Codex Alera 01 - Furies of Calderon

by Jim Butcher

  No sooner had they left than Fidelias heard a heavy tread on the stairs leading down into the hall, and the Steadholder appeared again, his face set in something between a frown and a scowl. He looked around and said, “Sorry about that. Just had to take care of someone hurt.”

  “Ah,” said Fidelias, studying the man. He stepped with the faintest trace of hesitation on his left side, as though it pained him slightly to do so. If he had been wounded, as Atsurak had indicated, then the wound had been crafted shut — which meant that a reasonably powerful watercrafter resided in the steadholt as well. “Nothing too bad, I hope.”

  The man shook his head and said, “Nothing we can’t handle.” He extended a hand to several seats by the fire. “Sit down, sit down. Let me get you a cup of something hot.”

  Fidelias murmured a thanks and settled down by the fire with the large man. “Steadholder . . . Bernard, I assume?”

  “Just Bernard, sir.”

  “Please. Just Del.”

  The Steadholder half-smiled. “Del. So what brings you out to Garrison this late in the year, Del?”

  “Business,” Fidelias replied. “I represent a group of investors who fronted several prospectors money to locate gems in the wilderness over the summer. They should be coming back in, with the weather turning worse, and we’ll see what they’ve found.”

  Bernard nodded. “I thought you had a couple more with you. Where did your friends go?”

  Fidelias gave him a warm grin and a wink. “Ah yes. My guardsman is a newlywed, and I let him bring his wife with him. They went out to check on the horses.”

  The Steadholder gave Fidelias a polite smile. “To be young again, eh?”

  Fidelias agreed, “My days of creeping off to stables with blushing maids are long past.”

  “The storm’s coming in. I want to have everyone here in the hall, just to be safe.”

  Fidelias nodded. “I’m sure they’ll be along in a little while.”

  The Steadholder nodded. “See to it that they are. I’ll have no one harmed while under my roof.”

  Fidelias detected a slight edge to the words, one the Steadholder himself probably wasn’t aware of. His instincts twinged, a low and subtle alarm lending an edge of tension to him, but he nodded and smiled and said, “Of course.”

  “If you’ll excuse me, then. I need to make the rounds and make sure everything’s secured before the storm comes down.”

  “Of course. Again, thank you for your hospitality. If I can be of any assistance to you, let me know.”

  Bernard grunted and rose, his expression preoccupied. Fidelias watched the man carefully, but could read little of him through his body language. Tense, to be sure, but wouldn’t any Steadholder be, when facing a threat to his holders? He carried his leg stiffly, still, as he moved out of the hall and into the courtyard, and just before he left, the big man glanced over his shoulder, toward a staircase in the far corner of the hall.

  Fidelias watched him and waited until the Steadholder had left the hall to glance at the staircase himself. Interesting.

  A moment later, a pretty young girl brought a steaming mug out to Fidelias’s seat by the fire, presenting it to him with a slight curtsey. “Sir.”

  He smiled at her and accepted the mug. “Thank you, young lady. But please, call me Del.”

  She smiled at him, a winsome expression. “My name is Beritte, sir — Del.”

  “A lovely name for a lovely girl.” He sipped at the drink, a tea he vaguely recognized. “Mmmm, wonderful. I suppose you’ve had an interesting few days here, with the storm and all that’s happened.”

  She nodded, folding her hands in front of her and inhaling just enough to let her bodice round out her young breasts. “Between all the excitement yesterday and then last night, it’s been one thing after another. Though I suppose it isn’t anything compared to the life of a gem merchant, sir.”

  His eyebrows lifted, and he said, letting a small smile touch his mouth, “I don’t remember mentioning that to you, Beritte. I thought I was alone with the Steadholder.”

  Her cheeks colored bright scarlet. “Oh, sir — I’m sorry. I’ve a little windcrafting you see and . . .”

  “And you listened in?” he suggested.

  “We so seldom have visitors to Bernardholt, sir,” the girl said. She looked up, her eyes direct. “I’m ever so interested in new, exciting people.”

  Who are wealthy gem merchants, Fidelias thought wryly. “Completely understandable. Though honestly, from the things I’ve heard . . .” He leaned closer to her, looking left and right. “Was the Steadholder really hurt yesterday?”

  The girl knelt down beside the chair, leaning toward him just enough to let him see the curve of her bosom should he look down. “Yes, and it was terrible. He was so pale that when Fade—Fade’s our idiot, sir, the poor man—first dragged him in here, I thought the Steadholder was dead. And then Kord and his sons went mad, and the Steadholders all set to fighting one another with their furies.” Her eyes gleamed. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Perhaps later, after dinner, you’d like to hear more about it.”

  Fidelias nodded, meeting her eyes. “That sounds very exciting, Beritte. And the boy? Was he hurt as well?”

  The girl blinked at him for a moment, expression confused, and then asked, blankly, “Tavi, sir? Is that who you mean?”

  “I’d only heard there was a boy hurt as well.”

  “Oh . . . I suppose you mean Tavi, then, but he’s no one. And even though he’s the Steadholder’s nephew, we don’t really like to talk about him very much, sir. He and simple Fade.”

  “The boy’s an idiot as well?”

  “Oh, he’s clever enough, I suppose — just as Fade is handy enough with a smith’s hammer. But he’s never going to be much more than Fade is.” She leaned closer to him, so that her breasts pressed against his arm, and whispered importantly, “He’s furyless, sir.”

  “Entirely?” Fidelias tilted his head, holding his cup where he could be sure his voice would strike the drink within it squarely. “I’ve never heard of such a thing. Do you think I could meet him?”

  Beritte shrugged. “If you really want to. He went up to his room, when the Steadholder brought him and that slave home. I suppose he’ll be down for dinner.”

  Fidelias nodded toward the stairs the Steadholder had glanced at. “Upstairs there? Do you know if the slave is up there as well?”

  Beritte frowned at him. “I suppose. They’ll be down for dinner, I expect. I’m cooking tonight, and I’m a very good cook, sir. I’d love to hear what you think of —”

  A new voice interrupted the girl, confident and smooth. “Beritte, that will be quite enough from you. You’ve chores in the kitchen. Attend to them.”

  The girl flushed an angry and embarrassed pink, rose to give Fidelias a swift curtsey, and then fled the hall, back toward the kitchens.

  Fidelias lifted his eyes to see a tall, girlish figure wearing a dressing gown. Long, dark hair spilled over her shoulders, down to her waist, Her face was youthful, with a pleasingly full mouth. She carried herself with quiet confidence, and he noted the threads of silver in her hair. This would be the watercrafter, then.

  At once, Fidelias drew in his emotions, carefully controlling them, veiling them from her perceptions, even as he rose to bow to her. “Lady Steadholder?”

  She regarded him with a cool expression, her own features every bit as masked as he knew his own were. “I am the Steadholder’s sister, Isana. Welcome to Bernardholt, sir.”

  “A pleasure. I hope I did not steal away the girl for too long.”

  “As do I,” Isana said. “She has a tendency to talk when she should listen.”

  “There are many like her across the Realm,” he murmured.

  “May I inquire as to your business in Bernardholt, sir?”

  The question was innocuous enough, but Fidelias sensed the trap in it. He kept tight rein on his feelings and said, blithely, “We seek shelter from the coming storm, l
ady, and are passing through on our way to Garrison.”

  “I see.” She glanced after the girl and said, “I hope you have no plans to make away with any of our young people, sir.”

  Fidelias let out a low laugh. “Naturally not, lady.”

  Her eyes moved back to his and remained there, steady, for several long beats. He regarded her in reply with a blank, pleasant smile.

  “But where are my manners?” the woman said. “A moment, sir.” She crossed to the fire and took from a shelf near it a pan, some clean cloths. She filled the pan from the pipe that passed through the rear of the fireplace, the water steaming, and moved back to him. She knelt in front of him, setting the pan aside, and began unlacing his boots.

  Fidelias frowned. Though the gesture would have been common enough in a city, it was rarely observed in the steadholts, particularly those this far from civilization. “Really, lady, this isn’t necessary.”

  She looked up at him, and he thought he caught a glimmer of triumph in her eyes. “Oh, but it is. I insist, sir. It is to our very great honor that we treat our guests with courtesy and hospitality.”

  “You’re already doing enough,” he said.

  She tugged his boot off and tossed it to one side. The other soon joined it. “Nonsense. My brother would be horrified if I did not treat you with all the honor you deserve.”

  Fidelias settled back with his tea, frowning, but unable to voice any particular protest against the ritual. As she washed his feet, people began to trickle into the hall by threes and fours and fives; families, mostly, he noted. The steadholt was a prosperous one. Though the seats around the fire were given a respectful space, the rest of the large hall was soon filled with motion and sound and quietly festive talk — the mark of a folk who knew that they were safe, while outside the thunder rolled, the wind was rising, and the storm chimes were clanging away in steady rhythm.

  Isana finished and said, “I’ll just have these brushed clean, sir, and send them right back to you.” She rose, taking his boots in hand. “I’m afraid we can offer only clean blankets and a place beside the fire this night. We’ll have our dinner together and then turn in for the night.”

  Fidelias glanced at the stairs and then back to the watercrafter. Simple enough, then. Once everyone was sleeping, even the suspicious watercrafter, it would be an easy enough matter to slit three throats in the darkness and slip away before morning light. “Everyone together at dinner.” He smiled at her and said, “That sounds per —”

  The doors to the hall abruptly slammed open, and Aldrick stormed in, letting in the howling wind. Rain and sleet pounded down around his broad shoulders and across the threshold with him. Odiana clung to his side. Both looked disheveled, straw littering their hair and clothing. Aldrick cut through the crowded hall and came straight to Fidelias, the holders scattering out of his way, like sheep before a running horse.

  “Fidelias,” Aldrick breathed, keeping his voice low. “Someone has let our horses out. They know.”

  Fidelias let out a curse and looked toward the watercrafter — only to see her holding her skirts with one hand while she dashed up the far staircase, his boots in her other.

  “Bloody crows,” he breathed, rising, feet cold upon the floor. “I’ll get the horses and the Steadholder. The boy and Amara are up those stairs.” He turned to Aldrick, feeling for the knife hidden in his tunic, and said, “Kill them.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Tavi eventually came to the conclusion that he was sulking.

  It wasn’t easily reached, of course. It took nearly ten minutes of staring at the wall in smoldering anger after his aunt’s departure before it occurred to Tavi that she did not look at all well. That, in turn, led to worrying about her, and after that it became impossible to sustain a good, sullen rage. The anger slowly faded and left him feeling tired, sore, and hungry.

  Tavi sat up on his bed and swung his legs over the side. He kicked his feet, frowning, while he thought about the events of the past day, and what they meant to him.

  He had neglected his responsibilities and told a lie. And now he suffered for it—and so did the people who cared about him. His uncle had been wounded badly in his defense, and now Aunt Isana looked as though the efforts of healing his uncle’s leg had damaged her health. Such things were not unheard of. And even though Bernard tried to hide it, his uncle walked with a very slight limp. It was just possible that he would keep it, that the injury had done permanent damage to his leg.

  Tavi rested his chin in his hands and closed his eyes, feeling foolish, selfish, childish. He had been so focused on getting the sheep—his sheep — back, on keeping his uncle’s respect, that he had forgotten to behave in a manner that was worthy of it. He had exposed himself and others to great risk, all for the sake of his dream — the Academy.

  If he had gotten to the Academy as a result of his ill-considered choices, would it have been worth it? Could he really have made a better life for himself, knowing what he had traded away to get it?

  “You are an idiot, Tavi,” he mumbled to himself. “A true, shining example of idiocy.”

  Matters could be much worse for him—much worse for his family, as well. He shuddered at the thought of his uncle, dead on the ground, or his aunt laying beside a healing tub with her eyes empty, her body still breathing but already dead. Though things had not played out the way he had wished them to, they could have been more disastrous.

  Though he ached in every muscle and his head felt light and feverish, he went to the door. He would find his aunt and uncle, apologize to them, and offer to make amends. He had no idea what he would do, but he knew that he had to at least try. They deserved that much.

  He had to earn the respect he wanted, not through daring or cleverness, but simply through hard work and reliability, just as his uncle and aunt had.

  Tavi was about to open the door when there came a swift, soft rapping at his window.

  He blinked, looking back across the dimness of his room. Outside, the wind was rising, and he had already put up the storm shutters. Perhaps one of the more mischievous wind furies had rattled the shutters.

  The knock came again. Three quick knocks, two slow, three quick, two slow.

  Tavi went to the window and unfastened the latch to the storm shutters.

  They sprang open, all but knocking him down, and let in a torrent of cold, misty wind. Tavi drew back several steps, as someone slipped into the room, lithe and nearly silent.

  Amara made a soft, quiet sound and slipped entirely into the room, then turned and shut the window and the shutters behind her. She was wearing what looked like a pair of his uncle’s trousers, belted about her slender waist with a heavy leather cord. His tunic and shirt billowed on her, as did the heavily padded jacket and cloak, but she had secured them with more strips of leather, so that she was quite evidently functional in them. She wore pale slippers on her feet and what looked like several layers of socks under them. In one hand, she held a bundle that included an old leather pack of Bernard’s, his hunting bow, a handful of arrows, and the sword they’d recovered from the Princeps’ Memorium.

  “Tavi,” she said. “Get dressed in warm clothes. Bring extra socks, some blankets, food if you have any up here. We’re leaving.”

  “Leaving?” Tavi stammered.

  “Keep your voice down,” the slave hissed.

  Tavi blinked and mumbled, “Sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize. Hurry. We don’t have much time.”

  “We can’t leave,” Tavi protested. “The storm’s coming in.”

  “It won’t be as bad as the last one,” Amara said. “And we can take more salt with us. You have a smokehouse here, yes? Salt for the meat?”

  “Of course, but—”

  Amara crossed to his trunks, swung the first open, and started digging.

  “Hey!” Tavi protested.

  She threw a pair of heavy trousers into his face, followed by three of his thickest shirts. She followed that with his jacket from its
peg on the wall and then his second-best cloak.

  “Get those on,” Amara said.

  “No,” Tavi said, firmly. “I’m not leaving. I just got back. People got hurt trying to come and find me. I’m not going to make them go through that again. You can’t expect me to put the people of my own steadholt in danger so that I can go running off with a fugitive slave!”

  Amara went to the door and checked the latch, making sure it was shut. “Tavi, we don’t have time. If you want to live, come with me. Right now.”

  Tavi blinked at her, so startled that he dropped the clothes he had been holding. “Wh-what?”

  “If you don’t leave with me, right now, you aren’t going to live through the night.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Get dressed,” she said.

  “No,” he snapped. “Not until I know what’s happening.”

  Her eyes narrowed, and for the first time he’d been near her, Tavi felt a sliver of fear quiver through him. “Tavi. If you don’t get dressed and come with me, I will knock you out, wrap you in a blanket, and take you with me.”

  Tavi licked his lips. “N-no you won’t,” he said. “You couldn’t carry me down through the hall, and you won’t be able to carry me out the window, either—or on the ground. Not with your ankle hurt.”

  Amara blinked at him and then ground her teeth. “Too clever,” she muttered. “This steadholt, maybe every one in the Valley, is in danger. I think you and I can help them. Tavi, get dressed. Please. I’ll explain while you do.”

  Tavi swallowed, staring at the young woman. The steadholt in danger? What was she talking about? The last thing he needed was to go chasing off again, to prove to everyone who mattered that he couldn’t be trusted.

  But Amara had saved his life. And if she was telling the truth . . .

  “All right. Talk.” He stooped down to recover his clothes and started shrugging into the shirts.

  Amara nodded and came closer, holding the clothes for him, helping him into them. “First of all, I’m not a slave. I’m a Cursor. And I’ve been sent to this valley at the command of the First Lord himself.”