The Iron Ring (7 page)

The Master Defender only smiled. “He likes you!”

 

CHAPTER SIX

MAN VERSUS BEAST

“ . . . F
ive, six, seven. Stop.” Tyvian put an arm out to stop Artus in his tracks.

The boy groaned. “How is this helping us, again?”

Tyvian scowled. “I'm sorry if my attempts to keep us from capture are bothering you. Perhaps you'd like to run and hide in some dark alley somewhere?”

They were standing in the center of a muddy road that paralleled the wide, blue-­black expanse of the Trell River. Around them there was nothing else but the snow-­dusted fields of Galaspin, empty, windy, and cold. Artus gestured at the open countryside. “How is
this
better than hiding? We're the only damned ­people on the road, and it's broad daylight!”

“Are you ready to go another seven paces now? You're slowing us down, and there's a river-­inn ahead about a mile, if I'm not mistaken. I don't know about you, but I am quite hungry.”

Artus threw up his hands. “What is with the seven-­paces-­and-­then-­stop thing? I thought we was in a rush!”

Tyvian began to count out another seven paces as he muttered, “
Were
in a rush. You thought we
were
in a bloody rush.”

Artus stuffed his hands under his armpits to keep them warm and stomped after the smuggler. When Tyvian got to seven paces, though, Artus took an eighth and stuck his tongue out.

“Are you an idiot?” Tyvian snapped.

“I told you no more insults!”

“It wasn't an insult, it was a question.”

Artus snorted. “Why are we walking seven paces at a time, Reldamar? We've been doing it for
hours
and it's driving me nutty!”

Tyvian rubbed his hands together and blew into them. “Tell me something, Artus. For exactly how long have
you
evaded capture by the Defenders of the Balance?”

Artus blinked. “I never had no cause till I met
you
!”

Tyvian rolled his eyes and nodded. “Yes, yes—­a fact that you, no doubt, will harp upon for the days to come. However, allow me to point out that I have evaded their capture for almost eight years now. Now, what does that tell you?”

“That you're a slippery bastard.”

“A rather cruder turn of phrase than I, myself, might have used, but accurate enough. Suffice to say that
I
know what I'm doing and
you
do not, so when I tell you to walk seven paces at a time and stop,
you should bloody well do it
!” Tyvian yelled.

Artus groaned. “Fine, fine—­whatever. Can we just get to that river-­thing faster?”

Tyvian looked at the sky. “At last! Now, with me—­one, two, three . . .”

T
he Trell River ran south and west from its headwaters near the city of Freegate, gaining strength from the many tributaries running out of the Dragonspine, until it became a broad and powerful waterway that ran all the way to Saldor and the Sea of Syrin. Back before the Delloran Wars, it had been a fortified border, with watchtowers and garrisons of the duke's petty barons patrolling regularly. Sahand's invasion had, of course, put an end to literal fire and brymmstone and as many rows of impaled heads as he could manage. After the war the lack of fortified keeps was found convenient by the guild-­lords who ruled much of Galaspin, and nothing much had been rebuilt while tariffs had been kept low. Accordingly, the river was a busy trade highway year-­round, so long as it didn't freeze, and trading posts and settlements were common along its banks.

The Wandering Fountain was one such settlement. It was a “river-­inn,” which meant it was a barge or series of barges converted into a floating boardinghouse that provided shelter, supplies, and food for travelers along the banks or the river. Their advantages, as Tyvian understood it, were chiefly legal. No Galaspiner petty barons or guild-­lords held legal authority over the waters of the Trell—­a by-­product of the great Treaty of Aldentree, which ended the Guilder Wars that tore the country apart over a century ago—­and therefore any building that existed upon it was free from harassment and taxation from any authority on shore. Furthermore, if a local ruler made himself too troublesome, a river-­inn could easily be floated downstream or to the opposite bank, thereby changing which local lord they would deal with.

The most beneficial thing about river-­inns, as far as Tyvian was concerned, was the fact that nobody save a Defender of the Balance would have the authority to arrest him while he stayed on one. That didn't mean somebody couldn't try, of course, but any discouragement at all was helpful, given his current predicament.

Long before they came around the bend in the river that obscured the Wandering Fountain from sight, Tyvian and Artus smelled it—­wood smoke and stewed meat—­and it was intoxicating to the famished and cold pair. When the establishment came into view, however, Tyvian was immediately reminded of the drawbacks of such places. It comprised probably three massive barges upon which had been built three stories of rickety wooden construction that not only looked drafty but also not entirely safe. Each floor was ringed by a veranda painted with a haphazard coat of whitewash that somehow managed to make the place look even older than it probably was. From the center of the river-­inn rose a single rusty tin smokestack that belched out the pleasant aromas that had enticed the two of them closer; Tyvian noted that this smokestack was poorly secured and wobbled in the wind. Like the rest of the place, it looked like a massive firetrap, and he wondered how it had managed not to burn down already.

“Looks great!” Artus said, trotting down the road toward its entryway. Rolling his eyes, Tyvian followed.

The Fountain's common room—­or “galley,” as the quaint riverfolk called it—­was belowdecks in the first barge. As Tyvian and Artus entered, they found themselves drowned in a sea of smoke and raucous conversation. The warmth of the low-­ceilinged chamber made Tyvian's numb cheeks start to tingle, but he could identify few other positive attributes to the place besides the heat. Taking a table somewhere in the middle of the room, he sat gingerly on the edge of a dirty chair and scanned the local patrons. Artus threw himself unceremoniously across from the smuggler and hunched over the table as only a teenage boy could. He frowned at Tyvian. “What's the matter?”

Tyvian motioned to his fur-­and-­leather-­themed attire. “I have discovered, to my dismay, that I am appropriately dressed for this venue.”

Artus sniggered. “Serves you right.”

Tyvian disregarded the goad. “How much money do you have?”

Artus blinked. “Nothing.”

Tyvian grimaced. “Not
anything
?”

“Look, you're the one always saying I'm a worthless street urchin. What'd you expect?”

Tyvian pursed his lips. “I
expected
you to have picked a few pockets on our way in.”

Artus's mouth fell open. “Steal! Here?”

Tyvian leaned forward. “Please
lower
your voice.”

Artus leaned to meet him, glancing over his shoulder twice as he did so. “I can't steal from these folks.”

“I notice that you had no qualms about picking
my
pocket.”

“Yeah, but I don't like you.”

Tyvian rolled his eyes. “Am I to believe that you only rob ­people you dislike? Gods, no wonder you were living in a gutter.”

Artus opened his mouth to protest, but Tyvian cut him off. “Never mind. I thought we might utilize your one apparent talent to purchase ourselves a hot meal.”

Artus held up his pack. “We still got the dry rations Eddereon gave us. We could heat them on the cookstove over there.”

Tyvian stood up. “Warm crackers do not constitute the kind of sustenance my stomach has come to expect from me. Since you are so unwilling to accommodate us, I see I will have to do everything myself. Don't go anywhere.”

Tyvian left Artus at the table without waiting for an answer and passed among the crowds of sweaty rivermen and fur-­clad wagoners that filled the Fountain. Picking pockets from half-­drunk laborers was child's play. The trouble was, they hardly had anything worth stealing. After a few minutes all Tyvian had was a handful of copper peers, a few buttons, and a set of dice that looked like they had been shaved by the least subtle cheater in the history of gambling—­the thug must have tried doing the job with an axe. During this time, he was forced to press bodies with men who had never bathed, women who had never brushed their teeth, and the odd filthy, belching child. This, of course, would have been bad enough, but the sharp bites of pain Tyvian received from the ring every time he snagged another coin only made the experience that much more unpleasant.

He decided that his life had reached a new low point. This was it. The bottom of the barrel—­picking pockets in the bilge of a Galaspiner river-­inn. Gods.

When Tyvian returned to the table, he found Artus with his feet up and a steaming bowl of black stew in front of him. Tyvian threw the coppers on the table. “Where the hell did you get that?”

Artus grinned broadly as he slurped from a wooden spoon. “The serving lady come by, and she says I looked so nice she gave me a bowl of stew for free!”

Tyvian considered his throbbing right hand. “You are a son of a bitch.”

“Hello there!” A matronly woman with large red cheeks draped an arm around Tyvian's shoulders. “You must be this young man's father, then?”

Tyvian smiled at her. “Madam, I would hardly consider myself old enough.”

The woman smiled and blushed. “Madam, am I?” She looked at Artus. “Sweet talker, your da is, eh? What'll it be, love?”

“I'm afraid you haven't told me the menu.”

The woman laughed. “Menu, now? By Hann, you're the toast! We've got stew or a roast.”

Tyvian eyed the greasy liquid Artus was slurping down with skepticism. “What is in the stew?”

The woman gave him a blank look. “In it? It's
stew
.”

Tyvian produced a restrained grin and slid a copper across the table. “I'll have the roast.” He added five coppers to the pile. “And a cup of your best hearthcider.”

The woman winked. “Back before you know it!”

As she left, Tyvian grumbled, “Roast what, is the question.”

Artus was staring at him. “How did you do that?”

“Do what?”

“You had her eating out of your hand!”

Tyvian pointed to the stew. “Of the two of us, you are the only one who has free food.”

“No! I mean . . . I mean, well, she
liked
you.” Artus blushed.

Tyvian rolled his eyes. “We are not having this conversation.”

“I bet you're a hit with the ladies. Knew a guy who always said they liked jerks.”

“No!” Tyvian slapped the table. “I am
not
discussing this with you. How old are you anyway?”

Artus puffed out his chest. “Almost fourteen!”

“I would wager you know as much about women as you need to know at this moment, Artus. The remainder you ought to learn like every other man—­through painful trial and error.”

Artus frowned. “C'mon! Just a trick or two, is all! Please?”

Tyvian took a deep breath. “How about we talk about something more immediately useful, such as how to get to Freegate without being caught.”

Artus nodded. “Okay—­yeah! How come you know they're after us? Maybe they think we drowned.”

“Alafarr is nothing if not thorough. She's after me for certain. The question is only how much of a head start we have. We can only keep up the seven-­step for so long before it becomes a disadvantage.”

“Are you gonna tell me what that does?”

Tyvian grimaced. The thought of educating Artus seemed a rather tedious enterprise, especially given how ineffectually the boy had absorbed the exhaustive etiquette lessons he gave him on the spirit engine to Galaspin. Still, he reasoned that giving the boy the basics could only work to his own advantage, as the likelihood he would make a stupid mistake would be bound to go down. He sighed. “Very well, then. Taking seven steps at a time in broad daylight is an adequate way to enhance the luminal ley of any given area.”

Artus blinked. “What?”

Tyvian tried again. “The ley errs slightly toward Lumenal energy when taking steps in sevens, because the Lumen has an affinity with that number.”

“What's the Lumen?”

“Gods, boy, how much schooling have you had anyway?”

Artus snorted. “I can't read, remember?”

Tyvian rubbed his forehead and sighed. “Of course—­how foolish of me to expect so much. Fine then, let's put it this way: the world—­the very stuff of existence itself—­is comprised of five energies. They are the Lumen and the Ether, the Dweomer and the Fey, and lastly the Astral, which binds them all together. These energies manifest in different quantities in different places—­in a bright place there is more of the Lumen, for instance, or in a cold one there is more of the Dweomer, and so on and so forth. How these energies are distributed is called the ‘ley' of a place.”

Artus slurped his soup. “Could you use smaller words?”

Tyvian closed his eyes and tried to restrain his urge to scream. He wasn't sure if this conversation could get any more painful than if the ring were actively torturing him. “Look, all that really matters is that each of those five ‘govern,' or at least
affect,
everything you can think of. All of this energy tends to flow and change with the seasons, the time, and so on, but congregate in great metaphysical pathways, called ley lines, which is largely how ships navigate at sea and have played an important role in where cites have been founded and, probably, how the geography of the world itself has been formed. Understand?”