The Mageborn Traitor--Exiles, Volume 2

by Melanie Rawn

  “That’s the one. Shore Hill. Isn’t it wonderful? Do you know who owns it? Could they be persuaded to sell?”

  He grinned. “Trust me.”

  Lindren arched a brow at him. “Cailet says that whenever you say that, trusting you is the very last tiling anyone ought to do.”

  “I am wounded. I am shocked and betrayed. I am positive the owners will sell.”

  Aidan snorted with laughter. “And I am positive that the Captal is right!”

  8

  COLLAN had long since learned that one advantage of being Who He Was had to do with gaining entry anyplace he fancied to go and seeing anybody he had a notion to see. It was better than being a Minstrel—well, not better, because he owed his welcome to Sarra and not to his own brilliant talents and winning personality. But he shrugged off his annoyance and took blatant advantage of the advantage of being married to a powerful woman. When he presented himself at the Witte house and rapped on the door—garishly painted with yellow and red chevrons—he was immediately admitted, shown to a pretty little salon, offered refreshment, and had to wait only a handful of minutes before Mirya Witte hurried to greet him.

  Sarra’s aversion to her breed—and Mirya’s increasing penury—meant that they did not move in the same circles. Collan had seen the woman at a distance, of course, at the Opera and various civic functions, but his main recollection of her dated to a certain night in Pinderon nearly twenty years ago. The years had, if anything, rendered her face even more horselike. She had a spectacular figure, almost the equal of Lusira Garvedian’s, and she dressed to show it off, but the face on top of it. . . . Well, he supposed a man could always close his eyes.

  As they exchanged social pleasantries, he wondered what she’d say if she knew he was the Minstrel for whom the Pinderon Watch had been so avidly searching. Anger stirred even at this late date over the false accusation of rape Sarra had made, and the mess she’d gotten him into, and how it had only come out all right because he’d had his wits about him. Although, truly told, kidnapping her had been fun. . . .

  He pushed aside his memories of absurd adventure as Mirya Witte led him rather gracelessly around to the purpose of his visit. He let himself be guided, saying smoothly, “Actually, I’m here on behalf of some friends. And it ties in nicely with my plans for expanding Roseguard’s tax base.”

  “Tax base?” she echoed blankly.

  “You’re aware that several of the old estates are empty. In some cases it’s because no one can afford to live in them, but the properties are tied to various Webs and can’t be sold. My Lady is working with her colleagues on the Council to free up a few laws in that regard. I know you’ll agree that it’s much better to have a family living in a working, profitable holding than to let it stand mostly idle.”

  “Yes, of course,” she said, not having the vaguest notion of where he was going, though dimly aware that it was probably not a destination she wished to reach.

  “Quite a few places would benefit from new ownership,” he went on. “With a family that can afford to live in them and work them to their best advantage, the production will increase and the taxes paid by other Shirs for export of the goods will go up, thereby benefiting Sheve as a whole.” Saints, he was starting to sound like his factor. What was it about economics that demanded complexified sentences and multiplied syllables? Consciously dragging his vocabulary back to reality, he said, “For instance, Shore Hill. Your mother bought it, so she can dispose of it as she pleases. You currently hold the deed, but you don’t live in it or have any tenants. Lady Mirya, I know you’ll be pleased to learn that I’ve heard of a buyer who wants Shore Hill.”

  The long jaw grew longer still as her mouth parted to let her tongue moisten her lips—for all the world as if talk of money was fresh-cut oats and she a hungry mare. “How much?”

  Collan appreciated her bluntness. “That depends.”

  “On?”

  “On how much it’s worth to you not to become a test case in the law courts.”

  Wearing an amiable smile, he waited for her to make the connection. Only after a full minute of watching her puzzled frown did he realize that she had no idea that she’d done anything to merit the law’s attention. Collan damned himself for an idiot. As far as she was concerned, knocking her husband across the room was a recreational activity of no more consequence than kicking a discarded bottle out of her way on the street.

  His smile vanished. “One ought to keep marital matters private. I’m sure you agree.”

  Still not a hint of comprehension. There was only one brain in the family.

  “Tell me,” he said silkily, “how is it you can be angry enough to hit your husband, but calm enough to remember not to hit him in the face?”

  She caught on then. He admired her spectacularly heaving bosom even while wondering if she required something stronger than iced coffee to settle her nerves. He was about to offer to summon a servant and a liquor bottle when she found her voice again.

  “I don’t know what you mean!”

  He got to his feet, towering over her in her low chair. She reacted by shrinking back. Well-bred men did not use height to intimidate women; most women wouldn’t recognize such intimidation if it was ever tried. Then again, Collan had no claims to being well-bred, and Mirya Witte wasn’t so stupid that she didn’t recognize the real threat in his stance.

  Still, she made a good try. “How—how dare you—!”

  His smile returned, a baring of teeth. “I’ll expect your factor to contact my factor regarding a price. No, don’t thank me, and don’t bother to see me out. I can find my own way.”

  Three days later he went to Wytte’s in the afternoon, very pleased with himself—until a chat with the barkeeper informed him that Ellus Penteon was not expected in today. He had just been discharged from the infirmary attached to the shrine of St. Feleris, and was recuperating at home from three cracked ribs and a broken jaw.

  9

  THAT night, seated in the darkest corner of Roseguard’s newest tavern, Collan brooded over his third tankard of the evening. He was not enjoying his own company.

  How could he have been such a fool? Why hadn’t he known that Mirya Witte would vent her anger and reply to his threat by beating her husband simply because she could? What could Collan do about it, truly told? Now, if it had been Sarra who confronted her, things would have gone differently. Women had power. Men did not—even men who were married to powerful women.

  He should stay out of it. Look what his interference had accomplished so far. If he kept on, she might kill the man. Who would question whatever explanation she gave? Ellus Penteon had told the healers that he’d tripped on a rug and fallen half onto a marble table, half onto a chair. No one believed him—Col had gone to the shrine to ask about the “accident”—but no one could do anything about it either.

  There wasn’t even anybody available to discuss it with—not that any of them could have improved the situation. Jeymi had taken Riena, Biron, and Lindren on a pleasure cruise aboard the old Slegin yacht, the Agate Rose. Aidan had gone up to Sleginhold to visit a friend. Falundir was still at Wyte Lynn Castle judging the All-Lenfell Bardic Games. Cailet was due in Roseguard soon after yet another tour, this time of Kenrokeshir, in search of Mageborns (the broadsheet articles had yet to bear fruit). Sarra wasn’t expected home from Ryka Court until the twins’ Birthingday at Midsummer Moon.

  Which brought him to another, unrelated problem: his children. They were growing up faster than he’d dreamed children could grow, and his visits to various academies had reminded him that next autumn they’d start at a regular day-school. How would he fill up his time then? What would he do with himself?

  He’d endured a trying hour with their tutor before dinner, and frustration had driven him out of the Residence to this tavern. It hadn’t helped that his sympathies were entirely with Taigan and Mikel, not the long-winded Scholar Mage who could make even the m
ost exciting parts of the Rising as dull as a day in Dindenshir. Why couldn’t she teach history in a way that would intrigue eleven-year-olds? Still, Col supposed it had been more of a thrill to five through than to read about—though he didn’t recall being especially thrilled at the time. He and Sarra had instructed that their own parts in recent history be downplayed.

  How appalling anyway that his own life was now considered “history.” Could it really be eighteen years since he’d kidnapped Sarra from that bower in Pinderon? Time had a way of catching up with him when he least expected it. He wondered if the same happened to Sarra and Cailet: so many years since this or that had happened, seemed as if this or that child had been born only last week, surely that poplar or willow or peach tree couldn’t be so tall so soon. Maybe time really did speed up as one got older. Or maybe there was just more to be done. The Rising had been easy compared to the tasks of passing new laws, building Mage Hall, managing Sheve—and raising two rambunctious children.

  Yet as he started in on his fourth Bleyn’s Brown Ale, he had to admit all flourished in their chosen labors. Cailet was sending Mage Guardians out into the world now—slowly, yes, but the girl fairly glowed with confidence whenever she had time to visit them in Roseguard. Girl, hell; Cai was coming up on her thirty-first Birthingday. Sarra was five years older, but still looked about twenty-two as far as Collan was concerned. She’d had the most public successes, doing work she loved, work she had been born and bred to do.

  And himself? Capable master of Roseguard and the Slegin Web; sought-after teacher of music; husband to a woman he adored; father of two fine children. He hadn’t done badly for a Nameless orphan sold as a slave. If only life wasn’t so . . . domestic. It was one thing to play traditional husband at Ryka Court for the edification of the conservative faction Sarra chivvied into passing reforms. It was quite another to find that his life and talents were circumscribed by home, hearth, and holdings—just like every other dull and dutiful husband in the world.

  Perhaps he was supposed to feel grateful that Sarra didn’t knock him around whenever she felt like it.

  Somehow the plight of Ellus Penteon, caged in marriage with a woman who did just that, had made him examine his own life. He could not but cherish much of what he saw—Sarra, Taigan, Mikel, the home he’d made, the work he did. Yet however he looked at it, it was still a cage. Husband, father, teacher, manager of a vast home and vaster holdings—what had happened to the carefree, footloose Minstrel who went where he pleased and did what he liked and answered to no one but himself?

  “Evening, handsome,” purred a voice of sultry suggestion. He glanced up at a young woman dressed in a mane of black hair and as little else as the law allowed. “You look lonely.”

  “Sorry, Domna. I’m took.”

  She peered at him more closely in the dimness, and flinched. “Lord Rosvenir! I—it’s dark in here, I didn’t see clearly—”

  “Don’t worry about it.” He smiled as she backed away, because despite domestication, at least he hadn’t lost it—even though he hadn’t used it on any woman but Sarra in years. He toasted the retreating woman with his tankard. Maybe the dashing Minstrel hadn’t entirely vanished after all.

  He was certain of it when he caught sight of a man coming through the front door. Lifetime habit had made him choose a table with a clear view of—and a clear path to—all entries and exits. The same instinct made his fingers itch for his knives as he recognized the bulky form, garish longvest, and flash of cheap jewelry at ears and throat. Twenty years ago, Siral Warns had been a moderately successful bower lad in Pinderon. Five years and a hundred pounds later, he’d become an informant for the Council Guard. Col thought he remembered skewering Warris in a tavern brawl back in 968, but evidently not.

  “Collan!” The fat face creased into a visual echo of the whining voice as Warris waddled over, chains clanking tinnily down his chest. “How long it’s been, old friend!”

  “Vanish, Fifth,” Col said.

  “Oh, now surely you don’t hold that little mistake in Neele against me? It was business, just business. You know how it is. We all have to make a living. And I hear you’re making a good one these days—husband of Lady Sarra Liwellan, master of her many holdings, father of her two beautiful children asleep at home in bed—you’ve done well for yourself, Col.”

  Pity he couldn’t gut Warris right now and take care of unfinished business. But certain standards of behavior were incumbent upon Lord Collan Rosvenir that the Minstrel had never had to worry about. Being a pillar of the community was a real pain in the ass.

  “And speaking of business, I’ve got a sweet deal out Cantratown way—a guaranteed return on your investment—an amount so insignificant to someone in your position that—”

  It had been a long time since anyone had come to him with a shady proposal—and if Warris was proposing, “shady” was a given. If it were anyone else, he might have amused himself by listening to the tale being spun. But not this man. It was a real shame that slime like this could visit itself on nice places like Roseguard.

  “You heard me the first time, Warris,” he said with a pleasant smile. “And I hate repeating myself.”

  The used-carriage salesman faded away, replaced by a desperate man. Sweat began to darken the edges of his yellow coif. “You can’t turn me down, Col, I’ve only got ten cutpieces to my name. I really need—”

  “You really need to get out of here before I have your guts stretched and dried for lute strings.”

  “Same old Collan!” Warris hissed, necklaces trembling with his anger. “Too bad the Council Guard didn’t move fast enough when I sold you to them in Pinderon!”

  Warris was responsible for nearly getting him and Taig Ostin arrested? Pillar of the community be damned. Taverns were meant for brawls, and he owed this son of a Fifth. Collan got to his feet and, disdaining to dirty his twin Rosvenir knives, planted his fist in the flesh over Warris’s left lung. By stepping quickly to one side he avoided most of the gush of noxious breath that resulted. The man’s face was well on the way to the tabletop; with scrupulous concern for the innkeeper’s property, Col stuck his knee in the way of Warris’s nose. The crunch-squelch of impact meant that one of them had to move out of the way before blood got all over Col’s trousers. So he shoved with both hands. Warris toppled to the floor, groaning.

  Col was trying to decide if scuffing his immaculate boots was worth the satisfaction of kicking the stuffing out of Warris when the innkeeper’s husband ambled by. Lirenz Tigge—six feet six inches and two-hundred-eighty-five pounds of seven-time South Lenfell Wrestling Champion—picked Warris up by the scruff with one hand. The former bower lad dangled like a hooked fish, huffing and wheezing and bleeding.

  “Botherin’ y’Lairdship?” asked Tigge, accent still as thick as on the day he’d stopped grappling swamp-tuskers in Rokemarsh to join the wrestling circuit.

  “Nothing serious.” Collan reached into his longvest pocket for some coins and tossed them on the table. “Sorry about the mess.”

  Tigge bowed his massive respects and carried Warris one-handed to the alley door. Col left by the front entrance, ignoring the stares of the other customers.

  Terrific. Now it’ll be all over Roseguard by breakfast that Lady Sarra’s husband was seen fighting in public. Can’t even have some good honest fun anymore without people gossiping. Not that she’ll mind, but it does make her look bad. Damn it, I liked being anonymous—or nearly, anyhow, until people got a look at my hair. Used to be able to go anywhere and do anything, and now—

  But the sour taste in his mouth was not due altogether to renewed sulks. He’d been in Warris’s position—by Pierga Cleverhand, he’d lost count of the times his pockets had been empty of all but a set of fingerpicks. There but for the grace of Sarra. . . .

  No. He’d never sold another human being, not to the Council Guard or anyone else. He’d rather have starved and died.

  The str
eets of Roseguard were quieter than usual after a rollicking St. Pierga’s that left half the city with three-day hangovers. Collan nodded to a team of the Watch patrol. Yes, life was placid and orderly these days, and he was rich and secure, and a real icon for all conscientious husbands to emulate, and he was bored witless.

  It was Fourteenth when he got home—appallingly early to return from a night’s drinking. But Tarise had gone to a lecture tonight, and thus it was up to Collan to get the twins to bed on time—or as close to it as he could manage. Taigan and Mikel took after him in keeping late hours whenever they could connive it. Usually Col sat back and grinned while they tried to argue Tarise into letting them stay up just a little longer, until she threatened to have a Mage come and set Wards over them unless they went to bed now and stayed there.

  The sitting room—which, with toys strewn about, more closely resembled an obstacle course—was empty. Tarise hadn’t yet returned from the lecture—or maybe she had, and the twins had locked her in the closet again. It was definitely too early for them to be asleep without fussing. He went down the hall to their bedchamber and began, “All right, you two—”

  And stopped.

  All was silence. They were both curled up in bed, sound asleep.

  They’re sick! was his first panicky thought. But Taigan’s forehead was cool, and so was Mikel’s. They looked innocent as lambs, harmless as Senison pups, and guileless as any children plotting the destruction of their father’s peace. But as he scrutinized the two faces, he found not the slightest sign of impending raised hell. They really were asleep.

  As he turned the corridor for the music room, he asked himself if perhaps they weren’t starting to turn into meek little mice. The idea brought an instant snort of laughter. Meek? Sarra’s children? They were probably just tired out. They’d spent most of the day in the saddle, circling the training ring, getting to know their new horses—early Birthingday gifts from Falundir, of all people. When Col left this evening, they’d been engrossed in Cailet’s presents, guaranteed to keep them enthralled for hours at a stretch. In fact, Collan had trouble understanding how Cai had brought herself to part with such marvelous toys.