41. A Coin for Your Trouble (Gadarien)¶
Gadarien had slung Adranaya over his shoulders, reckoning he’d be able to move faster that way, but his energy was already flagging. In a way, though, he was grateful for the extra burden. The exhaustion kept him from thinking about what had happened to Jovadão.
The light from Vaye’s lantern splashed crazily across the tunnel walls, her breath coming ragged behind him. He knew the area well enough to buy them some time, ascending to street level inside a lumber yard and then back down through an unconnected entrance in an alley. He could only hope it would make up for their slower pace.
“Let me carry her,” Vaye said when they finally paused. His pride wanted him to refuse, but the Anashi was strong and there was no sense in wearing himself out. They gingerly transferred the unconscious Adranaya and continued on, not stopping again until they reached the Cantereian Market. “Up this ramp, then left, and there’s a ladder,” he said, hefting Adranaya once more.
Vaye led the way, Gadarien doggedly following. The echoes of clanking armor followed them, too diffuse to get a sense of distance. Rainwater burbled out of the rooftop gutters as they emerged into an alley.
“We need to disguise her,” Gadarien said. “We can’t walk through here carrying a person.” Adranaya’s muscles were as loose as steamed noodles as they folded her arms across her chest and tucked her heels behind her, wrapping her in the cloak. Without any limbs sticking out, she looked like an anonymous bundle. Gadarien and Vaye wiped the lampblack off their faces as best they could, then lifted Adranaya between them like a carpet.
Even on a rainy night, the market was alive with commerce. Merchants bustled past with covered baskets atop their heads or leading heavily-laden donkeys, water cascading off the waxed-canvas covers. Dozens of torches sputtered and smoked in the downpour, and the sound of a dulcimer wavered in and out of hearing. The rain was a good cover. It made everyone look the same and discouraged the underpaid watchmen from putting in any extra effort.
They made it all the way across the square before Sihiri entered the opposite corner and began accosting shoppers and merchants. Vaye hissed a warning and they ducked behind some rolls of cloth, laying Adranaya’s limp form on the ground as they caught their breath.
“Where to now?” Vaye said. The water spattering onto the cobblestones was so loud she almost had to shout.
“The safehouse. First we need supplies. Then we try to get out of the city before they close the gates.”
“Out of the city? But where?” Vaye said.
Gadarien licked the rain off his lips. “Cantereia.”
Vaye stared at him for a brief moment, her expression inscrutable. But then she nodded. They’d discuss the plan later, if there was a later.
It was darker among the maze of stalls, stacks of merchandise arising like stalagmites. Adranaya’s weight forced them to move deliberately, preventing them from bolting like startled rabbits at every noise. But as they exited an aisle, Gadarien caught a glimpse of two Sihiri heading in their direction. Then he realized where they were. “I have an idea,” he said, turning down another aisle.
The wine merchant’s shop was much as he remembered it from his meeting with Teira. The sole customer this evening was a stout, middle-aged woman who was burdening the shopkeeper with her many disappointments, chiefly her shiftless sons. Gadarien waited impatiently for her to leave before finally ducking inside. Recognition bloomed on the shopkeeper’s face, followed quickly by suspicion and fear. “Please,” Gadarien said. “We need your help.”
The shopkeeper glanced outside, chewing his tongue, then finally nodded. They pried the lids off three empty barrels stacked in the corner, then unwrapped Adranaya and slid her into one, Vaye and Gadarien each climbing into their own. As the shopkeeper put the lid back in place, Gadarien wondered if he had just delivered them straight to the Helix, sealed up and ready to roll. At least this barrel smelled like wine instead of yellowrush.
They didn’t have long to wait before the two Sihiri arrived. Through the bunghole, Gadarien saw their peljaki swinging from their shoulders as they walked in.
The shopkeeper had already produced a hazy brown bottle and two tiny glasses. “Come inside, come come! Tonight everything half price for you very special yes.” Gadarien had never actually heard the shopkeeper speak, but thought perhaps the man was laying the accent on a bit thick.
“Piss off!” said the first Sihir, shoving the shopkeeper back. “Filthy cantie. Have you seen some fugitives running through here? Two girls and a young man, one of them injured?”
“Girls?” said the shopkeeper. “You want girls? For you yes very special.Yellow wine, spotted girls! Almost free. First we drink, then I get my cousin.” He turned and began reaching for some bottles.
The soldier sneered in disgust. “That’s a no, then.”
But the second Sihir, a tall officer with close-cropped hair and a scarred forehead, wasn’t so easily put off. “Not girls,” she said. “We’re looking for three people. Running. Criminals, you understand? ”
The shopkeeper looked at her and shrugged, apparently perplexed.
“We think they came this way,” the Sihir continued. “There’s gold in it for you if you tell us where they went.” She held up a coin purse, bouncing it temptingly.
Gadarien’s stomach dropped as he saw the calculation on the man’s face. The shopkeeper smiled cannily and nodded, setting down his bottle. “Yes, I have seen them,” he said, his accent markedly less pronounced.
“You canties are all the same,” said the first soldier, spitting on the floor.
The hatched-faced woman stepped a bit closer. “Where did they go?” she said. Inside the barrel, Gadarien clutched his knife, sweating. The officer’s harmonics raised the hairs on his neck.
“First, maybe gold?” said the shopkeeper hopefully.
Without warning, the Sihir’s peljak flashed upward, and something small flipped away to land on the floor just out of Gadarien’s view. A second later, the shopkeeper was screaming, clutching the bleeding stump of his finger.
“Hold him,” said the woman. The other soldier wrestled the shopkeeper back to standing, forcing his hand onto the barrel that served as a table. “Now, I’ll ask again. Where did they go? Unless you want to try pouring wine with no fingers.”
“The east river gate!” the shopkeeper cried. “They were headed for the river, to sneak out on a boat!”
“That’s better,” said the Sihir. “Now, your gold.” She lifted the coin purse and, as casually as shooing a fly, backhanded the shopkeeper across the jaw. He slumped forward across the table. She brought the heavy bag down again and again, the coins making a wet crunch as they collided with his skull. Gadarien squeezed the handle of his dagger as the shopkeeper’s body slid to the floor.
Before she left, the officer took a single coin out of the bloody purse and laid it on the barrel. “For your trouble,” she said. The other soldier laughed as they walked out.
It took every bit Gadarien’s willpower not burst out of the barrel and throw himself at the Sarmalan devils. But doing so would make the shopkeeper’s death mean nothing. Him, Jovadão, Andrad, Fuari, Eiadane... the dead piled up on Gadarien’s shoulders like sacks of grain, burying him beneath the weight of their sacrifice.
When Vaye pried the lid from his barrel, she found him weeping, pressing a clenched fist to his eyes as he stabbed the planks with his dagger over and over. But she reached out her hand and he let her help him up.
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