Walker stood across the square from the man and watched silently for a time. Now and then, someone would stop, place a coin in the metal cup, and bend close to hear what the man had to say. The man always did the same thing: he took the giver’s hand in his own and held it while he talked, moving his fingers slowly over the other’s open palm, nodding all the while.
Once or twice, when the man shifted positions or moved to take a drink from the fountain’s waters, the scarlet robes shifted to reveal that he had only one leg and wore a wooden peg for the other.
Walker held his position until the rain quickened sufficiently to drive most of the crowd elsewhere and force the man to back away under the shelter of an awning. Then he crossed the square, approached the man in the scarlet robes as if seeking to share his shelter, and stood quietly at his side.
“Perhaps you could read the future of a man who seeks to take a long and hazardous journey to an unknown land?” he queried, looking out at the rain.
The man’s gaze shifted slightly, but stayed directed skyward. “Some men have made journeys enough for five lifetimes already. Perhaps they should stay home and quit tempting fate.”
“Perhaps they have no choice.”
“Paladins of shades revealed only to them, questers of answers to secrets unknown, ever searching for what will put an end to their uncertainty.” The hands gestured helplessly. “You’ve been away for a long time, pilgrim. Up there, in your high castle, alone with your thoughts and dreams. Do you really seek to make a journey to a faraway land?”
Walker smiled faintly. “You are the forecaster of fates, Cicatrix. Not me.”
The scarred face nodded. “A teller of futures this day, a disabled soldier the next, a madman the third. Like yourself, Walker, I am a chameleon.”
“We do what we must in this world.” The Druid bent closer. “But I didn’t seek you out for any of the skills you’ve listed, formidable though they are. I require instead a small piece of information from that vast storehouse you manage—and I would keep that information from reaching other ears.”
Cicatrix reached for the Druid’s hand and took it in his own, running his fingers over the palm, keeping his ruined face directed skyward as he did so. “You intend to make a trip to an unknown land, pilgrim?” His voice had dropped to a whisper. “Perhaps you seek transport?”
“Of the sort that flies. Something fast and durable. Not a warship, but able to be fitted to withstand an attack by one. Not a racer, but able to fly as if born to it. Her builder must have vision, and the ship must have heart.”
The thin man laughed softly. “You seek miracles, pilgrim. Do I seem to you the sort that can provide them?”
“In the past, you have.”
“The past comes back to haunt me, then. There lies the trouble with having to live up to another’s expectations, when those expectations are founded on questionable memories. Well.” He kept running his hands over Walker’s palm. “Your enemy in this endeavor wouldn’t happen to wear silver and black?”
Walker glanced out into the rain. “Mostly, my enemy would have eyes everywhere and kill with her song.”
Cicatrix hissed softly. “A witch with a witches’ brew, is it? Stay far from her, Walker.”
“I’ll try. Now listen carefully. I need a ship and a builder, a Captain and a crew. I need them to be strong and brave and willing to ally themselves with the Elves against all enemies.” He paused. “March Brume’s reputation will be tested in this as it has not been tested before.”
“And mine.”
“And yours.”
“If I disappoint you, I shall not see you again, pilgrim?”
“You will at least wish as much.”
Cicatrix chuckled mirthlessly. “Threats? No, not from you, Walker. You never threaten; you only reveal your concerns. A poor cripple like myself is advised to pay close attention, but not to act out of fear.” His fingers stopped moving on Walker’s hand. “Are the rewards for those who become involved reasonable, given the risks?”
“Well beyond that. The Elves will open wide the doors to their vaults.”
“Ah.” The other man nodded, head tilted strangely, gaze directed at nothing. He released Walker’s hand. “Come to the docks at the end of Verta Road after nightfall. Stand where you can be seen. Mysteries shall unfold and secrets be revealed. Perhaps a journey shall be taken to an unknown land.”
Walker produced a pouch filled with gold coins, and Cicatrix pocketed it smoothly. He turned slowly and limped away. “Farewell, pilgrim. Good fortune to you.”
Walker spent the remainder of the day walking the docks, studying the ships under construction and the men building them, listening to talk of sailing, and garnering small amounts of information. He ate at a large, dockside tavern, where he was one of many, and pretended disinterest while keeping close watch for the Federation spies he knew to be there. The Ilse Witch would be looking for him, determined to find him. He had no illusions. She was relentless. She would attack him wherever and whenever she could, hoping to finish what she had started in Arborlon. If she could kill or disable him, the quest he sought to mount would fall apart and her own path to the map’s treasure would be left unobstructed. She did not have the map, but she probably had the castaway’s memories to guide her, and for all he knew, they would prove sufficient.
He pondered at length the implications of an encounter with her, of a confrontation he was almost certain he could not avoid. He mulled the consequences of cruel chance and unkind fate, of opportunities lost and games played, and waited patiently for nightfall.
When it was dark, he made his way through March Brume, his progress hidden by a mist come in off the water with the temperature’s drop and the rain’s passing. The forges and shipyards had emptied with the end of the workday, and the sound of the surf lapping against the shoreline was clearly audible in the ensuing silence. Vendors had closed their shops, and peddlers had stowed their wares. The taverns, eating establishments, and pleasure houses were packed full and boisterous, but the streets were mostly deserted.
Several times, he stopped in the shadows and waited—listening and watching. He did not pursue a direct route to his destination, but instead worked his way through the village in an oblique fashion, making certain he was not followed. Even so, he was uneasy. He was inconspicuous enough to those who did not know to look for him, but easily recognizable by those who did. The Ilse Witch would have advised her spies of his appearance. He might have been wiser to disguise himself. But that was hindsight talking, and hindsight was of little use now.
At the end of Verta Road, cloaked in the mist and silence, he stood in the faint light of a streetlamp. The docks stretched away oceanside, the stark, spectral forms of partially formed ship hulls and support cradles outlined by the lights of the village. No one moved in the night’s gloom. No sounds broke the steady roll and hiss of the surf.
He had been in place for only a few minutes when a man materialized out of the dark and walked toward him. The man was tall and had flaming red hair worn long and tied back with a brightly colored scarf. A Rover, by the look of him, he walked with the slightly rolling gait of a sailor, and his cloak billowed open to reveal a set of flying leathers. The man smiled easily as he came up to Walker, as if they were old friends reuniting after a long separation.
“Are you called Walker?” he asked, coming to a stop before the Druid. His gold earrings glittered faintly in the streetlamp’s hazy light.