Suddenly Tristan remembered what nightshade stood for, and the blood drained out of his face as he stared at Terza. It betokened the ostracism of a clan member, someone who had done something so horrible that not even the blood kin of the tribe could overlook it, someone who had become—what was the term—?
“Rozalia has become a darkli—”
“Drink your tea, Tristan, it is cool enough now,” interrupted Terza. There was an urgency and a subtle plea in her voice, and Tristan immediately took a deep swallow. The flavors were rich and complex on his tongue, a combination of musk and sweetness.
“You like tea, I believe,” said Terza conversationally. “This brew should suit you well. It will help you think better. Take note of the flavors, that you can make it again on your own. I’m certain you will want to.” Once again, Tristan wondered if she were mad, but made a mental note to recall the flavors as she had instructed. Terza made a hasty “Go on, go on” movement with her hand, and he drained the mug in another few gulps.
“Do not come here again, Sir Tristan.” The words startled him. “You bring more than yourself these days.”
Tristan stiffened. “How can I—”
She cut him off. “A terrible thing was done, but no Vistana hand can undo it for you. We are in this land, but not of it, and that is how it must be. You are a good man, but I will not endanger my people for you. I have helped you all I can. Remember what I have said to you here today. I can do no more; I will do no more. Go, now. The rest of your answers, you must find on your own.”
Answers? he thought miserably as he rose to leave. I haven’t even found all the questions yet. He had not realized how much he had counted on the Vistani for aid, tapping into their sensitivity to the supernatural, their karatakasta. Clearly, though, Tristan was now alone in his battle against the enemy that lurked in his own skin.
Tristan’s first thought was to teleport home at once and look for ways to dissociate himself from Malken. But he had agreed to meet Sigfrid for this week’s race to follow up on the closing of the Hungry Tyger. They had already delayed the trip to the tracks once. While for Tristan the most important thing was stopping Malken from doing whatever it was he did to take control of Tristan, he also realized that every blow that weakened the Claws of Sehkmaa in the public eye would be a direct hit to the malevolent fiend behind the cult. Besides, with the new insight he had into Malken, Tristan was loath to send his friend in alone.
He materialized outside the city walls where he would be least likely to be observed, then headed into the Horse District.
Although it was only midmorning, and the race wasn’t until late afternoon, the Horse District was already becoming crowded. As far as these citizens were concerned, Nova Vaasa had two seasons: the racing season, when the races were run once a week at the track raked out in the Great Corral, and trading season, when the Vistani brought in the new horses for auction at the same locale. In truth, the seasons overlapped: races were occasionally run during trading season, and the gypsies constantly brought in horses.
Tristan met Sigfrid at the agreed-upon location, a drinking house called the Nag’s Head, located right next to the Great Corral. The smell of horse that pervaded the entire district was not absent from the Nag’s Head, and excited talk made for a cheerful buzz as Tristan entered. He couldn’t help thinking how this place contrasted with the hovels he and Sigfrid had visited recently.
Sigfrid was waiting for him at a corner table along with two other men Tristan didn’t recognize. He assumed that Sigfrid, in his intelligent fashion, had brought support in case the operation went awry. A few introductory words as Tristan sat down beside his friend confirmed his suspicion.
“Have you learned anything new about the killer?” Sigfrid asked, sipping at his foaming tankard.
Tristan felt macabre mirth welling inside him. Why, yes, Sig, he thought crazily, I’ve learned that Malken is somehow me, or I’m him, or something along those lines, and he’s the most horrifying thing I’ve seen in two score and ten years. He did want to share the new information with Sigfrid, but his mind flew back to the warning words of the Vistana at that night of trial so many months ago. There is a Traitor in your future.… Someone close and trusted—a friend, or your kin, I cannot say—will turn on you. He didn’t truly believe his protégé would become a traitor, but at this point Tristan’s own knowledge of Malken and their strange bond was so slight that it seemed wisest to stay silent. Besides, there were strangers here. He could, however, share his knowledge of the Claws with Sigfrid. He related his encounter with Rozalia and Enoch.
Sigfrid’s brown eyes snapped with righteous anger, and he swore. “I want to expose those bastards if it’s the last thing I do,” he growled, taking a long drink.
“Let’s hope that it isn’t,” replied Tristan. He rose. “You gentlemen stay here and keep your ears open for useful information. Captain Skolsson and I are going to learn what we can about Cavell. We’ll be back shortly.”
The two men left the Nag’s Head and headed for the Great Corral. Each noble house had its own stable right off the enclosure. Tristan quickly scanned the banners and located the gold and black standard that marked House Tavolys. When he and Sigfrid entered the stable, they found that the two groomsmen minding the horses were men Tristan didn’t know.
“Good day, sir,” said one, a lad who reminded Tristan of the young Sigfrid. “Come to check out Milord’s Pride before the race?” The chestnut stallion turned bright eyes toward them and whickered.
Tristan stepped up and rubbed the velvety muzzle. “No, no betting for me today, young sirs. I’m actually looking for someone. Is Cavell about today?”
The amiable faces of the grooms hardened slightly, and they exchanged uneasy glances. This time, the older one, a man about Sigfrid’s current age, spoke. “Nay, sir.”
“Will he be here anytime this week?”
“Nay, sir. He—he doesn’t work for the master no more, sir.”
“Indeed?” Tristan looked over at Sigfrid. “Why not?”
“Let go, sir.” There would, apparently, be no more information. Tristan fished in his pocket, drew out a piece of silver, and held it up. The light that filtered into the stable was heavy with swirling dust, but the coin still glittered enticingly in the ray. Suddenly, the groom’s tongue was loosened. “He was caught placing illegal bets, and Master Tavolys’ll have none of that.”
“Of course not,” agreed Tristan, handing the groom the coin. “Nor would you, I’m sure. Did Cavell perhaps place any bets for his friends?”
“Not that I know of, sir. But he still hovers round the track.” The man waited, expectant. Another coin was produced, and the groom continued. “In fact, he has a small place just round the corner. Saw ’im there this morning. Find the people standing in line, and you’ll find ’im. Not,” the groom added hastily, “that I’d be the one t’ be telling tales, sir.”
“Of course not,” said Tristan a second time. “Your horse is beautiful. You’ve taken splendid care of him, and I shall tell your master as much when I see him.”
The two men beamed, relieved. As Tristan and Sigfrid left, the boy caught hold of Sigfrid’s arm. He let it go almost at once, frightened at his impulsiveness. The two men merely looked at him. “Cavell—he’s got friends, if you catch my meanin’.”
They did indeed. They turned and exited the stable. Behind them, excited chatter broke out.
“Pardon, Sir Tristan,” came a raspy voice. Tristan glanced down to see an elderly Vistana man tugging at his sleeve.
“Greetings, Grandpapa,” he said respectfully. “And what can I do for you?”
“You have ever helped the Vistani here in Kantora,” said the man, also in a respectful tone. “We need your help now. Someone is stealing our horses!”
Tristan narrowed his eyes, wondering if this could have anything to do with the illegal gambling. “That’s a very serious charge, Grandpapa. What’s your proof?”
“Aiee,” mourned the old ma
n, clucking his tongue ruefully, “there lies the problem. We have none. Each week, even in the slow season, I and my family bring in a dozen good beasts. Each time, it is duly noted in the logbook by the night watch captain. But in the morning, two are missing, and when we demand to see the logbook, it says that only ten were brought in!”
“Mount your own guards, then, if you don’t trust the city to protect you.”
“We cannot! We tried and were forbidden!”
Tristan glanced at Sigfrid. “Is that usual behavior for the guards, Captain?”
Sigfrid shrugged. “The Horse District has tended to develop its own rules. That’s an unusual one, but I don’t know that it’s illegal.”
“Grandpapa,” said Tristan, “if you have no proof, there’s not too much I can do to help you.”
The old man’s eyes narrowed and shifted to Sigfrid. He pointed a bony finger at the captain. “Then perhaps he can. Does he know what the guard shift is doing in the quietest part of the night?”
“Guarding the Great Corral, of course,” snapped Sigfrid.
The man laughed. “Oh, no. No, no. Wherever they may be, ’tis not there. Check and see, Captain Skolsson. You’ll find old Giacomo doesn’t lie.”
Tristan glanced around, wondering if there were any hostile eyes taking note of the conversation. He decided to end it quickly. The fewer people who saw the captain of the guards talking with a Vistana about stolen horses, the better. “We’ll take your advice and see what we can do,” said Tristan. He bowed courteously and bustled Sigfrid off. “What kind of truth might there be in that accusation, Sig?”
Sigfrid shook his head wearily. His eyes were haunted. “If you’d asked me that two months ago, I’d have said none. Now—Tris, I honestly don’t know.”
Tristan was silent. What had started with one simple crooked gambling den had led them to an apparently large-scale illegal gambling operation, and a shadow had been cast upon the trustworthiness of at least one guard in the Horse Quarter. Malken, you bastard, thought Tristan with a rush of heated anger, you seem to have your deformed fingers in everything.
He glanced at the sky. The sun was high now, burning through the haze. In a few weeks, the sweltering Nova Vaasan summer would descend. Tristan wiped a few beads of sweat from his forehead and considered. The race would be run in three hours. “Let’s go round up your men.”
The group of guards Sigfrid had brought were prepared. Beneath their loose-fitting shirts they wore chain mail. “The betting’s going on heavily right now,” Tristan said to his companions. “These men won’t take kindly to being interrupted. I can’t explain it now, gentlemen, but I have a feeling there’s more to this than one man’s illegal betting. Be ready for a fight.”
The groom’s directions, while not explicit, were correct. The group of seven left the Nag’s Head, rounded a corner beside the Tavolys stable, and found themselves in an area that, despite the promised long line twining out of the door of a ramshackle building, was devoid of casual passersby.
Sig frowned to himself and whispered to Tristan, “This area is known for shady dealings. There ought to be guards out here—several, in fact.”
“Terribly convenient for our groom-turned-bookmaker,” said Tristan grimly. “Let’s go.”
They strode into full view of the would-be betters. The long line of men and women looked askance at the seven stern-faced men. There was some uncomfortable fidgeting, but no one stepped out of line. Three of the guards moved around the side of the building to guard any other possible exits. The door was open, and Tristan strode up to it.
A hand fell heavily on his shoulder. Tristan turned to regard an angry young man. “You’ll wait in line like the rest of us, old man,” the man growled, “or I’ll make you wait.” His hand fell to a dagger at his waist.
Tristan’s lips twitched with amusement. He drew his own sword in a swift movement. “Unless you want to sit in prison for illegal gambling, son,” he replied in a cool, quiet voice, “you’ll get out of here right now.”
The man blanched. Tristan didn’t bother to watch the response, but heard gasps of distress and the sound of people fleeing as he entered the building.
He had reason to be thankful for the younger groom’s warning, for Cavell was indeed surrounded by “friends.” Though none was so foolish as to be wearing the distinctive cloth-of-gold garb of the Claws, three of the dozen or so men in the room bore telltale scars across their faces. For half a second, the tableau that greeted Tristan remained frozen—Cavell, older than Tristan remembered him, stooping over a wax tablet writing bets down; two Claws seated at a table collecting money, one of whom seemed familiar to Tristan; another Claw scribbling names into a book, several men throughout the room either placing bets or taking them.
Then the tableau shattered. Tristan and Sigfrid found themselves set upon by the men nearest the door. They were big but clumsy, and the two skilled fighters parried their blows easily. Sigfrid, his temper up, wielded his sword with lightning speed. His sheer intensity, coupled with years of training, enabled him to back his adversary into a corner and force a surrender. Tristan, his eye on the Claws, had no patience for such tactics. He dealt the big thug a blow that seared along his torso, slicing a red ribbon from left shoulder to right thigh. The man screamed and went down. Tristan didn’t spare him a second glance; he knew the wound was incapacitating, not lethal. He sped across the room to apprehend the Claws.
Two of them had already slipped out the windows into the waiting arms of the law. The third, a young blond man, was frantically trying to gather up the cash and the ledger and follow suit. Tristan struck him across the shoulder with the flat of his blade. He wanted this one alive and able to talk. The youth fell atop the desk, dropping the cash and book. He grunted in pain and threw Tristan a look of frightened anger.
Tristan paused, his arm suddenly frozen. He recognized the boy. It was Tavolys’s youngest, Raphael. The boy had spent many pleasant hours with Ivaar in Faerhaaven when the youths were but children, and Tristan had always liked him. Tristan’s instant of indecision allowed Raphael to grab a large, smooth stone paperweight. With a grunt, he swung it up, intending to smash it into the side of Tristan’s head.
The experienced warrior recovered his senses in time to lessen the blow with his arm, if not stop it altogether. The rock still hit his head with a great deal of force, and he felt the jarring all through his body. His vision dimmed, fading to black around the corners. He managed to remain conscious but found himself sitting down on the floor clutching his throbbing head.
Sigfrid had intercepted the miscreant and was now busily tying Raphael’s arms behind his back. The cause of the struggle, Cavell, sat wearily in a corner. “You all right?” asked Sigfrid. He finished the knot and hastened to his friend’s side.
Tristan tried to nod but the motion caused lightning bolts of pain to slash through his head. “I’ll be fine,” he managed, gritting his teeth. “Get these bastards behind bars now, before—” he had been about to say before Malken gets wind of it “—we attract a crowd. And get me a horse. I need to get back to Faerhaaven.”
Sigfrid turned to look at him sharply. “You’re not riding for two hours with that injury,” he replied, adding, “Commander, sir.”
“I outrank you, Captain, and I don’t appreciate your attitude,” snapped Tristan. For an instant, Sigfrid looked shocked and hurt, but his professional mask dropped back into place. Tristan felt remorse at once. “I’ll be better off at home, where I can tend to it myself. If you’d like to send one of your men as escort, that’s acceptable.” He kept his tone light and bantering, and noticed Sigfrid relax slightly. “Captain, I’m going to shut myself away a while. There are things I need to—to puzzle out about this case. I ask you to respect my privacy, and I’ll contact you as soon as I can.”
He didn’t wait for Sigfrid’s reply. Grasping the desk, he rose shakily, one hand clapped to his head. A guard stepped beside him unobtrusively, and they left. Tristan felt Sigfrid st
aring at him, but he knew it was better this way. Until he had figured out a way to stop Malken, the less Sigfrid knew, the safer they all would be.
By the time he had turned over the horse for stabling and reached his sorcery room, Tristan felt faint. He realized with an abrupt stab of hunger that he had not eaten all day, and made a quick detour into the castle’s mammoth kitchen for some food. He crunched into an apple and felt better once the nourishment hit his stomach.
Alone in his sorcery chamber, he dropped his facade of strength. Groaning a little, he clutched his head, forcing himself to eat more. He looked with bleary eyes at the array of jars of ingredients. Ailsa used to make a concoction for him when he’d been bruised in sparring. What was it she had put into that? Thoughts of Ailsa served to further depress him. What was torturing her? Why couldn’t he understand?
He shivered. Either the head injury was affecting him or there was a draft in the room. Or else …
“Ailsa?” he asked quietly into the stillness.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then the form of his dead wife shimmered quietly into being. “You’re hurt, my love,” she said softly. There was something alert in her expression, no longer dreamy or mad with grief and anger. For a moment, she seemed … sane?
“I’ve hurt my head,” he hazarded. “I can’t remember what you used …” he hesitated. She seemed angry before when he denied her material existence, and continued, “what you always make for me.”
She smiled, and it was her old, sweet smile that pierced him to the heart. “You are the alchemist, my dear, but who supervises the cooks? Who knows the drinks you like best? The herb garden you harvest from so recklessly is mine, you know.”
In the early years, in his infatuation with all things magical, Tristan had gotten samples of everything that he thought might come in handy. A fragile smile touched his weary face as he recalled Ailsa’s exasperation when he began putting horse dung into jars. She knew the herb garden; he merely gathered up a little of everything, bottled it, and placed it on one of his myriad shelves. “Here, silly,” chided the specter, “let me help.” She floated up to the shelves, examined them, and selected three jars. “Mix equal portions of each of these ingredients and steep them in hot water.”
The Enemy Within Page 16
