‘I’ve brought a list,’ said Waylian, clutching the parchment Gelredida had given him to his chest.
‘I am to provide the items on that list?’ asked the man, stepping behind the counter that filled one end of his apothecary’s shop.
‘Er … yes,’ Waylian replied.
As the newly lit candles began to illuminate the room, Waylian could see it housed shelf upon shelf of phials, jars and other alembics. Herbs sprouted from tiny clay pots and stood alongside ready-made poultices and noctums. On the wall behind the counter were row upon row of tiny drawers, each bearing its own neatly written label. Waylian couldn’t make out any of their names in the wan light, but he had no doubt this man knew what every one contained.
‘Could I see the list?’ he asked, holding out his long hand. Waylian found it almost mesmerising, like a gigantic spider unfurling itself on its web.
‘No,’ Waylian said, a little too loudly. ‘I mean … I’m supposed to read it to you.’ Indeed, Gelredida had been most specific about that.
The man smiled. ‘Very well. Read away.’
Waylian squinted at the list through the gloom. ‘Erm … lugroot?’
The apothecary smiled. ‘Yes, I have lugroot,’ he replied, turning to his left and reaching out a long arm. Deftly he flicked open one of the many drawers behind him and pulled out a chunk of vegetable matter, placing it down on his counter with reverent care.
‘Dogweed?’
The apothecary pointed with that long arm of his. ‘Shelf over there,’ he said, but his assured smile was suddenly gone. Waylian moved to the shelf and reached up to something that looked like a small bundle of straw. ‘No, to the left.’ Waylian plucked a small pot from the shelf in which sat a flower reminiscent of a dandelion. Carefully he placed it on the counter next to the lugroot.
Waylian looked back to his list. ‘And do you have essence of clove?’
‘Of course,’ replied the apothecary, who was now frowning. ‘Who sent you with this list?’ he asked as he rummaged beneath his counter.
‘I … er … can’t exactly say,’ replied Waylian. Gelredida had given him strict instructions to keep his mouth shut about that and he’d bloody well stick to them.
‘My name is Milius, by the way,’ the apothecary said, placing a phial down on his counter. ‘What’s yours?’
With that he extended his hand towards Waylian.
‘My … erm … Waylian,’ he said, grasping that huge hand. It was like grabbing a tree branch, and he was struck with a sharp spike of panic as it closed around his own. He looked back to his list and the last item on it. ‘Just one more thing. Do you have any shade grass?’
The apothecary — Milius — closed his grip tighter around Waylian’s hand and stared at him with dark eyes.
‘You know I do, young Waylian. You know very well.’
‘Do I?’ Waylian asked, trying to pull his hand free, but it was locked tight in the apothecary’s grip.
Milius stared for what seemed like an age, unspeaking, unmoving. Waylian felt fear creeping up on him like a mugger in the night; he dare not look away, dare not try to extricate himself from the apothecary’s hand.
Then Milius relaxed, released him and took a step back. ‘You know I’ve got just the thing for you,’ he said, turning and disappearing through a doorway behind his counter.
Waylian wasted no time — he wasn’t about to hang around here any longer, it was time to bloody scarper while the scarpering was good.
He backed up to the front door, keeping his eyes fixed on the dark opening Milius had disappeared into. His hand fumbled with the doorknob but it was stiff and difficult to turn. His fear and panic grew at the prospect of being trapped in here and he grasped the doorknob with both hands, pulling with all his might, gritting his teeth with the exertion. To his relief the stiff door scraped open, revealing the night-darkened street beyond.
‘Where are you going?’ asked a voice behind him. Waylian turned to see Milius holding two cups of steaming liquid. ‘I’ve made us a brew.’
A brew? From this freak of nature? You must be bloody joking!
‘No thanks,’ Waylian replied. ‘I’ve just remembered … I’ve got to go and … feed my fish!’
With that he was gone, leaving the apothecary and his unwholesome brew far behind him.
So much for helping save the bloody city. Right now Waylian could only think about saving himself and, though he knew his mistress would be displeased by his only partial success, that would just have to do for now.
TWENTY-TWO
Regulus had never seen anything so magnificent. The tribes of Equ’un were nomadic by nature; their only settlements built from hide, bone and mud. Altars to the gods of the skies were constructed from stone and rock but the largest only rose to ten or fifteen feet. They did nothing to prepare him for the sight of the city.
Steelhaven was like a mountain newly conjured from the earth, rising up along the edge of the coast to stand defiant against the sea and sky. Its walls rose high and straight as though carved from bare rock. Within were high towers, like stolid giants facing off against one another in a vast arena of stone.
When they were close enough, Regulus halted his warriors on a rise to watch the city. A steady stream of people was filtering into Steelhaven from the north, and from his vantage point Regulus could see magnificent ships with sails of many colours cruising into the harbour from the south.
‘I have never seen such things,’ said Akkula, gawking at the vast harbour. ‘Surely the gods must have had a hand in this.’
Leandran barked a laugh. ‘What the Clawless Tribes lack in strength and ferocity, they make up for with their ingenuity. This is not the work of gods but of men.’
Leandran was the oldest of their number and had travelled widely throughout the grasslands of Equ’un. But Regulus doubted even he had seen anything like this before.
‘So how do we approach?’ Leandran asked.
Regulus stared down at the city, at its vast walls and the soaring towers beyond. ‘We will walk up to the city gates and present ourselves,’ he replied.
‘I thought perhaps one of us might go ahead and announce the coming of a Zatani chieftain.’
Regulus shook his head. ‘No, Leandran. I am no chieftain. We are merely warriors offering our spears to the city’s cause. But fear not. One day we will return to Equ’un as heroes, with the reputation to match.’
‘And I believe you, but shouldn’t we at least be cautious?’
‘Cautious we will be, old friend, but what choice do we have but to present ourselves at the gate? It’s not as if we’ll be able to hide ourselves amongst the rest of those Coldlander travellers.’ He gestured to the steady stream of bodies filtering through the city gates.
There was no more talk. As much as he had been warned of the danger there was only one way to approach, and that was to forge ahead. Besides, Zatani warriors did not creep and cower in the shadows. They fought with their heads raised, roaring their fury to the sky, facing adversity unto death.
Regulus pulled the cloak from his shoulders, flung it to the ground and strode towards the city. His warriors did likewise, following the leader of their tribe as they had done for so many leagues. Regulus hoped he was worthy of their trust, that he was not leading them to certain death.
The stone paved path beneath their feet ran east until it came to a bridge that crossed a wide river meandering down from the north. To the south of the bridge, on the western side of the river, was a ruined expanse of ramshackle buildings. They looked ancient, yet Regulus could see men, women and children moving within the sprawl. Across the bridge stood a huge gate from which another wide stone pathway led northwards.
As soon as Regulus and his five warriors had set foot on the bridge they heard a cry go up. Their approach had been seen by spotters along the city’s vast wall and, as they made their way over the bridge, they could see warriors in green moving frantically to intercept them. One was screaming for the gate to be closed, while another shouted for reinforcements.