The White Mists of Power: A Novel

by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  He kept moving, deciding that he would buy something to eat later. On the corner a troupe of jugglers tossed sticks in the air. They were good, better than some who had come to the palace. Adric saw a merchant toss a coin into a hat one of the jugglers held out; Adric did the same. His coin, gold and shiny, caught the gaze of several bystanders, and they looked at him as if sizing him up. Perhaps they were beginning to realize who he was. He smiled and nodded. A prince should always be kindly to his subjects.

  He turned down a side street and had to duck to avoid hitting the base of a sign advertising a cobbler shop. Here the noise was not as loud, but the garbage smell was stronger. A river of waste, spoiled food, and ruined lumps ran in a ditch down the center of the street. Adric sneezed and wondered why they didn’t keep the garbage in a central place as they did at the palace. Outside the city, on that patch of trampled grass, would do nicely.

  There were fewer people on the streets here. The men wore well-tailored clothes and the women lifted long skirts as they daintily crossed the muck. The signs hung at odd angles, some jutting out into the street, all of them with words and symbols. The cobbler’s had a shoe, and the tailor had a needle and thread. Adric was leaning out so that he could see the others when someone grabbed him and shoved him against a wall.

  Splinters ran up his back and into his shoulders. A man with a large, running sore under his eye and a mouth half empty of teeth held him by his arms. Adric squirmed. The man’s breath smelled like a dead animal.

  “I want that pouch of yours, laddie.”

  Adric blinked, and then recognized the man as one who had been watching him when he paid the juggler. The man must have followed him. Adric looked for the footman, but saw no one. Fear ran through him then, and a little panic. The man could kill him.

  The man reached for Adric’s shirt. Adric shove a knee into the man’s groin. As the man let out an ooof of pain, Adric pulled his knife from its sheath.

  The man’s eyes narrowed. He grabbed Adric’s wrist until the knife twisted free. It clattered against the side of the building as it fell. The man yanked the pouch from Adric’s pocket, then threw the boy aside. Adric tried to get his footing, but he stumbled and slipped in the muck. He landed, bottom first, in the river of garbage. Water splashed in his mouth and eyes, burning and tasting foul. He pushed himself up and out, looking for the robber, but the man was gone. Adric walked back to the side of the building. His knife was missing, too. His breath hitched in his throat. Lord Ewehl had known this would happen. He had planned to embarrass Adric, and it had worked.

  Adric walked back down the side street, past the jugglers and into the crowd. The roadblock was gone. Carriages moved freely down the street. He scanned for the footman and saw no one. The footman knew where the meeting place was. Adric didn’t.

  He let out a shudder. He was alone. And he was lost.

  Chapter 3

  Seymour couldn’t shake the smell from his nostrils: feces, garbage, human and animal sweat. The city reeked. He had been inside the gate for only a short time and he already hated the place. And the noise was almost as bad as the smells: people screaming at each other; carriages rattling; horses neighing; dogs barking; merchants hawking their wares. Each sound built on the next until they reached a rumbling din that had no substance, only a continual throb in Seymour’s head. He felt trapped here, unable to see the sky without something–or someone–blocking his view.

  “I don’t like it here,” he said. They had walked for hours through the forest. His ears had strained for the sound of Dakin’s hounds, and all the time he had thought he would be safe once he reached the city, once he saw the gates of Nadaluci. He hadn’t thought that he would be frightened of the city too.

  “You have a better idea?” Byron brought his hand down and adjusted his shirt. His face was streaked with dirt and sweat.

  A merchant bumped Seymour with his wooden cart. Stepping back, Seymour stumbled against a woman carrying a baby. He stepped up on the wooden platform beside a stable, and leaned against the building as if it provided protection. “I haven’t heard any ideas,” he said.

  Byron glanced at Seymour and then looked away. Byron had deep shadows under his eyes and his limp had returned. Seymour had suggested staying in the forest another night, but Byron insisted on coming to the city. He seemed to feel that they would be safer here.

  A woman passed, dragging two children along. She crossed into the street ahead of a white horse bearing a retainer. The horse reared and its front hooves narrowly missed the woman. She pushed her children forward as if nothing had happened.

  Seymour wanted off the street. He didn’t want to get trampled and he didn’t want to go deaf. The smell was making him nauseous. “Don’t you know anyone here?”

  “I may know some people, Seymour, but I wouldn’t know where to find them. I still don’t understand why you can’t change a few pebbles into gold–”

  “They’ll change back.”

  “We’ll be gone.”

  Seymour crossed his arms in front of his chest. “A man only has so much luck, and we might need it later on. I can’t guarantee that the spell would work.”

  “What’s the harm in trying?”

  “I don’t want to waste my luck on something that will fail,” Seymour snapped. The muscles along his back and shoulders were tight. “I only have so much luck.”

  “Well, I only have so much energy,” Byron said. “We’ll have to stop here. I am not going any father than Nadaluci–at least for the night.”

  Shouts of “Carriage! Carriage!” rose above the din. People on the street scurried to the side, parting like trees in a windstorm before the large, approaching carriage. Six white horses with gold braided manes and gold trappings pulled the carriage. Two coachmen sat on top and four groomsmen flanked the sides. The carriage itself was white, unblemished by the travel. Four white banners with a blue star in the center flew from each of the groomsmen’s stations. A woman gazed out the window, her face veiled by a thin white curtain.

  Seymour coughed as dust rose around them. Byron coughed too, but didn’t take his gaze from the carriage. Seymour swallowed, barely able to wet his mouth. He was thirsty and hungry as well as tired. “Where are we going to stay, then?”

  The carriage rounded a corner. The flags lingered for a moment, like a hand waving good-bye, before they disappeared. Byron turned. “We have no choice, Seymour. We stay here.”

  People were streaming back into the streets. A beggar limped past, clutching a swollen arm that smelled of pus. Another beggar tugged on Seymour’s robe. “A spare coin, lad? Just one?” Seymour shook him off and turned his back, more in fright than anything else.

  “I still don’t see how we can stay,” he said. “We don’t have any money, and I really don’t want to sleep on the streets.”

  Byron ran a hand through his hair. It stuck up in tufts around his forehead. “I have an idea.”

  A merchant in long sheepskin robes tossed a coin at a group of beggars. They dove for the money, pushing, shoving, and fighting among themselves. The merchant laughed and moved on. Seymour shivered. There wasn’t even charity here.

  “What do you want me to do?” he asked.

  “Follow me.” Byron stepped into the road, ignoring the horses much as the woman had. Seymour followed, dodging beggars and manure, wondering if the mud had been caused by rain or horse piss. The stench in the road itself was even thicker than it had been at the roadside. Byron walked quickly and Seymour had to hurry to keep up.

  They stopped in front of a row of wooden buildings. Byron glanced at a faded sign advertising an inn. He grinned. He grabbed Seymour’s arm and led him away from the door.

  “There’s a tavern inside that inn,” Byron said. “I want you to go in and see if there’s a merchant or a nobleman of my build. If there is, approach him, make up some kind of story, and find out where his room is. Then come tell me.”

  “What kind of story?” Seymour’s hands had grown cold. When he
was six, he had lied to his father about completing his first spell. His father had demanded to see it, and when Seymour hadn’t even known the incantation, his father had punished him by calling a whirlpool from the river and wrapping him in it. Seymour’s mother had found it, demanded his father stop, but by the time he had, Seymour had already been cut in a dozen places by the water’s sharpness. He hadn’t lied since.

  “I don’t know what kind of story. Whatever the circumstances demand.”

  “What happens if I fail?”

  “You won’t.”

  Seymour wished he was that certain. If he didn’t want to attempt a spell, though, Byron’s idea was the only chance they had. Seymour grimaced. He couldn’t concentrate well enough in the noise to gather his luck web. He glanced at Byron. Byron nodded.

  Seymour took a deep breath and walked to the inn door. The door was deeply carved oak. Seymour pushed and it didn’t move. He leaned against it and the door swung open slowly.

  The place looked dark and gloomy. Dust motes rose in the light from the door. Then the door shut, cutting out the outside noise as if everyone out there had disappeared. Seymour blinked and saw nothing but darkness. Voices punctuated by laughter reached him. The low tones were a relief after the din of the street. He sneezed once, clearing the outdoors from his nostrils. The inn itself smelled of ale and greasy food.

  Seymour’s eyes adjusted. Stairs on his left ran up into more darkness. He was standing near the first row of benches. The tavern was crowded. Men huddled around tables, and women in low-cut blouses and skirts ripped just below the knees carried trays covered with mugs. A fire burned in the hearth on the far side. A portly man wearing a grease-stained apron watched everything from a door across the room. Another man sat alone at a small table near the hearth. The only empty chair in the place was beside him.

  Seymour pushed his way though the chairs and drinkers, narrowly missing one of the serving girls. She grinned and pressed her breasts against him as she moved forward. Seymour ducked aside and stopped beside the man sitting alone. “Do you mind if I join you?”

  The man grunted his approval. Scars covered his face, and one of his eyes bulged out. Seymour wondered if the man had been in an accident or a lot of fights.

  “I was wondering if you could help me,” Seymour said. His heart pounded. This man wouldn’t put him in a whirlpool for lying, but the man might add a scar or two to his face.

  “Depends,” the man said. He still didn’t look up.

  The man’s tone made Seymour shiver. “I’m searching for someone.”

  “What do I look like, the city guards? Ask the barkeep.”

  “You look like a much more observant man than the barkeep.” A true lie, and an automatic one. Seymour flushed. The man finally looked up. Another, newer cut ran just under his hairline, making him seem as if he were perpetually frowning.

  “Do I now?” The man took a swig of his ale and wiped his arm across his mouth. “Who are you looking for?”

  “Tall man, slender, very well dressed. I was told he was staying here.” Seymour scanned the room. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness. He saw several men that fit his description.

  “You know his name?”

  “I know one of his names. He uses many.”

  “Hmmm.” The sound was noncommittal, but the man seemed interested. He leaned forward.

  Seymour bit his lower lip. He forced himself to continue. “He travels from place to place under different names. He dresses like a merchant and sometimes like a lord.”

  “I might know who you mean,” the man said, shoving his mug aside. “Why are you looking for him?”

  “He steals things.” Seymour wondered at the ease of the lies. They slipped out of him as if he had done it all his life.

  “And you want to get something back?”

  Seymour nodded. “Do you know him?”

  “Know him? He’s standing right over there.” The man nodded his head toward the far side of the room. A tall lord wearing a satin broad coat and leather pants leaned over a table, holding a coin in his hand. Seymour squinted. The lord seemed shorter than Byron, but just as thin. Seymour hoped that Byron wasn’t planning to do anything illegal to this man.

  “Where’s he staying?” Seymour asked.

  “You mean you aren’t going to fight him here?”

  Fight? Seymour’s stomach turned. Of course the man would make that assumption. “My men are outside. They do that work for me.”

  “Count me in for a bit of the take,” the man said. “I haven’t been in a brawl in a long time.”

  “Certainly,” Seymour said. He had no intention of seeing this man again, but if Byron was really going to fight the lord, Seymour wanted to have outside help.

  “You just yell if you need me.”

  “I will.”

  The man smiled. The scars disappeared into his face, making his skin seem pockmarked. “He’s staying first door, top of the stairs.”

  “Thank you.” Seymour stood up. His knees felt weak. He gripped the chair for a moment, then pushed on. He had done it. He had gotten the information they needed.

  He gave the lord in the corner a wide berth, then slipped out the front door. The noise hit him like a wall. The brightness of the sunlight made him squint, and he sneezed twice at the manure-scented road. Byron was squatting beside the building. Three or four beggars sat near him. Despite his ripped clothing, he didn’t look a part of them. His bearing was too confident, his skin too clean. Seymour stopped in front of him, and he rose stiffly.

  “Well?”

  “First door, top of the stairs.”

  Byron’s dark eyes sparkled. “Good work, Seymour. Now, go back inside and keep him busy until I come down the stairs.”

  “I can’t,” Seymour said.

  “Why not?”

  “I told some guy that I was going to get my men to fight.”

  Byron laughed. “So pick a fight with him if he tries to go upstairs.”

  “I can’t fight him.”

  “I’ll be done quickly. You won’t have to fight him.” Byron glanced around them. Two of the beggars slept, their heads lolling back against the building. People streamed past: a merchant pulling a steaming cart, a man followed by four children. Byron slipped into the crowd and headed around the row of buildings to the back of the inn. He darted along the roadway and disappeared.

  Seymour’s hands were shaking. He wanted to be someone else. Or somewhere else. He sighed and went back to the inn. The door seemed heavier that it had before. Inside, the darkness was thick. When Seymour’s eyes adjusted, he noticed that the table near the hearth was empty. Some of the tension left his shoulders. The man had disappeared. For a moment Seymour hoped that the lord had disappeared too. Then Seymour saw the tall man sitting in the center of the room, talking with a group of men. The men at the table looked rougher than Lord Dakin’s retainers. The men had large, muscular bodies. One man stood out from the others. He was wiry, his arms corded and strong. A long scar ran down the side of his face. They seemed to be discussing something.

  After a moment the lord stood up, threw a coin on the table, and headed for the door. Some of the men followed.

  Seymour forgot to breathe. He had no plan, no way of stopping the lord. Seymour shot a quick, nervous look at the stairs, but he didn’t see Byron. When Seymour turned back toward the tables, the lord was almost beside him.

  “...get my cloak,” the lord was saying. Seymour had to act fast. There was no time to think of a plan.

  He blocked the lord’s path. The man seemed taller up close. “Excuse me, sir,” Seymour said, “but I have a message for you.”

  The lord looked down at him. Seymour felt himself grow cold. The lord’s eyes seemed colorless in the dim light. “What?”

  Seymour swallowed. He remembered the road, the only other gentry he had seen that day. “Uh, a woman–in a white carriage–she asked me to tell you to meet her. She said–”

  “Her name, lad, or you’re
wasting my time.”

  Seymour rubbed his hands together. “I don’t know, sir, but she said it was urgent. She said she’d meet you near her carriage, about a mile south of here.”

  The lord hesitated. He turned to the man with the scar running down his face. The scar’s ridged edges puckered the man’s mouth. “A white carriage, you said?”

  Seymour glanced at the stairs. No Byron. “Yes, sir. It had four white banners with blue stars in the center.”

  “And she asked for me? Why did she send you? Why not one of her retainers?”

  Seymour shrugged. “She said it was important.”

  “How did you know where to find me?”

  Seymour almost closed his eyes. Lords. What did he know about lords? Nothing except lords thought of no one but themselves. “Everyone knows you, sir. We all know where you’re staying.”

  The lord frowned. “How convenient for you. This sounds rather odd, lad. Are you sure you’re not up to something else?”

  “Sir, she said it was urgent.” Seymour held himself still, forcing himself not to glance at the stairs again. Had Byron left him? “Please, sir. She’s not a lady to keep waiting.”

  “That she is not, Lord Kensington,” the other man said. His voice was deep and raspy. “The Lady Jelwra is a real bitch if something doesn’t go her way.”

  “Are you sure her carriage displayed white banners with a blue star?” the lord asked.