Hunter and Fox

by Philippa Ballantine

  He had used his minor power to avoid detection and got into the games early. He still wasn't sure if the Caisah's guards were hunting him here or not, but he'd risked it for a chance to see her again. Talyn. In the aftermath of the panic, he acknowledged it was like poking a dragon with a stick. No one actually stared at the Hunter, and the way her eyes had narrowed indicated she certainly wasn't used to it.

  He wanted her to remember him even if it wasn't for their encounter of years gone by. He certainly hadn't been able to forget and thought of it often. Like now. It might have been his imagination, a wish fulfillment, but he could have sworn that he had seen softness in the Hunter that night. Near tears were in her eyes. He was not quite prideful enough to think his lovemaking had put them there.

  Taking a deep draught of cider, Finn put himself in her place back then. It was an easy thing for a talespinner to do. Vaerli with the Second Gift would have been wrapped in each other's thoughts—closer than any other being could imagine sharing with another. To have such closeness and then have it denied would be a great loss. He felt terrible sorrow for her, but back then he hadn't understood.

  Finn laughed into the dregs of his drink. Surely he was the only person in all of Conhaero who had sympathy for the Hunter. He could also imagine what the dreaded Talyn the Dark would do with these emotions.

  It had been easy to get into the games, but getting into the masque could be far more difficult. Since coming to Perilous, he had felt the weight of despair lift, and he now viewed spitting in the eye of the Caisah as a worthy challenge—if he got to see Talyn, that would be icing on an already-tasty cake.

  “There you are!” Varlesh plumped himself down in the opposite seat, breaking the direction of Finn's thoughts. At first his visitor appeared to be alone, but a glance out the inn's window showed Si and Equo helping pick up some poor basket seller's wares.

  “Pure One's backside,” Varlesh swore easily, before crooking a finger at the serving girl for his own pint, “that's quite a ruckus.”

  “I had nothing to do with it,” Finn insisted.

  “Well you might not, but things seem to happen around you, boyo. Not your fault, mind, but it is a disturbing fact.”

  Before his friend could fully dissect his fault, Finn changed the subject. “Have you found a way into the Citadel yet?”

  Varlesh accepted his beer with relish, and Finn had to wait until he had gulped down the top half. He leaned over and pressed a tiny piece of paper into the talespinner's hand. “The good thing about an old city is that there's always a back door or two. So we got you this for your night out.” Varlesh drew an exquisitely painted and carved full head mask out from inside his coat.

  Finn took it in his hands. It was black and red with feathers around the top, beautiful in a reptilian way. He looked sideways at his friend. “Where did you get this?”

  Downing the last of his beer, Varlesh wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Picked it up on our travels. Now, be careful with it. The folk I got it from said it was old—maybe even Vaerli.”

  “Thank you, Varlesh.” Finn clasped his hand as he made to get up. “You've all been good friends to me, despite everything I've put you through.”

  He flicked some coins onto the table, enough to cover both their drinks, and left before they could try to dissuade him.

  Varlesh stared after Finn for a moment. Then he downed the dregs of his beer and went outside. The crowds of Perilous had already swallowed his friend up, but Si and Equo were there waiting for him. They tipped their hats to the woman they'd been assisting and wandered over to join him.

  “Is he really going?” Equo asked, brushing stray strands of willow from his cloak.

  “Course he is,” Varlesh replied gruffly, “but if he thinks it has anything to do with the Caisah and not that she-devil of a Hunter then he's lying to himself.”

  “Nothing we can do about it?” Equo shrugged.

  “Not a thing,” Varlesh muttered. “The Crone's whiskers, he's always had a pining for that creature. It'll get him killed someday, for sure.”

  Equo slapped Varlesh on the back a couple of times, and then both of them turned toward the food market in search of their dinner.

  Si stood there a moment longer, looking back the way Finn had gone. “But not today.” He smiled. “Most definitely not today.”

  Oriconion was where Ungro's route ended. Byre peered out cautiously from the back of the wagon, rubbing gingerly his newly acquired bruises. He smelt salt and fish, and heard water lapping against the shore. This small seaside town had a reputation that far exceeded its appearance. He had heard tell that it was the most rebellious town in the Caisah's empire. The Vaerli thought he just might like it here.

  They had made good time reaching the port, but he would still have to find his own way farther south. He would have little time here to explore.

  The wagon creaked as Ungro got down. He hobbled around to the back. The gruff man's arm was wrapped and hanging in a sling. Byre might not know much of the ways of the Vaerli, but he knew well how to do a field dressing.

  Ungro couldn't meet his eyes, though. “I'm grateful to you for saving my life, lad, and for patching me up, but I hope you don't take offence if I stay at a different establishment than you.” He looked embarrassed about his own cowardice, but Byre understood. Traveling with Vaerli when all they wielded was a stick was one thing, but seeing them converse with the stark elements of the earth itself was another story.

  “Let no one say that Ungro is a mean man.” The driver dipped into the hanging purse at his waist and held out a few bronze coins to Byre.

  “No, there is really no need for thanks.”

  The driver closed Byre's fingers on the money. “You're a good lad, but don't be foolish. This run is a well-paying one, and you saved the cargo and me with it.” He clapped him on the back before taking Old Clopper by the bridle and leading his team up the street.

  Byre hopped down as the wagon rolled off. Barely had his feet touched the ground when a familiar sensation ran up his spine. He felt immediately that he was not the only Vaerli in the area. It was an odd discomfort, like a burning tingle at the tips of his fingers. She was very close but not near enough to cause deep pain.

  Closing his eyes, he concentrated on the sensation and felt along the connection. It was Nyree the Seer-to-be. They were family in a distant sort of way. His mother had been a second cousin to hers, and he remembered being awed by her as a little boy. An aura of expectancy hung about her shoulders, and she followed Putorae the Born Seer everywhere with a mysterious look on her face—as if she could already see into the future. She had not yet taken the marks of her profession back then. Later there would be no chance to.

  He would have liked to talk, to find what had been happening to her in this town. Instead, he decided to find the message she would have left, most likely near the city gate. After the sheer horror of the Harrowing had subsided, the Vaerli still needed to communicate. So they reverted back to the Wyrde, a system of tracking signals that had previously only been used for hunting. Now it was the only way left to communicate. The Wyrde remained a code only the Vaerli could read.

  Backtracking a little, he circled around the town gates, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible. He found Nyree's Wyrde marked on the back of the nearest shop. Her small precise knife cuts into the wood were typical of the would-be Seer's neatness.

  A circle sharply bisected with two lines. This one does not want to meet.

  That was good, Nyree was still hanging on.

  A series of intersecting slashes. Unsafe town. Get out quickly.

  A semicircle with a suspended dot. Rutilian Guard active.

  That was bad. The Rutilian were the enforcers for the Caisah, making sure no Vaerli had an edged weapon of a certain length or was out on the street at night. Often, though, they carried vigilance much further, killing Vaerli merely for sport.

  Checking over his shoulder, Byre used his eating knife to quickly cut his moniker
in below Nyree's. Now others would know he was alive.

  Then he slipped away, determined to find a wagon heading south as quickly as possible. His stomach was rumbling, though; the last food he'd had was Ungro's morsel of bread the night before. No matter how bad the situation, he still needed to eat. As long as he was out of the town by nightfall, he should be all right.

  Byre looked around. All he could see were wagons and guards—no sign of immediate danger. That was the trouble with some Vaerli; they became overly paranoid. Most times he had seen that Wyrde, it had come to nothing.

  Not quite knowing where to find sustenance, Byre took a different direction to the one Ungro had. After an hour or so of aimless wandering he soon worked out that there was something very different about this town. A high wall divided it, and the only people he saw on this side of it were the tribes of Manesto. He couldn't have stuck out much more if he had painted himself purple.

  The looks Byre got walking the street were even more unfriendly than usual. It wasn't illegal to be a Vaerli, but being here he wondered if perhaps things had changed in the last few days. At the market where he stopped to buy some sweetbreads he had to try three places before finding one that would serve him. Most of the sellers turned their backs and pretended he wasn't even there.

  Not daring a public inn, Byre tried to find himself a quiet corner. Finally, he settled on wedging himself in a doorway behind an abandoned stall. He was still on edge since his last problems in a market.

  “Spare a coin, young sir?”

  The old woman was crumpled in the corner as if someone had abandoned her there. Byre had thought her a pile of old rags, but on closer inspection, both impressions could be correct. One eye was filmed over, though with illness or injury was hard to tell, and her dark face was a maze of lines and wrinkles. She held out a mangled hand but somehow managed not to make it seem like a plea.

  He dipped into his flimsy pouch and pressed what little he could find into her palm. She hid it away so quickly she might have had the Seventh Gift. In return, she grinned and magically produced a small satchel of dried figs that she wordlessly offered to him.

  Byre sat down next to her and offered the sweetbreads to her.

  “Not at my age, son. Meat does horrible thing to my digestion.” She stared at him and then barked a laugh.

  He laughed with her. “Forgive me asking, but are you of the Mohl tribe?”

  “You're a sharp one.” She popped a fig into her mouth and began to suck on it with great relish.

  “Seems I am lucky in my travels to meet so many of your tribe.”

  The old woman gave him a piercing look.

  “What is going on with this town?” Byre tried another tack. “I saw the wall, and I seem to be the only person not of the tribes of Manesto here.”

  “Powder keg this place is,” she whispered. “The Portree, one of the lesser peoples to come through the White Void, proud folk they are. Always fighting. Always seeking to be free of the Caisah.”

  “And for that the Caisah had to put up a wall?”

  The woman nodded. “Said it was for everyone's safety. Keep them in line. But the Portree still have their ships.” Her eyes narrowed on him. “You shouldn't be here, young Vaerli.”

  Byre looked at her sharply. How could she know how young or old he was? Past a certain age all Vaerli looked much the same.

  She chuckled and poked him. “It's your walk, son. You ain't got none of that Vaerli swagger. All the old ones have it.”

  Byre looked down at his fingers. “I wasn't raised by my people. My sister found me a family in the provinces who didn't mind caring for a Vaerli child.”

  “Must be brave folk.”

  “Were brave folk,” Byre corrected her.

  The old woman nodded. “Hard times, hard times indeed.” She reached out and patted his hand. “But don't you worry, there is something else at work here.” Her voice was younger, stretching toward youth somehow.

  Byre darted a look at her, but she had dropped her head to concentrate on her dwindling supply of figs.

  “Tell me,” he went on carefully, “have you ever met the Sofai of your tribe?”

  “Me?” She pointed at her thin chest. “When would I have done that?” She patted him on the shoulder, and her touch was light as a sparrow's. “You best be off and find that wagon south you need. Do not linger here.” And with that she tucked away her figs, nestled down into her mass of cloth, and went to sleep.

  Getting to his feet, Byre looked down at her, but now she seemed just like any old lady. Shaking his head, he turned to do as she had suggested. He didn't like this place, and he didn't like the feeling that somehow something was following him. Fate or destiny, he didn't believe in either of those.

  Evening was pulling in and unless he found a wagon heading in the right direction soon he'd be forced to find shelter for the night. The cluster of inns Ungro had headed for was his best chance, though it was very close to the brooding presence of the wall. He lingered there, chatting to the drivers, but they were only late arrivals. Few were setting out until the next morning and none in the direction he wanted.

  Recalling his promise to Ungro, Byre turned away from the inns, becoming resigned to the fact that he would have to sleep in this ill-fortuned town. So preoccupied with this stroke of bad luck was he that he didn't notice the group of Rutilian Guard lingering by the town fountain. The first thing he heard was low chuckles.

  Byre certainly didn't want to be drawing their attention, but curiosity got the better of him. He tried to see what so amused the Caisah's own. He thought they might be drinking ale, or telling lewd jokes, but frantic splashing cured him of that supposition. The Rutilians were far too busy with their sport to notice when he stopped in the middle of the square and stared.

  A tall blond-haired Rutilian with his helmet in one hand was towering over the far smaller form of a dark-skinned, sloe-eyed woman standing drenched in the fountain. She had a beautiful purple turban on her head, and tucked among the flamboyant orange of her dress was a small child. She managed not to look scared, but the way she turned away from the guards said she was not comfortable.

  One of the trio poked her in the shoulder. “What you doing this side of the fence, little bird?”

  She dropped her eyes, and her voice was low with a slight tremor to it. “I have trade on this side. I was allowed to cross.”

  “Well,” the third man, broad of shoulder and still wearing the intimidating helm, spoke. “It's nearly dark, and your kind shouldn't be about.”

  The blond pushed closer until he was almost standing on her toes. “You Portree whores should be back where you belong. Or were you touting for business?”

  The woman blazed at that. Her face tightened with anger before she whipped out a long-bladed knife and pointed it directly at the offending man's crotch.

  Byre couldn't see things getting better from there, so he decided he really should say something. “I am sure there are plenty of whores elsewhere in this fine town. Why not leave this one be?”

  The woman shot him a look as angry as the one she'd just used on the guard.

  “Not that you're a whore…” Byre stammered, feeling his rescue attempt coming apart at the seams.

  The guards laughed.

  “Find your own slut,” said the blond, giving Byre a little shove.

  His swarthy companion looked a little harder though. “You're a Vaerli…”

  Byre felt their attention shift away from the woman, which was good for her, but could be deadly for him. He flicked his fingers at her, and hoped she would realize now was a good time to melt into the shadows. “Yes I am,” he replied with a lift of his chin.

  The petty amusement in their faces slowly drained away. Though everyone knew his people had no power left, there was still residual racial fear.

  “Boy, show us,” growled the smaller guard, shouldering himself forward, “you're not carrying any bladed weapons.”

  Byre let out a little sigh.
It was always the same. He might be nearly three hundred years old, but for some reason Rutilians always insisted on acting as if he was an infant.

  “Of course he isn't,” the blond one sneered. “Without their powers, the Vaerli are all cowards.”

  That shouldn't have bothered him. It shouldn't have made any difference after all these years. The woman, who was sliding as quietly as she could out of the fountain, shared a look with him. He could see she was smiling.

  “Damn right.” One reached forward and shoved at him.

  It was enough.

  Byre had trained too long and in too many disciplines to let it all go to waste. Moving his weight to his right foot, he slid aside from the touch and smashed the butt of his cane up against the guard's elbow. The satisfying sound of crunching bone was accompanied by his opponent's surprised scream as he dropped to the ground in agony.

  Byre didn't make the mistake of being overly gentle. Experience had taught him that once these things got started they moved quickly, and he didn't want to face three opponents at once as he had recently.

  The blond one, who looked to have more battle training, did not leap in. He shoved the woman and she tumbled backwards once more into the fountain. No one wanted an angry mother with a knife at their back.

  While their downed companion howled in pain, the other two drew their swords and spread out. These were no desperate bandits. They had experience slaying people, probably some of those had been Vaerli.

  They came at Byre together, with both swords only a heartbeat apart. Catching the first one, he deflected it aside and whirled behind to parry the other. Mid-turn he swapped his stick to the other hand so that he caught the second attacker by surprise. His blow slipped up and under the defense, smashing into the man's temple. He dropped like a stone, but Byre was not quick enough dodging out of the way of the blond guard's riposte. The tip of the sword glanced across the top of his shoulder.