Weziral beckoned, and Eleret came forward. She examined the seals briefly, then pulled out her knife and began removing them. Weziral’s eyes widened. “Is that a Sadorthan dagger?”
“Yes,” Eleret said, working the point carefully under the wax. “Ma gave it to me when I started hunting regularly, so I’d have a good one when I needed to skin something. It cost more than we could really afford, but Ma said it would be worth it in the long run.”
“I should think so. Do you have any idea how many people in Ciaron would cheerfully slit your throat to get their hands on that dagger?”
“On my knife?” Eleret said incredulously.
“I didn’t think you did. You’d do well to keep it out of sight, unless you intend to go looking for trouble.”
“Cilhar don’t hunt trouble.” Eleret kept her face and voice neutral to avoid showing how much the conversation unsettled her.
“Trouble seems to find quite a few of them nevertheless,” Weziral replied. “Under the circumstances—”
“I’ll be careful.”
The last of the seals came loose as she spoke. Eleret wiped the film of wax from the end of her dagger and slid it through her pocket and into its sheath. Then she reached out with both hands and opened the box.
There was not much inside: a worn leather pouch for raven’s-feet, a dagger in an embroidered sheath, and a waterproof kit bag that covered the bottom of the box. Eleret lifted the things out one at a time and set them on the table. Suddenly she stiffened. Under the kit bag, lying crosswise in the bottom of the box, was a thick braid of chestnut hair. A strand of yellow wool wound through the coils, and both ends were bound with red cord. Yellow for honor; red for death in battle. How had the Ciaronese known? Eleret tore her gaze away and looked up, questioning.
“Salven wasn’t the only Cilhar at Kesandir,” Weziral said. “There aren’t many of your people in the army, but they keep track of one another. According to the report, one of them showed up at the medical tent shortly after Salven died and insisted on doing things his way. That was part of it.” He gestured at the braid.
“Part?” Eleret said unsteadily around a fist-sized knot in her throat.
“He also demanded that the body be burned.” Weziral looked at her sharply. “It was.”
Eleret nodded, beyond speech. She was too numb even to feel gratitude for the nameless man who had seen that the death rites were properly performed for Tamm Salven. Slowly she picked up the braid and set it on the table beside her mother’s possessions. Her hand brushed the leather pouch. It was flat and empty; her mother must have used all her raven’s-feet in the battle. Perhaps that was how she had earned the yellow strand in her braid.
Without thinking, Eleret picked up the pouch and fingered the smooth surface of the leather. Something shifted under her hand, a hard lump in the bottom. The pouch was not completely empty after all. Eleret loosened the strings and tilted it over her right hand.
Silver flashed in the sunlight as a ring rolled out of the pouch. Eleret recognized it at once, and a wave of anger swept over her. That ring was an heirloom, practically the only one the family had! Tamm should never have taken it with her. What if something had happened, and the ring had been lost? Eleret’s mind froze suddenly. Something had happened, and it was not the ring that had been lost. Her fingers tightened around the hard, sharp metal.
“What is it?” Weziral asked.
Eleret looked up with a start. Still struggling to control her unruly emotions, she said, “A ring. It’s been handed down in the family for generations. I was…surprised to see it. I thought Ma had stored it with the rest of the things she left at home.”
“May I see it?”
Silently, Eleret peeled her fingers away from the ring and handed it to the Commander. Then she turned away and busied herself with the kit bag. She knew what the Commander was seeing: a band of twisted silver, worn thin and nearly smooth, set with a flat black stone. Etched into the stone, in the manner of a seal was the tiny, meticulously detailed figure of a raven rising into flight. Eleret remembered reaching out as a child to touch a carved wingtip, while her mother explained that the raven was a symbol of protection for the Cilhar. She scowled fiercely at the ties of the kit bag to hold back her tears.
“Interesting.” Weziral’s voice drew Eleret’s thoughts back to the dusty, paper-strewn office. “It almost looks like Kith Alunel work. You say it’s been in your family for a long time? I suppose you don’t know how long.”
Eleret forced a smile. “Not precisely. Geleraise Vinlarrian, my multi-great-grandmother, brought it with her when she settled in the mountains, right after the Neira sank the Island of Varna. That would be a little over seven hundred years ago. It doesn’t go all the way back to the migration, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Pity.” Weziral gestured toward the kit bag. “Did you find anything else of interest?”
“Not unless someone wants Ma’s whetstone and comb,” Eleret replied.
“Doesn’t seem likely, does it? It must be either the ring or the knife they’re after, then.” The Commander turned the ring over in his fingers once more, then handed it to Eleret.
Eleret thought for a moment, then slipped the ring on her right index finger. If anyone was after it, they’d have more trouble taking it from her hand than picking it out of her pocket. It was a little tight, but not uncomfortably so. She studied it, then turned the stone toward her palm, where it would be less noticeable.
Next, she examined the knife, testing the edge against her thumb and tossing it in the air to check the balance. It was a good weapon, perhaps the equal of her own. She reached through her pocket and pulled out her dagger, then set Tamm’s in its place. It fit the sheath reasonably well, but she made sure she could draw it quickly before she packed her own dagger in the kit bag.
“One more thing,” Weziral said as Eleret picked up the bag. He rummaged under the table once more and came up with two pouches made of heavy canvas. They clinked when he dropped them on the table. “Your mother’s regular wages, combat pay, bonuses for special work, and death fee. Feel free to count it, and you’re welcome to inspect the registers if you like. We like our people to be certain they’ve had fair dealing.”
“You wouldn’t make the offer if this wasn’t fair,” Eleret said. The bags were heavier than she expected; she was probably holding more money than the whole village of Calmarten would normally see in a year, unless the Imperial Guard paid in copper bits instead of silver. She frowned, then unwrapped her sash and knotted it around the bags. They made an awkward lump when she rewrapped the sash, but it was better than leaving the money in her pockets or the kit bag. She would find a better way of carrying it when she got back to the inn.
“I’ll detail someone to escort you back to your rooms, if you’d like,” Weziral offered. “It’s a lot of money, even in Ciaron.”
“No, don’t do that,” Eleret said as he reached for a small bell on the corner of the table. “It would only draw attention to me, and you can’t very well give me an escort all the way back to the Mountains of Morravik.”
“True.” Weziral’s brows contracted, then relaxed. “Very well, have it your way. But if you change your mind, or if you think of anything else you need, come back and see me.”
“I will. Thank you very much for your help.”
“It’s my job; there’s nothing to thank me for. You’re sure you don’t want someone with you?”
“Quite sure.” Eleret picked up the kit bag and slung it over her right shoulder.
“Stubborn Cilhar. At least tell me where you’re staying and for how long, so I can send you a message if I need to.”
“Send it to the school the Island of the Moon runs,” Eleret replied, suddenly wary. “Adept Climeral knows how to find me. I only expect to be in Ciaron another few days.” She expected to leave as soon as she collected her belongings from the Broken Harp, and certainly no later than the following morning, but she wasn’t going to admit
that to anyone. Not after what the Commander had said about the ambush and the attempted break-ins.
“Cautious as well as stubborn.” Weziral shook his head. “Under the circumstances, I can hardly fault you for that, can I? Very well, very well. Good luck to you, Freelady Salven.”
“It’s under the raven’s wings,” Eleret said with a shrug as she opened the door to leave. “But thank you for your good wishes.”
The Commander nodded, and Eleret left. To her relief, only one man remained in the outer room, the silent one, and he did not even look up as she crossed to the other door and let herself out into the hallway. The boy who had brought her to the office had disappeared, but Eleret was not concerned. The building might be a maze to a Ciaronese used to straight lines and right angles, but the route had not seemed difficult to her.
She started down the hall and turned right at the second intersection, almost without thinking. The strap of the kit bag felt heavy and strange on her shoulder; the raven seal-ring was an awkward, constricting lump against her fingers; the knife lay large and unfamiliar against her thigh. Carrying Tamm’s things somehow made her absence, her death, seem less real instead of more.
“Lady Salven!”
Startled, Eleret whirled and stepped back a pace while her hand went automatically to the raven’s-feet in her pocket. The door to one of the side rooms was open, and the man called Maggen stood just inside, beckoning.
Eleret took hold of one of her throwing weapons but did not bring it out into view. “What do you want?”
“Just a chat,” Maggen said. “Come in, please; you’ll be more comfortable.”
“I’m comfortable where I am.”
“Look, I said I was sorry about that business earlier.” Maggen smiled. “But I understand. If you want to stay there where anyone can overhear, go ahead.”
“Why should I worry about someone overhearing?” Eleret asked. “Just what is it you want, anyway?”
“I thought that since I, ah, made a bad impression at the beginning, I ought to do something to make up for it,” Maggen said.
“Such as?” Eleret doubted that she would be interested in anything Maggen was likely to suggest, but his odd behavior made her curious.
“You, ah, came a long way to get that,” Maggen said, gesturing at the kit bag. “It’ll be awkward and heavy to carry all the way back, maybe dangerous, even.”
Eleret almost laughed. Awkward and heavy? The kit weighed barely as much as a brace of pheasants. “So?”
“So I’ll buy it from you.” Maggen leaned forward. “The whole thing. I’ve got a…friend who needs outfitting; this way I can get him fixed up and do you a favor at the same time. Money’s easy to carry.”
“All that’s in this is a whetstone and comb.”
Maggen’s ingratiating smile returned. “Well, I’ll pay you three stars. That’s more than it’s worth.”
“It belonged to my mother. It has sentimental value.”
“All right, four stars. You can buy a lot of sentiment for four stars.”
You could buy a lot of other things, too, even at Ciaron’s prices, thought Eleret. Maggen was a fool, and whatever he wanted must be valuable indeed. “I’m still not interested.”
“Five, then!”
“Not for five stars nor for twenty-five stars,” Eleret replied. “I’m not selling Ma’s things.” In three quick steps she was past the door; by the time Maggen stepped out into the hallway she was well out of reach. He wasn’t likely to try anything in the heart of the headquarters of the Imperial Guard, especially in a hall where someone might come by at the wrong time.
“You’ll be sorry you didn’t sell it to me!” Maggen called after her. “Wait and see. You’ll be sorry.”
“I doubt it,” Eleret said over her shoulder, and kept walking. Maggen did not try to follow, and a few minutes later Eleret reached the building’s entrance. She nodded to the woman on guard, glanced back one last time to make certain Maggen was nowhere in sight, and stepped out to join the flow of traffic on the street.
FOUR
THREE STREETS DOWN AND two over from the offices of the Imperial Guard, Eleret stepped into a doorway and paused to consider.
If she kept to the main streets, she was in little danger of direct attack, but among all these people it was impossible to tell whether she was being followed. Having slipped up once already, Eleret did not want to lead any more people back to the inn where she was staying. She might, however, lead them somewhere neutral, somewhere less crowded, where she would have a better chance of spotting them. Eleret smiled and stepped back into the street. At the next corner, she made the turn that would take her to the Islanders’ school.
The press of people and wagons lessened as Eleret drew away from the main thoroughfares, and she quickened her step. Each time she turned a corner she managed to glance back along the street, and on her fourth turn she spotted a tall, narrow-faced man whom she was sure she had seen before. He was still behind her when she turned again. Eleret was considering whether or not to let him know she had seen him when a voice behind her called loudly, “That’s her! Stop, thief!”
Startled, Eleret looked back. The narrow-faced man had been joined by a woman in the indigo-and-maroon uniform of the City Guard, and the two were heading purposefully in Eleret’s direction. Eleret glanced around, unable to quite believe she was the person they wanted. A young man in a scarlet cloak had paused, frowning, on the opposite side of the street; everyone else seemed to have melted into alleys and doorways.
“Stop, thief!” the narrow-faced man called again, and this time it was plain even to Eleret that she was the one he meant.
Mildly puzzled by the man’s behavior, Eleret stopped. A flash of irritation crossed the man’s face, as if he had neither expected nor wanted her to wait for him. Eleret’s puzzlement increased. Theft was a grave charge in the mountains, but Tamm had said once that the Ciaronese did not treat it as severely as Cilhar. She had also said that a false accusation was an even more serious matter in Ciaron than among the Cilhar. Why would the man risk an honor-challenge when he must know that Eleret had stolen nothing?
“Is there some problem?” Eleret asked the guard as the two reached her.
“This man claims you stole that bag from him,” the guard answered, gesturing at the kit hanging from Eleret’s shoulder.
“It’s mine, all right,” the man said. He made a snatching motion, and Eleret sidestepped to avoid it. “Watch out! She’s trying to get away.”
“You’ve made a mistake,” Eleret said to the narrow-faced man, her temper beginning to rise. “This is my bag, and I’ve never seen you before in my life.”
“Ha! You snatched it from me not half an hour ago on the Northwest Castle Road.” The man’s eyes blazed with excitement. “It’s mine, I tell you!”
“Please, Grand Master Gorchastrin, control yourself,” the guardswoman said. “This is my job, not yours.”
“Then do it!” the narrow-faced man retorted. “Surely it’s not difficult, even for you. There’s the bag; take it from her and give it to me.”
The guardswoman stiffened. “She is a subject of the Emperor, and there are certain procedures—”
“And as a Grand Master of the Order of Tsantilar of Rathane, I have certain privileges!” Gorchastrin snapped back. “Privileges, may I remind you, that hold even in Ciaron. Now, I want my bag!”
Eleret frowned. Gorchastrin’s strategy was clear now; he expected the guardswoman to seize Eleret’s kit and give it to him, on his word alone. The guard didn’t look strong enough or quick enough to take the kit without Eleret’s cooperation, but Eleret didn’t want to start a fight in the middle of the street, particularly not with an official. Fortunately, it wasn’t a matter of her word against Gorchastrin’s; Commander Weziral could confirm that the bag was hers. Provided, of course, that she could convince the guard and the privileged foreigner to walk back across the city to Weziral’s office.
“Perhaps I can be of
some assistance, my lady guard?” said a new voice. Eleret turned her head. The young man in the scarlet cloak had come up unnoticed during the discussion. As everyone looked at him, he doffed a black cap with a plume dyed to match his cloak and swept a bow. “Lord Daner Vallaniri, at your service and the Emperor’s.”
“It is a minor matter only, my lord,” the guard said, bowing deeply in return. “Grand Master Gorchastrin’s bag was stolen, and he says this woman was the thief.”
“Unlikely,” the newcomer said in a dismissive tone, adjusting his cap carefully over his wavy blond hair. He smiled warmly at Eleret. “So lovely a woman would never be a thief. Her face is too memorable for such a profession.”
“Exactly!” Gorchastrin said, but Eleret thought he did not seem as sure of himself as he had a moment previously. “I remember her perfectly.”
“I regret that I cannot return the compliment,” Eleret said politely. She shifted the kit unobtrusively as far away from him as she could manage, and slipped her left hand into her slit skirt pocket, just in case. “But as I have said, I have never seen the Grand Master before. The bag is mine; it was given to me this morning by Commander Weziral of the Imperial Guard. I’m sure that he will tell you so himself, should you ask.”
“Well, then,” the guardswoman said, clearly relieved. “That settles the matter, doesn’t it?”
“I believe it should,” the young lord, Daner, said. Eleret barely kept herself from an irritated frown at the smug undertone in his voice. He hadn’t done anything to warrant such self-satisfaction. Then she did frown. Why had Daner come shoving his dagger in where it wasn’t wanted? Was he after Tamm’s kit, too? Or was she seeing shadows on noon snow?
“Not so fast!” Gorchastrin said. “How do you know she’s telling the truth? How do you know she hasn’t bribed this Commander Weziral to say whatever she wants?”
Eleret stiffened at the implied insult, then saw that the guardswoman looked just as horrified as she felt. Before either of them could speak, Daner’s eyebrows rose in haughty disdain. “Bribe a Commander of the Imperial Guard of Ciaron? You forget yourself, Rathani.”
Raven Ring Page 6
