Feast of Fates (Four Feasts Till Darkness Book 1) (49 page)

“Thank you for the gesture,” Thackery said with a sigh. “I feel ridiculous. But that’s as presentable as I think we’ll be until Taroch’s Arm.”

The Wolf nodded, and they were moving again. The land welcomed their travel, and the weather improved to a dampness that left a cool perspiration upon their skins as they hiked. Caenith continued his avoidance of farmsteads and people, and Thackery felt very much alone for their journey. Two explorers, perhaps, in a land yet unmapped and uninhabited. Soon he wasn’t yearning for firesides, but celebrating the grunt and toil of his lungs, the aching of his feet, or the nose-tickling ripeness of soil and pine in the deeper paths they wandered. All pleasures that he had neglected in his silver years: the churnings and wonders of life within and without. Ahead of the contemplative sorcerer, the Wolf entered a similar solitude. He thought of Morigan, of her captors, and of the creative and horrifying ways that he was going to rend their flesh with his jaws.

By dusk, the silent pair had bobbed up and down the dips of Ebon Vale and paused on a shale rise to survey the area. To the west glowed the evening hearths of many farmsteads; there were fewer lights to the east. The going that way would not be easy, for the rock had surrendered to tangled forest. Thackery advised that they would be best to follow the path of the mountains, which would eventually open to scrubland and a grand riverbed, where Taroch’s Arm awaited them, and the men plunged onward.

Indeed, as Thackery had forecasted, the land was a chore to traverse, trapped with fallen logs to trip upon or supple branches that were bent aside only to lash back at the offense as a whip. Yet Thackery blundered along, with Caenith helping him out of the worst of his troubles, and never once complained. Deeper and deeper they hiked, until hollow cries and strange birds made music to the moon. When the Wolf was satisfied that most of the farmsteads were at their heels, they stopped under great oak that glimmered as a tree of silver in the moonlight, and Caenith kicked off his boots and shimmed from his pants. Thackery knew what was to be done, and he gathered the discarded items while Caenith snapped and growled his way into new furry flesh. From out of a boot fell Morigan’s dagger, and it
shone amid the leaves for a moment before Thackery shakily retrieved it. He mumbled a prayer to whatever forces watched Geadhain that she was still, impossibly, safe and then wrapped everything up into a bundle made with his gifted shirt. He climbed aboard the heaving beast, held on tight, and was momentarily speeding through the woods. He knew that the Wolf’s relatively casual stroll through Ebon Vale was so that the weaker of them could recuperate his strength—a kindness with an expectation attached, for he did not think that another stop would happen until they reached Taroch’s Arm. And cry and scream as his muscles would at the trial being forced upon them anew, Thackery would not let go or slip from his mount again. Just as Caenith relentlessly pushed his body past sleep, need, or want, so too would he push himself as far and as hard as he was able, until Morigan was safe and Sorren was in the ground with the dead he so favored.

III

At a distance, Taroch’s Arm hid its iniquity well. The city was grand and layered into a receding cliff of yellowed stone, with terra-cotta houses, circling gulls, and bountiful sunshine. Yet as they approached from the southwest, Caenith noticed a shadow draped over the regions along the waterfront. He saw bony peaks of what could be masts or the skeletal fingers of a giant beast, and a haze lingered there as if a fire were recently smothered. No fire was this, a playful breeze told Caenith as it bore scents to his nose; only industry and an abusive amount of that witchroot herb that folks who wished to forget often smoked. Past the indistinct harbor front crashed a choppy cobalt river that seemed born of the ocean. Dangerous rock islands dotted the strait, warning ships without steel-and-magik hulls that this would be their doom. Roads veined in many directions, high and low, to different areas of Taroch’s Arm, and traffic filled them all. Folks here came from all corners of Geadhain, from the warm lands to the south or the snowy settlements north of Kor’Keth, eager for what could be bought or bartered.

Caenith and Thackery crept from the grasslands and joined the larger roads, walking along the wayside while caravans and howling idiots rode
past. No one paid much heed to a shirtless giant and a dirty old man, beyond the brief and fearful stares that Caenith’s size usually evoked. The road twisted on, and eventually the two men passed under a stone arch to enter Taroch’s Arm: a city unguarded but for narrow-eyed men who clung to the shadows and carefully appraised every traveler.

IV

“Who are we seeking?” asked Caenith, frowning more than usual.

“Someone that I helped many, many, many years ago,” replied Thackery. “She owes me a debt that a bit of coin will hardly repay, though it will be all I request of her. Hopefully, she has passed the obligation on to her kin, as I’ve outlived the lion’s share of everyone I know.”
But few of those I hate, sadly
.

“Well, let’s find her soon and be on our way. This place is rank.”

After living in Eod for so long, the Wolf had come to take its cleanliness and advanced technomagiks for granted. Most slow-walker cities stank, plain and simple. Few civilizations were afforded the benefits of Eod’s sewage-disposal systems, so the undertone of urine sitting in pots in countless homes or splashed on alleys was as persistent as cat piss on a rug. Piss wasn’t Caenith’s only cause of distress; the sharp sweat of excitement and money lust had entrenched the stone beneath them, and nauseatingly sweet witch-root aromas were in constant supply from the shouting, pipe-huffing persons who swaggered in the streets. Again, Eod’s civility had spoiled him, for he remembered slow-walkers as being drastically more respectful than the louts of Taroch’s Arm. Here, he was jostled by the laughing crowd or rudely elbowed to move. His patience was quickly wearing to its last fiber, and he felt that he might snap if another inebriate nudged him; or worse, he might nudge back and send the man flying a dozen paces. The streets were too narrow for his wide self as well, and many of the houses had been converted into shops and encroached farther onto the road with greedy awnings and stalls. Caenith paid no attention to what was being sold, as no mortal thing on this earth mattered but for the dagger tucked into his boot.
Three days she has been gone. Three days
, his mind chanted. Despair was not clenching his
chest as much as anger was. He wanted hot, hot blood and revenge upon his tongue, and soon.

Thackery was more attentive to their surroundings. Cities were his wilderness, and he led Caenith here. As Thackery inspected the clay houses, he could see little numbers hammered in iron faceplates near their door frames, and the streets were marked by crude arrowed signs placed at intersections. By following the signposts for the better part of the morning and scrambling to assemble the faded correspondence that he had read many years past, Thackery successfully toured them up stone steps and through shade-hollowed streets. He was confident that he knew where he was headed. He got lost only once, and never told the Wolf—who was too preoccupied to notice—and they successfully arrived at their destination.

A few knocks on the door of the dwelling and a brief chat with its burly occupant informed them that, sadly, this was not the case: the original owner had died, and her daughter had sold the home twenty years ago. Clearly, they had disturbed the man’s afternoon drinking, and he wasn’t partial to any further questions, leaving them with the suggestion that they should
fuk right off
before he fetched his blade. A twitch in Caenith’s eye was all the indication that Thackery had before the giant seized the man and disappeared inside the home so swiftly that it was as if they had blinked from existence. Some clatters and thudding came from within the house, and just as Thackery was charging inside, Caenith filled the doorway.

“He gave me an address,” said the Wolf. “One eighty-five Cordenzia Boulevard.”

“You didn’t hurt him, did you?” whispered Thackery.

“Nothing that won’t heal.”

Thackery pulled his large companion into the street and hustled him away. In a lane several blocks from the house, they stopped, huddled, and Thackery spoke in confidence. “I appreciate the information, let that be said. Still, you must be careful, Caenith. No undue attention to ourselves. People don’t even know that I’m alive, and I would like to keep that confusion going for as long as we are able to. This city has eyes of its own, too, which we would not want upon ourselves.”

“Eyes?” wondered Caenith. He had seen the slinking, shrouded men who prowled the streets. Perhaps Thackery meant those.

“Well, Fingers, technically,” corrected Thackery.

An unusual slow-walker history was flitting back to Caenith. He didn’t often delve into the details of slow-walker politics; they were always fighting, killing, and angry for one reason or another, and most tales were the same if with different players. Thackery reminded him of this particular insignificance.

“Taroch’s Arm is so named for the warlord, Taroch, who once ruled the East between Kor’Khul and Menos. When he was deposed—unpleasantly, as warlords are—his quartered remains were given to each of those valiants who slew him. His right arm ended up here; there is a shrine that carries it to this day, in fact, as an object of historical worship. For while Taroch was a warlord, he was also a master sorcerer, tactician, and economist, responsible for half the currencies and markets that exist in Geadhain today. A ruthless genius, the man was, and most of Geadhain fell into chaos once his iron grip eased in death. Until the kings stepped in, that is. You have to wonder why King Magnus and King Brutus allowed the man to rule for so long—a century—if his reign was truly as vicious as the historians say.”

Thackery was wandering off, chasing some runaway thought. Caenith snapped his fingers, which Thackery noticed had a bit of blood upon them.

“The point, Thackery? What is the point?”

“Right! The Fingers! Once the Hundred Year War ended, Taroch’s Arm was brought home by a tongueless slave turned warrior. A great hero of the war who was given the name Glavius, after his weapon of choice. He learned to write and expressed his desire that men never be sold again. Which is why you’ll find every desire under the sun for sale here, but not flesh. Indeed, for all its ties with Menos, this is probably one of the safest harbors for enemies of the Iron City. No single man, but an elected body of officials oversees the demands of Taroch’s Arm, as decreed by the late Glavius. The Hand, they are called. And to enforce the will of the Hand, are those shadowy fellows that you’ve no doubt seen skulking the streets, the
Fingers
. In Taroch’s Arm, there aren’t any laws per se, but there are unspoken rules. Break those and you’ll bring the Hand and all its Fingers in for a clench. This is a city of free exchange. You can deceive a man of his coin through words or bargaining, as wit is a commodity of its own, but you can never steal. You can punch a man in the face if he loses a bet to do so, but violence is otherwise prohibited. I’m
hoping that no one saw what you did. I really should have forewarned a man of your temperament. We’ve already broken one rule, but I’m glad that you haven’t been tempted to just snatch some coin and run. I know that seems the easy way; however, it will do more harm than good.”

Since entering the city, Caenith had regularly observed that some of the fattest purses around hung with impunity from people’s belts. He wasn’t a thief, had never stolen in his life, and it was that honor alone that kept him from acting on the impulse to simply take what they needed to get on with this slow-walker-hindered pursuit of his love. It was good that Thackery had told him this, then, but no less frustrating.

“We have no time for these silly observances,” grumbled Caenith. “Pray that this debtor of yours is honorable, or I shall take care of matters myself.”

Two drunks swayed into the alley, kissing and groping at each other, and the companions took this as their cue to exit. As fast as he could step, Thackery hastened through the streets, passing earthen houses and their noisy smoking lodgers who bet on dice or bartered over merchandise—weapons, food, jewelry, games, or clothing—that was displayed for sale. Every house was a shop, every owner a proprietor of one thing or another. Thackery was leading them toward the port, and they descended via steep-walled byways, which offered brief reprieves from the crowds on quiet sidewalks speckled with sunshine and warmth. A regulation against trade must have been in effect along these routes, for they were traveled by foot only, and but a few whispering merchants dared to flash wares at passersby from inside the flaps of their cloaks, like perverts exposing themselves. Along these roads, Caenith spotted the first carriages and carts he had seen in a while, so presumably these were meant as routes for larger vehicles and were to remain uncluttered by commerce. Thackery took three of these byways, bringing them nearer and nearer to the salty breath of the Feordhan, and finally to the harborfront. When the byway ended, the men were deposited out onto a wider stretch of road that ran in both directions.