'Find a boat. Make arrangements.When I figure out how to get Delgar to the mainland, I'll send wordto the Cat and the Cauldron.'
'I like that tavern,' Vishni said ina small voice.
'I know.' He brushed the knuckles ofone hand across her cheek. 'No explosions.'
'No promises,' she said.
Chapter 8: Starsong
Nimbolk strode along the fisherman'swharf, the hood of his cloak pulled low over his forehead. This didnot made him conspicuous, for the sea wind nipped sharply and mostof the humans covered their heads with hoods or knitted woolencaps. Like them, he walked with hunched shoulders and an awkwardheel-to-toe stride. The clatter of his own boots against the woodenplanks offended him. No wonder humans crashed through the forestlike drunken trolls.
He skirted a group of men who weresorting through the contents of a herring net and a pair of doxieswho watched the incoming fisherman with inviting smiles and hard,coin-counting eyes. An old man wrapped in a tattered cloak crouchednearby, using a barrel filled with brine as a windbreak. He mightas well have been invisible for all the attention the others paidhim. This filled Nimbolk with sorrow and outrage. He had heardhumans allowed their elders to go cold and hungry, but knowing thisdid not prepare him to confront the reality.
Was there something in the brine,Nimbolk wondered, that pickled the humans' brains along with theirfish? Or were they actively taught to ignore the world around themand the people in it? It didn't seem possible that any sentientbeing could be born as oblivious as these humans.
He lifted his gaze to the cliff-sidefortress, the keep that until recently had been held by the adeptMuldonny. A single road wound up the steep approach to thefortress, but many more lay hidden beneath the streets andbuildings. Long before any human set foot on these islands, dwarveshad called them home. They'd been gone for a very long time, butonce their tunnels had linked the islands' system of caverns andprotected secrets so old that dragons had forgottenthem.
Were any of Stormwall's humans awareof the ancient civilization beneath their feet? Would they care ifthey knew?
The humans of Sevrin struck Nimbolkas being every bit as contrary as they were oblivious. They hadmany good things to say of Muldonny, whose alchemical weapons hadplayed an important role in ending the harsh rule of the sorcererEldreath, but oddly enough, few people condemned Fox Winterborn forthe raid that killed the island's ruler and war hero. In fact, theStormwall fisherfolk seemed reluctant to say anything at all aboutthe red-haired thief.
People on Kronhus had been full oftalk of this City Fox, full of outrage over the death of theiradept. But they seemed equally upset at the attempt to use Tymion'sdeath to discredit Fox and his followers. Nimbolk's attempts tolearn what this Fox's goal had been and what his followers hoped toachieve had not been well received.
He glanced down at his knuckles. Ifhe'd been in the forest with his fellow elves, the scrapes andbruises from yesterday's fight would have healed by now.
It occurred to him that he wasexperiencing life as humans did-cut off from others, dependent uponhis own strength, living out a singled-minded purpose with onlyscant regard for those around him.
Perhaps he judged Sevrin's humansunfairly. He wasn't sure an elf would do much better in a worldwhere everyone regarded himself as an island, linked only byfragile bridges of blood or choice or necessity.
Is this what had happened to Honor?The elf woman who's stumbled into the Starsingers grove thatmidwinter nice had looked so frail, and she'd aged more than ahandful of years could explain. It was almost as if she'd beendenied the renewal of a springtime Greening.
Was that even possible? How couldany elf endure that and live?
Nimbolk quickened his pace, suddenlyanxious to leave this crowd of humans behind.
The wharfs gave way to an open-airmarket, a small village of tables and tents and wagons where onecould purchase fresh fish, pot-ready rabbits and fowl, rootvegetables, baskets of summer berries, and a bewildering variety ofhousehold goods.
A plump woman was tossing nuggets ofsalt bread to passersby to tempt them into buying her strangeloaves-thin ropes of bread twisted into knots. Nimbolk caught thepiece she threw his way and munched it as he worked his way throughthe crowd.
Up ahead a path disappeared into theshadows between two rows of warehouses. Nimbolk veered away fromthe crowd and slipped gratefully into the treeless shade. So muchsun, so many days at sea, had bleached any hint of summer greenfrom his hair and skin and left him as pale as a northlandhuman.
The noise of the port fell away,muted by thick stone walls. Since there were no eyes to see him,Nimbolk abandoned his attempt to move like a human. For a moment,he reveled in the ability to move without being deafened by his ownfootsteps. His expanding senses caught the muffled thud of fistsagainst flesh, the soft grunts of pain.
Judging distances was difficult inthese human-built caverns, but Nimbolk guessed the fight was takingplace behind the tall wooden building to his right.
Curious, he veered off along apassage littered with old crates. At the end of the alley he turnedonto a rock- strewn strip of land between the warehouses and thecliff overhead.
Four men stood behind the tallwooden building. One of them, a yellow-bearded man wearing afisherman's knitted cap, sagged in the grip of two men sportingidentical tunics of blue-dyed leather. A third uniformed man thrusta coin at his victim's battered face. Even in the dim light,Nimbolk could see the tell-tale shine of fairy gold.
'There's no sense denying it, notwhen this was found in your boat.'
The fisherman spat a mouthful ofblood at the man's boots. 'There might be white spatter on thehull. That don't mean I'm on friendly terms with the seagull thatdropped it.'
His tormenter raised a short cluband jabbed at his chest. The fisherman's gasp of pain ended in agurgle.
Nimbolk frowned. He wondered if thethugs realized they'd broken this man's ribs and driven a jaggedbone into one lung. The fisherman was as good as dead. If thepurpose of this beating was extracting information, these men wereas stupid as they were brutal.
The club-wielded man poked himagain. 'That's not the answer I'm looking for.'
'Only one I got,' gasped thefisherman.
'Maybe you'd rather answer toCaptain Volgo? Because I feel obliged to tell you that he's nothalf as pleasant as we three fellows.'
For a moment Nimbolk stood frozen,his mind filled with the image of Asteria lying face-down in bloodysnow, a man with a club standing behind her.
The fisherman spat blood into hiskiller's eyes. The man swore and rocked back a step as he swipedone sleeve over his face. His blood-streaked features twisted insomething almost like joy as he lifted the club high.
The man who'd killed Honor had wornthat very smile.
Nimbolk threw the knife before herealized he'd unsheathed it. The blade spun three times before itsank to the hilt in the man's exposed armpit, paying him his owncoin for the death he'd given the fisherman.
The man stumbled, and the downwardswing meant to end the fisherman slammed into the face of one ofthe thugs holding him.
Their comrade yelped in surprise. Hedanced aside, letting the fisherman fall as he pulled a sword andlooked around for an enemy to fight.
Nimbolk drew two daggers and obligedhim.
He walked down the alley, bladesheld at his sides. The last man standing raised his sword high andrushed forward, roaring like a charging boar.
Nimbolk lifted both daggers andcaught the descending sword in a cross parry. A quick twistwrenched the blade from the man's hand and sent it clatteringaside. He stroked one dagger across the human's throat and keptwalking.
