Hunter's Legend_A Baylore High Fantasy

by R. J. Vickers

  “Oh, I don’t think that would be necessary,” Hunter said. “I’m not entirely satisfied with the look of the house. For now it will suit, but I’ll want to investigate more before settling in a permanent home. Besides, if my sister were to marry, I would not need half so much space.”

  “So you’re the eternal bachelor, then?” Brogan asked, sitting back in his chair and folding his hands atop his belly.

  Hunter gave Brogan his most charming smile. “Perhaps. Anyway, is there a quarterly rate we could pay for the present?”

  “One hundred varlins a span is standard,” Brogan said. “Of course, if you eventually choose to purchase the property, I can deduct any previous rental fees from the price.”

  “You are most generous,” Hunter said.

  After that, Hunter and I ordered breakfast, and Hunter did his best to keep Brogan distracted while we waited for the reference. To my amazement, Brogan seemed to be warming up to Hunter; of all the people Hunter had charmed over the years, Brogan was the least likely. When noon was drawing near and I had still seen no sign of a newcomer, I folded my napkin and stood.

  “I’m sorry it’s taking so long. They don’t live far from here—they’re a lovely couple. If you don’t mind, I’ll see what has detained them.”

  I slipped away before Brogan could question me. A purse of coins bulged at my waist, concealed by a fashionable sash. I hoped to intercept whomever the reference was, reassure myself that they knew our names, and inform them that they were a family friend. Failing that, I would return to my parents and ask if they had managed to scare anyone up.

  So many people were passing through the central square that I worried I might not spot this reference until they had slipped into The Queen’s Bed. I shaded my eyes with one hand and tried to pick out faces, wondering what sort of person my parents would have chosen. It would not be a Drifter—I had never heard of a Drifter buying a home in the Gilded Quarter—and it certainly would not be someone dressed in peasants’ garb.

  At last I spotted a middle-aged man in a simple but well-cut suit approach the inn, peering around the square as though in search of something. When he noticed me, his expression cleared.

  “You must be Cady,” he said. “I heard from an acquaintance of mine that you needed a reference to buy a house in this district.”

  I nodded. “How much did they tell you?”

  “Only that you were the daughter of my acquaintance’s dear friend. The acquaintance, as I assume you know, is a Drifter fellow who saved my life years back. I owe him a favor.”

  I unlatched the purse from my belt. “This is in return for your kindness.”

  He pushed the leather purse away. “I’m a wealthy man. I would rather help you out of simple kindness than at your expense.” He lowered his voice. “Besides, I like seeing those with ordinary upbringings rise in the world. It’s a pleasure to help you.”

  When I opened my mouth to protest, he spoke over me.

  “What do I need to know?” he said. “You and your—what, your husband? Your fiancée?—are looking to buy a house.”

  “Hunter’s not any of that,” I said. “He’s my employer. But he has told the property salesman I’m his sister.”

  “Right,” the man said without concern. “Who is this salesman, if I might ask?”

  “Brogan.”

  His eyes gleamed with understanding. “I should have guessed. I know the man only too well. Bought my first house off him. He’s a shrewd, faithless man, the only property salesman I’ve known to request a reference of character.”

  “I told him you were a ‘nice couple,’ and friends of the family,” I said. “Are you married? I hope I haven’t ruined this.”

  He chuckled. “You’re in luck. Married with three kids. Oh, and one last thing—my name is Lieman. That might be important.” He winked.

  At that, he led the way into the dining room. I hazarded a guess that he had been a bit of a troublemaker at one point, though he must have sorted his life out in the end. Maybe his wild ways had nearly killed him, and the shock of it had prompted him to change.

  I shook my head to dispel the thought and followed him in.

  Brogan, to my astonishment, was guffawing at something Hunter had just said. When he looked up and saw Lieman, his whole face went slack.

  “Brogan, old friend!” Lieman said. He gripped Brogan’s hand and took a seat across from him. “I’m here to act as a reference for Cady and Hunter. I’ve known the family for years, and I can attest that they are a wealthy and well-established name in Larkhaven. I met their parents at Baylore University, and have stayed with them on multiple occasions while visiting Larkhaven.”

  He must have picked up on the fact that we were pretending we were from out of town. I admired his quick thinking.

  “Well, this certainly—ahem,” Brogan said. “I mean, you are a highly credible reference. I was wrong to doubt my youthful customers.”

  “So that’s that, then,” Hunter said. “I’ll gladly sign a one-span lease to start out, just in case we find a more suitable property in the meantime.”

  “Right,” Brogan said. “I have two keys here, and here are the papers.” He handed us a bundle of parchment. Hunter scrawled his usual flamboyant signature across one, pocketed the keys, and grasped Brogan’s hand. “Thank you for the help. You have been invaluable. Now, if you will excuse me, we have some furnishings to relocate.”

  Standing, he took me by the elbow and dragged me away from the table. I wished I knew where Lieman lived—he could be a much-needed ally in a district full of hostile nobility.

  Chapter 5

  W e finished moving into our new home before nightfall. Our belongings fit in two satchels, one filled mainly with enchanted props Hunter had used for his stunts; the entirety of our relocation consisted of repacking and walking down the street. Once we were in the house, though, it seemed ridiculous to have come with so little. There were countless spaces that begged for filling—so many decorative side-tables and bookshelves and mantelpieces with nothing on them. The bookshelves were the most disheartening. I resolved to fill them before long.

  That night we clung to each other; my muddled, half-asleep mind was afraid of losing Hunter to the vast loneliness of the house. Even the bed and its chamber were so cavernous they reduced us to mice scurrying about the floor. The air smelled stale, layered with dust and memories of the previous owners.

  In the morning, Hunter bade me pay a visit to the Market District to find food and decorations that would bring life to the house.

  “What, you’re not planning to hire a cook?” I teased.

  “Absolutely not.”

  “What are you going to do while I’m out? Dust the bookshelves?”

  Hunter grinned. “Easier now than when they have books on them.”

  I knew he was up to something. “I hope you’re not doing anything dangerous,” I said, one hand on the engraved doorknob.

  “Just meeting with someone,” Hunter said. “Someone important. I don’t want you to get in the way.”

  That stung. “Later, then.” I wrenched the door open and nearly caught my skirts as I yanked it closed behind me.

  Basket over one arm, I marched down the street back toward the central square. It was just as I was passing the University gates, however, that I remembered Hunter’s offhand comment about our new home being close to the University. I would have bet fifty varlins that whomever he was about to meet was waiting at the University. That meant it would be a student or a professor. Someone to help him with his magical stunts, perhaps.

  I wondered how difficult it would be to follow him into the campus grounds. It was unkind of me to pry in his affairs, but I was afraid he was tangled up in something dangerous. Whatever his plans, they would materialize before midsummer’s day. If he genuinely intended to bring someone back to life…no one had ever heard of such a thing being possible, and even if it were, that was such a dark, unpleasant aspect of magic it would taint anyone involve
d. I would have been less concerned if Hunter was sneaking off to sleep with another girl.

  There was a convenient row of hedges encircling the house opposite the University, so I stashed my basket beneath these and continued around the corner until I found somewhere to wait with a good vantage of the University entrance. I had expected to wait hours, but Hunter swaggered down the street almost at once, his usual feathered hat cocked at a jaunty angle. If I had been there, I would have reminded him that the hat was probably several years out of fashion by now.

  I was both satisfied and dismayed when Hunter did exactly what I had expected—strode up to the gates and tugged on the bell-pull. A burly guard unlatched the gates and stepped onto the street, where he gave Hunter a dour stare. I couldn’t hear what they said, but Hunter must have persuaded the man to change his mind, because he moved aside and beckoned Hunter in. I darted forward, hoping to see what had transpired; Hunter was now walking across the courtyard beside a slender grey-haired man. I gave the bell-pull a yank myself, only to be confronted a heartbeat later by the same guard in an even less charitable mood.

  “What is it now?” he snapped. “We’re not a tourist attraction, miss!”

  I bobbed my head apologetically. “I’m meant to be meeting the professor as well. I was just delayed.”

  “If this is a trick, I’ll find out,” he growled. Then he unchained the gates once more and barely allowed me to slip through before slamming them shut.

  If I had been wearing a uniform, no one would have questioned me. The other students were mostly around my age, some clearly Weavers, though the majority would have been impossible to single out in a crowd. I did not have time to look around the campus, though. Hunter and the professor had already vanished beneath an archway at the far end of the courtyard. I strode across the courtyard, beneath the overhanging trees and looming dormitories, until I reached the archway, where two flights of stairs led off in either direction to what I assumed were classrooms.

  I had no idea which way Hunter and the professor had gone. When a gaggle of professors passed beneath the arch, heading straight in my direction from what looked like a small inner courtyard, I ducked into a stairwell and hoped they would not notice. I waited there, debating whether to try searching the rooms upstairs, until a student paused beside me.

  “Are you lost?” she asked. “New student applications are on the opposite side. Ask for Professor Volandrik.”

  “Thank you.” I hastened up the opposite set of stairs, hoping the girl would not follow.

  The stairs opened onto a long, high-ceilinged hallway lined with paintings and carved beams. From this hall, doors hung open to classrooms and offices. Most of the rooms were vacant, aside from a single class in session, though when I neared the end of the hallway and passed out of earshot of the murmur of students’ voices, I noticed a closed door. As I neared, I picked up male voices, muffled and distorted by the heavy stone door. Scanning the hallway, I crept closer.

  “…until midafternoon,” Hunter was saying.

  “You must attend me that morning,” the professor said. His voice was low and rasping. “Bring the girl before then. We will make arrangements.”

  “What else do you need from—”

  Hunter broke off, and the door to the room opened; I hastily backed away.

  A man’s head peered around the doorway. “Who are you?” he whispered fiercely. “You have no business here.”

  “I was just looking for V-Volandrik,” I squeaked. “I’m trying to apply. This isn’t his office, is it?”

  “No. Begone.”

  Nodding frantically, I turned and fled. I passed the now-raucous class, took the stairs two at a time to the courtyard, and skidded across the grass. My heart was pounding in my throat.

  At the gate, the guard saw me and stomped out of his office. “Couldn’t attend the meeting?” he asked nastily, unlatching the gates. “Run along now. You’re not allowed back.”

  Breathing hard, I snatched up my basket and raced down the road to the central square. From there, I turned habitually toward the council blocks before wending my way through the back roads of the Market District. I had no destination, just an itching desire to escape the city.

  I followed sounds and smells—the aroma of freshly baked butter biscuits; the cries of a woman selling flowers; the reek of leather at a tannery. By the time I made it to Wolfskin Alley, the disreputable home of thieves and black-market dealers and whores, I realized I could go no farther without leaving Baylore itself.

  The idea was tempting. If Hunter discovered I had followed him, he would be furious. I had always given him his privacy; that was the one habit of his I did not attempt to change. Maybe I ought to leave and make my own way in the world. Surely there was a merchant somewhere who needed a scribe.

  Instead I turned back toward Market Street and headed uphill once more, though I did make a detour on the way to buy a few vegetables, a sack of millet flour, and five books.

  Then, because I knew Hunter expected me, I made my way home.

  The statue garden did not feel one whit like home. I would have preferred to stay in The Queen’s Bed until our time in Baylore was up, surrounded by people going about their business, pleasantly squashed into our tiny, luxurious bedroom.

  Hunter was sitting on the staircase when I returned, writing in his journal. He was always writing. I sometimes wished I had taken up a pursuit of my own, something akin to his journaling. For a brief, sweet instant I wondered if he had waited for me because he was lonely.

  “I see your day was successful,” Hunter said, grinning at my overfilling basket.

  With relief, I dumped it beside an ornamental side-table. “I hope you aren’t tired of travelers’ food,” I said wryly. “I can hardly remember how to cook anything else.”

  Hunter followed me into the kitchen and dug through the books as I tried to make our pitiful supplies fill the space. Fetching a pot of water from the pump, I lit a small fire in the gaping brick fireplace. The stones were stained from age, and though they showed signs of rigorous cleaning, they still carried a singed smell. The kitchen was the only part of the house that held a breath of life.

  “You got two books on the Kinship Thrones?” Hunter asked, shaking his head. “I thought it was just me who was obsessed with the idea of traveling there.”

  “The books are for you, too,” I said.

  He continued to thumb through their pages. “Cloudy gods! Is this a true account?”

  I glanced his direction. The book he had selected claimed to be the tale of the first explorer to brave the Icelings’ mountainous domain. “No idea.”

  “You know, that’s where I would go before Whitland,” he said. “The Iceling city. I’ve heard they’re barely human. They shouldn’t be able to live somewhere so harsh, yet they’re perfectly suited for it.”

  “Mmm,” I said, slicing an onion. I did not want to talk about a future that could never be. Hunter was up to something; everything would change on Midsummer’s Day, though I could not tell whether it was for good or ill.

  Hunter opened to the first page and skimmed the text. “This fellow claims he lived with the Icelings for two years. Two years!”

  I nodded. Should I say something to Hunter? No, that would be a mistake. I had never managed to talk him out of his mad ideas in the past. Upsetting him would only make life more difficult.

  When I rubbed my eyes, which were stinging from the onions, Hunter closed the book with one finger holding his place. “Cady? Is something wrong?” His tone was cautious and almost vulnerable. I had not seen this side of him before.

  “No, nothing,” I said. “It’s just the onions.”

  He continued to watch me, but I went about my business without another word.

  We shared a quiet dinner that night. Hunter and I piled the new books beside our plates on the kitchen table (we could not bring ourselves to eat in the lonely banquet hall) and thumbed through them as we ate. For my part, I could not take in a wor
d of text. I was terrified that Hunter’s big act was becoming more than an act; that some crucial change was about to occur. He had become too wrapped up in his role as the prophet, and could no longer remember himself. Or perhaps he had intended this all along, and had fooled everyone with his sport, including myself.

  “Sometimes I don’t understand you,” I said at last, when the sun had set and the room had grown too dark for me to make out the words on the page.

  “I’m sorry,” Hunter said. “Someday I’ll tell you the truth. Every piece of it.”

  “Unless you get yourself killed first,” I muttered. Why did he have to orchestrate a jump off the cathedral tower? Even with the proper magical instruments in place, there was so much that could go wrong.

  “Is that what you’re worried about?” he asked. “You shouldn’t fret. Everything is very well organized.”

  I shook my head at him. I wished I could tell him I’d seen the professor he met with, and warn him of how little I trusted the man. Clearly Hunter needed his help for something; only desperation would have led him to rely on another person. He was fiercely, unbendingly independent.

  Chapter 6

  A re you finished being sullen?”

  I rolled over and rubbed my eyes. Hunter was bending over me, fully dressed and grinning maliciously.

  “Because we have an important excursion today. And you’re not allowed to come along if you’re going to be cross.”

  I groaned. “No, I’m not planning to be cross,” I said. “Though your chances haven’t been helped by waking me so unceremoniously.”

  “It’s long past sunrise! No one has any business being abed at this time.”

  Shaking my head, I threw off the bedclothes and began to dress. He had spent many long mornings hiding from the sun with a throbbing headache from too much indulgence the night before; more often than not, I was the one dragging him out of bed so he would not neglect his obligations.