“Wait—did you say it remains in Passage for … three or four hours?” asked Teron.
“Indeed it does,” replied the elf stiffly. “We depart after dawn for the convenience of our passengers.” He paused and looked at Teron with a pinched expression. “Speaking of convenience, master, would the church mind terribly if you removed your hand from my shoulder? I find it inconvenient.”
Teron mumbled something incoherent and let go his grip. The elf immediately began massaging his neck with his left hand.
“Passage is about a hundred miles away, maybe a bit more,” said Teron.
“Rather more like 140 miles, I believe,” said the clerk helpfully.
“Understood. I have five or six hours to get there. I need something fast to take me there. Or to Fairhaven; I should be able to intercept them there. A Lyrandar airship, perhaps. Suggestions, either of you?”
The clerk and supervisor looked at each other. “Well, we don’t ever get airships in here,” said the clerk. “At least, not often. I mean, every month or two maybe one will drop by for provisions or trading, but there’s no telling when that’ll happen. Maybe you could buy yourself one of those magebred horses …”
“Ten miles an hour at best, buffoon,” snapped the elf. “He’d never reach Passage in time. There’s no animal that …” The elf’s voice trailed off as a sudden realization dawned on him. “You want Hatch Vadalis. He’ll get you there.”
“Who?”
“Hatch Vadalis. He has a fast service that crosses all of southern Aundair,” said the elf, nodding in approval at his own idea. “He flies everywhere from Arcanix to Tower Valiant to Marketplace, and every little farm on the way.”
“He has an airship?”
“Of course not,” said the elf. Then he backed away slightly, just to be safe. “Hatch rides a bird.”
“That’s right!” piped in the clerk. “It’s a beauty too, it is. Some kind of giant dire magebred dragonhawk or something along those lines there. Real big. Moves like the wind. Shepherds don’t much like it, though, and sometimes when he takes off… well, some people around here don’t fancy it a whole lot, but they’ll always take the gold be spends.”
“Where is he?”
“Head toward the west end of Ghalt,” said the elf. “Look for the three-story house. It’s the only one around. You can’t miss the coop smell, either.”
“Thank you,” said Teron, bowing his head.
The elf simply gave a pained smile as he massaged his right hand.
Lying on the top bunk, Praxle stared out the window of his private room, trying to reconcile the idyllic countryside with the horrific torture he’d endured at the hands of the locals. Could the blight that lay upon the Crying Fields have twisted the minds of those who lived there?
Praxle snorted. How could it not?
Technically, the room was not private. It had three berths in it, but since Praxle no longer had enough money handy to pay for a first-class room, he’d opted to pay for an extra bed in one of the second-class coaches. He dreaded the coming of night, for he feared that Jeffers might snore. The very thought gave him chills.
“Done, master,” said Jeffers.
Praxle peered over the edge of the bed. Below him, Jeffers had laid out the varied supplies that he’d managed to gather before their escape from the monastery. It was nowhere near everything they had arrived with; just a few items left in the room when the monks pilfered it, another few items quickly gathered in the outbuilding where Praxle had been interrogated. The blade that, for a brief moment, was the most beautiful thing that Praxle had ever seen.
“Olladra’s outhouse,” cursed Praxle. “Those monastic bastards still have our papers.”
“Yes, master, they do.”
“You couldn’t have managed to, shall we say, pick them back up, you half-moron?” snapped Praxle.
“I had quickly to choose between following the papers and following you, master,” said Jeffers unapologetically. “Had I known you’d be making so much noise, I—”
“Shut up, Jeffers,” snarled Praxle, bitter at the memory of his screaming and begging, a weakness that had eclipsed his discipline until, at last, he had lost all hope and simultaneously recaptured the ability to resist. He tried to force the memories out of his mind but couldn’t, and his stomach began to churn.
“How shall we cross the border, then?” asked Jeffers. “We could perhaps claim that our papers were stolen. It is not entirely untrue.”
Praxle’s mind seized on Jeffers’ question like a drowning man grasping a rope. “We must make new ones,” he said. “We must have papers, or else the Thranes will turn us back. If we get turned back, the Aundairians will take notice of us, and I cannot allow that. I need folders, nice ones. High-quality paper. Quill, and ink. I can forge a reasonable facsimile of our papers, then cast a durable glamer upon them as we approach the border.” He chuckled. “Thank the gods I’m a son of House Sivis,” he said. “Otherwise I seriously doubt I could create a good enough forgery, even enhanced with my best illusions.”
“As you wish, master,” said Jeffers, “I shall undertake to acquire these necessities when we arrive in Passage. The conductor led me to understand that we’ll have a several-hour wayside stop at that location.”
“Several hours?” Praxle groaned and rolled onto his back. “Several hours, wasted sitting in some gods-forsaken station.”
“Problem, master?”
“The monks are looking for us. They now have several more hours to alert the soldiers at the border crossings.” Praxle slammed his fists into the bedding at his sides. “I don’t think we’re going to make it.”
9
The Dragonhawk
Bang-bang-bang!
Startled by the pounding at his door, Hatch Vadalis jumped from his chair, banging into the table and scattering some of the food on his plate. He growled at the interruption. Just before he left the room, he pointed one finger at his dog and said, “Don’t even think about it, Stinker.”
Bang-bang-bang-bang-bang!
“I’m coming, I’m coming, don’t split your gizzard!” he yelled. He opened the front door to his home and saw a young man panting on his porch.
“Hatch d’Vadalis?” asked the newcomer. He shifted a small bag in his arms.
“Just Vadalis,” said Hatch. “I married into the name.”
“My name’s Teron,” said the man, bowing, “I have an important parcel I need delivered to Passage as soon as possible.” He proffered a letter of credit from the church treasury in Fairhaven.
Hatch took the paper and scrutinized the arcane mark upon it. “Looks legitimate,” he said. He glanced at the amount written and nodded approvingly. “Very well. I’ll head out at first light.”
“No,” said the man. “Now.”
“But I can’t—”
Teron pulled a second letter of credit and handed it to Hatch.
“Well, um, let’s see,” the old man said, greed and concern warring in his mind. “Flying at night, it’s—”
Teron snatched the two letters of credit from Hatch’s hand. Hatch gasped, but then Teron provided a third letter, larger in sum than the previous two combined. “Final offer,” he said. “Accept it.”
“I think this will do nicely,” said Hatch. “Gome in, Tayrum.”
“Teron.”
“Teron. Right. I was, um, just eating my dinner, and—Damn it, Stinker! Get off the damned table!”
“Eat quickly,” said Teron.
“Right you are,” said Hatch. He crammed food into his mouth, chewed, then swallowed. “If you don’t mind, put the kettle on the fire, will you? I’ll be wanting some tea to see me through the night.”
“You might want to brew some for your bird, as well,” Teron said with a chuckle.