Lynan could now make out among the trees buildings made of white stone. They were all two stories with flat roofs and curved corners. The road ribboned around the sooq and ended in a cleared area to the west. And there, in their brown leather armor and with their glinting weapons, were the mercenaries. Most were dismounted, but there was no pretense of making a camp. They were waiting. Lynan could see some of the locals watching them from between the trees. He hoped Gudon had made it through.
Lynan asked Gatheras if he knew where he could find Kayakun.
The merchant shook his head. “Apparently, Gudon was going to arrange for him to meet us.”
“If Gudon reached the sooq,” Lynan said.
“I do not know this Gudon as well as you,” Gatheras said, “but if he is only half as competent as every other Chert I’ve met, he not only reached the sooq but has probably arranged rooms for us at the only inn and prepared a five-course meal for us as well.”
By the time they reached the cleared area it was already filling up with wagons and merchants putting up covered stalls and tents. Many locals, most of them Chetts, were wandering around to get an idea of the goods being put up for sale and trade. Lynan tried not to look at every Chett that wandered by as he helped unload Gatheras’ wagons. They built small pyramids with the pots so every shape and size could be displayed. Gatheras made sure to ask after the health of every visitor, and Lynan could not help admiring his ability at always turning the conversation toward the necessity of owning pots to carry food and wine and grain and spices—indeed, to carry anything of value.
The work was hard and seemed to go on for hours. When he and Gatheras’ servants had finally finished unloading the wagons, the sun was only a hands span from the horizon, and despite a warm breeze starting to blow from the plains toward the mountains, the temperature had dropping noticeably. Some of the servants got a fire going and started cooking the evening meal. Even more locals were visiting the stalls now, taking advantage of the cooler air and drawn by the distractions offered by the visiting caravan.
Lynan noticed that the Chetts, unlike their brethren in the east, all wore traditional Chett clothing: tight-fitting linen trousers and loose shirts with a v-shaped opening for the head; some wore wide heavy ponchos decorated with bright symbols denoting tribe, clan, and family. It was livery of sorts, but much more colorful than the designs worn by soldiers and servants in any of the provinces on the eastern side of the mountains.
By now Lynan could not help wondering what had happened to Gudon. He had seen no sight of him, and no one had approached him on Gudon’s behalf.
As the other servants were about to start their evening meal he was called over by Gatheras. The merchant was standing next to a Chett tall even for his own people, his dark hair streaked with gray and his golden skin as rough as a lizard’s. The Chett looked down his nose at Lynan. “This servant?” he asked.
Lynan studied the Chett closely. Was this Kayakun? He was about to ask when Gatheras grasped his arm tightly in warning.
“I know he is small, sir, but Migam is stronger than he looks. He will carry the three pots without falling behind.” He turned to Lynan. “This noble gentleman is purchasing several of our wares, but he needs three samples to show other Chett buyers who are staying with him while the caravan is here. You will carry them to his home for him.”
Lynan nodded curtly. His stomach was doing somersaults. “Which pots, sir?” he asked the Chett, trying to keep his voice even.
The Chett did not bother speaking to Lynan but merely pointed to the three he wanted. Lynan groaned inside. They were big. He put them one in the other and lifted the lot up to his left shoulder like he had seen the other servants do. The Chett walked off and Lynan followed. They crossed the camp and were soon among tall spray trees, their trunks sectioned in rings; beautiful lion flowers grew from them, nodding in the evening breeze. They reached a dirt track and started passing homes and shops still open for business. The smell of food was everywhere, reminding Lynan that he was hungry again.
“Do not turn around, but we are being followed,” the Chett said casually. “Five men wearing cloaks, but I can see leather armor underneath.”
Lynan’s heart started racing. “Sir, I think they mean me harm.”
“Probably,” the Chett said, but seemed unconcerned by the prospect. “I would prefer any confrontation not to occur in such a public space.” They passed an outdoor tavern and turned left down a narrow alley crowded on both sides by buildings.
“But this is a dead end!” Lynan cried.
“Walk ahead of me and put down your pots,” the Chett said calmly. As Lynan passed him, he turned on his heel and drew a long knife that had been hidden beneath his poncho. None too gently, Lynan rested the pots against a wall and stood behind the Chett. Five men turned into the alley, shadows against the setting sun. They stopped when they saw the armed man facing them. One of them, the biggest, stepped forward.
“We are not after you,” he said to the Chett. “We want the lad.”
“You can take the pottery, but I am responsible for the boy until I return him to his master.”
The mercenary spread his arms in a wide shrug, simultaneously showing the long cavalry sword hanging from his belt. “We wish him no harm. My captain has business with him.” He reached for a pouch on his belt and shook it. Coins jingled. “We will pay you to leave him in our care. You could tell his master he ran away. No one will be the wiser.”
The Chett considered the offer for a moment. Lynan readied himself to pounce. If he could take the Chett’s knife, he might be able to force a way through the soldiers before they had time to react. Then, to his surprise, the Chett shook his head.
“No, I think not.”
The mercenary sighed and waved for his fellows to join him. The narrow alley forced them into pairs. As one they threw their cloaks over their shoulders and drew their swords. “I am sorry to hear you say that,” the big one said, and he advanced with his weapon held out in front of him. The Chett suddenly leaped forward in a move that surprised Lynan as much as the mercenaries. His knife flicked once, twice, and he sprang back again. The leader fell, hitting the ground face down with a satisfying whack. Blood seeped from underneath his body. The other mercenaries hesitated and threw each other nervous glances.
“I can dispose of four of you in this confined space without much difficulty,” the Chett said, his tone almost bored.
“He’s right,” one of the mercenaries said. “Three of us can wait outside the alley while the other gets help.”
There were mumbles of agreement and they started to retreat. Because they kept their gaze on the Chett and Lynan, they never saw the two figures appear in the mouth of the alley behind them, one huge and the other somehow malformed. They heard the snick of steel sliding against scabbard, but before they could turn, three of them were savagely cut down. The fourth yelped, twisted to face the Chett, then desperately twisted again to meet the threat behind him. A giant shadow loomed over him. For a split second, light sparked off a sword swung high in the air before it was brought down so hard it split the mercenary’s head in two. Blood fountained into the air and what had been a face slapped into the dirt. Amazingly, what was left of the mercenary remained standing, his body teetering, the blade that had drunk his life lodged in bone and tendon. The giant twisted the sword and pulled it away. The dead man fell back against a wall and crumpled to the ground. His legs and arms twitched obscenely and then were still.
Another, slighter figure appeared at the end of the alley. “Lynan?”
Lynan took a hesitant step forward. He recognized the voice, and the shapes of the two swordsmen, but dared not believe it.