A Lake Most Deep by Howell Rob

Author:Howell, Rob
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: New Mythology Press
Published: 2023-07-21T00:00:00+00:00

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Chapter Thirty-One

Afternoon, 15 Stormwrath, 2112 IR

As we left the tavern, Svetislav’s face held the rare hint of a smile.

“Why are you smiling?”

His smile grew broader.

“You know something. You’ve known that something for a while.”

“Beard.”

“Fenris stalk you! You knew something when they couldn’t tell me about the beard? And you let me keep going?”

“Going too good to stop.” He grinned as he led me around the Stracara and up another of the many steep hills in Achrida.

“There’s a limb on the World Tree waiting for you,” I growled.

“Probably, whatever that means.”

“So what did you learn?”

“Know a Berzeti, has this way about him that matches.” He suddenly became serious.

“What?” I asked.

“Makes no sense.”

“Something about him makes no sense?”

He nodded.

“It doesn’t make sense he’d coordinate the price fixing by the captains?”

“Does not.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “He’s one of Jeremena’s.”

“But the price-fixing messes with Jeremena’s plan. Do you think she’s got another iron in the fire?”

“Cunning enough, but…” He shrugged.

We went through a number of small squares under the ridge. Each held a small fountain, small stores, small kiosks, and small people. Eventually we returned to the larger streets and followed one until we stood over a wide-open place shining in the sun.

“Why are we at the amphitheater?” I asked.

He ignored me and walked around to a large annex on the back of the theater. We entered a narrow door wedged into a corner. Collections of objects filled the room. In one corner, a pile of busts, chipped and worn by hard use, leered in every direction. In another, swords, helms, shields, and bits of armor mustered in a chaotic pile. Flat structures of heavy fabric nailed to light planks leaned against the far wall.

Svetislav led me through another door, and we passed shelves filled with more things. Random things. Mugs and jewelry and hammers and plates and shoes and quills and cloaks and tongs and bowls and so much more.

The next room held racks of clothes stretching out of sight. A young woman ignored us, keeping her focus on the tunic she was repairing. When she did look up, I saw soft, sweet eyes cursed to blindness from long toil in dim light.

Svetislav politely, though as curtly as ever, asked, “Kemal?”

She shook her head. “Haven’t seen him today. Tried the ’Side?”

“The Hillside tavern?”

She nodded.

“Not yet. Where does he live?”

“I’m not sure, though it’s not for lack of him trying to get me there.” She giggled. “I think it’s close to the ’Side, as he’s always saying it’d just take a moment to get to his bed.”

Svetislav nodded, and I thanked her as we left.

The Hillside proved to be three stone walls reaching out from the limestone of the ridge roofed by the ubiquitous red clay tiles. Graffiti covered the exterior walls.

Inside, dripping cave rock formed the back. The room held rickety tables, tired benches, and fresh people. Strata of memory covered the masonry. Nailed-up tunics competed for space with interesting paintings and illuminated manuscripts. Shelves adorned with sculptures and oddities ran around the upper part.

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