The Dal Hon cursed softly, straightened from looming over him. ‘Dammit … Very well. Sorry to trouble you.’ A heavy coin fell against his chest and he clutched at it, touching his brow.
He waved the fellow off as he lightly stepped up to the dock, then raised the coin to the faint light. Now there’s a turn – being assaulted in the night and handed money instead of having it taken? First time that ever happened to him. He froze upon catching the glint of gold and a stamped design unfamiliar to him. Just how old was this thing, anyway?
*
Dassem headed to the southern Outer Round gate, known as the Gate of the Mountains – a reference, perhaps, to distant Kanese highlands far to the south. He cradled Nara tight against his chest, wrapped in her blankets.
When he reached the vicinity of the gate he went to the nearest trading house and banged on the door. Eventually, it opened, and he faced a rotund bearded fellow in a long nightshirt who blinked at him, squinting, ‘What in the Protectress’s name d’you want?’
‘I want transport. A cart or small wagon, preferably covered. And horses.’
The trader smacked his lips, drew a hand down through his thick beard. ‘And this can’t wait till morning?’
‘No it cannot.’
The trader rolled his gaze to the ceiling. ‘Why do I always get the winners? Fine. But let’s see your coin – up front.’
Dassem handed over one of his small coin bags. The trader opened it then held it to the lamp next to the door. His brows shot up almost to his jumbled hair.
‘Whatever you have,’ Dassem said.
The fellow studied him, almost stunned, perhaps looking for fresh blood on him from recent murders, then leaned forward to peer up and down the street as if expecting at any minute the crashing arrival of the city guard. Seeing and hearing nothing, he raised his shoulders in a shrug then stepped out and waved for Dassem to follow. ‘This way.’
They crossed to a corral next door. Here, the trader pointed to a covered cart off in the shadows. Even in the dark, Dassem could see that it was painted a lurid red and gold. ‘What is that?’
‘An old dowager commissioned that for a pilgrimage to all Burn’s holy sites on the road east. To earn merit, and to give thanks for all her grandsons.’
‘So, you cannot sell it?’
‘No. She died the day before she was due to leave. Now I’m stuck with it.’
Dassem studied the eye-wateringly ugly thing, then nodded. ‘It is perfect. I will take it. I’ll want two horses.’
The trader squeezed the leather bag in his grip. ‘One’ll do.’
‘I want two.’
The trader’s jaws worked, and then he sighed. ‘Very well.’
‘And throw in supplies – a cask of water. Forage for the horses.’
The fellow was nodding. ‘I’ll go wake the boys…’
*
It was light, but not yet dawn, when a brightly painted cart hauled by two horses came to the recently rebuilt southern Outer Round gate. The guards, half asleep, blinked at the startling sight. One nudged his companion, saying, ‘Hey, Hurst … the carnival in town?’
Hurst rose, groaning and stamping his feet. ‘Sure looks like it, Raf.’ He leaned on the pole of his eight-foot tall halberd, muttered a bored, ‘Gate’s closed.’
The tall, lean Dal Hon leading the horses stepped up. ‘Then open it.’
Hurst turned an amused glance to his companion, sniffed, and spat to the cobbles. ‘Curfew. Order of the Protectress. Move along.’
‘I intend to move along – to the south.’
Hurst cocked a brow. ‘And how’re you gonna do that?’
‘Through this gate.’
The other guard, Raf, took out a pear and bit it; he offered Hurst a wink. Hurst was nodding. ‘All right. An’ just how’re you gonna get through the gate?’
‘You’re going to open it for me.’
Raf snorted a laugh, chewing.
Hurst offered his companion a knowing look, tapped a finger to his temple. ‘Okay … An’ why would I do that?’
The Dal Hon took a long hard breath, raised his own gaze to the purpling sky. ‘Because I’m the Sword of Hood.’
‘Really?’ Hurst said, offering an exaggerated frown. ‘C’n you prove it?’
Now the Dal Hon frowned, puzzled. ‘Prove it? How?’
Hurst shrugged. ‘I don’t know … Kill something, maybe?’
Raf choked on his pear, laughing and snorting; he slapped his thigh, swallowing with difficulty. ‘Kill something,’ he chortled. ‘That’s a good one.’
The Dal Hon lad looked from one to the other and sighed, his shoulders falling. He rubbed his forehead. ‘I see,’ he murmured aloud, as if speaking to himself. ‘My mistake.’ He rummaged at his belt and withdrew a small bag, opened it, and held out two coins that glinted gold in the rising light.
Hurst and his companion crowded forward, studied the coins, then withdrew, heads together. ‘Whaddya think?’ Hurst whispered.
‘Two more.’
Hurst nodded. ‘Right.’ He returned to the lad. ‘Two more.’
Sighing again, the lad pulled out two more coins. Hurst held out his hand and the lad let them fall into his palm. Hurst turned to Raf, but froze suddenly, setting his hands on his hips. ‘Is that a breeze I’m feelin’ there? Did you go ’n’ leave the gate open again? Dammit, man. How many times do I have to tell you? Were you born in a barn or somethin’?’
Raf took one last bite of the pear then threw the core aside. ‘Sorry there, Hurst. Guess I was distracted by the carnival and such – let’s go have a look.’
The guards withdrew into the gate tunnel. Dassem took hold of the jesses of one horse and led it after them. When he reached the outer gate, one side of the huge double doors hung a touch ajar. He pushed the hulking great thing open further and led the cart on. The guards were standing outside.
‘I am the Sword of Hood, you know,’ Dassem told Hurst.
‘Oh, sure. An’ I’m the nephew of Burn.’
Dassem took breath to speak, only to realize that there really wasn’t anything he could possibly say. He shut his mouth and moved on, shaking his head. The wooden wheels of the cart bumped and grated on the uneven cobbles.
Behind, at the gate, he heard Raf complain to his companion, ‘You know, come to think of it, I was born in a barn.’
He turned his attention to the south and the much abused and littered road that led that way – the very road King Chulalorn’s army marched up only to fall back upon last year, leaving behind the wreckage of shattered equipment, abandoned tools and weapons, and broken sandals.
Nara lay within the cart, hidden under its closed top of stiffened canvas, wrapped in blankets. She was still sweaty, but he was no longer worried that she would succumb to the fever, as the Grey Walker himself had assured him that he would withhold his hand until she was delivered to safety. Just what form this safety would take he had no idea. He had only the name.
Deadhouse.
Chapter 6