by D. H. Aire
Nodding ruefully, Aaprin said, “You’ll send her my best regards?”
“Of course! Now off with you before I lose what time I have left to visit,” he smiled insincerely.
Aaprin exited the coach, which then sped away. He grinned, then began running toward the cross street. There were quicker ways into the Seventh than passing the main gates and he could be with his father much sooner!
Irin sat alone in the kitchen for but a moment before she nerved herself to follow in her mother’s wake. “What has this got to do with me!” she rasped.
Her mother spun about, “Quiet! You mustn’t awaken your father!”
Anger plain on her face, Irin muttered, “Tell me truth or I shall make such noise as to bring the city guard!”
Chastened and afraid, her mother rushed to her daughter’s side. “Grown woman you would be? You want to know what this has to do with you? Think about it, girl. Lucian and you are more precious to Rolf than his very life! That wizened reprobate of a healer comes here every month with his fey charms and you have never guessed? Rolf sees Elvin bloodline as our means to a better life!” she exclaimed.
Irin shook her head in disbelief. “Mother, you and Lucian haven’t been—”
The woman shook her head, “That healer looks in on you and poor Luce, not your father or me.” Only now was Irin beginning to tremble with a knowledge she did not want to acknowledge.
“Fool, child,” her mother rasped. “The bearing of you did something to me inside. I have Rolf’s marriage vows and I gave him a daughter— he’d never set me aside, that would break one of his contracts! No, it’s worse than that.”
“Mama, I don’t understand!” she cried.
“Your father must show we’ve the right bloodlines. I’m to mother the elfblood child Lucian will get on you, once you are of age! Now, see I’ve told you what you want to know! Does it give you comfort?”
Pale and trembling, Irin took a step back, ringing her hands, “Me?”
“And no stud fee for Lucian, either,” her mother muttered. “That is part of their bond.”
“Why?” she muttered desperately. “Why not someone like, uh, Aaprin? He’s young, we’ve always been friends!”
Her mother shook her head tiredly, disgustedly, “Never! Lucian will never allow any of this to touch his son. And your father always believed it not likely that you would choose to run off with such a man as Lucian. No romantic entanglements, ‘less personal that way,’ Rolf says.” She stated bitterly, glancing about the taproom. “And you know, this scheme of his has every chance of working. We could be managing a decent inn in a few years.”
Irin could simply stare. Her mother looked almost mad. “Bear your father a son, an elfblood son, Lucian will pass on mage potential. The raising of the babe will be my burden, never yours. In return, you have your father’s promise to see you in a proper marriage, in good station.
“Is that so much to one day ask of you?”
Irin muttered bitterly, “Ever so scrupulous in business... And you agree with him... So that’s why he looked at me like that last night.”
“What are you talking about?” her mother shrilled.
She told her of being pinched that night. Her mother took down a chair from one of the tables and sat looking toward a shuttered window, “He’ll be thinking you’re woman enough... But I’ve said enough to give you time to think about all this.”
“You wouldn’t have told me, would you?”
Her mother said not another word for the longest time, then quietly rose and ascended the stairs.
He climbed the low wall between the one back alley and the next, knowing the way by heart. He had grown up in these streets. He saw the taproom, shuttered until the noon bells of the city still a few hours away. Pausing, he looked over the lip to the alley. He saw the guards and hesitated. Master Rolf must be doing special business this morning, Aaprin thought, choosing the rear entrance through the cellar.
Placing his hand upon the charmed lock, he felt a tingling and heard a click as he was recognized. The door opened easily and locked it behind him, soundlessly. He cautiously climbed the stair before entering the storeroom.
He paused at the door, gave a soft knock to announce himself and proceeded into the darkened taproom.
“Aaprin!” Irin said in surprise, her face showing any number of strange reactions to his presence.
“Oh, I, uh, hope that I didn’t startle you. I just saw that the alley was ‘covered.’ Thought I could come in through the back way and go on up to see my father.
Irin trembled and said, “Go right on up!”
“Uh, thanks.”
Abruptly, she grabbed his arm, “Don’t. He’ll still be abed. Come into the kitchen, I’ve some biscuits and cheese.”
He glanced up, “Irin, is something wrong?”
“What? Well, no, it’s just that I’ve been thinking about you.”
“Me?” he practically croaked, never noticing the inner debate the girl struggled with.
Finally, she came up to him, taking his arm, “It’s been a long time since we’ve talked.”
Aaprin shook his head in confusion.
Steeling herself, she kissed his cheek, “Please, I really need to hear some of your stories about what it’s like upTier.”
Blushing, he escorted her into the kitchen, wondering aloud, “Do you think I can go up there soon? I’ve great news for him. I’ve made Apprentice Third and—”
Irin nodded sadly. Her hands shook as she prepared them cups of cider, while she listened to him tell her all his news. It was not long before she heard footsteps on the outside stair.
That’s when she turned him away from the window and suddenly embraced him with a kiss that welled with emotions she could never name, while astonishing Aaprin.
She swatted his bottom then, when he dazedly drew away from her. “Go upstairs now. I think I hear him awake.”
He swayed as he saw her wistful smile. He would never understand that it was in fondness at the thought of bearing an unborn elfblood son just like him, someone full of magic, pride and real hopes that could be fulfilled.
She swallowed, remembering the moment she would have let him go up to what he would find. Shaking her head, Irin knew she could never steal Aaprin’s idle glories— not after so losing her own.
Paying the Prince
3
“But you certainly have some influence,” the merchant continued to harangue.
Terhun groaned softly. “I’m afraid not,” he answered, clasping his mug firmly. Could not these fools understand it was late and he just wanted to enjoy a cup of ale or two? “My men are only bonded to guard his goods for the Festival. I know nothing of who Jeo intends to choose as his factor— or just about anything else for that matter!”
“But you could mention me to him…”
At that point, completely exasperated Terhun gentled his dagger from its sheath with his right hand, casually placing the blade upon the table. “More ale here!” he shouted.
The offensive merchant conspicuously took his leave.
Terhun quietly chuckled and shook his head. Ever since rumor had spread of Jeo’s good fortune in acquiring the dwarven mercantile property every out-province merchant here for Festival was seeking to deal with the man.
Even as the serving girl refilled his mug, someone dressed in garb that unmistakably was not that of a merchant sat down opposite him at the recently vacated chair.
Curling his hand the more tightly upon his dagger, Terhun shifted ever so slightly. His men, throughout the tavern, came alert instantly, reading his tension as silent warning.
The man grinned, his graying at the temple hair immaculately combed. There were indications of a number of weapons concealed upon his person. This was a professional.
“Well trained, they are,” he casually said, without glancing either right or left. “But have no fear this day... My Master wishes you no particular ill. He just has a few questions he would very much
like answered.”
“I am quite afraid I have no idea what you are talking about.”
Canting his head to the side, “Perhaps not, though the evidence I have amassed would indicate that you do.”
Terhun made no reply, merely waited, which brought an even greater smile to the man’s face. “Ah, well,” he said to Terhun, at last, “Why have you taken to a Pack of urchins?”
Eyes widening, Terhun abruptly laughed, “Oh, that! You had me worried there for a moment... I thought this was to be something serious. What would you like to know?”
Frowning in puzzlement, the thief asked, “What matters concern you with them?”
“‘Restitution,’” Terhun replied wryly. “Merely paying them back for wrongs done them, accidentally, by me. They’re goods lads, by-and-large, and I’m one to always pay my debts.”
The thief rose, “Should more relevant answers come to mind, ask to speak with me, Gabriol, at Melane’s House in the Seventh.” Terhun watched the man rise and leave the tavern, several disreputable fellows, obviously local “Daggers,” casually taking ranks around him chose to leave at just the same moment.
Melane’s House of harlotry by whatever name it went by these days was one place Terhun had no interest in braving. So the Prince was upset by his clandestine meeting with members of Gallen’s Pack of street urchins. That did not bode particularly well for Gallen, but that was a matter that did not really concern Terhun the Caravan Master from Lyai. However, Terhun the Imperial Agent Extraordinaire could not help but feel a twinge of sympathy, the lads made fine students even if he was unsure where their loyalty would one day rest. The damned black robed woman Cle’or was still a bit of a mystery to him, yet he had his orders, which seemed clearly to now include the odd friend of Jeo, the Merchant. Sighing, he relaxed; luckily he would be leaving within the next to days let the matter fall upon Cle’or’s honor.
The sun was only just rising as the small urchin dressed in rags slipped through the hedge, which had been cut in a pattern that created a practically invisible access through the shrubbery most times of the year.
The urchin looked about warily, then headed for cover by the coachman’s shed before proceeding to the rear of the house. He swallowed anxiously and scratched quietly at the door.
When it opened and the urchin was hastily ushered inside. He found himself in the kitchen, where Cle’or fed him slices of succulent fruit. “So, Clawd, what’s the word out there?”
Talking with pulp in his mouth, he stated, “De merchant’s ere cryin’ foul, dey ere shur enouf! ‘tis said dat Jeo ‘as ‘ired dozens and dozens of dwarfs to work ‘is place, too!”
Someone paused in the kitchen archway, “Cle’or?”
The black robed woman turned, “Oh, hello, Se’and, you are certainly up early this morning.”
“Sister, what are you up to?” asked the unofficial young matriarch of their House.
“You remember the story I told you about the drugged urchin boy and his companion?” Cle’or asked. “Well, this is the young lad who was brought to the Healer’s Hall with Balfour’s token.”
Se’and frowned, smiling wanly at the child, “I do, at that, which makes me wonder all the more at his presence here in our kitchen.”
“You’d na begrudge a small tike like me a chance at a bit o’ breakfast, would ya, milady,” sorrowfully muttered the lad.
Se’and’s eyes narrowed, “Cle’or, we’ve been in this house less than a day, yet here that one is. What have you gotten us involved with?”
“Do keep your voice down, Sister, people are still sleeping upstairs...” Se’and’s look did not afford any hesitation in giving immediate answer. “Ah, well, you’re in a foreign land, after all, and a proper Cathartan House should always have a viable information network.”
The sandy haired woman stared in astonishment as Cle’or explained about her budding relationship with the urchin pack. Deep in thought, Se’and took a pitcher of juice out of the magery inspired coldbox, pouring them each a mug.
Clawd grinned as Cle’or added, “I did mean to mention it to you now that we’re a bit more settled.”
“You know, Sister,” Se’and finally said, “you’ve placed the honor of our House on this. Are you really prepared to accept that kind of responsibility?”
Cle’or stood up straighter and gazed straightforwardly at the lad. “Perhaps if you witnessed their training you would not have to ask that. Our House is in a precarious situation, if it is to survive and flourish we have much to do— alliance to make with the responsibilities they will entail.”
Ruefully nodding, Se’and replied, “Well, the time for being inconspicuous is at an end in any case. I just wonder what Je’orj is going to think about this... Clawd, would you like a piece of sweet cake?”
“Yes, Ma’am!” he announced excitedly, no longer worried by the odd exchange between the two that concerned him and his Pack almost peripherally. But food was another matter altogether!
Se’and briefly rummaged through the coldbox, while Cle’or minutely relaxed, knowing that once Se’and was convinced no one could gainsay her actions on behalf of the House.
“Clawd, how are you feeling,” Se’and asked slicing the cake.
Gaping, the urchin stared at the pastry as hungrily as a boy not living on the streets might. “Fine, milady... I’m ta visit de Healer dis morn.”
“He’s here, if you’d like to save yourself a trip all the way up to the Hall,” replied Se’and.
“I, uh, don’ know, milady.”
Cle’or nodded sympathetically, “No one will miss you, if you don’t come to the Hall today. But in any case, Lord Balfour should not see you in such an, uh, ‘unkempt’ state.”
A sudden amused smile crossed the lad’s face, “You wouldna ‘appen to ‘ave a fine bath ‘ere, now would ya?”
Se’and frowned in puzzlement at the urchin’s seeming eagerness as Cle’or chuckled and said, “Oh, you intend to get double credit by the Rules, eh?”
The urchin grinned broadly, then said in perfectly accented speech, “Why, Madame, how could I forgive myself such an opportunity?”
George entered the baths and frowned at finding unexpected company. There in the large inset pool swam back and forth a boy with close-cropped hair. Soap bubbles streamed behind him in his wake. Glancing over his shoulder, George saw the half-dressed Balfour look past him into the chamber.
“Clawd, when you’re done, I can see you downstairs.”
“The lad stopped his cavorting long enough to say, “Aye, milord.”
Confused, George shrugged, wondering about their guest, noting the filthy rags lying on the floor. He glanced at the boy, who suddenly paused to studiously wash behind his ears.
Cle’or abruptly entered, carrying what had recently been some of apprentice garb once worn by Raven as a disguise. Ignoring George completely, Cle’or said to the boy, “These jerkin and pants should fit you well enough.”
Clawd frowned, “In dat gettup ya mus’ ‘ve a partic’ar task in mind.”
Smiling thinly, Cle’or nodded, “You’ve a few free hours and I thought you might have some fun helping me out.”
Throughout their conversation, George noted the casual way the two seemed to be signing to one another with their hands. Enrapport, his staff began to glow ever so faintly, addressing the mystery.
Raven padded down the hall in beast form, pausing before the bathing chamber and heard the computer translating the underlying conversation between Cle’or and the lad. The boy acquiesced to the scarred faced woman’s plan. With an obvious look of satisfaction, for no reason that George could discern, Cle’or left them alone again.
Staff thought it best not to explain, privately pleased by this turn of events; ever astonished at the flexibility of these Cathartan bodyguard wives.
Raven rose and padded out to the bath as Clawd was just climbing out of the tub. He stared at the supple beast. She stared back, then sauntered over to him and outstretched her man
ed neck. The urchin ever so tentatively petted her. Only then did George truly relax enough to continue with his own plans for a bath. “It is always something,” he muttered.
Raven settled to the floor and actually purred. The lad grinned delightedly. The story he could tell tonight the Pack would never believe! If Raven had chosen to truly reveal herself she would likely have astonished him far more.
Opening the kitchen door to the taproom, Irin wistfully tried to smile at the waiting Gallen. “Sorry, I’ve been, uh, delayed.” She held out a sack filled with bread and wrapped meat scraps from the night’s cooking.
“You look like you’ve been crying,” Gallen remarked as he accepted the sack. “Is there anything I can do to help— stomp on someone, for you?”
“I’m fine,” she practically pled. “Mother’s been getting suspicious is all. Come back in about a week.”
“Whatever you like,” Gallen replied, concerned for his generous friend. “You know, if ever you need me…”
Irin looked at him forlornly. “I know... Now go, before Mother notices my absence.”
“Signal one of the Rats, even if you just want to talk.” She nodded with an expression that hinted that for what troubled her compassion offered no answer. He nodded, then raced back to the mouth of the alley with a glance back to be certain that Irin had closed the door— and could no longer see him.
He paused, then concentrated hard. The sack of food blurred at his shoulder, then seemed to disappear. Even the faintest aroma vanished, the foods’ presence hidden in much the same way that Gallen could march blithely down the streets of the cruel Seventh and be conspicuously ignored by the crowds of passersby around him.
The Prince’s men were looking for Gallen; instead they found one of his chief leftenants, Andre, late that morning. The urchin ran at the first sight of the two beggars that were now chasing him.
Andre frowned recognizing a child face being ushered out of Jeo the Merchant’s “New Digs” as the Pack called the property near the Dwarves’ Quarter. Chance had extended Andre an opportunity he dared not waste. He signaled the apprentice liveried urchin, wearing a loosely fitting tunic and pants.
