Scarlet and the White Wolf--Book One

by Kirby Crow

  "And are you a good-hearted chapman?"

  He shrugged. “That depends."

  "On what, son?"

  He did not like to be named a boy. He disliked it even more that night and that was no fault of the soldier's, but he glared anyway. “I'm a man grown and not your son, soldier."

  The scarred man laughed, throwing his head back. Scarlet saw that he had one chipped canine tooth and the rest white and strong. His eyes twinkled at Scarlet in false good humor. “Fair enough. Your pardon, sir, and may I freshen your cup in apology?"

  Scarlet was simmering but mollified. His pride had taken a thrashing from Liall, and he was short-tempered and sore.

  Mirilee had been the alewife at Rufa's taberna since before Scarlet was born. She came to pour their cups full and the soldier passed her a coin. When she had gone, the soldier looked at Scarlet pensively and pursed his lips in thought. “I hear that a farmer named Kellun is taking a cartload of wool to be washed and dyed over the pass. Perhaps you can travel with him.” His white teeth flashed in the lamplight. “Inside the wool."

  The thought of traveling inside a cartload of greasy, unwashed wool was unpleasant. Scarlet grimaced and took a sip, wishing the soldier would leave him alone. Then he remembered Jerivet the potter, Scaja's old friend. Jerivet was planning to go over the pass with goods meant for the Bledlands market, and he loaded his cart with straw to cushion his wares, packing it around the plates and cups to prevent breakage. If he gave the potter a few copper slips to pay toward whatever toll the Kasiri charged, he might agree to help him.

  The soldier leaned forward. “You've thought of something,” he said genially. “I can see it in your eyes."

  "Perhaps,” he answered and shrugged. He was coming to dislike this soldier with a long nose too interested in his business. “Good evening.” He rose and left his drink half-finished.

  Scarlet did not see the soldier's eyes follow him as he drew the collar of his red coat tighter and went out into the snowy night, nor did he see the calculating smile that crossed the soldier's face as he picked up the abandoned mug and slowly drank.

  * * * *

  Scaja seemed resigned when he revealed his plan, but did not try to forbid it. He only put on his cap and went to speak to Jerivet. Jerivet said it was the foolishness of youth and seemed to think it was a grand adventure, and was patiently disposed with Scarlet when the next bright, snow-free dawn arrived and the pedlar showed up on his doorstep wearing a sheepish look.

  "I hope this works out the way you want, Scarlet.” Jerivet grinned as he covered him with straw, delighted to be part of some mischief at his age. “Your dad says you're a stubborn one."

  Scarlet tried to find a comfortable position in the back of the cart amid the piles of crockery. “Thank you, Jerivet,” he told him sincerely, just before the old man dropped another bundle of straw on his head and spread it over him. He sneezed and they struck out for the pass.

  He had never realized before how rocky the road to the pass was. Riding in the back of a cart surrounded by pottery and covered in straw was not the most comfortable way to travel, and he hoped there were no insects in the straw. He consoled himself that the wool would have been a worse situation.

  As they drew closer to the pass, Scarlet heard voices being raised: traveler's complaints, Kasiri calling back and forth, and one voice he recognized immediately. He recalled Liall as he stood before the campfire, how the bald enforcer, Peysho, had thrown him at Liall's feet like a gift. The atya had been surprised, but there had also been amusement in his gaze and some other emotion Scarlet could not recognize.

  "Well, well, gran'ther, what have ye here?"

  He recognized that rough voice, too. It was Peysho, who had seemed curiously sympathetic when he pushed him back down the road last time.

  "Load of pottery, meant for market,” Jerivet told him happily.

  "Let's have a look at it, then,” Peysho said, and there was rustling in the straw not far from his feet.

  Scarlet froze and held his breath.

  "Good wares,” said a voice, startlingly near. It was Liall. “Not fancywork. Plain, strong, crockery. A silver bit, old man, to see it safely to market."

  "Aye,” Jerivet said pleasantly. He heard a clinking sound. “I've not a silver bit, but I've five coppers. Will it do?"

  Liall's voice was just as agreeable. “As good as. Or, if you will, a set of plates."

  "One only?” Jerivet returned quickly, and the haggling began in earnest.

  He should have known. Jerivet could dicker the skin off a Minh and make him like it. Scarlet sighed inwardly and held very still as Jerivet pulled out saucers and bowls to extol their value. Jerivet's rummaging shifted the straw, and the end of Scarlet's nose began to tickle, then someone else reached in near his face and pulled out a bowl. A shower of very fine dust fell on his cheek.

  He sneezed. There was a moment of silence before an iron hand reached in and clamped around his wrist, and then he was hauled bodily out of the cart, covered in scattered hay. His pack followed, tossed at his feet, and he was mortally glad he had left the bottle of blue poppy scent behind.

  Liall truly looked like a robber prince today, with a small sapphire earring dangling over the white fur around his neck, and a fine blue woolen cloak with a polished silver brooch. Both his pale eyebrows climbed as he studied the pedlar. “Well, old man, it seems pottery is not all you carry,” he said smilingly to Jerivet.

  "He didn't know,” Scarlet said hastily, afraid they would punish Jerivet.

  Jerivet's expression went briefly startled before smoothing out again.

  "And you are a poor liar,” Liall told him. He turned to Jerivet. “Let you and I be done, old man, two of everything and two copper bits, and you are paid for the journey.” He laid his hand on Scarlet's shoulder for an instant before Scarlet threw it off. “This one we will not charge you for, but he will not cross with you either."

  "This boy is son to an old friend,” Jerivet admitted. “I can't leave him here if you mean to harm him.” His whiskered jaw tightened. “I'll fight you if I have to."

  "Have I hurt any of your people yet? Do not fear for him, old father. One of everything and one copper bit, and I am paid,” he said, dropping his price even lower.

  "Done,” Jerivet declared, and promptly began piling glazed crockery into Peysho's arms.

  "You, on the other hand, have not paid at all,” Liall murmured aside to Scarlet.

  Scarlet glared, wanting to hit him.

  Jerivet finished with the crockery and dropped the promised copper coin into the bowl on the top of the pile. Jerivet gave him a sad, sympathetic look before climbing back onto his cart, and Scarlet was a little sorry for having ruined the old man's adventure.

  "I'll see you when I get back, lad. I will,” Jerivet shot a look at Liall, “or there'll be pure hell to pay.” Jerivet clicked his tongue and the old dray horse moved forward over the rutted road that led through the pass and down to Khurelen.

  "Well!” Liall slapped his hands together and turned to look down on Scarlet. “The toll has risen for you again, redbird.” He was smiling broadly.

  Peysho gave them both an arch look and muttered an order to the Kasiri hanging about. They scattered and Peysho trudged toward a round red tent on a raised wooden pavilion, balancing crockery on his arms with little grace. It was the largest and richest tent in the camp, and Scarlet suspected it was Liall's own dwelling.

  Though Scarlet had no fondness for Peysho, he was dismayed when the man was gone because it left him alone with Liall.

  "I admire your resourcefulness,” Liall said as he plucked a hay straw from Scarlet's hair. “But I fear I cannot reward it.” He put the end of the straw in his mouth and chewed it thoughtfully as Scarlet stood there embarrassed and uncertain what to do next. “However, since you are so determined, I will offer you another bargain: stay with me tonight and you will have free passage for a full turning of the year."

  "No."

  "You
are so swift to refuse,” Liall complained. “Am I that ugly?"

  Scarlet clamped his lips shut. No, you're that handsome. It was truth, but it was his truth, not to be forced out of him.

  "Very well.” Liall crushed the straw and cast it aside. “If you will not be moved by desire, perhaps I can trust in the natural parsimony of Byzans. Stay the night and I will pay you a hundred sellivar."

  Scarlet's first reaction was to gape at him. Not only had he already been told no twice, but ... one night worth a hundred silver coins? A full year's pay? The man was clearly mad. “You have no sense!"

  "You value yourself too cheaply, pretty one."

  His face went hot. “Scarlet,” he announced in defense. “My name is Scarlet."

  Liall tilted his head back. “A fair name for a fair lad, and it suits you, if I understand the meaning. Tell me, Scarlet; do you lie awake at night dreaming up these tricks?"

  "If I did, I would succeed better."

  Liall laughed. “You wrong me to think me less clever."

  "I can't take the whole blame for this,” he muttered. He was already resigned to being sent back to Lysia. “The soldier did suggest wool, but raw wool has fleas."

  Liall took a step toward him. Before he could step back at this new intrusion, Liall had fitted his hand under Scarlet's chin. The chieftain studied his face intently.

  "A soldier?” he echoed, his nearly colorless eyes glittering. “Give me his name."

  "I ... I can't, for he never gave it."

  "And like a true Byzan, you never asked. What does he look like? Perhaps I know him."

  "Lean, with a chipped tooth and scars on both sides of his face,” he said without thinking, and winced when Liall's fingers tightened. He did not like the soldier's manners, but he had no reason to wish him ill or bring the atya's wrath down on him. Also, the soldier wore the Flower Prince's badge and so was sworn to uphold the law in Byzantur. “He meant nothing, I'm sure. He was teasing me for my failure."

  "Your failure?” That white brow arched again. “Ah, your stealth in the forest, or lack of it. He sounds an unkind fellow at the very least, taking his pleasure in misfortune."

  "It's an unkind world,” he informed, very aware of Liall's hand on him.

  "Indeed, but not everyone who mocks you means you ill, just as everyone who lays a hand on you is not necessarily your enemy. Tell me more of this soldier."

  "There's nothing to tell."

  "What was his rank?"

  "Captain. He wore the crimson vine on his sleeve.” He tried to pull away, but Liall was not letting go. “What does it matter?"

  "Perhaps I'm merely jealous.” Liall leaned close again, and for a moment Scarlet believed he was going to claim the kiss.

  "Consider it; a single night for a hundred coins."

  Liall's breath was warm on his skin, scented of spice and cloves, his voice deep and compelling. There were lines of sorrow or pain around Liall's eyes, a trace of bitterness or grief perhaps, and it took him by surprise to see it so clearly. Liall smelled clean, like the herbs his mother put in the clothes press, and that surprised him, too. He expected a Kasiri to smell of leather and sweat and horse. Pale eyes held his searchingly, and for one heartbeat, he nearly leaned into Liall. He caught himself an inch away and jerked back.

  "N-no,” he stammered, appalled at himself and embarrassed by the awareness in Liall's gaze. Was this magic, had he been bewitched by some Kasiri sorcery? No, not a spell, only fascination, and an ill one at that. What was he thinking? Liall had offered nothing but shameful bargains, and would bring him nothing but harm. He was behaving like a fool.

  "No,” he said more strongly.

  Liall shrugged. He dropped his hand and Scarlet took a step back. “As you wish, pretty Scarlet."

  He ground his teeth together. “Have I leave to go?"

  "Down to the village,” Liall agreed.

  Damn him. He shouldered his pack and turned to trudge back down the long road, cursing under his breath.

  "Scarlet,” Liall called out when he was several paces away. “Wait one moment."

  He paused and looked over his shoulder.

  Liall was waiting with one hand on his hip and a look of honest questioning on his face. “I do not intend to harm you. Despite what you may think of me, I am not in the habit of brutalizing my bedmates. It is also my suspicion that you and I are alike in our tastes, and that you would take much pleasure in my touch. Why not just give me what I want and be on your way?"

  Scarlet took a deep breath and resisted the impulse to hurl his pack at the atya's head. If the bastard was puzzled, it was no fault of his. “If you must ask, then you wouldn't understand my answer."

  5.

  Peysho's Story

  When the pedlar left the second time, Liall had little hope of seeing him again. There was enough trade north to Patra and Sondek to keep an industrious pedlar busy, so there was no need for him to come through the pass if he knew there was trouble waiting. In all likelihood, he reasoned, the pedlar would decide that the toll road was too much trouble, and would either take his business north or go south by another way.

  And then he had tried his latest trick. When Liall hauled the hay-covered pedlar out of the wagon, he wisely resisted the urge to double over in laughter, for the pedlar's pride was already dented. The youth reminded him of someone he used to know: a hot-tempered boy who never took no for an answer and did precisely what everyone told him he could not do. A boy who had no respect for authority and no inkling of how much his reckless nature kept his mother up at night.

  You lost that boy, Liall reminded himself, and wondered if that was the real reason he pressed the pedlar to accept his invitation. There was an Rshani legend of an enchanted mirror that showed only the past and ensnared all who gazed within, until one day a young man with no memory looked into the mirror and broke the charm. Truly, he thought, a man without memory might count himself blessed. Regret is a persistent hound.

  The pedlar—no, Scarlet- had swayed into Liall at the last, closed his eyes like he wanted that kiss after all, but then he recalled his pride and withdrew. Liall was in favor of pride, until having it did a man more ill than good. Scarlet worried him. Liall believed the boy was putting up a bold front to show that he would not be intimidated, and was not really as intemperate or impetuous as he appeared. He had mentioned a man: the soldier of the crimson vine. Perhaps it was the soldier who put him up to it?

  He whistled for Peysho as he continued to watch Scarlet stride down the mountain path, and the big man came jogging up and winked at him with his crimson eye. Liall did not give him a chance to speak: Peysho could be an unmerciful tease.

  "What was the last news we had of Cadan?"

  Peysho blinked. “Cadan? I heard that rotted bastard got himself killed down in the Bled. Why?"

  "Just a hunch,” he said absently, watching the slender line of Scarlet's body.

  Peysho's sudden grin was wide and eager. “Fucker used to jibe me for my bloody eye. Bet he's jibing at himself, now, eh?"

  Liall frowned. He did not like to be reminded of how he had scarred Cadan's face, or of how he disposed of the bodies of the three women Cadan had murdered. That is in the past, he told himself uneasily, and the past never changes. “It was not a thing I enjoyed,” he said. “He had to be punished, so I punished him. Nothing more."

  Peysho shrugged. “No argument from me on that account. Never did see a man who liked to hurt as much as him. I was glad to see the back of him. Ye did right, Wolf."

  He nodded slowly as the bright smudge of Scarlet's red hood disappeared below the ridge. “I know, but I should have settled it better."

  "What, ye mean go easy on him?"

  "No,” he sighed. “I should have finished him.” He thought for a moment. “Maybe you should send Kio down to Lysia tomorrow, have him sniff around for news of a scarred officer in the Byzan army."

  "Officer? Couldn't be him,” Peysho scoffed. “He ent that smart."

  "
It's the regular Aralyrin army, not the royal one. You don't have to be smart to get a commission there, just brutal and clever at hiding it, and he was that."

  "Well, I have my doubts, but I'll do as y'say. And if it's him?"

  "If it is him, I won't make the same mistake twice. But forget him for now. I need to speak with you about a matter.” Liall regarded Peysho with a calculating eye. “Not here. I'll meet you in my yurt at dusk."

  "Why not mine?"

  "Kio is there."

  Peysho was shrewd enough to take his meaning. Liall knew the man would make his appearance early and alone. Peysho left uneasily.

  * * * *

  True to Liall's expectations, just as the rim of the sun dipped under the peak of the Nerit, Peysho's boots were on the mat outside his yurt. Liall offered him wine and Peysho sat heavily on a pile of pillows and tried not to look as uncomfortable as he felt.

  Peysho took the silver cup from his host—treasure from some passing merchant—and glanced around him in an effort at courtesy. “Nice rug,” he said, deadpan.

  "A fine weave,” Liall agreed. “Try the wine."

  He set the cup aside. “The wine is fuckin’ lovely, I'm sure. Now, what in all Deva's bleeding hells is this about?"

  Liall smiled. “You took the long way around the river to say that, I see.” Peysho glowered at him and Liall chuckled. “Forgive me for having fun with you, old friend. It's not easy, what I have to say, and so I thought...” he shrugged. “I've been told I have no tact."

  Unexpectedly, Peysho's gaze went long and he stared resolutely at the wall of the tent. “Ye will be askin’ me and Kio to move on, then?"

  Liall was genuinely shocked. “What makes you say that?"

  "I thought,” Peysho began. “Well, and not every man in the krait is happy that ye've put Kio in charge of the fighters. Ye remember when ye put me in charge of runnin’ the line, and the men had to answer to me fer any tolls or treasure? I had to fight five men that week."