Master of Crows

by Grace Draven

  Balian eyed Gurn, wary and braced to dart into the throng in case the giant suddenly turned on him. When Gurn ignored him, he gave Martise a wide, flirtatious smile. “You haven’t changed, Martise. Still serving Asher?”

  “Yes, though I serve another house for the summer.”

  He peered over her shoulder and around her in a false show of inquiry. “No husband or children hanging on your skirts? Ah, wait. You aren’t allowed to marry.”

  Martise stared at him, unmoved. Balian always had a talent for conversational barbs.

  “And you, Balian? You left Asher to make your fortune in the world.” He flushed under her derisive gaze, one she knew Silhara would appreciate. What had she ever seen in this dim, arrogant peacock? “Has the world been unkind?”

  His fair features turned ugly. “Kinder than it’s been to you. I’m still a free man.” He paused, treating her to the same scornful gaze she’d bestowed on him. “Sometimes I don’t understand why I ever bedded you.

  Such words from him might have cut her at one time. Now, she felt nothing more than a mild annoyance at his blustering. “You bedded me because ‘I had a body more beautiful than the costliest houri and a voice that made you come.’ At least I think those were your words. You bragged to your friends while deep in your cups. You weren’t very coherent at the time.”

  Her blunt response and lack of reaction rendered him speechless. He soon recovered and with an offer that made a lie of his insult. “You always did conceal your finest assets.” He leered, peering at her long skirts and layered tunic as if he saw the body beneath them. “And you never found me lacking. Come with me. I’ve a room nearby and wine smuggled out of Karanset. We can renew old friendships.”

  She imagined such a scene. A dive near the wharf where the rooms were separated by parchment-thin walls and crawling with rats. He’d take her quick at first, as he always preferred. Against the wall or on a lice-infested pallet stained with the evidence of his previous couplings. Martise’s lip curled in revulsion, and she wished for a stiff shot of Peleta’s Fire to cleanse the sudden sour taste off her palate.

  “No thank you,” she said and walked away. The outraged growl behind her made her smile.

  “A woman like you shouldn’t be so choosey, Martise.”

  She turned back to him. “A man like you shouldn’t aim so high, Balian.”

  “Bitch,” he snapped, loud enough for Gurn to hear. Gurn lunged, almost knocking Martise down in his zeal to reach Balian. Her erstwhile lover yelped in fear and fled into the teeming sea of people. She grabbed the back of Gurn’s tunic before he followed his quarry.

  “Let him go, Gurn.” He stared at her, his silent anger palpable. She took his hand and squeezed. “Such words only hurt when the person saying them means something to you.”

  He signed to her. She caught the basics of his question and shook her head.

  “He was important to me once. No longer.” She squeezed his hand again. “Come. Don’t you have supplies to buy? I don’t want to be held over the coals by your master for distracting you from your tasks.”

  Balian faded from her thoughts as she followed Gurn through the marketplace and watched him bargain with vendors over prices and quantities of goods with nothing more than a shake or nod of his head and a raised eyebrow. By the time they made they made their way to the common area to meet Silhara and break for a meal, he’d purchased bags of milled flour, jars of olives and honey, a barrel of salted fish, two small barrels of wine, a pair of nanny goats and new clippers—all to be loaded into the wagon at the end of the day. He’d even bargained down the price of the wool cloth and skein of thread she’d selected.

  The common area was an open-air pub. Tables and benches covered the grassy area, unprotected from the sun. Stalls selling all manner of food, ale and wine surrounded the perimeter, and many of the merchants and alewives stalked the tables hawking their goods directly to the patrons.

  Tantalizing scents of roasted mutton and pork mixed with the yeasty smell of bread teased her nostrils. Her stomach growled and was echoed by Gurn’s.

  “I’m starved.” She scanned the long rows of tables, searching for a tall, forbidding man in a scarlet robe. “I hope the master won’t make us wait until evening to eat.”

  After looking over the crowd, Gurn pointed to a table near the perimeter of the common area. His unmistakable and irreverent sign for “horse’s ass” let her know he’d spotted Silhara. She laughed and nudged him toward the food stalls. “Please get us some food. I’m ready to gnaw on one of these tables.” He hesitated, and she reassured him. “I’ll be fine. The common area is safer than the market itself. There are even families with small children here.”

  Gurn surveyed the crowd, this time with a more eagle eye and finally nodded. Martise watched him head for a stall selling chicken and racks of skewered mutton.

  She aimed for the tell-tale scarlet robe several tables away and wove through the clusters of people eating and drinking. The sight she came upon made the air freeze in her lungs. Darting behind a large man doing his best to coax a young alewife out of her bodice, Martise hid in his shadow and prayed those at Silhara’s table hadn’t seen her.

  The sorcerer sat alone on one side, peeling an apple with his boot dagger. Across from him, Balian sat with a friend, drinking from a tankard and laughing raucously at something his companion said. Martise grumbled under her breath. Of all the rotten luck. She didn’t care if Balian hurled insults at her directly. She did mind if he did so in front of Silhara. Beyond the humiliation of having an old lover regale the mage with her many physical shortcomings, he could expose Cumbria’s lie of her being his ward. She knew Silhara didn’t believe a word Cumbria told him. No one accused the sorcerer of being too trusting, but unless he confronted her directly or heard the truth from someone else, Martise intended to cling doggedly to the story the bishop concocted.

  She circled around the courting couple and slinked past a knot of women until she found a corner bench out of view but close enough to hear what they said.

  Mothers often admonished their children not to listen at doors or windows because what they might hear something they didn’t like. That wisdom sat hard on Martise’s shoulders as she caught the middle of Balian’s conversation.

  He quaffed the wine, wiping away the dribble from the corner of his mouth. “Plain as a stick and shy around people. Until you got her in the stable or on a pallet. She could suck a man dry with a tongue that made you see heaven. And fuck all night. Beautiful body too. If I hadn’t seen virgin blood on my cock that first time, I might have thought her a priest-whore.”

  Martise closed her eyes for a moment and hoped she didn’t retch. She’d long ago abandoned the illusion that Balian had cared for her. But to hear him tear her down to his friend and in front of Silhara—lessen her until she was nothing more than a bitch in heat—sickened her.

  Silhara straddled the bench, silent, his profile to his table mates. As intent as a supplicant at prayer, he pared the apple until the long spiral of peel fell to the ground. His dour features gave no hint of his thoughts.

  Balian’s companion refilled their tankards from a nearby pitcher. “A lot of women can fuck like weasels, mate. Prettier women. And you’ve a face to lure ‘em in.”

  Balian puffed up at the compliment, reminding Martise of a bullfrog in mating season. “True, but they didn’t have her voice. My cock got hard just hearing her talk. And when she moaned…” His eyes rolled back in ecstasy. “Good gods, I just about shot my seed every time.”

  Bile rose in her throat. The friend replied but too softly for her to hear. Balian, on the other hand, bellowed his opinion. “Just fuck ‘em in the dark, mate. You can put any face you want on them when you do that.”

  Martise prayed Silhara’s lack of reaction meant he didn’t recognize whom Balian insulted. She doubted it. Balian had waxed rhapsodic about her voice, and for all she knew, had mentioned her name in earlier conversation. Silhara was no fool.

&nb
sp; He cupped the apple in his hand. Paring it into slices, he placed it on the table. He cleaned the knife on his trousers, turned and, quick as a striking serpent, buried the lethal tip in the back of her ex-lover’s hand where it rested on the table.

  Balian's shocked bellow of pain ripped through the common area, halting all conversation. He bolted to his feet and bellowed again as the movement pulled on his arm. He stared at his bloodied hand and then at Silhara, wild-eyed.

  “Bursin’s bollocks! You stupid bastard!”

  Silhara rose as well, grasped Balian’s wrist and yanked the knife out with merciless efficiency. Another agonized shriek rent the air. Silhara swiped the bloodied blade clean on a stunned bystander’s shirtsleeve.

  “Forgive me,” he said in that calm, raspy voice. “I didn’t see your hand there.”

  His icy expression belied his sincerity. Martise, shocked by what she’d just witnessed, shoved her way through the growing crowd surrounding the table. Balian had stripped off his shirt. Despite the blood dripping from his fingers, he presented a sight that had many a female in the mob sighing. His friend tore a strip of cloth from the shirt and bandaged Balian’s injured hand.

  Balian pulled a wicked knife from the sheath at his waist, brandishing it in front of Silhara with his good hand. “Fuck your apologies. I’m going to geld you.”

  Silhara smiled, and the crowd sucked in a collective breath. “Are you now?”

  A voice behind Martise yelled to Balian. “Leave it be, lad. That’s the Master of Crows you just challenged.”

  Balian paled but didn’t back down. “I don’t care if you’re lord of a dung heap.” He spat at Silhara’s feet. “And you’re a coward if you have to use magic to win a fight.”

  Silhara laughed in genuine amusement. He shrugged out of his robe and dropped it on the table. Balian tracked him from the other side as he walked to a clear space just outside the common area’s periphery. The crowd followed, closing around the two combatants until they formed a makeshift arena. Smashed between a sweating fishwife and a man almost as big as Gurn, Martise jostled for a clear view of the impending fight.

  Sunlight flashed on metal as Silhara flipped his dagger expertly in his hand. “You should listen to the wise man who spoke up, boy. Take my apology for what it’s worth and walk away. I don’t need magic to gut you from gullet to bollocks.”

  He turned his back on Balian in clear dismissal. Martise joined the chorus of warning cries as Balian bellowed and rushed him, dagger raised. Silhara turned at the last minute, neatly side-stepped his opponent’s charge and smashed his hand between his shoulder blades. Balian crashed into the crowd, miraculously avoiding stabbing anyone. The spectators cheered. Excited by a growing bloodlust, they thrust him back into the temporary arena.

  Silhara shook his head in disgust. “Colossal stupidity hidden by a fair face. At least the gods are sometimes just.”

  Once again, the mage courted death by turning his back. Once again Balian rushed him. Instead of side-stepping, Silhara turned and met him full-on, throwing a round house punch that snapped Balian’s head back and lifted him off his feet. He struck the ground in cloud of dust.

  Silhara stood over him. “You’re beginning to annoy me.”

  Balian rolled to his feet and spat out a gobbet of blood. A split lip and swelling jaw didn’t stop him, and he struggled to his feet. Three more rushes, with Silhara dodging and defeating every attack with kicks, slaps and punches—but never his knife—and Balian staggered. Bloody and bruised, he glared at Silhara from the one eye not yet blackened.

  “I’m gonna cut you good, sorcerer.” His words were more slurred than a drunkard’s.

  Silhara looked heavenward, as if imploring the gods. “So you keep saying, pretty boy.”

  Balian charged him again, and Martise shouted another warning. Silhara, grim-faced and obviously tired of baiting his opponent, kicked his feet out from under him. Balian skidded on his back in the dirt. Before he gasped a breath, Silhara jerked his knife from his hand and pinned him to the ground with his knees pressed to Balian’s shoulders. Martise’s ex-lover whimpered as the mage straddled him. Armed with both knives, Silhara pressed his blade to Balian’s jugular and held the confiscated blade against his cheek.

  “The crowd almost got it right, boy. You challenged the Master of Crows, but you fought a dock whore’s bastard. I was fighting in the muck while you were still tethered to your mother’s lead strings.”

  Martise held her breath as he pressed the knife edge harder against Balian’s neck. A line of blood swelled above the blade. For all that she detested Balian, she didn’t want to see him die. Not over this and not by the hand of the man who represented the greatest threat to her heart.

  “Please, Master. Don’t do this.”

  Her voice, soft and imploring, carried over the noise of the crowd. Silhara met her gaze, his black eyes flat. The knife cut deeper. Balian moaned in terror. The pungent odor of urine suddenly filled the air. Silhara continued to stare at her.

  “Please,” she repeated. “He isn’t worth it.”

  A shadow of humanity returned to his gaze. He blinked and focused his attention on his fallen rival. “Pissed yourself, did you? Now you know the taste of true fear.” He flipped Balian’s dagger in his palm so that the tip pointed down, creating a depression in the fallen man’s cheek. “These marks and cuts will heal in no time, and you’ll once again be a wench’s fantasy come to life.” His smile thinned.

  Whatever Balian saw in Silhara’s eyes made him twist and writhe, despite the threat of death. He whined when Silhara deepened the bloody cut on his neck.

  “A momento, I think. So the ugliness within isn’t masked by the beauty without.”

  Martise cried out at the same time Balian did. “No!”

  He ignored her and addressed Balian. “One move and I’ll slit your throat. Die handsome or live honest. What will it be?”

  As one the crowd hissed and groaned when Silhara slowly carved a half-moon design in Balian’s right cheek. The man, beaten, humiliated and scarred, fainted.

  When he was done, the Master of Crows stood and tossed Balian’s knife so that it stuck in the ground near his head. No mercy softened his voice. No remorse colored his tone. “Don’t fret, boy,” he said. “No one will notice it if you fuck in the dark.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Neith needed rain. The grove baked in the descending sun’s dry heat, with trees losing leaves, shedding the raiment that demanded more water. If the weather didn’t cooperate soon and provide some relief, his harvest next year would suffer, possibly fail.

  Silhara stood at the entrance to his balcony and puffed on the hose attached to the huqqah at his feet. The habit soothed him, kept him from kicking furniture or throwing breakables against the wall in frustration. He should be thankful the well hadn’t dried up. Instead he spent hours at night wondering if there was a way to manipulate the unseen rivers below ground to swell and rise and water the roots of his thirsty trees.

  If it would only rain.

  If Corruption would only pack up its star and leave.

  If Conclave would only come and retrieve their spy before she completely destroyed his equilibrium and caused him to make the one mistake that would condemn him to death.

  She was in the library now, scribbling at her notes, waiting for him to meet her so they could ruminate over what a gaggle of long-dead kings did to destroy a long-dead god, and how it might help him or the priesthood destroy Corruption.

  He blew a stream of smoke into the air, manipulating it with a fingertip until it resembled the spiral insignia of Conclave. The vortex of life to the center of eternity, a symbol of benevolence for a pitiless, avaricious canonry who had forgotten the true magic of the Gift bestowed on them. The symbol disintegrated, shredded by the ceaseless summer winds.

  Silhara had little faith Conclave would succeed in its endeavor to destroy Corruption. Birdixan and his fellow kings were described in the brittle parchment as men of
great position and nobility. Save for the Luminary, leader of Conclave, he could think of no priest who came close to fulfilling the role of Birdixan and his brethren: none with the power and skill to battle the god and win.

  Birdixan. The name vexed him. He’d seen or heard it before but didn’t remember where. Martise, for all her learning and talent for recall, was unfamiliar with it. He might not trust her completely, but he had great faith in her abilities. If she didn’t recognize the name, few would.

  Conclave’s spy was proving more helpful than he anticipated, and more alluring than he liked.

  He’d caught glimpses of her in Eastern Prime’s marketplace as she followed Gurn from stall to stall. She might slip unnoticed in most crowds, but he’d spotted her easily enough numerous times. He’d never seen her so lighthearted or at ease as when she shopped with his servant and surveyed the pandemonium around her—at least until she entered the common area and overheard her erstwhile lover vilify her in the crudest terms.

  He watched from the corner of one eye as she crept toward his table, her eyes dark with some unnamed dread. He’d been peeling an apple, waiting patiently for her and Gurn to meet him. He hadn’t paid any attention to the two men sitting across from him, having no interest in the ramblings of drunken braggarts. It was Martise’s fixed gaze on them that made him take notice.

  Balian’s remarks and the sight of Martise’s face, white with shame, had set his temper soaring. For a moment it felt as if the dolt was insulting him instead of his apprentice. Anger, mixed with no small amount of jealousy and possessiveness, roared through him. Stabbing that knife point into the vulgar bastard’s hand went a long way to cooling him off. Scarring and beating him bloody had made Silhara almost cheery.

  Martise, visibly shaken by what she witnessed, remained mostly silent the rest of the day, occasionally tossing him complicated looks. Gurn was not so quiet. He’d seen the fight as well and signed rapidly, wanting to know what happened. Silhara’s clipped “He insulted my household,” satisfied him.