Scott J Couturier - [The Magistricide 01]

by The Mask of Tamrel (epub)

  Salinas raised his ring. “You know us?”

  The innkeep bowed deeper, gray eyes staring up through a silver spill of hair. “Aye, my lord. I promise you, the House of the Setting Sun and all its comforts are at your pleasure.”

  Salinas raised his eyebrows, impressed despite himself. “Well said. It’s good to see that even in the Umberwood men know their betters.”

  Kelrob noticed Kirleg’s hands twitch, as if desperate to close into fists. “You’re only at the outskirts, my lord. Mine is the last alehouse before the Tangle.”

  “Alehouse? Tumbledown cottage, rather. And why do you festoon it with corn?”

  The innkeep’s eyes glittered. “To celebrate the harvest, my lord.”

  “I had heard there was famine in the heartlands, and now I know why. You go about nailing your food to eaves.” Salinas laughed at his own jest. “Well? What say you, Kelrob? Shall we accept their rustic hospitality?”

  Kelrob was doing his very best to shrink into his robes. He felt mortified on the innkeeper’s behalf, and discovered to his immense shame that he was blushing. Instead of responding he slid from his horse. “She’s skittish,” he told Kirleg, who was staring at him in some astonishment. “Tell your man. I’d hate for him to suffer a hoof to the head.”

  Kirleg blinked, then bowed again. “Of course, my lord.” With a whistle he summoned the ostler, who rushed from the warm glow of the inn to take Kelrob’s reins. “Glev, tell Meela to put on fresh meat. And tap that keg of vintage we’ve been saving for Yuletide.”

  The ostler smiled benignly. “Aye.” Taking Kelrob’s reins in hand, he turned to Salinas, who still sat firmly in saddle. A sneer was settling into perpetuity on the war-mage’s face.

  “Before we accept your overflowing hospitality,” he said to Kirleg, “you will show your gratitude for our patronage. Approach.”

  Kirleg’s right hand twitched anew, fingertips brushing the pommel of his sword. He stepped forward and said, “What more can I offer my lords?”

  Salinas held out his right hand, the ring glittering on his finger. “Kiss it.”

  “Salinas,” Kelrob said angrily, “that’s enough.”

  The Taskmaster’s eyes flared. “Know your place, Kelrob.” With a grin Salinas thrust his hand towards the innkeeper. “He does.”

  Kirleg stared at the ring for a moment, then slowly bowed his head. “My lord,” he said huskily before pursing his lips and pressing them against the shimmering band.

  Blue fire flashed; Kirleg shrieked and fell backward, his right hand scrabbling for his sword. Kelrob’s horse whinnied and reared, Glev struggling to keep the animal under control.

  Salinas laughed. Raising the still-burning ring to his lips, he kissed it with a wet smack. “Just a parlour trick,” he said as he slid from his horse.

  Kirleg clutched at his eyes; Kelrob could see smoke rising from the old man’s singed hair. He suddenly wanted to spring back into the saddle and ride pell-mell for Tannigal, damn the dark and the cold. As if in response to his desire the wind rose in a long, chilling moan. He fixed Salinas with a black stare. “All right, you’ve had your fun. Can we go in now?”

  Kelrob’s father was a fair man, even-handed in trade, always willing to spare his tenants avoidable misery. He had taught his sons that goodwill often fostered good business, and that the measure of a man could be taken by his treatment of his subordinates. Many is the lord, he was was fond of saying, who beats his wife, curses his servants, and unwittingly eats their spittle in his every meal. It was a quaint philosophy by city standards, the semi-honorable blather of a country lord, but Kelrob adhered to it despite the endless jibes by his more — or less — civilized peers. It was a particular sticking point with his current companion; Salinas’s smile remained plastered to his face as he handed off his reins to the ostler and tossed the dazed Kirleg a golden coin. It fell to the ground at the innkeep’s feet, where it was quickly covered by shifting leaves. “Keep the change,” he said.

  2: The House of the Setting Sun

  A foliate mask hung over the broad hearth, its yawning mouth issuing an abundance of cornstalks. Offerings were left beneath it on the smoke-blackened wood of the mantel, flanked by grinning gourds: dried fruit, tassels of corn, a stone bowl filled to the brim with what Kelrob fervently hoped was animal blood. The mask grinned at him, the hollows of its eyes dancing. He looked away.

  The inn was crowded with rough-looking men, dressed in simple burlap or coarse woolen garb, and a few women, clearly servers, or ‘wenches’ as Salinas had a penchant to call them. The men were a motley collection of farmers, tinkers, and foresters, the last sporting voluminous beards and dressed in tarpaulins of treated hide that shone greasily in the firelight. Swords and daggers were worn openly. Kelrob suppressed a gulp as the door swung shut behind him.

  Salinas surveyed the company grimly, his eyes flicking about the inn’s cramped interior. His face hardened as he took in the ramshackle bar, a plank of untreated oakwood suspended on old, split logs. The floor was dirt, the sturdy tables and chairs hand-hewn. Bundles of drying herbs dangled from the rafters, to which further foliate masks had been nailed. The air was heavy with the stink of sweat, ale, and charred meat. Leaning close to Kelrob, Salinas said in a heated mutter, “I can’t believe I let you talk me into this.”

  Kelrob bit off a sharp reply. Raising his hand, he motioned one of the serving-girls forward. Lowering her eyes, she detached from the wary throng and came to stand at his side. “M’lord,” she said in a shaking voice, falling to her knees and bowing until her forehead touched the earth, “I am yours.”

  Salinas’s eyebrows arced in genuine surprise. “How generous. Though I suppose it is the only commodity they have to offer us. Will you take her, Kelrob, or should I?”

  Kelrob fought blushing with all his might. Reaching down, he extended a hand and helped the girl to her feet, clearly bewildering her in the process. “Is there a room ready for us?” he asked gently.

  The girl nodded. She was small and wiry, her skin acorn-brown, slender arms and neck taut with field-honed musculature. “Room 3,” she said, with a sideways glance at Salinas. “Are...m’lords retiring so soon?”

  “Yes, immediately.”

  “Would you — I mean, would m’lords like some food brought up?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Wine?”

  “For my friend. I’ll take milk, if you have some.”

  Salinas sighed emphatically. “Kelrob, you can scurry to your hole if you wish, but I will take my meal in the common room, like any other weary traveler.” As he spoke he slid off the outer mantle of his robes, a rich sapphire-blue cloak studded with minute sparkling gems. “Here, sweet one. Take my cloak from me. Be careful, for it’s worth more than your life.”

  The girl’s eyes went wide with wonder as the cerulean bundle fell into her arms. Her fingers teased at one of the gemstones, then darted back, as if bitten. Kelrob knew Salinas would take a full catalog of the jewels when the cloak was returned, and woe betide the girl should their number be lessened.

  “Wine!” cried Salinas, stepping towards the speechless mass of onlookers. “Is this how you greet a Taskmaster, a brother in the great war? I heard music before and I demand it again!”

  The key to room 3 was pressed into Kelrob’s hand by an older woman whose hair spilled down her back in thick silver braids, similar to Kirleg’s. Her thin face was creased with worry as she said, “Please, sir. Lift the curse you placed on my husband. We will do whatever you say.”

  Kelrob blinked in surprise. “Curse?”

  “The blue light. The burning. He says your companion put wasps in his head.”

  Retinal over-stimulation, leading to headache and disorientation. Kelrob resisted the urge to hurl a very literal curse in Salinas’s direction. Instead he reached into one of the hidden pockets lining his robes and withdrew a
stoppered vial of gray powder. “Mix this with some tea,” he said, pressing it into her hand. “Have him eat a little something while he drinks it, then lay a warm compress over his eyes. If you do these things the curse will be broken.”

  The woman held the vial to her chest and bowed. “We are honored to have such wise magisters as our guests,” she said hollowly.

  “Er...thank you.”

  “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to stay in the common room with your friend?” She glanced uneasily towards Salinas, who was settling himself in at the bar and mockingly gesturing for a companion in his drink.

  Kelrob shook his head. “Thank you, but no.” I’m on his tether, not the other way around, he struggled to keep from adding.

  The woman’s face crinkled with worry. “Very well, m’lord. My name is Meela, if you need anything. I’m the lady of this house.”

  A large man had risen from his seat beside an effigy of wheat stalks and settled beside Salinas at the bar. Salinas looked somewhat surprised at the acceptance of his rude invitation, but greeted the man with a sardonic slap to the back. Behind the bar two young men were struggling with a dust-coated cask; within moments the spigot was affixed and vivid red wine began to flow. The other patrons slowly settled back into their chairs, none daring to make for the exit. Salinas turned and saluted them with a sloshing tankard, drained it, and said, “Where is that sodding minstrel? Fetch him, or I’ll turn you all into toads.”

  Kelrob closed his hand around the room-key and turned away, weariness tugging at his every ligature. He started up the stairs. Ache, pain, ache, pain — he spoke to his ring, whispering near-silent words, and a burning warmth swept through his body, easing the worst of his hurts. He mounted the final steps with renewed, if highly temporary, vigor, reaching the landing just in time to see a huge, half-dressed man being forcibly hauled out of room 3.

  “Get yer damn hands off me!” the man snarled, jerking against the grip of Glev the ostler and another brutish-looking man Kelrob assumed was in Kirleg’s employ. They pinned the struggling man against the wall and dealt several blows to his stomach, whereupon the reluctant occupant vomited onto his unlaced breeches and keeled over.

  “Get up!” Glev hissed, all hints of gentle foolishness gone. He delivered a heavy kick to the man’s backside. “If they find you up here they’re likely to kill us all!”

  The man laughed from his prone position, then belched. Even from his vantage at the end of the hall Kelrob could smell the stench of spirits. “What makes you think I care? Go on, beat me to a pulp, get my blood and guts all over the floor. I’ll not move, I’m paid for the month, an’ you swore to let me be.”

  Glev looked at his associate in panic. “Grab his arms,” he said. “We’ll send him down the garbage shoot.”

  The lump of a man nodded. “His things?”

  “Send ‘em down too.”

  The man groaned and spat on the floor. “Fucking bastards. Issis any way to treat a paying customer? That coin is my blood, it’z all I have left.”

  A pained look flashed over Glev’s face. “Dammit Jacobson, there’re magisters here. Magisters! I saw one put on curse on Kirleg with my own eyes!”

  “Don’t care,” Jacobson mumbled into the floorboards. “I paid for this room, nicest in the place, nogonna leave.”

  The brute crackled his fists together. “Grab his legs,” he said to Glev. “I’ll deal with the rest of ‘im.”

  At that moment Jacobson threw back his head and stared down the corridor. Kelrob found himself impaled by a pair of fiercely blue bloodshot eyes. “You!” Jacobson spat, and struggled to rise, his body trembling with pain and intoxication. “I paid for thish room! ‘S mine!” Reaching down into his breeches, he drew out a small hunting knife and stabbed it impotently along the length of the floor.

  Glev’s eyes widened with horror at the sight of Kelrob. Without hesitation he brought his boot down on Jacobson’s hand. There was a faint crunching noise, and the knife tumbled free. Jacobson screamed and curled in on himself.

  “Cowards,” he spat, lashing out with the last of his strength at Glev’s leg. “He’s just a whelp, a stripling.”

  “Hold ‘im down,” Glev told the brute. Stepping over Jacobson, he knelt before Kelrob in a placating gesture. “M’lord, I am so sorry. He’s mad, brain fever -”

  Kelrob raised a hand, cutting off the ostler’s babble. He looked at Jacobson in sad disgust, then down at the knife. “I just want to rest. Undisturbed.”

  Glev nodded. Without another word he rose and grabbed Jacobson by his legs. The brute tackled with his arms, avoided being bitten, and ungently hoisted the drunkard in the air. “Cowards!” Jacobson screamed as he was carted from sight, his head snapping back to stare at Kelrob. The mage met those piercing blue eyes for a moment, then looked away. He waited until the man’s curses and cries had faded before entering the room, the door shutting behind him with a dull click.

  The room was large and dark, the candles unlit, or rather burned into puddles. The only illumination shone from the innards of two hollowed gourds positioned in the room’s windows (which held actual panes of glass, Kelrob noted with surprise). The mage eased inside, his nose twitching at the commingled stench of alcohol and urine. There were two large beds of down and ticking, a table, a desk, a cold hearth, a basin filled with dirty water, a generous faggot of firewood, a wardrobe, a stone ewer, an inkwell, and a profusion of empty or half-empty bottles that stank of venting spirits. Kelrob grimaced. Crossing to the windows he unlatched them and threw them wide. Cold air rushed in, dispelling the miasma but leaving him chilled.

  The righthand bed was rumpled, and bore the very clear indentation of a body. A sword hung from one of the bedposts; Kelrob eyed it warily for a moment before lifting belt, blade, and scabbard over the fancifully-carved riser. The weapon was heavy in his hands, plain pommel and plainer leather sheath, smelling ripely of oil and iron. Sliding his hands along the pommel, Kelrob gripped it and tried to tug the blade free. It resisted his efforts for a moment before popping loose with a grotesque sucking sound.

  Blood. The smell flooded the room, pressing back the reek of less vital bodily fluids. Kelrob gulped as he stared at the gore-crusted blade, the iron already beginning to rust beneath its butcher’s coating. With effort he tugged the weapon free, and held it up in the dim light.

  A loud knock came at the door. “M’lord,” came Glev’s winded voice, “I have your things from the stables, and a few girls to see to the mess.”

  Kelrob slid the sword back into its sticky rest. “Just a moment,” he called. No stranger to blood and its perils, the mage reached into one of the pockets lining his robes and drew out a handkerchief infused with antibiotic ointment. He proceeded to wipe his hands clean; only then did he bid the ostler enter.

  “This room is despoiled,” was all he could think to say.

  Glev’s broad face immediately paled with fear. “Yes, m’lord. Didn’t think you’d be taking to bed quite so early. We were just coming to deal with the mess.” Stepping aside, he snapped at the two girls looming behind him in the hallway. “Mantha! Seren! Get in here and get to work!”

  The girls were younger than Kelrob, though already ripe in face and figure. One was blonde, the other a pale brunette; both were tall and hale of body. They bowed to him, then entered the room, slinging down the horse-packs and setting about gathering bottles with nervous industriousness.

  Glev approached Kelrob and bowed apologetically. “So sorry, m’lord, so sorry. If you’d like to go downstairs, or wait in the hall -”

  The quaver of a lute sounded from the common room below. Kelrob heard Salinas bellow a command, and the unseen minstrel steadied his hand. “No,” the mage said, sliding a long-suffering hand down his face. “I’ll wait. Just clean it and go.”

  Glev doffed his cap in deference. The brute entered behind him, his bulging arms incongruously la
den with a bundle of clean linen. He took one look at the room, cursed, and kicked a bottle into the hallway. “Apologies, m’lord,” he said gruffly. “Had no idea that rat had made such a warren.”

  Kelrob waved the apology aside and retreated to the desk, where he sat and watched the harried process of cleansing. The last of the bottles were taken away in short order, the brimming waste bucket removed. One of the girls stirred up a fire in the hearth, which was soon flickering and sending out welcome pulses of warmth. The other girl made to dispose of the gourds, but Kelrob stayed her, saying merely, “I like them.” She nodded in response, and instead swung the windows shut, locking out the cold night wind.

  Kelrob glanced at the sword, still propped against the bed. “Who was that man?” he asked Glev. The ostler had made no move to assist in the cleaning, preferring to slouch in the doorframe and oversee his underlings.

  The brute sniffed disdainfully. “No one,” he said, answering for his surrogate master. “A wasted man, m’lord. He’s been dealt with.” With another grunt he ripped away the soiled sheets, exposing the sagging mattress.

  Kelrob fixed Glev with his weary gaze. “I asked a question,” he said. “Who is he?”

  Glev stirred uneasily, his leather cap twisting in his hands. “An old soldier, m’lord. Came here several months back, paid for the room in gold, and hasn’t come down since. Drank up half our cellar in that time.”

  The fire rose higher in the grate, outshining the flickering lanterns. One of the girls lit a stick of acrid incense and set it to smoldering on the mantel. Kelrob blinked, his eyes beginning to water. “A paying customer?”

  “Aye,” Glev answered uneasily. “A nuisance, but a profitable one.”

  Reaching down, Kelrob picked up the sword and held it in his hands. There were no other personal affects in the room, he saw, save a tattered tunic hanging in the wardrobe. “And what of the rest of his gold?”

  Glev flinched, his hand fluttering guiltily over a half-full satchel strung at his waist. “Taken for damages, at Kirleg’s order.”