Ringil shivered again.
Shook it off. Sneezed.
Coming down with something. Definitely.
CHAPTER 10
One of the Nine Eternal Gifts from the Kiriath to the Khimran dynasty, the Black Folk Span did exactly what its name implied it bridged Yhelteth estuary with a leaping arrogance of architecture that dropped Egar s jaw like a gangplank the first time he saw it. Gleaming black iron, hung up in the air from shore to shore like some dark lord s rainbow, like a bow chopped out of pure night and then planed and polished and bent to purpose by forces beyond dreaming. Glassy cables, each as thick around as an archer s arm, fell from the structure in twinned rows a thousand strong, flashing translucent in the sun, holding aloft a carriageway broad enough for two dozen armored men to ride abreast and not jostle one another.
In time, he got used to it, the way he did to the Kiriath themselves. All part of life in the big city. But the Span went on casting its shadow over him in a more practical sense for quite a while after. The carriageway it lifted across the water came ashore on the north side a full thirty feet overhead and didn t hit the ground proper for seven city blocks beyond. And down at the water s edge, in the shadow it cast, stood the Pony Stringer s Good Fortune, a raddled old tavern dedicated to the memory of some young horse trader from the city s earliest history who d apparently been lucky enough to rescue some of his livestock from drowning on a beach at this very spot. Or something. Horse-related tales and legends were ten a penny in Yhelteth; after a time they all blurred into one another. Anyway, the so-named tavern was a known haunt of mercenaries and freelance street muscle from way back, and a clearinghouse for all manner of professional opportunity. Recruiting officers drank there regularly, ganglords and minor merchants dropped in from time to time to assess the available talent, and for a couple of coins hard-up men of violence seeking employment could always leave a name and current doss address behind the bar.
Much of his young mercenary life in Yhelteth, Egar had thought of the Pony Stringer s as more of a home away from home than any of the billets or lover s lodgings he d happened to be crashing in between deployments. Even later, with rank and officer s lodgings to call his own, he d habitually find his way down there to drink away the slack summer afternoons in the shade of the Span. Or he d close out the place at dawn and stumble groggily outside between a brace of supporting barmaids, head tipped back to stare up and up and up at the soaring alien architecture, and often as not go teetering backward onto his arse with the dizzy, wine-soaked wonder the sight could still inspire.
And when he went home for real after the war, and a fellow Skaranak came riding through years later with news that, among other things, the old Pony Stringer s had burned to the ground, Egar surprised himself with the pang of nostalgia it pricked in his belly.
If he d known the place was standing again, it would have been his first port of call. For far more reasons than simple information.
Come on, Dragonbane. The past is dead and cairned. Let s stick to the present, shall we.
The present turned out to be a basic but not unappealing two-story in stone and white stucco. Supporting beams for the upper story protruded an unfinished couple of feet out of each wall, and the woodwork hadn t yet taken much weather. Egar spotted a couple of beam ends still showing the red drip stain of a carpenters guild stamp. On the dusty ground between the tavern and the water s edge, equally rough-sawn trestle tables stood about, and the place s new name was lettered across the shore-facing wall in cheap gilt characters a foot high. The rising sun glanced off the gilt and gave it an illusory early-morning shine.
And just as Darhan had promised, there was a small iron cage hung by a short length of chain from one of the beam ends at the tavern s corner. The severed head sat inside for all to see, mummified black and listing sadly to one side, like some overlarge turnip left way too long at the back of the larder. At some point, someone had sheared off the creature s lips to better reveal the fangs beneath, but even so it was a pretty pitiful sight. Egar felt a grimace take his face as he stared up at the trophy.
That s a Scaled Folk, a small voice at his side said solemnly.
He glanced down and saw a boy of about five with a grimy face and stuck-up, filthy hair. One chapped and reddened hand held a wet cloth streaked with soap curds. Egar nodded.
It certainly is.
It s dead now, though.
Yeah, looks that way. Did you kill it, then?
The boy looked at him as if he were mad. I m seven.
Right. Stupid question. Egar stifled a yawn and looked around. Is your father about?
Flicker of confusion across the young face. My father s dead. Laid to rest with honors, his sins cleansed.
It was recitation learned cant. The boy must have thought he was asking if his father was abroad, condemned to wander the Earth in spirit for want of a properly officiated burial.
Abroad, about his Tethanne had never been great in the finer points.
Ah. With honors, eh? He was a soldier, then?
The confusion smoothed out, gave way to a waxing pride that had clearly been taught as carefully as the clerical cant. My father died fighting dragons in the war. He died defending the Emperor and his people.
That s good. Something to be proud of, then. So look, who around here is
Gadral? Gadral? It wasn t quite a full bellow, but the boy jumped as if the head in the cage had suddenly opened its eyes at him. If you re out there jawing with your little cunt mates again, I m going to give you such a fucking hi
The voice dried up as its owner loomed in the doorway and saw Egar standing there. The man narrowed his eyes against the early-morning sun.
Help you, pal? It wasn t a helpful tone.
Egar let the moment stretch, took the time it gave him to read the other man. Big by Yhelteth standards, a heavy, once-muscular frame now beginning to blur at the edges with age and easier living. Sun-darkened face seamed and pouched, but still some trace of military bearing, something a little deeper etched than levy standard. A butcher s chopper held casually in one meaty, blood-sprinkled hand.
Egar nodded at the clumsy blade. Making soup?
Brief clash of gazes while the other man took the trouble to read him, too. The chopper lowered, hung slack at arm s length.
Yeah. Week s End stew. You want some?
I'll start with a beer. Work up to it.
Sure. The other man nodded him inside. As Egar stepped past and found a stool at the bar, he heard the publican cursing the boy out again. But he thought there was a little less heat in it this time, and the man came inside pretty quick.
Your boy? Egar asked, as his pint was drawn.
Is he, fuck. My boy died under arms at Shenshenath, when the lizards came. That s just my whore s son. Came with the territory, y know. Someone s got to feed the little shit.
Right.
The other man set the filled pint glass down on the bar between them. Stew is going to take a while. I got bread and oil, you want it while you wait.
Sounds good.
The publican disappeared behind a grubby curtain hung across the kitchen entrance, leaving Egar to his pint. Low voices, clatter of plates, and then the dull, repeated thud of the chopper into a wooden board. The Dragonbane sat in the stale, beer-scented gloom and the dusty, filtering light from shutters still not opened. He sipped his beer. It wasn t bad.
Presently, a tall, haggard-looking woman came out carrying a platter with his bread and oil. She stopped in her tracks when she saw Egar but then gathered herself quickly enough and set the food down on the bar. She
