The First Chronicles of Druss the Legend (12 page)

“The
Emperor
is noted for his largesse.”

Collan smiled. “Emperor at nineteen—a rapid rise to power. But he has lost eleven cities to the invader, and his treasury is severely depleted. Can he find two hundred thousand gold raq?”

“Two … surely you are not serious?”

“The Free Traders have fifty warships. With them we could protect the coastline and prevent invasion from the sea; we could also shepherd the convoys that carry Ventrian silk to the Drenai and the Lentrians and countless others. Without us you are doomed, Bodasen. Two hundred thousand is a small price to pay.”

“I am authorized to offer fifty. No more.”

“The Naashanites have offered one hundred.”

Bodasen fell silent, his mouth dry. “Perhaps we could pay the difference in silks and trade goods?” he offered at last.

“Gold,” said Collan. “That is all that interests us. We are not merchants.”

No, thought Bodasen bitterly, you are thieves and killers, and it burns my soul to sit in the same room with such as you. “I will need to seek counsel of the ambassador,” he said. “He can communicate your request to the Emperor. I will need five days.”

“That is agreeable,” said Collan, rising. “You know where to find me?”

Under a flat rock, thought Bodasen, with the other slugs and lice. “Yes,” he said, softly, “I know where to find you. Tell me, when will Harib be back in Mashrapur?”

“He won’t.”

“Where is this appointment then?”

“In Hell,” answered Collan.

“You must have patience,” said Sieben, as Druss stalked around the small room on the upper floor of the Tree of Bone Inn. The poet had stretched out his long, lean frame on the first of the two narrow beds, while Druss strode to the window and stood staring out over the dock and the sea beyond the harbor.

“Patience?” stormed the axeman. “She’s here somewhere, maybe close.”

“And we’ll find her,” promised Sieben, “but it will take a little time. First there are the established slave traders. This evening I
will ask around, and find out where Collan has placed her. Then we can plan her rescue.”

Druss swung round. “Why not go to the White Bear Inn and find Collan? He knows.”

“I expect he does, old horse.” Sieben swung his legs from the bed and stood. “And he’ll have any number of rascals ready to plunge knives in our backs. Foremost among them will be Borcha. I want you to picture a man who looks as if he were carved from granite, with muscles that dwarf even yours. Borcha is a killer. He has beaten men to death in fistfights, snapped necks in wrestling bouts; he doesn’t need a weapon. I have seen him crush a pewter goblet in one hand, and watched him lift a barrel of ale above his head. And he is just one of Collan’s men.”

“Frightened, are you, poet?”

“Of course I’m frightened, you young fool! Fear is sensible. Never make the mistake of equating it with cowardice. But it is senseless to go after Collan; he is known here and has friends in very high places. Attack him and you will be arrested, tried, and sentenced. Then there will be no one to rescue Rowena.”

Druss slumped down, his elbows resting on the warped table. “I hate sitting here doing nothing,” he said.

“Then let’s walk around the city for a while,” offered Sieben. “We can gather some information. How much did you get for your horse?”

“Twenty in silver.”

“Almost fair. You did well. Come on, I’ll show you the sights.” Druss stood and gathered his axe. “I don’t think you’ll need that,” Sieben told him. “It’s one thing to wear a sword or carry a knife, but the City Watch will not take kindly to that monstrosity. In a crowded street you’re likely to cut off someone’s arm by mistake. Here, I’ll loan you one of my knives.”

“I won’t need it,” said Druss, leaving the axe on the table and striding out of the room.

Together they walked down into the main room of the inn, then out into the narrow street beyond.

Druss sniffed loudly. “This city stinks,” he said.

“Most cities do—at least in the poorest areas. No sewers. Refuse is thrown from windows. So walk warily.”

They moved toward the docks, where several ships were being unloaded, bales of silk from Ventria and Naashan and other
eastern nations, herbs and spices, dried fruit, and barrels of wine. The dock was alive with activity.

“I’ve never seen so many people in one place,” said Druss.

“It’s not even busy yet,” Sieben pointed out. They strolled around the harbor wall, past temples and large municipal buildings, through a small park with a statue-lined walkway and a central fountain. Young couples were walking hand in hand and to the left an orator was addressing a small crowd. He was speaking of the essential selfishness of the pursuit of altruism. Sieben stopped to listen for a few minutes, then walked on.

“Interesting, don’t you think?” he asked his companion. “He was suggesting that good works are ultimately selfish because they make the man who undertakes them feel good. Therefore he has not been unselfish at all, but has merely acted for his own pleasure.”

Druss shook his head and glowered at the poet. “His mother should have told him the mouth is not for breaking wind with.”

“I take it this is your subtle way of saying you disagree with his comments?” snapped Sieben.

“The man’s a fool.”

“How would you set about proving that?”

“I don’t need to prove it. If a man serves up a plate of cow dung, I don’t need to taste it to know it’s not steak.”

“Explain it,” Sieben urged him. “Share some of that vaunted frontier philosophy.”

“No,” said Druss, walking on.

“Why not?” asked Sieben, moving alongside him.

“I am a woodsman. I know about trees. Once I worked in an orchard. Did you know you can take cuttings from any variety and graft them to another apple tree? One tree can have twenty varieties. It’s the same with pears. My father always said men were like that with knowledge. So much can be grafted on, but it must match what the heart feels. You can’t graft apple to pear. It’s a waste of time—and I don’t like wasting my time.”

“You think I could not understand your arguments?” asked Sieben with a sneering smile.

“Some things you either know or you don’t. And I can’t graft that knowledge on to you. Back in the mountains I watched farmers plant tree lines across the fields; they did it because the winds can blow away the topsoil. But the trees would take a hundred years to form a real windbreak, so those farmers were
building for the future, for others they will never know. They did it because it was right to do it—and not one of them would be able to debate with that pompous windbag back there. Or with you. Nor is it necessary that they should.”

“That
pompous windbag
is the first minister of Mashrapur, a brilliant politician and a poet of some repute. I’m sure he would be mortally humiliated to know that a young uneducated peasant from the frontier disagrees with his philosophy.”

“Then we won’t tell him,” said Druss. “We’ll just leave him here serving up his cow dung to people who
will
believe they’re steaks. Now I’m thirsty, poet. Do you know of a decent tavern?”

“It depends what you’re looking for. The taverns on the docks are rough, and usually filled with thieves and whores. If we walk on for another half-mile we’ll come to a more civilized area. There we can have a quiet drink.”

“What about those places over there?” asked Druss, pointing to a row of buildings alongside the wharf.

“Your judgment is unerring, Druss. That is East Wharf, better known to the residents here as Thieves Row. Every night there are a score of fights—and murders. Almost no one of quality would go there—which makes it perfect for you. You go on. I’ll visit some old friends who might have news of recent slave movements.”

“I’ll come with you,” said Druss.

“No, you won’t. You’d be out of place. Most of my friends, you see, are pompous windbags. I’ll meet you back at the Tree of Bone by midnight.” Druss chuckled, which only increased Sieben’s annoyance as the poet swung away and strode through the park.

The room was furnished with a large bed with satin sheets, two comfort chairs padded with horsehair and covered with velvet, and a table upon which sat a jug of wine and two silver goblets. There were rugs upon the floor, woven with great skill and soft beneath her bare feet. Rowena sat upon the edge of the bed, her right hand clasping the brooch Druss had fashioned for her. She could see him walking beside Sieben. Sadness overwhelmed her and her hand dropped to her lap. Harib Ka was dead—as she had known he would be—and Druss was now closer to his dread destiny.

She felt powerless and alone in Collan’s house. There were no
locks upon the door, but there were guards in the corridor beyond. Yet there was no escape.

On the first night, when Collan had taken her from the camp, he had raped her twice. On the second occasion she had tried to empty her mind, losing herself in dreams of the past. In doing so she had unlocked the doors to her Talent. Rowena had floated free of her abused body and hurtled through darkness and Time. She saw great cities, huge armies, mountains that breached the clouds. Lost, she sought for Druss and could not find him.

Then a voice came to her, a gentle voice, warm and reassuring. “Be calm, sister. I will help you.”

She paused in her flight, floating above a night-dark ocean. A man appeared alongside her; he was slim of build and young, perhaps twenty. His eyes were dark, his smile friendly. “Who are you?” she asked him.

“I am Vintar of the Thirty.”

“I am lost,” she said.

“Give me your hand.”

Reaching out she felt his spirit fingers, then his thoughts washed over hers. On the verge of panic, Rowena felt herself swamped by his memories, seeing a temple of gray stone, a dwelling-place of white-clad monks. He withdrew from her as swiftly as he had entered her thoughts. “Your ordeal is over,” he said. “He has left you and now sleeps beside you. I shall take you home.”

“I cannot bear it. He is a vile man.”

“You will survive, Rowena.”

“Why should I wish to?” she asked him. “My husband is changing, becoming day by day as vicious as the men who took me. What kind of life will I face?”

“I will not answer that, though probably I could,” he told her. “You are very young, and you have experienced great pain. But you are alive, and while living can achieve great good. You have the Talent, not only to Soar but also to Heal, to Know. Few are blessed with this gift. Do not concern yourself with Collan; he raped you only because Harib Ka said that he should not and he will not touch you again.”

“He has defiled me.”

“No,” said Vintar sternly, “He has defiled himself. It is important to understand that.”

“Druss would be ashamed of me, for I did not fight.”

“You fought, Rowena, in your own way. You gave him no pleasure. To have tried to resist would have increased his lust, and his satisfaction. As it was—and you know this to be true—he felt deflated and full of melancholy. And you know his fate.”

“I don’t want any more deaths!”

“We all die. You … me … Druss. The measure of us all is established by how we live.”

He had returned her to her body, taking care to instruct her in the ways of Spirit travel, and the routes by which she could return by herself in the future. “Will I see you again?” she asked him.

“It is possible,” he answered.

Now, as she sat on the satin-covered bed, she wished she could speak with him again.

The door opened and a huge warrior entered. He was bald and heavily muscled. There were scars around his eyes and his nose was flattened against his face. He moved toward the bed but there was no threat, she knew. Silently he laid a gown of white silk upon the bed. “Collan has asked that you wear this for Kabuchek.”

“Who is Kabuchek?” she enquired.

“A Ventrian merchant. If you do well he will buy you. It won’t be a bad life, girl. He has many palaces and treats his slaves with care.”

“Why do you serve Collan?” she asked.

His eyes narrowed. “I serve no one. Collan is a friend. I help him sometimes.”

“You are a better man than he.”

“That is as may be. But several years ago, when I was first champion, I was waylaid in an alley by supporters of the vanquished champion. They had swords and knives. Collan ran to my aid. We survived. I always pay my debts. Now put on the gown, and prepare your skill. You need to impress the Ventrian.”

“And if I refuse?”

“Collan will not be pleased and I don’t think you would like that. Trust me on this, lady. Do your best and you will be clear of this house.”

“My husband is coming for me,” she said softly. “When he does, he will kill any who have harmed me.”

“Why tell me?”

“Do not be here when he comes, Borcha.”

The giant shrugged. “The Fates will decide,” he said.

*   *   *

Druss strolled across to the wharf buildings. They were old, a series of taverns created from derelict warehouses, and there were recesses and alley entrances everywhere. Garishly dressed women lounged against the walls and ragged men sat close by, playing knucklebones or talking in small groups.

A woman approached him. “All the delights your mind can conjure for just a silver penny,” she said wearily.

“Thank you, but no,” he told her.

“I can get you opiates, if you desire them?”

“No,” he said, more sternly, and moved on. Three bearded men pushed themselves to their feet and walked in front of him. “A gift for the poor, my lord?” asked the first.

Druss was about to reply when he glimpsed the man to his left edge his hand into the folds of a filthy shirt. He chuckled. “If that hand comes out with a knife in it—I’ll make you eat it, little man.” The beggar froze.

“You shouldn’t be coming here with threats,” said the first man. “Not unarmed as you are. It’s not wise,
my lord.”
Reaching behind his back, he drew a long-bladed dagger.

As the blade appeared, Druss stepped forward and casually backhanded the man across the mouth. The robber cartwheeled to the left, scattering a group of watching whores and colliding with a wall of brick. He moaned once, then lay still. Ignoring the other two beggars, Druss strode to the nearest tavern and stepped inside.