Wasn't Tintallion in the middle of a civil war, at last report?
That might explain a great deal. It could explain her references to a war, and perhaps the rules were different there, and she had been able to apprentice at a younger age than twelve, which would explain why she seemed to have done so much for a girl of fifteen. If that was it, then she must have fled to the Small Kingdoms because they were about as far away from her angry master as she could possibly get.
It all hung together.
So Irith was Tintallionese? He looked at her speculatively, listened to her chatting with the merchant in Trader's Tongue, and wished he knew some Tintallionese himself.
He forgot all about the little girl by the gate and listened to Irith and the merchant, trying to spot clues to the Flyer's origin. Her accent didn't sound particularly northwestern to him, but then, he had never actually heard anyone from Ethshar or beyond, only local people imitating them. There was no reason to think that barbarians would have accents much like the people of the northwestern Small Kingdoms.
Irith didn't seem to have any noticeable accent of her own at all, really; she spoke Trader's Tongue with the sharp simplicity of an experienced traveler. She spoke Trader's Tongue better than did the merchant she was haggling with, in fact.
Kelder considered. He could just ask her where she was from, of course. Asking where a person came from was a harmless and natural thing to do.
He would wait until the appropriate time, though, when he had a chance to bring it up in the course of the conversation; she was annoyed enough by his questions about demonology, and asking her out of the blue would be rude.
Irith turned away; the cloth merchant called a “final” offer after her, but she just laughed and walked away, with Kelder close beside her.
“You never did plan to buy anything, did you?” he asked.
She smiled and winked. “Of course not,” she said. “What would I do with a bolt of black brocade on the road to Shan, carry it over my shoulder?” She laughed again, then paused, and added, “If I were staying in town it might be different. It's good fabric.”
Kelder nodded.
“The inn is down this way,” Irith told him, pointing at a narrow alleyway.
“Really?” he said, dubiously.
“Really,” she replied. “It's a shortcut, a back way. I'll show you.”
She led the way, and he followed. A few feet into the passage—for it was little more than that, a corridor between buildings, not a street—he glanced back at the market.
That young girl who had been watching them from the gate was now standing near the cloth merchant's stall, and still watching them. Something about her made him uneasy.
“That girl's watching us,” he said to Irith.
She turned and looked, then shrugged and walked on. “People do that sometimes,” she said.
He took another look, and then he, too, shrugged and walked on.
The alleyway opened out into a small kitchen yard; to one side a bantam cock stared at them through the slats of his coop, a well and windlass occupied a corner, and a big gray cat slept on the sill of a candelit window beside a heavy black door. Irith marched directly across and rapped on the door.
A sliding panel opened, and a nervous face peered out.
“Hello, Larsi,” Irith said. “It's me.”
“The Flyer?” a woman's voice asked.
Irith nodded.
The panel slid shut, and the latch rattled. The gray cat stirred slightly. Kelder took a look back up the alleyway.
The girl in the blue tunic was running down the passageway toward them.
The door opened, and Irith stepped up on the granite threshold. The person she had addressed as Larsi, a plump woman of forty or so, beckoned for her to enter. “I brought a friend,” Irith said, gesturing at Kelder.
Kelder saw the expression on the little girl's face as it caught the light that spilled from the open door, and on a sudden impulse he said, “Two friends.”
“You will be a champion of the lost and forlorn,” Zindre had said, and that child certainly looked lost and forlorn.
Startled, Irith turned and looked as the little girl panted into the dooryard. The waif turned pleading eyes up toward the Flyer, and Irith corrected herself.
“Two friends,” she said.
Kelder smiled with relief. Irith could be compassionate toward the living, however callous she might have appeared toward the dead bandits, and Kelder was very pleased to see it. Maybe he could use this miserable creature to draw himself and Irith closer, as well as fulfilling the prophecy.
“Well, come in then, both of you,” Larsi said, beckoning. Kelder hastened to obey, and the girl scrambled after him.
They found themselves in a great stone-floored kitchen, surrounded by blackened oak, and black iron, and stone in a dozen shades of gray. A wooden cistern stood on an iron frame over a stone sink; stone-topped tables lined stone walls between wooden doors. Pale tallow candles shone from black iron sconces. The only touches of color in the entire place were the fire on the great hearth, and the vegetables spread on a counter—orange carrots and pale green leeks and fresh red-skinned potatoes.
“Go on, then, out with you,” Larsi said, waving them toward one of the doors. “You've no business in my kitchen, and Irith, I wish I'd never shown you that back way!”
“I'd have found it anyway,” Irith retorted, grinning. “You can see it from the air.”
Larsi huffed, and herded the three of them through the door into the main room.
This was brighter than the kitchen, but not much more colorful; here the dominant hues were black and brown, rather than black and gray. Brown wood tables and chairs, wood-paneled walls, a black slate hearth, and a wooden floor were illuminated by a dozen lanterns and in use by a dozen patrons.
“You'll have the stew,” Larsi said, as she showed them to chairs at the near end of one of the two long tables that took up most of the space.
Irith nodded. “And that beer you make,” she said.
Larsi threw a significant glance at the blue-clad girl, and Kelder said, “She'll drink water.”
The girl nodded eagerly.
Larsi snorted, then turned back to the kitchen.
When the door was shut again Kelder commented, “Doesn't look like much.” He looked around himself at the complete absence of paint, brass, or brightwork of any kind.
Irith shrugged. “It isn't,” she admitted, “but it's the best food in Angarossa.” Then she turned to stare at the girl.
Kelder turned his attention to her, as well. Here was his chance to show Irith that he could be kind and understanding and firm, all at once. “Now,” he said, “who are you, and why were you following us?”
The girl blinked, hesitated, and then said, “My name is Asha of Amramion—and I think you killed my brother.”
Kelder and Irith stared at the girl. That was not an answer they had expected.
She stared defiantly back.
“I've never killed anyone,” Kelder informed her.
“I don't think I killed your brother,” Irith said.
Something in the back of Kelder's mind took note of the fact that Irith hadn't said, “Neither have I.” He was not happy about the implications of that, and fought down the entire subject, preferring to concentrate on Asha.
At least for the moment.
“Well, somebody killed him,” Asha said, “and you were there.”
“We were?” Kelder asked, startled.
Asha nodded.
“Where?” he inquired.
“On the road this afternoon, a league west of here,” she replied.
“You mean your brother was one of those bandits?” Irith asked.
Asha, somewhat reluctantly, nodded.
For a moment nobody spoke. Then Kelder said, “We didn't kill anybody; some demons did.”
Asha looked openly skeptical.
“No, really,” Irith told her. “It was really gross, I mean, al
l these little goblin creatures popped up out of nowhere and started hacking away at everybody. It was really disgusting.”
“Where did they come from?” Asha demanded, clearly not convinced.
“Just pop, right up out of the ground!” Irith said, gesturing broadly.
“A demonologist summoned them,” Kelder explained.
“What demonologist?” Asha asked. “I didn't see any demonologist. Not unless it was one of you two.”
Kelder grimaced, put a hand to his chest, and raised his eyebrows. “Do I look like a demonologist?” he asked.
Asha glared at him without answering, then pointed at Irith and said, “She was flying, I saw it.”
“Sure,” Irith said with a nod, “I was flying. I can have wings if I want to; I'm a shapeshifter. But that's wizardry, not demonology. I don't know anything about demons.”
“Well, how do I know that it wasn't wizardry that killed my brother and all his friends?” Asha demanded. “All I have for it is your word!”
Kelder looked at Irith and shrugged.
“I don't know,” he said. “I guess you'll just have to trust us.”
“Why should I?”
Up until this point, Asha had spoken in a rational and fairly adult manner, despite her diminutive size and voice, but now her voice cracked, and she was obviously on the verge of tears.
“Because we didn't do it,” Kelder told her. “Honestly, we didn't.”
“Well, then, who did?" Asha demanded. “I was following Abden, but they were on their horses and I couldn't keep up, and when I got there they were all dead, and you two were standing there arguing right in the middle, and I watched and I followed and I never saw anybody there but you two...”
Her voice broke completely, and she began to sniffle.
Kelder tried to think of something comforting to say, but before he could, Irith asked, “What would you do if it were us?”
Asha's tears suddenly stopped, and her face twisted in anger. She reached down under the table and came up with a knife—an ordinary belt knife, not any sort of fighting knife, but quite capable of doing serious damage.
Kelder grabbed her wrists, both of them.
“We didn't kill anybody," he insisted. “We were walking behind a caravan, and the bandits attacked it, and rode right into a trap—there was a demonologist there, and I don't know much about magic, but he had demons appearing out of nowhere in less than a minute, so it must have been all set up in advance, it can't be that easy to summon them.”
Asha stared up at him and said nothing.
“The caravan went on, and so did we, and we must have just gotten to the ... the dead when you got there, so you saw us there—but it wasn't us, we didn't kill anybody.”
“What caravan?” Asha said, fighting back sobs. “I didn't see any caravan!”
“Drop the knife, girl,” Larsi's voice said, and the tip of a sword suddenly thrust up against Asha's throat.
The three travelers looked up, startled.
Larsi was standing over them with a laden tray, and beside her stood a young man with a naked sword. The young man was thin and pimply and had his sword against Asha's neck.
Asha stared, and refused to move; Kelder released one wrist and took the knife away from her. She didn't resist.
He threw the weapon on the table, and told Larsi, “It's nothing, really. She's just upset.”
Larsi glared, then gestured.
The sword was withdrawn from Asha's throat.
“Fine friends you bring in here, Irith,” Larsi said, in a voice that dripped scorn.
Irith shrugged and grinned. “Just a little harmless excitement,” she said. “Traveling can be so boring!"
“I like it boring,” Larsi said. She waved an arm at the other customers, and for the first time Kelder realized they were all staring at the little group at the end of the table. “My customers like it boring. They don't like kids screaming and people yelling and blades being drawn, any more than I do. Now, if you three can keep it boring, you can stay, but if there's any more excitement, out!"
“Yes, Larsi,” Irith said, ducking her head in a sort of nod.
“Agreed, mistress,” Kelder said.
Asha glared.
Larsi glared back, and at last the little girl broke and said, “All right, I promise.”
“Good,” Larsi said.
The young man sheathed his sword and left, while Larsi lowered the tray, displaying three plates of stew, three mugs, and a few other implements.
When Larsi had served out the contents of the tray and departed Kelder took a good look around the room, which showed him that, except for an occasional nervous glance, the other customers had returned to their own affairs.
Thus reassured, he turned to Asha and said, “All right, now, tell us the whole story. What were you doing out there following your brother? Why was he a bandit in Angarossa, if you're from Amramion?”
Asha was shoveling stew into her mouth with a wooden spoon, and Kelder realized that she probably hadn't eaten all day. He waited until she paused before repeating his questions.
“Amramion isn't exactly the other side of the World from here,” Asha retorted. “Two days ago I was still living at home.”
Kelder frowned. “All right, then,” he said, “why aren't you living at home now?"
“Because I came after Abden.”
“But why? Aren't you a bit young to be out on your own?”
Asha hesitated. She studied Kelder's face, and then Irith's. “I ran away,” she said.
“Go on,” Kelder said.
“I ran away,” she repeated, “and I didn't have anywhere else to go, I didn't have any family or friends to stay with, except Abden.”
“And he was one of those bandits?”
She nodded. “He ran away last year,” she said, “and he didn't know where else to go, so he went east, and he got stopped by bandits, and he didn't have any money, and he wasn't worth any ransom, but he was big and strong and knew how to fight, so they let him join. He sent me a message and told me about it.”
“And then they all got killed today,” Kelder said.
Asha nodded again and sniffled.
“But what were you doing?”
“I ran away the day before yesterday,” she said. “I couldn't ... I mean, I wanted to see Abden and stay with him. I found him this morning, and he said that I couldn't stay there, that they didn't have any way to take care of me, but I hung around and tried to think of something, because I couldn't go back home. And then the scout came back and said a caravan was coming, so they all rode out to meet it, and I ran after them, but when I got there they were all dead, and you two were there and nobody else was, and I didn't know what to do, so I followed you.”
She looked up at him. “And here we are,” she said.
He looked down at her. “How old are you, Asha?” he asked.
She frowned. “Not sure,” she said. “Nine, I think.”
Not sure? Kelder started at that. How could she not know how old she was?
He pushed that aside and said, “Nine's too young to be out on your own.”
“I know that,” she said. “That's why I came to stay with Abden!” She sniffled. “And he's gone now.”
“So shouldn't you go home, then?” Irith asked.
“No,” Asha said flatly.
Kelder looked at Irith, who shrugged, tossing her hair delightfully.
“What are you going to do, then?” Kelder asked.
Asha looked down at the table. “I don't know,” she whispered.
“What would you like to do?” Irith asked.
The child looked up again. “I'd like to find that caravan and kill everybody in it! They killed my brother, and he wasn't going to hurt anybody!”
“You don't know that,” Kelder said. “Or at least they didn't know that. And he was going to rob them, wasn't he? That might well hurt them; they make their livings trading, they could starve.”
Asha glared at h
im and said nothing.
“Being a bandit is a dangerous business,” Kelder pointed out. “Your brother must have known that.”
She turned away.
“Killing them wouldn't help your brother any, you know.”
“Nothing can help him now,” Asha said bitterly. “He won't even get a decent funeral.”
“Well,” Kelder said, considering that, “maybe we could do something about that, the three of us. We could go back and build a pyre for him.” The prophecy was running through his head—a champion of the lost and forlorn, honored by the dead. “We don't have a theurgist or a necromancer to guide his soul, but at least we could set it free.”
“No, we couldn't,” Asha said.
“Why not?” Kelder asked, puzzled.
“Because,” she reminded him, “they took his head.”
Kelder had completely forgotten that unsavory detail. Asha was quite correct; as he had noticed, the caravan had taken all the bandits’ heads, impaled on pikes as a warning to other would-be attackers. That was standard procedure for thieves, Kelder knew, but he had never before considered the religious consequences.
If someone died and nobody burned the body, the soul would be trapped for weeks, or months, or even years, unable to fly free and search for a way to the gods of the afterlife. It would be prey to ghost-catchers and night-stalkers and demonologists, who respectively enslaved souls, ate them, or used them to pay demons for their services. That wasn't just theory; there were enough ways for magicians to communicate with the dead that the exact nature of ghosts was well-established.
And one established fact was that you couldn't burn a body properly unless you had at least the heart and the head. It was better to have the whole thing, but the heart and head were the absolute minimum.
Cutting off a thief's head and posting it suddenly seemed like a rather nasty custom.
It also, it seemed, offered an opportunity to do something that was a very clear and definite step toward achieving his promised destiny. If he were to champion Asha, who was undoubtedly lost and forlorn, by freeing her brother's soul, he would doubtlessly be honored by that dead soul; that was a good part of his fate right there.
Taking Flight (Ethshar) Page 7
