As the thought crossed his mind, young Lan set a tankard of ale down next to Frost's bowl of stew. Frost sipped at the stew first, savoring the hot broth, then slurped a chunk of cabbage and a few tender bits of meat into his mouth. A long pull on the ale came next. He looked up to find Sharryl and Rosivok gulping their food down at a typically frightful rate. After only two weeks spent as Taya's guests, the improvements in those two, and in himself, were quite significant. They were mending, physically and in other ways, though they were all still too thin to fill out their clothing.
Cantor had vanished after their third day here while Frost was sick with fever. He had apparently said good-bye, or it had been a dream, Frost wasn't sure. He found Cantor's departure curious at least, but whether it was cause for worry or not, he had yet to decide. In his youth he had been a very poor judge of the character of others. He had remedied that failing in the decades since, or so he believed. He saw Cantor as the type who liked to get what he wanted, but on his own terms, and he had seen Cantor's eyes that day in the pass. The merchant had not mentioned the Demon Blade since that day. Not once. Frost saw this last as a good sign, but he knew it didn't mean that Cantor was gone for good.
"More salt," Sharryl said, and the boy went to fetch the bag.
"Pie too?" Rosivok asked, with a look of rapt desire that Frost almost didn't recognize.
"Strawberry, if you don't mind the same twice," Taya said with a nod, then a grin as she saw Rosivok's reaction.
"Until they discovered your pies, I had only seen a Subartan so intense in the heat of battle," Frost chuckled.
"You eat two pieces for every one of theirs," Taya scolded him. "But I will say the three of you have appetites I have never seen the likes of."
The Subartans nodded as they emptied their bowls and belched mightily, almost in unison. They were seldom heard to give proper thanks as well as Frost, at least not in words, but they seemed to get their message of satisfaction across in every other way possible.
"We will leave in a few days, but I will pay you the week," Frost said between his last few spoonfuls. "And I will see what I can do for your friends as well."
Taya's neighbor, the smithy's wife, had been by several times complaining of a swollen jaw on the left side, a bad tooth, and the past two days it had put her in misery. Frost had no spells to raise teeth from bone, but a simple tool her husband could fashion from two gently curled strips of iron, flattened and joined in the middle with a nail, would work to grab hold of the tooth and pry it loose. The pain, well, Frost could help with that, at least for a day. He couldn't remember how many times in how many villages he'd done the same. Usually for whatever amounted to a reasonable fee in those lands, of course. He would have insisted on being paid this time as well if it were not for the way Taya had looked when she'd asked, as if agreement should follow the way summer follows spring; that, and those pies . . .
"You'll only pay me what you owe me," Taya said.
"We'll see," Frost replied. Then he asked the same question he'd asked nearly every day for more than a week now. "Has anyone new come along, perhaps from Worlish?"
"None you should bother with," Taya said. "I told you we will get them and whatever news they bring, just be patient. In the meantime I can likely tell you stories enough if you'd care to listen."
"I do," Frost said.
"You don't. Most of the time you barely hear a word I say, as if you are in some world all your own."
"My thoughts tangle sometimes," Frost said.
"That must be it, then. But tell me, why do men only seem to pay attention to a woman when she's calling him for food or love?"
Frost opened his mouth to respond, but realized he had no immediate reply to that.
"I thought so," Taya said. But she wore a grin now that Frost was fairly certain meant only one thing. It was an idea he rather fancied, in fact. He tended to have little interest in women when he was at his peak weight, a condition that made him feel less attractive to women to begin with, conscious of the possibility he might present a danger to anyone he inadvertently rolled over on; but now, recovering from his ordeal, he was at least one hundred pounds lighter than he had been only last month. He felt urges deep within, a stirring in his loins that only strengthened as Taya leaned closer to him, put her lips near his ear, and whispered, "I see I have made my point."
"Perhaps. It is a topic worth further debate, I think."
"Indeed," Taya said. "But it might be prudent to go where others won't hear."
Frost nodded, ready as could be, and finished his ale, but before he could rise he found another one being set down in its place. Lan left again but returned a moment later with butter and a fresh loaf of dark bread, which Frost and his Subartans set straight to work on.
Frost tried to think of something else, anything else. "I am curious what you meant by your answer about travelers," he said after a time. "You say there is no one I need bother with, yet anyone from the north might be . . ."
"She means the skull-wagers," Lan said, darkening.
That meant nothing to Frost. "Tell me more," he said, chewing at one last bit of bread crust then bringing his full attention to bear on his ale.
"You must know what Worlish was like, but I tell you that vassal we have on the throne of Calienn is near as bad," Taya said.
"Commlin?" Frost inquired, recalling the name of Calienn's Great Lord just then, surprising himself. Perhaps it has not been as long as I thought . . .
"Commlin has been dead for some years," Taya said. "Killed, most say. Calienn has not been a sovereign province for as long as Lan has been alive. It is more a part of Worlish, an agreement won without a fight by way of treaty, or what some call a treaty. Commlin's young brother Torlin rules now, but only in name. He had too many vassals to count, and had divided Calienn into smaller and smaller manors until most of the lords could not live off them. So they tried to live off others, where and when they could. Even Worlish soldiers opportune our lands, and they do not respect anyone's sovereignty. But Cantor has been putting pressure on Torlin, and he has begun reforms. Worlish is under no such pressure."
"We pay taxes so often, and often to men we do not even know," Lan said.
"Skull-wagers?" Frost asked again, still curious.
"Yes," Taya said. "They are from Worlish, they wear padded gambesons dyed all in a dark color, except for a single white stripe down the front and back that grows broader at the bottom. Pear-shaped, really. But on horseback, riding away, the shape looks rather like a skull, and if the horse is at a walk, well, you see—"
"I have seen them," Frost said. "Two days past, walking their horses to the stables. Are they staying here?"
"No," Taya said, almost too quickly, perhaps nervously. Frost wasn't sure whether she was lying' she had no reason to and the boy was taking no particular notice, but if so, she wasn't very good at it. Still, he let it drop.
"These men come to collect which lord's homage?"
"Borger's or Adeler's, who are lords of nearby fiefs, or even in the name of old Acklandar, who has the only right beyond the king himself."
Frost had heard every word, but what he was hearing didn't make much sense. Worlish and Briarlea were rich lands and should have no need of what amounted to robbery in a sovereign ally's villages. "Soldiers from Worlish are doing this?" he asked, clarifying.
"Aye, now and again, and they take their share of whatever else they want for themselves," Lan said, clearly displeased with the arrangement. "Cantor is the only friend we have, and he has yet to prove much of that."
Frost nodded. It was a familiar circumstance in other lands, and usually there was nothing to be done. The local vassal was weak or lazy or both, the noble to whom he owed fealty was only slightly more attentive and had more men of arms, but no stomach for war; so the taxes from grains and ale to craftsmen's work to coins, and sometimes laborers were collected as needed wherever they might be found, especially where one manor bordered another. Here, that practice had
been taken to the level of principalities. There was no recourse, other than to start a revolt, become a vassal, or take to the road . . . as Frost had done.
"When I saw these men about in the village, they seemed as interested in me and my Subartans as I in them," Frost pressed. "Tell me, why should I not speak to them?"
"Their type is quick to act and hard to predict," Taya said. "They have stayed away so far. I wish that to continue."
"I hear they killed a man and his wife in Attaus just four days past," Lan added, "and all because the poor fellow had not enough food to get them supper."
"There are always stories, people love to tell them," Frost cautioned, "and stories always grow as they travel."
"Frost is right," Taya told her son. "You'll do well always to keep that in mind. But so is Lan," she added, turning to Frost. "If they were worthy soldiers, I dare say someone in Worlish would have better use of them. Instead they wander here. Such men are best left alone."
"Then they should leave others alone," Frost said.
"That is what I say," Lan muttered, mostly under his breath.
"Lan would be a knight and save the world, bless him," Taya said with a soft smile. "But the inn will not do without him."
"For now, I will heed your advice," Frost replied, leaning back, his belly filled to satisfaction. He had no desire to start trouble or make news here. "Meanwhile, I will accept your offer," he told Taya, gazing at her, "and listen to your stories. I predict they will be most . . . delightful."
Taya made a grin that held an enticing hint of sin as Frost stood up and held out his hand. She took it, and led him out the door, then around back of the inn to the small house that joined it, using part of the inn's roof and one of its walls. It had two rooms, the smaller of them arranged with two storage chests, a small table that held a washbowl and one spindly chair, a bed made of a sturdy frame and a well-stuffed mattress, and a chamber pot. They ended in the bed almost right away, then set about pulling each other's clothes off.
Frost laid his robes and tunic on one of the nearby chests, then he unlashed the scabbard and set the Blade, still wrapped tightly in cloth, on the floor next to the bed.
"What it that for?" Taya asked, eyeing the obvious shape of the thing, and especially the hilt where it protruded from the bindings.
"Have you never heard the tales, that sorcerers cannot perform without a proper . . . aid?"
"I'll believe no such thing of you, Frost."
"No?"
"No, not that, though sometimes I do not know what to believe when it comes to you. Still, the learning is fun."
Frost hid his smile. "And why is that?"
"Because even weak and starving and ill, there is something remarkable about you. I know you are a man of magic, considered wise by many, perhaps talented, and certainly cocky as any man I've known. But I have known many men, tradesmen, warriors, a wizard or two. None were quite as you."
"No doubt," Frost said.
Taya wrinkled her brow at him and he grinned.
She grinned back, then held him. He brought his lips to hers, his hand to her breast. He had not been with a woman in nearly a year. Then it had been Sharryl, who lacked nothing with regard to mastery, strength or enthusiasm, but who was nowhere so soft as Taya was everywhere.
"You never did tell me about that sword," she whispered as if the topic were sensual somehow. "It is special in some way?"
Frost tried not to let himself fall out of his mood, which he was finding enjoyable. "Why do you ask?"
"You act as though it is quite valuable."
"Perhaps. But it does not concern you."
"Then it won't." She pressed against him, and neither one said more for nearly an hour.
When they had finished they lay in each other's arms for a time, listening to the sounds of people talking as they passed by on the street and breathing in the rich human scents of their conjugation. In a few weeks Frost would be much heavier, far less interested, and leagues from here. That didn't matter now, not to either one of them.
"What will you do when you get home?" she asked, leaning up on one elbow and looking at him. A wistful look, one Frost found curiously hard to read.
"To start, I will see what remains and what has become of the place, and of those I knew."
She sighed. "I say very little really changes."
"Yes, but as I said, I have been gone a very long while."
"Where, Frost?" Taya asked, practically getting on top of him again. "Tell me, where have you been?"
"All those lands you mentioned earlier, and many more."
"Are they the same as here?"
"Vassals argue, peasants pay, people have children, they grow old and die. And they are everywhere fond of wars."
"You see, nothing changes. Though we have had no wars in years, thank the Greater Gods," Taya said, laying her head on his chest.
"A peaceful land?"
"Mostly. Far to the north, there is the Grenarii Empire. The king is known as Kolhol. He has won or seized the lands of all the Grenarii tribes and united them, and he has built an army that worries even the Worlish king. Some say he has made threats."
Frost shrugged at this. "Kings are always making threats, they always will. Tell me, who would this Worlish king be?"
Taya paused at they reached her door. She looked at him. "Lord Andair, of course. I should think you would remember him, if all you say is true."
Frost felt his insides harden, felt the stew backing up. "Is anything wrong?" Taya asked, as she tried to put her arms around him and found his body rigid.
Frost realized what he was doing, then realized he wasn't breathing. He drew a breath and blinked his drying, staring eyes into focus. "Lord Andair?" he asked, finding it difficult even to speak the name. "The old king's banished nephew? He is not dead?"
"The same," Taya said. "And no. Do you know him?"
"I do," Frost said, feeling the full weight of this news settle upon him. "I did."
"Frost." Taya used her hand to turn his eyes to her. "Will you say what's wrong?"
It was not her fault, of course, and she had every right to be concerned. "It is Andair," he told her. Again he tasted the rancor in his mouth as the name touched his lips and tongue. "He is the reason I left."
CHAPTER THREE
"I wish to be your third Subartan. I will learn," Lan said, standing stoutly before Frost and holding a very old and battered sword.
"What have you told him?" Frost asked Rosivok, finding the Subartan with a steady eye.
"It was me," Sharryl confessed, before Rosivok could say. "The boy was curious, we talked a few times. But we did not talk for long."
"Enough to get his mind filled with foolish ideas," Frost said. He turned to find Taya coming out of the inn to join him and the others in the morning sun. She wore a light tan dress decorated with brown and green embroidery along the sleeves and collar. Quite a handsome woman, Frost thought, reaffirming his earlier assessment. "You will have your hands full, now," he told her.
"I already do."
"Now he will be worse."
"Why are you so sure?" Taya asked, smiling.
Frost gave her his most sober look. She needed to take this seriously. "He has been asking about Subartans, and mine have been telling him stories. He has asked to be my third."
"What third?" Taya asked, growing more anxious.
"I am one Subartan short, but for now I will remain so." Frost turned to Lan. "You are much needed here, boy. Understand that you will do your mother and your village more good than you could do for me or these two. I have lost two Subartans already, and while your heart and mind may be ready and willing to meet the task, I fear your skills would make you my third loss. You serve no one dead."
Lan seemed to wilt with every word, and hung his head with this last. His mother moved to comfort him, but the boy tried to shrug her off. "I have never even been to Worlish," he said. "Never been anywhere, but I am ready. I practice almost daily with this," he
added, brandishing the sword.
"You already are somewhere," Frost said. "As good a place as any, I promise you, and with better folk than many. Do not give it all up so easily. As for your fighting skills, they may be needed here one day, by your mother perhaps, or your own family. A war might start and conscription follow, then your fighting skills would help keep you alive. Almost nothing in life is wasted, but if you go with us, your life might be. Do you understand?"
Lan just stood there for a time, thinking, looking the visitors over. Frost tried to imagine the sight through the boy's eyes. Here was a mysterious, eccentric sorcerer in a colorful floppy hat and tunics and leaning on a dark, polished wooden walking staff carved with strange runes, and there were two Subartan warriors, tall and powerful, well armed, wearing their own, only slightly less ornate tunics and linked, leather armor dyed in red and brown. All images well fitted to the ambitions and imagination of a young boy such as Lan. He wanted adventure, stature and proof of the man he had nearly become. Frost could not blame him, he knew what that was like. But at what cost? And to whom? That was the kind of mistake that could ruin one's life, and the lives of others, which was something Frost was even more familiar with.
"Yes," Lan said finally, barely speaking. He looked away, toward the old wall at the edge of the village and the wide-open gates. "I am glad Sharryl told me a few stories at least. I will still have them when you are gone."
Sharryl gave him a nod.
"It would be an honor to fight at your side," Rosivok told the boy. "One day, perhaps, but not this day."
"Frost," Taya said.
He turned to her and found her look had changed again, a dark expression Frost hadn't yet noticed on her face.
Frost Page 6
