by Tim Stead
Narak had already guessed as much, but it was good to have confirmation, and that gave him another lead to follow.
“Do you know the places Bard frequented – the taverns and eating houses?”
“I know he liked the Noble Visitor. It’s on Ship Street.”
“Yes. I know it.” The tavern in question was one of the best in Golt. It catered to the more raffish scions of the nobility, and its reputation for fine food and wine was second to none. Narak himself had eaten there more than once. “Bard said nothing else about his friend?”
“I think he was rich. Bard said something about him having good taste. He gave Bard a dagger once, and it had a jewel in the hilt. I don’t think he told us anything else.”
Narak would learn no more here, and like Mariet Unsella this girl was innocent of malice. Perhaps in the end he would discover that it was Bard alone who had tried to kill the king.
“You have been honest, Ama,” he said. “I thank you for it. You may tell your father that I have called and found no cause against you.”
The girl was greatly relieved, and smiled for the first time. Narak left the house at once. He had two more ports of call: The Noble Visitor and the Canterissa House. He suspected that he’d learn more in the tavern and it was on the way, so he walked there.
Narak was not entirely popular with the tavern keepers of Golt. His questioning of the noble families and the flight of so many of Alwain’s supporters had stripped much of their custom away, and many of them were struggling to stay in business. The Visitor wasn’t one of them. It seemed to thrive no matter what.
It was a modest building, sitting between two warehouses in what passed for the commercial district of Golt. This being the king’s city it was cleaner and more orderly than most other residential neighbourhoods.
He pushed open the door and stepped inside. A bench occupied the wall to the left, and the rest of the room was taken up with small tables, several of which were occupied. A bar ran along the back wall. Narian, the owner, stood behind the bar. He smiled when he saw Narak.
“My Lord, what can I get for you?”
“Telan wine,” Narak said.
Narian whisked a glass from a rack behind him and drew the cork from a fresh bottle. He poured a generous measure and slid the glass towards Narak, all in the time it took Narak to cross the room. Narak sipped the wine. It was perfect.
“You never fail, Narian,” he said.
“And you never come in at this time of day, My Lord,” the tavern keeper said.
“I have questions that I must ask you.”
Narian nodded. “In the back,” he said.
He called up the stairs for his wife to come and keep the bar and took Narak through a door into a private room. In the evenings this space would be filled by card players, but now it was empty. Narian sat at a table and Narak sat opposite.
“How may I help?”
“You know Bard Enric?”
“Lord Enric’s son? I do. He drinks here and gambles. He usually wins.”
“Does he have any particular friends?”
Narian scratched his head. “Quite a few. When he wins, he spends, and a man who spends has many friends.”
“This would be someone close, someone he spends a lot of time with.”
“Close? Well, there’s two, I suppose, if you don’t count the women. Two that he talks to more than most. That would be Jon Calimano, Lord Calimano’s second son, and Pan Seridan, he’s a merchant’s boy. His father sells cloth and owns several houses around the city – more in Bas Erinor.”
Useless. He’d already seen and spoken to Calimano, and the merchant wouldn’t have access to the castle – certainly not to the king’s weapons.
“There was nobody else?”
“Well, as I said, My Lord, Bard had many friends. Those two seemed closest to him.”
“Any of them work in the castle?” Narak asked.
“Several. I can write the names down if you wish it.”
“Yes. Do that.”
Narian went to fetch paper and ink leaving Narak to sip his wine and think. The boy could have bribed somebody, he supposed. In that case they could have met anywhere. But that would be a risk. Bribing a man you didn’t know was like trusting a snake to only bite your enemy. He could so easily take your money and turn you in.
“My Lord, the list.”
Narak took the paper and examined it. There were five names, and they meant nothing to him. He would have to ask the king’s master-at-arms if any of them might have had access to the armoury. He drained his glass.
“Thank you, Narian. This will be helpful.”
He left the tavern. There was one more port of call before he returned to the castle. He had to visit the Canterissa house. The Canterissas, like the Verannas, were not a great house. They had lands in the west by the Berashi border and close to the sea. Mostly it was farming land, but they had a vineyard and grew a little cotton.
The house, when he found it, was pleasant. There was a small garden between the house and the road, and it was bursting with colour. Narak had never seen so many flowers in such a small space. The path that led to the front door was barely more than a pace wide and crowded on both sides by luxuriant growth. The front of the house presented seven windows and was whitewashed.
Narak opened the gate and walked down the garden path, but even as he approached the house the door opened. He stopped. The girl who had opened the door could have been Perlaine’s daughter. Perlaine had been one of his own, one of the many who lived with him at Wolfguard all those years ago. She had died at Bel Erinor and been avenged, but this girl had the same cobalt blue eyes, the same long, straight fair hair, and if anything, she was prettier. No. Pretty was inadequate – she was beautiful. She even wore the sort of clothes that Perlaine had favoured – stout black riding boots, dark brown trousers and a white tunic cinched at the waist. She looked him in the eye.
“You are Wolf Narak,” she said. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
22 South
The road was dusty. It didn’t help that a brisk north wind picked up and blew the gritty cloud forwards over the whole column. It got into Sheyani’s hair, her eyes, and even worked its way down her back and into her boots. Fortunately, she thought, Farheim don’t blister, or she would have been limping after an hour. In fact, the marching didn’t tire her at all, but it did irritate her. She missed the comfort of Bas Erinor, or even their cosy house at Waterhill. She missed Cain, too. They had been together so long that she felt little more than half a person. Any doubt she had could usually be dispelled by a glance from him, any fear by the touch of his hand.
Caster had gone with the horses. Sheyani didn’t like horses much, but she envied him the elevation, the freedom to outride the dust.
“Lady Sheyani, will you play for the men?”
She blinked the dust out her eyes and stared back at Colonel Vandermay.
“A Halith’s pipes are a delicate instrument,” she replied. “This dust…”
He nodded. “I understand.” He looked disappointed, and Sheyani felt guilty. She would have had to clean the pipes, but she could have played.
Amberline touched her arm from the other side. “Areshi, perhaps if you rode on one of the wagons at the back you could play?”
And she would be free of the dust. The idea appealed, but again there was a pang of guilt. Should she, a Farheim, ride free of the damned irritation while lesser folk struggled through it?
“If you think it would help, Colonel?”
“I’m sure the men would appreciate it,” the colonel replied.
She nodded and stepped off to one side to watch the column pass. Her Wolfen guard stepped out with her and waited while the regiment plodded along. It was a relief to stand still for a minute. She opened her flask and swilled her mouth out with water, trying to banish the dust. Amberline had stepped out of line with her. The Abadonist pulled out a set of pipes.
“I didn’t know you played,” S
heyani said.
“My second talent,” Amberline said. “Perhaps I can learn something from you.”
The wagons came alongside and Sheyani caught hold of the tailboard of the first and swung herself up onto the back. Amberline walked alongside.
“I can’t do that,” she said.
Sheyani moved forwards and sat on the bench seat beside the waggoner. “Hold your arms up over your head,” she said.
Amberline did as she was told and Sheyani braced herself against the side of the wagon, leaned over and caught the other woman by the wrists, swinging her up and depositing her on the bench between herself and the driver.
Amberline laughed breathlessly. “It’s like being a child again,” she said. Her cheeks were flushed and she shook her hair back. “Sometimes I forget what you are, Areshi.” She took a drink of water and wiped her pipes on the hem of her dress. “Shall we play?”
“You begin,” Sheyani said. “I’ll work in with what you do.”
So they began. Amberline played an uplifting tune, a good, strong marching rhythm with an optimistic melody. It was simple, but effective, and Sheyani listened for a minute before she put her own pipes to her lips and blew a few notes, threading them through the other woman’s tune, changing it into something more subtle.
Amberline paused. “Amazing,” she said. “How…?”
“Just keep playing.”
They went on. The change in the marching men was gradual, but quite marked. Tired backs straightened, heads lifted, the pace of the march picked up a fraction. After a minute or two some of the men near the back began to sing. Sheyani had turned Amberline’s simple march into a popular song, woven in joy and strength, and even the certainty of victory. Sheyani was pleased. She’d had a century to perfect her skills, but rarely the opportunity to play with another. She found that she enjoyed it. It was good to be free of the dust, too. As they continued to play and the march picked up pace her mood lightened again, and by the time they stopped for the night she was feeling happy. After all, she was doing this to strengthen Cain’s hand, and a little discomfort was nothing. Men and women would die at Bas Erinor before this was over. How could she complain about a little dust?
When they stopped, she sat on the wagon for a while and watched the soldiers bustle about putting up tents, lighting fires, preparing food. She watched the sentries go out and find their positions in the long grass. She felt a little weary, but Amberline was yawning, and wandered off to find a place to lay her head.
Colonel Vandermay came towards her, weaving through his busy men.
“I thank you, Lady Sheyani. I had heard tales of what a Halith could do, but we have covered five miles more than I had hoped for, and the men are in good spirits.”
“I enjoyed it, Colonel. It reminded me of my time at Fal Verdan with Cain.”
“That’s a tale I’d like to hear. Will you dine with us? Your Wolfen officer says he will if you agree to it.”
She nodded. Why not? “I will dine with you, Colonel, but I will want to hear your tales as much as you want to hear mine.”
She put her pipes away and walked across to the Colonel’s tent, the first to be set up by marching tradition, and took a seat inside. It was more comfortable than the wagon, but not greatly so. The Colonel had a dozen seats round a low table and several were already occupied. She helped herself to dried fruit and nuts and a soldier-servant gave her a cup of water and a cup of wine. She drained the former and sipped at the latter, engaging all the while in idle conversation with Vandermay’s officers. They were polite and showed due deference. The tales would wait until they had eaten their fill and drunk a little more wine.
It turned into a long evening. Sheyani told them about Fal Verdan, exaggerating Cain’s heroism and the Telan and Seth Yarra numbers. It was what was expected. She listened to their tales, too, but they were mostly marching and barracks stories. Very few of these men, she realised, had ever seen war.
It was well after dark when the officers’ gathering broke up and they all went to their separate tents. Sheyani was shown the way by a soldier and was pleased to find that she did not have to share with Amberline. They had given her a mattress, an oil lamp that was lit and hung from the tent pole, and a basin of water. Her travelling bag was placed next to the bed.
She readied herself for sleep, snuffed the lamp and fell into a deep sleep as soon as she laid her head on the pillow.
*
It was dark when she awoke. For a moment she struggled to remember where she was, reaching out for Cain and finding grass next to her narrow bed. She was in a tent, she recalled, on the king’s road in Colonel Vandermay’s camp.
There was light outside, a flickering light, and a cry came, a repeat of what must have woken her.
“Fire!”
She leapt to her feet and pulled on a coat. A group of men ran past her tent shouting to each other. She stepped outside.
The grass was burning. It hadn’t reached the camp. But the wind was blowing it this way and the smell of it was thick in the air. Ash was drifting down, some of it still red hot.
There was no river here. Vandermay had stopped them by a well. It was an ancient thing and provided plenty of water for camping, even for so many men, but to fight a grass fire? It was apparent that they were in trouble. The fire had already cut them off from the road both north and south, and if they retreated it would be into a strip of forest that backed onto high ground. The best they could hope for was to save the men. At this rate all the supplies, the horses and wagons would be lost.
She drew her blade and thrust it into the ground, using it as a spade. She dug a small pit – just large enough for her hand and thrust it in. Among other things she was a Gorisian Adept, a practitioner of water magic. The talent had helped her many times and saved her life at least once. In the last century she had improved her skills, but now would be her greatest test.
She closed her eyes and spoke words, and it seemed as though the ends of her fingers grew like the roots of trees, stretching down into the earth in a quest for water. She found it, but it was many feet below – too many.
She opened her eyes.
“Amberline!”
She could see the Abadonist standing not twenty feet away staring at the advancing flames. Time was the problem here. She could not turn the wind and it was driving the fire.
Amberline came.
“We have to run,” she said. “Everything is going to burn.”
“Go to my tent. There is a bowl of water. Bring it.”
“There’s no time!” Amberline seemed on the edge of panic. Perhaps it was because she could not draw her way out of this.
“Do as I say!” Sheyani put as much authority in her voice as she could, and it worked. Amberline nodded and ran.
Sheyani drew out her pipes and placed them on one knee. She dared not move her right hand. It reached down, and to do so again would take more time, so with her left hand she picked up her blade and cut her right forearm.
The wound hurt, but healed at once. She cursed. It was fine being a Farheim when people were trying to kill you, but when you needed blood for magic it was not so helpful.
This was going to hurt.
She pushed the blade into her forearm again and left it there, opening the flesh with a twist of the steel and letting the blood flow. The pain was incredible. It felt like her arm was on fire, and she heard herself whimper like a beaten puppy. The blood trickled down her fingers, and she felt the roots of her fingers widen. She held it for as long as she could stand, then snatched the blade away and closed her eyes, gasping for air. The pain vanished at once.
“Areshi?”
Amberline was back, the bowl of water clutched in her hands. Sheyani took it off her and poured it all into the hole with her hand. In a sense it was bait for the water below. She picked up her pipes, took another few deep breaths and began to play.
She believed that what she was doing was possible. She had worked little tricks before by comb
ining her talents, but Durander orthodoxy said they should never be mixed. There were dire warnings about the practice. It killed people. But Sheyani was a Farheim Lord. Her strength and resilience were far beyond any other Durander mage and she had a hundred years of practice behind her.
It began to work. She could feel the water rising up the roots. She was telling it to flow like a river, to rise here and flow, and the water was obeying her. It was hard, though. As much as the water was rising towards her, her own strength was draining away, but she kept playing, kept calling the water to her hand.
The first cool rush passed her fingers, burst from the ground and began to trickle across the soil. She could feel the water all around her now. She could smell it. She closed her eyes again.
More. A hundred tiny springs broke the surface, but her strength was failing. This wouldn’t be enough. Darkness was fluttering at the edge of her mind. In a few moments she would fail.
She felt hands either side of her head, pressing against her temples.
“Take what you need.” It was Amberline’s voice. It was a choice. Give up now or risk burning out the Abadonist. If the fire won the mission would fail. Sheyani chose.
Water rushed past her, a river rising around her and flooding out towards the fire. She heard the hiss as the two ancient enemies met, but the fire was no match for what she had unleashed. There were cries of wonder from Vandermay’s men and she felt Amberline fall beside her. It was done, then.
A moment later the darkness won and Sheyani fell into the water that flowed all about her.
*
She awoke lying on a mattress in what she guessed was her tent, swimming up through the darkness. She couldn’t have been out for that long because her hair was still wet. She felt hungry. Her mouth ached. She opened her eyes.
Vandermay was sitting beside her.
“Tea?” he asked.
She took it. Her hand shook and she spilled a little before she could get it to her mouth, but the liquid felt wonderful going down her throat.
“Food,” she said. “I need to eat.”