The Seer - eARC

by Sonia Lyris

  But the point was now more than clear. He was being played on the king’s board. To resist would mean being taken out of the game.

  He had no choice.

  “It will be my great honor to serve, Your Majesty.”

  “Yes, it will. Better get to it, then.” He motioned, and servants came running to give Innel back his boots and jacket.

  He’d been dismissed to what promised to be a sizable task. Standing, he bowed deeply, keeping his seething entirely on the inside.

  Again his mind went to the Botaros girl. If he had her in hand, all this would have been avoided. Even now, she could advise him how to achieve a fast victory south.

  Where in the many hells was Tayre?

  Chapter Eight

  As Tayre and his horse ascended the road to the mountain town of Sennant, he considered the many things worse than the freezing rain now finding its way around wraps and oilskin, under leather, to his skin, until only his toes deep in his boots were truly dry.

  Many things worse. With a good fire and a little time, the chill he was now experiencing could be banished.

  But doing his work in the open, for show—that could follow him for years. And that was worse.

  They were proud of their name, the townspeople of Sennant. It gave them a sense of importance, of being part of the empire’s mighty trade route up and down the river from which they took their name. That the village was not on the river and indeed could only be reached by twisting mountain roads did not seem to dampen anyone’s enthusiasm; they were happy to visit the barge port once a week anyway, to trade furs, cider, jars of maple syrup, gossip.

  Which was why it was here that Tayre would start creating the rumors about himself that would circulate back to Innel, to quell his doubts as to Tayre’s capability.

  He’d considered ending the contract. Innel was sufficiently annoyed—and Tayre sufficiently expensive—that turning the conversation in a direction that would release him from the bond would have been easy.

  However, he had no intention of allowing the contract to end. There was something about the girl that was still beyond his understanding. That she was a true seer he doubted, but something about her did not make sense. She was a puzzle that needed solving.

  Find the unknown, his uncle had taught him. And make it known to you.

  He rode past the town, circling First Hill, passing by Garlus Lake, the patter of frozen rain hard on the water’s surface. Whatever fell from the sky, the lake would endure. Reputation was just one more tool, and his would endure this, too.

  From the lake he entered the dripping canopy of forest and went to one of his hollowed-out cache trees. Suitably replenished, he found the Flute and Drum, where he knew they would take good care of his horse, who was certainly as tired of the chill rain as he was.

  It would slow his work, planting stories intriguing enough to get back to Innel’s informants. The best work left no trace.

  But so be it. The job had simply become more expensive. Not entirely unexpected when dealing with the monarchy.

  The next time he found the Botaros girl, he would watch her as long as it took him to arrange the best circumstances for her acquisition, assure himself that she was alone, with no transportation opportunities handy. Learn her movements, isolate her, take her.

  And if magic were involved, he would find a way around it. He had done it before.

  He entered the Flute and Drum, pulled the door tight behind him.

  A handful of people sat at tables around a central fire, quietly eating. He limped a little as he made his way to a wall-backed table and chair, taking in the room as he went. Who faced whom, cut and fabric of clothing, how they stood, skin tone variations, blemishes, hand positions. He made quick assessments about history, wealth, and agendas.

  The limp was a small thing, like the way he held his head a bit off-center and the mud ground into his worn clothes. Enough to make him seem unlike the man who had come through a nearby village a few days ago. People watched strangers who came through, especially in these cold months, and they talked about them. Now to make sure they said what he wanted them to.

  At the fire sat men and women eating bits of bread from a greasy communal plate, drinking from mugs, naked feet up on the stones clustered near the flames. On the floor were short-boots and turnshoes propped up to dry, socks draped between them like makeshift tents.

  Glances came his way. As he sat, he lifted his hand in a brusque, demanding motion to the innkeeper across the room. The large man shuffled toward him on the unswept wood floor.

  “Time preserve the king’s health,” the innkeeper said in an exhale. A traditional greeting, but also a warning that he was a law-abiding citizen and was not looking for black-market action. “What can I get you?”

  Tayre knew that Binak was easily startled and would be obvious about it. Rolling his voice with a slight accent from the southeast, with a little Perripin thrown in and a tug toward the lilting tongues of the desert tribes, he spoke slowly, precisely. “Something with no dirt. Resembling food, if you have any.”

  The big man spat air through his teeth. “If you don’t like it here, go somewhere else.”

  “Don’t know yet. Bring it and I’ll tell you if it’s food. Hurry up.” With that, Tayre spread a handful of nals across the table.

  Shaking his head, annoyed, Binak turned away.

  “Binak,” Tayre said in another, quiet voice.

  The man turned halfway back. Tayre let his expression change and turned his head a little.

  “Seas and storms,” Binak said softly, his shoulders hunching slightly, hands together in anxiety, mouth opening and shutting. “I didn’t recognize you. What do I call you this time?”

  “Call me Tayre.”

  “Sausage and fried bread, is that what you want? We have wine. Something from the north. Let me check, I—”

  “Bring me whatever you would bring a stranger.”

  “Of course,” the other man said, his eyebrows drawn together.

  “I’ll be here a few nights. Also messages up the coast and inland.”

  “I don’t have—”

  Tayre’s hands met, back of one hand to the palm of the other. Hard currency. The big man’s eyes flickered around the room.

  “No one knows me here yet, Binak. Or our history. And won’t unless you continue to fret, or mention other names by which you might know me. I trust that hasn’t occurred to you.”

  “No, no,” Binak said, seemingly horrified by the very idea. “The one man asking, I swear I told him nothing. Didn’t even say I knew you.”

  “When was this?”

  “Tenday and five ago.”

  “I will ask you about that later,” Tayre said, gesturing to the other chair. “Join me.”

  The big man reluctantly folded himself into the chair across the table. He hunched over, head down.

  “Your wife,” Tayre said. “Tharna, isn’t that her name?”

  “Yes.”

  “Children. Four, if I recall. All healthy?”

  “Yes.”

  “You had another, didn’t you?”

  “Died in childbirth.”

  “And the fishing?”

  “Ah.” Binak raised a hand, let it drop palm down on the table with a heavy sigh. “The river nets are empty two years now. The fish have found other places to swim, I think.” A sudden glance at Tayre, worry laced with fear. “Please,” he said softly. “I obey the king’s laws now. I can’t do what you had me do before.”

  “I don’t remember any before.”

  Binak paled. “Of course not. I didn’t mean, I—”

  “Settle,” Tayre said, his hands in a calming gesture. “I won’t ask anything difficult. Nothing to offend the laws.”

  “I hear that in some lands, a debt dies with the owner.”

  “In some lands, the people have no honor.”

  “I don’t need honor. I need fish in my nets. I need to be able to buy grain and wine for what it’s worth, not f
ive times that. Everything is too expensive all of a sudden. I can hardly feed my children.”

  “I could pay someone else in Arunkel silver instead of you. Shall I leave?”

  “No, no. Forgive me. The times. The taxes. How can they expect us to pay more than we make? Whatever you need. I’ll make up a room for you. A few nights, you say?”

  “Maybe more.”

  Binak pressed lips together. He inhaled to speak.

  “Be content, Binak. Don’t ask for more. Or less.”

  Binak swallowed, nodded. “I’ll bring you food.”

  “In my room.”

  “As you say.”

  Tayre stood and followed the large man upstairs, where he unlocked the first door, handing Tayre a long iron key.

  “Next time someone asks you about me,” Tayre said softly, “tell them I’m looking for a girl, a woman, and a baby. Usually I like you to keep silent, but now say that much. Understand?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Also tell them I’m not a good man to cross. I think you can make people believe that.”

  Binak’s mouth opened and closed soundlessly. Finally he swallowed and looked down.

  “Food, Binak.”

  A month later, Tayre sat in a corner of a smaller, half-full public house of dock workers called the High Tide. Midday sun shone down through upper windows in columns, casting pale, smoky triangles across the floor and tables. The room smelled of cheap twunta, cut with pressweed and salted with cinnamon. Also heavy spice, the sort used to cover the taste of sour meat.

  Sour meat. Impure twunta. Girls and boys wandering the streets in too few clothes for the weather, looking lost and hungry, cloaked figures lurking behind, prodding them forward. All signs of tightening times.

  It was not only the rumors of the king’s health weakening, not merely the uncertainty of the succession. Something was shifting oddly in the markets.

  Arunkel metals had made the empire powerful for centuries, giving the Anandynar royals and their Houses enviable wealth and an uninterrupted monarchy, but it was a vulnerability, too; as the price of metals went up, the lines of influence across the aristos and Houses and royals shifted.

  Tayre’s morning’s walk through this village’s market had told him nothing about where the girl and her family might have gone, but much about the new taxations. Muttering and looks tracked him as he played the early season merchant, but the open talk about what unsanctioned goods could be bought without levy surprised him.

  When the black market took over the gray, the king’s rule was weakening. He wondered if the princess knew, or if Innel had any idea. If the king were smart, he’d hand the reins over to his daughter before she was left with a ship taking on seawater in the open ocean.

  In any case, changing times meant opportunity. Even in his search.

  As he sipped from a mug of tea, a tall man sat down across from him. The man held his arms and shoulders in a way that spoke of hard labor and fast reflexes. Dock work, perhaps. Tayre knew the type: he liked to fight, and his few scars indicated that he was used to winning.

  Good; it was far easier to take down those who expected to win.

  Tayre raised his eyebrows in question.

  “Hear you’re looking for someone.”

  “That’s right.”

  “A girl.”

  “Right again.”

  “How much?”

  “Depends on what you tell me.”

  “I’m muscle on a coast trade vessels. I get around. I like girls.”

  Tayre put a silver falcon on the table between them, falcon side up. On the coin, the raptor held a smaller, dead bird in its talons. Finch, if he recalled correctly. House Finch had been lobbying the crown to change the coin’s design for some time.

  “Southern Arunkel features,” Tayre said. “Broad face, green eyes, clear skin. She travels with a woman and a yearling baby.”

  The other man reached for the coin, but Tayre’s hand covered it.

  “Sure, I’ve seen her,” the man said, pulling back his hand.

  Tayre searched the man’s face a moment, then slid the coin into his pocket. “No, you haven’t.”

  “I have,” the man insisted, his chin jutting aggressively. “I can tell you where she went. And the woman, too.”

  “What sex is the baby?”

  The man’s pause gave him answer enough. Tayre pushed back from the table, standing while keeping the man in sight, then turned his back on him, walking to the door.

  “Hey. You don’t walk away from me when I’m talking to you.”

  Now they had the attention of everyone in the room. How to best use it?

  He was unsurprised when the man darted between him and the door, facing him, arms spread wide to block his way. Sidestepping, Tayre slipped by, the man’s fingers brushing him without gaining hold. He stepped through the open door just in front of the man’s next grab.

  In the middle of the cobbled street he turned to face him. Overhead the sky threatened rain.

  “Around here,” the tall man said, walking toward him, “you don’t offer coin and then take it back. Rude, that. Guess you don’t know, having been raised in a shit-pen. Give me the coin and we’ll call it a pig’s apology.”

  Behind the man, the tavern was emptying into the street to watch, hoping for good entertainment. Tayre would make sure that they got it.

  “Why would I pay for your lies? Worthless, just like you.”

  At this, the man’s face went red. He lunged forward, grabbing for Tayre’s neck, a foolish move at best, telling Tayre how much this man depended on his size and strength. A quick but slight step to the side, a grab and a shift of weight sent the man forward in the direction he’d already been traveling, but faster. He stumbled forward, yelped once in surprise, caught his balance, and danced sideways, circling back, a grin on his face.

  Turning his back on him, facing the audience, Tayre held his hands out in a gesture of mock confusion, giving the collected crowd a warm, humorous, and slightly self-deprecating smile.

  These people would know the other man and not Tayre, but when this was over, they would remember Tayre and his modest, warm smile. Across cultures, people liked winners, but they always preferred the ones who didn’t think too highly of themselves.

  He watched their eyes track the man coming closer behind him. As his arm circled around Tayre’s neck, Tayre dropped and stepped back, slamming his elbow into the other man’s sternum, letting the motion carry his fist into his groin.

  As the man grunted heavily and began to fold, Tayre spun in place, hands on the man’s head, easily directing it into his rising knee. There was a gratifying crunch as his nose met Tayre’s knee.

  Then a gentle push with his foot on the man’s less-weighted knee and the large fellow went sprawling onto the stony street.

  Tayre followed him down, dropping atop him, straddling torso and arms. Taking his time, he wrapped a hand around the man’s neck, a move that was more for the audience than the man under him, who seemed, for the moment, to have had the fight taken out of him.

  The man squinted upwards at him and gurgled, a bubble of blood coming from his nose.

  “You should take more care who you choose to annoy,” Tayre said, making sure that his voice was loud enough to reach the gathered crowd.

  The man struggled. Anger flickered across his features. Tayre’s grip on his throat tightened, and the expression went back to confusion.

  Clearly he didn’t have much experience losing.

  He tried to sit up, but Tayre held him pinned easily. Still, the effort implied a general lack of attention, so Tayre grabbed the top of the man’s head by his curly dark hair, raised it slightly, and let it drop to the stone. The man gave a pained yelp.

  “And it would be smart of you to show me some respect. You see how that might be wise?”

  The man blinked a bit, then struggled again to try to get free, so Tayre repeated the motion with the man’s head, raising and dropping it to
the stone. The man’s jaw went slack, eyes unfocused.

  “Make more sense now?” Tayre asked.

  The man attempted a nod, though Tayre was confident that he had no idea what he was agreeing to. Tayre nodded back.

  “My name is Tayre,” he said, careful to enunciate, loudly and clearly. He grabbed the man’s hair again, but this time instead of resistance he was given a whimper of agonized anticipation. He lifted the head as high off the ground as it would go, holding the man’s gaze with his own.

  “No, no,” the man whispered, eyes wide. “Please.”

  “Much better. What’s my name?”

  A croaking sound.

  “Say it again.”

  “Tayre,” the man whispered.

  “Louder.”

  “Tayre.”

  “You won’t forget, will you? I wouldn’t like that.”

  “No, no, no.”

  “Good.” With that, Tayre released the man’s head a third time. It fell with a crack. The man exhaled once and was silent.

  Nothing like the finesse and subtlety he preferred, this, but Innel’s uncertainty meant that he needed to build a reputation quickly.

  Tayre stood, brushed off his trousers, and gave the watching crowd a modest shrug and a friendly wave.

  Their eyes were open very wide as they watched him. He’d made an impact, all right. They’d talk about him.

  As he walked away, the tall man rolled over onto his side, moaning, seeming content to lie in the street awhile.

  It began to rain.

  In the sky a three-quarter moon broke the dark of night. Tayre greeted the stablewoman and handed her the reins of his horse. He knew her; she was the owner’s adult daughter whom he had entrusted with his horse many times across many years, but she treated him like a stranger. It was not just his stance, expression, and clothes that caused her to fail to recognize him. Had he come with the same horse as last time, she would have looked at him twice. She cared about horses. People, less so.

  After entering the eatery, he stood inside the door as if absorbed in thought, adjusting cuffs, collar, shirt folds. He would seem a wealthy trader, clothes new and light in color, with only a few splatters of mud.