Flamecaster

by Cinda Williams Chima

  Destin was mildly curious. When it came to entertainment, a fortuneteller was rarer than a talespinner or musician. True, most of them were frauds—experts at learning a little bit about a person so they could spit it back. Anyone who could truly predict the future wouldn’t while his time away in a tavern. Still, they could be amusing, and he had time to kill before the night shift let out at the mines.

  When the server returned with Clermont’s ale, Destin put a hand on her arm. “Ask Truthteller to join us.” He nodded toward the crowd in the corner. “We wish to talk with him.”

  She threw a doubtful glance toward where the fortune-teller held court, and a worried look at Destin. “I’ll see what I can do, sir,” she said.

  When she returned, her face was pale, and her eyes large. “He says thank you, but he’s more comfortable where he is. Sir,” she added, as if mimicking the way the fortuneteller had tacked it on as an afterthought.

  Destin straightened, surprised. Most entertainers would jump at the chance to impress someone close to the king. Or would be afraid to refuse, in any case. “Did you tell him who I am?” He turned the mug in his hands.

  “I did, sir,” the server said, licking her lips. “Maybe the spell is on him. I’m not sure I was getting through, if you know what I mean. I wouldn’t take it the wrong way, sir, if I were you.”

  Clermont gripped the server by the wrist so that she cried out in pain. He jerked her close, so they were eye to eye, and said, “You tell that insolent whey-faced tavern rat to—”

  “Let her go, Clermont,” Destin growled, his good mood quickly dissipating. “It’s not her fault, and it’s not that important.”

  Clermont’s eyes narrowed in annoyance. He released the server and she hurried away, rubbing her wrist. Then he leaned across the table. “You’re new here, Lieutenant, and you don’t know how things work. The thing is, you can’t let these Delphian curs think they can get away with—”

  Slamming his tankard down, Destin reached across the table and gripped Clermont’s wrist. The captain’s eyes went wide, and he howled in pain, struggling to pull away.

  All around them, the other patrons focused on their meals, pretending not to hear.

  Destin leaned in close to the captain. “I’m only going to tell you this once, so I suggest that you listen. I’d like to have a drink in a tavern where the help isn’t scared to get near me. I think I’ll learn a lot more that way. I don’t need you to second-guess my decisions. Keep it up and I might forget that, technically, you outrank me.” Then he let go.

  Clermont looked down at his charred and blistered wrist, then back up at Destin. “You—you—you’re—”

  “Yes,” Destin said, “I am. Now shut up and stay here.” He rose, picked up his ale, and crossed the room to the fortuneteller’s table. He didn’t look back to see what Clermont did or did not do.

  The fortuneteller’s clients were a polished young man wearing a fine silk surcoat with a ruffled collar, and a handsome older woman in a well-cut traveling suit. Destin might have thought they were mother and son, except that they were holding hands and smiling at each other like newlyweds or lovers. They did not notice Destin’s approach because they were facing the corner, where the truthteller sat. Destin stood just behind the pair so that he had an excellent view of the proceedings. The other spectators took one look at Destin and gradually slipped away, finding things to do in other parts of the tavern.

  The seer was a young man, hardly more than a boy, medium tall, with delicate features, dressed in an odd assortment of clothing. He wore a tunic that hung loosely on his spare frame, a surcoat that must have been fine at one time, but now was threadbare and frayed at the edges. The sleeves hung to his fingertips, and bits of tired lace peeked out at the wrist and collar. On his head he wore a large, flat velvet cap of an old-fashioned style, as if he were the scion of an old-money family that had fallen on hard times.

  If the truthteller saw Destin approach, he gave no sign of it. He was shuffling cards, and they flashed so quickly under his long fingers that they seemed to appear and disappear. He had the woman cut them, and cut them again. Then he pulled cards from the deck and turned them over, slapping them down on the table in rows. Destin could see that they were not regular playing cards, though they shared some of the same symbols. The boy looked them over, then lifted his gaze to the lady. His eyes were distinctive—a stunning golden color, like a cat’s or a raptor’s. Destin wondered how he did that—if he used some kind of potion or treatment to get them to look that way. However he achieved it, it certainly gave him an otherworldly look.

  “I see a long journey,” the boy said. He did look tranced, and his voice had a whispery, mysterious quality, giving the impression that he drew his knowledge from some sacred well within, and not from the cards.

  “Well done!” the woman said, smiling. “Garren and I have come all the way from Havensgate this morning.” She seemed terribly excited to find out something she already knew.

  I could do that well, Destin thought, noting the dust layered on the hem of the lady’s skirt, the mud splattered on the gentleman’s boots. Garren apparently agreed, because he made a skeptical face and touched his companion’s elbow. “Let’s go upstairs, Catherine. We need to make an early start in the morning.”

  “Just a few more minutes, darling,” Catherine said. “I want to hear what else he has to say.”

  The boy picked up another card. This time he looked directly at Garren. “You will lose a great deal of money.”

  The young man rolled his eyes. “Oh, really,” he said. “How horrifying! When exactly will this happen?”

  Lyle Truthteller smiled mysteriously. “Soon. Very soon.”

  “Will I be robbed? Will I have bad luck betting on the horses?” The young man gulped down his drink and signaled for another.

  Truthteller turned another card, ran his finger over its surface, and looked up at Catherine. “You are being deceived by someone close to you,” he said.

  “Really.” Catherine glanced at Garren. “Can you tell me who it is?”

  “The cards tell us what they will tell us, but not always everything we need to know.”

  Another easy guess, Destin thought. In his experience, family and friends are always the first to stick a knife in your back. Garren seemed a little rattled, though. He shifted in his seat and looked toward the stairs again.

  Truthteller fixed Garren with a penetrating gaze. “I see a letter, addressed to you, from Angelique.”

  Garren turned white as the snow that was falling outside. “I . . . what do you mean? I don’t know any Angelique.”

  Catherine stared at him in surprise. “Why, Garren, of course you know Angelique, the clerk in my shop in Whitehall?”

  Garren planted both hands on the table and pushed to his feet. “Let’s go. This is a waste of time.”

  “It says . . .” The seer frowned, as if trying to make out a hazy script. “It says, ‘I’m not going to sleep with you anymore, you faithless bastard.’”

  The young man shook his head, his mouth forming a “no” though no sound came out. Catherine was looking alert and interested now. “Excuse me? What’s that again?”

  “‘I think I’ve caught something from you, Garren,’” the boy went on, eyes half-closed. “‘I’m itching where I never itched before. If you’re looking for that silk dressing gown, the one with the dragons—’”

  “Dragons?” Catherine looked from Garren to Truthteller, startled recognition on her face.

  “‘—you left it here, but don’t come looking for it, because I threw it in the dustbun . . .’” Truthteller squinted. “I guess that’s ‘dustbin.’ ‘If you think you can come back here any time you please and wrap your legs around my—’”

  “Enough!” Garren roared, as if trying to drown out the truthteller. “Don’t listen to this scummer-tongued devil.” He stumbled a bit over “scummer-tongued.” “Come, Catherine.” He stalked toward the stairs, looking back over his shoulder
once to see if the lady was following. She wasn’t. She sat staring thoughtfully at Truthteller, who sat relaxed, expressionless, his arms circling the cards on the table, as if protecting them.

  Catherine stirred then, seeming to shake off a bit of disappointment. She reached into her handbag, drew out a small pouch, and tossed it onto the table without counting the contents. It clanked as it landed, heavily. She didn’t look happy, but rather like someone who has had a narrow escape.

  “Thank you, Truthteller,” she said slowly. “I think you have saved me a great deal of grief.” She rose from her chair with great dignity and walked away, back straight, toward the stairs.

  The boy swept the cards together and shuffled them again, staring straight out in front of him. The pouch had disappeared. Destin sat down in the chair Garren had vacated.

  All of Destin’s skepticism had disappeared in the face of the seer’s performance. All he had left was a crowd of questions. “How did you do that?” he demanded.

  The boy turned his eyes to him. He flinched back a bit, as if startled. Collecting himself, he said, “Foreseeing is an art, not a science. Sometimes you get nothing, and sometimes you get a very . . . clear . . . picture.” By now the cards had disappeared into the sleeve of his jacket, and then the boy was standing. “By your leave, my lord.” He bowed deeply, and made to turn away.

  “Wait!” Destin commanded. “Sit a while. I want to know more about this . . . foreseeing.”

  The boy shook his head. “I’m sorry, my lord. It is past my time. I need to get some sleep. I work the mines, and we start early.” He smiled apologetically. He really did look dead on his feet, drained, in a way.

  “You have the day off tomorrow,” Destin said evenly. “On my authority. Now sit.” Reaching, he gripped the boy about the wrist, careful this time not to grip too hard, or allow any flash to penetrate. The bones were delicate under his fingers, the kind that might be easily broken. Lyle sank back down into his chair. All traces of the trance were gone, and his face had gone pale, as if he suddenly realized his peril.

  “Please, my lord,” he whispered. “I meant no harm. Just entertainment, to draw the people, earn a little extra money. I will return the lady’s purse, if you like.”

  Destin kept hold of the boy’s arm, studying him. Lyle Truthteller wore no telltale glow of magic, and he could feel no seepage of it through his skin. “I think she got her money’s worth. Though not everyone would reward that kind of news.”

  “Yes, well.” Lyle’s gaze dropped to the tabletop, and it was as if the lights were dimmed. “That happens. These days, it is not uncommon to be punished for telling the truth.”

  “Is the magic in the cards?” Destin leaned forward slightly. “Or in you?”

  Lyle didn’t look up, but shook his head. “Magic, my lord? I want nothing to do with that. The Fathers say that mages are idolaters and devils.” Then the boy looked up at him and colored. “I meant no offense to you, sir, I . . .”

  “Why would I be offended?” Destin’s voice came quiet. “Do you take me for a mage?”

  Now Lyle was trembling. “I’m sorry, sir, it was presumptuous of me. I misspoke. You . . . you looked like a mage, that’s all.”

  So the boy was not a mage, but he could spot one. Strange. Was that part of his gift, along with truthtelling? Destin’s natural curiosity was piqued. Could this boy be of some help in finding the magemarked girl?

  “Lieutenant.” A stocky man with a snow-white apron stood at tableside. A ring of keys at his belt signified that he was the innkeeper. His face was heavily lined with age, and his hair had gone white, but he looked sturdy and deep-rooted, like an old tree. “Is this boy annoying you?” He was looking at Destin’s hand fastened about Lyle’s wrist. Destin released his grip and sat back.

  “No, innkeeper. Not really. I’d like my fortune read, is all. Can we use the back room?”

  The innkeeper stiffened, looking from the truthteller to Destin. “I run an honest house here, my lord, and I look after the help. I won’t countenance anyone taking advantage of this boy.”

  Destin raised both hands. “I want my fortune read. That’s all. In private. Would you countenance that?”

  The innkeeper studied him a moment, as if to be sure, then nodded, as if resigned. “The back room is free,” he said, and returned to the bar.

  Lyle spoke up then. “Please, sir. I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

  “Why not?” Destin put on his friendliest look, which Lyle didn’t see because he was looking down at the table. “Tell my fortune and I’ll buy you dinner.”

  “I . . . I don’t trade the truth for dinner. Only for money. And it’s dangerous for someone like me to read the cards for someone like yourself.”

  Destin reached out and lifted the boy’s chin until he had to look him in the eye. “And why is that?”

  A few freckles stood out against the boy’s pallor. He shifted in his chair, ran his tongue over colorless lips. “You . . . you may not like what I have to say. I may be wrong, and you might not like that. Or I may be right and you might not like that, either.” His voice faltered. “I don’t want to bet my life on figuring out what you want to hear.” And then he covered his mouth, as if to take back the words. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said in his whispery voice. “I don’t always think before I speak.”

  Destin smiled. “Let’s cut to it. I’m not so much interested in my future as interested in you. I’ll just ask you a few questions and you can be on your way. How does that sound?”

  From the expression on Lyle’s face, it didn’t sound good at all, but he gave a quick nod and said, “As you wish, my lord.”

  Destin followed the truthteller into the back room, shutting the door behind them. He motioned to a table by the fire, one with two chairs drawn up. Destin sat, with his back to the hearth, and the boy sat opposite him, watching him warily, the firelight exposing the planes and angles of his face.

  “So,” Destin said, “let’s begin.” Without waiting for an answer, he reached across the table and seized both of Lyle’s hands, careful not to let any flash penetrate his skin.

  If the boy’s a mage, I can’t sense it in him, Destin thought. And usually there’s something . . .

  Now Destin released the magic into him, let it flow as if to fill him up, then reached through it to find the boy’s mind. And couldn’t. He tried again, and it was like searching an empty room.

  It was odd, this feeling that the power was flooding into a void, an empty place, not accumulating, but dissipating somehow. Channeling through. He’d tried to charm trained mages in the past, but that was different. In that case, he’d run right into a barrier, a shield that prevented entry altogether. Yet when he looked into the boy’s eyes, there was a vacancy there, and his face had relaxed and his breathing slowed. The boy looked spelled. He must be. Most people never even knew they’d been had.

  “Lyle?” he said softly, experimentally.

  “Yes, sir?” His eyes were half-closed, and his head lolled a bit.

  “Lyle, what is your real name?”

  “Lyle Talbot, sir.”

  “Not Truthteller?”

  “No, sir.”

  “How long have you been reading the cards?”

  “A year, sir.”

  “I’m looking for something, Lyle. Do you know what it is?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What is it?”

  “A girl.”

  “And how do you know that, Lyle?”

  “Because you’re bringing all the women in and looking at them. There’s something you’re looking for. It’s not plague, sir.”

  “Do you know where the girl is?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Will we find what we’re looking for?”

  Lyle frowned. “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Is there magic in you, Lyle?”

  Long pause. “No, sir.”

  “Is there magic in the cards?”

  Another long pause. “No,
sir. But people like to think so.”

  Destin blew out his breath, exasperated. “How did you do what you did with Garren and his girlfriend?”

  Lyle shifted uncomfortably. His hands became slippery with perspiration. “They . . . I talked to them before, and they agreed to act it out. Sometimes rich people think it’s fun to playact. I did it for the crowd. It brings in business. I didn’t think you would come and listen.”

  “So it was an act, Truthteller?” Destin’s voice was harsh with disappointment.

  “Yes, sir. I’m an entertainer. I don’t mean any harm.”

  Had he really hoped this boy had the gift? Was he really so eager to hear the truth? Destin sat silent for a moment. “What’s my mother’s given name, Lyle?” he asked softly.

  “I don’t know, sir.” The boy shook his head quickly. Too quickly.

  “What’s your mother’s name?” Destin snapped.

  “My mother?” the boy said, seeming flummoxed somehow. “It’s Frances. Frances was her name.”

  “What do you see when you look at me, boy?”

  “I—I don’t know, I—”

  Destin tightened his grip, twisting until Lyle’s face went sheet-white and he cried out in pain. “What do you see?”

  “I—I see a ship, my lord. You are climbing in the rigging. And a beach. And you’re walking on the beach, holding hands with—with—”

  “That’s enough!” Destin all but shouted. He stopped the flow of power and released Lyle’s hands. The boy sat, eyes closed, trembling. Destin regarded him thoughtfully, rubbing his chin, turning over what he’d learned.

  “Sir? Did you want to ask me something else? Did I answer any questions?” Lyle seemed agitated, upset, as if afraid he’d made a fatal mistake.

  “You did fine, Truthteller. I am satisfied. Go back to your patrons.”

  Lyle sat for a moment, staring at Destin, looking as if he wanted to say something else.

  “I said get out!”

  The fortuneteller rose and half-stumbled from the room. Destin watched him go, drumming his fingers on the table.