He raised his cup in another silent toast. To gentle, lovely Lea E’non, who had struck him down with light and torn his magic from him. The cruelest enemy of all.
Fomo slid through the crowd, jerked a tipsy youth off his stool, and shoved him sprawling before scooting the stool close to Shadrael and sitting down with a grunt. “Time we was going,” he said hoarsely.
Shadrael didn’t glance at him. “Later.”
“You said that yesterday. Ain’t you drunk enough of that foul brew yet?”
“No.”
“Your luck’s running out. Someone’s bound to tell the warlord you’re here,” Fomo said, his narrowed eyes watching the crowd. He’d untied his hair, letting the stringy hanks fall over his face to conceal his army tattoo. “Best we pull out soon.”
“When I’m ready.”
“When’s that to be?”
Shadrael scowled into his cup. “When I’m drunk.”
The wailing music of guinars and tambours struck up a lively tune, and people in the crowded taproom jostled toward the walls in an excited surge. Men’s voices called out eagerly, and through the crowd came a trio of dancing girls swathed in robes and wearing dowry headdresses made of innumerable coins linked together. In the center of the room where space had been cleared for them, they grouped themselves in a circle, back to back, and faced the leering men.
Fomo grinned, licking his lips and leaning forward.
To Shadrael, their faces were blurs; their dark eyes—heavily lined with kohl—no comparison for blue.
The music struck a flourish, and the girls flung off their robes to reveal lithe bodies clad in little more than flowing scraps of silk and long strings of clashing coins. As a loud shout roared up, they began to dance, swaying and undulating to a primitive beat. The watching crowd swayed, too, mesmerized or singing lustily while busy waiters threaded through the throng, refilling cups and taking payment.
Without taking his gaze from the dance, Shadrael drained his cup to its bitter dregs. Shuddering, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and slumped lower against the wall. The room was warm, and the dance whirling before him was making him drowsy. His eyes grew heavy.
Something bumped into his table, startling him back to alertness. Fomo was gone. Someone else stood there.
“Looking for an ex-legion commander named Shadrael,” a gruff voice said beneath the crowd’s hubbub. “You know the man?”
Shadrael let his gaze drop. “No.”
“Thought you had the look of old army. That other fellow, too, before he took off.”
“Never served.”
“Sorry. Maybe it’s the short hair or the boots, or that sword callus on your thumb.”
Shadrael’s gaze flickered up, taking the trouble to focus this time. He saw a gray-haired, stocky man with a barrel chest and a mean eye. Gaunt as though he’d recently come through hard times, he wore armor in disregard of Mrishadal’s edict of peace. The folds of his cloak hung over any insignia his armor might bear, but he carried a sword that was short enough to be legion issue, its hilt fashioned in the predlicate style. He held himself alert, balancing on the balls of his feet, his stony eyes shifting warily about to watch his surroundings.
A fleeting sense of caution passed through Shadrael before he knocked it away as he might a crawling ant. Whoever this old man was, and for whatever reason he was seeking Shadrael, he wasn’t official or he would have come in with soldiers at his back.
Silence stretched between them, unfriendly and suspicious on both sides. Shadrael went back to watching the dancing girls, his thoughts blurred by the music and hard drink.
“Mind if I sit here?” the stranger finally asked. “Come a long ways, and I’m fair parched.”
Shadrael slid the useless blood potion into his pocket and kept his other hand firmly on his empty drink cup. “Suit yourself.”
The stranger waved for a waiter, who came sliding expertly through the crush, nodded impassively at the order for hot mead, bit into the coin paid him, and a short time later brought a flagon of cheap homemade ale. Shadrael watched with an appreciative eye while the stranger blew gingerly across the drink’s surface, frowned, and sipped cautiously.
His face screwed into a sour pucker before he spat out his mouthful. “What kind of damned horse’s piss is this?”
“Home brew,” Shadrael told him.
“Gah! I’d sooner drink slops than this cold . . .” Letting his voice trail off, he shot Shadrael a look of speculation. “Cheated me, didn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“Dirty little Ulinian pox mark. How much is ale?”
“Half the price of mead, which has to be imported and taxed at customs.”
“Knew what he’d do, didn’t you?”
Shadrael shrugged.
Scowling, the stranger took another, unwilling sip, only to shudder and slam his cup down hard enough to slosh its contents. “Damn this stinking town! The food this bad?”
“Might be.”
“For a stranger, you mean.”
“Maybe.”
“I’m getting all the hospitality Ulinia has to offer, ain’t I?” As he spoke, the stranger watched a steaming dish of food being carried past him. “That smells good.”
“Is good,” Shadrael said, remembering to slur his Lingua slightly without military inflection. He gestured for a waiter and tossed his empty cup aside. “Call it kuvslaka when you order.”
“What is it?”
“Stew. Goat meat and . . .” Shadrael gestured vaguely.
“If I order it, this kuvslaka, will I get it?”
“Ulinian word gets Ulinian service. You pick up our language quickly.”
The stranger’s gaze bored into Shadrael, sizing him up so openly that again Shadrael felt that flicker of caution. “Didn’t say I couldn’t speak Ulinian, now, did I?”
Shadrael didn’t answer. Across the room, he glimpsed Fomo in the crowd, scowling at him and making a gesture of warning. Best to go, Shadrael thought, before this man asked him real questions.
At that moment, however, his waiter came, bringing a cup of fresh zivin. The man set it on the table and fetched a hot poker from the enormous hearth. Plunging it into the cup with a mighty hiss of steam, he let the contents boil and froth, then removed the poker, accepted a coin with a quick grin, and hurried away before the stranger could snag his attention.
“Served you pretty fast,” the stranger observed.
“I,” Shadrael said with a grand gesture, gulping down several swallows of hot liquid that burned to the pit of his stomach, “am aziarahd mahal. Of course I am served well.”
“You’re drunk, boy.”
“Am I?” Shadrael asked in wonder, taking another sip. “I think I might be drunk, but I am no longer a boy.”
The stranger suddenly grinned, although his smile never reached his eyes. He held out his hand in a friendly way. “M’name’s Thirbe. Yours?”
“Nothing.” Sobering abruptly, Shadrael glared down into his cup, inhaling its potent fumes. “My name is nothing. Strangers do not share names here. I warn you of this because I like you.”
Thirbe withdrew his hand in a disgruntled way and went on staring at Shadrael. “You must get around this province, if you work the roads, eh?”
“I did not say I am a bandit.” Shadrael frowned. “You carry a predlicate sword. You ask questions like a predlicate. Maybe you are a predlicate.” He waved his cup about, nearly dropped it, and drained the rest of it so fast his ears rang and he felt dizzy. “It’s Mrishadal,” he said, slamming his cup to the floor. “Time to celebrate.”
“I need to hire a guide, a skilled tracker to get me around these parts. You familiar with Broken Spine country? I’ll pay you for the job.”
“Got money,” Shadrael informed him with dignity. “Pawned my . . . pawned . . . Got money.”
Thirbe almost grinned as he leaned forward. “You ever work for a man named Shadrael? Come on. You know who he is. I can tell by your eyes ever
y time I mention his name.”
The music struck a flourishing crescendo and the dancers spun to a halt. A loud shout roared up. Shadrael shouted with them, only to catch his breath sharply and bend over, pressing his fist to his chest.
Thirbe gripped the back of his tunic and pulled him upright. “You sick?”
Shadrael gasped for air, feeling clammy until the weakness passed. When he could breathe again, he leaned back against the wall, letting the tremors pass down his legs.
“Better slow down on that stuff you’re drinking,” Thirbe advised him. “You’re looking like a raw recruit on his first bender.”
Shadrael hardly heard him. Thirbe, he was thinking. The name Lea had sometimes whimpered in her sleep. The name of her . . . protector.
Alarm pinned Shadrael, and for a moment he felt breathless and cold. He knows me, he thought. He has tracked me here—how?—and he toys with me now like a cat with its prey.
But the momentary panic faded along with the ache in his chest. He even grinned a little, thinking this was the best game of shul-drakshera of all, the Dance with the Enemy.
“Hey, you!” Thirbe finally caught a waiter. “Bring me some kuvslaka and make sure it’s hot.”
Scowling, the waiter told him the price.
“Payment when I’m served,” Thirbe said, showing him money but tucking it away.
With a shrug, the waiter picked up the cup Shadrael had dropped, filled it with more steaming zivin, heated it with a hot poker, and pressed it into Shadrael’s hand. When Shadrael fumbled to pull out a coin, however, he found his purse empty.
“You must pay,” the waiter said in Ulinian, reaching for the cup.
Shadrael gripped it tightly. “Lord’s privilege,” he snarled in the same language. “I pay with lord’s privilege.”
The waiter stared at him round eyed, and suddenly backed away with a bow, glancing over his shoulder as he hurried into the crowd.
“What’s that mean, lord’s privilege?” Thirbe asked.
Shadrael shot him a narrow look, remembering belatedly that Thirbe had said he understood Ulinian. Get away from him, warned a sensible corner of Shadrael’s mind. But the rest of his thoughts urged, Stay and torment him, tease him . . . later, kill him. In the back of his mind he could hear laughter, shrill and wild. Without answering Thirbe’s question, he drank deep and fast until his wits were spinning and the laughter died down.
“Something to do with being aziarahd mahal, ain’t it?” Thirbe went on. “Kind of the local aristocracy.”
Before Shadrael could speak, Thirbe’s food was brought, a mounded plate of steaming food. The protector counted three coins into the waiter’s hand. “Very tasty,” he said, wolfing down several mouthfuls before he wiped his chin and shot Shadrael a look of appraisal. “Come down in the world, ain’t you, Lord Shadrael, if you’re hanging around a place like this?”
A shiver of alarm passed through Shadrael, but not very strongly. He wondered if a legion patrol was waiting outside right now to arrest him. “I am not the man you seek,” he replied.
“Pity. Would save me a lot of time if I could find him fast.”
Shadrael shrugged. He was starting to feel warm and muzzy again although he had the feeling there was something he needed to do. No, he reminded himself, you are finished. All your tasks are done.
Thirbe went on eating, chewing with rapid appreciation as though he hadn’t enjoyed a good meal in days. “You know, there can’t be that many noblemen in Ulinia. Bound to know each other, don’t you? So it seems kind of strange that you wouldn’t have anything to tell me about this man Shadrael.”
“If you know his name, you know enough about him,” Shadrael replied, staring into his cup.
“He used to be a legion commander, but fell on hard times,” Thirbe said, wiping his plate with a morsel of flat bread. “Been doing some road work here and there, I hear. Picking up coin.”
Ignoring the slang words for outlawry, Shadrael swirled the zivin around in his cup.
“Just makes sense that you’d know something about him. Sure, you Ulinians are tight-mouthed with strangers, but what’s it going to hurt you to sell me a little information?”
Shadrael turned his dark gaze on Thirbe, who’d stopped eating and was staring at him hard. Defiantly Shadrael stared back. “Maybe the warlord’s sword through my spine.”
“Fair enough. Tell me nothing, but guide me to his hide-out.” Thirbe turned over his hand and uncurled his fingers to show three shining ducats on his palm. “Worth your while, friend?”
It was a lot of money. Shadrael stared at the coins, mesmerized by the wealth they represented. He felt tempted to carry the game further, to take the payment and lead this fool out into the Valley of Fires. No one would ever find the old man in a back canyon, not even his bones picked clean by scavengers.
Abruptly Shadrael lost interest. It was too much trouble. All he wanted was to remain in this dark corner, staying drunk and being left alone.
“Well?” Thirbe coaxed him. “All you have to do is show me where to find him.”
“Can’t.”
The protector clamped his hand on Shadrael’s wrist. “Can’t? Or won’t?”
Shadrael tried to pull free, but Thirbe had a grip like iron. “We can keep this friendly,” he said softly. “I’ll pay you like I said. Or we can do this the hard way, where I drag you out back and beat the information out of you.”
Shadrael grinned at him, feeling the fumes of his drink wreathe around his brain. “Hard way.”
“All right,” Thirbe snarled, standing up and giving Shadrael a jerk. “On your feet, you drunken lout!”
Smiling muzzily, Shadrael lifted his arms. “Going to buy me,” he crooned.
Thirbe swore a blistering oath; then a hand clamped on Shadrael’s shoulder. He pressed a bruise hard, and Shadrael winced, trying to shrug free.
“Easy!” he said. “No need to be so—”
“On your feet,” said a gruff voice unfamiliar to him, a voice that spoke Ulinian. “And no trouble.”
Turning his head, Shadrael looked up into a hawkish face with fierce dark eyes. “’Nother stranger,” Shadrael announced. “Never seen so many strangers. Fomo should start counting all of you.”
The man gripped his tunic front and hauled him to his feet. The room tilted wildly, making Shadrael laugh. Nearby he glimpsed Thirbe arguing hotly. Then Thirbe was shoved aside, and Shadrael found himself flanked on either side by grim warriors in head wraps and long cloaks.
“Come on. Come on!” they urged him.
Shadrael swayed, opening his mouth to protest, and felt the sharp prick of a dagger point in his ribs. He looked down at the hairy hand holding the weapon. “You could hurt me with that,” he said.
“You’re right,” the man agreed. The dagger point jabbed him impatiently. “Move!”
Gripping his arms, they shoved him forward past a scowling Thirbe. Shadrael could not lift his arm to wave farewell, so he let his head loll back. “Good hunting, Thirbeeeeee!” he called.
The room kept dipping and swaying with as much abandon as the dancing girls. By the time Shadrael managed to refocus his eyes he found himself being shoved out of the Golden Cup.
The cold night air was like a brisk slap to his wits. Swaying, he blinked against the blaze of torchlight and now saw that his escort wore Choven protections and the insignia of the warlord on their cloaks. Vordachai’s men.
Frowning, Shadrael dug in his heels. “I do not want to go with you.”
“Never mind what you want,” one of them growled.
Another motioned. “Hurry before he gathers his wits and fights us.”
Shadrael opened his mouth to knock them senseless with a spell, but he couldn’t think of one. By then they were trussing his wrists behind him. Sever, he thought hazily, supposing he should resist. It seemed that his brother had found him earlier than he’d expected.
“There are,” he announced solemnly as the knots were yanked tight, “no
free drinks.”
“Why doesn’t he fight us?” someone asked.
“Shut up! Hurry and get him on that horse.”
It seemed suddenly very funny to Shadrael that he should go to his execution this way. The warlord’s men gathered around him and grimly hoisted him belly down across a horse like a sack of fodder. Dangling upside down made his head spin worse, and that was funny, too.
“Caught,” he said, slurring his words. “But with dig-dignity and honor.” That had been his father’s favorite motto. “Dignity and honor! I give you leave to carry on. Hoo!”
And as they mounted their horses and bore him away like a stoat to slaughter, he let his face bounce against the saddle leather while his laughter echoed down the narrow street.
Chapter 11
At dawn, however, Shadrael was not laughing. He was, in fact, sitting on a hard cot in a bare, dusty cell, holding his head between his hands and longing to die. He’d puked up his guts already in the musty floor straw, and now he sat there with his head five times its usual size and throbbing in time with the cadenced marching and orderly shouts of the changing of the ramparts sentries.
He felt as though he’d been turned inside out and flailed, and as the effects of his drinking bout faded, the beating he’d taken from the Vindicants made his muscles cramp and shiver. He ran both hot and cold. The shakes and snakes were definitely coming over him. A mesderah horn—low and carrying—had already sounded the time of day, splitting his head in twain. He thought an axe cleaving his skull would have been more merciful.
The sound of footsteps approaching from outside gave him warning just before a key clattered in the lock. The door to his cell slammed open with a boom that echoed down the passageway and burst open Shadrael’s head.
He flinched, shutting his eyes as fresh sweat broke out across his brow. He lacked even the strength to swear.
“Shadrael, you filthy, lying leper!” Lord Vordachai roared.
He stormed in, halting just across the threshold, his bulky body blocking most of the light streaming in behind him. Clad in brown finery that made him look like a wine barrel balanced atop thin legs, he glittered from a gold chain hung with jewels and a seal ring banding his thick finger. A large teardrop ruby swung from one ear, the fine stone as scarlet as the temper in his bearded face. His dark eyes snapped ferociously.
The Crown Page 10