Gail Martin - The summoner

"We don't have enough money to hire a guide," Soterius argued, cinching the belts on his saddle and arranging his steed's bridle.

"That's true," Harrtuck mused, and looked at Tris. "Could we promise payment once we reach Dhasson?"

Tris thought for a moment, and then nodded. "Unless we hire a whole army, that's a small favor to ask. But where do we find a guide? And how do we know he won't sell us out for the bounty?"

Harrtuck smiled as he swung up into his saddle. "If we can find the man I'm thinking of, he won't. I've fought beside him. He's no traitor. Damn good guide, too, if he hasn't managed to get himself killed with his business deals."

"Where do we find this miracle worker?" Soterius asked dryly as he settled into his saddle. Harrtuck scratched his head. "Last I heard, Vahanian was doing some trading up near the river. He was running Principality silks and brandy into Nargi."

Soterius looked sideways at the guardsman. "Brandy and silk into Nargi? Their priests take a dim view of drinking and with their women cloistered off, I can't think of much use for silk."

Harrtuck chuckled. "That's the point, m'boy. The priests take a dim view-but it's not shared by many of the 'faithful.' A man can get quite rich giving them what they want, providing the priests don't find out." He clucked his tongue and shook his head. "Of course, if they do, they make an example of you. There aren't many worse ways to die, from what I've heard."

"Nice," Soterius muttered. "Either he's a rich madman, or dead."

"Can't imagine wanting to go to Nargi," Carroway said as he mounted his horse and took a backward glance toward the ruined inn. "Their priests ran the minstrels out years ago. Now there's only the temple bards, and since they're devoted to the Crone, I can't think that there's much that's pleasant to sing about."

"Maybe that's why they need the silks and brandy," Soterius rejoined, pressing his heels to his mount. "Let's get going."

They stayed to the less traveled roads, keeping to the forest whenever possible. With the ending of the Feast days, travel was tapering off as winter grew closer. The weather was turning colder, and Tris was grateful for his heavy cloak. He rode in silence, letting the others keep up the banter around him.

It was all almost too much to take in. An icy resolve settled over Tris as he lifted his head to the wind, still finding it difficult to believe that he was now a fugitive, without king or country, a mark for bounty hunters and hired assassins. Just as humbling was the knowledge that Soterius, Harrtuck and Carroway had left everything to come with him.

Tris had no doubt how Jared would rule. Jared argued on more than one occasion against what he considered Bricen's "weak" kingship. An iron-fisted king, mage spies and the taxes to support a large army, those were the things in which Jared trusted. Goddess help any who got in his way, or the merchants and farmers from whom the taxes must be extracted.

And there was no one who could do anything about it, except him. The thought made his mouth dry. Tris enjoyed his role as the second son, out of the public's eye. He'd had the same lessons in law, history and the rule of kings as Jared did, since eldest sons did not always live to claim their crowns. But for Tris, there was never the pressure that was part of the heir's birthright. He would have been quite content to live out his life on one of his father's country estates, surrounded by his books and his dogs, away from the intrigues of court. Now, that possibility was closed forever. It had died with King Bricen, and Tris found that he mourned that loss as much as he grieved for his family.

A slow, cold rain pelted off his cloak and made traveling miserable. On top of everything else, more questions. What had Kait meant when she said he was both alive and in the realm of the dead? Or that to her spirit eyes, he looked like their grandmother, the sorceress Bava K'aa? Tris shivered. A few possibilities tugged at the back of his mind, half-remembered conversations and dreams too real to forget. But at the moment, he was too miserable to ponder them, and so he let his thoughts wander, settling finally on nothing more important than the sound of hoof beats on the cold, wet road.

When they reached their stopping point for the night, a down-at-the-heels inn, Tris caught Harrtuck's sleeve before the soldier had a chance to unpack his horse.

"I need you to teach me to fight," Tris said lev-elly, meeting Harrtuck's eyes in earnest.

Harrtuck chuckled. "You've studied with Jaquard, my liege-Tris," he corrected himself. "He's as good an armsmaster as any."

"Not out here. Not with what I have to do," he insisted. "Jared almost cut me down in the hallway, drunk and half out of his mind in a rage. That's not good enough if I'm to take back Margolan."

Harrtuck nodded, as if the reality of what lay behind Tris's proposal was becoming clear for the first time. "Aye, you're right," he said finally. "As you wish. Let's get the horses seen to and we'll have a go-round right here. No time like the present to get started."

Later, when Tris could push Soterius and Harrtuck no further for lessons, they went back to the common room for dinner. Sweating and out of breath, the three men were sure they looked as if they'd just come from a wild ride. Carroway was already by the fire, amusing the inn's few other patrons with romantic ballads and tales of heroes from Margolan's past. Although almost unrecognizable with his dyed hair and unfashionable tunic, Carroway's talent still certainly made him the most accomplished bard the inn had seen in quite some time, Tris guessed, gauging by the interest of the serving staff and the innkeeper. The minstrel refrained from his flamboyant sleight-of-hand and was deliberately limiting his repertoire to the older songs any wandering performer might know. Grateful patrons tossed a few coins toward Carroway, which the bard acknowledged graciously.

The innkeeper, a haggard man with stooped shoulders, brought hearty trenchers of venison and leeks to Tris and his companions, together with a large pitcher of ale. The man winced at the crash of breaking pottery in the tavern's kitchen, and shook his head.

"Always happens right about now," he muttered.

"Sounds like you've got a problem with your serving girl," Harrtuck commiserated, downing half of his ale in a gulp.

The beleaguered tavernkeeper sighed. "I wish to the Goddess it were." Overhead, a door slammed and heavy boot steps clunked across the floor. The thin man wiped his hands on his stained apron and scurried back to the kitchen.

Tris shivered, feeling a sudden cold. He looked up, as a familiar prickle started to raise the hair on his neck. Though he saw nothing, he could feel a spirit's presence, an angry ghost flitting just beyond his sight.

"Thin crowd for a cold night," Soterius observed over the rim of his tankard.

"Aye, and it's not the fault of other inns," Harrtuck replied. "Naught else for at least another hour's ride."

"It's not as bad a place as some," Tris mused. "I wonder why-"

The crash overhead made the tavern guests jump. Either several travelers were having a row upstairs, or part of the roof just caved in. Tris glanced toward the innkeeper, but the man merely rolled his eyes in resignation, muttered something to himself and went on with his work, determined to ignore the noise. Out of the corner of his eye, Tris caught a slight movement, like a shadow there and gone.

"Damn!" Harrtuck exclaimed, jumping to his feet to escape the cascade of ale that spilled from his overturned tankard. A serving girl appeared at his side with a cloth, gushing apologies and wiping up the spill. "Never saw my elbow anywhere near the damn thing," Harrtuck mumbled as he daubed the ale from his cloak.