Rob Scott - Lessek_s Key

‘If we ever get through this, I promise I’ll go with you for a cup.’ Gilmour forced a smile and rubbed his neck bruises absently.

‘Speaking of which,’ Steven changed the subject, ‘we’re about a Twinmoon early to meet Gita and the rest of the Eastern Resistance – when we made plans to meet in Traver’s Notch, we thought you were dead. We figured we might need them to get us across the border.’

‘Had I been dead, you would have needed them,’ Gilmour said. ‘But given our current situation, it’s just as well that she is rallying the remainder of the Falkan forces here, for if we do succeed in vanquishing Nerak, we’ll need a fighting force – however ramshackle they may be – to help with any pockets of occupation personnel who make the decision to stand fast.’

‘I think they would relish that assignment,’ Mark agreed. ‘So how do we get across the border?’

‘Magic, or if we don’t want to be noisy, we creep in after dark, between the pickets,’ Gilmour said. ‘It’ll be the only way – unless you fancy fighting your way through Malakasian soldiers whose sole purpose is to keep me – and Kantu, I suppose – from re-entering Gorsk.’

‘No, that’s fine,’ Mark said quickly, ‘I’m quite happy with door number two.’

Traver’s Notch was a small village nestled between hills in a ridge running east to west along the Falkan-Gorsk border, south of the Twinmoon Mountains. The only road into town led between the hills through a miniature pass that ran up the draw and then down a series of gentle switchbacks until it reached the main town on the valley floor. It wasn’t hidden – several homes and what looked like shops were clearly visible on the slopes above the city – but flanked to the north as it was by deeper valleys and steep foothills, Traver’s Notch was well protected and easily defensible from any force, either approaching over the mountains or along the Falkan plain. It looked like it was engaged in a daily battle to keep from being swallowed entirely by the mixed hardwood and evergreen forests that spilled over from Gorsk.

As they crested the final hill, Traver’s Notch spread out before them. Steven guessed the valley was over a mile wild and perhaps half a mile across, with most of the buildings tucked neatly into the great natural bowl. A narrow river ran through the middle of the valley, and the centre of town, spanned here and there by bridges. Along the river were a handful of large stone buildings, colourful standards waving in the midday breeze.

Steven had no idea what they represented, but he gestured in their direction. ‘That looks like as good a place as any to start looking for the inn.’

‘What good will that do us?’ Garec asked. ‘I can’t imagine Gita managed to get the passwords up here already.’

‘You’re probably right,’ Steven agreed, ‘but let’s see if we can find the place, figure out which innkeeper she meant – and make certain we all know the code.’

‘Some maths thing, right?’

‘Why am I not surprised?’ Mark rolled his eyes.

‘Hey,’ Steven said, ‘be grateful! If it hadn’t been for my maths obsession, we never would have made it this far.’

‘Oh yes, I forgot,’ Mark said. ‘Malagon’s safe-deposit box, right? Your telephones and calculators problem?’

‘Yup,’ Steven answered proudly. ‘Jeff Simmons will never believe it.’

‘I have to admit, I was impressed,’ Gilmour said. ‘It was one of the more harrowing moments of my life – and we’ve already determined that I’m older than most civilisations.’

‘It’s not that bad, Gilmour,’ Mark said, ‘there are plenty of civilisations far older than you.’

The others laughed. They found a barn where they paid to stable their horses for a few nights, then crossed a sturdy wooden bridge into the main part of town. At the far end of the span, a merchant was selling pelts, flagons of warm tecan and blocks of cheese from a cart. He was a short, thin man, and grimy. His gloves, cloak and leggings were in tatters; on his head, he wore a scarf of some sort, badly made from the hide of an unrecognisable animal. Steven glanced at it furtively, afraid it might raise its head and snarl at him, but he nodded affably to the fellow as they moved past the impromptu store. His cart was not much more than a slatted wagon with a pair of boards nailed to each corner creating space for hanging pelts. The tecan smelled good, but with the lingering aroma of freshly brewed coffee on his mind, Steven ignored the temptation.

‘Wine, sire?’ the merchant asked. His voice was gravel underfoot. ‘Or maybe some cheese, sire?’

‘No, thank you,’ Steven said.

‘A splash of tecan then, sire?’ As the filthy man stepped out from behind his cart, Steven was able to see just how pitiable he was. One leg dragged, and he shuffled along in an ungainly creep that made Steven think of every war B-movie he had ever seen, and every character actor who had ever dragged his broken form up the Normandy beaches for entertainment’s sake.

‘No. Thank you again,’ Steven insisted, moving away more quickly.

‘Right, then, sire,’ the crippled salesman persisted, ‘maybe I’ll carry your bag then, sire? Maybe carry it for you? What do you think, sire? Maybe for a copper Marek or two?’

‘All right, look,’ Steven turned with a frustrated shrug, his hands raised in surrender. ‘I will give you a copper coin if you will go back to your cart and leave us in peace. Agreed?’

‘Sorry, sire. I can’t take it if I don’t do something, sire… something, sire. You need something carried, sire? Your bags? Maybe I’ll see to the horses, sire? They tethered across the bridge, sire?’

‘Yes,’ Steven gave up. ‘Our horses are tethered across the bridge, but I have already paid for them to be well cared for. You wish to carry my bags, but you’ve left your stand. Aren’t you worried someone will come along and steal your goods?’

‘No, sire, oh no,’ the man answered. ‘I’m well known here. This is my bridge, sire. Everyone knows me here.’

‘I see.’ Steven looked to the others, his eyes begging for help. ‘Anyone have any ideas?’

‘Go ahead, Steven,’ Mark encouraged. ‘Let him carry the saddlebag. You’re going to give him a couple of those kopeks, anyway. Let him haul the stuff.’

‘He’s dragging his leg,’ Steven said as if only he had noticed.

‘He has made that fairly obvious,’ Mark answered, ‘but he doesn’t seem bothered by it. Go ahead. And if he runs, I’m sure we can catch him. He’s not going to be competing for any international records in the hundred metre sprint, let’s face it.’

Steven hesitated a moment longer, then handed over the saddlebag. ‘Here you go, but if you run off, I’m going to break your neck. Do you understand me?’

‘Of course, sire. I’ll not run off, sire. Where are you going, sire? Maybe I know the way.’

Steven was irritated by the way the little man ended each phrase with sire – it got under his skin. Steven regretted giving up his bag.

‘And the stick, sire?’ The intrepid salesman gestured towards the hickory staff.

‘No. I’ll carry the stick, my friend.’

‘Very well, sire. Very well.’ He scratched at his chin for a moment, turned to the others and asked, ‘Any bags, you sires?’

‘No,’ Garec answered for the rest of the company, ‘we’re doing just fine on our own.’

‘Very well, sires. Very well. Where are you going?’

Steven answered, ‘We’re looking for an inn.’

‘Which one, sire? There are many here in the Notch, sire, many.’

‘I’m not sure of the name, but it’s got a yellow and red standard, a sign depicting a bowman at the hunt. Do you know it?’ Steven flexed the fingers of his right hand into a fist several times, as if working out a cramp; something was bothering him.