by Carol Berg
I bridled. “There’s no need to assume that because I answered a few of your questions, I’ll allow you to question me on my private business.”
“Madam, I would never presume to expect anything from you.”
I did not respond to his goading. I was already planning what to say to the priests.
As soon as Rowan and I entered the inn, the landlord bustled up to us, eyeing the sheriff suspiciously. “Is the gentleman bothering you, madam?”
“No. Not at all, Goodman Bartolome. Thank you.” I would not allow Rowan to control the situation. “In fact, this is my cousin, Graeme, come unexpectedly to meet me.” I ignored the sheriff’s darkening brow. “Can you tell us, innkeeper—there’s a gentleman in your common room, one who wears the robes of a priest—do you know his name, sir? He looks quite like the priest who wed my sister Catherine to her man, but I’d feel quite foolish asking if it were not the same priest.”
“The fellow’s name slips my mind,” said the innkeeper, “but the three of them come from a temple school in Valleor. Don’t know much else.”
Through the door of the brightly lit common room I could see the priests seated at a table near the center of the room. “That could well be the same Pere Franze, don’t you think, Graeme?” I said, indicating the three. “I believe he’d be interested to know Catherine has produced five healthy boys in five years. His offering of Mana’s blessing was most efficacious!” Producing the Twins was Mana’s only role in our holy legends, and the First God’s wife was interested only in sons.
The sheriff peered through the opening and then dragged me back into the shadows. “I think you should come away immediately,” he said in a tight whisper.
“What think you, innkeeper?” I said, paying Rowan no more heed than a doorstop. “Should I speak to them?”
“Well, now, they seem right enough fellows,” said the innkeeper, shrugging his massive shoulders.
“I can’t imagine they’d have an interest in such trifles,” said the furious sheriff. “You—”
“My cousin always thinks I am too forward.”
Rowan tugged my arm so forcefully, it was difficult to hold my ground. “And so you are. You should not bother either the priests or our host with your foolishness.”
Bartolome thoughtfully scratched the hairy chest bulging above his apron. “Well, I can’t see as how it would hurt to ask. I always take it fair when someone says I’ve done a decent job, even if I’m not the one as done it.”
“Exactly!” I said, and I yanked my arm out of Rowan’s grip and marched through the doorway and across the smoky, crowded room. “Excuse me, Your Honor, sir. Might I have a word?”
When the man I had seen slit two throats and pierce a man’s heart with skill and relish turned to look at me, it took all my resolution not to step away. There could be no soul in him. Neither beauty nor life had ever graced those pale eyes, nor had any human feeling with which I had kinship. I quickly averted my gaze.
“How may I help you, madam?” His voice was coolly friendly, not at all like his eyes.
“It’s most likely foolish, sir, but my cousin and I have had a disagreement, and the only way to resolve it is to speak up. I say that you are the very most honored Pere Franze that has wed my sister Catherine and her husband David in Deshiva these five years past, and that it is my duty to tell you of the most efficacious blessing of Mana you performed on that happy occasion, being as Catherine and David have five healthy sons in five years”—I spoke much too fast, trying to bolster my faltering resolve—“but my cousin, who lurks in yonder shadows with our worthy innkeeper, says I should not bother a weary traveler with such trifles, though to my mind such a blessing that gets five healthy sons is no trifle!”
Though a smile played on the thin lips, it did not warm his emptiness. “Much as I would like to lay claim to such a success, I cannot. I’ve never traveled to Deshiva. Giano is my name.”
“My apologies for disturbing you then, Your Honor. I was so hoping you might be Pere Franze, for I was thinking of asking Annadis’s warding for our travels back to Deshiva. After what we saw today…” I shuddered.
“And what was that?” Early frost enfolded the summer night.
“Oh, sir, I’d not wish to offend you with the description of it while you’re at table.”
“Travelers should share their wisdom and experience, madam, so as to ease the road for their fellows,” he said coolly. “I think it imperative. Don’t you agree?”
I wasn’t sure I would have been able to disagree. Though not invited to do so, I drew up an extra chair, sat down, and leaned across their table. To avoid his eyes, I kept my own focused on the gold earring he wore in his right ear. “True enough, sir. Indeed it was the most dreadful sight that ever I hope to see. Five dead men, brutally cut down and left to lie on the road through During Forest. Highwaymen, so I’ve heard, and so better dead, but a fearsome sight nonetheless. I feel quite faint when I think of continuing our journey tomorrow.”
Pere Giano’s slender fingers lay quiet on the table, one hand upon the other, no residue of blood on the pale skin. “We’ve heard of this discovery, also, and are shocked by it. We’ve been sent to Leire to build a school to teach young warriors the service of Annadis, but such doings might hasten us back to our quiet temple life.”
So they were going to lie about it. No surprise.
“It would be a great honor to have a temple school in western Leire.” No student of my acquaintance would be sent to such a tutor.
“Unfortunately, our plans have been upset,” he said, leaning closer, his words slithering their way into my head. “Thieves are not always found in the forest, but often in the very bosom of one’s family. A faithless servant has absconded with the small endowment with which we were to build.”
And there it was… the connection. Though I dared not allow him to note my satisfaction, my heart quickened its pace. “Have you notified the authorities? Perhaps my cousin should summon Barnard, the local sheriff, so your servant may receive just treatment from the law.” A faithless servant… Were these men, too, seeking an ‘addled groom“?
“It’s against our custom to bring down the law on our servants, but we’ve seen nothing of him in a fortnight. We believe that if we could but find the youth, we could persuade him to rethink his wayward behavior.”
What persuasions might be imposed by a man with no soul? Enough to chase a man out of his clothes? Out of his voice? Out of his mind?
“My cousin travels widely in his business, your honor. Why, he’s most likely visited every hostelry and inn in five districts in the past month, as well as having wide acquaintance. Can you describe this fiend who is so wanting in decency as to steal from the Swordsman’s holy servants? Perhaps my cousin has taken note of him.”
“A young man. Tall and light-haired, fairly made, but wicked and hasty in temper, and weak in the mind, full of grandiose delusions. I think the gods have sent him this weakness to make him humble, but alas, though we at the temple have nurtured the boy since childhood, our care seems to have gone for naught.”
“A sad story,” I said. He was so smug in his lies. “All too common among those who depend on the charity of holy institutions. I’ll ask my cousin if he’s seen anything likely. I’ve neither seen nor heard of anything myself.”
“Even so.” The priest picked up his wine cup and leaned back in his chair. He was done with me.
I craved to wheedle something more from him—a name, a province—or some hint of whether he knew of his “faithless servant’s” talent for sorcery. But I had lived enough years to know when I had pushed my luck as far as was profitable. “I’ll bid you and your companions a good night, sir. My cousin is known for being sometimes too free in his ingestion of spirits in such a friendly house as this. I wish him to be alert on the morrow!”
The man in black nodded and turned back to his silent, hooded companions. I believed I saw the trace of impatience on his narrow face, but I couldn’t bea
r to look at him long enough to be sure.
I left the common room sedately, slipping past the shadowed foyer and up the first flight of stairs. But no sooner had I got out of sight of the common room and bolted for the second landing, than Rowan stepped out in front of me, grim as a headsman. “That was very foolish.”
“But revealing, don’t you think? Did you listen? The poor servants of the Swordsman whose money has been stolen, though they wear gold worth an earldom at their necks. Not a word about the events in the forest.” And such a strange story about their missing servant.
“You’re fortunate. These men are clearly not to be trifled—”
“I thought you might have more mettle than to eavesdrop from the stairs like a scullery maid. Quite a man of the world is my cousin Graeme.”
“A little forewarning might have helped.” Was he more annoyed with my interference, or that it was I who had done the interfering?
“I didn’t think it necessary. Did I not play it quite well?”
“I’m surprised you’d think of it as play, having seen what you did in the forest today. Were all your questions answered satisfactorily? Perhaps you’ll condescend to enlighten me as to your purpose in the matter and what else you might know of these people.”
“We should not discuss this in the passageway of an inn.”
“I suppose there’s no question of a cousinly chat in your room or a walk in the evening air?”
“I’m asleep standing, Sheriff. And, of course, I’ve no interest in this matter. I was curious because of what I saw, and willing to help you, because… you were right that I should. Good night.”
Rowan bowed stiffly. “I’ll remind you that the conditions of your parole require your obedience to the command of any sheriff, and the nature of your crimes makes me responsible for your actions. We have not finished our business, my lady. You’re not to leave your room, and you’ll have no commerce with anyone until I give you leave. I’ll see you first thing in the morning.” The insufferable prig started down the passage, and, to my chagrin, I could not think of hateful enough words to throw back at him. As he disappeared down the stair landing, he called over his shoulder. “And you may tell Paulo that his sneaking about has left his gram half-frantic with worry, and that if he doesn’t get himself wrung out by highwaymen or conspiratorial women, then it will most likely be by me.”
As well he turned a corner just then and that my knife was tucked away under my skirt.
Rowan would have been well satisfied had he been able to read my thoughts in the next hour. As the exhilaration of the evening’s encounter wore away, I started shaking, almost sick as I thought of the slaughter I had witnessed and the empty eyes and pale hands of the one who had worked it. What was I doing? I had no business there. Only after I had made a vow to scoop up Paulo at first light and run as fast as I could back to Dunfarrie was my tired body able to sink into sleep.
Sometime in the hours after midnight, a scraping noise across the dark room brought me abruptly awake. I slipped my knife from the sheath under my pillow and held still until a freckled face rose above the windowsill like a grubby moon.
“Paulo!” I pulled him through the window, and he landed on the floor in a disheveled, ripe-smelling lump. “What are you doing here?”
“Found him!”
“Who?”
“The one we come here for.”
“Yes, I found him, too, but he ran away before I could speak to him.”
“Nope. He’s close. Got his horse from the stable and rode off, but didn’t go far.”
My feet were already in my boots. “Take me there.” All terrors were dismissed, all vows forsworn in the prospect of the chase.
The inn was dark and quiet, lying fallow like a well-managed field in the hours between closing and breakfast. We slipped down the stairs, then sped through deserted streets until we reached the southern outskirts of town. A jumble of squat, dark shanties crowded the dirt lane until it broke free into open country and wound up a shallow rise. Atop the rise, silhouetted against the moonlit sky, was a crumbling finger of stone, an abandoned watchtower once used for observing the road and the river.
Paulo pressed a finger to his mouth as we approached a gap in the curved wall. The wooden door had long since rotted away from its rusty hinges, allowing a narrow band of moonlight to penetrate the interior. We stepped inside. From across the circular darkness came the scent of a horse. I felt the soft solidity of its presence. Paulo tugged at my arm and pointed to a mound huddled against one of the curved walls. We tiptoed closer, but before we reached the dark form, Paulo lost his balance and fell against a pile of crates that clattered onto the stone floor.
“Who comes?” The voice from the direction of the dark mound quavered a bit.
“Friends,” I said.
“I have no friends here. Who are you? What do you want with me?”
“You ran away before we could be properly introduced.”
“I know nothing of mundane women.”
“Come, sir, let us speak in a civil manner.” Mundane was as good a description of me as I had heard in a while, but how would he know? “You’re searching for a missing horse, and I may know something of it.”
I pulled one of the fallen crates into the path of moonlight from the door and sat on it. After a moment the slight figure emerged from the shadows to stand in the moonlit rectangle a few paces from me. Straw clung to his flowing trousers and Kerotean vest, and his high-necked tunic was twisted awkwardly about his neck. He stood up very straight, narrowed his almond-shaped eyes, and stepped toward me.
“Not too close!” The man and I both nearly shed our skin when Paulo yelled and popped out from behind me with a good-sized stick of wood on his shoulder.
“The messenger boy!” cried the stranger, his eyes darting from Paulo back to me. “You are the one who summoned me… a woman, not a man. Why have you lied? The Count de Mangerit I am, and no one must lie to me.”
I had to smile at his posturing. “As I said, I have news of your horse.”
“Grasping mundane. Think you to extract some reward?”
“Not a reward, but information. If I learn what I want, I may be able to tell you what you want to know.”
“I don’t believe a mundane—a woman mundane—could know anything I want to hear.” Clearly mundane meant something particular to this man.
I had hoped to save my trump card for later. I sighed, pulled a twist of paper from my pocket, and showed the man its contents. While Aeren lay ill, I had trimmed the brambles from his matted blond hair. “Is this lock perhaps from your horse’s mane, ”Count“?”
The stranger sagged to his knees and covered his face with his fists, pretense shed like unwanted clothing. “All honor to you, Vasrin Shaper, Vasrin Creator,” he whispered, “he has been found.” After a moment he lowered his folded hands to his breast. “Please, woman, tell me that he lives.” He did not yet look up.
“He lives. And my name is Seri.”
I thought he was going to cry. Whether it was because Aeren was alive or because he’d had the audacity to do it with a “mundane” woman’s help—I wasn’t sure.
“I want to know who he is and who you are,” I said.
He straightened his head proudly. “I am not permitted to tell you those things. You must take me to him.”
“You’re quite mistaken. I’ll take you nowhere near him until you persuade me that you’re his friend. And if you are not his friend, you’ll not live to harm him.” Paulo blanched a little, but to the boy’s credit, his stick did not falter.
“You cannot understand, woman,” said the man. “You are a mundane. He is—This is impossible!” He was entirely flustered. “He is my servant, my groom. He has taken my prize stallion. White. You are required to give him to me, as he has stolen my possession.”
“You may leave off your playacting, sir. If you think to impersonate nobility, then you must learn more of their customs. Uncountable clues tell me you have neve
r been to Kerotea, never laid eyes on a Kerotean, and most likely never had a groom. Now, answer my questions or I take my leave.”
“No, no. You must not go without telling me where he is. Let me think. I must think. Good Vasrin shape thoughts of sense in my head.” The man began pacing, fingering a tassel dangling from his belt as he mumbled to himself. “I will not say. I cannot say. I am sworn. But I must get to him. Why me? Yes, it happened fast, but Bendal was designated. So what he was wounded? Bendal wounded is worth ten of me. A mundane woman. I am cursed. But he lives, and the Zhid are close. The timing is all…” He stopped his pacing and sat himself cross-legged on the dirt in front of me. “You’ll not take me to him if I do not speak?”
“Correct.”
“And you will have this ferocious boy bash me senseless if I try to extract answers from you?”
“Absolutely correct.” I worked to keep my face sober.
“So you force me to tell you.”
“Prove to me that you are his friend.”
The small man cocked his head. “Why do you care for him? I can give you a reward, a substantial reward, if you take me to him and ask no questions.”
“It’s a long story. I care nothing for either of you, and even less for your reward.”
“He is well?” He hugged his knees and looked at the ground.
“He had a wicked knife-wound in one shoulder, but it’s healing well.”
“But he’s told you nothing? Perhaps you have harmed him.” He glanced up and, for just a moment, his dark eyes were daggers. “Perhaps you lie.” The moment’s ferocity vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “He would not trust you. He too has little experience of women or mundanes. Of anyone, if truth be told.” He shook his head in resignation. “He’s never been easy…”
“It’s not just that. For one thing, he is incapable of speech.”
“Incapable… ?
“And for another, I don’t believe he can remember anything to tell me. He doesn’t know who he is. He can’t remember his people, or where his home is, or why the king’s men were pursuing him through my valley. He needs a friend who knows him.”
