prison. Or dead from a bad business deal,” he added.

“What does he look like?” Tris asked, scanning the crowd, his senses at high alert.

Harrtuck shrugged once more. “You’d guess he’s good with a sword by his walk. He’s a Borderlander by birth, but he’s spent enough time on the river that he can speak their jabber like a native. Dark hair, dark eyes,” Harrtuck continued. “Can charm birds out of the sky, but more often than not, he can’t leave well enough alone and annoys the hell out of someone.”

Tris looked out over the crowded marketplace. None of the merchants he could see came close to Vahanian’s description. Too old, too tall, too heavy. They searched the marketplace for over three candlemarks, but each time Harrtuck emerged from a trader’s stall, he shook his head.

“Thinks he saw him a fortnight ago, hasn’t seen him since,” Harrtuck reported from his last enquiry, and rubbed his chin where his beard ought to be. “The last one I talked to said he saw him just last week. I think we need to find a place to stay the night. It sounds like Jonmarc comes through here regularly, so if we don’t find him today, we might be luckier tomorrow.”

Tris frowned. “Unless the Margolan guards catch up with us in the meantime.”

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Harrtuck shrugged. “Possible. But there are a lot of roads out of Margolan. More than a few roads north don’t come through Ghorbal. And unless the entire army is looking, it will take them a while to look in all the villages along the way. Besides, it’s the best plan we’ve got.”

“I know,” Tris replied nervously, “but it doesn’t mean I like it.”

On the second day, they worked their way down more of the narrow, winding streets of Ghorbal. On a tip, they lingered for two candle‐marks near the entrance to a silk merchant’s warehouse where the man said he thought he saw Vahanian just that morning. But before anyone emerged from the warehouse, Tris spotted three guards in the livery of Margolan on horseback.

“We’ve got company,” he whispered to Harrtuck. They retreated into an alehouse until the guardsmen moved on, but the encounter made Tris feel even more vulnerable.

“We’re not going to be able to wait here forever,” he murmured to Harrtuck, as they sat in the shade of a kerif vendor’s shop and sipped the hot, bitter drink while they watched passers‐by.

“Patience,” Harrtuck counseled. “He’s here. I’m sure of it. He’s got his own reasons to lay low.

But there are too many people who’ve spotted him recently. He’ll be back.”

They repeated their inquiries the next several days, piecing together more clues about Vahanian’s movements. Finally, on the seventh day since their arrival in Ghorbal, Harrtuck veered toward the stall of a rug merchant who was hawking his wares in the thick river patois of the Cartelasian traders.

Tris hung back, watching for any sign that he and Harrtuck might be attracting undue interest. So far, the traders and buyers seemed intent on their business, unfazed by a few more strangers 92

among them.

“We’re looking for a trader,” Harrtuck began, but once he lapsed into the unintelligible patois, Tris could not follow his conversation. After a few minutes, he returned to where Tris stood, and planted his hands on his hips.

“Well, he says that wagon over there belongs to Vahanian, but he hasn’t seen him around all morning,” Harrtuck said, gesturing to a sturdy wagon filled with bolts of cloth. The wagon was still hitched to a strong horse, tethered near the entrance to three branching side streets. Just the right spot for a quick getaway, Tris thought. “So assuming he hasn’t been hauled in by the authorities, if we keep his wagon in sight, we should find him.”