by Stefon Mears
“The Duke of Nolarr is my uncle,” Cavan said. “On my father’s side.”
“Your father…” — Ehren started, but Amra finished for him — “is King Draven of Oltoss?”
* * *
Chairs. A room this nice should have had chairs. But apparently the Bent Spike expected that those who wanted to sit would do so where they could have a ready supply of drinks and food, and that anyone who retired to a room — even a private room on the third floor with its own copper bathtub — intended only activities that involved a soft feather bed.
Cavan sighed, and spared a thought for Polli the fiery barmaid, and the evening that almost was. Maybe it was the beeswax of the candles around him, but Cavan imagined she would smell like honey. He forced the thought from his mind with shake of his head, then sank down onto the greenwood floor. Bare feet tucked under him and hands on his knees, Cavan’s body reflexively chose one of the focusing poses he’d learned in his attempt to become a wizard.
Ehren sat in what he called the Dawn Pose: knees together, doeskin-booted feet under his rear for support, one hand on each knee and leaning slightly forward. Amra lazed with one leg tucked in close and the other outstretched, her back resting against the greenwood wall near the tub. Eyes half-lidded as though she weren’t paying attention to everything around her. Which Cavan knew she was.
A study in contrasts, those two. Her in black leather, him in white linen. Him with the easy smile, her with the twisted humor. But neither was smiling then.
And apparently they were impatient, because they didn’t wait for Cavan to start talking.
“So,” Ehren said, “this isn’t about the price on your head in Dunlap. You do accumulate enemies, don’t you?”
“He does,” Amra said, smiling fondly. “Keeps life interesting, wouldn’t you say?”
Ehren gave the unconscious assassins by the door a significant look, and said, “The King of Oltoss has three legitimate heirs, two sons and a daughter. All three have hair like spun gold, same as the King and Queen. So you must be—”
“—a bastard,” finished Amra, without a trace of judgment in her voice. “Hence the name Oltblood. I take it he didn’t acknowledge you?”
“No.” Cavan shook his head. “Not officially. So no matter what happens I’ll never wear the crown. Not that I’d want it.” Cavan shuddered. “He sent me off to a merchant to raise me. A jeweler who sells mostly to nobles. Kent. My mother was the daughter of … some count or something—”
“You don’t know?” Ehren said, shock plain in his voice and all over his face. “How could you not know?”
“It’s not like she kept me.” Cavan shrugged. “Or even wanted to see me.”
He’d wasted too much of his youth wondering about his mother. Trying to find ways to learn her name, where to find her. Until the day the man who fostered him sat Cavan down and told him plainly: “She knows your name, lad, and she knows where you are. So stop looking for a woman who obviously doesn’t want anything to do with you.”
The words had hurt, but their pain had faded with time.
“Wait,” Ehren said. “You may be a bastard, but you’re a bastard of Oltoss…”
“Yeah,” Amra said, leaning forward, eyes opening wider now. “You must be entitled to something. What is it?”
“Not much,” Cavan said, hands coming up quickly. This was something he hadn’t thought about since he left home years ago. “Really.”
“Ah, ah, ah,” Ehren said, his smile back full-force. “Oltoss isn’t like most kingdoms, where all lands and titles pass to the eldest son—”
“Or daughter,” Amra said. “In some places the eldest daughter inherits.”
“Or daughter,” Ehren said with a nod. “But in Oltoss, the eldest only gets half, regardless of sex. The rest is split among the remaining children.”
“So you get a third of half?” Amra said.
“A sixth,” specified Ehren. “What does that entail?”
“I don’t inherit equally,” Cavan said, waving his hands as though trying to stop a stampede by the power of desperation alone. “I’m a bastard, remember. I’ll get only one of King Draven’s titles. The meanest. The least land.”
“You may be entitled to something through your mother as well, but let’s stick to your father for now. The meanest title of a king is still better than…” Ehren let the thought trail off, and looked at Amra. Her mouth twisted up at the corner, her expression sour. She nodded. Ehren continued, his voice serious now. “What is this title, Cavan?”
“It’s a small holding. A barony. Few peasants. Goat herds mostly. Yeah, the rents will bring in enough to—”
“Mountain goat herds?”
“Yes, Ehren. Mountain goats. You know. Shaggy things. Excellent balance.”
Amra spat, shaking her head.
“If you two don’t tell me what you’re on about—”
“This holding,” Ehren said. “Where is it?”
“On a border, I think.” Cavan frowned in thought, trying to recall details that had never seemed all that important when he was young. “Between the county of … Twall … and…”
Cavan’s gut tightened. A chill ran down his spine.
“And the duchy of Nolarr,” finished Ehren.
Cavan nodded.
“And now the duke wants you dead.”
“I think we’d better go check out your land,” Amra said. “Because I get the feeling something other than goats has been discovered.”
* * *
After the trio made their plans, Ehren and Amra were about to head back to the room they shared on the second floor, but Ehren stopped before opening the door. He looked down at the bound assassins, then up at Cavan.
“We should hand them over to the town watch before we turn in.”
“Town watch won’t care,” Amra said. She shrugged. “Not here. Travelers trying to kill travelers? Probably happens all the time. Now if they’d tried to kill the innkeep…”
“Even a town this size has a mayor, and a mayor can’t just let people kill each other,” Ehren said. “If nothing else, it’s bad for business.”
“But no one died,” Cavan said. “I think she’s right. We’d only have our word against theirs.”
“I’m a priest of Zatafa. They’ll listen.”
“We’re not in a city, and they’re not farmers.” Cavan shook his head. “Zatafa may not mean as much here. Not as much as Ulsina.”
Ehren gave a rare frown and thought about that. Ulsina was the Lady of Ways, patroness of travelers and traders. But he rallied.
“Zatafa shines her light on all new ventures, merchants alike. I still think—”
“Besides,” Cavan said. “The more noise we make about this, the more attention we draw. And in a place where this many people pass through, there are bound to be others who know about the price on my head. Who heard the hunters talking.”
“Prices,” corrected Amra. “They might know about Dunlap too.”
“We’re travelers,” Ehren said, determined look in his eye. “Yet we didn’t know about the Duke’s bounty.” He glared at Amra. “And no one around here is likely to care about Dunlap.”
Cavan’s turn to frown. “You do know I don’t want to kill these two, right?”
“If this were any other situation,” Ehren said, “if they came after you for any other reason. Then I would know you wouldn’t want to kill. I have never seen you take a life you shouldn’t.”
“Hells,” Amra said, “I’ve seen you spare lives you should have taken.”
Ehren pointed at Amra. “And she’s argued with you after every one. For all I know her arguments have taken root.”
“I didn’t kill them when they were armed and trying to murder me. Now you think I’m going to slit their unconscious throats? How long have you known me?”
The answer was three years, but it was half an answer and all three knew it. Three years traveling together and facing death and worse so many times they should have ha
d a dozen songs each. If any one of them wrote songs. Those three years had bound them tighter than any family Cavan had known.
The challenge brought a flush to Ehren’s face. Apparently he hadn’t thought of it that way.
“I apologize,” he said at once, then gave a long, slow sigh. “It’s all this talk of nobles. Whenever nobles get involved, people die at an alarming rate.”
“And to be fair,” Amra said, “we did just find out you stand to inherit a title. That’s a pretty big secret to keep from us. Might be you’re holding back other stuff too.”
Cavan looked at Ehren, but Ehren didn’t contradict her.
“You should have told us.”
Cavan’s jaw dropped. He blinked at them both, but they were clearly waiting for words, not expressions.
“I’m not holding anything back. I swear. I never mentioned the title because I never think about it. I don’t care about it. It’s just some nebulous future thing, like worrying about what I’m going to dream tonight.”
Ehren’s clear blue eyes showed Cavan only patience. Amra’s green-and-gold looked unconvinced.
“All right. Here’s the whole thing. All of it. Yes, I’m the bastard of King Draven and the daughter of some count. I don’t know which count. Might be a countess. I don’t know which daughter. Oldest, youngest, fifth of eighteen, I don’t know.”
“I think,” Ehren said, “that if any count had eighteen daughters, we’d know. Every minstrel and bard across the land would have a dozen songs about them by now.”
“Don’t interrupt,” Amra said. “Let him finish.”
“I was raised by Kent the Jeweler. But he didn’t want to teach me his trade and I didn’t want to learn it. So he sent me to be trained as a warrior. When that didn’t work, we tried wizardry. But that didn’t work either. He was talking to the temple of Ulsina about sending me over as a novitiate and I decided I’d rather take my chances on my own. That’s when I met you guys. There’s nothing else worth mentioning. Unless you want to hear about my failures as a warrior and a wizard. Or about my love life…”
“You don’t have to tell me you’re a failure as a warrior,” Amra said, but she was smiling again.
“The less I have to hear about your love life, the better,” added Ehren, humor finally unclouding in his eyes. “And I think we all need to get ready for the morrow. But, Cavan, I will have more questions.”
“And I’ll answer all of them.” Cavan raised his hand in the sun salute position Ehren used for blessings: left hand straight up, all five fingers splayed. “I swear.”
“Fine,” Ehren said with a chuckle. “I believe you. But what about these two?”
“Depends. You want that rope back?”
Ehren shrugged. The rope didn’t matter. The silk rope didn’t matter. Cavan shook his head.
“I’ll take care of them then.”
Ehren and Amra needed another assurance or two, but then they were on their way.
Cavan dragged the assassins over to the far corner of his room. He frowned down at them. He knew what he wanted to do. Knew what the most elegant solution was. And if he’d made it as a wizard, he could have done it with the barest effort.
Unfortunately, Cavan needed more than the barest effort. And it might not work. In fact, if they were conscious, it probably wouldn’t work. But these were as close to ideal circumstances as he was ever likely to get.
Cavan clapped his hands. This wasn’t ritually important. He just liked to do it.
He dug around in his belt pouch for an inner pocket in the lining. He dug out a single pinch of sand.
Cavan breathed power into the sand as he whispered, “Yylin atatha.”
He sprinkled the sand over the two assassins. That should make them sleep until someone shook them awake. If Cavan did it right.
So Cavan left them tied up, just in case, and went to bed.
He dreamed that night of Polli of the red hair, but she kept calling him “my lord.”
* * *
Even with the red shutters closed and bolted, the morning sunlight found its way into Cavan’s room. The greenwood of the walls, floor and ceiling took on a grayish hue, and birds began singing. Worst of all, a series of roosters began crowing. As though once one of them got started, they all had to make their voices heard.
Not that Cavan had planned to sleep late anyway. He hadn’t planned any specific time at all. He could have wakened with the dawn if he wished. Before even. He had gained that much and more from his wizardry training. Old Master Powys had emphasized that a wizard always knew when the sun rose or set, when the moon rose or set, and when both were at their zeniths and nadirs. Whether at the peak of a mountaintop, or deep within the bowels of the world, a wizard always knew.
“Time is a tool,” he used to say, “and it must serve the wizard or the wizard will serve it.”
But Cavan rarely decided when he would awaken, unless he had good cause to do so. His own small protest against being either the slave or master of time. So far as he could tell, wizards were all about mastering this thing or that other thing, but Cavan thought alliances sounded like better relationships.
Master Powys had disagreed in this matter.
So Cavan had been perfectly willing to sleep until the sun neared its zenith, if his body so chose. He, Ehren and Amra had debated getting on the road at first light, but ultimately decided that anyone in a hurry to leave town might be witnessed. Better to wait until later in the day, when the world bustled and three lone riders weren’t worth noticing.
Apparently, the roosters had other notions.
Cavan tried to lay abed at first, but then he began to smell breakfast frying down below. Bacon. A rare treat in Riverbend, where fish and fowl were far more plentiful than pigs. And well worth starting the day earlier than planned.
Cavan sat up and glanced across the room at his unwanted guests. The assassins snored, clearly sleeping. Good. Cavan made no attempt at silence as he rose and dressed. Still they slept. He clapped his hands. Twice. Loudly.
No response.
He dropped the copper ewer. It clattered on the floor.
Nothing.
Cavan smiled, certain at last that his spell had taken. He unbound them from the rope — no sense wasting silk after all — and carried them one at a time to the empty copper tub, stacking the sleepers within it.
Next Cavan took the good woolen blanket from the bed, draped it over the tub, and tied the blanket tightly to the tub’s copper feet.
“There,” he said, dusting his hands when he finished. “That should slow you down a little. And who knows?” He smiled back at the tub full of assassins as he picked up their swords and daggers. “Maybe in there you’ll find love together and make a happy ending of all this.”
The thought did make him grumble as he left his fancy, expensive room. “Gods know someone should make better use of that feather bed than I did.”
Downstairs the inn’s main rooms were both half-full already. Caravan guards, travelers and pilgrims dining along the public benches in the one main room. The clattering of their dishes and the hubbub their dozens of conversations echoed lively along the fitted stone of the bottom level of the Bent Spike. The sound carried even into the quieter second main room on the other side of the staircase, where local merchants struck deals and traveling nobles dined in privacy. In both rooms the hearth fires burnt bright, flavoring the morning meal with hints of applewood smoke.
In between lay the kitchen, where a fierce, round woman issued orders like a battlefield commander while younger men and women chopped and skinned and boiled and fried a bunch of raw ingredients into the morning meal. Servers came and went, carrying food and drinks on thin wooden trays that — like the servers themselves — must have been stronger than they looked.
Polli was one of the servers, but when she saw Cavan standing at the foot of the stair — carrying swords slung across his shoulder — she looked away even faster than her feet carried her.
Cavan sig
hed. He definitely couldn’t leave without making some kind of apology. Of all the memories he could leave a woman, terror was the last he would have chosen.
At a round greenwood table in the back of the more private room waited Ehren and Amra. They looked ready to travel. Packs beside them on the floor, Amra’s sword jutting out over her shoulder, and Ehren’s smooth, goldenwood staff leaning against the back of his chair. Three plates at the table, each already full of bacon, runny yellow cheese and dark, heavy bread.
“What do you plan to do with those?” Amra pointed a thick, crispy slice of bacon that made Cavan’s mouth water and his stomach rumble. He almost missed that she was pointing at the swords he carried.
“Mostly I wanted to keep them away from the two upstairs,” he said as he dropped his pack beside his chair.
“They’re still upstairs?” Ehren said.
Cavan filled them in as he sat and started eating. By the time he was done, Amra was laughing, though Ehren did little more than chuckle.
Until his eyes flicked to Polli, refilling their ceramic mugs with fresh water. Then his smile broadened as the girl scampered off without meeting Cavan’s eye.
“Don’t say it,” Cavan said. “Just … don’t.”
Ehren chuckled and bit into a hunk of the cheese. Cavan bit his frustration into his own chunk. Better than he expected. Soft, sharp, and flavored with hints of nutmeg.
“She’ll probably be the one who checks your room,” Amra said. “Wonder what she thinks you had in mind for last night?”
“Can we please talk about something else?”
“All right,” Ehren said, lowering his voice. “I think Amra’s likely right. There’s no reason for the duke to bother with you, unless the land you stand to inherit is suddenly much more valuable.”
“Wouldn’t it go to one of the legitimate heirs then? With me inheriting something else instead?”
“Yes.” Ehren paused for a swallow of water. “Unless the discovery isn’t general knowledge. You’re next in line to inherit the land and title, but if you die without children—”
