‘Two silver pence for the ale.’ The tapster held out a hand. ‘Another to send a lad with your message.’
Corrain dropped a couple of coin into the man’s palm and held up a third. ‘Does that buy me paper and ink?’
The tapster grinned. ‘Of course, Master.’
‘Very well then.’ Corrain let the coin fall to join the first two.
The man went to fetch some writing materials from a shelf beyond the racked wine. Corrain sipped cautiously at his tankard, mindful of the unpleasant surprises he’d encountered in taverns on his travels with Kusint. Solurans flavoured their ales with fruit and even spruce twigs. Thankfully this proved to be a rich winter brew, the hearty taste awakening his stomach to its emptiness.
He carried the second tankard over to Hosh. ‘Are you hungry?’
‘I am.’ He sounded surprised.
Corrain nodded. ‘I’ll get something to eat.’
He went back to the counter as the tapster returned with paper, pen and ink. ‘Could we have a bite or two of food? Our ship just came in with the tide.’
‘Of course.’
As the man headed through the door to a busy kitchen, Corrain drew the sheet of chaff-flecked reed paper towards him and uncapped the inkwell. The quill would have benefited from trimming but it would suffice. However there was no sealing wax on offer or a candle within easy reach for him to at least make a gesture towards securing his letter. Corrain scratched out a brief note.
Master Scholar, I beg the favour of a conversation regarding an old injury to a loyal friend which has healed awry. Master Herion suggests you may be able to soothe his pain.
Corrain of Halferan
If this mentor was known as a healer, that shouldn’t prompt too much curiosity, however many hands unfolded this note before passing along. His own name might prompt curiosity if anyone here knew of the guardsman returned from slavery to be raised to the rank of baron. Corrain wondered how readily news from Caladhria crossed the Gulf from Peorle. How interested were Col’s merchants and scholars in such tales?
He folded the paper in two and scrawled a full direction on the outer side as the tapster returned with a broad wooden platter. Hunks of seed-crusted bread framed a fillet of some dark-fleshed fish soused in vinegar beside leathery rings of dried apple and slices of glistening beef sausage flecked with dull red spice.
Corrain hazarded a guess. ‘A silver penny?’
‘That’s right,’ the tapster grinned.
Corrain reached for his purse, wondering if anyone used copper pence in this city. ‘This note is for Mentor Garewin, wherever he might be.’
The tapster snapped his fingers to summon a tousle-headed lad clearing empty tankards and plates from the tables. Corrain judged him around ten years old, maybe a summer either way. Lightly-built, bright-eyed and deft, if he was a handful of years older in Halferan, Corrain would have wanted him for the manor guard.
‘Quick as you can.’ The tapster handed over the folded paper.
‘Mentor Garewin is sealed to the School of Rhetoric,’ Corrain began. Madam Jilseth had explained that Col’s mentors and students were divided into such schools rather than grouped into halls as they were in Vanam and indeed Hadrumal itself.
‘I can read.’ The lad thought for a moment. ‘If he’s not at the Red Library, I’ll get word of him there at this time of day. I’ll be back before you’ve drunk your ale, Master.’
‘Good to know.’
Corrain watched the boy slide deftly between the tables, pausing only at the door to allow two newcomers to enter. The tapster was already walking along the counter as they approached, one with a silver mark held up between finger and thumb.
Corrain took the platter of food and his tankard over to Hosh at their corner table. The stool opposite the hunched lad gave him a clear view of tavern and Corrain was glad of that. Civilized though Col might seem, he was never going to sit with his back to any armed men.
‘The pot boy seems to know where to pick up the mentor’s trail.’
Hosh bit cautiously into a piece of apple, chewing on the uninjured side of his mouth. He didn’t speak, his eyes distant. Corrain could guess what the lad was wondering. Would this mentor’s Artifice, this aetheric magic, truly be able to mend Hosh’s ruined face?
A loud voice rang through the taproom. ‘You’ve heard the latest from Relshaz? They’ve driven the wizards out of their city, every last one. Found their cellars stuffed with gold and silver, so I heard.’
One of the newcomers was leaning on the counter, a goblet of wine in his hand.
‘That’s old news,’ someone called out scornfully from over by the other fireplace.
‘Or some tavern tarradiddle.’ A second man’s scepticism was plain. ‘Why would the Relshazri do such a thing?’
The newcomer stared at him. ‘You know that a whole warlord’s domain was sunk beneath Aldabreshin seas on the Archmage’s order? You’ve heard that the Archipelagans in Relshaz have sworn by the sun, both moons and all the stars that they won’t trade with anyone doing business with wizards?’
Corrain laid a slice of the spiced sausage on some bread and took a bite. Dalasorian brass buttons fastened the man’s doublet and beaver fur trimmed his cloak, while he spoke with the accents of northern Ensaimin. Why was he so concerned with Relshazri news?
‘The Relshazri would bridge their canals with their own backs if some Aldabreshi asked to cross dry-shod,’ the sceptical man opined. ‘Why should we be concerned if the Archipelagans have run scared of wizardry?’
‘The Aldabreshi kill mages on sight,’ the newcomer retorted. ‘Call that running scared and you’ll live to regret it.’
‘You still don’t say what that has to do with the price of beans,’ the first man retorted. ‘Why should we care if the Relshazri want to do without wizards? More fool them, I say.’
The murmur around the room concurred and the newcomer bristled.
‘What quarrel does Hadrumal have with the southern barbarians anyway, to set wizards sinking islands? The whole tale sounds like a fever dream.’ The sceptical man waved a dismissive hand.
‘I’ve heard from more than one trader that a nest of pirates was burned out of their lair in some northern Aldabreshin domain,’ a woman swathed in plum coloured broadcloth said thoughtfully.
Hosh shifted on his stool and Corrain caught the lad’s eye. He saw a faint smile twist Hosh’s mouth and knew what he was thinking. Who would have imagined they would so easily be able to do as the Archmage had asked in return for the letter from Master Herion tucked safely in Corrain’s pocket. To let Planir know what rumours and misapprehensions about last year’s events were common currency in Col’s taverns. As Jilseth had explained, no one would guard their tongues around two Caladhrian travellers as they would around visitors from Hadrumal, mage or mundane born.
‘When would a wizard ever do something so useful?’ A man by the window sneered.
‘Whatever truly happened in the Archipelago, the Relshazri may be wise to distance themselves from magecraft,’ a voice fresh to the conversation observed.
Corrain shifted on his seat to get a clearer view, instantly knowing this new speaker for a Soluran. He was sitting in the centre of the room, a bottle of wine and a pewter goblet on his table.
‘I’ll allow they’ll pay heed if tales of magic in the northern domains are troubling the Aldabreshi.’ The woman in the plum gown leaned back in her chair, hands folded on her prosperous belly. ‘For the sake of their trade with Archipelago.’
The Soluran shook his head. ‘That’s not what I meant. Never underestimate wizards.’
The back of Corrain’s neck prickled with suspicion. The Soluran had come into the tavern with that loud-mouthed Ensaimin youth, so why wasn’t he drinking with him? So no one would think they were deliberately directing this conversation, as purposefully as hunting dogs driving their quarry?
‘You’ve heard of Mandarkin’s tyrants?’ the Soluran enquired of no one in particular.
‘You know that it’s wizardly magic keeps their boots planted on their slaves’ necks?’
‘Mandarkin? We have nothing to do with that realm.’ The woman in the plum gown was baffled.
‘Consider yourselves fortunate,’ the Soluran advised her. ‘Mandarkin forces test Solura’s mettle every spring, trying to slip through the mountain passes to plunder our lands and steal our children. I wonder that they have never sought a path through the forests and the lakes into northern Ensaimin. If they did, the men of Vanam and Wrede would find themselves hard pressed, I can swear to that.’
Corrain swallowed his mouthful of meat and bread. ‘Don’t Solura’s mages drive off those Mandarkin attacks? Yet you say we should be wary of wizardry?’
The Soluran stared at Corrain with penetrating blue eyes. ‘Caladhrian, by your speech. I heard tell of some manor along the Caladhrian coast which suffered most grievously when Hadrumal’s wizards finally took on the corsairs.’ The man shook his head slowly without his gaze ever leaving Corrain’s face. ‘When stags battle in the autumn rut, the grass is trampled underfoot, whichever beast wins.’
‘Captain?’ As Hosh leaned forward to lay an urgent hand on Corrain’s forearm, his head blocked the Soluran stranger’s view.
Corrain blinked and shuddered. Before Hosh could ask what the matter was, he saw the tavern’s messenger boy appear in the doorway. A thoughtful looking man accompanied him, perhaps ten years Corrain’s elder, with generous grey hair swept back from a high brow and boasting an ornately trimmed and pointed beard.
His high-collared, long-sleeved tunic was of excellent cut and tailoring, as was his old-fashioned midnight blue mantle. He carried no weapon, not even an everyday belt-knife. Gold gleamed on every finger of his sword hand but only a single broad silver seal ring adorned his other hand.
The potboy pointed to Corrain and Hosh. Corrain was about to rise when the mentor paused by the Soluran’s chair, to greet the man with visible surprise.
The Soluran struggled to conceal his own shock as well as his displeasure. The two men exchanged a few brief words before the Soluran rose and departed with a brusque nod. Master Garewin arrived at their table frowning, somewhat indignant.
‘Good day, Baron Halferan.’
Corrain stood and offered a courteous hand. ‘Master is the only title I claim on this journey.’
‘As you wish.’ Garewin pulled up a stool to sit at their table. ‘And your companion?’
‘This is Hosh and here is our letter of introduction.’ Corrain handed over the missive which Jilseth had given him ‘What may I fetch you to drink, Master Mentor?’
‘Wine, Kadras white, if you please,’ the scholar said, intent on studying Hosh’s face rather than cracking Hadrumal’s seals.
As Corrain headed for the counter, he watched the Ensaimin man with the brass buttons and fur-collared cloak. The stranger hadn’t followed the Soluran out of the tavern but he was as tense as a fox who’d heard a dog bark.
Corrain caught the potboy’s eye. As the lad brought some tankards and an empty bottle to the counter, Corrain showed him a silver penny, pressed into his palm with his thumb so no one else could see it.
‘Do you happen to know where that Soluran who mistrusts wizards is lodging?’
The boy’s eyes flickered to the coin. ‘Not yet, Master.’
‘Let me know when you do.’ Corrain waved to attract the tapster’s attention. ‘White Kadras wine, if you please, and do you have a room for me and my companion? We’ll be in the city for a few days at least.’
‘Of course, Master.’ The tapster fetched a bottle of wine and set it down with an elegant Aldabreshin glass goblet. ‘I’ll send the girl to make a bedchamber ready and you can see if it suits you at your leisure.’
‘Thank you.’ Corrain took the wine and goblet back to the table where Mentor Garewin was still studying Hosh’s disfigurement.
‘If you could open your mouth?’ he asked gently.
Hosh unhappily complied, revealing barren and shrunken gums on the injured side of his face. Corrain fixed his attention on the food, helping himself to a lump of pickled fish. Thankfully the pungent smell masked the rankness of Hosh’s breath. The boy had run out of the herbs which Doratine gave him to chew halfway up the coast.
‘Thank you.’ The scholar poured himself a generous measure of the aromatic wine, opened Planir’s letter and briefly scanned the contents. ‘Well, my friend—’ he smiled encouragingly at Hosh ‘—I believe we can indeed help you.’
Corrain seized his opportunity. ‘We? You and the man you were just talking to?’
‘What?’ Garewin looked momentarily bemused. ‘No, he is just a visitor who’s had some dealings with our school.’
‘Dealings in Artifice?’ Corrain persisted. ‘He’s an adept?’
‘Quite so,’ Garewin nodded. ‘But it is Col’s scholars who will be helping you,’ he assured Hosh. ‘As far as we can,’ he qualified. ‘We will be able to reshape the bones of your face but we can do nothing to restore your lost teeth.’
‘How soon?’ Hosh asked warily.
Garewin sipped his wine. ‘We can start tomorrow but it will be a lengthy process and painful, I am afraid.’
Hosh smiled crookedly. ‘I’m well used to pain.’
‘How lengthy?’ Corrain reached for his ale. ‘Just so I can send word home. We will stay for as long as it takes.’
‘We should be done before the turn of For-Spring. You should come to the Red Library tomorrow, for the morning’s second chime.’
As Garewin explained where Hosh was to go, Corrain watched the tavern’s potboy busy about the taproom. How soon would the lad be free to go and find out where that Soluran was lodging? If Corrain had word by the following morning, he could quarter the city for the man’s scent while Hosh was busy with Mentor Garewin.
Corrain had thought he had recognised the eerie sensation when that stranger had looked into his eyes. He had suffered the same intrusion when the Elders of Fornet, the wizardly Order sworn to Solura’s Lord Pastiss, had turned an adept on him. The unnerving old woman had tested the truth of his words, when he had sworn that Hadrumal had no part in his folly, that he alone had offered the Mandarkin Anskal the pick of the corsairs’ loot in return for driving them from Caladhria’s shores.
What was this Soluran’s business in Col? Why had he and his collaborator been stirring up mistrust of elemental magic? What secrets had he plucked from Corrain’s head, when he’d looked straight into his memories and his intentions?
Corrain drank his fine dark ale and resolved to find out as much as he possibly could about the man. Then he would call on the Col wizard whom Jilseth had assured him would relay everything which he and Hosh discovered to the Archmage.
He would prefer to be dealing with Jilseth herself rather than a stranger but at least that meant that the lady wizard was free to watch over Halferan, to offer Kusint any assistance which he might need as the Forest-born captain kept Lady Zurenne and her children safe.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Halferan Manor, Caladhria
29th of Aft-Winter
ZURENNE LOOKED UP as Reven knocked on the open audience chamber door. She and Ilysh were reconciling their personal expenditure; the first step in the full accounting of the manor’s ledgers with Master Rauffe before the turn of the season eight days hence.
‘There are riders at the gatehouse, my lady. They ask your permission to enter and speak with you.’
The young sergeant-at-arms looked from Zurenne to Ilysh, leaving Zurenne unsure whom he was addressing. She also noticed his fleeting smile when he saw that Lysha was using the fern stone which he’d given her for a paperweight but that was a concern for another time.
‘Who exactly do they ask for?’
‘For you, my lady. For the Widow Halferan. But one is Madam Jilseth.’ Reven was baffled. ‘Why should she ask for permission?’
‘On a horse?’ Esnina’s astonishment spoke for her mother and older sister. ‘The
lady wizard?’
Zurenne knew that every mage had to travel by such mundane means from time to time; Archmage Planir had explained that a wizard’s magic could only revisit a place. But Jilseth had often appeared within Halferan’s walls.
She gathered her wrap around her shoulders. ‘Stay here with Raselle, Neeny.’
Maid and child were both sewing quietly in the window seat, making the most of the day’s unseasonal sunshine. Raselle hemmed new chemises while Neeny laboriously embroidered a linen runner for her new bedroom’s dressing table.
Ilysh was donning the shawl she’d draped over the back of her own chair. ‘Madam Jilseth must have news from Col. Corrain—’ She corrected herself. ‘My husband the baron calculated that their ship should arrive there today or tomorrow. He said so in his letter from Claithe.’
‘Sergeant.’ Zurenne gave Reven a commanding nod. ‘Lead on.’
She and Ilysh followed the young guardsman outside and down the great hall’s steps. As they approached the gatehouse’s shadowed archway, she saw the iron-bound oak gates standing open. Two horses waited patiently on the road outside.
Madam Jilseth looked remarkably uneasy on her mount. The wizard woman’s companion sat equally stiffly in the saddle, gloved hands clutching the reins so tightly that the horse shook its head fretfully from side to side.
‘Let the mare have her head, friend. She’s not going anywhere.’ Kusint was standing just outside the entrance.
Was this second visitor a man or a woman? Despite the twin blessings of sunlight and a windless day, the magewoman’s fellow traveller’s hood was pulled up. Zurenne could only see a closely wound scarf within, as though the rider was forcing a path though a mid-winter blizzard.
This visitor was a man, she decided. The rider was significantly taller than Jilseth and Zurenne couldn’t imagine any woman with the breadth of shoulder apparent beneath the newcomer’s voluminous cloak.
‘Madam Jilseth, you and your companion are most welcome to Halferan. Please, enter and share some refreshment with us.’
Defiant Peaks (The Hadrumal Crisis) Page 17
