“Where are you travelling?”
“Ea Uaré, to Oran’Dor in search of goods.”
“You don’t want to go there if you’re Alpine. Lower your hoods. Reveal yourselves.”
What choice did they have? Pan’assár couldn’t disobey, or they risked being taken to the holding cells. A voice rang out behind him. Someone passed him and stood before the group. She inched closer to the guard.
“We are Ari’atór, Shirán on a mission of importance. We would not draw attention to ourselves, Warrior.” She was close enough that he could see her dark skin and blazing blue eyes, the tattoos on her face.
After a moment of hesitation, the guard spoke. “You give your solemn oath?”
“We will cause you no strife, brother. You have my word.”
He hesitated, but his eyes were transfixed on hers. “Very well. I accept your word, Shirán.”
She nodded, then gestured to the others to follow. Five minutes later, they were off the pier and in the middle of a crowded street.
If Bulls Bay had been bawdy, Port Helia was outrageous. Exotic. Dangerous.
It was a far bigger place, and larger ships sat in the port and further out, dotted over the entire bay. The streets were wider, wilder even, and it seemed there was one inn for every two buildings. Pan’assár had wanted to avoid this, but with the intervention of the guards, they had had no choice but to walk into the city instead of hiding under the piers.
Outside an inn, three burly elves crashed into Galadan. Galdith held out his hand to steady his friend, but the lieutenant barely managed to keep his footing, and his hood slipped back.
“Alpine scum,” growled one elf, spitting to one side and staring back at the group. Deciding there were too many for him to take on, he staggered away with his friends, and Pan’assár turned to the sign that hung over his head. Ramien followed his line of sight and smiled at the colourful painting of a Rainbow Giant arcing out of the water.
The temptation to enter the place and eat a hot meal, savour a glass of wine and sleep in a real bed was great, even for Pan’assár. He could feel Ramien’s gaze upon him, but he turned and shook his head.
“We make for the shoreline and darkness. Circle round and find those stables.” They half-skidded down the incline that led to the beach but kept close to it to better conceal themselves. They walked under the piers, around the fishing boats and bundles of netting, and after a while, Pan’assár gestured with one arm for them to follow him. They scrambled back up the incline, now on the far side of the beach.
“The stables are over to the left, behind the town; half an hour on foot. Come.”
He led them behind the buildings, through dark alleys, and stopped at corners to check they were not being followed in the dark. They stopped and started until it was no longer stone underfoot but grass. They could still hear the noises of the city, see its lights, but it all grew dimmer and quieter as they travelled inland. Buildings were fewer and further between, and soon, there was nothing but open country, hills with a smattering of trees. In the distance stood a long, well-lit building and beside it, a small cottage. They had arrived at the stables, and with some luck, they could rest and eat. But by dawn, they knew they must be on their way.
Away from the sea, towards the forest, and whatever lay beyond.
At Port Helia’s barracks, the quay guard reported to his commanding officer. Shirán were afoot, he said. He had seen one and allowed the group to enter. He had expected a reprimand but received nothing more than a slow nod and permission to continue with the guard.
Once he had gone, the captain stood and covered his uniform with a long, hooded cloak, just as he had done every day for the past week. On a side table lay a neatly packed bag and beside it, a folded and sealed note he knew Pasán would read tomorrow morning when he saw his captain’s pack gone.
It was a waiting game, a patience game, one he may even lose, because his quarry may not have taken the sea route—or perhaps they had but found trouble along the way.
Joining the clasps of his cloak at the neck, he slung his pack over his shoulder and snuffed out the candles on his desk. Time to join the heaving crowds on the streets of Port Helia.
One more night. One more chance.
13
Kestrel
“Bright boy, noble boy, brother of one destined to be a king. He was good at everything he did. Yet in his own mind, he was not good enough.”
The Alpine Chronicles: Cor’hidén
It was dark here, on the outskirts of Port Helia, but the stables were well illuminated inside. Oil lamps burned steadily, emanating a soothing orange light and illuminating the path to the front entrance. The familiar smell of hay and manure jolted a memory in Idernon’s mind, of the day he, Ramien and Fel’annár had left Lan Taria for their novice training.
Pan’assár stopped them in a quiet corner of the building. Crouching low, he unbuckled the chest, stuffed his hand inside and pulled out a fistful of coins. Closing it again he handed the money to Idernon. “A horse each and two spare. Have them ready for dawn.”
Idernon nodded, then gestured for Galdith to join him. Ramien was too big for first meetings. He intimidated those who didn’t know him—unless they happened to look at his face before his bulk. Then you would see his heart in his eyes, or perhaps lately, you would see the sea. Yet not for the first time, Idernon wondered why Pan’assár directed his orders at him and not Galadan.
They had found the stable master just inside the building and now, with the deal done, for half the coin Pan’assár had provided, the Silvan turned away from his customers. With a gleam in his eye, he limped to the end of the aisle, to where he knew he would find Raddy, the stable boy. Indeed, the lad sat with his back against the wall, knees high, chomping on pie as he watched his favourite mare fuss with the hay under well-cared-for hooves. Raddy looked up at his master, face rigid and pale.
“Not Willow.”
“No. Fool boy. Go to the guardhouse. Find Turion. Tell him I sold eleven.”
Raddy scowled but stood all the same, brushing flakes of pastry from his rough brown tunic.
“Don’t speak to anyone else, mind,” said Jarabon, tossing a coin and then fisting it, tempting the boy with the promise of money for treats.
“I won’t!” He smiled, one tooth missing. He dashed away, clattered over the courtyard and then thudded across the field, towards the city he knew so well.
The Silvan stable master limped back to the entrance where his customers stood and held out his hand to them. “I’m Jarabon.” He nodded, eyes moving from Idernon to Galdith. Idernon took the hand slowly and the Silvan smiled softly. “You don’t have to worry about me, Warrior.” He turned, allowed the light to catch on his patchy hair. “Used to be a soldier myself once, back when I could still fight. Got a spare aisle, if you’re interested. Clean hay, warm enough.”
“You’re very kind, Jarabon. But we are camping close by. We would not put you out with our presence.”
“It’s no trouble, Warrior. But come, look.” He gestured with one arm, turned inside without waiting for them to follow, though he knew they would. He limped to the very back, where four empty stalls lay open and clean. “Use them if you like, I’ll not bother you.” He nodded and then left them alone.