Kalten stood up. ‘Any time you are, Senga,’ he replied, pulling his half-cooked chicken off the spit and going to join his newfound friend. ‘I’m getting bored just sitting here counting trees.’
It took the two of them about three hours to reach Natayos, since there is no real way to hurry an ox. The trail was fairly well traveled, and it wound around through the jungle, following the course of least resistance.
‘There it is,’ Senga said as the cart jolted through a ford that crossed a narrow stream. He pointed across the stump-dotted clearing at an ancient city, a ruin so old that the passage of centuries had rounded down the very stones. ‘Stay close to me when we get there, Col. There are a couple of places we have to keep away from. There’s one building right near the gate that they really don’t want anybody to go near.’
‘Oh?’ Kalten said, squinting at the mossy ruin ahead. ‘What’s inside that makes them so touchy?’
‘I haven’t the faintest idea, and I’m not curious enough to risk my health by asking.’
‘Maybe the building’s their treasure house,’ Kalten speculated. ‘If this army’s as big as you say, they’ve probably picked up quite a bit of loot.’
Senga shrugged. ‘It could be, I suppose, but I’m not going to fight all those guards just to find out. We’re here to sell beer, Col. We’ll get a goodly share of their treasure that way, and it’s not as risky.’
‘But it’s so honest,’ Kalten objected, grinning. ‘Isn’t honest work immoral for people like us?’
Senga laughed and tapped the ox’s rump with the long, slender stick he carried. The creaking cart jolted over the uneven ground toward the moldering walls.
‘Nor Senga!’ one of the slovenly guards at the gate greeted Kalten’s friend. ‘What kept you? It’s been as dry as a plate of sand since the last time you left.’
‘You fellows are overworking my brewer,’ Senga replied. ‘He canm’t keep up with the demand. We have to let the beer age a little while before you drink it. Green beer does funny things to a man’s guts.”
‘You haven’t raised your prices again, have you?’
‘No. Same price as before.’
‘Ten times what you paid for the beer in the first place, I’ll wager.’
‘Oh, not quite that much. Where do you want me to set up?’
‘Same place as last time. I’ll pass the word, and they’ll start lining up.’
‘I want some guards this time, Mondra,’ Senga told him. ‘I don’t want another riot when the last cask runs dry the way there was last week.’
‘I’ll see to it. Save some for me.’
The ox-cart clattered through the gate and into a wide street where most of the moss had been worn off the coblestones. A great deal of work had clearly taken place here in Natayos in the past few years. The squared-off stones of the broken walls had been rather carelessly re-stacked and then shored up with peeled log braces. Long-vanished roofs had been replaced with crude thatching made of tree-limbs, providing nesting sites for raucous tropical birds, and here and there blackened piles of half-burned trees and bushes marked the places where indifferent workmen had attempted to dispose of the mountains of brush that had been cleared from the streets and houses. The men living here lounged idly in the streets. There were Elenes from Astel, Edam, and Daconia, as well as Arjuni and Cynesgans. They were a roughly dressed, unshaven lot who showed no signs that they even knew the meaning of the word ‘discipline’.
‘What price are you getting for this?’ Kalten asked, patting one of the beer barrels in the cart.
‘A penny a gill,’ Senga replied.
‘That’s outrageous!’
‘They don’t have to buy it,’ Senga shrugged. ‘Get the money before you start to pour. Don’t take promises.’
‘You’ve put my moral qualms to rest, Senga,’ Kalten laughed. ‘At that price, this is hardly honest.’
‘There’s that building I was telling you about.’
Kalten tried to look casual as he turned to stare at the substantial-looking ruin. ‘They really don’t want anybody to look into that place,’ he said. ‘Those bars on the windows make it look like a jail.’
‘Not quite, Col. Those bars are there to keep people out, not in.’
Kalten grunted, still staring intently at the building. The barred windows had panes of glass in them, cheap, cloudy glass that had been poorly installed. Drapes on the inside cut off any possibility of seeing anything or anyone who might be in there. There were guards at the door and other guards stationed at every corner. Kalten wanted to howl with frustration. The gentle girl who had become the center of his life was possibly no more than twenty yards away, but she might as well have been on the other side of the moon, and even if she were to look out through that clouded glass she would not recognize his altered features.
Senga paid the guards in the square with beer, and then he and his friend got down to work. Scarpa’s rebels were rowdy, shouting and laughing, but they were generally in a good humor. They lined up in an orderly fashion and came to the rear of the cart two by two, where Senga and Kalten filled their containers with the amber beer. There were a few arguments about the capacity of the assorted tankards, jugs, and pails, but Senga’s word on the subject was final, and anyone who objected too loudly was sent back to the end of the line to think things over for an hour or so while he worked his way back to the front again.
It was after the two entrepreneurs had drained the last barrel and sent the disappointed late-comers away that Kalten saw a familiar figure come weaving across the mossy square toward the ox-cart. Krager was not wearing well. His head was shaved and as pale as a fish-belly, and his dissipated face was eroded by decades of hard drinking. His clothing, though obviously expensive, was wrinkled and filthy. He shook continually with a palsied tremor that ran through him in waves.
‘I don’t suppose you brought any wine,’ he asked Senga hopefully.
‘Not much call for it,’ Senga told him, re-fastening the tail-gate of the cart. ‘Most of these fellows want beer.’
‘Do you know any place where you can get wine?’
‘I can ask around. What’s your preference?’
‘Arcian red, if you can find any.’
Senga whistled. ‘That will cost you, my friend. I could probably chase down some of the local reds for you, but the imported stuff—that’s going to take a big bite out of your purse.’
Krager smirked at him. ‘It’s no problem,’ he said in his slurred voice. ‘I’m what you might call independently wealthy at the moment. These local reds taste like pig-swill. I want real wine.’
‘It might take a while,’ Senga told him dubiously. ‘I’ve got contacts in Delo that might be able to find some for you, but Delo’s a long way off.’
‘When are you coming back?’
‘A couple of days. The brewery where I buy this slop’s running day and night, but I still can’t keep up.’
‘Bring me a couple of barrels of the local pig-swill then enough to tide me over until you can find me some Arcian red.’
‘You can count on me,’ Senga assured him. He gave Krager a hard look. ‘I’ll need something in advance, though. I’ll have to buy the Arcian red before I can sell it to you. I’m doing fairly well, but I’m not that rich yet.’
Krager fumbled for his purse.
Kalten was suddenly gripped by an almost intolerable impatience. He was sure now that Alcan was here. Krager’s presence virtually confirmed it. The prisoners were most likely being held in the building with barred windows. He absolutely had to get back to Narstil’s camp so that Bevier could pass the word on to Aphrael. If Xanetia could enter Natayos unseen, she could either penetrate the prison walls or reach into Krager’s wine-sodden mind to verify what was almost a certainty now. If all went well, it would be no more than a few days until he and Sparhawk were reunited with the women they loved. Then they could all come here and do unpleasant things to the people responsible.