“How do you suppose Chemosh is doing that?” Rhys asked. “I don’t know,” Nightshade answered, “but if I’m right, it’s pretty scary.”
Rhys had to agree. It was very scary.
10
Haven was a large city, the largest Rhys had visited thus far. He and Nightshade spent days tramping from place to place, patiently giving a description of his brother, searching for someone who had seen Lleu. When they finally found a tavern owner who remembered him, Rhys learned that his brother had not stayed in Haven long but had almost immediately moved on. The best guess was that he’d gone to Solace, the reasoning being that everyone traveling through Abanasinia ended up in Solace. Rhys, Nightshade, and Atta journeyed on.
Rhys had been to Solace with his father when he was a child and he clearly remembered the city, famous in legend and lore for the fact that its houses and shops were built among the branches of enormous vallenwood trees. It’s very name conjured up images of a place where the wounded of heart and mind and body could go to find comfort.
Rhys’s childhood memories of Solace were of a town of remarkable beauty and friendly people. He found Solace much changed. The town had grown into a city of noise and bustle, confusion and turmoil, roaring with a loud and raucous voice. Rhys could honestly say that had if it not been for the legendary Inn of the Last Home, he would not have recognized the place. And even the Inn had changed, having grown and expanded so that it now sprawled across the branches of several vallenwood trees.
Because the original dwellings had been built in the treetops, the citizens of Solace had not needed to build walls to protect their homes and businesses. That had worked well in the days when Solace was a small town. Now, however, travelers flowed in and out of the city unchecked, with no guards to ask questions. People of all sorts filled the streets: elves, dwarves, kender by the score. Rhys saw more different races in thirty seconds in Solace than he’d seen in all his thirty years.
He was astonished beyond measure to see two draconians, one male and one female, stroll down the main road with as much confidence as if they owned the place. People went out of their way to avoid the “lizard men,” but no one appeared to be alarmed by their presence, except Atta, who growled and barked at them. He heard someone say they were from the draconian city of Teyr and that they were here to meet some hill dwarves to discuss trade deals.
Gully dwarves fought and scrabbled among the refuse and a goblinish face leered at Rhys from the shadows of an alleyway. The goblin vanished when a troop of guards, armed with pikes and wearing chain mail, marched down the street, accompanied by a parade of giggling small boys and girls wearing pots on their heads and carrying sticks.
Humans were the predominant race. Black-skinned humans from Ergoth mingled with crudely dressed barbarians from the Plains and richly clothed humans from Palanthas, all of them jostling and shoving each other and trading insults.
Every type of occupation was represented in Solace as well. Three wizards, two wearing red robes and one wearing black, bumped into Rhys. They were so absorbed in their argument that they never noticed him or begged his pardon. A group of actors, who referred to themselves as Gilean’s Traveling Troupe, came dancing down the street, beating a drum and banging tambours, adding to the noise level. Everyone either had something to sell or was looking for something to buy, and they all were shouting about it at the top of their lungs.
While all this was happening on the streets below. Rhys looked up to see more people traveling along the swaying plank and rope bridges running from one vallenwood tree to the next, like the silken filaments of a gigantic spider web. Access to the tree levels was limited, it seemed, for he noted guards posted at various points, questioning and halting those who could not convince them that they had business up above.
As he slogged through the mud churned up by an unending stream of traffic, Rhys marveled at the changes that had come to Ansalon while he’d been hidden away in the never-changing world of the monastery. From what he’d seen, he hadn’t missed much. The noise, the sights, the smells—ranging from rotting garbage to unwashed gully dwarf, from day-old fish to the scent of meat being roasted over hot coals and bread coming fresh from the baker’s oven—left Rhys longing for the solitude and tranquility of the hills, the simplicity of his former life.
Atta, by her demeanor, was in agreement. She often looked up at him, her brown eyes moist with confusion, yet trusting him to guide them through it. Rhys petted her, reassuring her, if he could not reassure himself. He might be daunted by the size of Solace, by the numbers of people, but that did not change his resolve to continue to search for his brother. At least, he now knew where to look. Lleu had rarely missed stopping at a single inn or tavern along with the way.
Rhys had one other option, or so he hoped. The idea came to him when he saw a small group of black-robed clerics walking openly down the street. A city the size and disposition of Solace might well have a temple dedicated to Chemosh.
Rhys turned his steps toward the famous Inn of the Last Home, thinking that he would start by asking for information there. He had to stop once on the way to extricate Nightshade from a group of kender, who latched onto him as though he were a long-lost cousin (which, in fact, two of them claimed to be).
The famous inn where, according to legend, the Heroes of the Lance had been accustomed to meet, was filled to capacity. People stood in line, waiting to enter. As customers departed, a certain number were admitted. The line began at the foot of the long flight of stairs and extended down the street. Rhys and Nightshade took their places at the end, waiting patiently. Rhys kept watch on all those traipsing up and down the stairs, hoping one of them might be Lleu.
“Look at all these people!” exclaimed Nightshade with enthusiasm. “I’m certain to raise a few coppers here. That roasted goat meat smells wonderful, doesn’t it, Atta?”
The dog sat at Rhys’s side, her gaze divided between her master and Nightshade. The kender thought happily that Atta had developed a true affection for him, for she never let him out of her sight. Rhys did not disabuse his companion of this notion. Atta took to “kender-herding” quite as well as she took to herding sheep.
As he watched those leaving the Inn, Rhys listened to the chatter around him, picking up various bits of local gossip, hoping he might hear something that would lead him to Lleu. Nightshade was busy advertising his services, telling those ahead of him in line that he could put them in contact with any relative who had shuffled off this mortal coil for the bargain price of a single steel, payable upon delivery of the said relative. The watchful dog, meanwhile, kept the kender from accidentally “borrowing” any pouches, purses, knives, rings, or handkerchiefs by insinuating her body between that of Nightshade and any potential “customer.”
The crowd was generally in a good humor, despite the fact that they were having to wait. That good humor suddenly deteriorated.
“Perhaps you didn’t hear me the first time, gentlemen,” a man stated, his voice rising. “You have no right to cut in front of me.”
Rhys looked over his shoulder, as did everyone around him. “Did you hear something, Gregor?” asked one of the men to whom this statement had been addressed.
“No, Tak,” said his friend, “but I sure do smell something.” He laid heavy emphasis on the word. “Must be driving a herd of swine through town today.”
“Ah, you’re mistaken, Gregor,” said his friend in mock serious tones. “It’s not swine they’ve let into town this day. Swine are sweet-smelling, clean, and wholesome beasts compared to this lot. They must’ve let in an elf!”
Both men laughed uproariously. By their leather aprons and brawny arms and shoulders and soot-blackened hands and faces, they were metal-workers of some kind, ironmongers or blacksmiths. The man who was the butt of their joke wore the green garb of a forester. He had his cowl pulled up over his head so that no one could see his face, but there was no mistaking the lithe body and graceful movements and the soft and melodic tones of his voice.