‘I’m supposed to keep people away from this building,’ the guard explained, quickly modifying his tone.
‘But politely, friend, politely. Every man in this whole place is armed to the teeth, so we all have to be polite to each other.’ Kalten threw a guarded glance at the barred window from which Ehlana watched. ‘I learned politeness when I took up with Shallag—you know him, don’t you? The one-eyed fellow with the lochaber axe?’
The guard shuddered. ‘Is he as bad as he looks?’ he asked.
‘Worse. He’ll hack your head off if you even sneeze on him.’ Kalten squared his shoulders. ‘Well, I guess I’d better be getting back to the tavern. As my friend Ezek says, “’Tain’t hardly likely that I’ll make no profit lollygaggin’ around in the street.” Come on by the tavern when you get off work, friend. I’ll buy you a tankard of beer.’ And he went off down the street, still whistling ‘My Bonnie Blue-Eyed Boy’.
‘Treasure him, Alcan,’ Ehlana said, her heart still soaring, ‘and don’t let that face deceive you. He gave me more information in two minutes than Sparhawk could have in an hour.’
‘My Lady?’ Alcan looked baffled.
‘He knows that we’re here. He started to whistle along while you were singing. He also told me that Sir Bevier and Caalador are here with him.’
‘How did he do that?’
‘He was talking with the guard. Bevier’s probably the only man in Daresia right now with a lochaber axe, and his other friend sounds just like Caalador. They know we’re here, Alcan, and if they know, Sparhawk knows. We might as well start packing. We’ll be leaving here shortly and going back to Matherion.’ She laughed delightedly and threw her arms round her maid.
Kalten tried very hard to keep his face expressionless as he walked back along the moss-covered streets toward Senga’s tavern, but the excitement kept bubbling up in him, and it was very difficult to keep from laughing out loud.
Scarpa’s army had cleared the northern quarters of Natayos and restored the buildings there to some degree of habitability when they had first arrived, but most of the city was still a vine-choked ruin. Senga had considered several possible sites for his tavern and had rather shrewdly decided to set up operations some distance deeper into the old city to avoid interference from officious sergeants or junior Elene officers with deep convictions and not much sense. He had chosen a low, squat building with thick walls but no roof, a deficiency easily overcome with tent-canvas.
He had considered hiring off-duty soldiers to clear the brush out of the street leading from Scarpa’s main camp to the tavern door, but Caalador had persuaded him to save his money. ‘Then ain’t no need, Senga,’ the disguised Cammorian had told the harried businessman, reverting to his dialect. ‘Them thirsty soldiers’ll clear the street fer us then very own-selfs ’thout no money changin’ hands a-tall.’
The tavern crouched in the ruins, indistinguishable from nearby buildings except for its canvas roof and the crudely lettered sign reading ‘Senga’s’ out front. Kalten entered the tavern through the side door and paused to let his eyes adjust to the dimmer light. The place was moderately crowded, even at midday, and the six aproned outlaws from Narstil’s camp hustled back and forth behind a rough plank counter, drawing foamy beer and collecting money.
Kalten pushed through the noisy crowd, looking for Bevier and Caalador. He found them sitting at a table on the near side of the room. Bevier’s sawed-off lochaber and Caalador’s stout cudgel lay in plain sight on the table as a sort of constant reminder to the assembled revelers that while having a good time was encouraged, there were strictly enforced limits.
Kalten carefully lowered himself onto the bench, keeping his exuberance tightly bottled in. He leaned forward, motioning his friends closer. ‘They’re here,’ he said quietly.
Caalador looked around the tavern. ‘Wal,’ he drawled, ‘not quite all of ’em, but most likely ever’body who’s off-duty.’
‘I’m not talking about this crowd, Ezek. I’m talking about the house with the barred windows. The people we’ve been looking for are definitely inside that house.’
‘How do you know?’ Bevier demanded in an intense whisper. ‘Did you see them?’
‘I didn’t have to. One of them is a very special friend of mine, and this friend recognized me—even with this face. Don’t ask me how.’
‘Are you sure?’ Bevier pressed.
‘Oh, yes. This friend started to sing in a voice I’d recognize in the middle of a thunderstorm. It was a very old song that has a personal meaning for the two of us. Our friends inside recognized me, there’s no question about it. This friend I was just talking about only sings that song for me.’
‘I don’t suppose there was any way you could let them know that you’d received their message?’ Caalador asked. ‘Short of tearing down the door, I mean?’
‘No, I didn’t have to tear down the door. I whistled along. I’ve done that before, so my friend knew what I was trying to say. Then I struck up a conversation with one of the guards, and I slipped in enough hints to let our friends inside know the things they ought to be aware of.’
Caalador leaned back in his chair. ‘Yer idee ’bout this yore tavern’s workin’ out real good, Shallag. We bin a-pickin’ up all sorts o’ useful information since we settled in.’
Kalten looked around the tavern. ‘Things are quiet right now,’ he said quietly. ‘The fights probably won’t start until after the sun goes down. Why don’t we take a stroll back into the ruins? I think we’d better have another chat with that certain little girl. This time we’ve got some good news for her.’
‘Let’s get at it,’ Caalador said, rising to his feet. He pushed his way through to the counter, spoke briefly with one of the foam-soaked outlaws and then led the way outside. They went around behind the tavern and pushed their way along a vine-choked side-street that ran on past some fallen buildings where bright-colored birds perched, squawking raucously. They went into a partially collapsed ruin, and Kalten and Caalador stood watch while Bevier cast the spell.
The Cyrinic was grinning when he came out. ‘You’d better brace yourself, Kalten,’ he said.
‘What for?’
‘Aphrael plans to kiss you into insensibility the next time she sees you.’
‘I suppose I can live with that. I gather she was pleased?’
‘She almost ruptured my eardrums.’
‘Well, as she always says, “We only live to please those we love.”’
Scarpa was screaming even before he came through the door. His voice was high and shrill, his eyes bulged, and his makeshift crown was askew. He was clearly in the throes of hysterical rage. His lips and beard were flecked with foam as he burst into the room. ‘Your husband has betrayed you, woman!’ he shrieked at Ehlana. ‘You will pay for his perfidy! I will have your life for this!’ He started toward her, his hands extended like claws.
Then Zalasta was in the doorway. ‘No!’ he barked in an icy tone.
Scarpa spun on his father. ‘Stay out of this!’ he shrieked. ‘She is my prisoner. I will punish her for Sparhawk’s treachery!’
‘No, actually you won’t. You’ll do as I tell you to do.’ Zalasta spoke in Elenic, and all traces of his accent were gone now.
‘He disobeyed my orders. I will make him pay!’
‘Are you so stupid that you didn’t expect this? I told you how devious the man was, but your mind’s so clogged with cobwebs that you wouldn’t listen.’
‘I gave him an order!’ Scarpa’s voice had risen to a squeal. He stamped his foot. Then he stamped the other. Then he began jumping up and down on the floor, quite literally dancing with rage. ‘I am the emperor! He must obey me!’
Zalasta did not even bother to use magic this time. He simply swung his staff and knocked his hysterical son to the floor, sending his crown rolling. ‘You sicken me,’ he said in a voice loaded with contempt. ‘I have no patience with these temper tantrums. You are not the emperor. When you’re in this condition, you’re not even meaningful.’ His face was unemotional, and his eyes were remote. ‘Have a care, Scarpa,’ he said in a dreadful voice. ‘There’s nothing in this world that I love now. You have freed me from all human attachments. If you annoy me, I’ll squash you like a bug.’