Dawn of the Dreamsmith (The Raven's Tale Book 1) (52 page)

Emmett looked startled at the ferocity of her words, but then nodded to show that he understood. “I believe you.” He cast a glance behind, at the other assembled villagers. “We’ll wait here then for a time. A week, mayhap two. Then, when your friend is able we’ll head to the road and make for Dusk. It is not too far, and the Legion should be able to escort us the rest of the way.”

“You’ll need to pay the toll.” Raven reached inside her pack, which Cole had recovered from the manor house. It still contained all her clothes, provisions and equipment. Even her weapons. She removed a small cloth pouch, and tossed it to the older man. It jingled when he caught it. “That should serve.”

With no further word to their former guide, or any of the villagers, she shouldered the pack and left them standing in the snow. Even now it entirely covered the degradation of the village, hiding it from sight. It looked almost peaceful.

She strode through the village to the south and into the forest beyond. Cole hurried after her, weighed down by his own pack. “Don’t you want to say goodbye to Harri?” he asked when he finally caught up.

Raven stared off into the trees, gathering her bearings. The field of white in front of her made it even harder than before to navigate. However, above the naked grey branches of the Spiritwood, every so often the iron clouds in front of them parted to reveal the rocky peaks behind. The Dragon’s Back. It would not be too far now. A day, perhaps, and then they would be able to leave this cursed forest behind them. “Harri is sleeping, and I have said goodbye to him twice already today,” she said finally, before striding off again through the forest. “There is nothing left for me to say.”

Less than a mile later, they heard the snow scrunching behind them as something raced to meet them. Raven whirled, brandishing her blade. What new evil of the Spiritwood approached them? However, when she looked back, there was nothing visible among the trees.

“Pick us up, woodja?” growled an abrasive voice from the snow around her ankles. “It’s faggin’ freezin’ down ‘ere.”

Raven sighed, as Cole grinned. “Grume, you found us,” he cried, bending down to retrieve the shivering creature. For some reason, he had kept the leather pouch despite the boggit’s betrayal, and he now slipped it inside where it snuggled down happily.

“Right then,” said Grume. “Are we gunna see some bladdy mountains then, or wot?”

CHAPTER 22

I
t was often said of the merchants’ quarter of Ehrenburg that anything that could be imagined, no matter how exotic or unusual, could be found somewhere within its bright, well-kept avenues. While this was a myth that the merchants themselves did little to dispel, carrying, as it did, a constant stream of eager shoppers right to their doorsteps, it was not a great exaggeration.

All year round, three of the capital city’s four fortified gates admitted ox-drawn carts from around the Empire, piled high with goods that could command higher prices there than anywhere else. Carts heaving with foodstuffs – grain, cheeses, honey, fruits and vegetables – tuns of ales and meads, wines both as dark as ink and as light as the sun and every shade in between. Carts overflowing with bolts of wool, furs and linens, piled high with precious metals and lumber. As well as carts, drovers regularly brought their livestock to the streets of the capital; pigs, sheep, cattle, geese and other beasts whose meat would shortly be found not only on the menus of Ehrenburg’s inns and hostelries, but also within the dining rooms of the wealthy and influential.

The city was a vortex, drawing in everything from the surrounding lands and even further afield. While industry and commerce existed in every town, for those able or willing to make the journey to the capital the benefits far outweighed any dangers. It was not for nothing that it was said the streets of Ehrenburg ran with gold.

But the influence of the city spread out even further than the most distant reaches of the Empire. The fourth great gate of Ehrenburg was opened to its port that, rain or shine, was crowded with ships all of different sizes and designs. Heavy, dark Tenebrian galleys, dozens of long oars jutting from their sides, jostled for harbour space alongside colourful Xanshi windrunners, their hulls covered with elaborate carvings and their sails oddly angular. Among these were bulky Calladorian hulks and smaller cogs, that bobbed on the water among their larger cousins like cygnets paddling in their mother’s wake. These ships disgorged goods and produce unavailable anywhere else in the Empire – fine silks, exotic gemstones and heady spices from the distant east, dark, heavy woods, vivid dyes, and aromatic foodstuffs from the mysterious lands to the south that set the palate on fire. These and more besides all found their way to Ehrenburg’s shops and markets, to be discovered, bartered for and bought for extravagant sums.

But if it was not too much of an exaggeration to say that everything a heart could desire could be purchased from the merchants’ quarter, it was equally true that in the artisans’ quarter nearby almost anything could be crafted.

It was here that the stores and boutiques, their frontages lavishly decorated so as to entice shoppers inside, gave way to plain-looking workshops that belched steam and smoke at all hours of the day or night. Places where skilled craftsmen sawed and hammered and wove and stitched the finely worked items that would later find their way into merchants’ windows. Smiths rubbed shoulders with carpenters, masons, bakers, butchers, tailors, furriers, glass-blowers, chandlers, tanners and leatherworkers. There wasn’t a trade in the known world that wasn’t represented somewhere in the artisans’ quarter, and not a raw material brought in from outside that didn’t find a use somewhere within its maze of tight, cobbled streets.

For those in the know, it was also a place where bargains could be found. Most of the goods crafted in the quarter were purchased by the merchants, who would double the price when selling to the public. Much of the rest was commissioned directly by members of noble houses and wealthy city burghers. But sometimes the works did not live up to the exacting specifications of the merchants and customers, often those created by apprentices still learning their trades. These flawed pieces could be found heaped up on perfunctory displays outside the workshops, on sale for little more than the cost of the materials used to produce them.

It was along these streets that two young girls with chestnut hair skipped in a state of high excitement, pawing through the workshop displays with ever-widening eyes. Behind them trailed their governess; a middle-aged woman wearing an austere blue dress and a put-upon expression. It had been her idea to come to the artisans’ quarter and find something to spend her young charges’ allowances on, an idea she had long since come to regret.

“Rose! Milly! Put those down, for goodness sake,” she called. “No, I don’t think your mother would want a stuffed fox. I don’t care if it’s smiling. Oh, do be careful!” She tutted as the girls scampered away from the display they had been browsing and ran towards another. The young Legionnaire who had been assigned as their bodyguard for the morning smirked but said nothing.

Really! For an hour she had been dragged around the narrow streets, desperately trying to keep sight of the girls, who bounced along through throngs of workmen and traders without a care in the world. Milly, the eldest, was the ring-leader, leading the charge between every display that caught her eye. Little Rose, who had seen just five summers, trailed cheerily behind her sister like the tail of a comet. Milly was on the lookout for “something sparkly”, she claimed, while sweet little Rose wanted to buy a present for their mother. Unfortunately, her tastes were likely to be a little on the macabre side for Lady Ellara. She had already ruled against purchasing a veritable menagerie of stuffed animals, a funerary urn – which she had to admit had been painted very attractively – and a small blacksteel morning-star to which Rose had taken a shine. Mistress Marie would never say it to his face, but she was beginning to suspect the younger child took after her father more than his elegant wife.

She turned a corner, and saw that they had now descended upon a collection of gold and silver oddments on display outside a jeweller’s workshop. The look on their faces as they picked through the selection of rings, necklaces and brooches brought to mind of a pair of magpies. Still, at least here they may both find something to satisfy each of their goals.

“Marie! Marie! Look at this!” Rose stood on tiptoes to lift a ring from the display. It was a plain gold band with a large ruby set in the middle. “I think momma would like this.”

“It’s very pretty, Rose dear. Will she like the colour, do you think?”

“Yes! It’s red. Like blood,” the girl said, with obvious relish.

Marie began to feel one of her headaches coming on.

It was Milly who proved to be her unexpected saviour. The older girl finished riffling through the jewellery, evidently finding nothing that pleased her. She looked up, and squinted along an alley that opened up on the opposite side of the street. Then she smiled and pointed. “Look Marie, it’s Uncle Jarrod.”

The governess followed the direction of Milly’s outstretched hand, and saw that she was correct. The emperor’s youngest son was lounging at a rough wooden table that had been set up outside a rough-looking alehouse. The sound of drunken revelry and raised voices could be heard coming from within. Jarrod sat alone, a flagon at his elbow upon the tabletop. It was unmistakably him; his dark-blonde hair slicked back in its customary style, and his black doublet slashed with red velvet was among his regular attire. A moment later he glanced up and smiled in recognition.

“Well, well, if it isn’t my lovely nieces and their even lovelier governess,” he said, rising from his table to approach them. A burly guardsman, wearing the imperial sigil, emerged from the shadow he had been standing in discreetly to follow after the prince. Jarrod took Marie’s hand, and kissed it lightly with a bow. “Fancy running into you ladies in this insalubrious locale.”

“I could have said the same to you, Highness,” Marie said primly.

“Touché!” Jarrod exclaimed, grinning broadly. “Never let it be said that I am unwilling to rub shoulders with the common man. Besides,” he added, leaning closer and whispering conspiratorially, “the ale here is far finer than the overpriced, gassy piss they serve along the Golden Mile.”

The girls, hearing this exchange, giggled at their uncle’s profanity. He winked, and knelt down so that he was eye-to-eye with them. “So, what brings you to the artisans’ quarter?”

“We’re spending our dress money, uncle.” Milly held out a hand. On her palm sat two golden coins. “Marie thought we could get something better for less by coming here.”

Jarrod took the coins, and held them up to the light. “Tsk. Just like my brother,” he said sadly. “I swear there are coins in his purse that were minted before Fat Fredi’s time, that still have yet to see the light of day.” He placed them back in the girl’s hand. “It was very wise of Mistress Marie, to tell the truth, although you’d be hard pressed to make that gold stretch very far even here.”

The smiles on the girls’ faces faded. “Oh,” said Milly, downcast. “I’d hoped to find something beautiful to buy.”

“Come now, ladies, don’t be downhearted.” Jarrod stood up straight and clapped his hands. “Why would you need to spend your hard-won gold, when you can have what you want for free.”

“Highness! Surely you cannot be suggesting thievery to Prince Adelmar’s daughters!” She was aghast at the very notion.

“Stealing?” Jarrod laughed. “Why would you steal what is freely given?”

“What do you mean, uncle?” Rose asked in a tiny voice.

“Simply this,” Jarrod replied. “Today, in the cathedral square, is a singer who is giving away beautiful pendants five – no! –
ten
times prettier than any you would find outside these ratty old workshops.”

“Highness, I’m not sure that-”

“A singer!” Milly cried over her governess’ objections. “Is he good, uncle? Oh, please tell me that he’s good.”

“Good, no.” Jarrod grinned wickedly at her disappointed expression. “Sensational, is the word I’ve heard others use to describe him. Astonishing, even.” Milly was smiling again, amused by her uncle’s jest. “Why, they say his voice is the sweetest you will hear anywhere in the realm. If you hurry, he may even still be there.”

“Quick!” Both Milly and Rose began to tug at Marie’s arms. They threw hasty goodbyes over their shoulders towards their uncle as they raced along the cobblestones. Jarrod stood waving as they left, a smile still upon his lips.

When they reached the wide open square that stood before Ehrenburg’s grand cathedral, it did not take them long to find the singer. It was not unusual for minstrels and street performers to set up in the circular plaza, though if any had done so on this day they had already given up and left in the face of the competition. A massive crowd had gathered along one side and, as they approached, there was a smattering of applause.

Quickly, though, a hush fell over the crowd, and Mistress Marie heard the sound of strings being plucked. The girls dragged her to the edge of the throng, just as a lilting melody filled the air. The sisters jumped up and down excitedly. “Who is it, Marie? Can you see?”

She stood on tiptoes, but even in shoes she was shorter than most and could not see past the heads and shoulders in front. “I’m afraid I can’t, dear-heart,” she replied.

Just then, one of the men standing closest turned to face them, and broke into a smile. It was one of the craftsmen whose store they had visited that morning. “Why if it isn’t the young princesses,” he said amiably, looking down at the girls. “You’ve come to see the lad as well, have you?”

“We wanted to,” said Milly sadly, “but all we can see are people’s backs.”

The craftsman turned back to the crowd, and nodded. “We’ll see what we can do about that,” he said. He then began shoving his way between the other spectators. “Make way for the princesses,” he said roughly, as people turned to complain. “Make room for Adelmar’s girls.”

“Please, that really isn’t necessary-” Marie began, before Milly and Rose ducked into the space the craftsman was opening in the crowd. Marie uttered embarrassed apologies as she followed their retreating backs.

A few moments later, they found themselves at the front of the crowd and she thanked the craftsman, who smiled and took up a protective position behind them. In front of them, a young man sat upon a small wooden stool, facing the crowd. He was dressed in the simple brown robes of the Order of Enlightenment, which was confirmed by the green stone pendant around his neck.

The young man’s fingers danced across the strings of the harp on his lap, which had a striking silver frame. He smiled when he saw them. Then, he began to sing. His voice was high and as lilting as the melody he plucked upon the harp. Like a gentle, rolling wave the music washed over her. Later, she would not be able to recall the words of the song he sang, only the feelings the music stirred within her. At first the music was sad, hauntingly so. It was a song of loss, of grieving for the past. She thought of the home she had left as a girl, never to see again, of the husband who had died on a battlefield far to the north. Unbidden, tears welled in her eyes. Gradually, the tone of the song shifted. It began to uplift her, raise her hopes for better days to come. The singer’s voice plucked at the strings of her spirit as easily as his fingertips danced across those of his instrument. She felt her cares and worries melt away.

The sound of clapping broke the spell, and she came back to herself. Once again she was standing before the cathedral, a hand resting lightly on the shoulder of each of her young charges. She glanced around at the crowd, and saw other faces as rapt as she. The singer and his harp had fallen silent, and she realised she didn’t know exactly when the song had finished.