Free Dragonlinks by Paul Collins

ring.’
    â€˜I’m having a hard enough time learning Nerrissian grammar, Jaelin. Must you confuse me with words that aren’t even used anymore?’
    Jelindel ignored the complaint. ‘I have occasionally seen lenx used in connection with mage, too. What did you notice about the man who employed you?’
    â€˜He’s staying at the Boar and Bottle. The vintner’s maid said that he came across Dragonfrost with a young warrior called Daretor. She overheard Daretor calling him Thull or something.’
    â€˜That’s odd,’ Jelindel mused. ‘Thull was a mage who died about a century ago. He led a civil war against the Movelii Emperor and would have won, had neighbouring monarchs and their Adepts not stepped in and shattered his armies. Perhaps they are related. I saw a sketch of him in a book once. He was truly evil looking, with fish eyes and a gaunt face. His hair was long and straggly, like that of a lost soul, but the artist had draped him in finely tailored robes.’
    â€˜That could well be this man, except that he looks after his hair more carefully. I could take you to see him,’ suggested Zimak.
    â€˜Anything to get out of your spelling lessons,’ Jelindel chided.
    â€˜Well, do you want to see him or not?’
    She looked out across the harbour, which was devoid of anything of real interest to look at.
    â€˜Why not? I’ll keep asking words as we walk.’
    The Boar and Bottle was busy with the early afternoon trade when Zimak led Jelindel into the taproom and ordered ale and limewater.
    The cooking fire was blazing with the hacked-up tarry timbers of some dead ship. A boiling cauldron of stew spilled aromatic scents into the room. Jelindel could see an embedded arrowhead glowing red hot against the blackened wood. The ship had probably died a violent death at the hands of the increasingly bold brigands that hid among the coastal islands. Wreckage such as this drove fear into seafaring merchants when it appeared amid the flotsam on the incoming tides. The King’s fleet was now almost exhausted under the weight of continual small wars with neighbouring states and gave little protection.
    Jelindel had a quick look about the tavern. Most of the patrons were out-of-work wharfjacks and the mood of the place was gloomy.
    A recruiting officer of the Preceptor’s civil militia was sitting at a rough-hewn table near a window, talking to a group of men. Jelindel noticed how affluent the man seemed to be, for he was buying trays of tankards. Occasionally he would smile and scribble someone’s name or mark into a ledger.
    â€˜I’ll be like him one day,’ Zimak said, misconstruing Jelindel’s interest in the officer. ‘Look at that uniform. Tailored nut-brown tunic, black leather straps and brassbuckles. Another two years, maybe only one, and I’ll look old enough to enlist.’
    â€˜Indeed?’ Jelindel said, eyebrows arched. She had nothing good, or even neutral, to say about the Preceptor, so she took a sip of limewater.
    â€˜I’ll be able to read and write like a merchant’s son by then. I could even go straight in as an officer’s squire, and in five years’ time I’d have a uniform like that and wear the crest of my tragically murdered parents in gold thread on my collar.’
    â€˜Oh, talk sense!’ snapped Jelindel. ‘Your father fell off a bridge and drowned in the Blackwater River while coming home drunk after work. Your mother’s one of the loudest, most foul-tempered fishwives in the market.’
    Zimak frowned, but did not reply.
    â€˜What is your family crest to be? A herring rampant on a beer barrel?’
    â€˜I can be whatever I want people to believe,’ Zimak replied. ‘Here on my finger is the last connection with my family, a fine ring of old rolled gold.’
    He held out his hand for her to admire the cheap ring. It was made of lead and had a crude design