Chapter 5

  - There is a proverb that says a fugitive has a thousand right roads, but a pursuer has only one. It doesn't work if the pursuers know where the fugitive wants to go. So there are only two ways for both us and the pursuit, - Captain Valria said grimly as the party crossed a shallow stream, travelling along its bed first. The elf forbade wasting time on more cunning ways to confuse the trail. - Like a coin toss. Let's assume that our tireless friends have already guessed that we plan to board the ship. If that's the case, there's a one in two chance they're still after us.

  There were only two harbour towns within a reasonable distance from Miroslavl - the rich trading town of Irnitsk, the terminus of several trade routes, and the modest fishing town of Varlahan. The latter lay on the shore of a quiet bay, a little place where smugglers' ships occasionally visited, ready to accept any cargo without any questions asked. It was most logical for the fleeing free company to head there. That was probably the reason why Valria had chosen Irnitsk. Although, quite possibly, the captain simply feared that there would be no smugglers in the bay, and the fishing shells would not be able to transport her adored Snowflake across the sea. Don Armando strongly suspected that for the elfess, the life of a horse and the lives of fellow humans were on roughly the same bar. High enough, as he could ascertain, but still....

  They spent the last night on their way to the sea in the ruins of a round white stone pavilion, where not only one of the walls but also part of the domed roof was still intact. The light-coloured stones had been chipped by the rains, the tiled floor had been broken by the roots of a nearby oak tree, but the ruins looked remarkably beautiful, as if they had been built here for decoration. Beneath the surviving wall stood a pagan idol on a square pedestal with its head smashed off and its arms broken off. It was no longer possible to recognise which god it represented. The torso of the statue was entangled with a thorny vine. At its feet were cobblestones, covered with the lingering traces of fire - someone had camped here before, more than once or twice.

  - A portal station of the Old Empire, - explained master Carlon, while the tall Lady Maria, standing on tiptoe, was chopping a dry oak branch for the fire with an axe. - The great road must have passed somewhere nearby. Portals weren't built inside towns or on highways. A burst of raw magic in the event of a malfunction could cover a large area. - The mage looked around, as if trying to imagine what the pavilion had looked like centuries ago. - Once there had been stables for the postal service and a garrison standing here - a squad of legionnaires, a group of mages who maintained the archway. The portals were used mostly by government officials, primarily couriers and servants of the law. But private citizens were allowed in for a large sum of money.

  - I saw a working station near Gartond, - Captain Valria said. Leaving her horse outside the circle of collapsed walls, she approached the statue and touched the green shoots of the vine with her fingers. Plucked a leaf. - A building just like this one, only not ruined. And with the Creator's Symbol in place of the statue.

  - A few portal stations survived in the lands of the Eastern Empire. - Lady Maria tossed a felled branch into the fire, shaking the woody debris out of her hair. - No new ones are being built - technically possible, but too expensive.

  - Here in the west, the portals were destroyed deliberately. - Armando decided to flaunt his modest knowledge, which he had learnt not from books, but from chattering over a drink. However, Vittoria, who had a scholarly title, mostly told him clever things over a glass of wine, so these conversations could be considered private lessons. - When the Ancient Daert shattered, no one wanted a door to their neighbouring usurper's domain, even if they couldn't get an army through it. Portal arches were broken, their blocks with glyphs were smashed to dust with hammers, drowned in the sea, buried in the ground....

  - Carlon, do you feel magic here? - The captain asked, lowering her voice for some reason. She clutched the torn leaf in her fist.

  - No. - The black-bearded maestro waggled his chin in denial. - For so many centuries there was nothing left. Even the stones forgot...

  The night was quiet, but Armando could not sleep. The detachment settled down for the night without tents, and, lying under a warm blanket, the former royal bailiff looked at the stars, then at the dying fire, listened to the even breathing of the sleeping people and the quiet steps of the sentry walking around the camp. It was not excitement that prevented him from sleeping. On the contrary, he felt more relaxed than ever before. And that... was wrong. As he said good night to the Imperials, Armando caught himself thinking of them as comrades. Not temporary travelling companions or useful allies. Comrades, exactly. Friends. As long as his true friends, Gotech and Minerva, had been with de Gorazzo, he had kept himself apart from everyone else. Now... It was a weakness, perhaps. A man cannot survive so much adversity without support. He needs friends, loved ones, someone to lean on. Sympathy from strangers is always seen as an empty formality, like condolences at a stranger's funeral. And Armando, barely recovered from the shock, involuntarily began to look for people who could take the place of lost loved ones. The Imperials were kind to him. There was a logic to it, as in almost any action that a man takes unknowingly, but still Don de Gorazo felt ashamed. Driven by guilt, he tossed and turned in his bed as the disc of the moon crept across the velvet of the sky over the ruins. When Lady Maria came on guard, Armando wanted to get up and ask her to brew some sleepy potion, but he changed his mind out of sheer childish stubbornness. So after breakfast he climbed into the saddle, sleepy, exhausted, and with swollen, red eyes. As it happened, Valria, who had slept well for the first time in three days, was talking non-stop and exuberant, which made the don's sympathy for her fade....

  Irnitsk, unlike Miroslavl, was fortified properly - an earthen rampart studded with sharp stakes, an oak wall with covered galleries, stone gate towers, and a moat full of water. The defence against bombardments was mediocre, but the city could not fear any dashing raid from the land side. There were four gates in the wall, and the group passed through the busiest, squeezing between two merchant wagons. Just in time - soon the street was crowded with soldiers marching in columns. Real Erdosians, not Virians in Republican armour - stocky, round-faced, dark-eyed. They stretched from the harbour to the gate across the city, humming a rhythmic song in Erdosian.

  The fugitives instead took a table in a tavern and left their horses at the stable. Armando, Carlon and Valria, as the most enterprising, headed for the harbour separately. Before parting, the elfess said to Don de Gorazzo, "This time, try to find someone... law-abiding. In moderation, of course. No criminal types." The story with the river pirates was still vivid in the former bailiff's mind, so he nodded silently. But he decided to begin not with the wharf, but with the taverns of the harbour. He chose, however, relatively decent ones, where the sailors of merchant sailing ships, not bandits, were supposed to drink their wages. Alas, he was disappointed. There were a lot of ships going to the Republic Islands, but they all left in three or four days, at least. This was no good - if the chase had not lost track of them, the group had barely a day's head start. One suspicious-looking skipper agreed to go to sea "even today", but demanded a huge sum in gold, and in advance, and another sailor, who called himself the first mate of the merchant holk, promised to talk to his captain. Both options did not look encouraging. Finally, the former bailiff reached a tavern in the middle of nowhere, the signboard of which was decorated with the image of a mouse or a rat clutching a gold coin. The tavern differed from in that it was one storey long, like a northern raider's house. The boarded-up building stretched from south to north, though the main room was rather cramped. "Maybe there's a warehouse and living quarters behind the partition?" - Armando surmised, approaching the innkeeper's counter. There were hardly any customers at the square tables, but there was a muffled noise coming from the wall behind the counter.

  - Good day, - De Gorazzo said, not even trying to force a smile out of himself.

  Love what you're reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.

  - Do you want a drink or...? - The innkeeper paused meaningfully, looking at his guest. He seemed to be expecting him to finish the broken phrase. Instead, Don de Gorazzo, driven mad by two hours of conversations with very slippery personalities, laid out the purpose of his visit - he needed a ship to the islands, preferably to the capital's Etaido. A big one, to take not only men but also three horses, with a decent captain who would not change course and throw overboard the contents of the hold at the sight of a patrol galleys. And to leave today.

  - No one bigger than a fishing boat goes to sea today, that's for sure. - The innkeeper answered phlegmatically, resting his elbow on the bar. - Otherwise... I think you should have a chat with the “Elena's” navigator. I don't think you'll find anything better. And she's leaving before anyone else, either tomorrow or the day after.

  - Where can I find him? - Armando laid a couple of coins in front of the owner of the place.

  - Her. Here. At the hippodrome.- The innkeeper pointed his thumb behind his back.

  - Her? - The don asked incredulously. - And what kind of hippodrome is this?

  - Er, you'll see. - His interlocutor grinned a yellow-toothed grin. - Go through that door. You'll recognise the navigator at once, don't doubt it.

  Armando went through the door behind the counter and found himself in a long hall, packed with people. After a few seconds, however, he realised that there were not so many people, but that the whole middle of the rectangular room was taken up by a huge low table, with people crowded along the walls. The room was well lit by the trapdoors in the ceiling, and Don de Gorazzo could easily see that the thick table top was covered by a tightly stretched fine net. Suddenly something dark, small, swift flashed beneath the netting. "That's not a table! - realised the ex-bailiff. - It's a labyrinth!" Now everything fell into place. The tavern with the rat on the sign served as a rat race. Don had heard of such entertainment many times, and even knew the details, though he had never seen a rat race with his own eyes - in Daert people preferred cards and dice. Rats were launched at one end and baited at the other. Bets were placed as at a regular horse race. A good labyrinth cost a decent amount of money and was partially disassemblable. Only the outer walls remained permanent, the partitions inside were sometimes moved, confusing the route.

  - The race was almost over. - The don was approached by a bald man, apparently acting as a steward. - But there will be two more. "Domestic”. Will you place a bet?

  "Domestic" was the name given to races where players were allowed to use their own rats - Armando remembered that. He shook his head:

  - I'm looking for a man here. “Elena's” navigator.

  - Ah. - The steward pointed his finger. - There it is.

  De Gorazzo looked in the direction indicated. He chuckled. It was immediately clear to him what the innkeeper had meant when he said that the Don would recognise the navigator. Standing near the labyrinthine table with one hand on her hip and the other behind her back was a tall, slender elf woman. Her skin was as dark as Carlon's, her eyes were brown, her nose was decorated with a large hump, and her shiny black hair fell in small rings just below her ears. The navigator was dressed in a white blouse with sleeves rolled up to the elbow, thin black gloves, the same colour waistcoat embroidered with red thread and trousers belted with a scarlet sash. The footwear was black over-the-knee boots without cuffs. She looked a little older than Valria.

  - Wow, - was all Don said.

  - Yeah, - steward chuckled, clearly expecting that reaction. - No one plays cards with elves, so she's stuck with us.

  Armando carefully threaded his way into the crowd of sailors, trying not to shove anyone too hard - it was not in his plans to provoke a fight. However, the elven woman, who had been following the race, was the first to notice the stranger pushing towards her. She turned to him and raised her eyebrows questioningly.

  - Are you the navigator of the “Elena”? - De Gorazzo decided, as he had done with the innkeeper, to take the bull by the horns.

  - That's right, - the elf replied calmly, her voice was low and pleasant, with a faint huskiness to it. In Don's opinion, such a voice would be better suited to a much less graceful and fragile woman.

  - Don't you need passengers with good pay?

  - Hm-m... - the navigator wiggled her ears, just like Valria. - Can you wait a while? I can't leave yet, and talking here....

  - Yes, of course.

  In the meantime, the race was over. A rat with a blue ribbon around its neck was the first to reach the exit of the maze. The rat's owner, a man with a short wheat beard, picked it up in his arms:

  - My beauty!

  - Two more races, - the steward reminded, gesturing for the rat owners to come to him. Armando was surprised to find that the elf woman standing next to him had suddenly perked up. Her gaze was fixed on the light-bearded man, and the palm of her thin gloved hand rested on the narrow scabbard strapped to her hip. Without a word, the girl began to make her way forward.

  - What are you... - the don who had followed her began in a whisper, but he did not have time to finish. The owner of the winning rat was the first to come to the beginning of the labyrinth, sat his "beauty" on the edge of the board. At the same moment the elven navigator snatched a dagger from its sheath and... threw it at the rat. The blade literally pinned the animal to the wood. A multivoiced sigh of surprise washed over the "racetrack". The crowd froze. But before the astonished sailors could come to their senses and take up their knives, the girl pointed her finger at the rat and bellowed in her low, strong voice:

  - Where's blood?!

  All eyes turned to the dagger-pierced “beauty”. The rat was lying on its side, showing no signs of life. "It didn't even squeak at the moment of the blow," de Gorazzo thought. Steward pulled the dagger from the board and held the rat, which had been placed on the blade, up to his eyes. He frowned:

  - No blood. What demon...

  The light-bearded rat's owner didn't wait to see what the big bald man would conclude. He grabbed an object from his pocket that looked like a round mirror, shouted something, and a bright blue light flooded the room.

  - Damn! - De Gorazzo shrieked, covering his face with his palms. There was a rumble, a crack of wood, a shriek... When the former bailiff blinked, there was a hole in the boarded wall of the room, no doubt punctured by a small explosion, several of the regulars of the hippodrome were lying on the floor, and the light-bearded man was gone.

  - Witchcraft! Black magic! That stinking sorcerer! - The steward shouted, waving dagger dangerously with the rat still on it. Several other people, led by the innkeeper, poured into the room. He glanced round the room and went straight to the elf navigator, ignoring the silenced steward.

  - Homa was right, it was a mage, - the navigator said, wiping away the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand. - A necromancer. A low-level mage, no higher than third degree. Some underachiever who'd been kicked out of his apprenticeship by a shipyard necromancer. But resourceful.

  - So his rat...

  The black-haired elven woman strode through the crowd to the bald Homa, took the dagger from him, shook the unfortunate rodent off the blade. With the heel of her high boot she crushed the skull of the body that had fallen to the floor. Contrary to expectations, no brains spattered from under her heel.

  - Dead, - the girl stated. - A long time ago. A reanimated rat might not run faster than the living, but it would find its way out of the labyrinth more easily. It was guided by its master mage.

  - And how did you realise? - The owner of the place didn't seem particularly surprised - more like upset. - It looked alive.

  - The smell. The corpse stinks.

  - I don't smell it, - admitted the innkeeper. - And don't all rats stink?

  - That's it. Only this one reeks of alchemy.

  - Embalming! - Armando took the chance to interject. - Necromancers know how to process bodies to preserve them better.

  - That's right, - the elf confirmed. - I don't think this one could make real necroconstructs, rather he only slowed decomposition, and changed rats often. Who can tell them apart?

  - The asshole knew he could get caught. - The innkeeper spat on the necrocrat's corpse. - Prepared. But let him run. He'll never pull that stunt again. Thank you, you've been very helpful.

  - Fyodor noticed that one newcomer was winning the races a lot, - the navigator explained, catching de Gorazzo's eye. - Asked me to watch from the sidelines while the ship was in port. We both didn't know what we were looking for, but lo and behold... it happened.

  - I owe you a drink for your crew and your purse, as agreed. - The innkeeper sighed heavily. - I've got a wall to fix...

  - So, I'm free. - The navigator wiped her dagger on the flap of her boot, slipped it into its scabbard. - You wanted to speak to me, messire...

  - Armando.

  - Messire Armando. Let's go to the common room and take a table. - The elfess held out her hand to the don. - Elena.

  - Erm... Your ship? - De Gorazzo didn't understand, accepting the handshake.

  - Yeah. Me, too. Also Elena. - The black-haired girl reminded Armando of Sergeant Dallan in the richness of her emotions. But at least the sergeant smiled once in a while.

  - That's a human name, isn't it? I'm sorry...

  - My father had named the dog Elena, in honour of a human saint he was friends with. - The navigator shrugged. - When the dog died, he named his first ship after her. When the ship sank in a storm, I was born, and my father named me after the ship. Then he bought a new ship and named it after me. Are you coming, messire...?