Marion Zimmer Bradley's Sword and Sorceress XXVI

by Unknown

  They journeyed next through the hill country. Rowan bought a pony at a tin-mining outpost. It left his purse all but empty, but that was cured when he hired himself out as a guard and scout for a caravan headed across the Ash Waste.

  As the days went on and they remained safe, the tightness in her gut eased. When the kettlewives told their jokes at the evening fires, she laughed. When the convoy traversed the shoulder of the volcano that gave the region its character, she was grateful to see for herself how the mountain impaled the clouds and hear for herself how it rumbled like a footsore ox, as in the stories she had heard at the inn as a little girl.

  She grew accustomed to seeing her uncle leaning against a wagon wheel during midday breaks, reading the book. He only interrupted the routine if doing so would keep others from getting a close look at the volume.

  Just what was he reading? Had he known they would safe on the barge, and at the mining outpost, and on the caravan? Was the book his guide?

  Then why had they been attacked that one time? Hadn't the book warned him it would happen? Maybe it had. Maybe it had once contained a version of their tale in which they were killed, but because he had been forewarned, he had managed to alter their journey just enough that they were attacked at a slightly different time and place, and as a result, they had survived.

  That would mean it was possible to change whatever future the book contained. And if that were true, he might make a mistake, and transform a harmless occasion into something horrible.

  Once she allowed that prospect to incubate, away went the trace of serenity she had been enjoying. And then her anxiety mounted as high as ever when the caravan arrived at its destination, the great port of Crag Bay.

  How could so many people exist in one place? And all of them strangers.

  Rowan collected his pay and stabled the horses so that they could explore the sights, and soon she was being whisked in his wake, threading across a vast market plaza through a human beehive. The melon vendor by the fountain was shouting his prices so loud it made her ears ring. They were trapped for a dozen paces behind an old woman who smelled like sewage. Hyacinth's elbows and hips were bumped again and again. Worse still, she was sure some of the passersby, especially the leering old fellow with the missing teeth, had made contact on purpose.

  "Spice dumplings!" Rowan cried. He angled sharp left toward a food pavilion and into a miasma of alien scents.

  "I haven't had these in years," her uncle proclaimed. He placed his order. The cook, a woman adorned in an apron as exotic as her ingredients, handed him fifteen petite dumplings on a platter of banana leaf. He waved them in front of Hyacinth as if they were treasure.

  "What's in those?" she asked.

  "Cabbage. Spices. And some meat."

  "What kind of meat?"

  He tossed one in his mouth, chewed, and smiled. "Good meat."

  "You say that now. What if it hadn't been?"

  "Then I would have been disappointed."

  Eventually he got her to try some. She had to admit as dumplings went, they weren't bad, though one of the spices was so bracing it scoured the road dust from her nose. She still worried what kind of meat she was allowing in her stomach.

  He insisted they spend further time perusing the wares of the many booths. At one, he bought a new saddle blanket, but mostly it seemed he was simply enjoying the variety of merchandise, the examples of real craftsmanship, and the enthusiasm of the huckstering. They watched the tumblers and jugglers and clowns. They listened to musicians, some of them playing instruments Hyacinth had not only never heard played before, but never heard described.

  "Wasn't this a good day?" Rowan asked.

  "I don't like this city."

  "What's not to like?"

  "I'm tired," she said in the beseeching tone she had learned he would take seriously.

  "Very well," he replied. "But it's late. We'll spend the night."

  "Where?"

  "The loft at the stables will be good enough for us. I've already spoken with the liveryman about it."

  They wound their way back to the caravan district where they had left their animals. Hyacinth became disoriented in the maze of streets and alleys, but her uncle led with confidence, and finally the stables appeared at the end of the lane. How did people keep track of themselves in such a place as this?

  A drowsy stableboy let them in. They headed deep inside. Hyacinth estimated the building might contain two hundred stalls. That made it larger than any structure of her home village, yet she had seen others larger still over the course of the day.

  The mare and the pony were housed near the end of an aisle. She slid into the lead, eager to be with something familiar. As she passed the empty stall where they had left their gear, she immediately noticed that that the puzzlelock had been torn off her uncle's saddlebag and the flap was hanging loose.

  Something bumped into her. Hard. She went tumbling and ended up prone on the hardpacked floor with a mouthful of straw and something heavy on top of her.

  Her uncle moaned and she realized he was the heavy thing on top of her. She pushed with knees as well as arms and managed to roll him off.

  A stout, black-bearded man loomed above her, wielding an ox yoke. The end of the yoke was bloody, as was the back of her uncle's head.

  Black Beard swung at her. She rolled. The blow landed on the place she had just vacated. The impact sent a shock up the piece of wood. Black Beard grunted.

  During the lull as the big man was reasserting his grip, a lasso settled around his neck. His eyes went wide. He dropped the yoke and reached toward his throat, but he was too slow. He was flung back, his legs flipping high. Stable muck flew from the soles of his boots into the rafters. He landed on his head.

  Hyacinth let go of a breath she had sucked in when she saw the yoke swinging down at her. The head liveryman burst into view, pulling his hoof trimmer from his belt and cocking it to use against Black Beard if he offered more trouble.

  But Black Beard lay without moving. The liveryman frowned, bent down, and removed the lasso. The assailant's head flopped limply to one side. His eyes were open and unblinking.

  "I didn't mean to yank so hard," the liveryman said huskily. "But I couldn't let him hit you, girl."

  "You did well." The voice was Rowan's. Hyacinth whirled and saw that her uncle had raised up to his elbows.

  The liveryman sighed. "He had it coming, I suppose. I don't imagine I'll lose sleep over it." He stood. "Shall I fetch a healer for you?"

  "I'll be fine." Rowan winced as he said it, but his voice was calm and steady. "I must have heard him swinging. I avoided the worst of it."

  "I'll bring some cold well water and a washcloth, then."

  "Thank you, yes."

  With a scowl at the dead man, the liveryman headed off.

  Hyacinth helped her uncle to sit up.

  "Well," he said, rubbing the back of his head, "that was exciting. He'll have quite a tale to tell to his grandchildren someday, about how he saved our lives."

  Exciting? Hyacinth's eyes went wide. "You liked it! You thought it was interesting!"

  His brow furrowed. "I didn't mean it that way." He held out his palm, displaying the smear of blood from the gash in his scalp. "I didn't want this. But it's over and we're all right. Should we not savor the good half?"

  "There is no good half!"

  "Hyacinth..."

  She wouldn't listen to any more. She slid into the pony's stall and put the beast between her and her uncle. The blond sorrel tell-no-lies face was the only one she wanted to look at.

  * * * *

  Rowan wanted to retire early to the loft but the liveryman would have none of it, saying that someone who has been knocked out by a blow to the head should be kept awake for several hours, a piece of wisdom passed down within a family whose members had been kicked by livestock more times than they cared to count. The man's wife brought bread, olives, and a wedge of cheese and the liveryman and three of his older stableboys settled in
with Rowan in the tack room for a game of pegs and dice, intending to keep it up until midnight.

  The group included Hyacinth in their activities. She happened to like pegs and dice, but it was a game favored by males. She quit early, realizing she could create an opportunity if she pretended to be bored.

  "I'm going to visit the pony," she said.

  "Very well," her uncle replied. So far he had let her sulk in peace. She was counting on that.

  She waited just out of sight until the men's game and conversation resumed. Then she snuck back, and while the others were preoccupied, she went to her uncle's vest, which he had hung from a hook by the doorway after cleaning the blood from it. She pilfered A Life from the pocket. The book had been in the vest all day, not the saddlebag, otherwise Black Beard would not have been obliged to wait around to ambush them.

  She retreated to the empty stall where they kept their gear, glad that the city watch had hauled away the body of Black Beard.

  She cradled the book in her lap. In its final pages was the answer she needed. Would she grow old and die asleep in her bed? Would she be slain tomorrow? Just what would happen to her?

  She turned the book on its face and raised the back cover, exposing the last page.

  It was blank.

  She hiccupped. She leafed back four, five, six pages. Twelve, fourteen, sixteen. They were all blank.

  Suddenly her uncle's arm reached past her and flipped the book shut. She yelped.

  He set the book aside, made her stand up, and turned her toward him. She expected him to be scowling. Instead he clasped her hands in his and gazed steadily into her eyes.

  "You mustn't. No good will come of knowing." His tone was pleading, not scolding.

  "Th-th-the pages were blank." She hiccupped again. "What does it mean?"

  "To fill the book to the very last page, you would have to live a very long time. More than a hundred years. Apparently you will die younger than that. At eighty, let's say. Or ninety."

  Or twelve? she wondered.

  "Promise me you'll never try to read it again."

  She hesitated.

  "Promise me, Hyacinth. This magic will only burden you. Leave it to me to turn the pages. The book and I—we have an understanding."

  "All right," she said. "I promise it, if you will tell me this much. Will I ever be safe again? Will I be happy?"

  "Yes."

  She blinked. "Yes?"

  "Yes," he repeated.

  "Do you swear we will have as few adventures as possible?"

  "I swear to do my best," he said.

  She believed him. If there was one useful thing that had happened in these past few weeks, it was that she had now spent enough time with her uncle to know him better. She was certain he was telling the truth.

  "But Hyacinth," he added. "Life is like the weather. No matter what I may do—no matter what you may do—from time to time storms will blow."

  * * * *

  Hyacinth was seventeen years old the spring she and her uncle arrived in Many Mills, a town in the green-wooded, soft-backed hills of King Broadarm's domain.

  Their first stop was on the outskirts of town at a saddler smithy, where Rowan ordered new sets of horseshoes. Their mounts were feisty and young and had a tendency to throw shoes. "Find us an inn," Rowan told her as he waited by the forge.

  Hyacinth walked along the river to the heart of the town on her own. She liked it that he had taken to letting her make such choices. She was after all the one who knew just how an inn should be run and had long since proven to him that of the two of them, she made the best evaluations.

  Three local young men gazed at her admiringly as she passed by the crossroads fountain. She gave them a warm smile. They smiled back, but did not follow her. Good. Her uncle had schooled her well in defense skills, but she hated having to resort to them.

  Five years back her uncle would never have let her out of his sight. After the attack in Crag Bay, thieves and assassins had continued to sniff out their whereabouts no matter where they went. She wore a knife scar on her left arm from the narrowest of their escapes. But two years after Hyacinth had begun to travel with her uncle, a certain sorcerer of the City of Spires had died—killed by a rival of lesser skill but better luck. At first Rowan and Hyacinth had not known this event might have meaning to them, but eventually they noticed the pursuit had become less intense at precisely that juncture. The magician had apparently been their greatest nemesis. With him gone, no other existed powerful enough to pinpoint the book's location unless the artifact remained in the same place for a season or more. Rowan and Hyacinth no longer needed to keep moving so unceasingly. If they found a pleasant situation, they would remain in place for a fortnight or two.

  She came to a large mill. The river ran fast, clear, and deep here, supplying plenty of power. Woodsmen brought timber from every direction to be made into lumber in Many Mills. The king shipped in grain from the heartlands to be rendered into flour. In the doorway of the cavernous warehouse, a group of men were filling a wagon with sacks even now.

  An inn stood on the other side of the mill yard, far enough away to be spared the racket of its waterwheel and shouting laborers, but close enough not only to serve the custom of visiting merchants and teamsters, but beckon millworkers to its common room for a mug of ale or a hot meal before they headed home.

  The front door was open. As Hyacinth crossed the threshold, she was greeted by the familiar scent of floorboards seasoned by decades of spilled drinks. At this hour there were no customers, but the place was bursting with activity, all of it originating from one source: A woman of about forty-five years was wiping off tables and clearing chairs from one side of the common room. A bucket of soapy water and a mop were waiting near the bar.

  "Yes?" the woman asked.

  "Do you have any rooms available?"

  "Booked full and then some. King's wagons and twenty men arriving later today."

  She did not stop wiping and clearing while she spoke. Hyacinth had rarely seen a skinny innkeeper, but she did not doubt how this woman stayed so lean.

  "Do you have servants' quarters?" Hyacinth asked. "Because it looks like you are a little short-handed."

  Finally the woman halted, hand poised over the mop handle, and studied Hyacinth straight on. "You have any experience?"

  Hyacinth smiled. "A bit."

  Without another word, she took the mop and set to work.

  * * * *

  Ever since the incident at the campsite when she had been twelve, Hyacinth had always awakened early, never quite trusting the day to begin without bloodshed. And so she knew from the very first morning in Many Mills that its sunrise was one of its treasures. Immediately to the east, just across the river, the hillside rose well above the flood plain, leaving the village in shadow for nearly an hour after the sunbeams touched the hilltops to the west.

  On this particular morning, Hyacinth rose even earlier than her custom and sat on the inn's raised porch so as to watch the process from the very start. The sky paled, rendering the ridgeline in silhouette. The heights emerged—a panoply of conifer, granite, and tiny waterfalls. The light grew and grew, and the world transformed from cloaked to revealed. No abruptness. No glare to keep her from witnessing every aspect.

  She pulled her veneration plaque from her apron. She wet her fingertips with water from her flask, wrote her invocation with the moisture, and set the plaque down beside her.

  A figure approached the inn carrying a sack. It was Hewer, son of Mistress Summer, the innkeeper. His parents had named him well. Like his father, he was often working up in the hills with an axe, knocking down timber for one or another of the local sawmills. The work had left him with broad shoulders and sure-gripped hands. He was one of the youths who had admired Hyacinth at the fountain. Judging by the rich aroma of fresh bread coming from the sack, he had risen early to fetch his mother's order from the bakery in the main village.

  "My ma doesn't have you scraping carrots or boi
ling eggs yet?" He grinned.

  "Not today." She grinned back.

  Mistress Summer had insisted Hyacinth take the morning off. The kingsmen had left, but a party of merchants was due to arrive on the morrow, and she declared it was important to rest. Not that Mistress Summer did. She and Hyacinth were alike in that way. They were alike in many ways, Hyacinth had found.

  It was good to have the break. Every day and night for a week she had cleaned and served at table and made bread and washed bedding and fifty other tasks, while her uncle had served as barkeep and strongarm. Over those seven days, she had seen Mistress Summer's expression shift from weary to calm, her speech pattern from clipped to conversational. Last night when Hyacinth had lowered the foldaway pallet in the pantry to go to sleep, she had found a sprig of rosemary placed inside it to banish the vestiges of the previous tavern girl's sweat. That and the companionship of the pantry cat had made for a superior night of sleep.

  "What was that you were doing?" Hewer asked. "With the plaque?"

  "It's part of my ritual. I learned it during my time along the Salt Coast. You use water to write about something unsatisfactory in the past. In a few moments it evaporates and you begin your new day freed of it."

  "Does it work?"

  She shrugged. "To the degree you let it."

  She held up the plaque. The runes had almost evaporated. "Strictly speaking I'm supposed to use the language of the beachfolk, but I never learned the written form."

  "I've never met anyone who has been as far as the Salt Coast."

  "My uncle and I went farther than that, before we wound our way back."

  "You must like the road."

  "I wouldn't say that," she replied. "But there are good things about it."

  "I want to hear more, if you have the time," he said.

  "I do."

  While he delivered the sack to the pantry, she fetched a trencher of bread and butter, an urn of muskberry jam, and a pot of fawnheather tea. They returned to the porch to watch the village awaken. And they talked. It was easy just to sit there, nibbling and sipping, alternately sharing more tales of her travels, but mostly just listening to Hewer's deep voice. He may not have seen much of the world, but he had seen a great many people pass through Many Mills and his mother's inn. He had the knack of describing them in such a way that she knew he knew them for what they were, and was neither fooled by the unworthy nor lacking in compassion for everyone else.