The Shadowed Path (36 page)

Considering that the Floating City changed every time its denizens cut loose and tied back up, Steen navigated the rising and falling decks and the general confusion with aplomb. It looked like chaos to Jonmarc. Dozens of ships that hardly looked like they could stay afloat each bearing painted signs proclaiming the services or wares within, its narrow gangplanks crowded with ambling drunks, tired strumpets, and fast-talking shopkeepers anxious to make a sale.

Steen bantered his way through the crowd, calling out to people he recognized, and nodding to those who shouted to him. Jonmarc smelled fish and river water, cooked cabbage and onions, unwashed bodies and wet dogs, pipe smoke and dreamweed.

Abruptly, Steen turned up a small ramp leading up to an old houseboat. The paint was peeling and the hull looked as if it had veered close to some rocks, but it was afloat, and larger than many of the other boats. The smell of stew and whiskey reached Jonmarc, and his stomach rumbled, despite his worry for Linton.

“Hey, Mama!” Steen shouted. He called out something else in the patois.

A large woman dressed in flamboyant colors ambled into view. She was very tall, and quite wide, with a broad, pleasant face and dark hair caught back into a knot. At first, her eyes narrowed, and then she recognized Steen and let loose a barrage of patois.

Steen bantered back, then grew serious, nodding toward Linton. When Mama recognized the caravan master, she let out an exclamation of dismay, and gestured for them to hurry up into the main section of the houseboat.

She led them through the front two rooms, which were set out like a tavern with a bar and a few tables, and into the back, where the boat held a couple of very small rooms. They laid Linton on a bed, and Mama leaned out of the room and shouted to someone.

A young man who looked a few years younger than Jonmarc came from around the corner, pushing his lank blond hair out of his eyes. Mama rattled off a string of commands, pointing and gesturing, and the young man nodded, then took off at a sprint.

“She sent for the Sister,” Steen translated.

Mama fussed over Linton like he was a sick child, pulling his soiled clothing off him and finding him a fresh tunic, then covering him with blankets when he began to shiver. When she had settled him the best she could, she strode back to where Steen and Jonmarc waited.

“Tell me,” she said in heavily accented Common. “Tell me what happened to him.”

Steen gave a colorful version of the tale, and to Jonmarc’s surprise, did not omit the details of their confrontation with the poisoner, or the fight with the duke’s guards.

“You bested Duke Ostenhas’s guards?” Mama said, and chortled in approval. “Damn. I wish I had seen it.”

Mama turned her attention to Jonmarc, as if she had only now noticed his presence. Again, she and Steen exchanged conversation in the patois, and Jonmarc was uncomfortably aware that whatever they were saying was about him. Finally, Mama nodded.

“Steen vouches for you,” she said, regarding Jonmarc as if taking his measure. “He says you fight well. Says you’re a good friend of Linton’s.”

“I do my best when it comes to a fight,” Jonmarc said. “And I owe Linton. He took me in when I had nowhere else to go.”

“Humph,” Mama said. “He says you do very well with a sword. Says you intend to join up with the mercenaries across the river.”

“If they’ll have me,” Jonmarc replied.

Mama snorted. “Oh, they’ll have you. Question is, how long will you last?”

Linton lay still, except when a convulsion jerked and trembled his frame. They waited for the mage-healer, and to Jonmarc it seemed like forever, though only minutes had passed. Minutes Linton did not have to waste.

Finally, the blond boy returned, leading a woman Jonmarc guessed was Sister Birna. She was thin as the reeds along the riverbank, with dark hair cut short like the cat-tails in the shallows. She wore the brown robes of one of the Sisterhood, a fabled community of female mages whose powers were so legendary that whispers of them had even reached the Borderlands where Jonmarc had grown up.

“Where is he?” Sister Birna asked, dispensing with pleasantries. She had intelligent eyes and a serious, but not severe expression. Mama motioned for Sister Birna to follow her, and led the way to where Linton lay.

“Sweet Chenne,” Sister Birna murmured. “How long ago was he poisoned?”

Steen filled her in with what they knew, and Jonmarc noticed that he and the Sister both spoke Common and not the river patois.

“Can you heal him?” Steen challenged. “Ada said that you had strong magic, as well as the healing gift.”

Sister Birna set her jaw. “If the poison has not destroyed too much, it may be possible.” She paused. “What can you offer me in payment?”

Steen’s expression hardened. “Name your price.”

“Passage with your traveling caravan to the Palace City,” the Sister said. “And a handful of silver when I get there.”

“Done,” Steen said.

Sister Birna nodded, and accepted the chair Mama pulled up near Linton’s bedside. “Then let’s get to work,” she said. “There isn’t time for me to be gentle.”

Jonmarc had watched Alyzza’s magic, and he knew that despite her protests to the contrary, she was a powerful mage, at least when her madness did not block her power. He knew the ways of hedge witches, like his late wife’s mother, workers who had a bit of magic, not strong enough to be a true mage. He had seen healers like Ada in action, pulling badly wounded men back from the brink of death. But he had little experience with real mages, and he was as curious about Sister Birna’s power as he was anxious to see her results.

Birna shooed everyone but Jonmarc from the small room. She placed her hands on Linton’s belly, and closed her eyes, chanting under her breath. Linton moaned and twitched, breathing shallowly. After a moment, Birna opened her eyes.

“The work that your healer and mage did have kept him alive this long and slowed the poison, but not removed it,” Birna said. “They did well, but not enough. Give me what you have left of the milk thistle.”

Jonmarc removed the small amount he had left after dosing Linton several times on the journey. Birna took it, and produced a bowl from the bag she carried. “I will need charcoal, turmeric, tea, and anise, and four large smooth, black stones.”

The blond boy nodded, then ran to fetch what she required. Birna collected the items in her bowl, then produced a small mortar and pestle from her bag and ground the items together, except for the tea, which she bade Mama steep for her. The four stones, each the size of a small fruit, she set out on the four points of the compass around Linton’s bed. When the tea was hot, Birna made a slurry of the ingredients and poured it into a cup.

Birna used a piece of charcoal to mark a circle around Linton’s bed. She drew the warding so that the four stones were on the inside. Then she walked widdershins around the circle, chanting as she moved, raising a curtain of power that sealed her in with Linton. The lambent curtain pulsed with golden light, glowing and dimming with Birna’s chant.

First, Birna took the tea slurry and lifted Linton’s head to help him swallow the mixture. Linton gave a weak moan, and Birna stroked his throat to help him swallow a few drops at a time. She reserved some of the mixture, and poured the last few drops onto her hands, then smeared it onto Linton’s belly in a slow, circular movement that mirrored the direction she had walked to close the circle.

Next, Birna rose and took up a smooth willow stick from her bag to use as an athame. Four times, once for each of the light faces of the Goddess, Birna circled the bed to the right, calling on the Sacred Lady for healing. And four times, once for each of the dark aspects of the eight-faced goddess, Birna circled widdershins, asking for death to be averted.

Finally, Birna squared her shoulders and pointed the athame at Linton’s belly. She drew in a deep breath, then spoke the words of power. Linton began to shout and convulse. Jonmarc started forward, but Steen grabbed him by the shoulder.

“Let her work,” he said. “There’s nothing to lose at this point.”

Violent convulsions seized Linton, and his body shook and writhed. Birna shoved a wad of blanket between his teeth so that his clenching jaws did not break his teeth. The cords on Linton’s neck stood out with the strain, and he sweated profusely, soaking the sheets. Birna was also sweating, and her face grew flushed with the effort.

Birna cried out in a strange language, a shout of command and magic and ancient power. Dark tendrils of smoke unwound from around Linton’s body and snaked into the four waiting stones. Linton convulsed once more, then lay pale and still.

Birna walked the path around the circle one last time. She let the golden curtain of power drop. The others started to surge forward, but she held out a warning hand.

“Bring me a sturdy bag and a wooden box,” Birna ordered. “One big enough for the stones.” Once again, the blond boy ran to fetch what she required, and returned in a few moments. Careful not to touch the rocks, Birna used a piece of wood to roll the stones into the canvas bag, then dropped the wood in on top when all four stones were contained. She tied off the top with rope, and spoke quietly as her hands ran above the bag’s surface, careful not to touch it. Then she used another piece of wood to push the bag into the box, sealed it closed with magic, and stood.

“Take the box into one of the caves along the river, as deep inside as you dare to go. Bury it there. Mark it with the plague symbol, and forget where you left it. There is death in the box for any who open it.”

The young man gave the box a wary look, but did as he was bid. Birna smudged the circle, and stood back, allowing the others into the crowded sickroom.

Linton’s color had already improved, and his breathing was regular. He was covered with sweat, and Jonmarc was certain that Linton would have pulled muscles from the violence of his convulsions, but he was alive and looking well.

“He’ll live,” Birna said. “He’ll be weak for a while. Let him sleep. It was very close. He was nearly beyond my reach.”

“Thank you,” Steen said. Mama and Jonmarc echoed his gratitude. “I’ll make sure we keep our bargain,” Steen said.

Jonmarc moved closer to where Linton lay. “I’ll sit with him,” he offered.

Steen nodded. “I’ll come by and spell you after a bit.”

Jonmarc dozed in a chair while Linton slept. Several candlemarks later, a noise outside the room woke him, and he jumped to his feet, sword ready to guard the door. He sighed in relief when he saw Steen with Trent and Corbin.

“It took us a while to get rid of the duke’s guards,” Trent said. “Zane went back to help get the caravan moving. But we wanted to make sure you made it all right.”

“Glad to see you,” Jonmarc replied.

A groan from behind him made them all turn toward Linton. “By the Crone!” Linton muttered. “I feel awful.”

“You were poisoned—again,” Jonmarc replied. “Mushrooms. Nasty stuff. You’re in the Floating City. Sister Birna healed you.”

“Damn,” Linton replied. “Last time I eat vegetables, that’s for sure.”

“The caravan is safe,” Trent said, moving into the small room. “They’ll catch up with us sometime tomorrow. Do you still intend to cross the river?”

Linton shook his head. “Not this time. Maybe next year. We’ll head back toward the Isencroft border.”

“Just as long as we stay well to the South of Duke Ostenhas’s lands,” Trent replied.

“Fine by me.”

“I’ll make sure the caravan knows,” Trent said. “We’ll provision here, then head out when you’re ready.”

The others filed out of the room, but Linton called out to Jonmarc to stay. “You still intend to join the mercs?” he asked.

“It’s something I need to do.”

Linton regarded him for a moment, then nodded. “Then go with my blessing, for what it’s worth. And if you ever need a place to go, the caravan will always take you in.”

“Thank you,” Jonmarc replied.

T
HE NEXT MORNING
, Trent and Corbin accompanied Jonmarc to the riverbank, where Steen had hired a man named Nyall and his boat to take them across into Principality.

“You’ve got a job with the forge, if you decide soldiering isn’t for you,” Trent said, shaking Jonmarc’s hand.

Corbin clapped him on the shoulder. “Between the forge and the farriers, there’s always work for you. The blessing of the Lady go with you,” he said.

Jonmarc managed not to look back as the boat pulled away from shore. Neither he nor Steen spoke. Before long, Steen instructed Nyall to guide the boat to shore at a rundown dock that made the Floating City look plush by comparison.

“Are you sure we’re in the right place?” Jonmarc asked. He grabbed his bag, felt for the sack of coins that hung around his neck beneath his tunic, and assured himself that his swords were secure at his belt.

“No point complicating things by coming in at one of the main ports,” Steen said. “We’re closer to where the mercs camp this way. Let’s just hope that my friend isn’t out on a mission.”

Steen paid Nyall. The boat master muttered a benediction against harm, giving Jonmarc to know that they were heading into territory that was as dangerous as it looked. Jonmarc followed Steen up the worn stairs that led to a path through the woods. Near the far side of the forest, a burly guard stepped out from the shadows to block their path.

Steen and the guard traded words in the river patois, and then the guard waved them on. “What was that about?’ Jonmarc asked when they were well past the man.

“Just making sure we had good reason to be here,” Steen said. “Mercs don’t win popularity contests. They aren’t fond of being knifed in their sleep. I mentioned a few names. Good to know my contacts are still held in high regard.”

Jonmarc let Steen do the talking as they emerged in a campground many times the size of what Linton’s caravan required. Tents, wagons, and campfires filled the flatland for as far as the eye could see. No one moved to stop them, but Jonmarc could feel the weight of the stares that followed them as they made their way through the crowded encampment.

A tip from one of Steen’s contacts led them to The Wobbly Goat, an inn of dubious reputation at the edge of a dilapidated town. Jonmarc stayed close as he followed Steen into the run down tavern. The sign hung only by a chain on one side, making it more wobbly than its namesake, and the inn smelled of burnt bread, overcooked venison and bitter ale.