“Yes, in the south.”
She kicked her feet against the chair again. “What’s it like there?”
Murtagh inhaled slowly and tilted his head back so he was looking at the ceiling. The fire in his blood still burned. “It depends where you go. There are hot places and cold places, and places where the wind never stops blowing. Forests seemingly without end. Caves that burrow into the deepest parts of the earth, and plains full of vast herds of red deer.”
“Are there monsters?”
“Of course.” He returned his gaze to her. “There are always monsters. Some of them even look like humans…. I ran away from home myself, you know.”
“You did?”
He nodded. “I was older than you, but yes. I ran, but I didn’t escape what I was running from…. Listen to me, Essie. I know you think leaving will make everything better, but—”
“There you are, Tornac of the Road,” said a sly, slithering voice that Murtagh recognized at once. Sarros.
The trader stepped forward from between the nearby tables. He was thin and stooped, with a patched cloak draped over his shoulders and ragged clothes underneath. Rings glittered on his fingers. He smelled of wet fur, and there was an unsettling, catlike slink to his steps.
Murtagh suppressed a curse. Of all the times for the man to show up…“Sarros. I’ve been waiting for you.”
“The reaches are dangerous these days,” said Sarros. He pulled out the empty chair from the table, shifted it until it was exactly between Essie and Murtagh, and sat facing them both.
The girl edged away in her seat, wary.
Murtagh glanced around the room. He spotted six men who had entered the inn while he wasn’t paying attention. They were rough-looking fellows, but not like the local fishermen; they wore furs and leathers and had cloaks wrapped about them in a way that told Murtagh they were concealing swords strapped to their belts.
Sarros’s guards. Murtagh was annoyed that he had lost track of his surroundings while talking with Essie. He knew better than that. A lapse in focus was a good way to end up dead or in prison.
By the bar, Sigling kept close watch on the newcomers. The innkeep pulled out a leather-wrapped truncheon and laid it next to his washcloth as a silent warning.
Despite Murtagh’s reservations as to Sigling’s character, he approved of his caution. The man was no fool, that was for sure.
His attention returned to Sarros as the trader pointed one long finger at Essie. “We have business to discuss. Send the youngling away.”
No, I don’t think so, decided Murtagh. He hadn’t finished talking with the girl, and in any case, keeping her around might have a civilizing influence on Sarros. The man was uncultured at best and downright offensive at worst.
“I have nothing to hide,” Murtagh said. “She can stay.” He glanced at her. “If you’re interested. You might learn something useful of the world by it.”
Essie shrank back in her chair, but she didn’t leave.
A long hiss sounded between Sarros’s teeth as he shook his head. “Foolish, Wanderer. Do as you wish, then. I’ll not argue, even if you put your foot crosswise.”
Murtagh let his gaze harden. “No, you won’t. Tell me, then, what have you found? It’s been three months, and—”
Sarros waved a hand. “Yes, yes. Three months. I told you; the reaches are dangerous. But I found word of what you seek. Better than word, I found this—” From the leather wallet on his belt, he produced a fist-sized chunk of black something that he thumped down on the table.
Murtagh leaned forward, as did Essie.
The something was a piece of rock, but there was a deep shine to it, as if a smoldering coal were buried in the center. A strong, sulfurous smell clung to the rock, as pungent as a rotting egg.
Essie sniffed and wrinkled her nose.
A coil of tension formed in Murtagh’s chest. He’d hoped he was wrong. He’d hoped the whispers and warnings had meant nothing…. Beware the deeps, and tread not where the ground grows black and brittle and the air smells of brimstone, for in those places evil lurks. So the ancient dragon Umaroth had said to him ere he and Thorn had left on their self-imposed exile.
Murtagh had prayed that Umaroth was mistaken, that there wasn’t some new danger rising in the unsettled regions of the land.
He should have known better than to question the wisdom of a dragon as old as Umaroth.
Without taking his gaze off the rock, he said, “What exactly is that?”
Sarros lifted his shoulders. “Suspicions of shadows are all I have, but you sought the unusual, the out-of-place, and that there doesn’t fit in the normal frame.”
“Were there more, or…”
Sarros nodded. “I am told. A whole field scattered with stones.”
The coil tightened in Murtagh’s chest. “Black and burnt?”
“As if seared by fire, but with no sign of flame or smoke.”
Essie said, “Where is it from?”
Sarros smiled, and the girl shied back. As with so many of the horse folk from the central plains of Alagaësia, Sarros’s teeth were filed to points.
For Murtagh, the sight was an unpleasant reminder of another, even less pleasant man with similar teeth. Durza.
“Well now,” said Sarros, “that there is the nub of it, youngling. Yes indeed.” Murtagh reached for the rock, and Sarros dropped a hand over the shiny chunk, caging it behind his fingers. “No,” he said. “Coin first, Wanderer.”
Displeased, Murtagh fished out a small leather pouch from the inner pocket of his cloak. The pouch clinked as he put it on the table.
Sarros’s jagged smile widened. He tugged loose the pouch’s drawstring to reveal a gleam of gold coins inside. Essie sucked in a sharp breath. Murtagh doubted she’d ever seen a whole crown before.
“Half now,” said Murtagh. “And the rest when you tell me where you found that.” He poked the rock with the tip of a finger.
A strange choking sound came from Sarros. Laughter. Then he said, “Oh no, Wanderer. No indeed. I think instead you should give us the rest of your coin, and perhaps then we’ll let you keep your head.”
Across the common room, the fur-clad men slipped hands under their cloaks, and Murtagh saw the hilts of swords, half hidden beneath.
He wasn’t surprised, but he was disappointed. Was Sarros really breaking their deal for nothing more than greed?
How common.
Essie spotted the swords, and her eyes widened. Blast. Before Murtagh could intervene, she leaned forward and was about to say or do something loud when Sarros drew a thin-bladed knife and pressed it against her throat.
“Ah-ah,” he said. “Not a peep from you, youngling, or I’ll open your throat from stem to stern.”
CHAPTER III
Fork and Blade
The loaded spring in Murtagh’s chest felt fit to burst. At that moment, he ceased to think of Sarros as a person. Rather, the man became a thing, a problem to be solved, quickly and without hesitation.
Essie froze at the touch of the trader’s knife. It was the smartest action she could have taken.
A spike of distant concern reached Murtagh as Thorn prepared to fly to his aid. Murtagh responded with a fierce No! Don’t! The last thing he needed was for the dragon to come barging into Ceunon.
Doing his best to keep his emotions hidden, Murtagh said, “Why the turn of face, Sarros? I’m paying you good money.”
“Yesss. That’s the point.” Sarros leaned in closer, lips pulled wide. His breath stank of rotting meat. “If you are willing to pay thiswise-much for hints and rumors, then you must have more coin than sense. Much more coin.”