Artesans of Albia: 01 - King's Envoy by Cas Peace Page A
Authors: Cas Peace
Captain Tamsen. He ought to remember me. And don’t worry about the house, I’ll see it’s alright.”
“Thanks, Paulus. I’ll owe you a good few nights behind the bar for this,” said Taran. He was desperately hoping the village would be safe from raiders while he was gone.
“Don’t think I won’t collect,” laughed the barkeep. “Go on, be off with you.”
Taran led the way to the livery where their mounts were waiting. Stablelads helped arrange the saddlebags and held the horses’ heads while they mounted.
Cal eyed his piebald cob suspiciously. “I hope this thing’s reliable.”
“Quiet as a lamb, sir,” said one of the boys, grinning as he held the bridle. “Usually ridden by an old lady to visit her daughter in Shenton.”
“I’ve heard that one before,” muttered Cal, taking the reins. The stocky little cob did seem very steady and gradually Cal relaxed.
Taran set a gentle pace, following the high road north toward Canstown. It was a major route and well traveled, so the road was in good repair. There were other travelers on the road and once, in the distance, they even saw a Roamerling camp.
‘Roamerling’ was a derogatory Albian term for the nomadic people of the First Realm, Endomir. To escape their homeland’s ferociously icy winters, these dark-skinned wanderers haunted the other realms during the cold months. Traveling in their close-knit family groups, they peddled herbs and cures, and the favors of their sloe-eyed girls. They were shunned and treated with scorn by Albians during daylight hours and trusted by no one. Under the anonymity of night, however, villagers would often visit the noisy circle of wagons and firelight to part with their gold and indulge in furtive pleasures.
Taran saw Cal watching the nomads with a wistful eye. “Do you miss the time you spent with the Roamerlings before I met you, Cal?”
Cal smiled briefly, his teeth very white against his dark skin. “Not really. I’m still grateful they took me in after my family threw me out, but I knew I couldn’t stay with them forever. I did learn some interesting skills from them, though.”
Taran grinned back. “Which skills are you talking about? Pick-pocketing or playing the whistle?”
Cal patted the silver longwhistle in his pocket. It never left him and the haunting tunes he produced often entertained his friends. “One resulted in the other,” he laughed. “Thank goodness you found me that night, Taran. You saved me from a life of petty crime.”
They rode on, leaving the Roamerling camp behind. At midday, they stopped for a snack, and then continued on for the better part of the afternoon until reaching the major crossroads that would take them to Tolk. This was a much larger city, laying far to the west. As usual, at a crossing of the ways like this, people were camped: traders and travelers like themselves, all taking the opportunity to hear other wayfarers’ gossip.
“I think we’ll stop for a breather, too,” said Taran. “You never know, we might hear something interesting.”
They dismounted and tied the horses to a railing. They joined the cluster of people sitting or standing under a copse of trees. Judging by the trampled ground, this was a popular rest site.
Their fellow travelers hailed them, eager for news. Taran and his friends traded inconsequential village gossip, careful not to mention their real business. Most of what they heard concerned the raids; everyone was talking about the unrest. One man even knew of a pitched battle that had occurred recently near his village. More importantly, he also knew the raiders were definitely Andaryans.
“Crack fighting unit they sent to sort it out,” he said, relishing the tale. “From that garrison to the northwest, they were. Fighting was very fierce, by all accounts, and I heard the demons were unusually savage. Managed to wound one of the garrison’s senior officers and kill a
“Thanks, Paulus. I’ll owe you a good few nights behind the bar for this,” said Taran. He was desperately hoping the village would be safe from raiders while he was gone.
“Don’t think I won’t collect,” laughed the barkeep. “Go on, be off with you.”
Taran led the way to the livery where their mounts were waiting. Stablelads helped arrange the saddlebags and held the horses’ heads while they mounted.
Cal eyed his piebald cob suspiciously. “I hope this thing’s reliable.”
“Quiet as a lamb, sir,” said one of the boys, grinning as he held the bridle. “Usually ridden by an old lady to visit her daughter in Shenton.”
“I’ve heard that one before,” muttered Cal, taking the reins. The stocky little cob did seem very steady and gradually Cal relaxed.
Taran set a gentle pace, following the high road north toward Canstown. It was a major route and well traveled, so the road was in good repair. There were other travelers on the road and once, in the distance, they even saw a Roamerling camp.
‘Roamerling’ was a derogatory Albian term for the nomadic people of the First Realm, Endomir. To escape their homeland’s ferociously icy winters, these dark-skinned wanderers haunted the other realms during the cold months. Traveling in their close-knit family groups, they peddled herbs and cures, and the favors of their sloe-eyed girls. They were shunned and treated with scorn by Albians during daylight hours and trusted by no one. Under the anonymity of night, however, villagers would often visit the noisy circle of wagons and firelight to part with their gold and indulge in furtive pleasures.
Taran saw Cal watching the nomads with a wistful eye. “Do you miss the time you spent with the Roamerlings before I met you, Cal?”
Cal smiled briefly, his teeth very white against his dark skin. “Not really. I’m still grateful they took me in after my family threw me out, but I knew I couldn’t stay with them forever. I did learn some interesting skills from them, though.”
Taran grinned back. “Which skills are you talking about? Pick-pocketing or playing the whistle?”
Cal patted the silver longwhistle in his pocket. It never left him and the haunting tunes he produced often entertained his friends. “One resulted in the other,” he laughed. “Thank goodness you found me that night, Taran. You saved me from a life of petty crime.”
They rode on, leaving the Roamerling camp behind. At midday, they stopped for a snack, and then continued on for the better part of the afternoon until reaching the major crossroads that would take them to Tolk. This was a much larger city, laying far to the west. As usual, at a crossing of the ways like this, people were camped: traders and travelers like themselves, all taking the opportunity to hear other wayfarers’ gossip.
“I think we’ll stop for a breather, too,” said Taran. “You never know, we might hear something interesting.”
They dismounted and tied the horses to a railing. They joined the cluster of people sitting or standing under a copse of trees. Judging by the trampled ground, this was a popular rest site.
Their fellow travelers hailed them, eager for news. Taran and his friends traded inconsequential village gossip, careful not to mention their real business. Most of what they heard concerned the raids; everyone was talking about the unrest. One man even knew of a pitched battle that had occurred recently near his village. More importantly, he also knew the raiders were definitely Andaryans.
“Crack fighting unit they sent to sort it out,” he said, relishing the tale. “From that garrison to the northwest, they were. Fighting was very fierce, by all accounts, and I heard the demons were unusually savage. Managed to wound one of the garrison’s senior officers and kill a