“Claudja, I…I still do not like this plan. There are other ways to reach the Codians. There are others who could be sent.”
Cyril’s daughter looked over her shoulder at him, then turned and marched back. In the dying light there was a sudden coldness in her eyes that Cyril had never seen in her mother’s, though he recognized it all the same. He had seen it often enough in the hard gaze of his own father, the first Duke of Chengdea, Perforce.
“There is no time to establish relations and exchange ambassadors,” Claudja said. “The Codians must know that we are serious, and they must know it immediately.” She lifted her chin again. “So long as I am Duchess of Chengdea no more of our men shall die for the incompetence of that man.”
The vehemence with which Claudja spoke the last two words as always gave Cyril a start, for since Lucas Towsan had died following the orders of Hughes III, King of Daul, Claudja had referred to their rightful liege in no other way.
Cyril nodded. Claudja turned away only a moment before her look would have amounted to staring her father down, then strode deliberately back inside. It was another moment before Cyril followed.
Chapter Nineteen
After speaking through a human translator to a fat bullywug on the docks Tilda bought a pass to board whatever craft into the Wilds was next available, paying an extra ten silvers for the privilege. In return she was given a short, flute-like stick with irregularly cut air holes and told to come back at first light though there well might be nothing available for a day or two. Or three. Half a tenday, tops. The additional delay was well down Tilda’s list of concerns. She secured the flute in the belt with her money and took the horses back into the city to the first heavily trafficked corner. In half an hour Tilda had sold both at a profit that covered the pass though she had to take payment in Daulic coins that were much more cumbersome than Miilarkian notes.
The only inn Tilda had seen in the city not full to overflowing was the Stars and Stones adjacent to the Shugak dock, and when she entered the common room she divined why. There were not many people at the tables or the bar but those present consisted of a bewildering array of adventuring types, all armed to the teeth and many still wearing dented breast plates and chain sleeves even as they ate dinner. There was a tall woman so pale she was almost albino, all in dark blue leather and with a mace set atop her table next to a gloved hand lazily swishing a glass of wine. In one corner was a pair of dark Oswambans, a twin brother and sister, wearing warm woolen clothes but with lion skins over their shoulders and matching spears with long steel tips bound around with bright feathers leaning against the wall. The furnishings and appointments of the inn were all of the highest quality and the place was obviously catering only to those who could afford to pay more than any commoner or refugee.
Dugan was at the bar talking to the only two women in the place who did not look like they were bound for Vod’Adia. Not unless prostitutes were assailing the Sable City this year.
Tilda went to the far end of the bar and dealt with the grinning barkeep. A single room and an evening meal were one and one-half silver pieces, several times what would have been fair. Tilda got a small measure of vengeance by paying in thirty coppers, ridding her of most of her least valuable Daulic coins.
Tilda stowed her gear and locked her room upstairs, and after some consideration she returned to the common room in her Guild cloak over her vest and daggers and with her buksu club still slung across her back. Her meal was waiting on the end of the bar, catfish and mead. Dugan was alone now for his companions had moved to a trio of well-heeled young noblemen who had come in, slumming. He shrugged at Tilda and she ignored him, taking her board and glass to a corner table beside the fireplace. The fish was good, basted with a creamy sauce tasting only faintly of leeks, but the mead was not sweet enough to Tilda’s palette.
A familiar man entered the room, not from the door to the street but from a side hall past the kitchen. It was the counterman from the jewelry store though he now wore a long, plain coat and a wide-brimmed hat. He nodded to Dugan at the bar but walked across the room to Tilda’s table, Dugan looking after him with an eyebrow raised over a tankard of ale.
“A bol aloha,” the man said in the Trade Tongue, flashing his gold tooth and producing his hands from his pockets for a little gesture, still a welter of shining rings. He switched to Codian. “We did not exchange names, though mine is Pagette.”
Tilda looked at him and said nothing. His smile faltered.
“All right then, Miss. If you might have a moment, I hoped you could spare it for a brief talk with…a certain important party. A man who has much to say to you, which I am sure you will find of interest.”
Tilda made no move though her right wrist was resting on the edge of the table, just on the knob of the dagger sheathed in her sleeve. If she pressed down while pulling her arm back she could tug the blade free and catch the pommel before it fell. Something about Pagette bugged Tilda but she spoke to him.
“You are going to have to be far more specific than that.”
“Oh. Well. Allow me to say there is a nobleman, in this very inn just down that hall there, who wishes to render you a proposition that if accepted will be to your considerable financial advantage.”
Tilda cut her eyes briefly toward the prostitutes snuggling the boisterous young nobles at the bar.
“Mr. Pagette. If you are saying what I believe you to be, you had best walk out of this room right now.”
The man looked in that direction and his eyes widened.
“Oh, gods Miss, no, I mean I would never…” he sighed and waved both hands apologetically, then started over.
“A high noble of this city wishes an escort…a guardian, for two people traveling to the Camp Town at Vod’Adia. As you are going there already if you are but willing to look after these others along the way, they can pay you handsomely. And if you are so willing you can all go on your way at first light, with no more delay. They have an arrangement with the Shugak.”
Tilda continued to regard the man coolly, then she stood up so fast that he took a jerky step back. She drained the last of her mead, which was a mistake. While Tilda thought she was doing rather well so far, the large swallow forced her immediately to stifle a belch, producing a squeak between her pressed lips that was in no way impressive. Nor ladylike. Pagette had the good grace to ignore it completely. He took a step to the side and gestured back toward the hall from which he had entered.
“You first,” Tilda said, and after a moment’s thought she took her buksu from her back and held the club loosely at her right side. Dugan had been watching from the bar and now he stood up as well.
Pagette nodded and walked back for the hall, passing Dugan on the way. The former legionnaire looked at Tilda but she did not meet his eyes as she honestly had no idea what she wanted him to do. She walked past without giving Dugan any sign, but he followed her. Tilda was slightly disappointed in herself that his presence made her feel a bit better.
The hall was short and lit only by the light from the common room. Pagette knocked on and opened a door halfway along, out of which spilled flickering fire light. He motioned for Tilda to enter, and she waved him in first with her club.
The room was a study of a sort, or perhaps the inn owner’s office. Rugs on the floor and whitewashed walls, bookshelves full of scroll tubes and plush chairs beside a brick fireplace. There was a desk that had been shifted to the center of the room as a table and dining room chairs had been brought in and set two on a side.
The two chairs across the desk were occupied by a middle-aged man with a barrel chest and a lovely young woman the size of a girl. The man stood as Tilda entered. The pair did not look much alike in the face, but the brown shade of their hair in the firelight was identical and made Tilda think they must be father and daughter. A second man stood behind them, a gaunt old fellow with his arms crossed and the pommel of a sword visible on his left hip as his cloak was drawn back on that side. All three wore plain garments; cloaks, tunics, and trousers of only moderate material yet much cleaner than would have been clothes which someone actually wore every day.