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THE COMPOUND OUTSIDE the station lacked the militarized look of its counterpart in Springfield. Since the Alvehn had placed Adrathea under their protection before that world came to the attention of the Moj, there was no need. This is now true of our Earth, of course, but after what we went through, people are understandably reluctant to lower their guard. The Alvehn get this. Patient folk, the Alvehn.
Instead, the town that had grown around the station, called Westla, looked like a cross between a railroad switching yard and a shopping mall. The building style looked like something out of early Edwardian England (I had to look that up), meaning the part that had money. It was as beautiful as Springfield was well-armed, with landscapes dominated by shady trees and flowering shrubs. The buildings were a mix of inns, shops, and other purveyors of services often needed by travelers. Those who lived there for the most part lived in upstairs apartments. At the center of it all was the rail station, something I’d known was going to be built, but hadn’t seen yet. Same style of architecture, but big and hollow, according to Trey. The lines from Morvain on the coast to the interior and those pushing north and south all met here.
“I like what they’ve done with the place,” I said. “Progress as promised.”
Trey laughed quietly and gestured toward the stables maintained for the Rip station proper, and we headed that way. “It wasn’t seen as such by all involved,” he said.
“Let me guess. The Caravan Guild?” I glanced around, realizing as I did that the caravan gathering grounds I’d known had truly vanished without a trace, with buildings where tents and wagons had been.
“We try very hard to be sensitive to lifeways, when we uplift an arrested world,” he said. “But any change that increases a culture’s efficiency has — unavoidable consequences.” He made a gesture of capitulation with his hands. “By keeping the speed down, we minimized the impact, though the reduction in use of animals caused some dislocation.”
“Outriders,” I said.
He laughed again and said, “Actually, no. These conveyances do not travel much faster than a horse trots, and the Tribes on the Plains have not uniformly accepted the truce with Morva, so outriders are still necessary. The Caravaner’s Guild has actually survived.”
“The Daylin tribes are still a problem?”
“It remains a test for their young warriors, to go up against a caravan.” He grimaced and shook his head. We’d reached the stables and paused just outside for a moment. “The raids are infrequent and usually amount to no more than making the point that they can still do such things. People are often hurt, but rarely killed, and they no longer indulge in abductions. The fear of bringing the Sky Guard down upon them remains strong.”
“Sky Guard’s gone, you said.”
“Awareness of this hadn’t settled in, when last I was here, and gryphons are still seen hunting over the plains, harvesting the auroch herds.” Trey opened the gate and led the way through. “The update I received upon arrival includes reports that some of them bear riders, still. So the Tribes play it safe. Bandits, on the other hand...”
“When the cat’s away,” I muttered. I didn’t ask about the update; it had been downloaded into Trey as we came through the Rip. He’d brief me as needed as we traveled.
“Indeed.”
One of the more appalling aspects of human nature is the ability of certain humans to quickly take advantage of a bad situation. I’ve seen it on every altearth I’ve ever visited, without exception.
“I’m glad to hear the Caravan Guild is still in operation,” I said. “They tended to be good people.”
“That could still be said of them when I was here before. Indeed, they have been recruiting new members as the risk of travel increases, but it remains difficult to qualify.” Trey led me into the stables, where we were diverted by the task of obtaining our rides.
Both horses were basic brown, though Trey’s had a bit of a white blaze on its forehead. Adrathean horses, of which these two were fairly standard examples, are splendid animals. Stuck in their state of arrested development, unable to safely employ more than very modest steam technology, the Adratheans have responded by domesticating dreyfts for air travel and becoming masters in the art and science of horse breeding. The colors of our mounts may not have been striking, but in all their other characteristics — well, the average thoroughbred would hang its head in shame. Secretariat was little more than a pony by comparison.
Not that these animals had heroic proportions, you understand. They were just damned good horses, and something in their bearing gives you the clear impression that they know it. The breed used by the Alvehn who maintain the Rip Station are especially fast and possess enormous endurance. I took an immediate liking to the gelding they led out to me, and he seemed pleased enough with his two-legged partner. Trey never has a problem with horses.
It was mid-morning when we saddled up and set out. We rode past the rail station and found a solar rail just starting the long westward journey to the capital of the Tylian Province, a city called Daylis. This thing wasn’t a train the way we think of it. It was a string of coaches of various lengths, some of them double-decker, all of them resembling boxcars on the rail lines of my world. No two coaches were decorated in the same way. The entire string — I counted fourteen coaches — rode quietly along a pair of narrow-gauge rails. Each coach had its own solar-powered electric motor, so there was no ‘engine’ up front. In its place was the lead coach of the rail master, as Trey explained.
“Once upon a time known as the caravan master,” I guessed aloud.
“Just so,” Trey replied. “The outriders departed this morning to make sure the rail is secure. When the train stops for the night, the riders will be waiting for it.”
“They stop for the night?” I asked. “What, no batteries?”
“In time,” said Trey. “And perhaps soon. But this is enough of a departure from the old ways for now.”
I just nodded and we turned our horses toward the road. The Alvehn never rush these matters, and give the cultures they boost generations in which to adjust. It might sound inefficient, but Trey’s folk have been doing this for millennia. I don’t second- guess that level of experience. Well, I usually don’t.
Edren second-guessed the policy long ago and dismissed it, which was what led to him going rogue.
The well-traveled and well-maintained road to the coast and the capital city of Morvain looked as it had when last I’d ridden it, though many years had passed. Like most of the major roads in the area it was paved, and had been on my last visit. On other worlds this would be rough on horses’ hooves, but Adrathean horse breeders and farriers had taken care of that. I suppose if I’d paid close enough attention I might have noticed differences in the heights of trees. Instead of such a careful examination, I just enjoyed the peaceful countryside as we rode through the alternating woodlands and open areas, the latter often populated by herds of cattle and sheep. Being pre-industrial, the world and its air are clean, and my misgivings were soon drowned by fresh air.
I was taking a deep breath and enjoying it when I saw them, half a dozen winged shapes that clearly were not birds, high overhead. I reached down into my battered leather satchel and fished out my small but powerful binoculars. A moment later I’d focused the image, and whistled. “Gryphons,” I said.
Trey was looking up, shading his eyes with one hand. “I see them. There are six.”
“Flight pattern makes me think they’re searching for something,” I said. “They aren’t Guardians, though. No riders.”
“They’re a long way from the mountains,” Trey said. “That’s become unusual. Or it was, before I left.”
“A lot can happen in a couple of years.”
Trey grunted and looked down. “Nothing of note in the update I received, regarding gryphons abroad.”
“They’ve moved on.” I wrapped up the binoculars and put them back in my bag.
Trey and I talked as we rode, and he filled me in on some of the changes to expect, using that update he’d received. We paused at noon at a deserted travelers’ rest to stretch our legs and eat some of the food we’d packed, drinking from a cold spring bubbling from the hillside. The shelter — a ramada with movable wall panels and a fire pit — was in good repair, but hadn’t been used recently.
“That’s odd,” I said, having remarked upon this. “It’s the only paved road through the coastal plain from Westla.”
“That is unusual,” Trey agreed. “It’s been two years, though, and they were starting to report acts of banditry even then. The lesser roads through this area are not much used. I expect traffic on the rail line, which is well defended by the Guild, has increased substantially.”
“Security in numbers,” I said. “And such things do tend to grow worse, in time, not better, if the cause is not addressed.”
“It would seem nothing has been done,” Trey agreed with a nod. “Edren is unlikely to do anything that constructive, since unrest of any sort plays into his hands.”
“Keep them fearful,” I muttered. “Oldest trick in the book.”
So on we rode, down through the hills around the Rip Station and into the flat, coastal plain, long since a well-ordered mosaic of towns and cultivated land. The place reminded me of rural England. The road would take us to Morvain, but it was more than a one-day journey and rather than rush — which might have drawn undue attention — we took our time, with the intention of spending the night in a town named Kalerain. It’s an old community, still surrounded by a defensive wall built in a more violent age. Unlike larger cities in Morva, there were only a few businesses or residences built outside the wall. One such structure appeared to have been damaged by fire. We came to the place about an hour before sunset, and to Trey’s great surprise the gates were closed.
“That’s not normal,” I said, remembering past visits.
“No,” he said. “And it wasn’t the case the last time I was here.”
I looked back over my shoulder at the damaged building. “Does seem there’s been some trouble, recently.”
We approached the gate and were hailed by a voice from the watchtower that loomed over it. “Welcome! May we know your names and your business with Kalerain?” The voice was cordial enough, though I couldn’t help noticing the rifles aimed at us from that very same tower.
“I am Ibor Vanak of the Alvehn,” Trey replied, raising his voice slightly. “My companion is Dafe Warez, who is in the service of the Alvehn. Our business is to spend the night and go on to Morvain early in the morning.”
“You may enter.” A moment later there was a dull thump on the far side of the gate. The gates opened outward, pushed apart by two stout lads wearing light armor that, like the road, hadn’t changed in style during my absence. Their kit made them look something like Spanish conquistadors. Each had an old-fashioned dart musket slung over his back. They pushed the halves of the gate open far enough for us to ride in single-file, and then waved us in. I followed Trey, and as I urged my horse up even with his, a city guard with graying hair trotted down the steps to greet us. When the gates were closed again, a sign from him sent the lads up the stairs and into the tower.
“We were surprised to see the gates closed so early,” Trey said.
“Well, these are dark times, and growing darker.” Like the lads, he wore armor, though he didn’t bother with a helmet. He gave a little bow and said, “I am Ellis, Captain of the Kalerain Guard, such as it is.” He nodded toward the closed gate. “Never used to bar that before sundown. Ha, never used to close it at all. But we’ve been given good reason for caution. Had some rough folk show up one night. Now we’re very careful who we let in. No one enters after the sun sets.”
“If things are that bad,” said Trey, “I’m surprised only the three of you keep watch.”
“It’ll be all of four, during the night. Two on, two off, by turns.” Ellis grimaced. “First the Sky Guard is disbanded, and then the Regent tightened the purse, leaving towns like ours to fend for themselves. If we want guards, the town pays for ‘em. And trade isn’t as brisk as it was when I was a boy.”
“Is the Hammer and Shield still in business?” Trey asked.
“Aye, eight generations of that family and managing to hold on,” the Captain replied. “Quiet as things are, you’ll find accommodations available, I’m sure. Not so many on the road, of late.”
“Thanks, good Captain,” said Trey.
“We will indeed be at the Hammer and Shield tonight,” I said. “Tomorrow we’ll ride on. But if, in the night, we might be of assistance, send someone to fetch us.”
The Captain grinned up at me and said, “Many thanks, friend. And let’s all pray you have a restful night.”
Inward from the gate, things appeared quite normal. The main street took us straight to the center of the town, which like so many others in Morva was arranged in concentric circles. Inside the wall were warehouses, smithies, and cheaper residences, usually pretty run-down in the best of times. These were accompanied by the sort of pubs and flop houses you’d expect. We left that zone behind without inspection. The middle, broader belt was a maze of streets paved in brick, lined by modest homes that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a film version of either a play by Shakespeare or a novel by Dickens, depending on the neighborhood. It was a patchwork of neighborhoods, some older, some much older. There hadn’t been much new construction within the old walls of Kalerain in at least a few generations. Near the center of the town were a ring of mansions, then municipal buildings, and finally the better shops, pubs, and inns to be found in the heart of any old Morvan town. There were people out and about, but given the fine evening we had going for us, far too few. For the heart of a prosperous-looking Morvan town, it was too damned quiet.
We rode halfway around the fountain in the very center of town. Bioluminescent glow lamps on stout poles were being uncovered, pale blue and silver, and the people out and about dressed in styles that looked kind-of-sort-of Victorian, very different from what I’d seen last time around. Some things do change, of course, even on an arrested world.
On the far side of the familiar fountain was an equally familiar sight, the three-story inn known as the Hammer and Shield. I’m told it was established by a retired member of the Sky Guard a very long time ago, a warrior who wielded a war hammer and round shield, both depicted on the old wooden shingle swinging over the double-door entrance.
The place hadn’t changed much. The inn was old when I first walked through its doors, and had grown much older since then. But the family handing it down, one generation to the next, had treated it well. The wood and stone construction was well-tended, the windows were clean, and the flower boxes were overflowing with something that looked a lot like geraniums to my inexperienced eye. A handsome building that I remembered being a comfortable and classy way station for the weary traveler.
The interior layout, past the largely empty cloak and boot room, was a bit different from what I remembered. The bar was still opposite the door, with the entry to the kitchen near the left hand end — my left. There were now two fireplaces, one on each side of the common room. A stairway with a sturdy banister rose from the corner of the room to the right of the bar and led to the upper floors. The wooden tables were a mix of rounds and rectangles, with longer tables near the fireplaces. Only one fire burned, but all the glow lamps were uncovered. The beams supporting the ceiling were dark and solid-looking. It all looked just fine, and yet something felt very wrong. And that was because of the people in the common room.
There were people seated at three of the tables near the center of the room. Two of the three were occupied by four men each, none of them characters I’d have turned my back on. The innkeeper was behind the bar filling mugs of ale, which were then delivered by a rather nervous-looking young fellow to one set of four; he’d apparently already served the others. No one spoke. It was still quiet enough that you could hear the crackle of every flame in the hearth. A lone woman sat at the third table.
They tried not to let it show, but the collective attention of the men in the room was on the woman, who sat alone at a small, round table. Considering what I’d been hearing about the ways of the world at that time, it was a bit of a surprise at first to see an unescorted woman in the common room of an inn. Unless, of course, she was a prostitute, and a single glance made it plain she was nothing of the sort. She wore the clothing of a traveler long on the road, metal-reinforced leathers and linen that had no loose ends or tassels, and tall, well-worn boots. The manner of dress was something I’d seen before, and marked her as someone from the Isles of Wulde. There was a sword propped against her table. Her bearing, as she calmly watched us walk in, told me she knew how to use that sword. Definitely someone who could take care of herself on the road.
Some of these boys, I guessed from the way they carefully and oh-so-casually looked at her, had a death wish.
She looked up at us when we entered, her face betraying no tension, no apprehension, though the look in her eyes clearly showed we were being carefully examined and assessed. Light brown hair that had clearly seen some sunshine was braided and the long, thick braid dangled over her left breast. Over the center of her chest was an elegant crystal hung from a silver chain. Half of it had a silvery gleam, the other was a rich, deep blue. Her clothing didn’t advertise her gender, but neither did she attempt to appear anything other than a woman. Even seated, I got the impression she was almost as tall as I am. She was eating a simple meal of meat, bread, ale, and cheese, with a bowl of apples untouched before her. The abilities of fighters from the Islands were known to me. I made eye contact and held my sword hand open toward her for just a moment, a sign that I recognized her, one fighter to another, but that I would draw no steel against her. Beside me, Trey did the same. She gave us the tiniest nod of acknowledgment, then returned her attention to her meal.
If the men in the room had any clue of what passed between us, they didn’t react visibly. We went to the bar and while Trey set things up with the innkeeper, I leaned on the bar and watched the room. If anyone else made eye contact, I gave them a polite nod. That didn’t happen often.
The boy was sent out to see to our horses and gear; we’d only brought shoulder bags containing personal items in with us. The innkeeper also instructed the boy to ready a room for us. That he seemed to have only one employee available added to the sense of things being askew.
We went to a table that put us between the table of four men and the Islander. Trey bowed to her before he sat and she acknowledged him with a polite nod. No one was much surprised by an Alvehn showing up, not with the Rip station only a day away. We unbuckled our swords and leaned them against the table, in order to sit comfortably. The innkeeper himself brought two full mugs, muttering something about being shorthanded due to his wife being “indisposed.” There was sweat beading up on his brow. It wasn’t that warm in the common room.
“Kinda quiet in here,” said one of the four men at the table beside us.
“I did notice that,” Trey replied. “But the sun has not yet set and it is midweek. Perhaps when more folk are done with their day’s work and join us, it will be a livelier place.”
“Maybe so,” said a second man. “Maybe so.” And laughed, which drew a glare from the first fellow; I identified that one as the leader, and was sure of this the moment he spoke again.
“See, the thing is, this is a private party, so to speak.” His eyes shifted to the Islander and one eyebrow rose. “So I’m wonderin’ if you’ll join the dance or stay outa the way?”
Oh, for crissakes... Was all I had time to think.
“We will join it,” said Trey. There was suddenly a short blade in his hand, but only for the blink of an eye. It flew and flashed and vanished into the shadows above the stairwell, from which a thin scream of pain immediately came.
Everyone was up. I didn’t bare my blade, and neither did Trey or the woman. The melee was brief and brutal. Low blows and sucker punches, kidney shots and kneecaps; these were street thugs, not trained warriors, so I wasn’t looking for any style points. They went down and stayed down. We turned to assist the Islander just in time to see the last man standing go down, felled by a low blow delivered by her sheathed sword. All the would-be gang rapists were all on the floor, either unconscious or too busy trying to breathe to make any difference.
The woman faced us and drew a breath to speak, when we heard the innkeeper say, “No! Please!”
We’d missed one, and he was in the room near the door to the kitchen, a young blond woman held before him by one of her arms, twisted cruelly behind her back. His other hand held a long knife to her throat.
Like the Islander, I’d used my sheathed sword as a blunt instrument, and still held it in my left hand. I reached for the hilt and the Alvehn weapon leaped into my hand. I drew it clear of the scabbard, which I let drop to the floor, and took two steps toward the thug and his hostage. The naked Alvehn steel gleamed wickedly in the lamp and firelight, humming audibly, as if eager to take a bite out of the bastard.
“Don’t!” the thug shouted, his voice shaky as his eyes flicked around at the carnage we’d committed, then locked on my sword. “Drop your swords, or I’ll...”
“If I see one drop of blood, one scratch, one goddamned welt,” I told him, “in the next moment you will be on the floor surrounded by your own guts. I’ll let you have a good look at them before I take your head.” I took another step forward. “Kill her, and I won’t be that merciful.”
I didn’t have to tell him to let her go. He let the knife fall to the floor with a clatter and froze, seeing that I was too close for any attempt at escape. The woman lunged away, then turned to face him. His eyes never left my blade, so he didn’t realize until too late that the innkeeper had vaulted the bar. The keeper plowed into the thug feet first, taking him down so hard the bad guy’s head hit the floor with a crack that made me wince.
I sheathed my sword. “That’s more like it,” I said.
There were footstep from outside, and suddenly the boy was back with the captain of the guard and one of his lads, both with swords drawn. They stopped abruptly and stared around at the broken tables and chairs and lamps on the floor, and the bodies of unconscious thugs.
“I’m not even going to ask,” said Captain Ellis. He turned to the guardsman with him and said, “Round up some sturdy folk and haul these idiots off to the lockup. In the morning we’ll figure out what to do with the ones who wake up.”
“There’s one on the stairs with my knife in him,” Trey said. “I would appreciate the return of the knife.”
“Of course,” said the Captain. He looked at me and shook his head wearily. “They’re not locals. Claimed to be on their way to Westla to join a caravan.”
“I’ve seen some of these faces before,” said the Islander. “They followed me as soon as I landed in Morva. I am from the Isles of Wulde, and you’ve surely heard the tales. That the blood of Island warriors can be used in a potion that makes a man immortal? Though I doubt my blood would have been the first thing taken.”
“That old horseshit?” I said. “People still pass that one around?”
“In truth,” said the Captain. “I have heard it said. Foolish tales from drunken idiots.” Men were arriving and carting away the unconscious or disabled. I couldn’t tell if any of them were actually dead.
The innkeeper and the young lady — and I only noticed then that he couldn’t have been more than twenty years old himself — said something to the Captain as they made their way toward us. Ellis nodded, patted the innkeeper on the shoulder, and went outside. The lad just sort of lingered, staring around at the mess, owl-eyed.
“I’m sorry it came to this,” the innkeeper said to the Islander, wringing his hands together in embarrassment. “They came in before anyone else, except the boy here.”
“You could hardly have prevented anything,” said the Islander. She stared at the innkeeper’s wife. “You are unharmed, I hope?”
She nodded, eyes brimming with tears. “They didn’t do anything to me.” She made the sign of the Two, the God and Goddess worshiped by most Adratheans.
“Good.” The Islander returned the gesture, touching her forehead, then her heart, before holding her hand out briefly palm up.
I looked at the innkeeper. “Nice take-down, by the way. I think you cracked the bastard’s skull.”
The man looked abashed. “It was nothing compared with what the three of you did. God and Goddess, it was like something out of one of the old tales!”
“Funny how the old tales leave out any mention of the mess,” I said, looking around.
The innkeeper actually laughed. “Compared with what might have happened here tonight? I’ll take the mess and call it a bargain.”
Word of the incident had evidently spread, for people began to pour into the common room, all of them apparently known to the proprietor. In the sudden babble of voices I caught enough to understand that much. One of them, a stout fellow from the bakery next door, still wearing a flour-dusted apron, started ordering people around, and soon an ad-hoc damage control party was at work cleaning up. Broken tables and chairs were hauled out, replacements were brought from the back and from a neighboring tavern, and brooms were wielded with quick efficiency. Neighbors coming to the aid of neighbors, and not asking the cost. It was a healthy counterpoint to what we’d just encountered.
Somewhere in all this one of the young lads working for the Captain appeared, returned the knife to Trey, and disappeared. So did the knife.
We were taken to a table near the hearth that burned, and resupplied with wine, ale, and food. Trey and I raised our cups to the Islander, who sat across from us with her back to the fire. “Gentlemen, your assistance was very much appreciated,” she said, answering our salute.
“Though hardly necessary from what I saw,” Trey replied.
She laughed briefly and said, “You saved me some time.” Then a sober look came to her brown eyes. “By myself it would not have been a sure thing, and it may have been necessary to draw my blade against them. There would have been deaths, which by the Wuldan Codes, I must avoid when I can. Your intervention made a difference, believe me. And I am Sidraytha Condor Voriss.” Sidraytha made the sign of the Two again.
Trey looked around, seemed satisfied no one was close enough to overhear at that moment, then gave me a look with one eyebrow raised. I nodded in agreement. “I am Treyvar Olvanak en Alvehn,” he said, keeping his voice quiet.
“I’m David Render,” I said. “I’m — not from around here.”
“Daffyd the Outworlder?” She asked, keeping her voice down to a near whisper. One eyebrow arched, a look that could have meant surprise or skepticism. “That’s a name of legend.”
My first name just sounds that way when pronounced by Adratheans. It’s the accent, I suppose.
“Legend,” I said to Trey. “Now I’m a legend?”
“I need to be away longer,” Trey muttered.
“Absence does make the heart grow fonder.”
“They say you only come back from the dead in dark times.” Sidraytha drank, peering at me over the rim of her mug.
“Not true,” I replied. “I’ve never actually died. Yet.”
She lowered the mug for a moment and laughed. “An important distinction, though the legend contradicts you."
“Oh, I’m as mortal as you are,” I assured her, then drank some ale and added, “Time is — different, where I come from. It, ah, doesn’t match the flow of time on this world. And, please, just call me David. I hate formality.”
“I shall,” and she smiled again. That smile utterly transformed an otherwise stern face into one of considerable beauty. “My friends call me Sid.”
“You seem to accept our identities,” said Trey.
Sid indicated me with her mug. “How many of my race wield an Alvehn blade?”
“Good point.”
“What brings you to the mainland?” I asked Sid as we continued our meal.
“Two things,” she replied. “First and foremost, it was time for me to leave the Islands for a time. To see and to learn, and to find the strength that is here. All of this I will take home with me, in due time.”
“That almost sounded like a riddle,” I said. I’d only known one other Islander in my time on Adrathea, which didn’t exactly make me an expert in their ways. Oh, I knew some things, but...
In reply, Sid just grinned at me.
“And the other?” Trey asked.
“The news that has come to the Islands, of late, has been — troubling. I am here in part at the request of the Elders, to see and hear and report back to them the truth, to the best of my ability.” She paused, frowning, looking into her now empty mug before her on the table. She nudged it to the side and the tavern boy hustled over to refill it. She waited until he was gone to continue. “What I have learned has been troubling, indeed. The heir to the Morvan throne missing and under suspicion of murder, the Sky Guard outlawed, and rumors of war brewing in the north.”
“War?” I was startled and let it show. Trey had said nothing of this from his updates.
“I found it difficult enough to believe that I wanted verification,” he replied. “It was tagged as ‘rumor.’”
“There has indeed been trouble in the north, near the border with the Kingdom of Sobra,” Sid explained, looking up. “It is no mere rumor. Homesteads and small towns have been raided. The Morvan Regent is blaming Sobra, saying they seek to rekindle the old dispute over the border. Some say the raiders come from the sky at night, and so the gryphons are suspected.”
“Damn,” I said, and drank some ale.
“And what has brought you back out of the depths of legend?” she asked.
I looked to Trey.
“I needed his help,” Trey said. “The current troubles here are, in part, the result of a mistake I made. With David at my side, the chances that I can set things right are greatly improved.”
I saluted him with my mug.
“The bards sing of the great bond between you,” Sid pointed out. “When the one calls, the other always answers. It is a powerful love they sing of.”
Men of my father’s generation might have flinched at that, but I’ve grown indifferent to such perceptions. My devotion to Trey and his cause, which is the mission of all Alvehn, is strong enough for that. So all I said was, “We are brothers, in a very real sense.” Trey smiled and nodded at that statement. “We’ve traveled together a long time, to many worlds. Risked a lot, shared a lot.”
“Meaning he has saved your life and you have saved his, but you keep no count.”
“That is the truth, Sid,” Trey replied. “There is no one of the Alvehn or the human kind that I trust more than this man.”
Sid merely nodded, then looked thoughtful. “Well, then. There is now a debt between us. Tell me of your errand here, for you clearly do not ride from the Outworld to no purpose. Then tell me how I might assist you.”
“There’s no debt,” I said. “We did what was needful, that’s all.”
“My honor, Daffyd,” and she gave me another of those little smiles, as if she knew something that I didn’t. “And by the codes of my people there is a debt, whether you call it so or not.”
That was a tremendous offer, knowing as I did of the martial skills of the Islanders. If she was traveling alone on the mainland, she had to be one of their best. I looked to Trey. This was his gig, after all.
“We seek to return the heir of Morva to his throne,” Trey told her quietly.
“Indeed?” Sid drank, then set the mug down. “First, of course, you must find him, if he is still alive. He has been missing for almost two years. The Regent would have declared him dead, but for the reluctance of the Morvan Senate.”
“What have you heard about this alleged murder?” I asked.
“Only what folk tell over their ale,” Sid replied. “The Captain of the Regent’s personal guard was killed. Something to do with both of them desiring the same young woman.”
“What is known of the girl?” Trey asked.
Sid thought for a moment. “There was a name, which escapes me now. She is the daughter of a wealthy man, one member of a cooperative trade venture that brings spices and silk from the south. The Prince is supposed to have met her while attending the University. ‘Tis said she made a fine impression on the nobility.” She paused a moment, then said, “There is a darker rumor. It’s said the Prince is dead, as well, killed by the Regent himself when he saw what had been done.”
“I’d believe that one,” I said.
Trey shook his head. “My cousin is too subtle to do something so — irreversible.”
“Your cousin?” Sid demanded, clearly surprised.
“Edren Kalronak is my kinsman,” Trey replied. “The Regent is an Alvehn, though he has concealed the characteristic appearance of my race.”
“That the Regent is an Alvehn is certainly not common knowledge,” Sid said, shaking her head a little. “So I’d say he mimics an ordinary mortal well, and has done so for quite some time.”
“Feigning the effects of age, over time, would be the least of his challenges,” Trey pointed out.
“So, the crown prince has gone missing, and the wrong guy is pulling the strings,” I said. “And he isn’t making any improvements in the lives of the Morvan populace. Some changes seem in order. Where do we start?”
“Finding the heir of the Morvan throne will be a challenge,” Sid pointed out. “His trail will be difficult to pick up, if he did indeed depart of his own will.”
“Whatever trail there might be,” Trey said, “and wherever it leads, it will start at the University in Morvain. He was living on campus when he disappeared. I would need to disguise myself, of course, before we make the attempt.” Trey shrugged. “I am too well known there.”
“I’m not,” I pointed out. “I just need to avoid showing an Alvehn blade.”
“And I am not known there at all,” Sid pointed out.
We looked around at each other, nodded, and the bare bones of a plan began to emerge. Just like that, Sidraytha Condor Voriss was a part of our team. I’d be a most dishonest fellow if I claimed this bothered me.
