Once the company had dismounted, Zemella led the hippogriff to the lip of the tower and spoke softly in the Valenar tongue. The beast turned to her and bent its head so that she could run her fingers through the thick mane of feathers. Then it spread its huge wings and took to the skies once more, bound for some private aerie. Vaddi watched, mesmerised more by Zemella than by the magic she had used. He heard Nyam cough discreetly at his elbow.
“Now where?” said the peddler, an insouciant grin on his face.
“I have a relation here by the name of Kalfar Munjati,” said Vaddi. “We should go to him.”
Zemella nodded. “I have to report to my warclan, though I will take you to Kalfar first.”
Cellester was frowning. “In Pylas Maradal, there are many factions, but the house of Kalfar is known to me.”
“While I would be only too pleased to enjoy the hospitality of the esteemed house,” said Nyam. “I would prefer to visit the harbor district. I used to have some friends in this port. Not seen them for years, but I’d wager a cart full of gold that they’re still hanging about the docks.”
Zemella smiled as if at a private joke.
“Only for the night,” added Nyam. “Perhaps I’ll wander back to the house of Kalfar after breakfast?”
Cellester’s frown deepened. “We have said before that we both owe you our thanks for your part in our getting here safely, peddler, but you owe us nothing. Consider all debts repaid.”
“Are you that anxious to be rid of me?” Nyam chuckled.
Cellester shrugged. “No. But I fail to see how Vaddi’s path and yours should interweave from now on. Surely your destiny lies with your own kind.”
“For my part,” said Vaddi. “Nyam is welcome to enjoy our company.”
“This is not the place to debate such things,” said Zemella. “Come to Kalfar’s house. Or not.” She turned on her heel and made for the only opening in the tower, a stairwell down into the tower’s heart.
“Better do as she says,” Nyam grinned at Vaddi, who glared back at him.
Zemella led them around the stairs into the growing gloom of the tower’s very roots. A number of Valenar soldiers were gathered in the room at the foot of the stairway, busily cleaning harness and honing their short swords. They eyed the company coolly but did not comment.
“Always ready for a fight,” Nyam muttered to Vaddi. “Valenar. Born to battle, believe me. Keep well clear of them.”
Vaddi was about to remind him that he had elf blood himself, but Zemella ushered them through a door and out into the street. Even at this time of the evening, the place was heaving with people, all shouting, bustling—busier, it seemed, than at any other time of the day. Vaddi tucked in close behind Zemella, who strode through the press like the prow of a ship cutting through a sea swell. Vaddi wondered if she was using any kind of spell to ease her passage.
“The docks lie that way,” she said, after they had gone info the heart of the city, pointing down a narrow alleyway that seemed half-choked with huge jars. They could smell the sea, pungent and redolent of fish. Masts bobbed up and down in the distance.
“I’ll be on my way, then,” said Nyam, and with no more than a brief pat on the shoulder for Vaddi, he was off down the alley, like a hungry tomcat on the scent of a meal.
Zemella was already pressing on. Some time later, having broken out of the bazaar-lined streets and the cramped stalls, they climbed a wider path that led to a cleaner residential district. There were a number of imposing edifices lining the landward side of the street looking out over the main bay. Zemella brought them to a pair of tall gates set into which was the unmistakable motif of a prancing unicorn. At once, two guards stepped from the shadows, pikes dipping through the rails of the gate.
“Who comes to the House of Kalfar Munjati?” growled one of them.
Zemella stepped forward. “The son of Indreen and distant cousin to your master. Tell him that Zemella of the Finnarra has brought him here, and be quick about it!”
Surprised at her tone, the two guards gaped through the rails at her. They were men themselves, and though they screwed up their faces at sight of the Valenar girl, her manner also instilled in them a degree of fear and respect that Vaddi could almost taste.
“You are related to Kalfar?” one of the guards said.
“Not me, you idiot! Here is Vaddi d’Orien”—she pointed at Vaddi—“from Marazanath.”
“Never heard of it.”
“That comes as no surprise. Now open the gates before I rip them down!”
She held up her fist and to Vaddi’s amazement, the guards reacted as if it contained a fireball that she would hurl at them. The gates swung easily open, the two guards bowing.
“Take Vaddi d’Orien and his companion up to the house,” Zemella ordered the guards. She turned to Vaddi and Cellester as they entered the gateway. “Go to Kalfar. I will return in the morning.”
Cellester stepped close to her. “The matter of Vaddi’s arrival here in Pylas Maradal must be treated with the greatest discretion,” he said softly. “We are grateful to you for your help, but no one other than Kalfar must know he is here.”
Her expression was unreadable. “Of course. Until tomorrow.”
With no more ado, she turned on her heel and melted into the growing shadows. Vaddi felt something of himself going with her, as though he had in that moment suddenly become incomplete, but he had no time to reflect. Cellester was urging him up the hill after the guard. The other clanged shut the gates behind them.
“Be guarded in what you say,” Cellester told him. “Let us hope he will be Orien enough to help you. Valenar thrives on intrigue.”
They waited in the wide atrium of the house while the guard spoke to someone within, and at length another servant met them. A tall, laconic man dressed in a white robe that seemed to depict an office of some importance in the Kalfar household, he bowed and ushered them inside. It was a still, warm night, and their host preferred to meet them in one of his many delightful gardens, which was lit by several cold fire lamps and numerous fireflies that had chosen the fragrant shrubbery as their base.
Kalfar sat on a wide dais, himself corpulent, his many colored robes resplendent, even in this light. He wore a vivid green turban and his face was even more be-whiskered than that of Nyam, his eyes twinkling as he beheld his guests. He struggled to his feet, his legs seemingly too short for his body, and set down the glass from which he had been sipping red wine. He opened his arms to Vaddi.
“My boy, my boy! Indreen’s son! A thousand delights to have you visit my humblest of abodes!” He embraced Vaddi, squashing the youth to his bosom as though the emotion of it all was too much for him.
“You know of me then?”
Kalfar released Vaddi and studied him as though looking over a valuable object, another jewel for his collection. On his fingers a dozen rings gleamed. “Of course, of course! Here in Pylas Maradal nothing escapes our ears. The elves, you know! Finest network of spies in all of Khorvaire. Some of us appreciate their skills.”
Vaddi was suddenly conscious of Cellester behind him. “Please, let me introduce a valuable friend. This is Cellester, a long-time servant of my father, Anzar Kemmal d’Orien.”
Kalfar shuffled before Cellester and eyed him keenly.
“I know of you,” said Kalfar. “You served Anzar and Indreen with distinction.”
“It was my honor,” said Cellester.
“Good, good. Now, before we talk, you must eat, eat!” Kalfar clapped his hands and like emerging wraiths, two servants materialized from the shadows. Kalfar rattled off some instructions to them, then waved his guests to some seats. “Well, well. Here you are then. Good, good. So what brings you to this remotest of outposts, this far-flung bastion of civilization?”