Silverglass s-1

by J F Rivkin

  “I know.”

  “Do you know the city well?”

  “Of course. I’ve been there many times.”

  “And I’ve never been this far from Rhostshyl in my life.”

  “Asye! How did you stand it? I left Torisk when I was little more than a child, and I’ve never been back.”

  “Where is Torisk? I’ve never heard of it.”

  “South,” Corson said grimly. “Far south. No one’s ever heard of it, it’s mostly swamp.”

  “Ah, that explains it.”

  “Explains what?” Corson bristled.

  “Did you think I meant your manners? Nothing could explain your manners! I was curious about the name-it’s very like the word for ‘bog’ in Ancient Eswraine.

  Words for features of the land often stay the same, even when-”

  Corson was in no mood for one of Nyctasia’s lectures. “What of your own name?” she interrupted. “They make an Edonaris wine in the valley lands. I’ve never had it, it’s too costly, but it’s famous in the east. They say the same family’s made it for centuries. Are you kin to them?”

  “I don’t know… it’s the first I’ve ever heard of them. But it’s just possible,” Nyctasia mused. “A remote ancestor of mine married into a family of foreign merchants who dealt in fine wines. It was a monstrous scandal, of course. He went with them when they returned to their own country, and they could never trade the coastal markets after that, for fear of the Edonaris. His name was stricken from the family records-I only came upon the story by chance in an old chronicle. If these people are his descendants, they’d be my distant cousins. Perhaps I’ll write them a letter.”

  Corson was disappointed. She’d hoped Nyctasia would take offense at the suggestion that these common vintners were her relations. “My manners are good enough for the company of a wine seller’s daughter,” she taunted.

  “You malign a respectable trade,” said Nyctasia.

  Corson looked back at her over her shoulder. “What does isnathon scrathling mean?” she demanded.

  24

  lhestreq was a good-sized port town with a thriving merchant community. There was nothing to distinguish it from any of a dozen similar cities along the coast, but to Corson and Nyctasia it seemed a haven of comfort and luxury after their stay on the Windhover. As they ambled through the marketplace on their way to find lodgings, they were enticed by the odors of pastries and cooking meats.

  A child ran up to them holding a tray heaped with dates, figs and dried honeyed apricots, all stuffed with nuts. “Buy a sweet, two for a copper!”

  Their hands were soon full of sticky fruit, hot meatcakes and small sausages.

  They ate oranges, sweet buns and gingerbread. “I haven’t felt this good for days,” Corson said through a mouthful of pastry.

  “I thought you must be sick-you’d stopped complaining about the ship’s food.”

  “It was the ship’s food making me sick.”

  “We’ll both be sick if we keep this up,” said Nyctasia happily. She daintily licked the last sticky crumbs from her fingers. “I have never in my life needed a bath so badly. I stink. So do you, for that matter.”

  “What?” said Corson absently. Her attention had been caught by a display of glittering jewelry and trinkets. She wandered over to the stall and began covetously fingering the golden chains and gaudy ornaments. She held up a glass bracelet, admiring the way it sparkled in the sunlight. “What do you think of this?” she asked Nyctasia.

  “It’s a vulgar piece of trash, unworthy to adorn your lovely wrist. Stop pawing through that rubbish and let’s find an inn. You know the city, where do you usually stay?”

  “Oh, you don’t want to stay there,” laughed Corson. “And neither do I, not when I have money.” She reluctantly laid down the bracelet and pointed across the square. “There’s a place up that way, on High Street, that caters to the quality. I’ve never had the price of a room there, but now I want their best.”

  She led the way, stopping every few feet, distracted by a new array of tempting wares. Buckles, copper pots, bolts of bright cloth-Corson wanted everything she saw, and it was some time before Nyctasia could pry her away from the marketplace.

  When they entered The Crown and Peacock, the patrons, mostly well-to-do merchants, glanced at one another uneasily. Corson and Nyctasia looked more like the class of people who went to the kitchen door asking for work than those who came to the front door seeking accommodations. They were ragged and filthy and didn’t look as though they had a copper between them. Obviously troublemakers.

  “We want a room,” said Corson, banging her fist on a table.

  A portly, well-dressed man approached, regarding them with disapproval. “Our rooms are all taken,” he said. “Perhaps down the street…”

  Corson smiled. She opened the pouch at her belt and pulled out a few gold coins, tossing them in her palm. “A large room,” she continued. “The best you have.”

  The owner bowed. He classed Corson as a soldier fresh from a successful campaign. Nyctasia he dismissed as a penniless student whom the other had undoubtedly picked up for the night. Students as a class were notorious whores.

  He waved a servant over. “Show them the corner room upstairs. Lay on fresh bedding. Is there anything else you require?” he asked, turning back to Corson.

  “I want a bath,” Nyctasia put in. “Hot water, and plenty of it. And something clean to wear.”

  The innkeeper looked at Corson inquiringly.

  “It’s all right,” she said, with a sweeping gesture. “Get her anything she wants.” She grinned at Nyctasia, who suddenly flushed as she realized how things appeared. Swallowing her pride, she meekly followed Corson upstairs.

  Corson was delighted with the room. It was large and well-aired, with windows looking on the courtyard and the street. Tile bed was wide, with an oaken chest at its foot, and a table and two chairs stood at the hearth. There was even a sheepskin rug, Corson fell onto the bed and sank into the down mattresses, laughing.

  “Get your boots off the bed,” said Nyctasia.

  “A little more respect from you, slut. I’ll have you thrown into the street, where you belong, if you don’t behave.”

  Nyctasia sighed. “I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself.”

  Corson pulled off her boots and dug her toes into the rug. “I’ve always wanted to have my way in a grand place like this.”

  Nyctasia did not see fit to remark that, compared with her apartments in the palace of the Edonaris, this place was a kennel. She possessed to a high degree the aristocratic knack of making herself comfortable anywhere. And the room was reasonably clean. “It’s a great deal better than the ship,” she said.

  Two servants soon came in, carrying a large wooden tub. They were followed by a girl with an armload of clothes.

  “Sonic of these should fit you,” she said to Nyctasia, dropping her bundle on the table. She turned to Corson. “Did you want something to wear as well, mistress? We’ve nothing to hand really big enough for you, but we can wash your clothes tonight and have them dry by morning. Perhaps you could use this?” She lay out a large, shapeless smock on the bed. “They’re heating up the bath water now.” The girl curtsied to Corson and withdrew.

  “Bring me some ale,” Corson called after her. She lay back on the bed and stretched luxuriously. “Let’s stay here for a while,” she suggested. “I want to visit some friends in town, settle an old debt. Maybe buy a few things.”

  Nyctasia picked out a grey shift from the pile of clothes and examined it dubiously. “Stay if you like. I’ll be off to Mehomne as soon as I can get some decent clothing, and a horse. I hope to be in Hlasven in a fortnight.”

  “You can’t,” said Corson. “It takes at least a month to travel around Yth Forest.”

  “I daresay it does, but I mean to travel through it, not around it.”

  Corson sat up and stared at her. “No one goes through the Yth without need-it’s too dangerous. If you’v
e not seen your blue-eyed friend in all this time, you can wait another few weeks, surely!”

  “There’s a road running through the forest,” Nyctasia protested. “Some merchants take it, to reach the eastern markets ahead of the rest.”

  “I know that, and the greedy bastards usually lose a few people along the way.

  Don’t you know that wood is haunted?”

  “Corson,” Nyctasia said patiently, “I want to go through the Yth because I know it’s haunted.”

  “I should have known,” groaned Corson, lying back again. “I hate magicians.” She glared balefully at the ceiling.

  “Perhaps you really should stay here,” Nyctasia said hesitantly. “You certainly won’t like-” She stopped abruptly as the servants returned with kettles of steaming water and began to fill the tub. “Tell them to start heating up more,” she instructed. “We’ll want at least another tubful.” She had soon forgotten all else in the soothing luxury of the bath.

  Corson dried her hair before the fire, trying to comb out the worst of the snarls. She cursed and yanked at a tangled knot, then gave up and left the comb stuck there while she reached for the mug of ale on the hearthstone.

  “Do you want some help?” Nyctasia offered. She was lying across the bed with the contents of her pouch scattered before her. She toyed with a crystal pendant, then picked out a pair of silver, crescent-shaped earrings and put them on.

  There was a knock on the door.

  “Shall we take away the bath now?”

  At a nod from Nyctasia, they dragged the tub to the window and tipped it out over the courtyard. The serving-girl came in for their clothes.

  “Have these burned,” said Nyctasia imperiously. “And have the best tailors in the city here first thing in the morning to take my measurements.” Her voice had taken on the assured tone of one accustomed to giving orders. Barefoot, and dressed in the plain grey shift, she nevertheless conveyed the air of a great aristocrat.

  “Yes… um… my lady,” said the girl, bewildered. “Will there be anything else?”

  Nyctasia considered. “I’ll give you a letter to deliver to the moneydealer Eisatt on Bow Street, Fetch me paper and sealing wax, child.” She held out a coin. “That will be all.”

  “Yes, m’lady. Thank you, m’lady.” The girl had made up her mind about Nyctasia.

  She could hardly wait to tell them downstairs.

  “Bow Street?” Corson asked suspiciously. “I thought you said you’d never been here before.”

  “I haven’t, but my agents have. I’ve had this journey planned for a long time, you know.” She came over and stirred up the fire. Plucking the comb from Corson’s unruly hair, she began to gently smooth out the stubborn tangles.

  “Even when you play the great lady you don’t mean it,” said Corson. “It’s just another act. You don’t fool me.”

  Next morning she watched, fascinated, as Nyctasia matter-of-factly gave instructions to tailors and seamstresses while concluding her business arrangements and eating a large breakfast at the same time.

  Corson’s clothes were stiff and uncomfortable from drying before the fire all night. When Nyctasia dismissed the tailors, she beckoned to one of them herself.

  “You can take my measurements now,” she said grandly.

  25

  it would take at least two days to complete their garments, and Nyctasia spent most of the time pacing and planning, impatient to be on her way. But Corson would have been contented to spend the whole season at Lhestreq. She made the most of the opportunity to renew old acquaintances and flaunt her unwonted wealth. Sauntering into The Wanton Mermaid one afternoon, she threw down a handful of silver and called for ale all around.

  There were only a few idlers there to take advantage of her hospitality. The Wanton Mermaid did most of its business after dark.

  “Corson!” The host, a small, canny fellow known as Cricket, threw his arms around her enthusiastically, “I’d given up hope of ever seeing you again-my heart was broken. You owe me thirty crescents.”

  Cricket owed his success as a taverner to three inviolable rules: He never watered his ale, he never betrayed a secret, and he never forgot a debt. Eyeing Corson’s silver skeptically, he picked up a coin and weighed it in his hand.

  “Satisfied?” laughed Corson. “It’s not false.”

  “Ah, the girl’s picked a rich pocket,” said Dorrit, a dark, thin woman who eked out a living as a petty thief.

  “This money’s honestly come by, Dorrit. I’ve come up a good deal since you saw me fast. I know folk in high places nowadays.”

  “The gallows…?” suggested Dorrit. Cricket snorted.

  “I’m the traveling companion of a great lady, a Rhaicime!” Corson continued.

  “She’s very elegant, and a scholar too-”

  “Who’d you kill, Corson?” Cricket interrupted.

  “Here, if you don’t believe me, look at these earrings.”‘ She bent toward Dorrit. “She gave them to me, just because she enjoys my company.”

  Dorrit touched one wistfully, “These are really valuable, Corson, They’re old.”

  Cricket whistled. “Sweet Asye! She’s killed a Rhaicime! We’ll probably all be hung.”

  Corson hit the table with her fist. “I told you that-”

  “Don’t be so touchy, pet. Since you’re in such favor with the nobility, no doubt you can pay me those thirty crescents, eh?” He winked at Dorrit.

  “That’s what I’ve come for.” Corson began to count out coins from her pouch.

  Cricket leaped to his feet, astonished. “Not here!” he said, looking around anxiously. “Let’s go in back.”

  “Watch out, Cricket.” Dorrit called after them. “You don’t want to end up owing her. She fetches a high price these days!”

  Cricket barred the door behind them and dragged the moneybox out from beneath his cot. Corson sat on a stool and watched him unlock the chest with one of the keys at his belt When it was safely stored away again she rose to go, but Cricket caught her hand. “Why so hasty, Corson?” he grinned. “No time for old friends now that you’re the favorite of Rhaicimes?”

  Corson made an insulting gesture with her free hand. “It’s true, all the same,” she insisted.

  “Then let’s celebrate your good fortune.” He hugged her hard. “I love tall women,” he sighed, nuzzling her breasts.

  Corson smiled down at him. “But you know I don’t like short men.”

  “Well, I’m not short all over, pet,” said Cricket. “Remember… ?”

  26

  corson was flushed and rather unsteady on her feet when she returned to The Crown and Peacock that evening. Nyctasia was at the table, reading by candlelight. “You look like you’ve had a good time,” she observed.

  Corson sat down, leaning her head on her hand. “I’m not drunk.”

  “No?”

  “I don’t know what’s wrong with me these days,” Corson complained, shaking her head. “One moment I feel fine, then I’m dizzy and my head aches. I must be getting the grippe. I’m going to bed.” She sounded quite sober.

  “Don’t you even want some supper?”

  Corson pulled off her boots and climbed into the bed, drawing the covers over her. “I’m not hungry.”

  “This sounds serious,” said Nyctasia. She sat on the bed and leaned over Corson.

  “You do look feverish.”

  Corson’s forehead was beaded with sweat. “I’m freezing. It’s too cold in here.”

  Nyctasia frowned. If anything, the room was rather too warm. She went to the table and wrote out a list of simples, then summoned a servant. “Take this to an apothecary’s immediately,” she instructed, wrapping the paper around some coins,

  “and bring me a pitcher of strong red wine when you return. Hurry.”

  “I know an excellent remedy for fever,” she assured Corson.

  “Does it have bloodroot in it?” Corson asked, suspicious.

  “No, why?”

 
; Corson mumbled something and turned away.

  When the servant returned, Nyctasia measured out small amounts of the dried herbs and mixed them in a cup of wine which she held over the fire with tongs.

  “Drink this,” she ordered, bringing Corson the hot, fragrant drink.

  Corson sipped at it warily. “This is good!” She swallowed it greedily and handed the empty mug back to Nyctasia. “Give me some more.”

  Corson slept through the evening and late into the following morning. When the tailors arrived to do a first fitting, she felt quite well again, as hungry as ever, and excited at the prospect of her new clothes. She’d never before had clothing made for her, nor had she possessed any of such fine quality. The garments provided by her employers had generally been plain, sturdy goods, which had already seen much use.

  The tailors and apprentices flattered her and called her “madame.” She was draped in new lambskin and linen which they deftly pulled into place, snipping and stitching, as they turned Corson about and fussed with the materials. She twisted and laughed under their prodding, enjoying herself thoroughly. It took half the time to fit Nyctasia.

  Though she fretted about the delay all the next day, at the final fitting Nyctasia had to admit that the results were worth the wait. She had commissioned a suit of plain traveling clothes of a serviceable grey stuff, as well as an elegant outfit of black velvet with silver trimmings. She admired her reflection in the tailors’ glass as they made a few final adjustments on the soft, svelte doublet. “Quite satisfactory,” she said, smiling. She was equally at home in fine clothes or in her shabby students’ garb, but the graceful tailored black was undeniably becoming.

  But it was Corson who was really transformed. Instead of a bedraggled layabout, she seemed a young noblewoman dressed for the road. In clothing cut to her measure, her naturally proud carriage and statuesque beauty were set off to the fullest advantage. She wore a close-fitting tunic of fine lambskin over a russet linen shirt, open at the throat, with the full sleeves gathered at the wrist.