“You’ve been able to port?” She looked again at his jacket. “You’re a captain with your own ship now?”
“A captain, but for a group of merchants. I don’t own the ship. That’s made it harder to get to certain ports.” He took a deep breath. “How did you end up here?”
“It made sense. The Academy sent me to Summerdock.”
“How could Lortren…?”
“She didn’t know, or she pretended not to know when I wouldn’t tell her. The first year was hard. I worked as a scullery maid in an inn … then persuaded a goldsmith to take me on as a shopgirl and an apprentice. He was desperate. He wasn’t much of a goldsmith. He said … he wanted … Let’s leave it at that. When I left, I had enough silvers for passage to Southport, and I got a real apprenticeship with a woman here.”
“You have your own shop, though, don’t you? Isn’t this yours?”
“It is.” Jyll glanced to the portrait of the blonde woman.
He looked at the portrait.
“My stepmother. After my father died, she sought me out. I don’t know how she found me, but she did. She insisted she was in my debt. My debt … after all…” Jyll shook her head. “She said that what I’d done had given her the happiest years of her life. She wanted me to come back. I told her Recluce wouldn’t allow that…”
Loric smiled broadly, but said nothing and continued to listen.
“She insisted on giving me enough to set up my own shop. I didn’t do it all on my own, you see. She also insisted on returning the portrait to me. After … what I’d done … I couldn’t refuse.” Her lips quirked. “It’s a useful reminder.”
“Of what?”
“Of the dangers of hatred.”
“I can’t believe you…”
“That was then, Loric. Leave it at that.”
After a moment, he gestured to the portrait of the blonde woman. “Is she still…”
“She lives in Land’s End. She and Father never had any children. We write occasionally.”
“What about your daughter?”
“She tutors some of the daughters of the wealthier women.”
“She’s well, then.”
“She’s very well, Loric, and she’s been the joy of my life.”
He glanced down at the display case. “That … and your work.”
“Of course.”
“You can come back to Recluce, you know. Not to Land’s End, but to Nylan.”
“The new city?” She raised her eyebrows.
“The black city, where they allow those who have made peace with who and what they are and who follow order in a … less restrictive way.” He glanced around the shop. “Which you do.”
“Who would allow me in?”
“Dorrin, for one. He’s the one who’s building the city.”
“Dorrin? Was he the one? Was it his ship that destroyed the white fleet?”
“Not the whole fleet, but enough. He built and commanded The Black Hammer. He’s done wonders.”
“The toymaker…” Jyll laughed. “I wonder what Lortren would have said.”
“I don’t think she’d have been all that surprised. I once heard her say to Eshierra that he’d either die young or change the world, and she wasn’t fool enough to wager on his death.”
“He was determined.”
“So were you. You still are.” He squared his shoulders and looked straight at her. “You could move your entire shop to Nylan. If you won’t do it for yourself, think about it for your daughter. I can get you and your cargo free passage. If you worry about … me … us, there are other captains who owe me favors.…”
“Loric, we can’t change the past. It’s gone.”
“No, but you can change the present and the future.”
“I … I can’t do that.”
After a long silence, he said, “Please think about it. Grant me that.”
Her eyes met his. Then she nodded. “You deserve that. But don’t ask me again. I’ll decide in my own time.”
And on your own terms. You always did. He forced a smile. “I won’t ask again. But don’t ask me not to stop by again if I port here.”
“I won’t.” Her smile was warm, if still sad.
“I will take the pendant, though, if it’s for sale.”
“I thought…”
“I’m not. I want it for myself.” And because you created it.
“Oh … Loric…” She shook her head. “That’s as bad as…”
“Asking? Then, after I buy it, I won’t buy another thing.” He laughed gently. “Or ask again. Ever.” He paused. “It doesn’t mean I won’t stop by.”
“I’ll get the pendant. The price is two golds.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s all, and I’m not giving you a bargain. I never was a bargain, either, and I never will be.”
“No, you shouldn’t be.” He laid the two golds on the counter. Then he laid ten more on the counter. “Those are for her. You’re not to tell her, and you’re to save them for her times of need.”
“Loric … there’s no need.”
There’s every need. “She shouldn’t be a bargain. Ever.” He turned and took in the portrait of the dark-haired girl, looking for a long time before finally looking back to her mother.
She nodded. “Only for her.”
“Only for her,” he agreed.
When he finally left the shop, he did not look back, knowing he dared not, knowing that the choices would be, as they always had been, hers.
V
The Proprietor
“The shop is new, Dorrin,” says the broad-shouldered woman with the short silky brown hair that has begun to show traces of silver. “Kadara said that everything was amazing.”
“If she said so,” replies the wiry man, “it must be. She’s never been fulsome with praise.” The breeze off the harbor below ruffles his curly red hair, hair that is half-silver. “Except of Lers, and even there, she’s careful.”
“It’s good that he’s enough like his father that he doesn’t take her praise too seriously,” she says.
“Is that what Leyona says?”
“They’re just friends, the way you and Kadara should have been from the beginning.”
“They’re both smarter than we were,” he replies dryly. “Leyona takes after you in that, thank order.”
The two walk down the narrow stone walkway flanking the stone road that leads to the harbor and stretches uphill behind him to the gates in the wide stone wall … and far to the north beyond. Before long, they pass several shops still under construction before they reach their destination. The shop-front trim glistens with recently applied green paint, and the stone walk fronting the modest display window has been recently swept and washed. The sign features a curved carved letter J, surrounded by a carved oval, both silver gray against the black board. He holds the door and nods for his consort to enter. She does, and he follows.
A dark-haired young woman, a good five years or so older than their daughter, stands behind the counter, smiling pleasantly and waiting. “Are you looking for anything special, Lady, ser?”
“Definitely raised in Southwind,” he says with a laugh. “Is your mother here?”
“Might I tell her who is calling, ser?”
“Just tell her that it is an old acquaintance who made toys, if you would.” Dorrin conceals a smile.
“Yes, ser.” Her polite response does not hide the puzzlement in her face and voice.
As the young woman steps through the archway, the woman who is also a trader looks at her consort. “You didn’t have to be so cryptic.”
“It won’t be cryptic to her, I’d wager,” he replies with a grin.
The woman who emerges from the rear of the shop has the same fine dark hair as her daughter, but that hair is shot with silver, and her eyes are deep blue, rather than pale green. Her eyes fix on the man. “Dorrin … it had to be you. And you didn’t even come to see if I were black enough to stay in Nylan.” The l
ast words are offered almost teasingly before her voice turns welcoming. “And you must be Liedral.”
Liedral nods, an amused smile playing across her lips.
“I know my limits,” Dorrin says into the silence. “As harbormaster, Reisa is a far better judge of people than I am. I’m better as a toymaker, as someone once said.”
“An engineer,” Liedral corrects him.
“I’ve looked at your ships,” says Jyll. “You’re also an artist. There’s not a thing about them that’s not both beautiful and necessary.”
“You see?” exclaims Liedral. “I’ve told you that.”
“You’ve told me many things, dear, and most of them were right.” Dorrin smiles affectionately, but ruefully.
Jyll turns. “Lorica … would you bring me the small black box. You know the one.”
The young woman immediately slips back through the archway, but returns almost immediately with a black enameled box small enough to rest on the palms of her long-fingered hands.
“Thank you, dear.” Jyll lifts the box and then extends it to Dorrin. “Go ahead. Open it.”
Slowly, he does, his eyes widening as he sees what lies within. Liedral leans forward as well. On the deep red velvet is a golden ring, a man’s ring, neither massive nor delicate, and the smooth curves of gold frame an oblong black stone with simple beveled edges. Cut into the black crystal is an image of The Black Hammer. The thin lines that depict the ship seem an almost luminescent gold, yet the miniature image is absolutely precise.
“Ionstone,” murmurs Liedral. “Where…?”
“I have my sources.”
“I can’t…,” protests Dorrin.
“You can,” replies Jyll firmly. “I know you’ve said that you don’t want anything said publicly. I’ve heard that you’ve even threatened people who wanted to do so. That doesn’t mean you can’t have a personal reminder of what you did.”
“But … I only did what had to be done.”
“You didn’t have to do it, Dorrin,” replies Jyll. “What is important in life are those who do what has to be done, and those who give all that they have. I would not be here, nor would I have found happiness, if you had not done what you did for all of us … the ones who did not fit.”
“I can’t,” he says again.
“Dorrin … you cannot always be the giver. That deprives others of the opportunity to give as well. Just accept it gracefully. There are times to put aside everything and accept.” She turns to look at the tall man with white-blond hair who has moved silently through the archway following his daughter and whose eyes enfold the artisan who is his wife. “I learned that late … but not too late.”
Sometimes actions have repercussions years later, and writers are always turning those repercussions into pivots for “great” acts, but those actions also affect others in ways that no one would ever suspect. This is a story that reveals more about an incident that led to the rise of a ruler … and how that event not only changed history, but also the life of an “average” man simply because he witnessed that incident.
ARMSMAN’S ODDS
“One and one,” grumbled Asoryk, looking down at the dice lying on the battered wooden table, “black demon’s eyes.” He shifted his weight on the narrow chair, careful not to brush the grimy bricks of the wall with his cyan uniform. That was one of the drawbacks of being an armsman of Lydiar. The captain got upset if armsmen appeared in public in dirty uniforms, especially if the armsmen were squad leaders. That was because the Mirror Lancer officers got angry, not because Captain Gersach cared about a smudge or two.
“They make two, double demons, and that’s the basis of order,” said Daasn. “Make your point.” His eyes did not leave the corner table in the small tavern on the narrow unnamed lane off the south market square.
“Don’t you ever think about how two chaos numbers always add up to an order number? The white wizards never say anything about that.”
“What I’m thinking is you’re going to have the demon’s own time making your point.” The angular junior squad leader grinned at Asoryk.
“What’s your hurry? We’ve got time. You just want me to pick up the next round.”
“I am getting thirsty.” Daasn lifted the heavy mug and finished what little ale was left in it.
“You’re always thirsty. Especially when you can get someone else to pay.” The older squad leader scooped up the dice, cupped them in his hands, shook them, and let them roll out onto the wood. A five and a six. “Eleven. Friggin’ left hand eyes. Just my luck.”
“Ale’s not that costly.” Daasn’s grin grew wider.
“Easy enough to say when you’re not buying.” Asoryk scooped up the dice and slipped them into the leather pouch attached to his wide belt, then raised his arm to summon the server. “Why is it that the odds are always against an armsman?”
“I’m an armsman, and they’re not against me.”
“You know what I mean,” replied the older man.
Daasn laughed. “You mean that you’re the oldest senior squad leader in the Duke’s forces, and that you should have been an undercaptain years ago?”
“Or a captain by now.”
“It might be because you’re too honest. The Duke doesn’t want fair. He wants what he wants. Captains are supposed to get it for him.” Daasn raised his dark bushy eyebrows.
Asoryk offered a sour smile at the reference to the skirmish with the Sligan highlanders. His recollections were cut short by the arrival of the server.
Dhuris—the heavyset brunette server—stopped at the table and looked at Asoryk. “Your pleasure?” Her rough voice suggested that serving the two armsmen was anything but a pleasure, even though she’d been serving them on and off for over a year. Klyana, the other server, had always been far more friendly.
“Two ales.”
“Be six. Now.”
Asoryk laid the coppers on the table. They vanished into a hand far more delicate than the server’s voice. As he looked at her hand, he couldn’t help but think of Anallya, and, for the briefest of moments he was back in the bushes on the side of the road to Fairhaven, watching as he had struggled out of the undergrowth that Anallya had pushed him into, his eyes wide as she’d hurried toward the mage she’d insisted had been following her.
Before he could even reach the shoulder of the road, a single bolt of fire had fallen, and the white mage had nodded briskly and ridden away from the ashes on the wizard’s road, the ashes that had moments before been a young woman. If Asoryk had only been quicker, had understood more … but she’d refused to stop and he’d followed her, trying to change her mind about leaving Howlett. She’d been the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. He might have been young then, but he’d been old enough to know that, and over the years since then …
“Asoryk … are you going to drink that mug, or just stare at it?”
The squad leader looked at the full mug before him. He hadn’t even seen the server put it there. “Sorry…” He shook himself. It had been a while since he’d had one of those memory spells that seemed so real that he had felt he had been transported back years. Not that he’d really known Anallya that well. He’d been little more than a beardless youth working as a stable boy when she’d appeared in Howlett, where she’d been a server for less than a season at the inn.
“You want to talk about it?” Daasn’s voice held the skepticism of a comrade who felt obligated to ask the question to which he already knew the answer.
Asoryk shook his head. “No good’ll come of it. The past is past.” He lifted the mug and took a long swallow.
“Once they’re cast, you can’t change the way the dice came up,” agreed Daasn.
“Demon-spawn. No matter how many times you throw, you never can even the odds.”
“That’s life, too.”
Asoryk took another swallow. The ale tasted bitter. “How’s your brew?”
“Fine. Just like the last one.”
Asoryk lifted the mug and sni
ffed. Then he took a taste. Was the bitterness just in his head? As he set down the mug, he scanned the public room of the tavern. Abruptly, his eyes stopped as he took in two young men seated at a table against the far wall. Both were clean-shaven, and both wore stained tunics slightly too big for them. “Frig,” he muttered.
“What?”
“Over against the wall. Don’t stare.” Asoryk watched as Daasn took in the pair.
“Mirror Lancers … out of uniform … what are they doing here?”
“Whatever it is … they shouldn’t be. They know it, too, wearing workingmen’s tunics.”
“Maybe they’re supposed to be here. Heard the white mages are looking for a renegade black healer.”
“Who told you that?”
“Cheira. Seamstresses hear everything.”
“Couldn’t be more obvious than those two.” Asoryk stopped. He almost shook his head. Of course. That was the point. Just as it had been with Anallya when the Mirror Lancers and the mage had showed up at the inn.
As he looked around the public room, he didn’t see anyone who might be a white mage. But would he even be able to see a white wizard? Still … he had to do something. He rose from the table and walked over to the table against the other wall. “Haven’t seen you boys here before.” He let his voice fill the room. “Isn’t it a bit far from the Mirror Lancers’ barracks down here? You looking for someone? Or just seeing how the other half lives?”
A good half of the men in the public room looked up—and then lowered their heads when they saw the grizzled squad leader standing next to two well-muscled younger men.
The younger man at the table—red-haired—started to get up.
The older one put a hand on his arm and smiled at Asoryk. “Squad leader … we just heard that the lager here was better, especially if we weren’t in uniform.”
“Was it?”
The older Mirror Lancer grinned. “No … but you can’t blame a fellow for trying.”
Asoryk let his eyes sweep the room, barely catching sight of a figure in gray ducking back away from the rear archway, the one that led to the alley. He glanced back to the table. The younger man had been watching the archway as well.
Recluce Tales Page 28
