The diners applauded and Silas nodded. Chaka wondered who promoted Flojian.
“The Crooked Man wishes you well.” He drained the glass.
The audience followed in kind, and applauded.
“By the way,” continued Jewel, “the wine is produced especially for us, and we are selling it tonight at a very good rate Thank you very much.”
People came over to shake their hands. One young man, congenial and slim and interested in the Haven legend, asked
Chaka how she’d become involved in the quest, how she rated their chances for success, and whether she’d actually read the Mark Twain. His eyes were hazel and he had a good smile. She couldn’t help noticing that Quait was watching them with a disapproving frown.
His name was Shorn and, at his invitation, she took her wine and they strolled out onto the veranda. She was doing the sort of thing he would have liked to do, he explained. Leaving civilization behind, getting out into the unknown to see what was there. He wished he were going along.
They talked for a while, looked out over the river, and eventually returned to the table. “I hope you find what you’re looking for,” he said to them. And to Chaka: “How long do you expect to be gone?”
“Maybe years,” offered Quait.
“Not past autumn, we hope,” she said.
“I’ll look forward to your successful return.” Their eyes connected. Chaka smiled, and then Shorn was gone.
A crowd had gathered around one of the other tables, where a lean man with vulpine features sat with his eyes closed. “No,” he was saying to someone in the group, “there is a shadow across your star. Be cautious on the river for the next two weeks. This is not a propitious time for you.”
The man to whom he was speaking, nondescript and straw-haired, placed a coin on the table.
Chaka joined the crowd.
“That is Wagram,” said a middle-aged prosperous-looking woman behind her.
“Who’s Wagram?”
“Who indeed?” said the vulpine man.
“He’s a seer,” said the woman.
“And you, young lady, are Chaka Milana.” He clicked on a smile. “Currently bound for Haven. Or so you hope.”
One of the patrons nudged her. “He’s never wrong,” he said. The patron was an elderly man, probably in his seventies.
“And what do you foresee for us, seer?” asked Chaka.
His eyes closed. Quait got up and came over. He was looking at her curiously.
“You will be successful,” he said at last. ‘You will find your lost treasure, and you will return to Illyria with fame and wealth.”
Chaka waited, expecting to hear a catch. When none came, she bowed slightly. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
She fished a silver coin out of her pocket. That news, after all, was worth something.
The crowd expressed its approval, a few shook her hand happily, and a drunk tried to kiss her.
When they returned to their table, Flojian asked what the seer had said. Chaka told him and he seemed pleased.
“I wouldn’t take it too seriously,” said Quait. “They always give good news. That’s how they earn their tips.”
“Not necessarily,” said Flojian. “Some of these people are legitimate.”
“I wonder,” said Silas, “if he was here when Karik went through.”
9
Unexpectedly, a holiday atmosphere developed. Inns were strategically placed along River Road, so it was possible with good planning to sleep every night in a warm bed. They ate well, drank a little too much, and sometimes partied too late. They frequently paused and occasionally even wandered off onto side tracks to examine archeological sites. On one occasion they stopped for lunch at the home of one of Quait’s former military comrades.
They looked at the massive anchor near Piri’s Dam, sinking into a forest of sugar maples, trailing a chain that no man could lift. They viewed a restored cannon near Wicker Point, wondering what forgotten war it had seen; and visited the Roadmaker Museum in Kleska.
They passed ancient walls and foundations. Hojjies lined the sides of the road, where they’d been dragged when Argon cleared its highways more than a century before. They came in countless shapes and sizes, some small, some immense. Many were partially buried by accumulating earth.
They spent as much time walking as in the saddle, and they rested frequently. Quait, who’d had some experience with long-distance campaigning, understood how easy it would be to exhaust both horses and people, particularly in this case, where Silas and Flojian were accustomed to a sedentary existence. Silas had begun limping after the first day. But he’d fashioned a walking stick, refused to take extra time in the saddle, and by the end of the week seemed to be doing fine.
Quait enjoyed being the only young male in a company with two attractive women. Avila’s charms were by no means inconsiderable, and his appreciation for them did not replace but found a comfortable niche alongside his passion for Chaka.
She stood about an inch taller than he, dark-eyed and mysterious. That she had been a priest added to her exotic aura.
Meantime, Chaka demonstrated an impressive range of abilities. She was an accomplished forester and marksman. She was at home around horses, and seemed capable of walking everybody else, even Quait, into the ground. Although she had been distracted during the first couple of days, a more amiable spirit had emerged once they were well under way.
Cold rain settled in as, on the ninth day, they approached Argon. Had he been with his detachment, Quait knew what the mood would have been. But only Flojian showed any inclination to grumble, and he usually caught himself quickly and stopped. They reined up at Windygate, the last accommodation below the city, and consequently their final evening in beds. They checked in, relired to their rooms, and scrubbed down, luxuriating in the hot water. At dinner that evening, Quait detected a sense of expectancy and possibly of nervousness. Tomorrow they would connect with Wilderness Road, which would take them east, away from civilization. Into the eternal forest.
This was also the evening during which they got into an altercation with an oversized cattle trader who’d had too much to drink. His throat was scarred and he needed dental work. His face looked as if he’d been hit by a plank. But he visibly drooled over Avila. Quait, walching from his chair, felt his muscles bunch and remembered a remark a comrade had once made: Never pick a fight with a three-hundred-pounder who has broken teeth.
The cattle trader was sitting at the next table. He grinned at Avila and raised his stein in an elaborate toast. “How about you and me, gorgeous?” he asked. “Shake off these creeps and you can have a man.”
Before Quait could respond, Flojian leaped to his feet with both fists clenched. “Back off,” he snarled.
Avila iried lo inlervene. “I can handle this myself,” she said.
The trader casually set his beer down. “Stay out of it, dwarf,” he told Flojian. He grinned at a friend as if he’d just said something amusing, and signaled for somebody to refill his stein. The friend was only moderately smaller, but every bit as ugly. A boy hurried over and poured cold beer until it overflowed and ran down onto the table.
The trader turned his snag-toothed stare on Flojian, daring him to say more.