by Kirby Crow
Beyond the curtain, the great souk buzzed with activity. Fate retrieved his hand and shuffled the cards again, cut them, and had Scarlet choose a last time. There were only a dozen or so left in the deck now.
Fate slipped three cards from the top of the pile Scarlet had chosen and laid two side-by-side, faces down. He then placed the third crossways at the foot of the two, and flipped the first card over. “Signet card,” Fate intoned. “This is you.”
Scarlet peered at it. It was a thick piece of paper about the size of his hand, stiff with paint and the many layers of varnish the artist had applied. The background was black, like all Fate cards, with the design executed in thick white lines. It was a man standing on the crest of a hill, facing out over a barren landscape. Angry clouds swirled over his head, but the man stood proudly.
“What does it mean?”
Fate shrugged. “They are your cards. Only you can say what it truly means, but this is the card of changes. You are being influenced by those you love, yet your will pulls you in another direction, one not usually taken. Ah,” he shook his head, “it is a hard road, if you choose it.”
“But should I choose it at all?”
“Let us see.” Fate turned the second card up, the Shield card, which was the one that revealed what quality the questioner was using as a foil. A fish swam under moving waters while a growing reed pushed into the sky, and above it all the sun blazed and the stars wheeled. “Motion,” he said, with an eye to the color of Scarlet’s coat.
“That takes no reading to see.”
Fate made a seesaw gesture with his hand. “We are all in motion, but these are your cards. You chose them.”
He had a point there. “So I did.” Scarlet was already missing the four copper bits he had paid for this silliness and was beginning to feel like a fool in the silk-lined tent with its candles and incense. Most Byzans believed in such things and he was no exception, yet after Cadan and the near miss he had experienced on the mountain path, he felt older and more cynical.
The Fate turned over the Scythe card, the card of recommended actions to cure the situation. “Stasis,” said the Fate. It was a plain card: a mountain and an empty valley with a calm night sky overhead, and a shooting star speaking portents. “If you would have peace in your life, do nothing. When events come, let them flow around you, but do not engage them.”
Scarlet felt a prickle of irritation. What kind of advice was that? “I can’t ignore being alive.”
“Some can, but I see you cannot.” Fate’s smile was gentle. “Now we will see what the Gods will for you.” He chose one card from the bottom of the deck, the Fate card, and laid it face up above the trio of other cards. His face did not change. “Kinesis.”
Lightning hewed a sky of black, and below it the earth cracked open and flood waters rushed by in a welter of change, motion, and chaos.
Scarlet leaned back in his chair. “A strange reading,” he said, noncommittal.
The Fate nodded. “Especially for a Byzan. Your cards are always so dull.” He began to gather them up and put them back in the deck, but when his fingers touched the Fate card and shifted it aside, Scarlet saw there was one more card beneath it.
“Now that is odd,” Fate remarked, picking it up. “That never happens. These old cards,” he flicked one to show Scarlet how stiff and slick they were “they never stick together, yet this one was hidden beneath your fate.”
Scarlet leaned forward, intrigued in spite of himself. “What is it?”
The Fate held it a little away from him teasingly, like one would with a child. “Are you sure you want to see? Little Byzans should not be too curious.”
Scarlet reached for it and the Fate grabbed his wrist. The Morturii’s sharp eyes fixed on Scarlet’s missing fifth finger and the unnatural slenderness of his hand.
“Fourth card, four fingers,” Fate murmured. “You have the mark of Deva’s favor. Do you also have Deva’s Gift?”
No Morturii should know of such things. He tried to retrieve his hand and the fortune dealer held onto it, tugging until Scarlet turned his palm over and let the man see the lines crossing his skin. The tremulous pads of the Fate’s fingers felt warm and buzzing as bees as he traced those lines.
“A strange Byzan indeed.” Abruptly, he released Scarlet’s hand and pushed the hidden card over.
It was more cryptic than the others: a bare window set in a field of stars, a moon in eclipse above, and inside the window was the moon in quarter phase with no stars at all. “What is it?”
“Deception,” Fate said. “Be on your guard. You will be told a lie or you will fall in love with one, and you will follow it to the ends of the earth.”
“That doesn’t sound like me.”
“Oh.” Fate put the card neatly back in the deck. “And I suppose you know yourself well, do you?” His eyes were prettily sly, and Scarlet felt the heat creeping over his face. Those eyes saw too much.
“Good day, Fate,” he said as politely as he could. He could almost feel the rigid countenance of the statue watching him.
“Good day, little Byzan with the Mark,” Fate called out, but he was already gone, out of the sweet-smelling tent and into the brassy market, with its noise and dust and smell. Scarlet inhaled deeply to clear his head of the odor of incense and beeswax. He hefted his pack a little higher on his shoulder, though it slipped down again immediately. There was a broken strap on the right side that needed to be picked apart and mended properly instead of tied up with string, but he had been too restless to just sit and do it.
This last trip had been tiring. He had caught a fever in the wake of his narrow escape in the woods and had been confined to bed for several weeks through the short winter. Linhona nursed him and he was well by the time the snow began melting on the Nerit, though Hipola disagreed and declared him still unfit for travel. The promised money had arrived from the Kasiri camp, with a little extra silver tucked in besides, but Scarlet knew it was not nearly enough to sustain them through the summer. He had to go back to work.
Scaja worried darkly and Linhona fretted until she nearly made herself sick. He started out for Ankar on the second day of the month of Kings, a lucky day that heralded the true birth of spring.
Annaya was more optimistic. “The warm air will do you well,” she told him briskly, sounding very grown-up as she officiously handed him a wrapped bundle of dried fruit and waybread.
Scarlet sensed it would be unforgivable to laugh. Annaya would be married soon and have her own house and family to look after, but to him, she would always be his little sister. He stowed the food in his satchel. “Thank you, love.”
She gave him a sly look. “Time was, in Scaja’s grandfather’s day, when the whole village would catch the wilding at once and dance naked under the spring moon.”
“Oh, no doubt,” he agreed expansively. “And every baby born that year was born in winter and the sires were anyone’s guess.” He smiled a little. “I’ve heard the stories.”
“Scaja says they’re true.”
“What does Shansi say?”
Her black eyes glimmered. “Not much. We have better ways to spend our time.”
He hummed a little and refused to ruin the day by arguing with her. Annaya was one of the few people who never tried to pen him in, but she dearly loved to tease.
All his life, wherever he went, Scarlet had always felt like there were walls around him, and lately, even with Annaya’s betrothal happiness brimming over and Linhona’s flowers blooming in the garden, Lysia had begun to feel suffocating. Even if money had not been an issue, he would still have gone. Of Liall, there was no word. The men of the krait now never came further than the upper gate, and after the promised repayment of wages had been kept, Liall seemed to forget he ever existed. When he felt better, Scarlet ventured up the mountain to thank Liall, but he was dismissed by Kio with a vague excuse that Liall was disinclined to receive visitors that day.
Since this lack of interest was precisely what Scarle
t had claimed he wanted, he could find no logical objection to it.
He lingered outside the Fate Dealer’s tent for a few moments more and then made his way back to Masdren’s stall. On the way, he had to pass the Street of Doves and Flowers, known by its colorful banners and by the pretty women and handsome youths who stood in the blue-painted doorways of each ghilan and bhoros. In Ankar, even whoredom had its hierarchy. At the very top were the khuri: the exquisite, devoted pleasure slaves of the very rich, owned for life and never sold, the shining jewels of great Houses. Doves and flowers were usually slaves owned by some rich merchant and put to use as whores in common brothels. The bhoros and ghilan were better educated and trained, and were sponsored by nobles and the wealthy. Some were also artists or musicians, and there were several bhoros in Ankar who were quite famous for their skill and beauty. Scrats—street prostitutes attached to no House or distinguished name—were the lowest of the low. In Ankar, connections were everything.
There were other ways to get back to Masdren’s, but this route was shorter, so he braved the soft catcalls and obscene invitations, keeping his head down and his eyes on his boots. He heard the word Hilurin spoken in scorn, and looked up to see a boy, surely no older than Annaya, standing under the arch of a bhoros house entryway. The boy was Morturii to the bone, brown-haired and golden skinned, with eyes like yellow topaz.
He regarded Scarlet with narrow contempt. One hand lazed on his hip, and with his thumb and index finger he shot Scarlet a gesture not commonly seen in public. “Care to give it a ride, Byzan?” He moved his wrist back and forth.
Scarlet looked quickly away, suddenly ashamed for no reason he could figure. He quickened his steps and hurried off. Behind him, he heard the boy’s lilting laughter joined by several other voices, both sweet and scornful. It made him angry to be laughed at, especially for such a reason, but there was no remedy for it. It was either let it go or stop and make a fight of it, and he knew that behind the delicate gilt and blue doorways of the bhoros lurked the eunuchs and watchmen under the orders of their House Marus or House Majess. These guards were always ready with a club in their hands to tame a brutal customer or a drunken soldier who had decided he would not pay. He supposed a pedlar brawling in the street with one of their whores would also be cause for a broken head. No, that would not do. Scarlet breathed easier when he reached the turn in the lane and was out of the district.
LEATHER SHOPS ALWAYS had the cloying tang of the tannery about them, and Scarlet could have found Masdren’s counter by smell alone. Masdren kept a clean stall, chivvying his four small children with brooms and pails, and again Scarlet felt sorry for him. Ever since Masdren’s wife had absconded with the scarf-merchant, the leathersmith’s life had been harried with the added burdens of all the work and no help with his children. It was a wonder he still had all his wits.
“Back so soon from the Fate?” Masdren asked, giving Scarlet his weather-worn smile. Behind Masdren were his children, freed from their work for the day. They made mayhem of his little shop, careening into tables, chasing and hooting at childish games only they understood.
Scarlet shrugged. “It was a waste of coin.”
Masdren nodded his agreement. “You’re sure you won’t think about staying on another week or so?” he asked hopefully.
“They’re expecting me,” Scarlet said shortly, dodging one of the little tots who seemed determined to bash his head in on something. “I promised Linhona I’d make it a quick trip this time.”
“But you’ll be back?”
“Yes, of course. In fact,” Scarlet hesitated, and then drew in a deep, readying breath, “I was thinking of staying on in Ankar after the summer is over. When autumn comes, maybe I can find a house inside the walls.”
Masdren was overjoyed. He clasped Scarlet’s hand. “And your family? They’re coming too?”
“I don’t know,” Scarlet lied. Scaja would never leave Lysia. “Perhaps.”
“He will!” Masdren said in rare good spirits. “He will, and then, Scarlet-lad, he and I will make a proper Hilurin of you.”
Scarlet smiled back weakly, knowing what that meant: Enough wandering for you, boy. Time for you to settle down, get children, grow old. Do what is expected of you. Be normal.
Masdren shook Scarlet’s hand again and then he was off chasing his little daughter, who had tipped over a tray of riding gloves. Scarlet sighed and leaned his hip against the stall, looking out and resting his eyes on the mild blue sky crowning the bright colors of the souk.
He should have been rejoicing that he had made a shrewd financial decision. Masdren could undoubtedly teach him more of leather-working than Scaja ever had, assuring him a good living in Morturii, where the army always had need of tack and saddles. He could already repair several such items on his own and he was no stranger to horses, being a wainwright’s son. He would be able to send money home to Scaja and take care of the family, and there would be no more worrying over them.
Why, then, did he feel so awful?
FOURTEEN DAYS LATER, Scarlet crossed the Iron River from the Morturii side and he was in Patra again. He had to wait a full day for the ferry to be fixed, but he did not ride it all the way down to Lysia. Instead, he picked a landing about a half-day’s march from Tradepoint so he could hit a last few steadings before home. Everything he did now had the air of finality about it, and he was savoring this journey. A farmer’s wife offered him supper and he lingered until it was dark, when she exchanged a weary look with her husband before politely offering him a pallet beside their fire. The next morning saw him walking down the long, rocky slope that led into the grassy yellow valley below Lysia.
Walking out of the valley, he came upon a migrating redbird in a weathered oak with a trunk as wide as the grist stone at Jerivet’s mill. He stopped to admire the bird’s song and dropped the last few crumbs of his hard waybread as a payment.
The bird hopped down and pecked at the morsels. A symbol for travelers everywhere, the well-traveled redbird was also represented by the crimson color of the traditional pedlar’s coat. Perhaps this was a lucky omen.
“You must like waybread more than me,” he said lowly, careful not to startle the animal.
The bird abruptly flew off to the north and Scarlet sighed. Scaja often spoke of his mother and how she had been able to charm eagles out of trees, but his own Gift was not so strong and all he could do was convince smaller birds and beasts to allow him to approach.
The sun was bright and it was unseasonably warm, and everywhere there were signs of the new spring greening the land. Stopping a league further up the road, beside Ferryman’s Rock, he ate the last of the dried apples and smoked fish he had picked up in Patra. The water was icy for washing, but he rolled up his sleeves and held his breath as he splashed his face and arms. With a last rueful look at his tattered pack, he tightened the straps for the last haul home. On this route, he would not pass Tradepoint or Skeld’s Ferry, and he was secretly happy not to have to pretend a smile for Zsu and Deni, or turn aside Kev’s snide remarks with one of his own.
There was no sense of foreboding or darkness, and nothing ominous stirred in the back of his brain. He did not even remember the card reader’s predictions in Patra, having put that episode out of his mind completely. Walking steadily, his mind was occupied with thoughts of Linhona’s cooking and the petty sense of gratitude that tonight he would be in a soft, warm bed. Patra had been cold and unwelcoming.
About two leagues from the village gate, on the Owl’s Road, he smelled smoke. Everyone had a fireplace in Lysia, naturally, but the smell was too strong for such a warm day. He cast his gaze to the sky above the mountains and saw the tall columns of smoke rising like black pillars from the hills.
Lysia was on fire.
He hurried his steps, hoping that it was only a barn that had caught ablaze or perhaps a grain store near the mill. He even took time to wish that it was not their barn, but then a new smell hit him and he lost all caution and broke out into a run.
The mended strap that he had nursed all the way from Patra finally broke and he let it fall to the ground and began running faster than he had ever run in his life. So fast that his legs felt like wings and the ground was like air beneath him, but the road seemed to be longer than ever before. He ran, the air in his lungs like fire, all the way to the village gate.
Too fast. When he was in sight of the gate, the toe of his boot caught on a rut in the path and he went sprawling face-first into the dirt. He must have hit his head on a rock, for when he rose shakily to his feet, his vision was fuzzy and blurred. His face felt wet, and he wiped it away on the back of his hand and saw red. Ears ringing, he stumbled into Lysia in a daze of noise and pain. The building nearest the gate, Kerry's forge, was engulfed in flame, but no one was at First Well trying to put it out. Shocked, he tried to clear his eyes of blood and gaped around him. He was alone, and the village was... gone. Simply gone.
Scarlet had been born in Lysia, now he did not recognize it. He stumbled into the village square. Here was the stone circle of Second Well, and here the baker’s, and here the horse trough outside of what had been Rufa’s taberna, no more than glowing cinders and charred beams collapsed into a heap.
The first corpse he saw was Hipola the midwife. She was lying in the street, her gray hair a tangled veil cast across her face. Her throat was cut.
Scarlet back away from her, horrified and coughing on the black smoke, only to have his heel bump against the crushed skull of another body. He turned and saw it was Jerivet.
He stumbled away from them and tried to get his bearings from the well, finally gathering his wits enough to turn his face north. Staggering, he lurched toward the pond until he could see the water, and then turned left to Wainwright’s Lane, where he saw more bodies. Two Kasiri men, known only by their bright jackets, lay sprawled in the lane, hacked and bloody.
“Deva,” he whispered in horror. He began to run down the lane, looking for the house he was born in.
