At last the Stormriders rolled in. There were five of them standing on a curtained flatbed heaped with treasure. Open chests spilled over with jewels and gemstones, coins glittered in hillocks at their feet. In case the band itself (all of whom were armed) weren’t enough to discourage the mob from rushing the cart, there was a full escort of pikemen whose scowls and long spears served to keep the crowd at bay. There were a number of women dressed as nymphs—which was to say they were pretty much naked—who scooped bronze coins by the handful from the wagon’s edge and tossed them to the roadside. Clay noted that the gold and silver coins were conveniently piled closer to the centre.
The band looked young to him at first, until Clay remembered he’d been barely eighteen when he and Gabe had first set out on the road. Their armour, at least, looked functional, if a little garish, and Clay suspected they were wearing more makeup than the Sisters in Steel. He also couldn’t help but notice the large number of young girls who had found their way to the edge of the street and were screaming hysterically as the boys went by.
Clay found himself smiling, recalling the first time he and his bandmates had paraded the spoils of their own Heartwyld tour down this very same street—not that there was much to recall, since they’d all been blind drunk at the time. Moog had slept through most of it; Matrick had fallen from the wagon into the crowd and was missing for three days.
“I’ve seen enough,” said Gabriel. He looked annoyed, suddenly, and Clay wondered if it wasn’t jealousy that had soured his mood. “Let’s get out of here before this crowd breaks up. Go pay Kallorek a visit.”
Clay rolled his neck to work out the kink from looking westward for the past half hour. “Sure thing. Where’s he at?”
Gabe nodded toward the southern hill, at the temple under construction at its summit. He scowled like a man gazing up at the noose meant to hang him. “Up there.”
Chapter Seven
Swimming with Sharks
There was a pond in the middle of Kallorek’s house. The water was so clear Clay could see the tiles that checkered the bottom, blue and white. There were no fish or frogs that he could see. No lilies, or rushes, or dragonflies skimming the surface. There was just … empty water.
“What the fuck is the point of this?” he asked.
Gabriel didn’t answer. He’d gone meek again, sitting in a wicker chair near the edge of the pond, bullied by his own thoughts. Fair enough, Clay supposed, since he’d come here to beg Kallorek for his sword back, which would have been awkward even if their old booker hadn’t also been in possession of something else that had once belonged to Gabe: his wife, Valery.
They hadn’t seen her yet, but they’d heard her voice as a servant led them here to wait. Gabriel had frozen at the sound like a mouse cringing at an owl’s screech.
One of the many knacks his own wife had instilled in Clay was seeing the bright side in any situation. To know that however bad things seemed there was always someone, somewhere, who had it worse. One look at the slump of Gabe’s shoulders, or the small, worried movements of his fingers in his lap, and Clay couldn’t help but feel like the most fortunate man in the room.
At least until Kallorek arrived. The booker swept in wearing a deep blue robe of silk so fine it flowed like water over the brink of his voluminous gut. Several heavy-looking gold chains were slung around his neck. Rings set with gaudy gemstones twinkled on every finger and pierced both ears. Clay had seen kings buried with fewer trinkets on their person.
“My boys!” Their host managed to pull Clay and Gabriel both into an awkward hug. His grey-shot beard, once as coarse as a horse brush, was now soft with scented oil and carefully braided. His ruddy skin wafted the scent of sandalwood and spring lilac above the earthen tang of sweat. He had an underbite so vicious that some folk had (out of earshot, of course) dubbed him “the orc.”
Kallorek released his grip at last, holding each at arm’s length and grinning widely. “Golden Gabe and Slowhand himself,” he said wistfully. “Legends in the flesh! Kings of the bloody Wyld, right? You’re looking fit as a fresh horse, Cooper. And you, Gabe, look tired. And old! Gods of Grandual, man, what’s eating you? Not booze again? Or scratch? Don’t tell me you’ve got the bloody rot.”
Gabriel tried for a smile and failed spectacularly. “I’m just tired, Kal. And old. And …” He faltered, going a shade paler than he’d already been. “I need to speak to Valery, and to … ask you a favor.”
Kallorek looked momentarily suspicious, but his grin quickly returned. “In time, yes? When you’ve kicked the dust off your boots! Let’s open a keg first, and eat. Are you hungry?”
“Starving!” Clay blurted.
“Of course you are!” Kallorek clapped his meaty hands together. “You two hit the pool. I’ll have some grub ready when you’ve had time to freshen up a bit.” When his guests made no move he gestured toward the pond behind them.
Clay glanced over his shoulder and back. He shrugged.
“The pool,” said Kallorek, pointing. “The pool, right there.”
“You mean the pond?”
“I mean the pool,” growled the booker. “Get in. Swim.” He accompanied these words with effusive gestures that set his jewellery ringing.
Clay examined the pond. “Swim to where?” he asked.
“What do you mean swim to where?” Kallorek’s brow deepened.
“Is it a healing spring?” Gabe asked. He flexed his arm, wincing as he extended it fully. “Because I think my elbow—”
“Listen, fuck your elbow!” Kallorek blew up. Clay had forgotten how short the booker’s fuse was. That big toothy smile one moment, and the next …“It ain’t a spring, or a pond, or a godsdamned sea nymph’s bathtub. It’s a fucking pool. Just a pool! You swim around in it to relax.”
Clay was wise enough to know that suggesting Kallorek make use of the pool himself would only provoke him further, but Gabriel wasn’t—and so the moment he opened his mouth Clay shoved him hard into the water, where he splashed and spat and scrabbled like a dog for the shore.
Kallorek’s rage dissipated; he burst into a fit of laughter that left him wiping tears from his eyes.
“You’re right,” said Clay. “I feel better already.”
Say one thing about Kallorek: The man was as vile as a two-headed toad. But say another and it was this: That fat bastard sure knew how to eat.
The meal lulled Clay into a near-euphoric daze for which he was doubly grateful, since Valery (in a daze herself) had opted to join them at the dining room table. She didn’t say much, but loosed a lot of long sighs, and giggled here and there at something only she found funny, like when two of her maple-glazed sprouts stuck together, or the sound her knife made when she clacked it again and again and again against the honey-crisped skin of her rolled pork loin.
Clay’s eyes were drawn time and again to the scars half-hidden by her shirt sleeve. He’d heard from Gabriel that Valery had been dabbling with scratch—a drug made from the venom of dazeworms and introduced to the system by cutting tiny nicks in the soft skin on the underside of one’s arm. It looked as though she were using still, since a few of those wounds were raw and red.
Watching her now, Clay could hardly believe this was the same woman Gabe had fallen in love with so many years ago, the woman many claimed was singlehandedly responsible for breaking up the greatest mercenary band in Grandual’s history. She wasn’t, of course—that had been a different woman altogether—but although Valery hadn’t been responsible for sinking the ship, she sure as hell had punched a few holes in the hull.