by Steven Poore
His clothing reinforced that impression: a clean white cotton shirt under his leather jerkin, and breeches tucked neatly into the tops of his boots, with a thick woollen cloak over his broad shoulders. The hilt of a greatsword stuck out from beneath the cloak.
Cassia blinked and shook herself, suddenly aware that she was staring directly at the young lordling. She did the first thing that came to mind, and presented her bowl, lowering her head again.
After a long moment in which nothing happened, she peeked back up. The man’s eyes were still on her, with that unnerving, slightly blank look.
A faint chuckle came from the old man next to him – his companion, it seemed, but an odd pair they made if that was so.
A full head shorter than the young lordling, the old man was weather-beaten and lined, his hair thin and fading from grey to white. His nose was crooked, and looked like it had been broken more than once, and a thick scar cut down his left cheek and through his lips, twisting his smile. His cloak was wrapped tight around him and he leaned on a thick staff, but something about the way he carried himself gave Cassia the impression he had once been a soldier.
“The girl seeks a coin, Meredith,” he whispered, in faintly mocking tones.
Meredith turned his head to regard the old man. “Why?” he asked, not bothering to lower his voice. Several men nearby half-turned at the interruption. Cassia winced, expecting to hear her father’s tale falter into one of his terrible tempers.
The old man opened his mouth to reply, then changed his mind with an exasperated sigh. He dug into his own purse, dropping two small coins into the bowl. Cassia bowed, relieved, and turned to hold the bowl out before the man on Meredith’s far side.
“And they always get it so wrong . . .” she heard the old man mutter as she hurried away.
When she glanced over her shoulder a few seconds later, the pair of strange travellers had gone.
Chapter Two
Rann Almoul’s house was on the road that led to the Western Gate; they had passed it on their way into town. The mule balked at being led up the hill and Cassia found herself alternately hauling on the rope and smacking the beast from behind to drive it forward.
As usual, she had no help from her father: Norrow strode ahead, oblivious to her travails, basking in the glory of a tale well told. Men halted him to clasp his hand and pat his shoulder; a few women sought to attract his attention from a curtained doorway off to one side. They were no better than they should be, Cassia thought sourly, eyeing their low-cut dresses with distaste.
Norrow’s purse was full again. Tonight, at least, they would not have to pay for food. The money might last slightly longer than usual.
She paused, turning to look back down the darkening road. Lights flickered in the windows of the houses. The early moon was luminescent; it would be a clear, cool evening. The streets emptied slowly as Keskor wound down for the night, but there were still plenty of people about, making their way to their homes or to taverns.
All perfectly normal, yet there was a prickling sensation at the base of her spine – something she couldn’t put a name to. If not for the clear skies overhead, she might have believed a storm was brewing close by.
She returned her attention to coaxing the mule forward, aware she was falling behind even her father’s languid pace. It was probably nothing. Nothing other than still feeling unsettled by the encounter with the strange young lordling earlier.
Cassia had risked looking for the strangers again while she worked her father’s audience, wondering what had drawn them into the square to listen to the tale, and puzzling over the old man’s last comments. Perhaps they were storytellers, like her father? But she abandoned that line of reasoning quickly – she had never known any storyteller carry a sword, or own such finery as the lordling wore. It would make more sense if the strangers belonged to a troupe of traveling players, but again the young man – Meredith – looked clothed rather than costumed. And what troupe would come into the hills, when the vast plains of the Empire offered far richer pickings?
The pair had vanished completely however; not merely withdrawn to the fringes of the audience. Cassia continued her task, distracted, hardly listening as Norrow’s tale gathered pace, as it tumbled to its tragic and bloody conclusion. The great spires of Stromondor fell, as they always did; the terrible warlock Malessar deserted the Lords of the City to their violent ends, as he always did; and the drunken old soldier, the unnamed hero of the hour who had humbled and shamed the once-great Jathar Leon Learth, stood against the massed armies of the Eastern Hordes like a sharpened rock against thunderous tides, just as he always did.
Norrow’s audience cheered the soldier’s strength and nobility, just as they cheered the ruin of Stromondor itself. The hypocrisy of these positions always amused Norrow. He never missed the opportunity to point out that only the very best storytellers could sway a man’s support from one side to the other with just a few words.
The evening thus far was a triumph, then, but the closer they came to Rann Almoul’s house the more troubled Cassia became, both by what might lie ahead and by her sharp memory of Meredith’s cool, piercing gaze. Her imagination was getting the better of her, she decided.
They came to a small square where the road split into two. The right fork would take them through a lesser gate onto the ancient road that wound into the mountains, while the left fork, broader and well-used, left Keskor through Pyraete’s Arch to join the Emperor’s March, curving down into the plains. Standing proud in the angle of this intersection, a blade upon which the road was cut in two, was the house of Rann Almoul.
Almoul displayed his aspirations for all to see. Every year brought some new feature or decoration to his house. This year, he’d added stone pillars and a portico on either side of the squared gate, and completely replastered and whitewashed the outside of the building. Cassia supposed she should be impressed, but she thought the house looked vulgar and intrusive next to its more common neighbours. None would say it to his face, but Almoul had imitated the style of the Factor’s residence.
The gate was open but Norrow did not go through it: he was a guest, but not as esteemed as those Almoul welcomed in for business during the day. Instead he took the left fork and headed to the far end of the house, turning down an alley that linked the two diverging roads. Cassia followed, her stomach grumbling.
There was another, plainer gate at the rear of the house, set into a high wall that had not been there several years ago when this space had been occupied by pens of chickens. Cassia remembered playing with Hetch in the dust and mud, once accidentally letting the chickens loose. She grinned at the memory of the chaos they caused that day, feathers flying everywhere while Ma Almoul raged and cursed.
There was still a yard beyond the gate, but now it was cleaner and tidier, and the hens were confined to a large wooden shed against the wall. The two forked wings of the house enclosed an area paved with stone slabs, with a table set up in the middle. Two young girls ferried trays from the kitchen to the table, watched vigilantly by Ma Almoul herself.
Cassia led the mule off to her right, where Almoul’s two horses were tethered under a sloping thatched roof. The shelter was small and quite crowded; Almoul’s steeds had been joined by several much larger horses, with old blankets laid over their backs. Just as her mule was dwarfed by Rann’s well-bred colts, so they in turn were lessened by these great beasts. She managed to find space to tie the mule to a metal ring at the far end, struggling with the knots in the tight confines of the shelter. One of the big chestnut horses watched her with mild disinterest.
She wondered who these other guests were. Trading partners of Rann Almoul, most likely, or at the very least men he thought he could make a profit from. She began to understand the reason for her father’s invitation to the meal. He was the evening’s entertainment, of course. There was nothing sinister about it, no reason for her to feel uncomfortable.
But telling herself that did not help, she found, as
she stepped from the lean-to and walked across the paved yard to join her father.
Norrow had paused near the table to gaze at the feast that the two girls had set down. But not too close. Ma Almoul stood nearby, hands braced against her broad hips, scowling at him as though he was a beggar. Norrow had affected not to see her, but he turned away quickly as Cassia approached.
“Don’t make a fool of me here,” he hissed between his teeth. “Rann has important dinner guests. This will be worth a lot of money to me. Stay out of my way.”
Cassia felt her cheeks burn, but she kept her mouth closed, biting back the retort that sprang to her lips.
Her father nodded to a bench that sat underneath the house’s overhanging roof, some distance from the table. “Go and sit there. And stay there. I’ll not need you this night.”
Humiliated, she turned her back on him without a word and slumped on the bench, watching as Norrow attempted to smooth his clothing and tidy his wiry hair, radiating an air of self-importance that he thought made him more than he truly was. Ma Almoul, she could tell, was not impressed by his appearance, and would not trust him further than she could spit.
A wise woman, she thought.
Hetch slithered onto the bench beside her, an eager grin splitting his face. He had changed into a clean shirt and wore knee-high riding boots with a small heel, rather than the tattered sandals he habitually went about Keskor in.
“Your Da’s tale was brilliant!” he told her in a low whisper. “Nobody does the old wars like he does. How much did you take?”
Cassia shrugged. She had no chance to count the money once the story had ended. Norrow had snatched the bowl from her and emptied it into his purse. It had been a reasonable take, for the bowl was two-thirds full. Of course, the Factor would want his share of that before Norrow left town again. As would Rann Almoul, who had loaned money to Norrow in the past, when old Attis refused him. The payments on those loans were what drove them back onto the roads, time after time.
“Enough for a room,” she said shortly. Again, even though Hetch was one of her oldest friends – one of her only friends – she didn’t much feel like talking.
Hetch clearly did. “I wish I could tell those stories like he does.”
She grunted, familiar emotions rising to do battle inside her, as they always did when she heard somebody praise her father. Pride, anger, jealousy; everything she knew she shouldn’t feel.
I bet I can tell them just as well as he can. Not that I’ll ever have that chance.
“Want an apple?”
She blinked, her mind pulled away from that well-worn path by the question. Hetch held a bowl of fruit, stacked with rosy apples and clusters of grapes pilfered from the table. Cassia reached for it hungrily and they sat in silence for a few moments while she worked her way through the first of the apples.
“Those horses,” she said at last, picking at the skin stuck between her teeth. “Do you know who they belong to?”
Hetch shook his head, swallowing before answering. “Da’s got company tonight. Old Attis is here, but there’s two men I never saw before too. Well-spoken, I think, or at least one of them is. Might be they’re from Trenis, or Hellea.” He paused, rolling a grape in his fingers. “He could be a prince!”
Cassia shivered a little. Could they be the two strangers she had come across in the crowd? The younger of the pair had looked noble enough. But why would they be visiting Rann Almoul’s house? Anybody so highly born would surely choose to dine at the Factor’s much grander house in town.
“You’ve heard far too many of my Da’s tales. Prince, indeed!”
“Well, I don’t know,” Hetch said. “My Da’s been running about for them all afternoon.”
That piqued her interest. Rann Almoul didn’t bow and scrape for many people. No wonder her father was pacing nervously in front of the tables.
Hetch’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I heard they had business with Attis – and he won’t say a word about it.”
Attis was Keskor’s most influential moneylender. Cassia had heard it said the old miser could make or break a man’s business on a whim. There was no love lost between him and Norrow, thanks to a long-standing and never-to-be-mentioned quarrel that, over the years, had turned into bitter dislike.
But Attis was also Almoul’s closest ally, and they had built their personal fortunes together, the moneylender funding many of Almoul’s successful enterprises. In some ways the two men had more influence in Keskor than even the Emperor’s Factor.
Cassia sat back thoughtfully. If nothing else, the sparks between Attis and her father would make the evening interesting.
“Anybody else?” she asked Hetch.
He frowned and shook his head. “I don’t think so,” he said.
Cassia turned back to the bowl of fruit, plucking a handful of grapes before Hetch could get there. She crushed the first few between her teeth, revelling in the juices that burst onto her tongue.
“These are good,” she said, licking her fingers clean.
“I’m glad you’re enjoying them.” Hetch grinned, shifting on the bench next to her.
It took her a moment to realise that he’d shuffled closer, that his arm had crept up and behind her shoulder. The discomfort she had felt during the afternoon flooded back and she wasn’t sure whether she should be shocked and angry, or grateful for the sudden attention.
She was wondering if she could get away with pretending that nothing had happened when the curtains inside the doorway to Rann’s day chambers parted. Hetch stiffened and pulled his arm back, scrambling to his feet as his father stepped into the yard. With a small bow and a precise flick of his hand, Rann Almoul invited his guests to follow him. All thoughts of her changing relationship with Hetch fled from Cassia’s mind as the first figure brushed through the curtains. It was the young lord, Meredith, from the market square. Of course, she thought. Rann’s guests could hardly have been anyone else.
The lordling paused, and his impassive gaze flitted across the yard, coming to rest on Ma Almoul who stood proudly before the tables. He performed a low and perfectly measured bow of his own, bending smoothly from the waist, and even from where she sat Cassia could tell Ma Almoul was flattered. A rare occasion.
His companion, however, was just as plainly unimpressive. While Meredith was sharp and clean, the old man still wore his tattered cloak and came into the yard absently picking at something stuck in his teeth. He greeted Ma Almoul with effusive charm, but that only made her draw back a step in suspicion.
Next came old Attis, who was greeted as though he was a member of the family. He embraced Ma Almoul with genuine warmth before making his way to the table and lowering himself into a chair at one end.
Last through the curtain was Rann’s eldest son, Tarves. While Hetch took after his father, Tarves bore a heavier resemblance to his mother, right down to her perpetual frown. He had always held himself above the other children of Keskor, and Rann had moulded him firmly in his own image, with the clear intent of passing his business on to him.
“Please, be seated,” Rann Almoul said as his wife withdrew to supervise the serving girls. “Tonight my table is yours.”
The lordling looked to his companion and the older man dipped his head courteously. “Your hospitality is most generous, sir,” he replied.
It was odd that the old man took the lead – it wasn’t what Cassia had expected. Perhaps there was more to their relationship than she had first supposed.
They took their places along one side of the table, with Meredith sat at Attis’s left hand. The moneylender looked uncomfortable with the arrangement. His smile was thin and forced, and his eyes flicked repeatedly from Rann to Meredith. Cassia watched as Hetch and Tarves took seats on the opposite side of the table, then turned to look for her father. Norrow hung back, near the door to the kitchens, waiting to be summoned to tell his tales. Ma Almoul’s serving girls had to duck and edge past him to bring covered plates and bowls to the table, but Norro
w looked too nervous to take any notice of them. It was rare he was invited to recite at a private party – indeed, Cassia could remember only one other occasion – and he much preferred to play to a larger crowd. This intimate setting seemed to have unnerved him as much as Attis, if for different reasons.
She plucked another grape and settled back on her darkened bench, glad to be away from the glare of attention at the table. It would be interesting enough to witness the dinner from here.
Rann paused on the way to his place at the head of the table, resting one hand briefly on Hetch’s shoulder.
“My son and heir, Tarves, you have already met,” he told his guests. “His brother Vescar serves as an officer in the Factor’s legion, where he does great credit both to his name and to that of his family. This is my youngest son, Hetch, who is also learning my business affairs.”
Hetch adopted a suitably serious expression and bowed his head. “My lords, we are honoured by your presence,” he said, sounding much like his father.
Again it was the older man who spoke, while Meredith sat in silence. “Then we are well met and alike, sir, for we are both men of learning,” he said to Hetch with a smile. “I am Baum. I was reckoned a great commander of men in the legions when I was younger, but I have spent the last few decades on my own quest for knowledge.”
He nodded to his companion. “And this is Meredith. A man cannot safely travel alone in the world these days, it seems, but Meredith has his own interest in the North. One might say he seeks his inheritance,” he added with a slight smile.
So Meredith wasn’t a prince after all, but he certainly had to be the younger son of some noble family, to judge by the cut and quality of his clothes.
