“My own sworn kin put me in chains.” Redfist shook his head. “I’ll hear no more of this.”
“Perhaps it would help if we had the tale from the beginning.” I lifted my bowl with both hands, enjoying the heat for a few moments. There was a scrape across my knuckles from last night’s games, as well. “Then we could decide—”
“The men are speaking, ban’sidha prutaugh,” Corran’s wounded face wrinkled itself together as he wielded his picks, bringing a chunk of whitefish to his slavering mouth. The Skaialan words sounded highly uncomplimentary, but I knew little of that tongue then.
“Mind yerself, laddie.” Redfist placed his eating picks carefully across his bowl. He had grown quite adept with them; I gathered in his homeland they ate with other implements. Which sparked a thought, and I eyed Corran afresh. “That’s Kaia Steelflower ye’re addressing.”
“Is tha’it? Ye’ve been dragged after the smell of an elvish cunt?”
A thick silence fell. Even Gavrin ceased his single-minded absorption of food and stared, his mouth slightly open. His uneasy Pesh complexion had cleared marvelously over our sea-voyage; adventure seemed to suit him.
Ninefinger’s sneer deepened, his oiled mustache drooping into his beard. “Rainak Redfist, dragged about by a little brown hoor. You, elvish bint, does he shag you from one end and your shulleigh there from the other? Is that how tis?”
I hate that word. I regarded Corran evenly, my left thumb running along a chip on the side of the bowl, a snag in its worn-smooth lacquer. There is something to be said for simply letting a man turn his own tent into a privy.
“Kaia?” D’ri’s pleasant expression matched his tone, but he spoke in G’mai, and the inflection was perhaps unconsciously royal—a s’tarei formally addressing his adai. “Has the large foul one offered you insult?”
“He may think so.” I prepared my picks, the hot bowl cradled in my left hand. “I remain unconvinced.”
“So I may not chastise him?” His pleasant tone frayed very slightly. If he was playing the belling hound, I would play the silent one, and though the others did not understand my native tongue, the tone was probably clear enough.
Redfist’s right hand turned into a fist the size of a small club. Even if he considered me well able to answer any insult in my own manner, he had some measure of standing to lose in the gaze of the rest of our small troupe.
“Not during dinner.” I smiled, the bright unsettling expression I sometimes used over dice. I had not played since Hain, there being no time. Now, of course, I could not be certain I would not witch them to roll a certain way, and that is a dangerous pastime indeed.
“May I?” Atyarik had not yet touched his food, either. His intonation was slightly different, but clearly that of a s’tarei who had seen a wrong arise, and would have liked to right it.
Strange. He disliked me, or at least gave a good impression of it. To see him ruffle his plumage when a female sellsword was called a featherseller was intriguing. G’mai has no word for those who heal with the body or sell its pleasures to survive, but travel does have a way of broadening one’s vocabulary.
“Corran.” Redfist laid his left hand on his friend’s shoulder, and his whole arm turned to stone. His blunt fingers curved, crushing, and there was a slight creaking. “Kaia Steelflower is wal’kir, and you are offering insult.”
Sweat stood out on Corran’s mushroom-pale brow. “Wal’kir? That piece of harbor shite?” He spat something else in Skaialan, too, and I did not need a translation to tell what he thought of a woman half his size who could still break his nose and accuse him of treachery. Of course, an innocent man might have taken more offense at the latter than the former, and whatever else Corran Ninefinger was, I would gamble my boots and my dotani that “innocent” did not apply no matter which language you pronounced it in.
Redfist surged up, bumping the table with a nasty, solid sound. Corran was flung backward, his chair breaking with the crack of well-seasoned wood, and Redfist—disturbingly fast for his size—pivoted, his massive boot lashing out and catching Corran’s middle almost before the other giant hit the flagstones. The wall shuddered as Corran hit, and Redfist was on him again in a moment, hauling him up by his heavy green woolen tunic. Cloth tore, and Redfist roared, slamming him again into the shoulder-high stone wainscoting, the wood above it popping a long pale sliver.
Atyarik’s hand settled on Janaire’s wrist; she retreated into her own chair slowly, glancing at me with the huge eyes of a frightened doe. Diyan whistled, a long low tone of wonder, and Gavrin slid down in his seat as if he had been at too much mead. His eyes were round as well, and he had gone chalky under his Pesh coloring.
I sipped at my qu’anart. Very good, smooth as Hain fire-gossamer. “Besides,” I said, when Redfist’s roar had died, “it seems—” Thud, thwack, “—our friend Redfist—” Crash, crack, grunt, “—is giving his fellow barbarian instruction on table etiquette.”
Redfist surged for the hallway, taking his bleeding cargo with him.
Janaire’s shoulders quivered, and her braids trembled too. “How can you be so calm?” Atyarik’s fingers stroked her wrist, a soothing motion.
D’ri shook his head slightly. “He invited this man into my adai’s house.”
That was an answer she could understand, at least. G’mai codes offer much protection to a guest, and to a guest of one’s guests, but there were...limits...to the latter.
The noise drew down the hall, heading for the front door. I laid my bowl down, dabbed at my lips with my fingertips, and rose.
“Kaia?” D’ri, very quietly.
“Tis dusk.” My braids were heavy again, my neck aching. “Corran Ninefinger the clans may murder, and collect a fine load of tradewire or coin upon. But Rainak Redfist is my friend, and him they may not have.” I ambled for the doorway, to watch over our barbarian as he beat his fellow giant out through the smallgate and into the street. He yelled something in Skaialan after him, and stamped past me back into the house.
I took the opportunity to study the street. One or two carters at the gates of other residences, a small load of tanju upon a two-wheeled shaw-sled accompanied by a squatting bare-chested youth, poised to take advantage of the Antai custom of craving small tart fruit after dinner, and lengthening shadows on the tiled roofs.
My throat had dried, and my pulse turned to cantering hoofbeats in my ears and wrists.
So. Tonight, then.
I followed Redfist into the villa, and barred the smallgate.
Safer If I Were Not
The kitchen, with its stone ceiling and ancient, balky oven, was warm enough to draw sweat. Already Janaire had scoured every surface and taken inventory of pots and plate, and the faint scent of disuse that filled other corners of the villa was absent.
Redfist hissed a little as Janaire dabbed at his bleeding knuckles. “Corran is nae a bad sort,” he said. “Fresh from the highlands, is all. Safest elsewhere.”
“Not necessarily.” I leaned against the wall next to the locked-and-barred door, near the iron bulk of the still-hot oven, moving my dotani to a slightly more comfortable angle upon my back. “When hunting a wolf, first bloody the deer.”
“Not familiar—ssss! Not familiar with that one, K’ai.” He kept his hands on the long, thick wooden cooktable, squinting in place of flinching every once in a while.
I would have been surprised if he had been, since I’d spoken in G’mai. “If you hang out a piece of meat, soon the dogs will be along.” It didn’t have quite the same ring in tradetongue.
“Are ye meaning—” His eyebrows drew together, and his blue glance was sharp. His native tongue was rubbing through his words, much as I suspected G’mai cropped up through mine lately.
“I mean a watch could be set for Skaialan giants not leaving Antai, but returning.” I did not lift my fingers to tick the points off, but I was sore tempted to. “Or this Ninefinger could have brought a commission, and as soon as he located you all he has to do is b
ring you to a certain place, at a certain time. Perhaps the commission was even meant to include him and sealed, in the way of such things, so any loose thread could be knotted away as well.” How could he not see as much?
Then again, there is no one as adept at scenting—and building—treachery as an assassin. I had cause to be wary, after…
After Rikyat.
Redfist shifted on the clunky three-legged stool, wood creaking under his bulk. “He just arrived, how could—”
“Why does he handle eating-picks so easily? You are better at it now, but he did not eat with his full-ten fingers as you still did in Hain, now did he.” It was not a question.
Redfist stared at his hand. The swelling was easing, Janaire’s soft dabbing with crushed woundheal paste not nearly as efficacious as the Power she bound into the skin, swift tiny stitch-glyphs encouraging renewal. He swore, softly, and she glanced up in apology, one of her braids drooping a little loosely over her temple. They made a strange picture, the adai and the barbarian, her light grace and flowing dark green dress next to his mountainous shoulders and rough leather jerkin.
“Tis a guram thing,” he finally said, heavily, “to think of a kinsman.”
Impatience skittered under my skin; I forced it away. “Is this Dun-kiest a kinsman as well?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
My ears caught movement beyond the propped-open door, and my hand readied itself to leap for dotani-hilt. It was only Atyarik, melding out of the shadows with a s’tarei’s ease. His face was even longer than usual, his cheekbones painfully high because his mouth was pulled into the dourest frown I had seen on him yet. “We shall watch tonight,” he informed me, in very formal G’mai. “Should the large rude one return, may I chastise him?”
I am glad you ask. If the Tyaanismir took a mind to quicken his draw, interesting times were ahead. “He was beaten bloody and tossed into the street, perhaps that is enough.”
“He insulted the adai of the Heir of the Dragon Throne.”
“We are a very long way from home, Tyaanismir-sa.” Or from that mattering. The single syllable of the honorific was all the thanks I could offer him. After all, he was merely conscious of Darik’s honor, not mine. “If he returns, wake me. No matter the hour.”
He nodded, stiffly. Perhaps he thought a return of drunken or furious Corran Ninefinger was likely. I had other suspicions, but we would see. He glanced at Janaire, who nodded slightly, agreeing with him as an adai should. Her small shy smile was a wonder, erasing worry from her childlike face. The small fire in the great hearth snapped, adding to the heat, and I forced myself to think it through again. Piece by piece, in small bites, chewing thoroughly to avoid a surprise.
If I were after Redfist, and he had another of the Guild living in his house, it would be a waiting game. Unless the commission was large enough, in which case many shadows could slip into the house to overwhelm any resistance. I needed to know more.
“Redfist.” Tradetongue slipped in my mouth, became harsher than I intended. “I need to know what ill this Dun-kiest bears you, so I know what he might pay to have you eliminated.”
“Does it matter?” Redfist flexed his fingers. “My thanks, Jenaih. It feels much better.”
“Tis my pleasure.” She tidied her healer’s implements—a bowl of water, the woundheal paste, more dried woundheal and a dollop-glass of mead to soak pinches of the pungent herb in, the rust-streaked grindstone to crush-mix it. It stops the woundrot best if you use a ruststone, and she had applied quite a bit, since baia was out of season.
She might even try to bandage Redfist, but I did not think him likely to let her wrap him like a dumpling.
“You are marvelous healer, Gavridar.” I searched for an appropriate compliment. “Any Temple of the Moon would be glad of your skill.”
Did she flinch? Why? I had said it as gently as I could.
“Better healer than a teacher.” She swept everything together and hurried from the room, leaving the flask of mead on the cook-table to slosh dangerously as Redfist shifted his weight. Atyarik turned sharply, pacing after her.
Even when I praised, she took it like a knife. “The fault is your student, not you,” I called after her, but I could not be certain she heard. Her tender feelings were not the pressing issue, though. I forced myself to think in tradetongue again. “It matters, friend Redfist. It may be the difference whether one or two assassins are sent, or many more.”
“What more does he want? I left.” Redfist’s sides heaved with a gusty sigh; he gazed at the mead bottle as if it held the answer. No doubt it held temptation, but an answer is another matter entirely. “A coward’s move, that.”
“Begin at the beginning,” I prompted. “We may be interrupted at any moment; I would like to know why I am about to kill on your behalf.”
“Ye do nae have to.” A stubborn jut to his red-furred jaw, his coppery eyebrows drawing together with thunderous displeasure.
“You are my friend, Redfist.”
“Might be safer if I were not.”
There it was, again. Did Redfist think I would leave him to die on a battlefield, too? I forced my jaw to loosen, took a deep breath. “Nevertheless.”
“Very well.” He lifted the small mead-bottle, took a healthy dose, and set it down half empty. “Dunkast will never sit easy as a chieftain until I am dead.”
“Chieftain of your clan?” Well, I supposed, many had been killed for less.
He muttered a few Skaialan words I was fairly sure were obscenities, and still gazed longingly at the mead bottle. “Not precisely. Each man has a clan, and a chieftain. There are no kings in the North, but there is the Connaiot Crae, and our last was my father.” He studied his bruised hands, the consonants of tradetongue growing harsher and the vowels more lilting, the shape of another language thrusting through the argot like rocks through thin topsoil. “My very own father, and Dunkast’s too. The Ferulaine is a bastard son, and won his following by battle, not blood. Though some said twas treachery that paved his way, and the blackest of sorcery. As long as I live, Dunkast cannot claim the Connaiot Crae. Tis only when my head is mounted on the wall of Belcarock, or another keep, that he will be the Crae. They will have no choice.”
“Is this cu-roigh an inheritance?”
“If the Crae has a son blooded in battle the clans will follow. Especially if they respect him.” His red-furred chin sank to his capacious chest. His jerkin, freshly brushed, was dark with use and wear, butter-soft. “There were many who would have followed me, even when those opposed to Dunkast began having...accidents. It matters little now; they will nae follow a sunbrollaugh.”
“What is that?”
“A father-killer.” Redfist had gone pale. “Such a man cannot be the Crae, and I would have called Dunkast to the rounds for the accusal. Except he had me clapped in irons. Me, his own kin.”
“Did—”
“Of course not!” His wounded hands closed, viciously, as if he felt a neck to snap between them. “But Dunkast had his lying Black Brothers to swear suspicion on me, enough so that his craven arselickers could say twas legal.”
That was not what I wished to ask. Still, I could not fault him for leaping at the question. “You said Dunkast killed your father.”
His mouth turned grim, pulling against itself. “I feel in m’gut that he did, but I cannot, for the life of me, tell how.”
“So, this leadership of the highlands—”
“Tis not so simple. The Crae leads us to war, and dispenses justice when clans cannot agree. My father was the head of the Redfist, and he was the Crae by acclamation. He said there was more to be gained from trade than raiding, and there were those who chafed at it. Dunkast was one. Then there was the battle against the blue hillfolk at Skarmout, and my bastard brother came back...changed.”
Blue hillfolk? Is that like red-eyed bugger? A ticking silence filled the kitchen, from the oven’s cooling skin and the chilly night-breath from the harbor walking up the hills. �
��Changed?”
The barbarian’s gaze had turned faraway, pupils swelling a little as the candle on the table danced and the fire sank low into its banking. His words lilted further. “You and your kind may know of witchery, K’ai. But what lives past Skarmout, in the caves...that you do nae know of, and should be glad. Dunkast was once my brother, one I didnae much like but still loved. When he came back from that battle, something else was inside him.”
A chill finger traced up my back. What traveling sellsword hasn’t heard whispers of such things, or seen wonders? The world is wide, and strange Powers fill every inch of it. There was the bird-witch outside Vulfentown, and the whispering coven of Imr-Amjal with their cloying incense and fish-scale tattoos, drugged windwitches on the Shelt and the cannibal monsters the Kmeri claim stalk the forest-shore at the other edge of their grassy sea. Holysingers who may walk unscathed through a furnace, goddesses speaking through their blindly ecstatic followers during festivals, the sun standing still as the last of the Pensari called his curse down upon the slums and dregs...yes, something living in the northern highlands giants inhabited was not very hard to believe.
“Whatever witchery he has matters little,” I said, finally. “You have Kaia Steelflower at your back, Redfist.”
He nodded, and the silence returned.
There was no more to be said. At least, not so far as I was concerned. Yet I could not tell if he thought my aid a comfort—or another danger to be navigated.
Roof Dancing
Perhaps they thought to catch me sleeping, though I would be the only one in the house familiar with their ways. But kafi is more than simply a pleasure; it is like chai—it warms one and props the eyelids up, for a short while at least. Tucked against a chimney, I avoided the worst of the wind, and as the kitchen fire settled further into its banked sleep the warm stone cooled by degrees. It reminded me of other chilly nights in Antai, spent watching rooftops or a single candlelit window, moving just enough to keep the blood from cramp-condensing in legs and arms.
Steelflower at Sea Page 12