As he walked, he encountered forsaken farmlands. The fences had rotted and collapsed. Little cottages with gaps in the thatch showed the years since the inhabitants had been decimated by Plague. It was a common sight, even in Wayland. Homes were abandoned, never to be reclaimed. Many had abandoned fortunes hidden beneath hearthstones, but money was of no consequence to Annon. Often the greedier spirits laid claim to treasures and harmed those who wandered too close. They did not need the golden coins—they just fancied pretty things, and the minting of coins was a curiosity to them. A tiny pent had the same value to them as a ducat.
He spent the first night nestled in the grass on a hillock, and he summoned a shain-spirit to guard him while he slept. In return, he promised to feed it with dew-filled berries that he would leave in his wake the next morning. That was the way of Mirrowen. Some favored a song; others wanted riddles. Some could be coaxed with mortal food and others with promises of service. This was beneficial to the spirits, especially when their lairs were disturbed by mortals. A Druidecht would always try to be fair-minded in any case. And by wearing a talisman that had been spirit-blessed, he had proven himself reliable.
As the morning wore on and afternoon passed, Annon wondered if he had missed his destination by traveling too far to the west. He was uncertain whether he should turn east or not. Fortunately, he discovered a gull loping high in the air and soon after that, he could smell the odors of the waters. It was an unhealthy smell. Kenatos.
He walked with a mixture of nervousness, excitement, and dread. Since spirits did not typically dwell in cities, he would be particularly vulnerable. His reputation might shield him, but it was enough to cause some alarm and nerves. The anticipation of what his uncle wanted teased his imagination.
Annon encountered a paved road and joined it, taking it west. There were multiple docks along the coast serviced by ferryboats. He was tired from the hard pace he had kept and was not surprised to see the first set of docks empty. Sitting down, he rested himself and ate the last of the bread that Dame Nestra had provided. He remembered her face for a moment as he chewed, wondering how long it would be before he returned that way. Dame Nestra and her husband were good people. He would miss them. By the time Annon’s simple meal was over, the water began lapping against the dock posts, announcing the arrival of the ferryman.
He was a middle-aged man with the signs of pain in his back. He nodded to Annon as he berthed the ferry and stepped off, groaning in pain and stretching his arms. His face was full of whiskers that were as peppered as his hair; he shook his head mournfully at the thought of ferrying again.
“A Druidecht, is it?” he said, a little sharply. “What business have you in Kenatos? There are not many of your kind in the city.”
“What is your fare?”
“I will not even take a pent from a Druidecht, you may be assured of that. Some ferryman think it right to charge everyone, regardless of rank or station, but that is foolhardy in my reckoning. It is the Druidechts and Rikes that save us from the Plague. You ought to have deference.”
“That is kind of you. Please rest before you take me.”
“I may, but tell me your business.”
“What concern is it of yours?”
“I earn an extra pent from the Arch-Rike’s coffers if I bring an answer.” He leaned over and picked up the pole.
“So you take coin for my travel regardless.” Annon was riled. “I come at the bidding of my master. He is a Druidecht.”
The ferryman shrugged, grateful to earn the extra pent and not caring about the quality of the answer—only the lack of it. He motioned for Annon to board.
“Hold!” shouted someone coming up the road, a younger man than the ferryman, clutching a small chest in his hands. He was older than Annon but still quite young.
He arrived panting. “Thank you! I need to reach the city before nightfall.”
“Five pents,” the ferryman said, and the coins were dropped in his hand. “What is your business?”
“No business of yours.”
The ferryman shook his head. “Come on, lad. We aren’t going until you tell me.”
He looked askance at the ferryman. “I am seeking work as a scribe.” He patted the box. “My quills and ink. Do you need to see them too?”
“No, lad. Why the rush?”
“I didn’t want to sleep on the plains again. No offense, Master Druidecht, but there are noises at night.” He shook his head and shuddered. Annon smiled and shrugged.
They embarked and soon the skiff was maneuvering across the lake. Because of all the fires burning in chimneys and shops, there was a constant ring of haze around the island city. Swarms of gulls floated above, sending eerie shrieks ghosting through the mist.
“You loathe sleeping in the woods,” Annon said to the younger man. “But I dread sleeping in the city.”
“This is your first time to Kenatos?” the ferryman asked between grunts.
“Yes,” Annon answered. “Wayland is my country.”
“Mine as well,” said the young man. “My father was a gravedigger in Wayland. Busy work with the Plague, you know. But I learned to read and write, and I hear you earn more in Kenatos if you can. Always records to transcribe.”
The ferryman chuckled. “Gravedigger boy then. You must be good with a spade. Want to take a turn at the oars?”