Waylian had already proved his mettle more than once; surely this was nothing by comparison. Hells – he’d saved the city from an infestation of ravenous ghouls and come out the other side unscathed.
Well, almost unscathed.
It was time to step up and finally prove himself, to Gelredida, to his fellow students, maybe even to the Crucible. A fire was about to consume Steelhaven, a horde bent on slaughter and destruction, and Waylian had to play his part to avert the city’s annihilation. He trusted Gelredida, even if he didn’t always understand her actions. She had the city’s best interests at heart and he would do his utmost to aid her in any way he could.
So, when he finally found the orphanage, Waylian began to wonder what in the hells this could have to do with the safety of the city.
It was a plain square building surrounded by a high stone wall. The roof was covered in ancient slates, some skewed dangerously as though they might fall at any moment taking a dozen of their fellows with them. Waylian wouldn’t have housed pigs in there, let alone children.
He pushed open the black iron gate and walked inside the grounds. Stairs led up to a rotting oak door and as he took them he began to wonder if he was in the right place. The whole building looked just about ready to fall down. But then, this was Northgate where most of the buildings were in some state of disrepair. The place was still hard for Waylian to stomach, coming as he did from Ankavern, and the little town of Groffham with its affluent community of artisans and shopkeepers. It was a far cry from the sprawling hive of Steelhaven.
Girding himself for what he might find inside, Waylian raised the brass knocker and banged on the door. There was a bit of a wait, in which he rehearsed in his head how he’d introduce himself, how he’d display some of his magisterial authority. How he’d express his newfound courage.
When the door opened all that seemed to fade.
The man who stood there was huge, his gut hanging out from under a woollen shirt and dangling over his stripy britches. So faded and stained was the material that the stripes were barely visible, but Waylian tried not to dwell too long on the man’s nethers – although dwelling on his face wasn’t much better. His head was bald but for a crown of long lank hair that hung down past his ears in greasy locks. His teeth protruded over fat wormlike lips and here and there about his chin sprouted wisps of a ginger beard.
Waylian would not have put this man in charge of a scabrous donkey, let alone orphaned children.
‘Mister Fletcher?’ Waylian asked, all his former composure now fled.
‘Who wants to know?’ growled the man, his bloodshot eyes staring accusingly.
‘I’ve been sent from the Tower … of Magisters.’ Waylian feebly presented the sealed parchment Gelredida had given him.
Fletcher took it in one fat, sweaty hand and looked down at it, then up at Waylian, wrinkling his nose in suspicion.
‘What’s this about?’ Fletcher looked tense, like he was unsure whether to fight or flee, but then Waylian didn’t know which he wanted to do right now either.
‘I’ve come to take charge of one of your orphans. Josiah Klumm?’
At that Fletcher seemed to relax some. ‘Oh. Why didn’t you say so? Come in then.’ He turned and waddled off into the building.
The narrow corridor led into a massive hall. Rows of tables lined the chamber and sitting at them, busy with their labours, were scores of boys. Some looked almost in their teens whilst others were not that much older than toddlers, but each one was hard at work. It dawned on Waylian why the master of this place was called Fletcher, for each of the boys busied himself making arrows. Some whittled the shafts, while others fletched or affixed arrowheads. From the speed and industry they were displaying it looked as if they were trying to supply every unit of archers in Steelhaven.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ said Fletcher, gesturing to his charges. What, that you’re a profiteering bastard who makes coin from the labour of infants? ‘And no, they don’t like it in the Trades Quarter. But they can go shit. District commissioner says I can run my business any way I like and I’ve got the paperwork to prove it. Keeps these little fuckers off the streets anyway – so you could say I’m doing Northgate a service.’
Fletcher tousled the hair of one of the younger lads as he went by. The boy looked none too keen on being touched by those greasy hands, and Waylian couldn’t blame him.
‘So, is Josiah here or not?’ Waylian asked, only too eager to conclude his business and be on his way.
‘Dunno. Have to check, won’t I.’ Fletcher walked through the hall to a back room.
It appeared Fletcher didn’t even know the names of the children in his care. Seeing how they were being used, Waylian also guessed that the man couldn’t have cared less about any of them.
In the back room Fletcher grabbed a weathered ledger from a shelf and slammed it down on his desk raising a billow of dust. He opened it near the middle and began to paw it with his fat fingers.
‘Krumm, you say?’
‘No, Klumm,’ Waylian replied. ‘Josiah Klumm. I believe he’s around thirteen or fourteen.’
Fletcher turned a couple of pages until he found the one he wanted.
‘Ah yes, I remember now. Tall lad. Never said much.’ He looked up from the ledger. ‘He left a couple of years ago.’
‘A couple of years? Where’s he gone to?’
Fletcher consulted his ledger once more. ‘It says here someone from the Artisan’s College in the Trades Quarter took him. That’s all I’ve got.’
This wasn’t the news Waylian was hoping for. It appeared the first part of his mission was about to end in failure.
When back on the street Waylian thought about his next move. Gelredida had sent him to Northgate with two tasks. So far he’d failed in the first – but he wouldn’t report that just yet – not before he’d at least had a go at the second.
It was getting dark by the time Waylian found the other place in Northgate Gelredida had written down. An indistinct house on an indistinct terrace, the only thing that stood out about it was the pitch-coated lintel above the door. It had the word ‘Apothecary’ scrawled across in white spidery script.
Waylian paused at the door, glancing up and down the street. It was deserted. An apothecary located in this part of town was unusual in itself, but such a merchant should have been inundated with requests for tinctures and salves to remedy the numerous maladies caught from the insalubrious goings on around here. They should have been queuing down the street, but no – not a soul in sight.
Perhaps it was closed.
When he pulled the chain next to the door Waylian could hear a bell jingling inside. He didn’t have to wait long before a hatch in the door snapped back. A pair of piercing eyes stared at him through the iron grille.
‘Yes?’ The voice was deep, the word breathed out long and slow.
‘Hello,’ Waylian replied, starting to feel just a little nervous. ‘I’ve been sent from the Tower of Magisters with a … erm … request.’
A pause as those eyes regarded him unblinkingly. ‘What is the nature of this request?’
‘Can we talk inside?’ Waylian asked.
The hatch snapped shut and there was the sound of keys in mortice locks and the sliding snap of deadbolts being pushed open. The door slowly creaked open to reveal a tall man with dark, immaculately coiffured hair who duly moved aside to allow Waylian in. As soon as he stepped into the dark room the door was closed behind him and Waylian began to wonder if he should have stayed out on the street after all.
‘What can I do for you?’ said the man, lighting several more candles from the one he held in his long fingers.
‘I’ve brought a list,’ said Waylian, clutching the parchment Gelredida had given him to his chest.
‘I am to provide the items on that list?’ asked the man, stepping behind the counter that filled one end of his apothecary’s shop.
‘Er … yes,’ Waylian replied.
As the new
ly lit candles began to illuminate the room, Waylian could see it housed shelf upon shelf of phials, jars and other alembics. Herbs sprouted from tiny clay pots and stood alongside ready-made poultices and noctums. On the wall behind the counter were row upon row of tiny drawers, each bearing its own neatly written label. Waylian couldn’t make out any of their names in the wan light, but he had no doubt this man knew what every one contained.
‘Could I see the list?’ he asked, holding out his long hand. Waylian found it almost mesmerising, like a gigantic spider unfurling itself on its web.
‘No,’ Waylian said, a little too loudly. ‘I mean … I’m supposed to read it to you.’ Indeed, Gelredida had been most specific about that.
The man smiled. ‘Very well. Read away.’
Waylian squinted at the list through the gloom. ‘Erm … lugroot?’
The apothecary smiled. ‘Yes, I have lugroot,’ he replied, turning to his left and reaching out a long arm. Deftly he flicked open one of the many drawers behind him and pulled out a chunk of vegetable matter, placing it down on his counter with reverent care.
‘Dogweed?’
The apothecary pointed with that long arm of his. ‘Shelf over there,’ he said, but his assured smile was suddenly gone. Waylian moved to the shelf and reached up to something that looked like a small bundle of straw. ‘No, to the left.’ Waylian plucked a small pot from the shelf in which sat a flower reminiscent of a dandelion. Carefully he placed it on the counter next to the lugroot.
Waylian looked back to his list. ‘And do you have essence of clove?’
‘Of course,’ replied the apothecary, who was now frowning. ‘Who sent you with this list?’ he asked as he rummaged beneath his counter.
‘I … er … can’t exactly say,’ replied Waylian. Gelredida had given him strict instructions to keep his mouth shut about that and he’d bloody well stick to them.
‘My name is Milius, by the way,’ the apothecary said, placing a phial down on his counter. ‘What’s yours?’
With that he extended his hand towards Waylian.
‘My … erm … Waylian,’ he said, grasping that huge hand. It was like grabbing a tree branch, and he was struck with a sharp spike of panic as it closed around his own. He looked back to his list and the last item on it. ‘Just one more thing. Do you have any shade grass?’
The apothecary – Milius – closed his grip tighter around Waylian’s hand and stared at him with dark eyes.
‘You know I do, young Waylian. You know very well.’
‘Do I?’ Waylian asked, trying to pull his hand free, but it was locked tight in the apothecary’s grip.
Milius stared for what seemed like an age, unspeaking, unmoving. Waylian felt fear creeping up on him like a mugger in the night; he dare not look away, dare not try to extricate himself from the apothecary’s hand.
Then Milius relaxed, released him and took a step back. ‘You know I’ve got just the thing for you,’ he said, turning and disappearing through a doorway behind his counter.
Waylian wasted no time – he wasn’t about to hang around here any longer, it was time to bloody scarper while the scarpering was good.
He backed up to the front door, keeping his eyes fixed on the dark opening Milius had disappeared into. His hand fumbled with the doorknob but it was stiff and difficult to turn. His fear and panic grew at the prospect of being trapped in here and he grasped the doorknob with both hands, pulling with all his might, gritting his teeth with the exertion. To his relief the stiff door scraped open, revealing the night-darkened street beyond.
‘Where are you going?’ asked a voice behind him. Waylian turned to see Milius holding two cups of steaming liquid. ‘I’ve made us a brew.’
A brew? From this freak of nature? You must be bloody joking!
‘No thanks,’ Waylian replied. ‘I’ve just remembered … I’ve got to go and … feed my fish!’
With that he was gone, leaving the apothecary and his unwholesome brew far behind him.
So much for helping save the bloody city. Right now Waylian could only think about saving himself and, though he knew his mistress would be displeased by his only partial success, that would just have to do for now.
TWENTY-TWO
Regulus had never seen anything so magnificent. The tribes of Equ’un were nomadic by nature; their only settlements built from hide, bone and mud. Altars to the gods of the skies were constructed from stone and rock but the largest only rose to ten or fifteen feet. They did nothing to prepare him for the sight of the city.
Steelhaven was like a mountain newly conjured from the earth, rising up along the edge of the coast to stand defiant against the sea and sky. Its walls rose high and straight as though carved from bare rock. Within were high towers, like stolid giants facing off against one another in a vast arena of stone.
When they were close enough, Regulus halted his warriors on a rise to watch the city. A steady stream of people was filtering into Steelhaven from the north, and from his vantage point Regulus could see magnificent ships with sails of many colours cruising into the harbour from the south.
‘I have never seen such things,’ said Akkula, gawking at the vast harbour. ‘Surely the gods must have had a hand in this.’
Leandran barked a laugh. ‘What the Clawless Tribes lack in strength and ferocity, they make up for with their ingenuity. This is not the work of gods but of men.’
Leandran was the oldest of their number and had travelled widely throughout the grasslands of Equ’un. But Regulus doubted even he had seen anything like this before.
‘So how do we approach?’ Leandran asked.
Regulus stared down at the city, at its vast walls and the soaring towers beyond. ‘We will walk up to the city gates and present ourselves,’ he replied.
‘I thought perhaps one of us might go ahead and announce the coming of a Zatani chieftain.’
Regulus shook his head. ‘No, Leandran. I am no chieftain. We are merely warriors offering our spears to the city’s cause. But fear not. One day we will return to Equ’un as heroes, with the reputation to match.’
‘And I believe you, but shouldn’t we at least be cautious?’
‘Cautious we will be, old friend, but what choice do we have but to present ourselves at the gate? It’s not as if we’ll be able to hide ourselves amongst the rest of those Coldlander travellers.’ He gestured to the steady stream of bodies filtering through the city gates.
There was no more talk. As much as he had been warned of the danger there was only one way to approach, and that was to forge ahead. Besides, Zatani warriors did not creep and cower in the shadows. They fought with their heads raised, roaring their fury to the sky, facing adversity unto death.
Regulus pulled the cloak from his shoulders, flung it to the ground and strode towards the city. His warriors did likewise, following the leader of their tribe as they had done for so many leagues. Regulus hoped he was worthy of their trust, that he was not leading them to certain death.
The stone paved path beneath their feet ran east until it came to a bridge that crossed a wide river meandering down from the north. To the south of the bridge, on the western side of the river, was a ruined expanse of ramshackle buildings. They looked ancient, yet Regulus could see men, women and children moving within the sprawl. Across the bridge stood a huge gate from which another wide stone pathway led northwards.
As soon as Regulus and his five warriors had set foot on the bridge they heard a cry go up. Their approach had been seen by spotters along the city’s vast wall and, as they made their way over the bridge, they could see warriors in green moving frantically to intercept them. One was screaming for the gate to be closed, while another shouted for reinforcements.
‘Hold steady,’ Regulus said as they reached the centre of the bridge. ‘We are here as allies, not enemies.’
Though his warriors obeyed his words, Regulus could sense unease, particularly in Janto, whose hands strayed dangerously close to the handles of his twin axes
.
At the gate there was more frantic movement – a woman screamed and travellers were bundled aside as more warriors in green came flooding out of the city. They positioned themselves at one end of the bridge, longspears held out in a phalanx. Regulus almost laughed at their display. Had he wanted to pass his warriors would have barely drawn breath before these Coldlanders were dead.
When they were within ten yards, Regulus lifted an arm signalling the Zatani to stop. He strode forward and stood before the row of spears, regarding the nervous men who held them.
‘Fear not,’ he said. ‘I have come as a friend and ally. Not an enemy.’
Several of the men looked on in amazement. ‘Fuck me – it speaks,’ said one of them, momentarily lowering his spear.
‘Yes, I speak. And I would parlay with your queen. I would offer her my sword.’ Regulus grabbed the hilt of his black steel blade and shook it in its scabbard, which only served to spook these men further.
‘It’s a trick,’ said one of the men.
‘Not a very good one, if it is,’ replied another. ‘Just wandering right up to the gates like that.’
‘Well, what do we do?’ added a third.
By now another warrior in green had come to stand behind the men. He looked Regulus over with a keen eye. This one looked older than the others, his face scarred and weathered.
‘You’re mercenaries?’ the man asked.
Regulus was familiar with the term – roving warriors who fought for the material rewards of battle, rather than loyalty to chief or tribe. He supposed that, as an outcast, mercenary was the closest these Coldlanders would understand to his current status.
‘I am. And I would fight for the glory of this city.’
The man gave a wry smile. ‘There may not be much glory in the days to come, but we’re in no position to turn away warriors willing to fight. Even if they are … well … foreigners. Let them through,’ he told his men. ‘We’ll escort them to the Seneschal. He’ll know what to do with them.’