“I’ll find a bucket,” Dhamon told her. “Bound to be something in this town that will—”
Fiona spun, heading toward the closest shop.
“All right,” Dhamon said. “You go find a bucket then.”
Ragh took her place at the well. “I’d crawl down there for something to drink if I was certain the stones wouldn’t give way.” The draconian leaned over the edge and looked down hungrily. His knee brushed a stone, and several shifted. “I think a strong wind might blow this over.” He looked up and met Dhamon’s gaze.
“There can’t have been anyone around here for years.”
“Aye, that’s for certain.” Dhamon indicated the sinkhole behind the leaning building. “The people obviously left when the land became unstable.”
“Maybe.” The draconian wore an uncertain expression. “Did you take a good look at the front entrance to the inn over there?”
Dhamon pushed away from the well, sending a stone to the water below. He returned to the main street. The inn the draconian mentioned was a few buildings down and at one time must have been quite impressive. There once had been three storys to it, though half of the top floor was gone. The building was a mix of wood and stone, with the stone painted dark green, but only flecks of the color remained. A broken bench on the sprawling porch was inlaid with bits of shells and bronze beads. The sign, lying split in two on the steps, proclaimed it the Enchanted Emerald Hostel. Trousers flapped on the steps, the belt snagged in a crack which kept them from being blown away. The matching shirt was caught under the bench. There were shoes, too, and a pipe. A tobacco pouch was sticking out of one pocket. It was as if someone just had taken off their clothes, laid them out, and walked away. As Dhamon and Ragh looked around, the breeze whipped cold around them, and their breath feathered away from their faces. Then the wind warmed slightly, leaving them with an apprehensive feeling.
“Maybe it wasn’t the sinkholes that made people leave,” the draconian said, as he tested the steps and warily climbed up.
Dhamon peered up the street, where more garments were strewn against buildings and steps and overturned carts—wherever the wind had left them. “Maybe it was something else. Let’s take a quick look around, get some of that water and some supplies, and then get out of here.”
“You show intelligence for a human. I don’t want to stay here any longer than necessary, either.” The draconian gingerly prodded the door open and poked his head inside. “First I’m going to see if this town has a name, try to figure out where we are. There must be some maps around a place like this. With luck I’ll find one. Then we can look for a way out of here and be on our way—after Nura Bint-Drax.”
Dhamon watched Ragh ease inside the building, the old door banging shut behind the draconian, then he followed the street a little farther, looking for a tavern. He hoped to find mugs for water, and perhaps some bottles of spirits to ward off the autumn chill. Along the way, he glanced at the discarded, dirt-pitted clothing along the street. His route took him past a baker’s. The loaves of bread behind the window looked like bricks resting on a bed of grit. There was evidence some insects had feasted on the loaves but no sign of rats or birds. Peering into the shadows, he spotted interior counters filled with long-hardened treats, as well as a faded dress and apron, slippers and a hat that were spread out on the floor in the center of the room. Nearby was a child’s dress, a doll, and what looked like the collar of a dog.
“No people. No animals.” Dhamon moved to the next building, one that in years past had been gaily painted with strange symbols. He traced one of the symbols with his finger. He’d seen something like it before, perhaps in an arcane tome shown to him by his friend Maldred. Remnants of a bead curtain clicked in the doorway, and the scent of something not unpleasant wafted from inside. Thinking this might have been a sorcerer’s place, and therefore a place that held information about the strange town, he momentarily forgot his thirst and hunger and his caution. He pushed aside the beads and went inside.
Fiona was inside a farmer’s store and had propped the door open to let in more light. Goods were neatly displayed on shelves that lined three walls of the room. At first glance she didn’t see any buckets, but she did spot a large salt-glazed pitcher that she was quick to snatch up. She brushed away a cobweb and blew the dust off a section of countertop, placed the pitcher on it, then proceeded to fill up a leather bag she had pilfered. On the shelf closest to her was a small set of tarnished silverware, and these she added to her collection.
“Dhamon should be doing this—stealing—not me,” she muttered darkly. “He’s the thief. A liar and a thief. Just like his ogre friend Maldred. Liar. Liar. Liar.”
She gave the shelves a closer inspection. There were various-sized nails, hammers, and an entire rack devoted to building tools. There were lengths of rope, one of which she selected to replace the rotting one at the well, and there were a half-dozen lanterns and a large glass jar of oil. She made a note to return and fill a couple of the lanterns so they’d have some light when the sun completely disappeared—which would be very soon, judging by the sparse orange light fading from the shop.
Bolts of cloth were arranged near the floor, none of them appealing to her. They appeared common and were covered with dirt and webs. She spotted a pair of hunting knives, and these were quick to find their way onto her belt. They would do until she was fortunate enough to stumble upon a long sword.
There didn’t seem to be a real weapon or shield in here, however. She would have to look for an armorer’s after she drank her fill.
Shovels, hoes, and rakes were leaned neatly behind the counter and against the center of the back wall. There were bins labeled “beans,” “wheat,” and “rye,” on which insects had feasted. One barrel contained a mass of tiny onion starters, so hard and shriveled nowadays they could pass for marbles.
Looking behind the counter, Fiona shivered when a cold gust of wind rushed into the shop. After a moment, the air warmed a little. In the growing shadows she stared at a pair of trousers, a black tunic, and a smock, laid flat on the floor with shoes at the end of gathered cuffs. A brimmed hat sat about a foot above the collar, and at the end of a sleeve was a quill. It looked like the shopkeeper, departing on some mysterious errand, had carefully taken off his clothes and left them behind.
Underneath the countertop was a coin jar, practically filled with steel pieces. Fiona reached for the jar, then hesitated. “I am a Solamnic Knight,” she said. “In the name of Vinus Solamnus, what am I doing?” Her fingers fluttered hesitantly above the jar. “If only Rig was here, he’d—”
“But I am here.”
She whirled around, looking for the voice. “Rig!” Her heart leaped in delight. “I knew you’d find me!
I just… where are you?”
She didn’t see anyone; she was all alone in the shop.
“I am in the back room. Behind the curtain. I have missed you very much, Fiona.”
She hastily dropped her leather bag, pushed the curtain aside, and rushed into the darkness.
“No sorcerer’s dwelling.” Dhamon was standing in the center of a small room. At least it wasn’t the kind of room that had been decorated by any sorcerer he was familiar with. The walls were covered with garishly dyed animal skins, more of the cryptic symbols he’d seen on the outside of the building—brighter than those on the outside, because the sun hadn’t bleached them. Several narrow shelves held the skulls of small animals and crystal bowls with layers of colored sand. The place had at the same time a barbaric and gaudy look. There were jars filled with dried substances, pressed flowers and herbs, small bells with painted symbols on them, collections of bead and feather-festooned sticks. By the way they were arranged, it looked as though this had been a shop and all the oddities were for sale. There was an impressive tapestry, showing a quartet of rearing pegasi over the body of a two-headed bear. And there was the intriguing smell that had lured him in here. It emanated from a tray filled with bulbous roots—all of them apparently fresh and without any of the dust that covered everything else.