The gods give warriors lir not to bless them, but to curse them; to make them vulnerable, so they can never be men but minions instead, set to serve spiteful gods. They give warriors lir simply to take them away.
Kellin stared hard at the knife, daring himself to break down. Beautifully balanced, the steel blade was etched with Cheysuli runes denoting Blais' name and Houses: Homana first, and Erinn.
The grip itself was unadorned so as not to interfere with the hand, but the pommel made up for the plainness. An elaborate snarling wolf's head was set with emeralds for eyes.
Kellin's throat closed. To swallow was painful.
"A waste," he said tightly. "The gods would have done better to take me in his place."
But they had not, despite his pleas, and he had cursed them for it often. Now he simply ignored them; there was no place in Kellin's life for gods so vindictive and capricious as to first steal his father, then permit his liege man to die.
Anger goaded his bruised spirit. Kellin slammed shut the chest and turned to his belt with its now-empty sheath. He slid the knife home with a decisive motion so that only the wolf's head showed, snarling a warning to the world. Apropos, Kellin thought. Let them all be forewarned.
He dressed rapidly, replacing soiled breeches with new; a plain wool shirt and velvet doublet, both brown; and Homanan-style boots. Over it all he fastened the belt, brushing the knife hilt with the palm of his hand to make certain of its presence. Time I tested Corwyth's promise.
The Mujhar had assigned new watchdogs. Kellin wondered briefly if they knew or were curious about what had become of the last four, but he did not trouble himself to ask. He merely told them curtly to keep their distance, making no effort to befriend them or endear himself to them; he did not want them as friends, and did not particularly care what they thought of him.
This time Kellin rode; so did they. They followed closely, but not so closely as to tread upon his mount's hooves. Testing them—and himself—
he led them deep into the Midden to its very heart, where the weight of filth and poverty was palpable.
No one will know me here. And so they would not; Kellin wore nothing to give away his identify save his ruby signet ring, but if the stone were turned inward against his palm no one would see it. He preferred anonymity. Let those of the Midden believe he was a rich Mujharan lordling gone slumming for a lark; he knew better. He wanted a game, and a fight. As he had told the Mujhar, he did nothing without a point.
The tavern he selected lay at the dead end of a narrow, dark street little better than the manure trench behind the hall garderobe in Homana-Mujhar. It was a slump-shouldered hovel with haphazard slantwise roof; the low door, badly cracked, hung crooked in counterpoint to the roof.
The building resembled nothing so much as a drunkard gone sloppy on too much liquor.
Kellin smiled tightly. This will do. He dropped off his horse and waited impatiently for his watchdogs to join him on the ground. "Three of you shall remain here," he said briefly. "One I will take with me, because I must in compromise; it seems I have no choice." He thrust the reins to one of the guardsmen. "Wait here, in the shadows.
Do what you are honor-bound to do; I make no claim on your loyalty. You answer the Mujhar's bidding, but answer also a little of mine: leave me to myself this night." He gestured toward one of them. The man was young, tall, blocky-shouldered, with pale blond hair and blue eyes. "You will come in with me, but see you it is done without excess attention. And strip off that tunic."
The young guardsman was startled. "My lord?"
"Strip it off. I want no royal dogs at my heels tonight." Kellin appraised him closely. "What is your name?"
"Teague, my lord."
Kellin gestured. "Now."
Slowly Teague stripped out of his crimson tunic with its black rampant lion. He handed it reluctantly to another guardsman, then looked back at Kellin. "Anything else, my lord?"
"Rid yourself of your sword. Do not protest—you have a knife still." He allowed derision to shape the tone. "Surely more than enough weaponry for a member of the Mujharan Guard."
Cheeks burning, Teague slowly divested himself of the swordbelt and handed it over to the man who held his tunic.
Kellin assessed him again, chewing the inside of his cheek. Finally he sighed. "Even a horse with winter hair still shows its blood." He bent and scooped up a handful of mud, then smeared it purposefully across league's mail shirt to dull the polished links and to foul the pristine breeches.
He ignored the young man's rigidity and pinched mouth. When he was done, Kellin washed his hands in slushy snow, then nodded at the discomfited guardsman. "They will not know you at once."
Distaste was not entirely suppressed though Teague made the effort. "They will not know me at all, my lord."
Kellin grinned. "Better. Now, my orders." He waited until his expectant silence gained Teague's complete attention. "Once we are through that door I am not to be called 'my lord,' nor do I desire your interference in anything I undertake."
Teague's jaw was tight. "We are charged with your life, my lord. Would you have me turn my back on a knife meant for yours?"
Kellin laughed. "Any knife meant for my back would have to be fast indeed. I doubt I will come to harm—though the gods know I would welcome the challenge." He gestured at the remaining three guardsmen. "Take the horses and move into the shadows."
"My lord?" Teague clearly had not forsaken the honorific. "It is not for me to reprove you—"
"No. It is not."
"—but I think you should know this is not the best of all places to spend your time drinking or dicing."
"Indeed," Kellin agreed gravely. "That is precisely the point. Now—you are to go in and find your own table. I require two things of you only: to sit apart from me, and to be silent."
Teague cast a scowl at his companions waiting in the shadows, then grudgingly nodded. "Aye."
Kellin jerked a thumb at the door. and the muck-smeared guardsman went in muttering under his breath. Kellin waited until enough time had passed to nullify the appearance of companionship, then went in himself.
The stench of the hovel tavern struck him first.
Soiled rushes littered the packed earthen floor in crumbled bits and pieces Kellin was certain harbored all manner of vermin. Only a handful of greasy, sputtering tallow candles illuminated the room, exuding an acrid, rancid aroma and wan, ocherous light easily dominated by shadows. An hour in such a place would render his clothing irredeemable, but Kellin had every intention of remaining longer than that. He anticipated a full night.
Teague sat at a small flimsy table in the comer nearest the door. A crude clay jug stood at his elbow and an equally lumpy cup rested in his hands, but he paid attention to neither.
Their eyes met, slid away. Kellin was faintly surprised that Teague would enter so convincingly into subterfuge. There was no hint of recognition in the guardsman's face and nothing about his posture that divulged his true purpose. Mud clung to his mail shirt; a little had spattered across a cheekbone, altering the angle. His hair now also was mussed, as if he had scrubbed a hand through it hastily. Teague's expression was closed, almost sullen, which suited Kellin's orders and the surroundings.
Kellin was deliberate in his perusal of the room and its occupants, knowing the men measured him as carefully. He allowed them time to mark his clothing, bearing, and size, as well as the heavy knife at his belt. He wanted no one to undervalue him, so that when the fight came it would be on equal terms. He admired the elegant simplicity of organized viciousness.
The tavern was crowded, but mostly because its size was negligible. Most of the men spoke in quiet tones lacking aggression or challenge, as if each knew the other's worth and standing within the context of the tavern, and did not overstep. There would be rivals, Kellin knew, because it was the nature of men, but with the arrival of a stranger old rivalries would be replaced with unity. He and Teague, apart or as one, would be suspect, and therefore tar
gets.
He grinned, and let them see it. He let them see everything as he strode to the lone empty table and sat down upon a stool, shouting to the wine-girl to bring him a jug of usca.
She came almost at once to judge the cut of his cloth and the color of his coin. Kellin dropped a silver piece onto the table and let it ring, flicking it in her direction with a single practiced finger.
Only the gold of his ring showed; the ruby with its etched rampant lion rested against his palm.
"Usca," he repeated, "and beef."
She was a greasy, unkempt girl with soiled clothing and filthy nails. She offered him a lone grimy dimple and a smile with two teeth missing.
"Mutton and pork, my lord."
"Mutton," he said easily, "and do not stint it."
She wore a stained, threadbare apron over soiled gray skirts, and the sagging bodice gaped to display her breasts. She bent over to give him fill! benefit of her bounty. He saw more than she intended: flesh aplenty, aye, and wide, darkened nipples pinching erect under his perusal, but also a rash of insect bites. Dark brown hair swung down in its single braid. A louse ran across her scalp.
"My lord," the woman said, "we have more than just mutton and pork."
She was certain of her charms. In this place, he knew, no man would care about her filth, only the fit of his manhood between her diseased thighs.
"Later," he said coolly. "Do not press me."
The brief flash of dismay was overtaken at once by enmity. She opened her mouth as if to respond, then shut it tight again. He saw her reassess his clothing, the coin, then forcibly alter hostility into a sullen acceptance. "Aye, my lord. Mutton and usca."
Kellin watched her walk away. Her hips swung invitation as if by habit; the rigidity of her shoulders divulged her injured feelings. He laughed softly to himself; he had frequent congress with Midden whores, but not with one such as she. He did not think much of acquiring lice as boon companions in exchange for a dip in her well-plumbed womanhood.
As he waited for usca and mutton, Kellin again assessed the room. His entrance, as expected, had caused comment, but that had died. Men gambled again, paying him no mind except for the occasional sidelong glance. Impatiently he pressed the tip of a fingernail into the edge of the silver piece and flipped the coin on the table. Again and again he did it, so that the coin rang softly, and the wan light from greasy candles glinted dully on the sheen of clean silver.
The woman returned with a boiled leather flask, no cup; and a platter of mutton. She thumped down the platter as he tested the smell of the flask.
"Well?"
Kellin caught the tang of harsh liquor through the bitterness of boiled leather. He nodded, then nipped the coin in her direction. She caught it deftly, eyed his intent to discern if his mood toward her had changed; plainly it had not, but she bobbed a quick curtsy in deference to the silver. The overpayment was vast, but she accepted it readily enough with no offer of coppers in change. He had expected none.
"Do ye game?" she asked, jerking her head toward a neighboring table.
And so the dance commenced; Kellin felt the knot of anticipation tie itself into his belly. "I game."
"Do ye wager well?"
Kellin drew the Cheysuli long-knife and sliced into the meat. "As well as the next man."
Emerald wolf's-eyes glinted. She marked them, and stared. "Would ye dice with a stranger?"
Kellin bit into the chunk of meat. It was tough, stringy, foul; he ate it anyway, because it was part of the test. "If his coin is good enough, no man is a stranger."
Indecisive, she chewed crookedly at her lip.
Then blurted her warning out. "You lords don't come here. The game is sometimes rough."
"Tame ones bore me." He cut more mutton. Emeralds winked.
Her own eyes shone with avarice. "Luce will throw with you. Will ye have him?"
Kellin downed a hearty swallow of usca, then tipped the flask again. Deliberately, he said, "I came here for neither the drink nor the meat. Do not waste my time on idle chatter."
She inhaled a hissing breath. Her spine was stiff as she swung away, but he noted it did not prevent her from walking to the closest table. She bent and murmured to one of the table's occupants, then went immediately into the kitchen behind a tattered curtain.
Kellin waited. He ate his way through most of the mutton, then shoved aside the platter with a grimace of distaste. The rest of the usca eventually burned away the mutton's aftertaste.
A second flask was slapped down upon the table even as Kellin set aside the first. The hand that held it was not the woman's. It was wide-palmed and seamed with scars. Thick dark hair sprouted from the back. "Purse," the man said. "I dice against rich men, not poor."
Kellin glanced up eventually. "Then we are well suited."
The man did not smile or otherwise indicate emotion. He merely untied a pouch from his belt, loosened the puckered mouth, and poured a stream of gemstones into his hand. With a disdainful gesture he scattered the treasure across scarred wood.
His authority was palpable as he stood beside the table, making no motion to guard his wealth. No one in the tavern would dare test him by attempting to steal a gemstone.
Real, every one. Rubies, sapphires, emeralds, and a diamond or two for good measure. All were at least the size of a man's thumbnail; some were larger yet.
Kellin looked at Luce again. The man was huge.
The imagery flashed into Kellin's mind: A bull.
And so Luce seemed, with his thick neck, and a wide-planed, saturnine face hidden in bushy brown beard. His eyes were dark, nearly black. His crooked teeth were yellow, and he lacked his left thumb.
A thief. But caught only once, or the Mujhar's justice would have required more than a thumb.
On thick wrists Luce wore heavy leather bracers studded with grime-rimmed metal. His belt was identical, fastened with a massive buckle of heavy greenish bronze. His clothing was plain homespun wool, dark and unexceptional, but in a concession to personal vanity—and as a mark of his status—he wore a chunky bluish pearl in his right earlobe.
In the Midden the adornment marked him a wealthy man.
A good thief, then. And undoubtedly dangerous.
Kellin smiled. He understood why the girl had gone to Luce rather than to another. She intended to teach the arrogant lordling a very painful lesson in payment for his rudeness.
He untied his belt-purse, loosened the mouth, then dumped the contents out onto the table. Gold spilled across stained wood, mingling with the glitter of Luce's stones. With it spilled also silver, a handful of coppers, and a single bloody ruby Kellin carried for good luck.
The pile of coins and lone ruby marked Kellin a rich man also, but it did not begin to match the worth of Luce's treasure. He knew that at once and thought rapidly ahead to alternatives. Only one suggested itself. Only one was worth the risk.
The bearded Homanan grunted and began to scoop the gemstones back into his pouch. "A poor man, then."
"No." Kellin's tone was deliberate, cutting through the faint clatter of stone against stone.
"Look again." With an elegant gesture he pushed the long-knife into the pile.
He heard the sibilance of indrawn breaths.
Luce's presence at Kellin's table had attracted an audience. The huge man was among friends in the Midden; Kellin had none. Even Teague, ostensibly there to guard him, slouched at the back of the crowd and appeared only marginally interested in Luce and the lordling who was not, after all, so rich a man as that—except he had now raised the stakes higher than anyone might expect.
The fingers on Luce's right hand twitched once.
His eyes, dark and opaque, showed no expression.
"I'll touch it."
"You know what it is," Kellin said. "But aye, you may touch it—for a moment."
The insult was deliberate. As expected, it caused a subtle shifting among the audience. Luce's mouth tightened fractionally in the hedgerow of his beard, then loosen
ed. He picked up the knife and smoothed fingers over the massive pommel, closed on the grip itself, then eventually tested the clean steel as an expert does: he plucked a hair from his beard and pulled it gently across the edge. Satisfied, he twisted his mouth. Then it loosened, slackened, and the tip of his tongue showed as he turned the knife in poor light. Emerald eyes glinted.
Luce wet thick lips. "Real."
Kellin's hands were slack on the table top. Compared to Luce's bulky palms and spatulate fingers.
Kellin's were almost girlish in their slender elegance. "I carry no false weapons."
Near-black eyes flicked an assessive glance at Kellin. "Cheysuli long-knife."
"Aye."
Flesh folded upon itself at the comers of Luce's eyes. "You'd risk this."
Kellin shrugged in elaborate negligence. "When I dice, there is no risk."
Thus the challenge was made. Luce's brows met, then parted. "This is worth more than I have."
"Of course it is." Kellin smiled faintly. "A Cheysuli knife cannot be bought, stolen, or copied .. . only earned." Idly he rolled his ruby back and forth on the splintered wood. "Be certain, Homanan—if you win that knife from me, you will have earned it. But if it concerns you now that you cannot match my wager, there is something else you may add."
Luce's eyes narrowed. "What?"
"If you lose," Kellin said, "your other thumb."
The tavern thrummed with low-toned growls of outrage and murmurs of surprise. In its tone Kellin heard the implicit threat, the promise of violence; he had challenged one of their own. But the audacity, once absorbed, was worth a grudging admiration. It was a wager to measure the courage of any man, and Luce had more pride than most to risk. They believed in him, Kellin knew, and that alone would move a reluctant man to accept a wager he would not otherwise consider.
Luce set the knife down very deliberately next to Kellin's hand. It was a subtle display of fairness that was, Kellin believed, uncommon to the Midden, and therefore all the more suspect, but was also a salute to Kellin's ploy. The handsome young lordling was no friend to them, but no longer precisely an enemy. He understood the tenor of their world.
Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 08 Page 15
