stone in a seemingly haphazard way Indris recognized as Rōm handiwork. The delicate black metalwork of the domed roof was blackened by old flames, as was the pallid stone of the plaza around it. Bloated translucent spiders seemed to skitter in midair on webs of spun glass, seen only when one ventured too close. Indris felt the menace radiating from the Weavegate, the creeping sensation of oily thoughts that swam, sluggish and secret, unbidden and unwanted, through his mind.
Holding back a curse, Indris had to have Ekko physically pick Omen up and carry the Wraith Knight from where he had simply stopped to listen to whatever it was that had enraptured him.
As the afternoon darkened to evening, they traversed other ruins, decrepit skeletons of buildings and monuments that stretched feebly from the marshes. They were small, no larger than villages or perhaps the large estates of some wealthy landowner or other. It was Shar who sighted the first Fenlings to the east. The group, about twenty in all, was moving through the gathering gloom of the overcast.
“Only war parties journey in the day,” Omen said tonelessly. “These are out a little early.”
“You think?” Indris muttered. His eyesight was not as sharp as either Ekko’s or Shar’s, yet the Fenlings’ was even worse. With any luck the Fenlings could be avoided, especially if Indris and the others stayed downwind.
“Then we keep moving,” Hayden said without enthusiasm. His red face and heavy breathing indicated the older man would much prefer to stop.
They jogged another several hundred meters until they came to a stream shaded on both banks by hoary old willows. Ekko led them into the murk. He gave quiet instructions as to where they should set their feet. Where roots rose that might trip them up, where they might injure themselves on low-hanging branches. Soon, their world consisted of Ekko’s whispers, the water flowing past their knees, and the susurrus of the breeze through green curtains of willow fronds.
The sun had all but vanished from the sky when Ekko led them up the north bank of the stream. The silhouettes of old statues, columns, and walls dotted the landscape before them. The ruins of an old windmill, newer than much of the wreckage about it, spun listlessly on a groaning axle.
“What is this place?” Ekko asked.
Indris took in what he could see of their surroundings. He pointed to a few buildings. “The domed roofs and windmill are definitely Avān, though crude. From the looks it’s probably more than a century old.”
“Smugglers?” There was as much statement as question in Shar’s tone.
“Who else?” Indris replied.
“‘And with his hook he pierced the moon and pulled it down like a coin, with which to buy part of the sun.’” Omen was as still as the statues that surrounded them.
“Eh?” Hayden grunted. “You’re getting a might light in the mind as the days go on, my friend.”
“Quite funny, you. Traversing these ugly swamps may see white ants nesting in my head. But it neither changes the fact that I can quote from the classics, nor that the man standing there, smoking by the door, has a hook for a hand.”
“Faruq ayo!” Indris swore.
“Language,” Shar whispered as she poked Indris in the ribs.
The companions grinned. They had found what they were looking for.
CHAPTER TWENTY
“Though they show me where I die, and take my love away from me, they can’t change my destiny, these villains and their treachery…”—from the Ballad of Holt Katelin, 233rd Year of the Shrīanese Federation
Day 322 of the 495th Year of the Shrīanese Federation
The entrance to the Ghyle at the corner of Treadstone Street and Chandler Lane teemed with people. It was the busiest market district in all of Amnon. The hexagonal sandstone paving was hot under Mari’s feet. Striped awnings gave shelter to myriad street vendors, who hawked their wares, cajoling in their singsong patois.
Mari was dressed as a common nahdi. The few people who might have recognized her face would hardly look twice at a common mercenary. She merged with the crowd, was carried along by it. At the end of Treadstone Street was a plaza featuring a massive bronze statue of Mefelin, the man who had invented the printing press. It sheltered dozens of eateries, wine houses, and coffeehouses, as well as the Kellifer, the series of serpentine lanes and alleys where bookstores, paper vendors, printers, and scribes did their work. At one with the ambling throng, Mari stopped from time to time to peruse what vendors had to offer,