The Summoner (12 page)

“Eventually,” Tris added. He was uncomfortable out in the open. Carroway had altered their appearances, dying Tris’s white‐blond hair an unremarkable shade of brown, and chopping his own fashionable court style into a more common style. Soterius’s hair was lightened to a muddy blond, and Harrtuck had shaved off his beard. Still, there was only so much that the disguises could do to hide them from anyone truly searching.

A commotion erupted, and Tris strained to see more. At least a dozen Nargi priests were clustered around a row of merchants near the wharf, gesturing angrily and shouting in their clipped, staccato language. It was starting to get ugly, as their voices rose and the priests began to ransack the traders’ wares, shouting even louder as they held up goods and shook them for emphasis. Tris took a step closer to get a better look when Harrtuck grabbed his arm and pulled him into an alcove.

“We’ve got trouble, m’boy,” the armsmaster breathed. “Those Margolan guards are back, and they’re coming this way. Don’t turn,” he hissed.

“We’ve got to warn the others.”

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“No time. They’re smart enough to get back to safety,” Harrtuck growled, stepping behind a stack of baskets.

“Those guards aren’t just wandering around, they’re looking for someone,” Tris added, keeping an eye on the three guardsmen, who made their way through the crowd, asking questions. From behind the pile of baskets, Tris watched as the guards approached a woman in a blue robe who nodded as they talked with her and gestured toward where he and Harrtuck had stood moments before. “They’re coming our way.”

“Over here,” Harrtuck rasped, dragging Tris by the sleeve toward Vahanian’s wagon. The large cart overflowed with rolls of Cartelasian rugs and bolts of fine Kourdish silks. With the cart between them and the street, Harrtuck nudged Tris. “Climb in, m’boy,” Harrtuck whispered.

“Unless the guards mean to search every merchant, we can wait for Vahanian here.”

They no sooner burrowed beneath the carpets and silks before the voices of the Nargi priests reached them, even louder and more strident. Chaos erupted as the arguments turned to shouts and stacks of goods crashed to the ground. From their hiding place, Tris and Harrtuck could see little, but the sound of running footsteps pounded closer.

Suddenly, the cart lurched forward, then began to roll faster, straight toward the Margolan guardsmen. Behind them, the angry priests came almost within reach of the cart’s back gate.

“You there, stop!” the guardsmen ordered, but the wagonmaster paid no heed, driving his cart and horse at breakneck speed.

With a cry, the wagonmaster rode straight for the hapless guards, giving them no choice but to throw themselves out of the way or be ridden down. The tangle of angry priests gave chase, plowing past the guardsmen and knocking them back as the desperate priests lunged toward the escaping cart.

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Tris and Harrtuck struggled to hold on as the cart lurched down the rutted street. The rolls of carpet and bolts of silk pummeled them as the wares bounced and shifted. “Hang on!” Harrtuck hissed as the cart cornered on two wheels, spilling some of its precious cargo behind it. The Nargi priests, unable to run any longer, hefted the spilled silks and carpets in the air, still shouting curses and threats.

Heedless of the crowd, the wagon’s driver careened through the streets. “Where is he going?”

Tris managed through clenched teeth as he struggled to hold on. A roll of carpet whacked him in the head from behind as two more slippery bolts of silk slid down on him from the front, burying him. Some of the loose silks flew behind them on the breeze like richly colored flags.

“Don’t know, but he’s riding like the Avenger herself is behind us,” Harrtuck rejoined, struggling for a handhold and being pummeled by falling carpets.

Their driver gave a cry of exultation as the wagon shot out of the city gates and onto the open road. “We’re going to have a long walk back,” Tris muttered, hanging on with all his might, his arms aching from the strain. There was no choice but to stay with the wagon, wherever it was headed, at least until it slowed. Finally, at least a half a candlemark after they left the city, the wagon reduced its breakneck pace, then stopped near a small grove of trees.

“Where are we?” Tris whispered. Harrtuck shrugged. “Do you think he knows we’re here?”

Harrtuck shook his head. “Can’t. Whoever it was wasn’t even in sight when we—”

Just then, a crossbow bolt thudded into the carpet a handsbreadth from Harrtuck’s shoulder.

“I would advise you to move real slowly,” a man drawled. “My aim gets better on the second shot.”

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Harrtuck broke into a broad grin. “By the Whore!” he spat. “That was your best shot,” the armsman rejoined. Tris looked at the soldier as if he were mad, but Harrtuck’s grin broadened further.

“Come out!” the wagonmaster ordered, but Tris could hear a shade less certainty in their captor’s tone. Slowly, hands raised, Tris and Harrtuck pushed off the bolts of silk and rolls of carpets that covered them and stood.

Their captor’s crossbow was notched and leveled at their chests. He was young, perhaps ten seasons Tris’s senior, with chestnut brown hair that fell shoulder length in a neat queue. His dark eyes glinted with a quick intelligence, and his tan spoke of seasons spent outdoors. A scar ran from below his right ear down into his collar. But what struck Tris most was the self‐assurance in the way he held the crossbow, and in the solid, fighter’s stance that told his captives that his marksmanship was no bluff.

“Vahanian?” Tris breathed, his hands still raised in surrender.

“Would you put that toy away, Jonmarc?” Harrtuck groused good‐naturedly. “The blood is running out of my fingertips.”

Jonmarc Vahanian looked at Harrtuck in astonishment for a heartbeat, and then slowly unnotched and lowered his bow. After another instant, a broad, lopsided grin broke across his handsome features. “Harrtuck, you old devil,” he laughed, stepping forward.

Harrtuck embraced him, and slapped him hard on the back. “You’re still alive, Jonmarc,” he greeted. “Business must be good.”

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Vahanian dismissed the remark with a shrug. “You know me, Tov. I get by.”

“Who were your friends back at the marketplace?” Harrtuck asked. “Never saw you near so many priests before in my life. I thought for sure the Crone would strike you dead.”

Vahanian laughed. “I was just getting a friendly lecture from the local, ah, merchants’ guild,” he said, but his expression made it plain that he relished the altercation.

“Since when are priests interested in what you have to offer?” Harrtuck asked skeptically. “Don’t tell me you’ve taken a vocation?” he joked.

Vahanian guffawed. “Not likely, unless it’s with the Dark Lady,” he laughed. “I probably owe her more than a lifetime’s service.” He sobered. “I’ve been running some goods into Nargi,” he added. “Cartelasian carpets and the like.”

Harrtuck stared at him, perplexed. “Why would carpets get a reaction like that from the priests?”

Vahanian stared at the sky in mock innocence. “Couldn’t say. Except that somewhere along the line, someone stuffed the carpet rolls with Mussa silks and Tordassian brandy.”

Tris watched the entire exchange mutely, trying to get a sense of the adventurer‐merchant. If Vahanian had survived smuggling past the Nargi for long, he must certainly be as good as Harrtuck boasted. But if he were as motivated by profit as he appeared, Tris thought with concern, the sizable bounty Jared almost certainly placed by now might win out over any friendship that Harrtuck presumed. He watched the two men banter and tried to relax, but kept 97

one hand close to his sword.

“You haven’t explained yet why you were hiding in my cart, Tov,” Vahanian said.

Harrtuck drew a deep breath. “I’ve got a business proposition for you, Jonmarc. We need a guide.”

Vahanian looked from Harrtuck to Tris and back again. “We?”

“Myself, this young man, and two others,” Harrtuck replied, sidestepping introductions. “We need to go north, to Dhasson.”

“So go,” Vahanian countered. “Lots of people do it without a guide.”

Harrtuck shook his head. “It’s a bit more complicated than that, Jonmarc. You know what the roads north are like come winter, and we’re nearly on the storm season. A guide is the difference between making it through and freezing to death, and I’ve no mind to cheat the Goddess on this one.” He paused. “And there’s another small aspect I haven’t mentioned,” he said slowly. “We’ve got a rather hot cargo to deliver.”

Vahanian grinned. “Now you’re speaking my language.” He frowned. “But Dhasson has open borders. There’s not much to smuggle that they won’t trade openly, besides dreamweed and you know I don’t handle dreamweed.”

Harrtuck fixed him with a hard stare. “I don’t anticipate trouble getting into Dhasson, Jonmarc.

It’s getting out of Margolan,” he said evenly. “And the cargo is human.”

Vahanian looked at Tris with a long, even stare before looking back at Harrtuck. “Say on,” he 98

said, his voice skeptical.

Harrtuck shrugged. “I have three friends who witnessed an indiscretion on the part of a rather important nobleman,” he lied. “They saw him murder another noble. They managed to get away, but the murderer knows they witnessed the crime. He’s placed a bounty to make sure they die before they have the chance to tell the dead man’s friends. The three young men have other plans,” Harrtuck said drolly.

Vahanian’s face was an unreadable mask, and his dark eyes looked skeptical. “Ah, you know you’re a good friend of mine, Toy,” he hedged, a hint of the river patois coming into his voice.

“But I don’t usually run people as cargo for a very good reason. I’m rather fond of my neck.”

“I happen to know for a fact, Jonmarc, that you’ll run anything except slaves and dreamweed for the right price.”

“It would have to be pretty damn high.”

“Twice the bounty, once we reach Dhasson safely,” Harrtuck offered, his scarred, boxer’s face taking on a cagey expression.

Vahanian looked skeptical. “In gold?”

“In gold,” Harrtuck promised.

“And who’s going to be so glad to get these witnesses that he’ll pay such an outrageous sum?”

“King Harrol.”

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Vahanian was silent for a moment and looked hard at Tris as if trying to decode the last few minutes’ conversation. “The king, huh,” he said uncertainly after a pause. “So when you said

‘hot,’ you might have been understating it?” he asked dryly.

“Perhaps just a wee bit,” Harrtuck admitted.

“And how well‐heeled is the noble who wants these two?”

“He’s got an ample treasury,” Harrtuck replied. “Enough to hire scouts and bounty hunters, and pay spies from here to the border.”

“Uh huh,” Vahanian replied. He looked at Harrtuck. “And what’s to keep me from seeing if this noble’s willing to up the ante?” the mercenary asked.

Harrtuck shrugged. “Nothing. Except that he’s got a blood mage keeping him in power and keeping the people under his thumb.” Harrtuck raised his eyes to fix Vahanian’s gaze, and Tris had a feeling that much more was being communicated between the two than what was said.

“The same one you ran into back in Chauvrenne,” he added, his eyes narrowing.

For an instant, before Vahanian’s impassive mask slipped back into place, Tris thought he saw a reaction in the smuggler’s eyes. Vahanian gave another appraising glance at Tris, and then his jaw set. “I don’t like it, Tov, but I’ll do it,”

Vahanian said. “But you knew that before you ever found me.”

Harrtuck grinned. “I suspected, but I didn’t know. You’re a good man, Jonmarc.”

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“I’m a fool in a business where fools die young,” Vahanian snapped. “Don’t forget for a moment that I expect to be paid well.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Jonmarc,” Harrtuck replied blithely. “Now, let’s find a place to stay the night and unhitch this nag of yours so I can ride back to Ghorbal for the other two members of my party.”

When Soterius followed Harrtuck and Carroway into a roadside tavern upriver from Ghorbal, they found Tris waiting with Vahanian. “And this is the last member of the party,” Harrtuck introduced as Soterius joined them. “Ban, former captain of arms for our dubious noble,” he added, with a meaningful glance to Soterius.

Vahanian looked Soterius over with a practiced eye. “Captain of arms, huh,” he said, his voice making it clear that he was not impressed. “You pretty good with that thing?” he said, nodding toward the sword that hung at Soterius’s belt.

Soterius met his gaze and his challenge. “I didn’t get to be captain by accident,” he replied levelly. “I could outfight any of my men, and they were all trained by a master.”

“Uh huh,” Vahanian replied, looking away distractedly, as if he had already reached his conclusions. “Well, I’m your guide now, which

means you’re paying me to get you to Dhasson alive, so it’s my rules.” He turned back toward the fire. “Rule number one, kill the bastard or get the hell out of the way.”

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Soterius bristled, but a warning glance from Harrtuck tempered his reply. “And rule number two?” he asked, not attempting to hide the insolence in his tone.

Vahanian glanced back at him with a hint of wry amusement. “Give me plenty of leg room,” he replied cryptically.

“Who does that guy think he is?” Soterius muttered later, when he and Tris headed up the stairs together toward their rooms.

Tris chuckled. “Apparently Harrtuck thinks Vahanian’s opinion of himself is deserved,” Tris said, amused at Soterius’s reaction. “For what Harrtuck agreed to pay him, it had better be.”

They entered the room that the five of them had paid extra to have for themselves, and Soterius nodded toward Vahanian, who was looking out the window onto the street below. “How much did Harrtuck tell him?” he asked in a whisper.

“Not much,” Tris replied. “Gave him the basic story, left a few things out. Offered to pay him twice the bounty once we reach the palace at Dhasson alive. So Vahanian knows we’re hot, but not who we are.”

“Or quite how hot,” Soterius added, looking toward the fighter once more. “Do you trust him?”