Ink Mage

by Victor Gischler

  “What did you tell him?”

  She smiled tightly. “Why, that we were only too eager to oblige, of course. We reopen in two days.”

  Two days. Damn.

  “My immediate concern is what to do with you,” Mother said.

  “Me?”

  “You.”

  Tosh cleared his throat. “Maybe you need another man about the place. Another bouncer?”

  “There are times when an extra pair of hands might be useful,” admitted Mother. “But to be frank, Lubin and Bune are generally all the muscle I need. More than enough, actually.”

  Tosh again didn’t know what to say. He emptied the wine glass. Mother did not offer to refill it.

  “The Perranese are rounding up the remains of the Klaar military and putting them into labor gangs to clean up the battle damage,” Mother told him. “So it could be worse. No executions. Prisoners are given a warm place to sleep and three meals a day.”

  Ah, so Tosh was getting the old heave-ho from The Wounded Bird. This was Mother’s way of breaking it to him gently, but Tosh didn’t relish the idea of becoming a war slave. He frowned, reconsidering his earlier idea of gathering supplies and climbing over the city wall.

  “You’re not warming to that idea as an option, are you?”

  Tosh shook his head. “No, ma’am.”

  Mother sighed. “Can’t say that I blame you.”

  She rubbed her eyes, tired, sagged against the desk. It was odd to Tosh to see even this small dent in her poise. She’d probably been through a lot in the past day or two.

  Yeah, well, so have I, lady. The desperate ride from Ferrigan’s Tower, the harrowing battle, the botched escape. It hadn’t been Tosh’s idea of a laugh, not a moment of it.

  “We don’t tolerate idle hands at the Wounded Bird.” She cleared her throat, straightened herself, lifted her chin and cast an appraising eye on Tosh. “Can you cook?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Alem watched Rina Veraiin from the doorway as she sat at his grandmother’s small, wooden table sluggishly spooning soup into her mouth. Both spoon and bowl were simple, wooden. The soup was thin, but at least it was hot. She’s a long way from the castle and fine things. I wonder how she ended up in Hammish.

  He’d tried to pepper her with questions back in the barn, but Breen had intervened, immediately recognizing that the young lady was in no condition to be pestered. His grandmother had put her in the chair by the fire while she warmed the soup and sent word through the village for spare clothing.

  She still had the fine cloak draped around her shoulders but underneath wore a ragged wool sweater provided by Agatha. Her husband had grown too fat for it five winters back, she’d explained. The pants were too long and had to be rolled up and were so patched they could have been part of a carnival jester’s costume. Nobody in the village was fool enough to give up their boots in the middle of winter, not even for a duchess, but they’d managed to scrounge a pair of canvas summer shoes. They’d be soaked through after ten steps in the deep snow but were better than nothing.

  There were still a few stray bits of hay in her mussed hair, and with the ragged clothing, she looked like … like …

  She’s beautiful. All you have to do is look a little more closely and you can see the duchess there. Ragged hand-me-down clothes can’t hide that.

  Alem closed his eyes, shook his head. What are you daydreaming about, thicko?

  Rina picked up the bowl, drained the last of the soup, wiped her mouth on her sleeve.

  She looked around as if seeing the interior of his grandmother’s cabin for the first time, and blinked at Alem. “What village is this?”

  Alem took that as an invitation to enter the room, nodded a half-bow to her. “Hammish, milady.”

  She nodded slowly, like she was trying to make the word have meaning.

  “I had a sword.”

  Alem gestured to the enormous blade where it leaned against the wall near the fireplace. It was a fine weapon, worth more than the whole village, Alem guessed.

  She stood, moved toward the front door. “Yes, Hammish. I remember now.”

  Alem followed tentatively. “Uh …”

  She ignored him and was out the front door a second later, Alem trailing after her.

  Rina walked toward the shore, shoes sinking in the snow, a slender hand coming up to shield her eyes from the setting sun which spread red-orange light across the frozen lake. “Is that Hammish’s place?”

  Alem followed her gaze to the hunting lodge across the lake. “Hammish’s place?”

  “Baron Edmund Hammish,” Rina said. “The lake is named after his family. And the village.”

  Alem blushed pink. He’d been born in Hammish and hadn’t known, hadn’t even thought to wonder who the village was named after. He suddenly felt about as worldly as a turnip.

  “Can you see if there’s smoke rising from the chimney or not?” she asked.

  He squinted. It was too far. “No.”

  “I have to go there.”

  “It will be dark soon,” Alem told her. “You can’t go across the ice. Even the fishermen won’t risk thin ice in the dark.”

  “I’ll have to go around.” Rina glanced at the gelding still tied up in front of the cabin. “Who owns that horse?”

  I do. No, that wasn’t true. Alem had begun to think of it as his. The Perranese would have confiscated it anyway, and having a horse would have been very useful to begin his new life away from Klaar. He should have known better.

  “It’s your horse,” Alem said. “From the castle stable.”

  Her gaze snapped back to him. “You were there? You got out?”

  Alem nodded.

  “Tell me.”

  “We made a run for it with a couple of horses. Another man and I. He was a soldier. I don’t know what happened to him.”

  Her face grew hard, like she was bracing herself. “And the city?”

  Alem shook his head. “So many dead. I … I don’t know …”

  Rina touched his arm lightly, and he held his breath.

  “I’m glad you made it out,” she said. “I need the horse.”

  She let her hand drop, went to the gelding to check the saddle and harness.

  Alem followed, stopped himself. It was all slipping away, plans crumbling with the appearance of Rina Veraiin. He’d planned to ride the horse south and west. Not only was it transportation, but a horse was a valuable possession. But it wasn’t his. He had no right to claim it.

  “You shouldn’t go alone.” He grabbed at straws. “A woman.” And now he was being insulting. He couldn’t stop himself. She’d take the horse and leave and then what would Alem do? Where would he go?

  She frowned. “I can take care of myself.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I just meant the trails. It’s easy to get lost in the dark, especially on the east side of the lake in the thick forest. I know the way. I just want to help.” This was true. It had been a few years, but he knew the trails around the lake.

  She looked away, sighed. “You can ride behind me.”

  * * *

  Even with Alem directing her, they lost the trail in the forest, and the thick snow made it even more difficult. Alem found the trail again quickly, to Rina’s surprise—in the opposite direction she’d thought—and Alem hoped he was proving his worth.

  Even before they’d packed their meager provisions into the horse’s saddlebags—smoked fish and a water skin provided by Breen—the sun had set, and in the dense forest, with moonlight unable to penetrate, the complete darkness convinced Alem it had been foolish to set out at night.

  But Rina was determined, driven. She was damaged in some way, but it had hardened her. He wondered if it had something to do with the tattoos. He couldn’t get the vision of her out of his mind.

  And what was with that giant sword? She couldn’t possibly wield it, and there was no graceful way for her to carry it. Even if they’d had a scabbard, she couldn’t strap the thing
to her waist or her back without the tip dragging along the ground. They’d finally rigged leather straps to secure the sword under one of the saddlebags, the hilt sticking out toward the front.

  The forest thinned ahead of them, opening into a broad meadow with the lake on their left. The snow glowed white in the moonlight. They were close to Baron Hammish’s hunting lodge.

  “If we just follow the shore around now, it should be no problem,” Alem said.

  Alem held her from behind just above the hips. His heartbeat had only just returned to normal, and it was more than the fact she was nobility.

  Stop it. You’re going to make a fool out of yourself.

  No. He wouldn’t. Rina Veraiin was a duchess. Alem was nobody.

  He might as well fall in love with a marble statue of a goddess. It was no more real than that. Alem laughed.

  “What’s funny?” Rina asked.

  Oops.

  The hunting lodge loomed into view and saved him. He pointed. “There.”

  She looked at the warm glow in the windows, visible even from this distance. “Damn. I was hoping nobody would be there.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Rina was cold. Very cold.

  She knew how easy it would be to tap into the spirit, push the cold away, but she’d already experienced the price she’d pay. And anyway, the Hammish hunting lodge was only a hundred yards away now, and she’d soon be inside and warm. She was hungry too. The old woman’s small bowl of soup seemed years in the past.

  The lodge wasn’t empty as Rina had predicted. It wasn’t the season for hunting and sport fishing, and she thought it likely the servants had fled. Was it better or worse that the lodge was inhabited? She was hoping for shelter, supplies, something she could sell for money. Taking Klaar back from the Perranese wasn’t going to happen overnight, and in the meantime, she needed to provide for herself.

  On the other hand, she could use allies too.

  Or maybe the Perranese had gotten there first.

  It didn’t matter. They’d arrived

  They climbed the wooden steps of the wide covered porch and stood before the wooden doubles doors of the lodge. Rina turned to ask …

  What was his name? Rina hadn’t thought to ask.

  Never mind. She was going to ask him to take the horse to the stable behind the lodge, but on second thought they might need to leave quickly.

  Rina raised a knuckle to knock, hesitated. Might as well retain the element of surprise as long as possible.

  She turned to the boy, put a finger to her lips. He nodded his understanding. She grabbed the iron ring on the front of the door, pushed inward. The big hinges squeaked only a little, and they stepped into a small foyer, quickly shutting the door behind them.

  Oh, Dumo, it’s so warm.

  Rina glanced at the cloak pegs on the wall, saw the single cloak hanging there; it was of a quality material of deep blue, with a collar of white snow-devil fur. She felt the hem. Slightly damp. Someone had come in from the cold. Recently.

  She rounded the corner. It had been four years since she’d last visited the lodge, during a carefree summer that seemed like a fuzzy memory, but her recollection of the lodge’s great hall had held up over time. The huge stone fireplace was twice as tall as she was. At fifteen she’d just been able to stand up inside it. She was two inches taller now. The modest fire in the hearth now provided some of the room’s illumination.

  Various candles provided the rest. The big grizzly-skin carpet was as large as she remembered it, but seemed a bit more threadbare. Leather-covered furniture of a rustic style but of fine quality was placed around the hall in such a way as to encourage conversation and merriment. Antlers from trophy bucks took up most of the wall space save one section reserved for weapons—various spears and hunting bows and a few other blades. Good. She’d claim one of the swords for herself. The only way Rina could wield the sword Kork had bequeathed her was if she tapped into the spirit, and that might not always be the best option.

  But at the moment, the most inviting thing in the hall was the fire. She moved toward it—

  A flash of steel glinted in candlelight, and Rina flinched back only just in time, the tip of a thin sword blade sweeping within an inch of her face. The boy yelled a warning behind her.

  The man had been hiding behind one of the enormous, rough-hewn wooden pillars that supported the great hall’s arched roof. He advanced, swinging the sword, and Rina had to dodge again.

  “Sneak up on me, will you, you bastards?” he shouted. “You’ll get your money when you get it, bloodsuckers. I’ll skewer you like a shank of mutton!”

  He was tall, good-looking in a sloppy kind of way; rich brown hair, mussed, hung down past his ears. Brown eyes, tan, fine, angular features. An expensive silk shirt, unlaced halfway down his chest. Brandy sloshed over the rim of a silver goblet in one of his hands as he advanced, swinging his blade wildly with the other.

  “Brasley, stop!” Rina shouted. “It’s me.”

  He froze, arm cocked and ready for a backhanded swing. “Rina?”

  Rina nodded. “The Hammishes were a bit more hospitable last time I visited.”

  Brasley Hammish lowered his sword, blowing out a huge sigh of relief, his shoulders slumping. “I thought they’d found me. Glad it’s you.” His eyes shifted to the young man standing timidly in the entranceway. “And your … friend?”

  “He showed me the way here from the village across the lake,” Rina said. “Our horse is outside.”

  “Ah, that’s good.” Brasley tossed his sword onto a nearby divan, turning his attention back to the brandy. “The servants were all gone when I arrived. Blast if I know where they’ve got to.” He made a dismissive gesture. “Take Rina’s horse around back to the stable and see to mine as well. As a matter of fact, all the animals probably need watering and feeding. See to it, will you, lad?”

  Rina’s eyes shifted to the village boy. He’d gone red, jaw tight.

  “Go ahead,” she said.

  He nodded curtly, then turned and left, closing the door a little too hard behind him.

  Now why does that seem familiar? That boy slamming the door …

  Rina went to the wall where the hunting weapons were displayed. She took down a bow and quiver, slung them across her back. “I’m taking some of your weapons, Brasley.”

  He shrugged, went to a sideboard and refilled his goblet from a small silver pitcher. “Not my weapons. This is Uncle Edmund’s place. He said I could visit whenever I pleased. So by all means help yourself. Can’t have a woman wandering unarmed through the snow in the middle of the night … which begs the question: Why are you wandering unarmed through the snow in the middle of the night?”

  “For the same reason your servants ran off, I would imagine.” Rina picked a rapier and scabbard off the wall, belted them around her waist. It was a little larger than the one she was used to, but she’d adjust easily enough.

  “Hmmmm. I’m not sure I see the connection.” Brasley grinned. “Are you sure it wasn’t to give me the chance to steal another kiss?”

  Rina snorted. “I was fifteen. I’ve hardly seen you since. And anyway, that was before I found out what a drunken, loud-mouthed—” She paused, her expression becoming serious. “Wait, you really don’t know, do you?”

  “I know that if you’ve come to seduce me, you’ve dressed all wrong for it.”

  She looked down at herself. She looked like a beggar. An unfashionable beggar. “Show me your cousin Miliscint’s room. I need to borrow some of her clothes. And then we need to talk.”

  “Talk about what?”

  “Brasley, when’s the last time you were in Klaar?”

  * * *

  Alem was still scowling as he led the gelding into the stable.

  Who are you calling lad, you jackass? What had Rina called him? Brasley. The man was only a year or two older than Alem at most.

  What did you expect? They’re nobles. You’re nobody.

  He spotted Br
asley’s horse immediately, a big black stallion, loosely tied to a post. Brasley hadn’t even bothered to put the horse in a stall or remove the saddle. Of course not. He expects servants to do it.

  Servants like me.

  Klaar had fallen, and what was different? He was still a stable boy.

  Head stable boy. Alem laughed. At himself.

  Okay, thicko, what are you going to do about it?

  He still held the gelding’s reins, mulled his options. He could feed the horse a quick handful of oats, hop into the saddle, and be miles away by the time the nobles in the lodge finished sipping wine and eating pheasant or whatever they did while the servants worked their fingers to the bone. It wasn’t his horse, and yet …

  What shall I chose to be? Servant or thief?

  He glanced about the stable. There were three other horses in the stalls. So he wouldn’t be depriving Rina of anything, not really. And that’s how he convinced himself it was okay. Alem wasn’t a bad person. He wouldn’t strand her, but she wouldn’t care which horse she rode. Nor would it matter to someone like her if a village boy ran off into the night.

  Alem wouldn’t be hurting anyone. It was decided: he’d take the gelding and go.

  He remembered the sword strapped under the saddlebag.

  The blade was remarkable. It would fetch a hefty price if he could get as far as a town, find somebody to sell it to. For somebody like Alem, it would be a fortune. If he were frugal he could live for a year. Or he could set himself up in some business, open his own stable. That was an appealing idea. He knew horses, knew how to run a stable, but he’d be working for himself. He wouldn’t be a servant anymore. It was almost too tempting to resist.

  No. That was going too far.

  Rina wouldn’t care about the horse. The sword was different. It would mean something if he took it, and Rina would hold it against him, and even though he’d never see her again, he didn’t like the idea of her out there somewhere hating the nameless stable boy who’d stolen from her.