David Farland - Wizardborn

“And my husband knows this man well?”

“Well?” Grimeson said. “Of course! Why, they’re old friends.”

Iome was astonished that Gaborn knew either man on a first-name basis.

Gaborn needed good dogs. Though she suspected that Grimeson could handle this Scarby fellow, curiosity drove her to say, “If he’s Gaborn’s friend, I’d like to meet him. I’m coming with you.”

“But Your Highness, dinner is cooking!”

“It can wait until we get back. This is far more important.”

Grimeson nodded reluctantly, for there was nothing more that he could do.

In moments they were on fresh horses, and Grimeson let them canter through the city. The streets were empty so late of the night, except for the occasional alley cat or ferrin.

In minutes they reached the seamy side of the city, in Crow’s Bay, where cramped shanties and inns perched along the sea wall, and the smell of dead fish, whale oil, urine, and boiled crab hung heavy in the air. Soot blackened the stonework on ancient buildings.

Though it was late at night, music and raucous laughter escaped the open doors of the hostels. Everywhere, bandy-legged men lounged about on ale kegs, and painted whores laughed and advertised their wares. Old women cleaned and mended fishnets by lantern light, while seagulls wheeled and cried in the night as they scavenged for scraps. Children scampered to and fro like wharf rats.

This part of the city never slept. Near dawn, the boats would go out with the tide, and so long as no leviathans were sighted, they’d not return until sundown.

From time to time Iome could glimpse between various shops, inns, and fisheries out to the thousands of fishing boats—coracles and trimarines—moored in the horseshoe-shaped bay. They bobbed like bits of cork bark on the star-dusted water. Many boats had serpent heads carved at the prows, with white runes of steadiness and wayfinding painted on as eyes.

Sergeant Grimeson slowed his mount and entered one dark alley where sooty buildings leaned together. Iome had the good sense to know that she should never go in there alone—at least not if she were a commoner.

But she was Runelord, and rode with a guardsman. That lent her courage.

The hooves of their horses clattered over salt-crusted cobblestones. Swarthy men slouched on narrow porches, and the only light in the alley spilled from an open door far up the street. A pair of mastiffs with spiked collars lunged from behind a crate, barking and snarling at the horses.

Grimeson’s mount reared and pawed the air while Iome’s danced backward. In the confusion, as she struggled to regain control of her horse, half a dozen men swarmed from dark doorways.

One man began shouting at the mastiffs, aiming rough kicks into the flanks of the dogs while he cursed in language so amazingly coarse that Iome had never heard the like. Another young man jumped out, and with grimy hands took the reins to Iome’s mount and stood staring at her, his gap-toothed face hardly visible in the wan light.

Other men closed behind. One big fellow with white streaking his beard separated from the shadows. He held a spiked cudgel in hand. While the mastiffs barked, he challenged Grimeson, “Here now, lad, that’s a fine horse you’ve got, and a fine woman! And I’m sure you’ve gold in your purse besides. So tell me one reason why I shouldna slit your weasand and take them all?”

Iome fought her horse as the mastiff growled and snarled, barking at its feet. The gap-toothed man holding her reins didn’t let go, even when Iome reached down and drew the dagger from her boot. With her endowments, she could have gutted him like a fish, but she held back.

“You couldn’t handle either the woman or my horse,” Grimeson replied, “but you can have some gold, for ‘Much wealth is surely a curse.’ ” He pulled out his purse and tossed it to the scoundrel. Iome stifled a cry of outrage.

The scoundrel aimed his cudgel at one of his dogs and sent it yapping into the shadows, then began to laugh deeply.

“Grimeson,” he said, “what are ya doing down here among the galley rats? Surely ya can find men of lesser character to hobnob with? Or has Gaborn finally decided to arrest me?”

“It’s not men of character I’m looking for tonight,” Grimeson said easily. “For if I did, I wouldna be down here with you.”

As he spoke, a door opened in a nearby shanty. A trio of curious children dressed in rags peeked out to see the cause of the commotion.

The rogue hefted Grimeson’s purse curiously, then tossed it back to him. “How can I do for you?”

Grimeson threw the purse back, and the villain’s eyes went wide. “The king is in need of some dog flesh. And he says that Abel Scarby always knows where to find the best pit dogs in the city.”

Abel grinned broadly. “Fighting dogs, is it? Mastiffs? Bulls?”

“No, a peculiar breed,” Iome said. “Yellow dogs, and small, but known to take a liking to man quickly, and have certain other valuable assets. Some lords would take exception to such animals, but perhaps you know of them?”

Abel Scarby peered up at her. Iome had her hood pulled up to hide her face, but he could not fail to notice the quality of her mount, or of her clothes. She could tell that he was used to dealing with rogues, for he did not ask her name.

Abel spat on the cobblestones. “Na a popular sporting dog, but they can be had. And pound for pound, there’s na a more vicious dog in the pits. I remember one unlikely bitch—as treacherous as a sack of weasels—”

“Can you get some dogs?” Iome asked. “Tonight? Now? They’re not for me. They’re for the king. We’ll want thirty at least, more if you can find them.”

Abel said, “I’ll have ‘em for ya by sunrise.”

Iome bit her lip. “One more thing. The men who sell the dogs must take endowments of scent, and vector them to the king’s agent. I will pay well for this service.”

Abel Scarby swallowed hard and suddenly realized whom he was talking to. He bowed to one knee. He growled at the fellow who held Iome’s reins, “Kador, take your paws off the queen’s horse.”

Kador backed away and raised his hands, as if to ward off a blow.

“Excuse us, Your Highness,” Abel said. “We’re hard men, used to guarding our own backs. We keep the law in this alley. We meant no offense.”

“None was taken,” Iome said. “Any friend of Gaborn’s is a friend of mine.”

Abel stared up at her with solemn eyes and a troubled expression. “Is’t true, Your Highness? Gaborn is really the Earth King?”

“It is.”

“An’...dark times are ’pon us?”

Iome nodded.

Abel tossed the purse up to her and said loudly, “Yer Highness, I’ll want na coin.” He rested the knob of his cudgel on the ground in parody of a lord offering his sword, and his bright eyes shone with a mixture of hope and fear of rejection as he explained. “Milady, I’m na a fancy-pantser. Ya won’t find me wearing silk hose on feast days, and if ya ventured into my hovel, ya’d find it smelly as a bear’s den, and na a chair at the table clean enough for the likes of you to sit at. But my heart is as right and proud as any lord’s who ever bent a knee to ya. I’m na a knight, but I’ve got as much gristle in me as any animal what ever lived. An’ I’ve seventeen sons and daughters to my credit. So, I’m beggin’ you to ask the king—him what’s called me a friend—to Choose me an’ me kids.”

The young thugs around Iome all looked up at her expectantly, like dogs begging for scraps at their master’s table. The children in the doorway, wearing grime instead of cloaks and rags instead of clothes, timidly stepped out and crept to their father’s side. He threw his arms around the young ones. Iome hesitated.