Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 08

by A Tapestry of Lions (v1. 0)

  Kirsty touched his arms. "No' the same wi' nae gold."

  Anger got the best of him. "Is that what you wanted all along?"

  She drew back, warding the torque against his eyes. "Nae! And I only meant ye dinna look the same wi'oot it, not that I wanted it! Now ye look like a Homanan, and a poor one at that!"

  He laughed with little amusement. "So I do; one might mistake me altogether as a common lowborn roadhouse-keeper." He regretted the words at once; what had she done to deserve them? "I am sorry—I am poor company. My thanks for the clothing. Now—which way did they go?"

  "They?"

  "The thieves. You know them, do you not?"

  Kirsty said nothing.

  "I saw them earlier, in the common room. They knew you, Kirsty, and you knew them." He paused. "I do not intend to kill them, merely fetch back my things. What they took is—sacred." He left it at that.

  Kirsty chewed on a lock of hair. "North," she said finally, "across the river."

  It was very near dawn. Already the sky behind her began to lighten. "Into Solinde."

  She shrugged. "They're Solindish. They coom onc't a four-week."

  "To steal."

  "To work."

  "One and the same, perhaps?" Kellin sighed.

  "Which way across the river?"

  "Westward." She jerked her head- "They might ha' hurt ye worse."

  "I said I will not kill them." He glanced at the stalls. "I have need of a horse."

  Sima questioned that. What of lir-shape?

  Within the link, he refused. Too dangerous. No balance, yet—and now no time to team it. Kellin shivered. For now, I will ride a horse.

  Kirsty stared. "Now ye want a horse? Ye hae no such coin in your purse, ye ken. I looked—here 'tis—I dinna want it!" She slapped it into his hand. "I only meant, how will ye buy the horse?"

  "On promises," he said.

  "Promises o' what? You've naught left; you've said so."

  He turned from her and moved to the nearest stall. "This one will do. Where is the bridle?—ah."

  He took it down from its peg, slipped the posts that fenced in the horse, and slipped inside.

  "You'll no' turn thief," she said. "That be Tarn's horse."

  "Not yours."

  "Nae. I own nothing but what I wear—and this." She clutched the torque. Her black eyes were very bright, but it was not from good humor; Kellin thought perhaps tears. "Unless you mean to take it back."

  "No, I will do no such thing. Here, have back the coin—it will pay for the clothing. But I also need a horse. If you would have Tarn repaid for that, there is a thing you can do." He bridled the piebald horse, then led it from the stall. He would not take saddle also; he took too much already. "If you would pay back Tarn—and put coin in your pockets, as well—you need only go to Mujhara, and then to Homana-Mujhar."

  "Homana-Mujhar!" She gaped. "To the palace?"

  "They'll give you coin for the torque." He swung up bareback onto the piebald back and winced; the spine was well delineated. "That way it will stay with like pieces instead of winding up with a money-lender ... tell them I used it to pay a debt."

  "Tell who?" She tossed back her head. "The Mujhar himself?"

  He grinned. "They do know me there."

  She was instantly suspicious. "I'm to tell them Kellin sent me to trade this for coin? Och, aye—they'll toss me oot i' the street!"

  "Not immediately. After a meal, perhaps." He glanced at Sima. Coming?

  She stood up from the shadows and shook her coat free of straw, then slid out of darkness into the dawn of a new day. Kirsty let out a startled shriek and leapt back three paces.

  "My lir," he said briefly. "Do you see what I mean about her fur and your hair? Both such a lovely, glossy black."

  The girl clutched at the shining torque. "In the eyes," she mumbled, staring at him. "E'en wi'oor the gold!"

  "I thank you," Kellin said. "It is a compliment."

  As he rode away from the stable, Kirsty called a final farewell. "Homana-Mujhar, indeed! I'll be keeping this for myself."

  Kellin sighed as he settled himself carefully athwart the treacherous spine. "Worth a trunkful of clothing and an entire herd of horses."

  But less than your missing lir-gold, your ring—and your kinsman's knife.

  Kellin offered no answer. Sima, as always, was right.

  By the time they reached the ferry, Kellin's discomfort in his nether regions matched the thumping in his head. He was altogether miserable, wishing for his horse hack, and alt his gold back, and the knife, and most particularly the saddle that would have made things, even on this horse, much easier to bear.

  He thought his head might burst. A closer inspection with fingers had not divulged anything he did not already know—the swelling was soft and tender, the cut dried. He wondered what they had struck him with—the roadhouse, perhaps?

  He began a complaint to Sima. They might have been— Halfway through the comment he cut off the communication through the link. It made his head hurt worse. He waved a gesture at the cat that dismissed conversation; she flicked tufted ears and held her silence accordingly, but he thought she looked amused.

  The ferry was docked this side of the river. Relieved, Kellin halted the piebald and slid off carefully, so as not to jar his head. A man was slumped against a cluster of posts roped together, the stub of a pipe clenched in his teeth. His eyes were closed, but he was not asleep.

  Kellin led the horse up. "Did you give passage to two men early this morning? Just before dawn?"

  One eye opened. Graying brown hair straggled around his face beneath a threadbare cap. " 'Twould be hard for a body to walk across, would ye no' say?"

  Kellin suppressed a retort. "Then you did."

  "Dinna see bodies in the river, do ye?—though they be carried awa' by now." The other eye opened. "She's angry in the spring."

  Kellin looked beyond the man he took to be the ferry-master to the river beyond. It was spring, and the river did seem angry; the thaw had thickened the Bluetooth so that it ran nearly out of its banks, with a high, fast current that would suck a man down all too easily.

  "They robbed me," Kellin said. "I am angry, also."

  The ferry-master squinted. "Doesna look like ye had so much to steal."

  "Now, no. Before, I did. This is the best I could do," he paused. "Did you give two Solindishmen passage across the river?"

  "If I said aye, would ye be after passage, too?"

  "The woman said it was where they were bound."

  "Kirsty?" The man brightened. He was, Kellin judged, nearly as old as the Mujhar. "Did she send ye, then?"

  "She sent me."

  He raked Kellin with a glance from brown eyes set deeply in shadowed sockets. "Then ye must ha' pleased her. She's no needing to be sending a robbed man after those who coom to see her onc't a four-week."

  Kellin hung onto his patience with effort. The thudding in his head made it increasingly difficult.

  "We pleased each other well enough. Did the men cross here?"

  "Dinna walk, did they?" He heaved himself from the planking and jabbed the pipe in Sima's direction. "She tame, yon cat?"

  Kellin opened his mouth to vigorously deny that a lir could be tamed; he shut it once he recalled what Kirsty had said: that he could, in Tarn's clothing, pass as a Homanan. This close to Solinde, this close to Valgaard, it might be better to keep his mouth shut with regard to lir. "Aye," he said. "Tame enough."

  "Then you'd best go no farther north," the ferry-master warned. "There's a man o'er the Pass who pays gold and jewels for cats like her."

  He was indignant. "Who does?"

  The ferry-master made a sign against evil. "A man," he said only. "He'd hae her faster than the river would eat a man." His truculence now was vanished. "Aye, they crossed. Will ye?"

  "I will. At once."

  The man unwound the coil of rope tying up the ferry. "Hae ye coin for it?"

  "I have—" No. He did not. "—this horse."r />
  "That horse! That one? What would I be doing wi' Tarn's old nag?"

  "Mine was stolen," Kellin said tightly through his teeth. "I bought this one to track the thieves, so I might get back my own mount—which is, I might add, considerably better than 'Tarn's old nag.' "

  "Aye, it would be, ye ken? Not many worse than Tarn's old nag." He jerked his head toward the ferry. "Coom aboard, then, you and yon cat ... if Kirsty sent ye after them, there's a reason for't. I'll no' take the nag." He grinned briefly. "Kirsty'll make it right."

  Knowing how she spent her nights, Kellin judged she would. Nonetheless, he was grateful.

  Almost as soon as he was aboard, Kellin was sorry. The Bluetooth fought the ferry every inch of the way, spuming over the sides of the flat, thick platform until the boards ran white with foam.

  The old piebald spread his legs and dropped his head even as Kellin grabbed hold of a rope; Sima dug claws into aged wood and lashed her tail angrily in counterpoint to the heaves the ferry-master put to the ropes.

  By the time they reached the other side, Kellin's tattered clothing was soaked. Sima bared her teeth and shook droplets free of her coat. As soon as the ferry thumped the bank she sprang for land; Kellin led the piebald off and thanks the gods for putting firm land beneath his feet.

  "Aye," the ferry-master said, "she's a gey wicked bitch in the spring. Summer's better," He jerked his head westward. "That way, they went. They won't be expecting ye, so they willna be in a hurry. Ye'll hae them by sundoon."

  Kellin nodded thanks. "Is this because of Kirsty?"

  "Och, she's a right'un, that lass .. . but ye've a pinched look in the eyes that says they hit ye a mite too hard." He grinned around the pipe. "And ye speak too well for a man born to wear Tarn's clothes." He jerked his head again. "Gi’ on wi' ye, then. Ye'll be back by tomorrow, and ye can pay for your ride."

  Kellin smiled. "Cheysuli i'halla—" He broke it off instantly, cursing the headache that mangled his wits so.

  The ferry-master's eyebrows shot up beneath the lock of greasy hair. "Ah. Well, then. Not tame after all, is she?" He coughed. "Yon cat."

  "No." Kellin swung up onto the piebald and wished immediately his pride had permitted him to find a log and mount, like a woman. "There are times I wish she were."

  The brown eyes were sharp. "Then 'tisn't the horse you're wanting, or the coin . . . more like cat-shaped gold, is't?"

  "More like," Kellin said. He kicked the horse into motion.

  "Aye, well . .. I've no' known them to be so foolish before." He briefly showed a gap-toothed grin that gave way to the pipestem. "Be wary of Solinde. Up here so close to Valgaard—well . .." He let it go. "They'd be wanting more than yon cat."

  This time he did not hesitate. "Leijhana tu'sai. Cheysuli i'halla shansu."

  Six

  The westward road was not so well-traveled as the one cutting down from the Bluetooth into the center of Homana. It was narrow and twisty, winding its way through silted huddles of downed trees and acres of water-smoothed boulders carried this way and that by a temperamental river gone over its banks to suck back again, leaving detritus in its wake. Tarn's old nag was not a particularly coordinated horse, and Kellin spent much of his time trying to keep his head very still upon his neck as the horse stumbled its way along.

  "By sundown," Kellin muttered in reference to the ferry-master's prediction as the piebald tripped again. "By then, I may well be lacking a head entirety. It will have fallen off and rolled to a halt amidst that pile of boulders, there, and when the crows have picked it clean no one will know the difference between it and that rock, there."

  Sima chanced the lir-link. I will go on ahead. Let me find them—I will come back and fetch you.

  It pulsed within his skull. Kellin hissed in pain and shut his eyes against it, then waved her on.

  "Go, I am little threat to them if I find them in this state. They will laugh, and be on about their business with no fear of me."

  The cat whipped her tail, then left at a springy lope.

  The horse stumbled on. After a while Kellin balanced himself, shut his eyes, and gave himself over to a state very akin to sleep, in hopes that when he awoke the pain would be dispersed.

  He roused to a quiet voice pitched over a rush of water. "I had expected to eat alone, but your horse has other ideas." A pause. "I am glad of the company; will you share my meal?"

  Kellin opened his eyes. He slumped atop the piebald, which had in turn wandered off the road to a cluster of tumbled boulders very near the river's edge. He smelled smoke and fish. It made his belly rumble.

  The stranger laughed. "I will take that as acceptance."

  "Where am I?" Kellin glanced around. The road was not so far; he could see it winding Westward.

  "Here," the man said, amused. "At my campsite, such as it is; but I have had good fortune in my fishing, and there is enough for us both." His hazel eyes were friendly- The piebald snorted against the hand that held his bridle; the stranger grinned and pushed the muzzle away. "You have been hard used; I have wine for the ache."

  He was a young, fine-featured man, perhaps Kellin's age or a year or two older. His hair was dark, nearly black, and fell smoothly to his shoulders.

  His clothing was spun of good wool of uniform yarn. Kellin marked him a well-to-do man: linen tunic died blue, with black embroidery at the collar; black-dyed breeches; good boots, and a brilliant crimson cloak thrown on loosely over shoulders.

  Kellin considered refusing. There were the thieves to think about. But his head did ache, his belly did rumble—and Sima was on their trail. He need only wait for her, and by the time she returned, his condition would be improved.

  "My thanks," he said. Then recalled what he looked like. "But I have nothing—"

  The stranger waved a hand. "Your company is enough. I am not so far from my destination; I can be generous." He smiled again. "You might do better to walk, then to go another step atop this horse."

  "Aye." Kellin smiled crookedly and slid off, gritting his teeth against the pounding in his head. It was worse, not better; but the road was hard and the horse clumsy. He was lucky his head remained on his neck.

  "My name is Devin," the stranger said as Kellin pulled the reins over the piebald's neck. "The wine I have is Solindish white; will it do?"

  Kellin followed. "Any wine will do. I am not fit to judge its taste." A glance from Devin told Kellin he had perhaps misphrased his answer; he had meant because of his head, but Devin's quick assessment indicated the stranger believed he meant his station. He thinks me a poor man; well, for the moment, I am. He led the piebald to the water-wracked, uprooted tree at the riverbank and tied him to a branch next to Devin's mount, a fine glossy bay very like Kellin's stolen horse.

  A fire was built between a tumble of clustered boulders and the water's edge, hosting two speck-led fish speared and hung belly-up along two stripped branches resting in crotched braces. The lap of the river was but paces away, so the sound was loud. Devin squatted near the fire, digging through packs. "Here." He tossed the wineskin. "I have another; drink as you will. I will tend the fish."

  Kellin caught the skin as he turned from the piebald and swallowed, glad of the liquor's bite.

  If he drank enough, it would dull the pounding in his head, but that would be poor manners. He owed Devin sober companionship, not the rudeness of a man undone by misfortune.

  Devin made conversation as he inspected the sizzling fish. "I misjudged the distance," he said, "or I would have stayed the night in the last roadhouse I passed. The ground is a hard bed when one is used to better." He lifted one of the speared fish. "Here. Trout. I daresay it will complement the wine."

  Kellin accepted the proffered fish-laden stick with thanks and sat down against the closest boulder. He thought Devin was indeed accustomed to better; a sapphire gleamed on one hand, while a band of twisted gold glinted on the other, Devin took the other fish for himself and sat back against his packs, blowing to cool the meat.

>   "Have you a wife?" he asked.

  Kellin shook his head. His mouth was full of fish.

  "Ah. Well, neither do I—for but a four-week more!" He grinned. "I am-bound for my wedding. Wish me good fortune, my friend, and that the girl is comely ... I have no wish to share my bed with a plain woman!"

  Kellin swallowed. "You have never seen her?"

  "No. A dynastic thing, this marriage. To bind the bloodlines closer." Devin chewed thoughtfully.

  "A man like you weds for love, or lust—or because the woman has conceived, and her father insists!—but a man like me, well ..." He sighed. "No choice for either of us. The match was suggested by her father, and mine accepted eagerly; one cannot help but to rise in service to a powerful lord."

  Kellin's smile was crooked. "No."

  "I envy you. You need not wed at all, if that is your desire—well, I should not complain; my lot is better than yours." Devin's attitude was friendly enough, but all too obviously he believed Kellin lowborn. "What is your trade?"

  Kellin wanted to laugh. If he told Devin the truth— He grinned, thinking of the thieves. "What other trade is there but to aspire to higher in life—and the coin to make it possible?"

  Devin's eyes narrowed consideringly as he washed down trout with wine. "You are a passing fair mimic."

  "A mimic?"

  "Aye. Put on finer clothing, wash the grime from your face, you could pass for a highborn man."

  He stoppered the wineskin. "You might make a mummer."

  Kellin laughed, thinking of his grandparents.

  "There are those who have accused me of that very thing. I did but playact the role, they said—then admonished me to learn my part better." He jerked his head westward- "When you came down the road, did you pass two men with a bay very like your own?"

  Devin shrugged. "I passed many people. I do not recall the horse." His eyes brightened over the fish. "Why?"

  "The horse they have is mine. It was stolen from me ..." He ran a hand through tousled hair. "You see, I am not precisely the man I appear to be." Kellin plucked at Tarn's grimy tunic. "They took more than my horse."