by Jenna Rhodes
She reached out and dusted him off gently as well, hesitantly, as though afraid to touch him, and he stood very quiet like a wild animal just gentled, just as afraid to move. Her palm brushed the scars across his torso and abdomen, the cloth between her touch and his skin all but nonexistent, for the feeling she brought to the surface. First, the fiery burn of the kedant, pulsing through him, a rage of heat that quickly turned to aching need, need that stopped the breath in his throat. Pain roared, searching for other pain, throbbing. He could not move as her touch quickened him, then sent a warmth coursing through his blood that had nothing to do with Tressandre’s venom. He wanted to bring her close and taste her lips and murmur to her, and held himself very, very still, frightened of the intensity of his ache. Awareness of the cloth between them came back, the faint rub of fabric across his abdomen and chest, as she dusted the last blotch of dirt away. Then, she stepped back, and he realized the fiery scars crisscrossing his skin felt cool and soothed, as if her touch alone had bathed away the poison even while causing other emotions to spring to life.
She paled a bit, rubbing her arms as if in pain, and tugged her sleeves into place, but not before he caught a glimpse of an unusual marking about her left forearm, a tattoo or . . . was it perhaps a brand? It seemed new and raw, pulsing with pain, and he reached to touch her, to soothe her as she’d soothed him, but she moved a step back and it might have been across a ravine for the distance it put between them. “Why are you chasing Walther?”
He blinked, bringing himself back to the problem at hand. With a steadying breath, he found words. “He has something I want,” Sevryn told the short one, his gaze still on his unexpected find, slender and nearly as tall as he, and steadfastly ignoring him.
“Do you, Walther?”
The lad stared at his too big and scuffed boots. “I,” he announced, “have a deliv’ry. For Missus Lily.”
“There. You chased him down for nothing. Perhaps someone else pinched your purse.”
“It’s not a few coins I’m interested in, even if he could manage such a thing off me.” Sevryn leaned over the boy, with reddened ear still caught firmly between sturdy Dweller fingers. “I want the man who gave you the delivery job. Think you could find him again tonight?”
“Iffen I wanted to, but I dun’t.”
“I think you do. If I want him, you do.”
A mature, firm voice interrupted. “If the delivery is for us, m’lord, then you’re meddling in business you’ve no need to be. You may be of Vaelinarran blood, but this is Calcort, a free city of the provinces, in case you need to be reminded.” The shopkeep emerged from a back room, a sharp pair of scissors glinting in her hand, not by accident or mistake, he thought. The corner of his mouth quirked at the thought she meant to intimidate him with it, but he bowed to the Dweller woman who had been incredibly beautiful once and had aged into a fine handsomeness, and now wore a shopkeep’s key on a chain around her neck, with a tailor’s apron about her waist.
“My pardon, mistress, if my business has spilled over into yours.” He crooked a finger at the lad who managed another self-pitying sniffle, the little weasel. “I have a need to meet with the fine gentleman who gave this lad a message.”
“S’not a message. ’Tis a deliv’ry like I told you.” Walther fumbled at his pouch and got it open, the satchel reaching from hip to mid-thigh on him, and he pulled out several lengths of cloth, neatly folded and tied.
“Ah, yes,” the seamstress breathed as she took them in, fingers stroking the goods with a kind of reverence. “I’ve been waiting for this. Perhaps you’ve been mistaken, m’lord.”
Fabric? He’d chased down a miserable street beggar for yardage? Mistaken or just plain taken by Daravan? Sevryn hesitated only a heartbeat. He flipped a coin through the air which Walther caught in mid-spin, ear pinioned or not. “Tell him the seamstress has a question about his goods, and bring him back. It’ll be worth coin to you.”
“No trouble,” the Dweller lass said sharply, looking at the seamstress and back to him. He saw the resemblance in the two, mother and daughter likely.
The woman at his elbow spoke softly, “Always trouble, with the Vaelinars. Is that not right?” She looked to him, eyes of river water, and lake water, and rain, with sun dappled off their depths.
“I’ve heard that bandied about. It’s trouble I’m trying to avoid now.” He stared down at the messenger. “Will you do it, lad?”
“Soon as she lufts go o’ me.”
The lass let him go, and he sprang up. Before the dust settled with another wisp of torn veil to the floor, the messenger boy was down the block and gone.
Sevryn entered the shop proper, choosing a stool away from the threshold and the view of the street to perch upon. “I beg pardon for the intrusion and damage. I’ll settle for that when I’m done.”
“You’ll settle now.” The shopkeep approached him warily, her hand open. “I’m closing now, but I hope to have enough of a business left to open on the morrow!”
“Quite.” He put two gold crown pieces in her palm. “For now and, hmmm, future.”
“There had better not be a future,” the other Dweller said, with a toss of her head, as she jumped to her feet. “I’ve a da and three strong brothers, and we won’t have trouble in here.”
The one who held his thoughts put her hand on the other’s shoulder. “Nutmeg. He looks honorable.”
“Aye, sure he does, for a grown man chasing down a street boy.” Nutmeg snorted and went to the door, righting the stool and cleaning up where everyone had sprawled on the threshold as she grabbed a broom and dustpan. With a saucy toss of her head, she kept a cinnamon-colored eye on him as she did so.
Sevryn rested his bootheel on one of the rails of the stool. “My pardon again. I am Sevryn Dardanon, in service of Queen Lariel. At your service, as well.”
The shopkeep put her delivery on her counter and inclined her head gracefully. “I am Lily Farbranch, and these are my daughters Nutmeg and Rivergrace.”
He caught his surprise before it showed, he thought, but Nutmeg put her chin up, dustpan in hand, and said, “She’s adopted—I found her, and that’s it.”
“Of course.” He found all three watching him, and leaned back a little on his stool as if uninterested. She would be half-blooded or less, then, to be let go so easily, and it was clear she’d family now that loved her. He understood now why he hadn’t been able to ferret her out. Abandoned, perhaps, and taken in by those who loved her, and the townspeople about them just as determined to leave things as they were. Just as he’d been lost and finally found . . . family, was it? who accepted him. He pondered at thinking of Lariel and Jeredon as family. Would they allow it, if they knew? He realized they waited on him. He gestured, feigning disinterest. “A good tale to hear sometime, but I’m afraid my attention is held by the messenger boy’s employer.”
Tension filtered out of the room. Rivergrace took up a hoop of embroidery and blew the dust off it gently, the veil fluttering as she did so before handing it to Nutmeg. “Shall I go back to standing in the doorway?”
“With Walther soon to come bolting back? I think not. We shall have to teach him a bit about doors and doorways before he knocks ours through,” Lily answered dryly.
“He is probably more used to windows,” commented Sevryn. Forcibly, he turned his attention on the bit of corner window he could see through, watching the night-clad streets.
“He has a good heart,” Rivergrace told him. “He only does what he has to.”
Sevryn did not respond. If he turned to talk with her, she would command all his attention and then some, and he dared not be distracted with Daravan on the way. He did nod, finally, feeling her watching him, like a burning spot on the side of his neck. He listened while they talked among themselves, quietly, righting the shop to close up after a long day, while he tried to catch any sounds of Daravan’s approach, as likely to be from the back as through the front. Sevryn knew if it were him, he would not come in through
the front door.
The two sisters disappeared behind a curtained doorway where he heard much rustling of material and a smothered giggle or two, and while he imagined the changing of clothes over that lithe body, shadows shivered a bit somewhere near the back storeroom. He held both hands palm up and empty, and Daravan’s smooth voice commented, “I shall have to instruct my messenger in the difference between a troublemaker and an annoyance.”
“I should have thought I’d rate higher.” Sevryn stood and bowed slightly in deference as the shadows parted and Daravan stepped into the lamplight.
“If you did, you’d be disposed of. Do you wish to cause me trouble?”
“No, sir, not I.”
Daravan scratched the corner of his mouth as if to hide an expression. He leaned against the counter. “Then let me commend you for finding me in a city that is a stewpot of people.”
“Sheer luck. I was looking for someone else and came across you. You were looking for someone else at the time, and I thought it prudent not to interrupt you.”
Daravan said wryly, “You, eh? I thought I heard a rather large roof rat.”
“If you’d heard one, sir, you’d have not stayed in the alley.”
“Ah, but it was my duty to be there. Some weeks ago, I, hmmm, found a coin purse after a night of drinking and cards. I thought to return it.” Daravan’s hand moved, slowly, to push aside his cloak, and tap a black pouch. Gilt threads cleverly sewn upon the pouch glittered a nearly unseeable “K” as he did so. Sevryn recognized the symbol with a sudden, cold piercing of his senses. “M’lord denied having lost such a pouch, however, and I realized he was not the man I thought he was, although so close in likeness I wondered if he might not have a brother.” Daravan looked into Sevryn’s face intently. “I withdrew quickly before trying his patience.”
“A wise move, after an honorable one. Returning a found purse is very admirable.”
Daravan shrugged. “I have little need of money not my own.” He opened his gloved fist and rained a small stream of crown bits, silver and gold, onto the counter. “Your meeting place is fortuitous, as it reminds me. I do, however, have need of a suitable outfit, for being among the royalty this summer, although such events can be wearying, making an appearance seems extremely necessary. Mistress Farbranch is a seamstress and tailor of marvelous ability. I heartily recommend her if anyone you know needs a good suit or gown.”
“I saw her handiwork but a little while ago, and agree.”
Daravan inclined his head. “She keeps her peace as well, and discretion is always commendable. As for our business?”
Sevryn waved a hand. “I had only hoped to greet you in a quiet place, what with the ceremonies planned over the next month or so, and I thank you for your time.”
“Good, then. I’m certain we’ll see each other later.” He tapped a last gold crown on the counter, a sharp rap. “Good eve, Mistress Farbranch, and to your daughters. When you need a fitting, Walther knows how to reach me.”
Muffled, from the back area, Lily called back, “Aye, m’lord, I’ll send word,” and Daravan had gone before she finished speaking.
Sevryn turned on his heel sharply, stopping only in the doorway. “Thank you. With your permission, might I return?”
Lily peeked out from her workshop. “For . . . ?”
“A garment or two of my own. I might know a lady who wishes a new gown as well, and those veils are quite charming.”
Pleasure warmed her cheeks and crinkled the lines at the corner of her eyes. “Welcome, then, m’lord Dardanon.”
“Good.” He hesitated another moment, but neither Rivergrace nor Nutmeg appeared, although he could swear he saw the curtains move, parting slightly so that his leaving might be watched.
Or perhaps he only hoped that as he left.
Jeredon slapped his shoulder sharply. “A quick turn, I thought.” His voice scolded.
“Complications. The Kobrir are in town, and we are warned that there may well be an assassination attempt. I doubt it matters what gate we use to enter, but the various events and dances planned, as well as the Conference itself, will have to be watched closely. It’s been confirmed there is more than one Kobrir and two are about. Daravan has tabs on one, but he thinks Lariel is still the target.”
Jeredon hissed a breath inward. “I send you out to find a ripe fruit thrower, a crowd heckler, and you come back with an assassin.”
“It’s my job, eh? And I’m good at it.” Sevryn swung up on his horse, settling in. The healed scar on his flank drew a little, but nothing like the kedant-laced network over the rest of his torso, and he found a little peace in that. How had she done it, healed what no other healer could? He found Jeredon’s gaze still on him, and reminded him, “Lariel is not one to be afraid, so it looks like you and I are going to have to be the ones using caution.”
“True, that. Well. Let’s see what kind of night’s sleep we’ll get after we tell her your bit of street gossip.” He reined his horse around, and Sevryn followed.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
NARSKAP WORE THE WAR hammer at his lean hip, with the greatsword sheathed at his back, his lean face etched with the ravages of a struggle Quendius could not begin to fathom, though he had heard the howling of it for days. His aide looked as if he could not bear the presence of others except for the weaponmaker, and even that seemed difficult as he stayed in the far corner of the pavilion. A man of few words himself, Quendius sprawled at the rough wooden table, the edges of his tent stirring in the early dawn air and said, “Sit for a while. Rest.”
“There is no rest when caught between petty Gods and Demons.”
“I could kill you now.”
Narskap’s color went ashen. “It’s a good offer, and one I will relish one day, but that would bring no peace. Pray you never die at the hands of one of these,” and he gestured at the two weapons he wore, his hands trembling before he hooked his thumbs back into his belt to still the quaking, and stand stoically in the corner.
“Shall we inform our buyer of the hammer’s possibilities and consequences, I wonder?”
“It is a failure. Whatever Diort wants of it, it will ultimately betray him.”
“All to our good, then.” Bored, Quendius carved at the tabletop with the tip of a very sharp dagger, working the wood into a design, painstakingly etching and smoothing away curls and sawdust as he amused himself. The soft but aged wood gave way easily to his steel, and he soon had an intricate floral-and-vine design started, before he realized that Narskap had not answered him further and that a hush had fallen over the camp. He laid his dagger down.
One of his lieutenants brushed inside. “The clans are drawing near.”
“Good. Have they closed the circle yet?”
“No. It’s my guess that they are doing what you predicted, and letting the others join us before they do so. They seem to have no inkling they, in turn, are being outflanked.”
“Excellent. Keep watch.”
The lieutenant saluted and left.
Quendius looked into the morning light as it brightened, the sooty nature of his skin darkening in contrast to the light. Never lighter than pale fine ash or darker than a grayish charcoal, he looked as if he perpetually resided in shadow.
“Soon,” murmured Narskap, as if reading his thoughts on how close the others might be.
“Does it sense a blooding?” Quendius eyed the hilt of the greatsword visible over Narskap’s shoulder, wondering how his aide knew of things he could not know. It was not a Talent or ability of his line.
“Yes. Or perhaps it merely reads my own anticipation. But it knows. It grows eager now.”
“Good. I think our buyer will need a Demonstration.”
“I stand at your service.” Narskap looked down as if composing a thought, or an emotion, or perhaps even a defense against his inner self, then raised his chin.
Quendius ran a fingertip over the design he’d begun in the table. He’d been apprenticed as a decorative wood-worker
, long, long ago. He could almost remember what it was like to have a fondness for woods, their grains, their strength, their glow, their aroma, the works they lent themselves to. Almost. It seemed a life so far away that it could not have been his, however. He had the Vaelinarran eyes but not the abilities desired with them, and he’d been tossed aside like a dulled and broken tool, useless, until he found a use for himself. Like fires filled a forge, the drive to find himself had filled him, and he had been granted part of his desire. The road would be a long one, and the horizon pleased him. He picked the dagger back up and continued carving the design. Wandering leaves for the border, with new budded flowers amid dewdrops and thorns, he decided. Definitely thorns.
He had finished the border along the end of the table before he could hear his camp coming to life in brisk, precise movements and knew the buyers and their wagons had made the perimeter before the lieutenant officially announced them. He brushed the sawdust and curls off the surface, pleased with his skill.
“Bring them to me, of course, once you’ve offered them water for cleansing and wine for libation.”
Another sketched salute and his man disappeared.
Within moments, the Galdarkan company stood in his pavilion and he rose to greet them, Narskap coming to life and striding quietly across the space to flank him. He knew Abayan Diort, although he’d always met with emissaries before, but the tall, mercenary Galdarkan looked unmistakable, particularly with the ranking tattoo he wore on his cheekbone. The officers’ insignia started quietly, and then grew with each commission and Diort’s looked as masterful and complicated as any he’d ever seen. Although the Galdarkans would never claim the title of emperor as their Magi lords once had, there could be no doubt of Abayan’s rising as high as any could. He wore field gear, not to impress, but because he anticipated trouble on any road, and he wished to be prepared for it. He looked comfortable in the cavalry armor, and Quendius thought he could understand the Galdarkan about as well as anyone could, without wearing Diort’s skin.
