Wrath of Lions (40 page)

All along the main thoroughfare leading away from the Gods’ Road, there were cottages and chalets, finely crafted homes of interlocking logs atop sturdy stone foundations. In many ways it resembled the other merchant towns she had visited—Drake, Gronswik, and Thettletown, the latter of which they had passed through on their way here—but the
feel
was much different. The road was well maintained, the many gardens popped with color. Merry people streamed in and out of the seamstress shop, the apothecary, the
taverns. The outdoor market they rode past teemed with women both young and old, and they did not seem battered down or sullied. Their men wore boiled leather and ringed armor, and each had his weapon of choice hanging from his belt. At first Laurel had feared they were bandits—the vast majority of the men she’d seen of late were just that—but they were clean and seemed to be in good spirits.

“The men,” she asked, after passing a group of four chatting together before the entrance of a tavern. “Why are they so many? Have Karak’s soldiers not come here to conscript like they have elsewhere?”

“They have, but merchants hold a particular…sway within the kingdom.” Quester grinned while playfully flicking his forked beard. “My masters in particular have good standing with both god and king. Most of our common men were sent away with our deity’s army. Yet Riverrun has kept the fires stoked at Mount Hailen and in Felwood, supplying Karak with all the steel he could desire. For that, we were allowed to keep our hired hands.” His grin grew wider. “It just so happens that most of our hired hands also hold swords.”

“Is that not…well, unfair?” asked Laurel.

The Crimson Sword shrugged.

“Fairness is a matter of perspective, milady. Is it fair to my masters that gold, silver, and bronze have lost much of their value because there are few left to earn it, never mind spend it? Is it fair that the trade they built their livelihoods on now teeters on collapse? It is not, but they know this war will not last forever, and when it does end, when trade returns to its full strength and gold retains its meaning, those who hold the reins will once more be the most powerful men in the land. If we were denied our protection, roving bands of brigands could easily conquer our town. No one, not the temple, not the king, not even Karak himself, wants to see that happen. Once the engine of commerce resumes, the transition back to normalcy needs to be as painless as possible.” He swung his hand
out wide. “And besides, that means my home gets to keep its inherent loveliness, which is never such a bad thing.”

Laurel had no choice but to agree with him. There was something rather comforting about offering a nod of greeting to a passerby and receiving one in kind. In many ways, it seemed as though Riverrun existed in a bubble all its own, untouched by the strife and lawlessness brought about by Karak’s war.

The throughway passed by a great stone amphitheater, a tall structure whose walls were made from a strange, smooth substance, and then a massive commons. There, several boys and girls were at play, tossing small rounded sacks and chasing each other with sticks. Mothers sat on blankets on the edge of the field, eating apples, pears, grapes, and other assorted fruits plucked from wicker baskets, while they watched their children play. More sellswords stood behind them, grinning while they watched the fun, but Laurel could tell their attention was elsewhere. Their eyes skittered nervously at the sound of the horses’ hooves when Quester and Laurel approached with the Sisters of the Cloth in tow, their fingers dancing lightly on the hilts of their swords. It was a reminder, however subtle, of the dangers that lurked all around them.

Before long they reached the Queln River. The road veered sharply, following along the swiftly flowing waters. There were even more children playing in a sandy fjord, splashing and kicking and screeching in joy. Farther along, when the river widened, Laurel saw a fleet of rafts and barges tethered to a great dockhouse that jutted out over the water. There were men working the docked crafts, unloading baskets of fish onto the plank for others to dump into a giant crate and sort through. There were a great many Sisters of the Cloth present, a sight that made Laurel cringe. The wrapped women were like phantoms, lurking around, acknowledged by none. She glanced over her shoulder at Mite and Giant, and suppressed a shudder when she took in the blank look in their eyes.

The farther south they rode along the river, the more prevalent the Sisters became. Soon, they were all she could see, standing in front of gatehouses, guarding the entrance to a steaming smithy on the river’s edge, escorting horses pulling wagons filled with hay, fish, meat, or billowing cotton. Quester noticed her guarded stares, steered his horse over, and took her hand. His grip was firm, his skin soft as silk, yet hardened by calluses at the fingertips. Combined with the man’s inherent beauty, his touch lit something inside her that it was difficult to quell.

“Some of my masters’ most inspired purchases,” he said. “They’ve bought three hundred Sisters over the years. Quiet, hardworking, completely loyal, and many are quite capable in the art of defense, like my pets.” He gestured at Mite and Giant.

“Three hundred?” said Laurel, aghast. “How can there be so many?”

“Oh, three hundred is a low number, milady. There are more than two thousand sisters spread throughout Neldar. When courts are controlled by theological law, these things tend to happen.”

Laurel grunted in disgust. She had been told stories of the Sisters of the Cloth since she was a little girl. It was a warning to all of the fairer sex that a horrible life awaited them should they break Karak’s laws. For men, it was either imprisonment or death. Laurel thought it unfair, though, of course, many men sentenced to death would probably argue otherwise.

The landscape began to change, growing rocky and unsuitable for growth. There were cliffs ahead, craggy outcroppings that fronted the lesser mountains bordering the western bank of the Queln. The road they traveled veered inland, following the base of a foothill. There were more Sisters here than anywhere—dozens of them sparred in the open area to Laurel’s right, steel clanging as their daggers met again and again. A massive ring of stacked stone, taller than her horse, emerged ahead, built into the base of the foothills. Its thick door was guarded by a pair of Sisters.

“Welcome to the Connington Holdfast,” the Crimson Sword declared.

He motioned for her to stop and dismount, which she did. The ground felt hard and unforgiving beneath her feet, very different from the yielding, almost spongy earth they’d camped on the evening before, outside of Thettletown. She stretched her legs for a moment, then approached the door. The two Sisters guarding it barred the path, crossing their daggers. She stepped back, staring into their dead eyes.

Quester walked past her, undoing the tie in his red-streaked golden hair and letting it fall to his shoulders. He leaned over and whispered into the two Sisters’ covered ears, and they fell back to their original positions on either side of the door. He turned to Laurel and smiled.

“One cannot be too careful,” he said with a chuckle. “There are enemies everywhere, perhaps even ones as lovely as you. Precautions must be made.”

The handsome young sellsword knocked three times on the giant oak door, then backed away, tapping his foot on the packed ground. More than five minutes passed before the door finally swung outward, revealing a set of stairs that led down into a torch-lit stone hallway. A woman stepped out, her silvery gray hair falling past her waist. That hair, combined with the folds in her neck and her crooked fingers, suggested she was quite old, yet her face was strangely bereft of wrinkles. She wore a flowing gown of crimson and turquoise, studded with onyx beading. Her eyes were icy blue, as was common in those from the north.

“Councilwoman Laurel Lawrence,” the woman said with a slight bow. “Please, follow me.”

She glanced up at Quester, who nodded and then threw an arm each around Mite and Giant, who had positioned themselves at his sides.

“Are you coming?” she asked him.

“No,” he said. “This meeting is for you and my masters alone. I am useless in these matters.” He tapped the hilt of his shortsword. “Besides, I have other duties to attend. Don’t worry, my masters mean you no harm. They simply wish to talk. I will be here when you are finished to escort you back home.”

With that he turned away, gently nudging Mite and Giant as he approached his horse. In a single swift movement he was back in his saddle, and before she had time to absorb what was happening, he was riding away, his pets trotting behind. Laurel loitered there for a moment, watching him grow smaller and smaller, until the old woman tapped her on the shoulder.

“Please, Laurel, your audience awaits.”

She took a deep breath, steeling herself against her nervousness, before following the strange old woman through the door and down the stairs. The Sisters closed the door behind her, the sound echoing throughout the hallway as loud as a thunderclap. She started, peering at the void of darkness behind her.

The old woman spun around to face her, the folds of her gown twirling.

“There is no reason to be nervous,” she said coldly, looking her up and down. A brief flash of disappointment shone in her blue eyes. “As Quester said, my sons have no desire to harm you. It is an insult to assume otherwise, especially in their place of business.”

My sons?

“I…my apologies, Lady Connington,” Laurel said. Though she spoke softly, her voice still reverberated throughout the passage, making her shudder.
Stay strong,
she told herself.
You know what they want, what they expect. Your father is a powerful merchant, just like them.
Gathering her confidence, she threw back her shoulders and said, “You must understand, I have had some rather unpleasant experiences with many high merchants over the last few weeks. It is a rare merchant who has prospered because of his honesty. To walk
into this meeting blind and trusting would make me a fool, and the daughter of Cornwall Lawrence is no fool.”

Lady Connington smiled at that, her features softening noticeably. With her face more relaxed, the hints of crow’s feet were readily noticeable around her eyes, and creases of age appeared at the corners of her mouth.

“Very well, Councilwoman,” she said. “But you must understand how special it is for you to be here. Other than myself, women are not allowed inside the holdfast. Even my sons’ wives are kept at the homestead in the heart of town. That you are here at all is a testament to how serious my sons are taking these unfolding events.”

“I understand. It’s an honor.”

“It is indeed. Now follow me.”

The hallway led to a central hub cut with six colored passages. Laurel was amazed by how much larger the holdfast was than it had appeared from the outside. The compound appeared to be relatively new, with smooth stucco- and plaster-lined walls. Much of the structure existed underground, and she shuddered to think of how many hours of labor—paid or forced—it had taken to construct it. The windowless walls closed in on her, seeming to constrict with each step she took.

She was led down a passage painted from floor to ceiling in crimson. The light of the torches gave it an ominous feel, as if it were some hellish compartment of the underworld. There was but a single door at the very end of the corridor, stark white and staring out like a giant eye. Lady Connington stopped before the door and turned to her.

“Act like the daughter of Cornwall Lawrence,” she said, “and all will be fine.”

She opened the door, and Laurel stepped into a massive circular room, painted red. There were no decorations save the Conningtons’ golden hawk’s head banner, which hung on the far wall, as large as life. In the center of the room sat a single table, stained a deep
burgundy, on which there was a giant carafe of red wine. Three chairs circled the table, and Romeo and Cleo Connington, two plump men wearing draping frocks the same color as the room, sat in two of them. Numerous rings adorned their fingers, and their heads were shaved and powdered. Laurel smelled the distinct and bitter odors of lemon and menthol combined with rosewater. She remembered that scent from the many times they’d come to the Council begging for some favor, and it was overwhelming in such a confined space.

“Miss Lawrence,” the brothers said in turn, taking her in with icy blue eyes that were near mimics of their mother’s.

“Romeo, Cleo,” she replied. “Or should I refer to you as the Masters Connington?”

Both giggled at that, an unseemly and disturbing sound.

“Our first names are fine, Miss Lawrence,” said Cleo.

“Call me Laurel.”

“Fine,” Romeo said. “Take a seat,
Laurel
. Have some wine. Perhaps unlace your bodice. You appear to be…somewhat hindered.”

She frowned and glanced down at herself. She was wearing the same revealing ensemble she had worn the night she’d met Quester, the one that had been meant to seduce Trenton Blackbard into listening to the king’s pleas. She suddenly felt dirty, though she had done her best to bathe in a stream the previous day. She pulled her cloak tighter around herself, covering her breasts.

“Such a shame,” said Cleo.

“Though it does seem odd to present yourself in such a way for a matter of business,” added Romeo. “Tell us, Laurel, why did you dress like a whore? Was it for us?”

She rolled her eyes. “Certainly not. It was for Trenton Blackbard. I never had the opportunity to return to my home to change before your Crimson Sword whisked me away.”

Cleo grinned, exposing his perfect, pearly white teeth. “Ah yes, Quester is a fine one indeed. Very talented in all we ask him to do, even the…unsavory matters.”

“
Especially
the unsavory matters,” Romeo added. “As for your outfit, Laurel, may I ask if that scandalous outfit served its purpose?”

“Unfortunately, no,” she grumbled, wishing the conversation would move on.

Romeo nodded. “I thought not. A foolish act, dressing that way to sway a man like Blackbard. His business is flesh. Products are to be used, not bargained with. It would be the same as petitioning a farmer while dressed as a cabbage.”