9780981988238

by Leona Wisoker

  “Neutrality means,” Deiq said, “being a whore to every man while letting him think he's the only one.” He stood and smiled down at her. “It's a wonderful dance. I look forward to sharing it with you.”

  Before she could form a reply, he turned and walked away towards the entrance of the dining hall. After a moment, when her breath unlocked itself from its hard stop beneath her ribs, she used it to swear: quietly, but at considerable length.

  * * *

  Chapter Five

  The village of Kybeach sprawled, small and smelly, along the edge of marshland. Idisio had heard stories about this village from fellow thieves who'd wandered down the Coast Road, but somehow their descriptions of the low-tide funk hadn't quite matched the sheer intensity of the real thing.

  Accommodations, he remembered being warned, were low quality at best and rat-havens at worst; nobody of station stopped here long. And nobody shifty ought to, because Kybeach held a reputation as the most singularly narrow-minded, hostile village in existence. Although Idisio tried to explain that to Scratha, the man seemed deaf to reason.

  “It'll need chronicled, then,” Scratha snapped when pressed. “Best the king knows what's on his doorstep, don't you think?”

  Idisio shrugged and dropped the argument, hoping the man's attitude would change when they reached Kybeach; but if anything, the swamp stink seemed to tighten Scratha's resolve.

  The only possible word for the stables was foul. Scratha, checking at the door, snorted in abrupt fury, looped the reins over a nearby post, and ordered the startled stable-boy to bring him a muck-rake and shovel. Idisio, pressed into unwilling service, tied a cloth over his nose to block the worst of the smell and began to dig out the accumulated filth.

  The stable-lad peered at them dubiously and made no move to help. “Merchant Lashnar won' like you handlin' his mare,” he muttered. “She's pregnant. She's sensitive, you know. He won' like it.”

  “Then tell him to come move her outside,” Scratha snapped without turning.

  “Yeah, tell him we're busy doing your job for no damn pay,” Idisio muttered, earning a black glare from the boy, who slouched away with ostentatious indifference.

  Not long after that, a determined stride carried in, not a merchant, but a young woman with ash-blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and an undeniable bounce in certain areas of chest and hip. Idisio, aware of his sweaty, filthy appearance, grimaced ruefully: probably the only pretty girl in Kybeach and she'd never look at him twice after this.

  “What are you two doing?” she demanded, planting hands on hips and scowling at them. “Baylor's in a fuss over you pushing him aside and complaining over filth that isn't. . . .”

  Her voice trailed off as she caught sight of the piles of stable sweepings near the outer door. Her eyes widened in disbelief.

  “You're never been in these stables, have you, s'a?” Scratha said, straightening. He studied her with a coolly detached appraisal.

  “Not for a while . . . I've been busy helping at the inn. . . .” She edged forward and peered into the noisome darkness of the stable. “Good gods. It's disgusting! What has he been doing?”

  “Rough guess, nothing,” Idisio said. She swung a sharp glare at him.

  “There's one horse in a half-decent stall,” Scratha said, leaning on his rake. “That'd be the merchant's mare, I take it? Needs moved. Tell him to come do it.”

  Her chin came up, annoyance replaced with determination.

  “I'll do it,” she said. “I'm his daughter. You two draw back a bit if you would, please; she's always more skittish than usual this close to birthing. She ought to have peace and quiet, not be moved around and aggravated . . . oh, my father's going to be so angry. . . .”

  She marched past them, muttering under her breath. After she'd led the gravid mare out of sight, Scratha resumed working without any comment, but his movements held a renewed ferocity. By the end of the day the stables were clean, the horses noticeably happier, and Idisio markedly more sour. Scratha, for his part, had a satisfied, if still dour, expression on his face as they sponged off with the freshly refilled, much cleaner water of the horse trough.

  The stable-boy, who hadn't offered so much as a finger's worth of help all day, crept back into sight, glaring with a deep resentment.

  “You gon' get me fired,” he accused.

  “If the mare had foaled in that filth, you'd have lost them both,” Scratha said, lip curling. “Would the merchant have cared for that, Baylor?”

  The boy blanched, as if Scratha knowing his name were a piece of witchcraft, and slouched to the stable doors. After a brief look inside, he turned a smoldering glare at them, his resentment no less.

  “Outsiders,” he said. “Think you're better'n everyone else.” Scratha shook his head with a snort and offered no other reply.

  “Supper, Idisio,” he said, directing one last brooding glare after the stable-boy, and steered Idisio out of the stable.

  Even with windows thrown wide and lanterns lit, the tavern remained a dark and smoky place, little more than a wide room with a scattering of scarred tables. A serving girl, the attractive lines of her broad face and generous curves soured by a thoroughly sullen expression, advanced as Scratha and Idisio settled at a corner table.

  “What can I get you?” she demanded. “We got chicken pie, roast gerho, biscuits, an' pot-greens; long-ale, mead, and red wine.” She recited the list with an air of one put out by the effort it required to speak.

  “That would be fine,” Scratha said serenely.

  She stared at him. “What, alla that?”

  “Yes,” he said, as if surprised. “There are two of us. I'll have wine with supper, please.” He turned an inquiring look on Idisio.

  “Wine,” the boy said absently, trying to think how to explain to the man what he'd just done.

  The girl snorted and swished away indignantly, and Scratha frowned after her. “Did I say something wrong?”

  Hoping that it hadn't been a rhetorical question, Idisio took the opening and said, “I'd guess a pie's usually split between four people, with maybe a lump of boiled greens thrown in to be generous. For us to order so much is. . . .” he searched for the right word and finally concluded, “wasteful.”

  “Wasteful!” Scratha sat brooding again for a time.

  When the girl came back and thumped two heavy wooden mugs of red wine onto the table, he gave her an intent, searching look. Mistaking his interest, she returned a much kinder look than she'd offered before, swaying her hip to one side and breathing deeply.

  “Your food'll be out soon,” she said in a voice grown suddenly soft. “You're staying at the inn tonight?”

  “Yes,” Scratha said, his eyes narrowing, “but I have no need for company, thank you.”

  She pouted, her earlier sourness returning instantly, and left them in a huff.

  “Wasteful,” Scratha said in a low voice, frowning down at the mug and turning it slowly in his wide hands. “Is that how you see it, Idisio?”

  Idisio hesitated, cautious in his answer.

  “I can understand it,” he said at last.

  “How can a quarter-pie and a handful of greens be expected to feed a man after a full day's work?” Scratha demanded. “It's nonsense! It's a child's portion.” He turned one hand over and frowned at a developing blister.

  “I've survived on less,” Idisio answered, hoping that wouldn't remind Scratha of his street-thief origins. It seemed safer to keep that memory in the deep background of the man's mind.

  “As have I,” Scratha said, “but that doesn't make it a generous portion to serve to a traveler.”

  Idisio shook his head. “These aren't portions like at that palace dinner, Master,” he said. “Most people don't eat several small courses. They make do with one, so it's a lot bigger. Look—here it comes.”

  Gerau stared in disbelief as two servers, each with heavily laden platters, advanced on their table. “That much difference?” he muttered.

  “Yeah,
” Idisio said, holding back a grin. “That much difference.”

  The servers plunked down the platters and withdrew, leaving the heat of their sullen glares behind with the food.

  One platter held an entire large pie. Around it had been arranged six biscuits, a wide bowl heaped with pot-greens, and a small bowl of coarse salt. On the other lay the largest roasted haunch of marsh lizard Idisio had ever seen. The entire creature must have easily weighed over twenty pounds when living.

  “Gerho,” Idisio muttered, staring at it. “Wasn't this Ninnic's favorite food?”

  “Yes,” Scratha said absently, looking over the food. “I see now that I should have ordered less. I'll remember that.”

  He reached out and tore a chunk of meat free, wiped grease away with a piece of biscuit, and bit in contentedly. Idisio shuddered and reached for the pie instead.

  Some time later, when their appetites were slowing, Idisio said, “The man to the side, over there, has been watching us since the food arrived.”

  “I know,” Scratha said, unalarmed.

  Idisio shrugged and returned his attention to the food.

  A few moments later, the man rose from his table and approached them openly. He was a tall, thin man with bony hands and a long face. Bright blue eyes under an untidy mop of blond hair and a tan to his skin that came from sun, not heritage, marked him as northern-bred at least in part.

  “Greetings, s'es,” he said, bowing courteously. “May I join you?”

  “Certainly,” Scratha said amiably, motioning to a chair. He seemed completely at ease, very unlike the nearly hostile, reserved silence he’d displayed at the king’s table.

  The man sat down, relaxed and smiling, and cast a glance at the almost empty platter of gerho. “Do you like the meal?” He caught the server's eye and waved peremptorily, then rubbed his hands together briskly at her puzzled scowl.

  “I do,” Scratha said. “Very filling, and tender meat. The cooks did a fine job with it.”

  The serving girl dropped two thick pieces of cloth on the table and retreated without a word.

  “You're fond of gerho, then?”

  “I am. Are you the breeder?” Scratha picked up one of the cloths, tossed the other to Idisio, and began wiping his hands free of grease.

  The man appeared delighted by Scratha's perception. “A man of rare wit, you are, s'e,” he said. “Yes indeed. Asti Lashnar, humble gerho merchant, at your service. I understand you rescued my prize mare from dreadful conditions earlier. I'm in your debt.”

  “No, you're not,” Scratha said, and changed the subject before the man could protest. “Are all your gerho so big?”

  “Oh, yes,” the merchant said. “I've a pen at the edge of the marsh. Perhaps you'd like to come see them? I've some over five feet long.”

  “Not tonight, thank you,” Scratha said. “Very impressive, that size.”

  The man swelled with pride. “They have to be large. I have built a thriving business of these creatures, supplying them direct to the king's table, no less. The common gerho is simply too small to sustain profitable dealing. I've bred them for years, s'e, over ten years, and this latest litter is the finest yet.”

  “I believe I've seen you in Bright Bay,” Scratha said.

  “Indeed, indeed!” the man said. “I've spent quite a bit of time there. I've no doubt you've seen me. In and out of the king's court, I was, for years. But business . . . is not what it was.”

  “King Oruen dislikes gerho?”

  “Bitterly,” the man agreed, appearing despondent. “I've tried to gain audience with him, had my own cook prepare the best dishes possible; no good. And what the king won't eat, the nobles won't touch; I'm on the edge of ruin, with over two dozen of the beasts left to eat me out of all profit gathered over the years.”

  Idisio, catching the glitter in his master's eye, knew Scratha was tiring of his attempt at gracious mannerisms. The merchant, unaware of his danger, rattled on.

  “I'm looking for a partner, my lord, a man of wit and distinction, refined taste and honesty, who could help me find a new market. Are you perhaps headed up the road to Isata?”

  “Yes,” Scratha said, “but I'm no lord and I'm not interested in hauling along a load of gerho.”

  “Oh, no need, no need,” the merchant said quickly, half-laughing. “Perhaps I should have said, rather than partner, that I seek a sponsor, such as I had at court for many years.”

  “Neither will I give you coin to finance your venture,” Scratha said bluntly.

  The merchant licked his lips and tried again. “Of course not. Coin isn't the sort of thing a nobleman uses for arrangements, and you're a noble by your bearing, refuse the title as you will. I can offer . . . inducements, to sweeten your temper towards an alliance with—”

  “What are you offering?” Scratha cut in.

  “Something of far more warmth than coin,” the merchant said. “An alliance of great benefit to both of us. My daughter's of age, a fine girl, untouched in any way; you saw her earlier. Perhaps she might suit your interest.”

  Scratha stared at the man for a long moment, expressionless. The merchant returned a nervous smile, his confidence visibly crumbling around the edges.

  “Are you offering me your daughter's hand or sending her for my bed?” Scratha said at last. He sounded mildly curious, but his dark, desert-hawk stare never lightened.

  “She's a good girl,” the merchant started, rallying into indignation.

  “Then you're offering her hand,” Scratha interrupted. “You throw your daughter at every noble that comes through, or am I the first?”

  “I resent your implication!” the merchant said, flushed now. “My daughter is pure and untouched!”

  “Regardless,” Scratha said. “I'm not noble, and not interested.”

  The man's face crumpled a little. “But the potential benefits, my lord,” he said, rallying quickly. “Refusing this alliance, why, it, it would be as if Saint-King Wezel had turned away the philosophers searching for the fountain of gold in the center of the Holy Marshes—”

  “The world would be a great deal better off if that had happened,” Scratha interrupted. “I'll do without the salt of the Ugly Marshes gladly if it would erase the damage the Northern Church has done over the years.”

  The merchant's blue eyes narrowed sharply.

  “I see I mistook your nature,” he said stiffly, and rose. “I apologize for troubling you, s'e.”

  Scratha inclined his head in farewell as the merchant marched from the tavern. “Whoremongering fool,” he said, not lowering his voice. Heads turned in startled, frowning response.

  “Master,” Idisio said, his own voice low and urgent, “Please don't talk like that.”

  Scratha turned an annoyed stare on his servant. “What, are you suddenly bashful of strong language?”

  Idisio drew a breath, spoke with care.

  “You're not traveling as a nobleman,” he said, keeping an eye on the people who were staring at them now. He had a feeling Scratha was used to relatively fair fights, not bar brawls; if any of the men at nearby tables were good friends with Lashnar, things could get ugly fast. “You don't have protection against attacks.”

  “You worry too much,” Scratha said. “We're still within stone's throw of the outer edges of Bright Bay. And I can handle any attacks.”

  The moment of tension in the tavern passed, and drinkers returned to their ales without more than a disgusted head-shake. Idisio relaxed a little and turned most of his attention to the conversation with his master.

  “Winning a bar brawl easily would draw questions about who you are,” Idisio pointed out. “A King's Researcher wouldn't be a weaponsmaster, would he?”

  “Mmph.” Scratha frowned, considering. “You may be right. Again.” He paused, then added thoughtfully, “I think you may actually turn out useful after all.”

  Idisio resisted the impulse to roll his eyes.

  “I'll keep your caution in mind,” Scratha said. He
finished scrubbing grease from his hands and dropped the thick cloth napkin on the table. What had been left on the platters would feed another three men of average means to bursting, but Scratha clearly had no care for that.

  Wasteful, yes, but more than that, a dangerous advertisement of wealth. If Idisio had seen a man like Scratha walk into a low tavern in Bright Bay and order such a meal, his finger-knives would have been busy seconds later, and the man's lodging stripped of all wealth within the hour.

  At the thought, his stomach turned sour. “I ask your leave,” he said hurriedly. “I need to go find an outhouse.”

  “You don't need permission to piss,” Scratha grumbled, flicking his fingers at the door. “Go, go already. Good gods. . . .”