Maggie Furey - Harp of Winds

“I don’t think so,” Yanis demurred. “After the Archmage took control, I pulled my agents out of there. It was just too bloody dangerous to risk good men. Mark you,” he added, “I’ve been having second thoughts lately. This winter-in-summer and the storms at sea have almost put an end to trade, and we’re just about at the end of our resources. We’ll have to do something soon.”

“That bad, eh?” Fional said sympathetically. “You know, if you run short, you could always send a messenger to Dulsina in the Valley. We’ve enough and to spare.”

Remana shook her head. “I don’t understand. You’ve told us that the winter seems not to extend to the Valley—but how can that be?”

“Dulsina thinks we’re being protected somehow—by the Lady Eilin, presumably’ Fional replied with a shrug, “but we can’t work out why she won’t show herself. According to Vannor, Aurian always said her mother was a very solitary sort, but all the same, it seems strange to me.”

“Well, whatever the reason, I’m glad it’s so,” Remana said, “but this brings us no closer to helping Vannor and Zanna.”

A frown crossed her broad face. “I feel so responsible! If only I had kept a closer eye on the wretched girl—”

Yanis reached out to lay a comforting hand on her arm. “Don’t go blaming yourself, Mam. It was my fault that Zanna left, and we all know it. If only I had agreed to her schemes for using our ships to help Vannor, instead of listening to Gevan, and Idris here . . .” He scowled at the old captain, “The least we can do now is help find her—and that is not a matter open to debate.” He paused, and looked round at the assembled faces. “The question is: without our agents in Nexis, how do we go about it?”

Idris still looked unhappy. “Very well. If we must, we must—if only so we don’t lose the partnership with Vannor that has served us so well. But is there no way of managing it without putting our own folk in danger?”

Yanis shook his head. “I don’t see how—”

“I know!” Remana, who had been deep in thought, suddenly interrupted him. “We need a contact who is already in Nexis, and I know the very man—your father’s old friend Jarvas, who runs a refuge for the poor folk of the city.” She looked at all of them, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “His place is right down by the river, so we can sneak in easily, after dark, and—•”

“Now just hold on there!” Yanis shouted. “What do you mean, we? If you think I’m taking you into the dangers of bloody Nexis, you’d better think again!”

Remana smiled sweetly. “But Yanis—Jarvas doesn’t know you. He would never trust a stranger, especially with things the way they are now.” Her eyes twinkled mischievously. “He does, however, know me . . .”

Across the table, Fional was grinning. “Did you know, Remana, that you’re just like your sister?”

Yanis put his face into his hands, and groaned.

The journey through the slushy alleys was swift and furtive. Even with Jarvas taking the stranger’s weight—Tilda had done little more than carry his sword and bedroll, retrieved from the wrecked taproom, and keep his cloak from trailing in the muck—the whore had difficulty keeping up with the swift pace that the big man set. By the Gods, she would be glad when they reached safe haven! The shock of her folly in the tavern was beginning to hit her now. “What have I done?” she moaned to herself. “Why did I do it?” Some of the guards had only been wounded, but some were certainly dead—and once Pendral circulated her description, and that of Jarvas, they couldn’t expect to elude arrest for long.

Tilda cursed under her breath. Being a streetwalker wasn’t much of a life, but it was better than being a fugitive! In the last hour, her life had fallen apart. Her face set in grim and bitter lines, she trudged behind Jarvas through the labyrinth of alleys that led to his home.

The sturdy fence of the stockade towered above Tilda’s head, and in spite of her growing dismay, she could not help but be impressed. She had never been here before—she could look after herself, thank you, and took pride in doing so—but of course she had heard of the place. Jarvas and his good deeds! she thought. And where has it got him? When they reached the heavy gate, the big man whistled a complicated trill, and there was a hollow scraping sound as heavy wooden bars were lifted out of their sockets on the other side. The gate swung open to a blaze of haloed torchlight that made Tilda’s eyes water, as a cloaked and hooded figure materialized out of the fog.

“You’re back early!” Then the woman’s voice faltered at the sight of Jarvas’s burden. “Dear Gods, what’s happened?” Tilda saw her small, shrouded figure straighten as she collected herself. “I’ll fetch Benziorn at once,” she said briskly, and turned to go.

“Good lass,” Jarvas yelled after her. “Tell him there’s a wound needs stitching.”

“All right.” The woman vanished into the swirling fog.

Jarvas carried the wounded stranger into the nearer of the warehouses. Tilda, following, gasped as she slipped through the narrow gap in the massive door. The fog made it difficult to gauge the building’s size from the outside, but inside, the ground floor was an echoing vault, with shadows dancing on its walls from the torches attached to the eight supporting stone columns that marched, two by two, down the length of the hall. Tilda’s first impression was one of warmth and light. Lamps and candles burned on ledges and niches in the rough walls of lime-washed stone, and campfires burned at intervals down both sides of the spacious chamber. Woodsmoke rose in sluggish whirls, filling the room with a choking haze that stung Tilda’s eyes and stabbed at her throat, setting off her cough again. She caught a brief impression of people crowding around and a buzz of questioning voices, but her eyes were watering so hard that it was impossible to see clearly through the smoky haze.

“Out of the way—I’ve an injured man here!” Jarvas roared. “May the Gods have mercy! Which lackwit closed the windows? Hey, you there!” He caught the eye of a skinny, smudge-faced urchin who came pelting through the haze of smoke. “Lad, can you climb?”

“ ’Course I can!” The scruffy brat nodded enthusiastically.

“Good. Over by the wall you’ll find a ladder. Climb up to one of the high windows and open the shutters—and when you’ve done that, do the same with the window opposite. A good cross-draft will clear this smoke in no time!”

“All right, Jarvas!” The child raced off, calling for his friends to help him.

“And don’t go mucking about with that ladder!.” Jarvas turned to the whore with a rueful grin. “I’m wasting my breath, telling that to a lad his age!. Are you all right?”

“Smoke!” Tilda managed to wheeze.

“Sorry about that—we’ll soon get it cleared . . . Somebody boil some water—and scrounge up some clean rags from somewhere!” he bellowed to the room at large.

Jarvas went to the far end of the room, with Tilda clutching blindly at his cloak-hem, and set the wounded man down on a pallet near one of the fires, “Benziorn had better hurry,” he muttered, as Tilda covered the injured stranger with a blanket. “He’s losing a lot of blood,”

Tilda heard the squeak and thump of the ladder going up, and shrill squabbling in childish voices. Their cursing didn’t bother her—she had grown up with such coarseness on the streets. After a few minutes her throat was soothed by welcome fresh air. The smoke was clearing, but the windows were so high—about the height of three tall men—that they kept the worst of the cold from getting into the room,

“All right—what have I got to patch up this time?” The voice was deep and smooth as velvet, but the tone was querulous, and ragged with fatigue, “Some idiot victim of yet another drunken brawl?”