The Starfollowers of Coramonde (4 page)

“Do you still
have contacts in the city? I want to know about Yardiff Bey, where he is and
how I can get to him.”

“A hazardous
line of inquiry.”

“Didn’t ask
you that.” He realized he was being brusque again.

Brodur smiled
knowingly. “Vengeance has spurs with sharpest rowels, has it not? Very well,
meet me at the Arborway at the tenth hour this evening.” Taking his cloak, he
left.

Watching him
go, Gil said, “All right, Ferrian, cut me loose. What was the big joke?”

The
Horseblooded laughed, full and loud. “Brodur, you see, is left-handed. He
fought Gale-Baiter with his right to build his confidence and bump him to
higher stakes for the left-handed match, a sure wager.”

The American
guffawed. Shaking his head at the departing Brodur, he declared, “Now
that,
Ferrian, is what you call a
hustler.”

Thou shalt not swear falsely,
but fulfill thy oaths.

St. Matthew

Chapter 5, verse 33

GIL used up the brass-bright
afternoon and coral evening prowling Kee-Amaine, the city spread at the feet of
the palace-fortress. He liked hanging out, voluntarily lost, in Kee-Amaine’s
fabulous, twilight labyrinth of a bazaar. He browsed guardedly past the glitter
of copper utensils and stained-glass lanterns, bolts of rich silks and bales of
prize furs, the sparkle of jeweled hilts and the glint of blue steel blades.
There was the omnipresent clink of vigilantly counted coins and pay-tokens. The
place smelled of cheap incense, avaricious sweat, rare perfumes, old dung,
hundreds of pungent foods, and unhappy livestock of every species.

He kept the
heel of his left hand conspicuously on the pommel of his sword. It was a more
certain insurance against trouble than his pistol; few people here would have
heard of firearms, much less been able to recognize one, but all knew cold
steel well. It was a simple, utilitarian blade, belonging to his friend Dunstan
the Berserker. The American was determined that its owner would have it again.

The confused
uproar in the bazaar was constant. Each vendor had a song or call, and
bartering was animated, almost theatrical. Voices and chatter here interested
him. People in the Crescent Lands spoke more rapidly, more vividly than he was
used to. Theirs was a verbal culture, and this, very much, a world of the ear
and the spoken word.

He sampled a
skewer of grease-popping cubed meat. He found it—like many foods here—so highly
spiced that it brought tears. Lacking preservatives, people fought gamey flavor
with a tongue-searing array of seasonings.

He eventually
threaded his way through the bazaar to the Arborway, main path through the
rambling commons known as the Tarryinground. Trees of many kinds arched above,
a corridor of the diverse hues and textures of leaves and bark.

At the
entrance he met Brodur, just after the tenth hour had resounded. “You received
my message?” the captain asked.

“Yes. I’ve
got the money; I grubbed it off Springbuck.”

“Good. The
man we want is to meet us in a taproom, the White Tern. I thought a walk there
might be salutary. Too, I shall have to know more in order to be of assistance
to you. Any dealing concerned with Yardiff Bey must be presumed to have its
pitfalls.”

Brodur, who
wore a hooded cloak, held up a broad brimmed hat. “I took the liberty of
selecting this for you, apropos of our excursion. The man we go to see was in
the throne room the night you and Springbuck and the others invaded it. May I
point out that the brim can be tilted quite low across the face?”

Gil’s respect
for Brodur increased. They set off, their way among the strollers lit by
flaming cressets.

Gil began,
“When Yardiff Bey bugged out in that airship of his, he had Dunstan prisoner. I
think Bey’ll hang onto him as a hedge or hostage, or for interrogation.” Their
boots crunched over the gravel path as he thought out his next words. “Thing
is, I’ve got this
feeling
Dunstan’s alive, y’know? So I have to find Bey
to spring Dunstan.”

Brodur
glanced sidelong at him. “Pardon my saying this, but you are said to harbor
another reason as well. It is rumored you require vengeance.”

Gil stopped
and faced Brodur. “You knew her too, right?”

“Gil
MacDonald, I conspired with the Lady Duskwind. I served her, held her in
highest regard and in some measure, I tell you, she was dear to me.”

“I’m not sure
what you’re getting at, here.”

“That I, too,
want requital for gentle Duskwind’s death. I shall advance your purpose and
abet you in whatever manner you may need. Whatever manner. I trust I make
myself clear?”

“Shake.” They
clasped hands, then resumed their way.

At the end of
the Arborway a fountain played in the glare of torches. There were wide playing
fields, where children charged back and forth in giggling games of chase-ball,
hampered by darkness. Others played a new favorite, “the Game of Springbuck,”
re-enacting the
Ku-Mor-Mai’s
flight and eventual return. Gil could see
their bright clothes intermittently, like Chinese kites on a night breeze.

Farther
along, adults congregated to chat, see and be seen, or just linger. Food and
drink were sold, but no other paying enterprise was permitted except
entertainment. Beyond, in a meadow, musicians at the foot of a statue of
Springbuck’s father Surehand mingled notes, accompanied occasionally by voices
lifted in song. Off to one side a puppet show was in progress.

They passed
through groves of trees onto a greensward. Public speakers were free to address
matters of conviction or caprice here, an acclaimed innovation of Springbuck’s,
but several pikemen were stationed nearby to squelch the brawls that often
ignited from impassioned debate.

Skirting a
quiet lake with a tiny, exquisite chapel of the Bright Mistress on its rim,
they came to another access path, and left the commons for what Gil knew was a
raunchy section of the city, Lowlintel Road.

Lighting was
sparser, buildings more tightly packed. There were enclaves crowded together,
of people from the many subdominions of polyglot Coramonde. Here, no bedding was
aired on balconies by day, nor washing hung out at night, for fear of theft.
Both loosened swords in their scabbards. Gil made sure his cloak didn’t impede
access to the Browning.

There were
loiterers, usually outside a hell-raising tavern or dimly lit house with a red
wreath on its door and women beckoning from the windows.

They came to
the White Tern. Its interior was a scene of faded charms; beautiful starmolding
around the door had been allowed to crack and chip away and the rushes serving
as a floor hadn’t been changed recently. Ceiling, rafters and tiny roundel
windows were all coated with greasy smoke. Odors reported too many people, too
close, over much too long a time. There was a sweetish thickness in the air.
Gil knew it for the scent of the drug Earnai, the Dreamdrowse.

Boisterous
arguments vied with harsh laughter. An arm-wrestling match between a Teebran
archer and an Alebowrenian bravo spurred rabid rooting and wagering. Gil
trailed Brodur into the snug at the back, and they took a booth.

Candles
guttered low; customers were solo and silent. A harassed-looking girl brushed a
lock of limp hair from her eyes and took their order, a toss of brandy for
Brodur, jack of beer for the American. The aide made an elaborate ceremony of
inhaling the brandy, eyes closed. Gil just drank.

The captain
got back to their errand. “The man is called Wintereye. He is an Oathbreaker,
stripped of sword and status, but I knew him in the days of his prosperity. Now
he roots out his living as best he may. While Bey was in power he often—”

A man had
come to their booth. He was unkempt; a stale stink drifting from him. His eyes
darted nervously, reconning the room. At the captain’s invitation he seated
himself next to Brodur, refusing a drink. He kept his head lowered, disheveled
hair hiding his face.

“I am glad to
see you, Wintereye,” said the aide. “It is some space of time since last we
met. You are slimmer now but tired, I venture.”

Wintereye
lifted his gaze. His cheek was branded with a stylized Faith Cup, broken at the
stem, stigma of the Oathbreaker. The man scowled.

“These days,
Captain Brodur, living’s lean and skittish. In fact, you may know someone who
can use this?”

From some
inner fold of his ragged shirt his left hand brought a pellet the size of a
pea, of a waxy, kneaded material. Gil noticed Wintereye wore odd tubes of
painted leather on his fingertips.

“Finest
Earnai from the south, and at a reasonable price. No? What makes two gallants
deny the Dream-drowse? Life is sweet but ah, visions sweeter still! Open the
Doors that lie Between; here is the Key that unlocks fastnesses of the mind.
With it, you’ll see inward, and Beyond, and find your Answers.”

Brodur
refused a second time. “As you will,” Winter-eye surrendered. “The Dreamdrowse
always comes to him for whom it is destined.” He left the Dreamdrowse
conspicuously on the table.

“Permit me to
present my associate,” Brodur went on. The American tilted his hat brim lower.
“My associate’s name has no importance, but he is interested in where he might
reasonably seek a former employer of yours.”

Wintereye
thought a moment. “There are few things, very few, worse than the life I lead,
yet one is the enmity of Yardiff Bey.”

“Ah, money
could take you even beyond the reach of the Hand of Salamá.”

Wintereye
shuddered.
“Nothing
can take a man that far!”

Brodur showed
his teeth, his suave mask dropping. “You once drank a Faith Cup with
Springbuck’s father. Then you betrayed the son, would have murdered him, given
the chance.”

He caught
Wintereye’s right forearm and held it up. The hand had been lopped off, its
wrist bound in leather. “I convinced the
Ku-Mor-Mai
you were not worth
executing, traitor. Others were impaled and hung outside the Iron Hook Gate for
less.” The angry captain released the arm. “The hour is too late for you to
begin protecting your trusts, Wintereye.”

It drove home
to Gil just how serious oathbreaking was. In a world with few written contracts
a man was, quite literally, only as good as his word. A violation of that word
placed on him a mark no decent person would wear. Wintereye, with missing hand
and branded cheek, would never know honest companions, and was ejected from the
profession of arms forever. His face twitched with anger.

Gil looked
away, and noticed a bulky man, face cowled and hidden like Brodur’s, enter the
snug. The man seated himself, scanning the room.

Wintereye,
glowering at Brodur, asked, “You have money?” Gil brought out the wallet of
coins Springbuck had given him without inquiring how the American would use it.
Brodur had his hand on his sword, insuring that Wintereye wouldn’t bolt. But
when the informer had tucked his fee inside his tattered shirt, he set his
forearms on the table and leaned forward.

“Now, as to
my master Yardiff Bey—” He stopped suddenly, lurching at Brodur, catching the
aide’s sword-hand. His accomplice must have stolen up very softly; a leering
face and a burlap-wrapped arm and torso appeared around the edge of the
high-backed bench. The man swung a heavy cudgel at Gil.

The
American’s reflexes were good. If he hadn’t been so intent on Wintereye, he
might have dodged. But he only managed to avoid having his head bashed open.
The heavy, knotted cudgel connected glancingly with his outside shoulder, his
right. He screamed in anguish and his arm went numb. The man tried to close on
him, but Gil dragged himself farther into the booth. Whipping his drinking jack
at his attacker, he got his legs up to fend him off, clawing futilely with his
left hand for the Browning that hung beneath his left armpit.

Brodur broke
Wintereye’s desperate grip and would have thrown him aside and swept his sword
free, but the back room of the White Tern sprouted more enemies. Most of the
patrons, wanting no part of it, stampeded for the doors, but four others rushed
into the fight with daggers and clubs. Three swarmed up behind Wintereye at
Brodur, who had just time to snatch his own dagger. Wintereye seized the dagger
hand, beating the captain with his wrist, but inadvertently shielded him from
the rest.

There was
more movement, this time from the front wall. The hooded man whom Gil had
noticed entering barreled into the fray, cutlass held high. Gil squirmed to
avoid another blow, keeping his assailant at bay with kicking feet. The cudgel
battered his thigh. Next thing, his opponent dropped to the floor, holding his
side in a spreading pool of blood. His mouth appeared to work and strain, but
no sound came.

One of the
attackers reached around Wintereye, and slashed. His aim was off; the blade
plowed along the flesh of Brodur’s upper chest, stopped by the collarbone with
a nauseating grate. Gil got the Browning with his left hand. Extending it
across the table, he fired point-blank at the informer. In the confinement of
the booth, the report was more concussion than sound, slamming deafness. Brain
tissue and bone chips exploded in a mist of blood. Wintereye crashed hard
against the back of the bench and fell across the table, a hideous exit hole in
his skull. His other cheek, covering the candle, snuffed it.

The assassins
fell back, yowling. The smell of gunpowder replaced all others in the snug. Gil
wriggled into a sitting position and swung the muzzle to bear on the man who
had stabbed Brodur. His left hand and pistol shook badly. The first shot had
rung a world of silence down around him. With effort, he locked his elbow
steady and shot the man, as Brodur tried to clasp his gushing wound together
with his hands. The second shot battered Gil’s ears and began an acute ache.
The man flew backward in a heap, a burbling puncture in his chest.