The Shadowed Path (35 page)

“Tell the rest of the guards we’re likely to be attacked,” Steen warned. “Bounty hunters, or the whole Ducal guard.”

Jonmarc was already sprinting toward Linton’s tent.

“Maynard!” he called at the tent door, but there was no answer, though lamps glowed inside the tent.

Jonmarc pushed the tent flap back. Linton lay on the ground, clutching his belly, rolling back and forth in pain.

“Jonmarc,” Linton said in a weak voice. “Get Ada.”

“She’ll be here in a minute,” Jonmarc promised, crossing to kneel next to Linton. Steen took up a watchful position at the tent doorway, though the damage had already been done.

“Damn sons of the Crone got me,” Linton murmured.

“We found the poisoner,” Jonmarc reported. “He’s dead.”

“Did you happen to find out what he used?” Ada stood in the doorway. Her face was flushed from running, and her hair fanned out behind her on the night wind. Alyzza was with her. Kegan, an apprentice healer and a friend of Jonmarc’s, was close behind.

“Destroying Angel. Poisonous mushrooms,” Steen answered.

Ada cursed under her breath. “How long ago?”

“Several hours, at least,” Jonmarc replied. “The poisoner paid one of the cook’s assistants to slip the mushrooms into Linton’s stew.”

“I assigned a
vyrkin
to sniff the food,” Ada said. “He didn’t find anything amiss. A
vayash moru
could have even tasted the food with no harm done. Linton wouldn’t wait until sundown.”

“Even a
vayash moru
might not have caught it,” Steen said. “I’ve heard that type of mushroom tastes sweet—and its poison is delayed.”

“Can you heal him?” Jonmarc asked.

Linton moaned in pain. Ada used her healing magic to check him over, then sat back on her heels. She and Alyzza conferred quietly, and Alyzza planted her willow staff at the head of Linton’s bed. This time, Alyzza chanted and raised a yellow mist around Linton that sparkled and glowed. Ada placed both hands on Linton’s abdomen, closed her eyes, and together, the two called on their magic. As the attempt to heal Linton stretched on, Ada beckoned for Kegan to join them, and she drew from his strength as well.

Trent, Corbin, and Zane stood silently near the tent doorway, awaiting an outcome. Steen moved to talk quietly with them, filling them in.

Finally, the glowing mist faded, and Ada dismissed Kegan. She and Alyzza looked spent and haggard.

“Did you heal him?” Trent asked.

“We can slow the absorption of the poison in his gut,” Ada said finally. “That will protect his organs—for a little while. But it’s beyond my healing to rid him of the poison. It’s too far through his system.”

“And healing is not my magic,” Alyzza admitted. “My magics are better suited to war and defense. I don’t have the gift for this.”

“Throwing up won’t get rid of the poison—he’ll be retching soon enough,” Ada said. “The body will void, trying to purge, but the poison is already moving through his blood.”

“Surely there’s something you can do?” Jonmarc pressed.

Ada looked up. “There’s a mage who might be able to help. Sister Birna. Last I knew, she was in the Floating City. She used to be one of the Sisterhood, but she left them several years ago—I don’t know why. She’s one of the finest healers I’ve ever met—and a damn strong mage as well. She’s our best bet.”

“I can get us to the Floating City. Where would we find Sister Birna?” Steen asked.

“Ask Mama. She’ll know,” Ada replied.

“Let’s get a wagon,” Steen said. “And get him bundled up. I’ll take him through to the Floating City.”

“Count me in,” Jonmarc said. Steen opened his mouth to protest, but Jonmarc shook his head. “We were going to the river anyhow, to take me across to Principality. And I want to see this through.”

“We’re coming, too.” Trent stood with his hands on his hips. “If the Duke does send his men after you, you’ll need reinforcements.”

Before Steen could argue, Elian and Gil pushed to the fore. “We’ve got your traitor,” Elian said. He held a chubby young man by the scruff of his neck and threw him face down on the ground just outside the tent.

Trent did not spare a second glance. “We already know who he’s working with. Tie him up and put him under guard,” he said. “If Linton dies, hang him.” The cook’s assistant blubbered apologies and begged for mercy, but with Linton sprawled on the floor and moaning in pain, the man’s appeals fell on deaf ears.

“Take this,” Ada said, pressing a pouch into Jonmarc’s hands. “It’s milk thistle. I’ve already given Maynard one dose. Sometimes, it can help with poisoning.” She sighed. “But not always.”

“Thank you,” Jonmarc said, and paused as Kegan and Dugan stepped closer.

“If you go to the river, you’re not coming back, are you?” Dugan asked.

Jonmarc shook his head. “Not now. Not for a while.”

Dugan punched him in the shoulder, and Kegan clapped him on the arm. “Goddess go with you,” Dugan said. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

“Let’s get moving,” Steen interrupted. “We don’t have much time.” He glanced down at Linton. “The Duke’s sure to send his men after us when he finds out what happened to the poisoner. We need to get the caravan moving, get out of his lands as quick as possible.”

Ada nodded. “Leave that to me. We’ll meet you in the Floating City.” She made the sign of the Lady in blessing. “Mother and Childe go with you.”

They loaded Linton into the back of a wagon, and Jonmarc climbed in to ride with him. He carried a canvas bag with all of his possessions, and around his neck, he had a pouch with the coin he had saved from his months of working for Trent. On his belt he wore the two swords his father had forged, along with a long knife Trent had made for him, and a dagger he’d forged for himself. Steen handed him a crossbow and quiver. “You know how to use one of these?”

Jonmarc nodded. “Yeah. But I’m better with a sword.”

Steen’s expression was grim. “We’ll try not to get close enough for you to use your sword. But I figure the duke already has men on the road, coming for us. Your job is to keep them off the wagon.”

Steen swung up to the driver’s bench. Trent, Corbin, and Zane rode separately. Zane had a bandolier of daggers, the throwing knives that had earned him fame in his act with the caravan. Trent had a large hammer, and Corbin carried a wide hatchet in addition to their swords.

“How far to the Floating City?’ Jonmarc asked as Steen flicked the reins. He drove the horses as fast as they dared on the dark, rutted roads.

“A man riding full-out might make it in two candlemarks,” Steen said. “With the wagon, a little longer. But you see the roads. If we go any faster, we could lame the horses, or break an axle.”

Jonmarc nodded, and tried to rein in his impatience. Linton groaned quietly, moaning louder whenever the wagon jostled. At times, he raved incoherently, caught in delirium. Violent cramps seized his gut, making him curl into a ball and rock back and forth, tears running down his cheeks.

“Hang on, Maynard,” Jonmarc murmured, patting the caravan master’s shoulder. “Just hang on.”

The road was empty at this hour, and all Jonmarc could hear was the sound of the horses’ hooves and the creak of the wagon. Trent, Corbin and Zane rode three abreast behind them, their faces nearly lost in the shadows.

A dozen of the duke’s soldiers poured out of the darkness on both sides of the road. They were sorely mistaken if they expected the wagon to stop. Steen let out a battle cry and snapped the reins, driving the wagon straight ahead, faster than before. Soldiers cursed and shouted, but they got out of his way.

Guards were riding up on either side of the wagon. Jonmarc leveled his crossbow at the man on the right, squeezing off a shot that threw Jonmarc backwards in the bed of the wagon, but caught the guard in the chest, knocking him from his horse.

The second guard rode up on Steen’s left, hoping to knock him from the driver’s bench or snatch the reins from his hands. Steen was ready, with a sword in his left hand and the reins in his right. He might have left his work as a mercenary, but his skills stood him in good stead.

Jonmarc heard the clang of steel as Steen and the guard clashed. Steen edged the wagon over, hoping to run the rider off the road. Jonmarc reloaded, and caught the soldier in the back, high on his right shoulder as Steen brought down a hard strike that severed the man’s hand at the wrist.

Another soldier leaped from his horse and landed in the back of the wagon. Jonmarc kicked him hard in the face and then sent a quarrel between his eyes.

Half of the duke’s soldiers were down, but the remaining guards fought on. But now, Trent, Corbin, and Zane had maneuvered their horses to block the road, keeping the guards from following the wagon.

“We’ll hold them!” Trent shouted. “Go!”

“Trent—” Jonmarc had not been looking forward to saying good-bye to his mentor, but riding off into the darkness without a word wasn’t what he had in mind.

“Save it! We’ll meet you there.”

Trent wheeled his horse and went on the attack, bringing his sword down in a powerful stroke. Zane hung back, lobbing knives with deadly precision. Corbin scythed his hatchet in one hand.

Jonmarc stayed low, and got in one last shot. The quarrel struck one of the duke’s soldiers square in the chest, and the man cried out in shock and pain before he toppled from his horse. With a shout of victory, Steen took the wagon around a bend, and they left the fight behind them, though the sound of it carried for some distance.

“How’s Linton?” Steen asked when he dared slow the wagon.

Jonmarc glanced at their passenger. Linton’s skin was sallow and his breathing was ragged. He had long ago retched up the contents of his stomach and voided what was in his system, but the dry heaves wracked him, and from time to time, tremors seized his whole form.

“We need to get him to the healer,” Jonmarc replied, unwilling to voice his worry where Linton might hear. Steen dared a glance backward, and nodded worriedly.

“Hang on. I’ll get us there,” Steen promised.

To Jonmarc’s relief, no more guards appeared from the darkened byways. He wondered how Trent and the others had fared, and whether Ada had gotten the caravan on the move before the duke could make reprisal. Worrying about them kept him from worrying about Linton, who seemed to be fading before his eyes.

At this hour, the road was empty, so no one took note of the wagon rumbling along at top speed. Gradually, the land grew flatter as they neared the Nu River. Fraught as their errand was, Jonmarc could not avoid a streak of curiosity. The Nu River was the eastern border of the kingdom of Margolan, something he had never dreamed to see, let alone cross. On the other side lay four of the seven Winter Kingdoms: Eastmark, Principality, Dhasson, and Nargi. He had heard about the other kingdoms, but they had always been like something out of a storybook, not places he might ever actually see. Now that his goal of joining up with the mercenaries in Principality was nearly within reach, Jonmarc felt a jolt of nervousness and anticipation that was both unsettling and exciting.

“There’s the Nu.” Steen pointed ahead of them, into the darkness. Jonmarc listened, and he could hear the rush of water, and the distant sound of voices. Squinting, he could make out the shadows of the river banks from torches all along its edge.

“And there’s the Floating City,” Steen added. Jonmarc strained to see, but at this distance, it looked like a hodgepodge of shacks in the dim torchlight.

Up close, the Floating City was still a hodgepodge, but the buildings were houseboats, fishing vessels, and rafts, not shacks. Lashed together and bobbing with the current in an inlet, the Floating City glowed against the night, and Jonmarc could hear music and voices, and smell spiced fish and baked leeks.

“Is it always here?” Jonmarc asked.

Steen chuckled. “Except when it isn’t. The boats can cut their ties and float away if there’s a bad storm, or a large garrison heading this way. When things calm down, they tie back up again. Means that nothing in the city is ever in the same place twice.”

“Is it really a city? Or just a bunch of boats?”

Steen swept his arm to indicate the lights and boats. “Oh, it’s a city, all right. Think of each of those boats as a shop or business. Markets, pubs, inns, whorehouses, merchants, fish mongers, and grocers, bakeries and weapon-dealers— it’s all there.”

He glanced over his shoulder at Jonmarc. “The folks who spend much time here have reason to keep one eye out for trouble. The regulars are tight, and they’re wary of strangers. Let me do the talking.”

Steen slowed the wagon as a man approached from the darkness. The sentry was a large man, tall and broad, and torchlight glinted on the steel of the man’s sword. He spoke to Steen in words Jonmarc did not recognize, a languid, accented language that seemed as drawn out as the river itself.

To Jonmarc’s surprise, Steen replied fluently, gesturing to indicate Linton and Jonmarc. Linton’s name and his own were the only part of the conversation Jonmarc understood. The sentry looked into the back of the wagon, peered intently at Linton, then nodded curtly and took the reins from Steen, saying something that Jonmarc guessed was an offer to stable the horses, which Steen accepted.

“Come on,” Steen said, switching back to Common, the language spoken by most of the people of Margolan. “He says we can find Mama on her boat. He told me where it is. Let’s go.”

Between the two of them, they hefted Linton out of the wagon and carried him by the shoulders and ankles down the gangplank and onto the deck of the first boat in the jumble of ships. No one seemed to think it odd that they were carrying an unconscious man covered in vomit, which gave Jonmarc an idea of what passed for normal in these parts.

“That language you were speaking back there—”

“That’s the river patois,” Steen replied. “It’s the language of smugglers, whores, and blackgards of every manner— quite handy to know. It’s a bit of a mashup of the different languages spoken along the riverbanks, plus thieves’ slang and some words all of its own.”

“You speak it like a native,” Jonmarc commented.

Steen shrugged. “I’ve been around. You pick things up.”