The guard looked him up and down for a second before sniffling noisily and running the back of his hand under his nose. He tilted his head toward the open door.
“Look in the back room,” he said. “He’s off duty right now.”
Blayne walked into what was obviously a barracks, passing through a room with a number of unoccupied bunks. Passing through another door, he found a room with many tables and chairs, most likely the mess hall. A dozen men sat around in there, listlessly pursuing games of cards or knucklebones, sharpening arrowheads, or carving away on small scraps of wood or, in one case, the ash haft of a new bow.
“Is Archer Billings here?” he repeated.
“I’m Billings,” said one man, unusual in that his black hair and swarthy complexion was much darker than all the other men in the company-but a plausible match for the disguise Blayne wore. It would be easy for someone to believe they might be countrymen. Billings had been sitting alone in one corner of the room, whittling what looked like a curling pipe out of a small piece of wood.
The bowman put his work in his pocket and squinted at Blayne. “You bring me a letter from the homestead?” he asked.
Blayne hoped his relief didn’t show, but that was exactly what Hoarst had told him Billings would say. He went through the reply he had been rehearsing on the long ride to the city. “No letter, but I have news from some old friends.”
The archer rose to his feet and stretched easily. He was a tall man, lanky and thin, and moved with catlike grace. “I’m off duty until sunrise. Let’s go have a beer, and you can tell me all about it.”
The other bowmen didn’t so much as glance up at them as the two men left. Blayne collected his horse and followed the tall archer as Billings led him a few blocks down a city street. They reached the door to a nondescript tavern-the nobleman couldn’t even read the faded sign over the door-and after Blayne had tethered his horse, they went inside. The front room was mostly empty, with just a few dockworkers drinking cheap ale at the bar. The archer simply nodded to the innkeeper and led his guest through a door and into an even darker room in the back.
“Welcome to Palanthas,” Billings said, gesturing to a chair beside the lone table. Blayne took a seat with his companion, and the innkeeper bustled in with a foaming pitcher and a couple of glasses.
“Thanks, Wally,” Billings said, pressing a coin into the man’s hand. “We’ll be all right for the time being.”
“You got it, Hawkeye,” said the innkeeper, bowing and retreating.
Blayne looked at his companion curiously.
“A nickname,” Billings explained. “I’m a pretty good shot with my longbow,” he added, filling their glasses from the pitcher. When he was done, he set the beer down and looked at Blayne long and hard.
“Now,” he said. “Tell me what’s up.”
Selinda looked out the window of her room, watching the city as nightfall drew its curtain across Palanthas. Candles sparkled from countless windows. Lamplighters were busy igniting the wicks in the oil-fueled beacons that brightened all of the major intersections. Vendors and merchants wheeled their carts back home as the markets closed, while other sellers of different goods moved into the alleys, whispering invitations for darker and more secret commerce. People mingled, talking and laughing. They thronged on the main avenues, but even on the side streets there were many small parties finding their fun through the night.
What was the point of it all? Of any of it?
Her hands moved almost unconsciously to her belly. She could begin to make out the subtle roundness there, though the pregnancy still did not show through the contours of her clothing. It was still hard to believe she was carrying a human life within her-and harder to believe that that life had been kindled by the emperor, Jaymes Markham.
“What kind of child will you be?” she whispered to herself.
And what kind of world would that child grow up in? That was a question she didn’t give voice to at all.
Feeling the weight of approaching darkness, the princess sighed and turned away. But the shadowy confines of her room were no consolation. Even when she lit a lamp and a half dozen candles, she couldn’t banish her uneasiness, her despair. Her door was closed and there was no longer a guard posted there to block her exit; her husband had abandoned that tactic, tacitly acknowledging the freedom she had been granted by the magical ring.
Yet she had not used the device since that terrible trip to Vingaard, when she had recognized the hard and violent truth of the emperor’s reign. Since then she had remained in her room for most of each day, though she went to other parts of the palace when she knew her husband was not present. That night, he was working in his office several floors below her quarters, and since she would not take the chance of encountering him in the hallways, she would not leave her room.
But the restlessness was growing intolerable, and she was thinking about the ring of teleportation, of the freedom it gave her-should she only choose to exercise its magic. And in that instant, impulsively, she decided to go.
Her destination wasn’t terribly important; it was simply that she wanted to be out of there, to go to a place of her own choosing. She took a few moments to don sturdy walking boots and a practical gown and cloak of quality that would mark her merely as someone of reasonable means, not suggest any tie to nobility or, more significantly, to the emperor’s household. When she had made her preparations, she went to the window again, pictured the place she longed to be, and twisted the magic ring on her finger.
The sensation was familiar by now, no longer dizzying or disorienting. She materialized on the street before the great Temple of Kiri-Jolith, the same building where she had gone to see the high priestess Melissa du Juliette. She hesitated, listening to the familiar, comforting chants of the vesperspeak. But she did not go inside the temple.
Instead, she turned and walked along the wide avenue, enjoying her freedom. She ambled along the wide street, smiled at a pair of soldiers who offered her greetings, and smelled the salty breeze coming from the great waterfront.
The maritime air seemed to call to her, and she turned along a cross street, heading north. It was not a wide roadway, but there were people about, and the sounds of flutes and lyres emerged from an inn at the corner. It was called the Goose and Gander, she noted from a brightly painted sign. Raucous laughter erupted from the inn, followed by a spontaneous song, and she envied the carefree people enjoying the simple pleasures of night life.
But she wasn’t tempted to enter the inn, because the lure of the docks drew her along. So she passed the noisy inn and moved along the narrowing street. It was a part of the city that was unfamiliar to her, and she felt a tingle at the thought she was exploring new territory. Not terribly far away was the haunted wasteland of the Shoikan Grove, which gave her a thrill even as she turned a corner to give a wide berth to the ancient place of dark magic.
She noticed that there were fewer people about there, but there were still lively outposts. She passed one called the Boar’s Head and another very large establishment called the Fist and Glove. Each was the site of raucous revelry; in the latter she clearly heard the sounds of voice raised in drunken anger, followed by the crash of crockery then furniture. Quickly she hurried on, feeling just a little vulnerable as she noticed that the street before her grew dark and empty.
There were fewer inns and taverns there, and they tended to be darker, smaller, and seedier than those in the temple neighborhood. Even so, most had sounds of boisterous and good cheer as she passed. She heard laughter from one, loud and dissonant lyre music in another. From a third came the sound of a female’s scream-not screams of fear so much as playful and flirtatious, she decided quickly. Yet the screams, too, caused her to hurry along.
Selinda was startled by a movement in the shadows as she neared the last street before the docks. Pulling back with a gasp, she saw a short man leaning out of a dark doorway, gesturing to her. A strange, sweet smell lingered in the air, and she heard bizarre music, softer and more lyrical than the jigs and ballads that were the usual fare.
“This way, mistress, to some of the finest delights Krynn has to offer. Please, not even a small fee for such a beautiful lady. Come in, and you will be amazed.”
“What kind of delights?” she asked, intrigued in spite of her misgivings.
“Great wonders from the East, mistress. Spices, drinks… even herbs for smoking. This is the only place in
