Aldric Talvalin enjoyed good food, and after the past year he had learned to appreciate its associations even more. They were associations of a time when his life was peaceful, when he might have worn his Three Blades just as a sign he’d grown up, not as a constant necessity to defend life and honour. And of a time when he was not the last of his line.
He shook off that instant of gloom as Marek gave instructions for food and wine to a pot-boy. From the shape of him and the sound of his order, the Cernuan demon-queller liked the pleasures of the table just as much as Aldric. He listened with considerable respect as Marek ordered saffron soup, pork simmered in ale with sour plums and pepper, carrot and garlic fritters fried with bacon, braised cabbage with nutmeg, cream and chestnuts, then cheese and anchovy tarts to finish. They were elaborate dishes a traveller couldn’t make for himself or expect to find in villages and country inns, the dishes a man who relished them would miss.
Gueynor was doing the same, though Aldric could see she was torn between indulging half-remembered tastes and reminding herself that whoever she pretended to be wasn’t accustomed to them. That was a feeling he knew well enough. She was probably also remembering the near-siege fare in Valden, and feeling guilty to be dining so well now. Well, the village should be improving already, now it was safe to go back into the Deepwood, and whether she ate well or just nibbled a dry biscuit wouldn’t make that improvement go any faster. Aldric already knew how he intended to eat. The kitchen of The Crossed Pikes wouldn’t be cooking like this just for him, so guilt wasn’t needed for seasoning.
It was an impressive bill of fare for any eating-house, and for one among several in a small town at the unfashionable end of the Jevaiden plateau it was astonishing. A lavish use of wine and spices told Aldric how much trade came through here, with the cream of each transaction no doubt skimmed off the top by the Geruaths and the sour remnant sent to the Empire with a sweetening of excuses. It reminded him of The Seventh Wave in Erdhaven, whose Valhollan owner sourced his most expensive supplies through smugglers…
No, not smugglers, he reminded himself. Merchant venturers. Kyrin was always scrupulous about that, even though the venturers might have no more scruples than they could get away with. I wonder where she is now…
Aldric stamped on that thought and ordered wine – white Hauverne, very cold, because if it wasn’t at its best here, then where? – before strolling towards the open cooking area that provided the house specialties from a long iron grille steeply slanted in front of a bed of charcoal. At first he made just an idle inspection, though edged with genuine appetite for the various meats and fish laid out ready for cooking. Then his eyes narrowed and his next assessment was much more careful.
His wine-flask was on the table when he returned, condensation from the cold-cellar beading on its sides, and the full platter in his hands drew an amused smile from Mark but a wary frown from Gueynor. She looked from the plate, containing only cuts of meat, to the black wolfskin coyac he still wore over his own clothes, and even with one eye he could see doubts surfacing like nervous fish.
“No, nothing like that,” he said as he sat down and opened his cutlery-case. “I like grilled meat, and cooking it over an open fire is harder than the storymakers claim. But there’s something odd about all this. Do you see?” Gueynor took several seconds before she shook her head; Marek took a little longer, then pointed with his knife.
“Is that pork?”
“No. It’s wild boar. The green stuff is wild onion tips and wood-sorrel.”
“Then I do see.” The demon-queller pursed his lips in a brief silent whistle and took a swallow of his own wine, then resumed eating as if nothing had happened. Gueynor looked from one to the other then at Aldric’s plate, and frowned again at still not spotting the answer.
“Is someone going to tell me?”
“It’s game,” said Aldric. “All of it. Wild boar, venison, partridge… They even had pike, as you’d expect in a house named for them. Not for me, not today, but you can’t raise pike in a fishpond. You catch it in a river, and I saw no river running through this town. Everything’s from the forest, even the herbs, and it’s too soon for anyone in Seghar to know…” He hesitated, knowing the next words would hurt, until Gueynor gave him a wan little smile and a nod. “They can’t know the Beast is dead, not yet. So unless the Geruaths send out an armed escort with every hunter, the woods around Seghar have always been safe.”
*
Marek’s predicted summons came sooner than anyone had expected. They had been eating in the pleasant common-room for less than half an hour when a crest-coated retainer came in, asking for the demon-queller in Lord Crisen’s name. And at once. Marek nodded to the messenger and continued to eat. This retainer had no gisarm, no armour, and since he was maybe fifteen years old, he commanded rather less respect than Kortagor Jervan’s empty boots.
“At once, sir,” the youngster repeated with all the authority he could muster. “My lord was most insistent on that point.”
“That’s as may be.” Marek made a sweeping gesture, taking in the cluttered table, the flasks and the platters while almost taking out Aldric’s freshly filled cup. “I’m just as insistent that I finish my supper. I’ve attended meetings with any number of lords in the past, and apart from insubstantial dainties they never include much to eat.” He hesitated, then smiled. “Though the wine is often excellent.”
“You’re making this summons in Lord Crisen’s name,” said Aldric, looking the young retainer up and down. “Why not his father, the Overlord?” Knowing what he did about Crisen Geruath’s consort, there was more than idle curiosity in the question.
“It was Lord Crisen who sent me, sir. But I’m sure the Overlord—”
“Of course.” Aldric doubted that the Overlord would agree, or whatever declaration the retainer had been about to make, but decided not to make an issue of it.
“What about us?” Gueynor asked. After her encounter with Jervan she was clearly doubting her own wisdom in following Aldric to Seghar. “Do we stay here or come with you?”
“Well?” Marek spoke with his mouth full, either deliberately rude or just as deliberately casual. “What about my companions? Are they included?”
“No, sir. My lord asked only for the demon-queller Marek. No other names were mentioned.”
“You realise they’ll eat all the food? Probably drink all the wine while they’re at it. And you know who paid for this, don’t you?”
“Sir, please…” Marek looked at the young man all but dancing on the spot with impatience, and grunted morosely.
“All right.” He stole a chop from Aldric’s plate between finger and thumb and stripped the meat in two bites, washed it down with a long draught of wine, belched his appreciation then spent several dainty minutes wiping his mouth and fingers before he was ready. Aldric watched, wondering how much of this was an act and how much was really Marek. It had occurred to him that the demon-queller might not be just be playing the role of portly indolence, but living it.
“Will you be safe enough without a bodyguard?” he asked.
“I should think—” Marek began just as the young retainer interrupted, eager to say something pleasing at long last.
“But you have a guard, sir! They’re waiting outside. My lord sent four soldiers as an escort for your honour’s sake, to show your importance.”
“Ah,” said Marek. “That was very…” He searched for a word which wouldn’t betray his real feelings. “Very considerate of him. Yes. Considerate. Very.”
*
Aldric was almost alone in the common-room when Marek returned from the citadel. He was also the only person still awake, with the amount of food and drink still on the table showing how much he had lost his appetite. Gueynor, unaccustomed to the potent Elherran sweet-wine she had begun drinking after Marek left, snored softly on a settle near the fire, wrapped in a blanket with the black wolfskin cushioning her head.
There was another flask of wine near A
ldric’s elbow, but he knew he couldn’t relax unless he followed Gueynor’s example and preferred not to fuddle his wits for the sake of sleep. The thoughts drifting to and fro in his mind didn’t help much either. There was such a thing as having read too many subjects in too little detail, enough for his subconscious to work on but not enough to calm it again.
He was far from a typical kailin, but despite Baiart’s long-ago mockery he was a typical younger son of his generation, passable at many things, good at few. He had once been an inveterate scribbler of drawings, of snatches of poetry or song, of scraps of gossip or anything else which might prove of later interest. There had been small chance for that in recent months, but the habit remained, one of several small accomplishments drawn upon at need. Despite the kourgath forest-cat on his crest-collar, he knew he was more like a well-fed house cat, catching mice when it wants rather than because it must. So now, leaning back in a chair with one booted foot propped on a stool, he scratched idle sketches with a scrap of charcoal and appeared at ease.
Marek looked over his shoulder at what was taking shape on the sheet of rough paper. It was the face of a woman with fair haired and high cheekbones, not a portrait but a study in light and shadow where shadow predominated. Her gaze was turned away into darkness.
“From imagination, Kourgath? Or from memory?”
“Both. Neither. It’s sometimes hard to be sure.” Aldric crushed the paper in his fist then flung it clear across the room and into the fire. “But mostly memory. One best forgotten.”
“So that was the Valhollan woman ar Korentin mentioned.”
Aldric went very still, and the stare he gave Marek was enough to make the demon-queller take an involuntary step backwards. It was a reaction that made him think, no, made him sure Dewan had mentioned more than just Kyrin. There had almost certainly been warnings about him, about his temper, and above all about his sword. Dewan might have guessed it alone, or been advised by Gemmel; either would have prompted caution. Isileth Widowmaker had an old reputation as a gortaiken, one of the ‘hungry swords’ whose mere ownership provoked bad-tempered strife and let them fulfil the role for which swords were made.
Kyrin had thought so too. It was one of the reasons why she left him.
Aldric himself didn’t know what to think. Anyone as vengeance-driven as he had been would have brought ill-repute to anything from a battleaxe to a paring-knife. That it was a taiken – this taiken – was just coincidence. Wasn’t it?
The scabbarded longsword was propped within easy reach of his chair, where it had rested all evening except for the times it had ridden in peace position across his back. Kortagor Jervan hadn’t asked him to surrender it, or any of his Three Blades, which was just as well because Aldric would have refused. Then Jervan would have insisted more emphatically, for the sake of discipline and the respect due to his rank. Aldric’s second refusal would have been just as emphatic, and the inevitable next step would have been bloody. Fortunately it hadn’t happened. Whatever else Jervan knew about Alba, he was aware of the respect due to an armed man and his Blades.
“For a man entrusted with secrets,” Aldric said quietly, “Dewan ar Korentin can have a damned loose mouth.” His chair scraped back and he stood up, dusting charcoal from his fingertips. “Well, later for that. What did their Lordships want with you?” It was hard to tell if Marek’s expression had to do with his own careless words or Aldric’s question, but the demon-queller glanced round the room before risking a reply and when he did, it was evasive.
“Have you checked on the horses yet, or do you trust Seghar’s stables with your black Andarran?”
“Now you mention it, no, and no. I haven’t checked, and I only trust Lyard with myself.” Aldric lifted an apple from the fruit-dish and studied it a moment, then polished it briskly on his sleeve. “How about a walk in the evening air to aid digestion?” It sounded more like an order than an invitation, but Marek nodded.
“Why not…?”
*
After they had left the lamps and firelight of the common-room a prudent distance behind, Aldric removed the cloth patch covering his right eye and slipped it down round his neck like a narrow scarf. Widowmaker wasn’t across his back but already hooked to his weapon-belt and he gave the long hilt a slight twist, loosening the blade in its scabbard for a fast draw.
“Are you expecting trouble?” asked Marek.
“No. At least, not at present. But just in case,” a handspan of taiken-blade glinted in lazy threat then slipped back out of sight, “I like to be ready.”
There was a bonfire smouldering at one end of the stable-yard, its surface crawling with the red rats’-eyes of sparks while threads of acrid blue smoke coiled up into the night. Somewhere out of sight a bucket’s handle clanked, and a broom began its rhythmic swish on cobblestones in time to a tuneless whistle. It was all very ordinary.
If the stable-yard was ordinary, the stable-block was not. It was built of clean timber and biscuit-coloured stone, well-drained and well-ventilated yet snug and laid out, as far as Aldric could see, according to the diagrams of an Imperial cavalry manual he had read years ago. There was no stale reek of dung, only the warm friendly smell of the horses mingled pleasantly with fresh hay and straw and the incisive granary tang of oats. He ran a critical eye along the line of stalls. The grooms had been at work with brushes, mops and water as if they had anticipated his inspection, and perhaps they had. Jervan would have performed an inspection of his own, rummaging through any baggage left unattended, and Aldric was glad he had taken the Echainon spellstone from its wristband and hung it out of sight around his neck.
Bedding rustled as Lyard scented a familiar presence and shifted in his loose-box. Aldric examined the big Andarran with approval. He had been combed, brushed and all but polished by a stableman who knew good horseflesh and how to bring up the best points of a fine animal, and now his coat shone with the midnight lustre of crushed coal. The horse whickered, regarding Aldric with eyes and ears and flaring nostrils until he click-clicked tongue against teeth and held out the apple. Lyard nudged his hand, snuffled at the proffered fruit and crunched it up with relish.
“Four-legged eating machine,” Aldric said, but he patted the big courser’s whiskered, apple-sweet muzzle with more affection than his words suggested. “Dewan, you have something to tell me?”
“I couldn’t at the inn. Jervan sent us there for a reason.”
“Yes, I’d guessed that one for myself. The place must be full of his eyes and ears. And he must have realised we’d guess. Why not just say ‘I’m putting you somewhere you’ll be watched’ and have done with it? Or let us pick our own place and slip spies into that one later? He would have heard more.”
“Aldric…” said Marek. Aldric’s head snapped round a fraction before completing the turn in a more casual manner, but there was still anger in his eyes and he made no response to the name. “Tomorrow morning we’re being given quarters in the citadel.” Aldric said nothing. “There’s been an accident.” Aldric still said nothing. “Sedna is dead.” Even in the dim light of the stables Marek Endain saw his companion’s face go pale, until the only colour that remained was the dye-stain on his skin.
“When?” Aldric’s voice was flat, revealing nothing. “And how?”
“There was an accident last night. When the moon was full. She was preparing a conjuration and something went wrong.”
“How?” Aldric repeated, suspicions seething inside his head like maggots in dead meat. “What happened to her?” The demon-queller’s mouth twitched under his full beard as if he was tasting something foul.
“All right. All right… The something wrong pulled her apart. And ate the pieces. I know. I saw.”
“What was it, this something?” Aldric persisted. “An animal? A werebeast?”
“It was a demon, damn you! A demon!” Marek’s eyes were wide, and now they glistened with the unshed tears of horror he had held back so well. “Before you ask, I don’t know what sort! But i
t was enough to wrench a human body into chunks. The way you would with a chicken!”
“You would, maybe,” Aldric said, screening his own shock with callousness. “I have better table manners.”
Marek hit him. Not just a slap of indignation at his attitude, but a full-blooded swing that caught him unawares and almost knocked him off his feet. The print of the demon-queller’s palm and fingers flared scarlet from ear to chin of Aldric’s pale face. He staggered against the door of Lyard’s stall with a boom that sent the high-strung beast skittering backwards in a thumping of straw-muffled hooves. For an instant his knees seemed to give way, and he sagged a little as one hand slapped against his leg just above the boot-top. Then he surged upright again, and that hand had a dagger in it. This time there was no attacking lunge, but the bared blade was enough for Marek.
“What was it you said? ‘We could be friends eventually, if I draw no more steel.’ So much for that!” It was a sneer of contempt, but Aldric looked at the dagger as if it was a venomous reptile. Certainly it had come from its hiding-place as fast as a striking snake.
“I might have killed you,” he said.
“You might have tried.”
Despite Marek’s bold words they both knew Aldric spoke the truth. If he had gone for his sword instead of the hidden dagger he would have cut in the same motion as the taiken cleared its scabbard, a response so long-trained that it was as much a reflex as swatting a fly. He wouldn’t have intended to do it, but by that stage intent or the lack of it wouldn’t have mattered to Marek.
The Demon Lord Page 19
