Dangerous Talents

by Frankie Robertson

  “This is Gris, my chamberlain.” Kon Neven lifted his left hand and turned away. The other man rematerialized from his assumed obscurity by the window and came forward. He was taller than his master, well over six feet, but too thin for his height.

  “Your presence here is quite an event,” the chamberlain said.

  “So Dahleven led me to believe.”

  “What else did Lord Dahleven tell you?” Gris’s voice was smooth and mellow.

  “Not much. You’re having some trouble with the Indians here—the Tewakwe? Or Renegades and Outcasts. That much is obvious.” Cele pushed down the grief for Sorn that tightened her throat.

  “The trouble with the Tewakwe is obvious?”

  “I was there when they attacked.”

  Gris nodded. “You called them…‘Indians?’“

  “That’s what they’re called where I come from. Used to be called. Now they’re called ‘Native Americans.’”

  Gris paused, then asked, “What else did Lord Dahleven tell you of our situation?”

  Are they worried that Dahleven blabbed State secrets? They didn’t know him very well if they thought that. He might toy with a woman’s affection, but even she could see his sense of duty wouldn’t allow him to betray his people. “Not much. He was pretty tight-lipped.”

  Her interrogator changed the subject. “Tell me about your people.”

  “What do you want to know? They’re people.”

  Gris shrugged. “Their customs, beliefs. Their Talents.”

  Talents. Cele’s heart beat faster. She’d forgotten that Dahleven had told her about them. He hadn’t acted like it was a secret, but now they might think she’d been lying. Cele looked for Kon Neven. He’d stepped to the window, his eyes intent as they watched her. She could pretend ignorance, but he would see the lie, she was sure. “That’s a big question,” she stalled.

  Gris hadn’t missed her glance. He moved closer, drawing her attention to him as he loomed over her.

  Cele fought her inclination to take a step back. “The short answer is that we’re a pretty independent bunch. We don’t like people pushing us around,” she said, pointedly. “Our customs seem fairly different from yours, certainly we dress differently,” she spread her hand, indicating her shorts, “but I don’t know much about Talents. Just what Sorn and Dahleven told me.”

  “Your people are Talentless then?” His manner had none of the embarrassed gentleness that had characterized Dahleven’s question. He stated his question more like a challenge.

  “Yes, as far as I understand what I’ve been told.”

  “Where are your people? Are you here alone?”

  Alone? Definitely. Friendless, too, since Sorn’s death. And getting tired of this quiz show. She kept her voice cool. “Yes, I’m alone, and I certainly didn’t choose to come here.”

  Gris took another step closer. “And how did you get here? Your Indians, did they open a portal to send you here?”

  “I have no idea how it happened, and even less how to get back where I belong. Do you—”

  “That’s very convenient,” Gris interrupted, “but hardly believable.”

  Cele’s voice was controlled, but edged with anger. Her eyes didn’t waver from Gris’s as she thrust her answers up into his face. “I really don’t care what you believe. Do you know what happened? Do you have any better answers? I’m not any happier about me being here than you are. I’d like nothing better than to leave.” Cele looked from Gris to Kon Neven. “Can you open a portal, or whatever you call it? Can you help me go home?”

  Kon Neven pushed away from the wall. “Thank you for coming,” he said, as Gris faded into the background again.

  As if I had a choice. Clearly, she’d been dismissed. Just as clearly, she would get no help from him. She inclined her head in an ironic imitation of courtesy, turned her back on the Kon, and left.

  Her escort was waiting. She followed him, fuming at the arrogance bred by power. She hardly noted how he led her through the maze of hallways and stairs to her room, where Thora welcomed her return.

  “How did you find the Kon? He’s a fine man, is he not?” Thora asked.

  Cele couldn’t share Thora’s enthusiasm, but she did agree that Neven was a handsome man, even at his age. “And don’t forget Gris.” Cele said, failing to keep the sarcasm out of her voice.

  “That man.” Thora shuddered. “He’s a fine chamberlain, with a good mind for detail, but I’ve never been able to warm to him.” Thora had a floor-length robe in her hands. “Shall I take you to the baths now, my lady?”

  “Yes, please. The sooner the better.” Celia slipped Sorn’s gift from her arm and set it on the table.

  “Is that not Sorn Sevondsson’s?” Thora asked.

  “Yes. He gave it to me in thanks for saving his life.” Cele grimaced as tears unexpectedly welled up. “I didn’t do a very good job of it, did I?”

  Thora nodded as if she now understood something that had puzzled her. “It’s beautiful work, done by his father, at Lord Dahleven’s request.”

  “Oh!” Celia examined the gold mountain cat embossed on the silver cuff. “He told me how Sorn saved his life.”

  “Yes, thank Baldur. But such a gift should be worn here,” Thora lightly touched Cele’s forearm, “not above the elbow. That’s not the place for it. If the cuff is too loose, you can press the edges tighter.”

  “Okay,” Cele agreed, thinking that there were probably a lot of odd customs she was running afoul of just by being here. “But don’t you think Dahleven would want this back? To remember Sorn?”

  “No. He won’t need a cuff to remember his sworn brother, and he’d want you to keep what Sorn has gifted you. Now, let’s get you into that bath,” Thora said, then hustled Cele out the door.

  The bathing room was at the end of the hall. Towels hung on racks by a large round tub carved into the floor. It was the size of an eight-person spa. A ceramic pipe came out of the wall to it. A smaller, free-standing tub stood off to the side in a depression fitted with a drain. Thora hooked a box-shaped, open-ended extension onto the pipe and pulled a lever. A bubbling rumble preceded a flow of hot steaming water. The sharp tang of minerals assailed Cele’s nostrils. The extension diverted the flow, and in short order the smaller tub was nearly full. Another shift of the lever and the water trickled to a stop.

  Thora pulled a miniature pitcher from a shelf and unstoppered it. She poured a sweet smelling oil into the water, and a scent like lavender rose on the steam, masking the smell of minerals. “This should suit you, my lady.” Then she rolled up her sleeves and donned a smock. Cele was already shucking her clothes.

  The water was almost too hot. Almost. Cele stepped into the tub gingerly at first, then sank down to submerge herself up to her chin. The knots in her muscles melted in the heat.

  Cele groaned. She was in heaven.

  The heat soothed her aches and scrapes. She leaned back against the gentle slope of the tub, closed her eyes, and pushed the unpleasant interview with Kon Neven out of her mind.

  Her respite was short lived.

  “My lady?”

  She reluctantly opened her eyes. Thora stood by with a brush and a pot of soap. Cele couldn’t deny it, she needed scrubbing.

  “I’ll wash your hair first, my lady.”

  “I can manage.”

  Thora stiffened, as though she’d been struck.

  “But it would be lovely if you helped me,” Cele said, thinking that in this case she should sacrifice her self-sufficiency. She was rewarded by Thora’s satisfied nod.

  It was lovely. Thora wet Cele’s hair with water carefully poured from a dipper, without getting a drop in her ears. Then she twice worked up a lather with a gentle massage. Cele let her head rest on the rolled edge of the stone tub as Thora rinsed the soap and sweat and dust away.

  Without comment, Thora moved on to apply a soft brush to her arms and legs. She clucked over Cele’s scrapes and bruises, but her light touch barely stung until she got to
the gash on her leg. Then Cele jerked to sit upright.

  “I’m sorry, my lady, but there’s no help for it. It must be cleaned.” Thora sounded more businesslike than contrite.

  Cele nodded. “I know. Do what you have to.”

  Thora made quick work of it while Cele clenched her teeth at the pain. The renewed bleeding stopped before it could tint the water pink. Then Thora moved on to scrub Cele’s back. The brush felt wonderful, scratching itches that surfaced now that relief was at hand. Cele let Thora rub just for the pleasure of it long after she must have been clean. Thora would have washed her front for her, too, but Cele insisted on doing that job herself.

  When the water began to cool, Cele stood while Thora pulled the plug. Thora poured warm rinse water over her shoulders and down her body. Then the woman poured a final rinse of clear, cold water over her.

  Cele’s heart almost stopped, and she shrieked and lunged away, almost slipping. “What did you do that for? That’s freezing!”

  Thora gaped. “It’s not healthy to go about with your pores open.”

  “Well, I like my pores open, thank you! Don’t ever do that again.”

  Thora opened and shut her mouth, shaking her head. Cele shivered and stepped out of the tub into a warm, oversized towel the older woman held for her. The shock of the frigid water faded as the heat penetrated and she relaxed. The last of the water swirled out of the tub and down the drain in the floor beneath, taking a week’s worth of grime with it.

  *

  Dahleven’s stomach rumbled loudly. It sounded, and felt, like rocks grinding in his belly, but he didn’t have time to eat. He’d satisfy his hunger later, with a bit of journey bread. He needed to get out onto the trails to look for his men before the sun westered any further. He had to know if any survived. Were they struggling home wounded? He couldn’t take his ease until they, too, were safe.

  His steps echoed down the stone corridor, slowing as he neared Sevond’s apartments. Before he could go, he had an unpleasant task to complete. Telling Sorn’s father that his son was dead.

  *

  Cele hadn’t been back in her room for two minutes before there was a knock at the door. Thora stopped combing Cele’s hair to admit another woman carrying a large, cloth covered tray. The delicious aroma made Cele’s mouth water. The woman put the tray on the table near the window seat and left, bobbing a curtsey to Thora and a deeper one to Cele.

  Thora lifted the cloth to reveal sausages, roasted meat, turnips, bread, steaming cider, and stewed fruit. Cele crooned an appreciative “Ooh,” and took a sip of the cider. It had an alcoholic bite, and she complimented it, murmuring “Hmm,” as she reached for a knife and the loaf of brown bread. There was enough on the tray to feed three strong men. “Sit down and have some, Thora. There’s far more than I can eat here.”

  “Oh, no, my lady.”

  “Oh, yes. Please.”

  Thora sat, sitting awkwardly on the cushions across from Cele. A moment later, another knock caused Thora to pop up from her seat. This time two men entered, bearing a chest at the behest of Kon Neven, they said. Cele continued nibbling a sausage speared on a two-pronged fork as they left and Thora inspected the contents.

  Thora’s surprised “Well!” brought Cele over to share the discovery.

  The chest held clothes in bright blues, greens, reds, and whites. They were accented with intricate embroidery at the collars and cuffs and hems, and a buttery soft suede tunic had an insignia stitched on the left breast similar to those present on clothing worn by Thora and the various servants, only this one was detailed with gold thread. The tight, even weave of the fabrics spoke eloquently of the quality of the clothes. At the bottom was a cloak of short black fur, lined with red velvet and closed with a ruby-eyed hawk-shaped clasp of finely worked gold.

  “Oh, my.” Then Cele remembered the fork in her hand and set it aside before she knelt next to Thora. “This is beautiful,” she said, reaching to slide her hand down the smooth, slick fur.

  Kon Neven’s generosity made no sense to her in the wake of his chamberlain’s interrogation. Was this his way of apologizing? She looked at Thora, hoping for an explanation, but the older woman merely looked at her with increased respect. Maybe this is part of Kon Neven’s plan. No one who saw her dressed in these clothes could doubt Cele’s standing and importance.

  Importance to whom? She wondered. What game is Neven playing?

  CHAPTER TEN

  Cele approached the dark wood door and hesitated, twitching the long green dress that fell heavily to her ankles. She would have felt elegant if the extra fabric around her feet hadn’t made her nervous about tripping, especially on the stairs.

  She forced herself to stop fidgeting. She’d asked Thora to bring her here, to Sorn’s father, but now that she was at the point of speaking to him, reluctance slowed her steps. What if no one has told him yet that his son is dead? What if I’m the first one? He shouldn’t hear this from a stranger. She almost turned around. But someone should tell him about his son’s bravery. He should know Sorn died saving my life. She straightened her shoulders.

  “Thanks, Thora. I don’t know how long I’ll be, and you probably have things to do. I’ll catch you later.”

  Thora looked at her doubtfully. “My duty is to see to your needs, Lady Celia.”

  “That’s up to you, but you don’t have to wait. I can find my own way back.” Thinking of the twists and turns of their route, Cele hoped that was true. She didn’t wait to see what Thora would do, but turned and knocked firmly on the door.

  A teenage boy answered. His face had the stunned look that people get when tragedy strikes, colored with a faint hope that Cele brought some relief.

  He knows.

  Suddenly Cele wasn’t sure what to say. “I—I’m Celia Montrose. I’ve come to see Sevond, Sorn’s father.”

  The boy stepped aside. “I’m Hrolf, Master Sevond’s apprentice. I’ll take you to him.” He shut the door and led her down a hallway. “The news has overset him. Lord Dahleven did what he could, but he couldn’t stay.”

  Dahleven. She gave him points for speaking to Sevond promptly, but her anger made it feel like swallowing stones.

  “I was learning how to plate silver when he came—Lord Dahleven, that is. I’ve never seen him like that. Well, I’ve never seen him that much at all, really, but he looked awful. I think my master knew before he spoke. The tools just fell from his hands. They went into the other room then, so I don’t know what he said, but Master Sevond hasn’t said a word to me since, even when I asked him if he wanted something to settle his nerves. He just waved his hand at me, and now he just sits there with that bracelet and I don’t know what to do.”

  They stopped in front of an arched doorway. Within the small parlor, a stocky white-haired man sat slumped, turning a silver cuff over and over in his hands.

  Hrolf continued, barely taking a breath. “I’m no comfort to him; perhaps you—well, there’s probably not enough words in the world to ease such a hurt, but maybe you can help. I’m just his apprentice—he might talk to a lady.”

  Hrolf was babbling, made talkative by his distress. Cele had heard it before on the phones with the 911 calls she’d handled. He needed something concrete to focus on. She put her hand on his shoulder and in a calm, firm voice, directed him. “Hrolf, get us something warm to drink.” The boy nodded and ran back down the hallway.

  Cele entered the room and pulled a chair up close to Sevond, off to the side and facing him. “Master Sevond, I’m Celia Montrose. May I sit with you?”

  The old gentleman slowly raised his eyes to Cele’s, then nodded to the chair she had positioned. She sat, her knees nearly touching the side of his leg. Sevond’s pale eyes were dry. Despite his stocky build, he looked fragile.

  “Sorn saved my life. He was injured defending me.” She’d hoped that once she got started she’d know what to say. Now that she was here, it was even harder than she’d feared. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

 
; Sevond nodded and looked Cele directly in the eye. “Lord Dahleven told me. My son died an honorable death, and feasts in Valhalla. For that, I am proud. He was a good boy, and a good man.” He looked down at the carved silver bracelet in his hands. His voice became tighter. “But I’m selfish. I would rather he lived.”

  “Me, too. He was my only friend here.”

  “He was my only son. The last of the precious children given me by my Bera. He had no children. My line, my family, died with him. Where are the grandchildren to comfort me in my age? They’re buried with him on the far side of the mountains.”

  Cele had nothing to say to that. Her stomach felt like a giant stone. When her mother had died by painful inches two years ago, Cele had wished a quicker end for her. A heart attack, an accident, anything would have been better than watching her slow, agonizing decline. Sevond had been spared that kind of ordeal. But his son was still dead. At least her mother’s death had been in the expected order of things. A child wasn’t supposed to die before the parent.

  Sevond’s face was a tight mask. He’d hoped for grandchildren that would never come, now. His large, thick-fingered hands rested in his lap, gently cupping the silver cuff.

  Cele groped for something to say. “That’s a lovely bracelet.”

  Sevond lifted it so the pattern caught the light. Stylized horses danced around the circle. “Sorn made this. Many years ago. He did fine work. See here?” Sevond’s finger traced a short line of metal beading. “Even the blankets are detailed. Much better than most apprentice work. But his father’s craft didn’t make his heart sing. It wasn’t his fate, he said. He was Lord Dahleven’s, from the time they were boys.”

  She ached for Sevond. He didn’t blame her, but she felt responsible despite what Dahleven had said. She might not have killed Sorn, but if he hadn’t been protecting her, if she hadn’t fallen into this violent world, he might still be alive.