Maggie Furey - Harp of Winds

The merchant was a kindly man, despite his awesome reputation, and having been poor himself, he was always keen to help his people get on in the world. He had gone with Jarvas and Harkas to inspect their bequest—and it was well that he had, When Jarvas looked at the abandoned buildings on the charred waste ground, saw the soot-stained walls, the patched, leaking roofs, and the gaping windows like the empty eyes of a corpse, his heart had plummeted. His uncle had not been rich, that was certain—these derelict shells were worthless! Harkas had cursed bitterly, but Vannor had said nothing—simply walked over to the fuelling mill and looked inside, crunching through fallen rubble and moving aside bits of broken beam, his forehead furrowed in thought.

Jarvas smiled at the memory of the great merchant, as he spoke the words that changed the lives of two young men.

“Good, solid stonework—this won’t fall down in a hurry! Beams need replacing—you’ve woodworm there—but what a building! See the thickness of these walls and the sturdy structure—and the warehouses are just the same, I’ll be bound, Lads, it may not look like much now, but I would say you’ve been lucky!” He grinned at Jarvas, whose eyes were round with astonishment,

Harkas, the elder of the brothers, was unimpressed, “What do you mean, sir? How can these old heaps be of any possible use to anyone?” he grumbled.

The twinkle vanished from Vannor’s eyes, and he gave Harkas a very straight look. “Think it through, Harkas. I may be on the Council of Three, but I’m giving away no secrets if I say that this city is going from bad to worse. The drought, and the famine and riots that followed it, should be a lesson to us all. With this place”—he patted the soot-smeared stone—“you’d be safe from anything. Lads, with a bit of hard work you could turn these buildings into a fortress! And burning was the best thing that could happen to this bit of ground. Look! Already it’s starting to bear!” He pointed at the seedling grasses and patches of weed that had been quickened by the recent torrential rain.

“You could fence the land and build a stockade. The Gods know, there’s enough stone lying around from the hovels that were burned, and timber aplenty in the warehouses—those beams will need replacing anyway, so you might as well find a use for the wood! The fuelling mill has a water-supply—water piped straight from the river—and with a bit of work, those old dye vats could be turned into pigsties! With the vegetables you can grow, and some chickens—”

“Just a minute, sir!” Harkas interrupted, “You want us to become farmers? In the middle of the bloody city?!”

“Why not?” Vannor s eyes were dancing. “Do you know how I made my fortune? With vision! I dared to think differently from my fellows, to do things that got me accused of insanity by my family and friends—but, by all the Gods, it worked! Vision, that’s what you need, lads. Imagination!”

“And money!” Harkas snorted, before Jarvas could stop him.

Vannor had grinned, then. “Don’t worry about the money, Harkas—I’ll see you have enough to get started,”

The merchant turned to Jarvas, and clouted him on the shoulder. “You impressed me, lad, while you were working for me, and while it pains me to lose a good foreman, you deserve to make something of your life. Besides, I’m intrigued by the possibilities of this place. Call it an indefinite loan . . .” His face grew thoughtful. “With one condition. This place is too big for you, even with your families—don’t look like that, Jarvas; you’ll find someone someday—and putting it right is more than you can manage on your own.”

Vannor looked at the brothers. “Have you seen how the poor suffer in this city? And their only recourse, if they sink too low, is bonding!” He scowled. “It seems I can’t put an end to it—but maybe there’s a way around it! If the poor had somewhere to go, where they could be safe and supported, until they worked out some kind of a future ...”

Jarvas had leapt on the idea. “Yes, by all the Gods! They could help us grow things, and get the place straight—and do odd jobs in the city so we can buy what we can’t grow ... In those warehouses, there’d be space for dozens of families! Vannor, it’s perfect!”

The pragmatic Harkas had taken more persuading, but eventually, Vannor’s dream had taken shape. The brothers’ seemingly useless bequest had been turned into a fortress, secure, inviolate—a self-contained smallholding within the city walls, with food and shelter, and the promise of a future, A place where there was a welcome for the lost, the homeless, the destitute and the desperate . . .

Jarvas felt his throat tighten with grief. Of the three men who had set that dream in motion, he was the only one left. Vannor had vanished on the Night of the Wraiths-—only to turn up, quite unexpectedly, leading the rebels who were sworn to end the rule of the evil Archmage. Jarvas and his brother had helped as they could with food and such, until the rebel base in the sewers had been attacked by Miathan’s mercenaries, who had replaced the City Guard, Angos, their captain, claimed that the rebels had been wiped out to a man. Certainly their base was gutted and empty—Jarvas had checked.

Following the shock of Varmor’s loss, Harkas had been taken—one of the mysterious “disappearances” that were striking terror into the hearts of the citizens of Nexis. He had been on one of his usual nightly errands, collecting spoiled food, an increasingly scarce commodity in the city nowadays, for his beloved pigs. He had never returned. Those who vanished were taken to the Academy—that much was known—but it was wise not to ask too many questions, Those who had tried, had vanished in their turn.

Thanks to the Mageborn, two good men were lost forever, and only the grieving Jarvas had been left to carry on their work—and how long would it be before the hand of the Archmage stretched out to him? In the meantime, the Dog was one of his recruiting places—as good a one as any. That was why he came here, night after night, to welcome the needy into his own special kingdom.

The Drunken Dog was not the sort of place that Hargorn would normally have chosen—to drink in a rathole like the Dog was simply asking for trouble—but the swordsman was past the point of caring. He’d been working his way down through the town, stopping at every tavern, to pick up information for the rebels on what was happening in the city—and, more importantly, any word that might lead him to Vannor or his missing daughter. Now he was running short of options—and, more importantly, silver with which to pay his way. Vannor’s meager supply of coin had not lasted long. At least this festering cesspit ought to be cheap, the veteran thought, as he stepped inside. The fire and a scattering of feeble rushlights afforded the only illumination, but the fetid gloom of the taproom was a blessing in a way, for shadows hid the unwashed tankards, the cobwebs that festooned the low rafters, the splintered tables, the stained and knife-scarred walls. The smoky dimness also drew a merciful veil over the drinkers—for this was the roughest alehouse on the quayside, and its customers were rougher still.

In the absolute silence that followed his entrance, Hargorn glowered fiercely around at the occupants of the crowded taproom, and fingered the hilt of his sword in what he hoped was a threatening manner. It was usually the best way to forestall any trouble, and as he had expected, the talk started up again very quickly, as everyone suddenly rediscovered an interest in whatever they had been doing.

The soldier suppressed a smile. It never failed, he thought. Why buy trouble? He knew these folk—he’d met their like in every town he had ever seen in his wanderings. They were the scum of the city—dock-hands, porters, and scavengers; beggars, pilferers, and pickpockets; faded, aging whores both male and female. Their squalid lives left them few expectations: the Dog was warmer than the quayside; it was marginally safer than the narrow, unlit alleys where a man’s life was worth a copper or two, and a woman’s virtue, nothing at all. The sour, watered ale was cheap, and the homemade grog—foul-tasting, but with a kick like liquid fire, as Hargorn soon discovered—was cheaper still What more can they ask for? the warrior thought bitterly. What more could anyone want?