by Sonia Lyris
By the time he looked up from this distracted fussing, all the eyes in this crowded room were on him.
The owner approached, a woman with gray streaks in the braid down her back. She wiped her hands on her apron.
“Season’s blessing to you, ser,” she said. “You can sit, let me see, right there.” She pointed.
“Corner table, Kadla,” he said, too softly for anyone else to hear.
She looked back, mouth opening to tell him what she thought of his correction. But she hesitated, gave him another look. This was one of the many things he liked about Kadla.
“You,” she said, her tone as much amused as annoyed. “There.” She indicated the table he’d asked for, as if it had been her decision.
He went where she pointed and sat. When she came back a few minutes later, he passed her two palmed falcons, which saw no light before they went into her pocket.
“Call me Enlon. Trading from Perripur.”
Kadla smile a little. “I watch for you all year, then you stride in and I’m surprised. All over again. Fancy clothes this time, too. Didn’t you have a beard before?”
“You look younger every year, Kadla. What rare herbs do you use?”
She snorted. “Mountain air, good water. That’s what keeps me young.”
He chuckled.
“Don’t you laugh,” she added. “I’m as strong as my best mare.”
“And she’s a looker, I admit. But you’re far prettier. Smarter, too. Anyone tells you otherwise, I’ll find them and explain their mistake to them. Then I’ll come for you.”
“You and your fancy tongue.” She leaned down close to his face. “Still charming the young ones, are you? I’ve seen you work. They fall like cut grain, don’t they? Rumor is you’re worth washing the bedclothes for, but I don’t think you’re enough for me.”
“What would be enough?”
Even though they had some version of this conversation every year, he could see her slight blush.
“You’re a boy to me.”
“Then teach me to be a man.”
She stood back, made a tsking sound. “Go find yourself an anknapa. You won’t get better food or drink this way. Your silver’s good enough.”
“Kadla,” he said, mock-wounded, “you underestimate me. Come to my room tonight and I’ll show you how much.”
Her smile faded a bit. He could see her wondering how serious he was.
“A lot of food,” she said. “And water. If I remember right.”
“You do.”
“And a room.”
“Yes.”
“Same room as last time,” she said.
“Good. You’ll have no trouble finding me tonight.”
“Give it up.”
He raised his eyebrows, met her eyes, held the look. “You sure?”
She inhaled as if to speak, thought better of whatever witty thing she had in mind, and said, with an expression uncharacteristically open, “You keep asking, one of these times I’ll say yes. Then you’ll have to deliver. Careful, boy.”
“I’m always careful.”
“Hmm.”
“If anyone asks about me, under any name, I want to know about it.”
“Call me shocked to the bone.”
He chuckled at this teasing. He wondered if she would still feel this comfortable talking to him after the stories he was building for Innel made it back to her.
“I have messages I need delivered.” He would ask his contacts if they had seen any unusual travelers.
“Can’t imagine what you’ll do,” she said, making a show of confusion. “Oh, perhaps you’ll give them to me and I’ll have them sent for you.”
“Perhaps I’ll even pay you well to do it.”
“That would be wise.”
“Are your children well?”
“You want a story, wait for the harper. I have work.”
As she walked back to the kitchens, he could see that she knew he was watching.
When she returned a few minutes later with thick stew topped with a stack of hardbread dripping in fat, she was a little less smooth in her movements. She was thinking about it.
“Ah,” she said in frustration as the fat dripped off the bread onto the table. She pulled out a rag and gave the table a cursory wipe.
“The best meals are messy,” he said with a smile.
She smirked, put the rag back in her apron. No, he judged: she would not come to his room tonight. She wanted to, and he could have convinced her, but he wanted to see what she would be like when she came to him without influence. One of these years she would. He was in no rush.
At the side of the room, tables and chairs were cleared. A woman descended the steps from the rooms above, a large cloth case in her arms. As she scanned the room, Tayre recognized the expression. A horse master evaluating a new mare. A shepherd assessing a flock.
Or himself looking across a crowded room, deciding where to sit.
She perched on a table and unwrapped the harp. She set up a quick, playful tune. The room fell silent. She brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes that fell back immediately. Giving the audience a wolfish grin, she strummed a single, loud, attention-getting chord.
“Blessings of the season,” she said into the sudden silence. “I’m Dalea. I’ll give you my stories, and you leave me what you’ve got to spare. We could both go home happy.” Her fingers did a quick dance across the strings, producing a sound like laughter.
There was a scattering of chuckles.
“Isn’t this warm weather sweet?” Sounds of assent. “Don’t get too used to it. How long is your summer up here? A tenday?” Chuckles.
Tayre studied her words, stance, and the small movements of her face. They were alike, the two of them, both making their way through the world by choosing what others saw.
Across the room Kadla leaned against the door to the kitchen, the bowl of stew in her hands forgotten.
Another stream of notes flowed from the harp and Dalea began to sing, smiling at the audience as if they were friends, as if they all shared a secret. It was an effective trick, her sincerity and vulnerability, irresistible to these people, who would be guarded with family and neighbors they knew too well. To a warm and attractive stranger, they would gladly give their hearts. Their coins would follow easily enough.
When she finished the last song, the crowd hit their thighs and made the trilling sounds that Tayre knew originally came from the tribes before the Arunkin took over. Quarter-nals and some half-nals landed at her feet and on her side table. A crowd surged to talk to her, the men ducking their heads like awkward boys.
Tayre ate another bowl of stew and waited until the room had emptied.
She was wrapping her harp, tying it into a pack.
“Beautiful,” he said, giving her the uncertain smile he knew she would most expect.
“Thank you.”
“I played a bit,” he said, looking at the wrapped instrument, letting a conflicted expression flicker across his face for her to see. “Never any good at it. I studied with Melet al Kelerre.”
“Melet?” she asked, surprised. Impressed.
“A little,” he said, modestly. It was, entirely coincidentally, true, though he’d actually been better at it than he was implying. “My father was trying to figure out what to do with me. See what I might be good for.”
“And?”
“And it wasn’t music.”
“Ah.” Her curiosity was piqued. “What was it, then?”
“Oh, selling things. Jars and jewels, spices and extracts. A few books. Whatever’s easy to carry on horseback. I do all right. And you?”
She gave a forced smile. “Tonight I’ll eat. Sometimes I’m not so lucky.”
Tayre dug into his pocket and put a falcon on the table.
“You’re very kind, ser,” she said in a tone clearly reserved for those who overpaid.
“Good fortune to you, Harper.”
“And you.”
He turned
to go, then back to face her, as though something had only now occurred to him. “I don’t suppose—did you come from downriver?”
“I did. Why?”
“Have you seen a young woman and a girl? A yearling baby, perhaps walking now?”
Dalea frowned thoughtfully.
“Cousins,” he said, putting pain into his tone and eyes. “They had a falling out with my father. Took things that weren’t theirs. Ran. They were scared.”
“Hard times,” the harper said sympathetically.
“Yes, but there’s forgiveness for them if they want it. I have to find them to tell them so, but I don’t know where to look. The woman is slender, the girl has sort of—” He held out a hand as if sketching in the air, “a roundish face. A cloak with blue trim.” He smiled fondly. “She was always so clever with needle and thread. Sky blue. A distinctive touch. Hard to miss.”
“Oh,” she said slowly. “I think so. Downriver. A small village. I remember now. The girl is trying to seem a boy, but she’s . . .” She shook her head to convey the extent of the failure of that attempt. The grin faded. “She seemed fragile, somehow. Afraid.”
“That’s her. Do you remember where?”
“A tenday downriver. On foot, that is,” she added with a nod at his riding boots.
“May fortune bring you a horse,” he said.
She laughed the rich, deep tone of a singer. “How would I afford to feed it?”
“A least a new pair of shoes, then.”
“That is at least possible. I hope you find your people.”
“Oh, I will.”
* * *
In a corner of a nearly empty village greathouse that doubled as an eatery, Tayre fished the last bite of cold stew out of his bowl with a hunk of bread. The greathouse’s windows were open to the evening’s warm summer night. Moths flickered around the room’s lamps.
The woman who had brought him the goods smoothed her dress as she brushed by his table. She stopped, turned, glanced around to see who might be watching, and sat down across from him, her elbows on the table and her chin on her fists.
“Want some dirt ale with that?” she asked.
“No.”
“It’s better than it sounds. We keep it in the cellar so it’s cool. You’ll like it.”
“No again. What are you really offering?”
“I heard you asking around, about a girl and a woman and a baby. You’re not the only one asking, you know.”
“I do know that. And?”
“I’m wondering what I would get if I knew something about it.”
“Depends on what you know.” He tapped his bowl. “More of this.”
She stood. “I’d want you to pay me first.”
“I’m sure you would.”
She pressed her lips together and left, returning with another bowl of the cold mix of meats, which she put in front of him. She sat again. “How do I know that you’ll pay me if I tell you?”
“Because I said I would.”
“Well, words don’t mean much, now, do they—”
He leaned forward suddenly, took her hands gently in his. At his intense look, she fell silent.
“Mine do,” he said mildly.
Her eyes widened slightly. She pulled her hands out of his light hold.
“Come now, pretty one; tell me what you know.” He mixed a seductive smile with a commanding tone, a mix that usually worked on this sort.
“Some new folks. Arrived in spring. Don’t see them much. A woman and baby and a boy. Farm outside the village.” She leaned forward again, lowered her voice. “Except it isn’t a boy.”
Tayre tore off a piece of bread. “Go on.”
“I can tell what people are about, you know. Not like some who only see what you show them. I’m not so easy to fool.”
Tayre made an encouraging sound and gestured for her to continue.
“So there he is,” she said, “and I think, that’s not a boy. Must be a reason he’s pretending then and wouldn’t that be interesting to know.” She nodded decisively, looked to see if he was listening, then nodded again.
“Where?”
“Well, now,” she said, tracing a greasy circle on the tabletop with a fingertip, “if I told you, it wouldn’t be worth much for me to know it, would it?”
He chuckled. “It’s not worth anything, otherwise.”
“How much will you give me?”
“If it leads me to what I’m searching for, you’ll see silver.”
Her finger stopped. “Falcons?”
“If.”
“I’m sure it’s not a boy. Voice high. Too soft. Some people think they can fool anyone. Not me.”
“Not you. Tell me where I can find them.”
The finger resumed its circuit. “I don’t want to be left with nothing,” she said. “How about you give me something now, the rest after I tell you?”
Tayre leaned forward, grinning. “When I’m finished eating, your chance at silver ends as well.”
She lifted her chin. “Maybe I should tell someone else.”
“That wouldn’t be wise,” he said. “You can either tell me everything now, for the possibility of silver later, or tell me everything in an hour or so, for no money at all.”
An uncertain look crossed her face.
He added, “I really do advise you to tell me now.”
“Are you—Wait. Are you threatening me?”
“Silver,” he said again. “I wouldn’t want you to forget that part.”
“Mmm.” She exhaled. Then: “There’s a small village. Nesmar.” She shifted in her chair. “There’s a farm east of there . . .”
Chapter Nine
“I like this, Diri. I want to stay,” Amarta said softly to Dirina as they lay together on blankets by the fire, Pas between them.
Warm. Fed. The smell of woodsmoke. Spices in the air from the stew, surely the best stew she had ever eaten.
“We’ll have to prove we’re worth it,” Dirina whispered back.
Amarta rolled onto her back and stared at the rafters overhead and wondered what made a person valuable enough to feed and shelter them.
Not her visions, certainly. As she looked at her sister and nephew, she realized that this morning on the raft, but for a few inches of luck, they would have had arrows through them. Because of her.
In memory she saw the hunter’s eyes watching her, bow raised.
There was no reason for anyone to come after Dirina and Pas, except for her.
With that, she made a decision: she would do no more foreseeing. Her visions were why they had been forced to leave every place they ever might have called home. It was what made people hate and fear them. Here they had a chance, with Enana and her sons, whom Amarta already liked enough that the thought of staying was a fullness of hope, filling her chest the way the stew filled her belly.
They would prove themselves. They would work hard. And Amarta would not speak of her visions. Not to anyone.
Another look at her sister, who had drifted off to sleep in exhaustion, and Pas, with his mouth open, his beautiful face sweet in the peace of sleep.
This was what she wanted for her family: food, warmth, and a safe place to sleep.
Better, she thought, would be to not have the visions at all, ever again.
So, she resolved, she would bury them. Deep in the ground, like some bit of rotten meat, where they would not be able to hurt anyone.
In the months that followed they threw themselves into the work, doing everything possible to help the family. Washing, mending, cooking. Planting seeds. Weeding.
Dirina made sure Pas was never a burden, always keeping him close by, warning him not to bother anyone, until it became clear that he had already charmed Enana and her sons, who were happy to supply him a lap or a hug and tell him stories at night.
When they left the farmhouse with Enana to go to the market, Amarta wore clothes as loose and baggy as possible, hair cut short and ragged the way the boys did here. She ta
lked little, kept her head down, pitched her voice as deep as she could, and called herself by another name.
But mostly she kept to the farm. There was a lot of work, but it seemed easy, and she realized that it was the company that made it so; she had never before met people so willing to laugh, to make light of any difficulty, and to give each other a gentle brush or squeeze as they went through the day.
Spring became summer, longer days letting them do more in the fields, collect wild herbs, stack wood for winter. Harvest promised a good yield, if the rains came when they should.
But no—she pushed that thought firmly away. The rains would come when they did. She did not know any more about the rains than anyone else.
Bit by bit, Enana trusted them, giving them work to do without her, meals to prepare, even sending one or the other of them to market with a few coins for the grains and fruits and nuts they did not grow themselves.
Best of all, the whispers of the future grew fainter and fainter until Amarta could barely hear them at all. She had nearly forgotten how much a part of her life they had once been.
One dawn morning as the soft light of the sun promised another warm day that she felt eager to begin, it finally occurred to Amarta that she was happy.
She worked even harder.
Amarta adjusted the pack on her back as she hiked the forest road. She’d found everything Enana wanted except pickled nut paste. Next week, the vendor promised, repeating how sorry he was, despite Amarta’s assurances. By way of apology he had given her a bread roll shot through with thick berry jam.
She was speechless at this generosity. Perhaps this was what people did when they weren’t busy hating you for knowing too much about them.
It wasn’t that she was hungry—she ate better now than she could remember—but the roll was special. A sweet gift, something that was hers and only hers. She had forced herself to wait to eat it, wait until she was out of the village market, past the houses, over the brook, and near the halfway point back to the farmhouse, by a hollowed-out cedar. There she paused a moment, took it from her pocket, unwrapped the cloth, and took a bite.
The buttery bread and tart jam was delicious. Before she knew it, she’d eaten half. Save some for Dirina and Pas, she told herself sternly. She wrapped the rest, put it in a pocket.