by J. S. Morin
"Does anyone ever manage to do that?" Brannis asked.
"Roughly as many sorcerers as manage a transference spell between worlds, would be my guess."
* * * * * * * *
Even with the afternoon sunshine, it was still cold enough for breath to steam lightly as the two opponents circled one another. The grass beneath their bare feet was still green, but was strewn with brown leaves that crunched unheeded underfoot. One of the fighters was black-skinned, glistening with sweat and stripped to the waist, revealing a lean build. His hair hung in two long braids than fell halfway down his back, dark as his skin. He watched his opponent with one good eye, his other covered by a patch. His opponent was a hair taller, thinner, fair-skinned and female, wearing nothing but loose black pants and a cloth wrap about her chest. Her jaw-length hair hung loose, blowing auburn with the breeze. She had not broken a sweat in the sparring match.
"Oh to be twenty-three again," Rakashi opined, huffing for breath as he watched his opponent circling him.
"Hey, sparring was your idea," Soria replied. "Don't blame me if you can't keep up." She closed the gap between them, launching a series of easily-dodged punches. She only hit him when he made mistakes, keeping the match as "friendly" as her Tezuan training allowed. "I only agreed because I have nothing better to occupy my time with while Brannis spends every day with Lord Harwick."
"Yes, why is Brannis so interested in this Acardian lord?" Rakashi asked.
"I guess you'd figure it out eventually anyway; he's one of us. It's Brannis's uncle. I'm keeping well clear of it, since I want him inquiring about my affairs as much as I'm sure he wants me knowing of his. Brannis's uncle is fine, I suppose, but he's a devious one. I want to get dragged in as little as possible, without leaving Brannis."
"Is he covered in our bargain?" Rakashi asked.
"Probably not, but I still wouldn't try it," Soria replied. "He's as much of a sorcerer as I've seen around Tellurak. He's got real wards, and knows shields, and gods only know what kinds of killing spells. He's Inner Circle on the other side. I've kept you out of the conversation for all this time; don't go drawing his attention yourself."
"Very well, I will keep clear of him then."
"You ready to get knocked around a bit more?" Soria asked.
"This is certainly reminding me why we kept Tanner around all these years, despite his faults," Rakashi replied. "He is as good a match as I can recall finding. At least with a half-spear in my hand I could make a good accounting of myself against you." Rakashi blocked a quick punch by Soria and hopped back out of the range of a kick.
"Sure, until I actually hurt you. You and Tanner may have worked out some sword masters' pact, but I have a hard time pulling punches against real weapons," Soria said. Rakashi made a counterattack, leading with a punch, which Soria sidestepped, and following with a kick. Soria stepped just out of the reach of the kick, caught hold of Rakashi's ankle, and dropped down to kick his plant foot out from under him. The Takalish warrior landed heavily on his back.
"I think I have had enough for one day."
"Fine," Soria said, retrieving her tunic from one of the stone railings. The low terrace of the villa she had purchased for herself and Brannis overlooked the hedged garden where she and Rakashi practiced. "By the way, not that I mind the rescue, or even the loss of those miserable crewmen I was yoked with, but what were you doing out in those woods anyway?"
Rakashi stood staring a moment. Soria could only wonder at the thoughts roiling behind the calm expression that so rarely changed.
"It may surprise you, but a blade-priest's oath does not bind him to hopeless fights. Facing a single, great adversary is a matter for honor, but standing against an army is a foolish death," Rakashi explained, pushing himself up to his elbows.
"Fair point, but you were in Munne, weren't you? You fled when the Kadrin army retook the city."
"Yes."
"Iridan was killed in Munne," Soria said. She watched Rakashi for signs of a reaction. "Do you know anything about that?"
"He died a warlock's death," Rakashi said. "His body was treated with respect, sent to his homeland for a proper mourning. You said nothing, but I presume it arrived."
"Did you have anything to do with it?" Soria asked.
"I was the one who made the arrangements ..."
"Did you kill him?" Her look promised that she would have hauled him up by his collar if he had been wearing one.
"Yes. I was the strongest warrior, chosen by fate and circumstance to face a formidable opponent who had already slain three of my comrades," Rakashi looked her in the eye as he spoke. Her breath came quicker than it had from the exertion of the sparring. She stared down at her friend, who had at times filled the role a brother, a father, a mentor. She saw his muscles tensed, ready to defend himself if she became violent.
"Why?"
"As I said, I—"
"Why didn't you tell me?" Soria demanded. Her hands were curled into tight fists, nails digging into her palms.
"To spare you this moment, if I could. It seems I could not," Rakashi said. His expression was stoic, hard to read as ever. Soria wished she saw shame, or regret, or anything but the same placid Rakashi. Every muscle in his limbs and torso was poised for battle, but nothing reflected in his face. "He is dead either way, why spread sorrow where it need not go?"
"Maybe because you owed it to me? We're friends, Rakashi. What did you think I would do, kill you for being the one responsible?"
"I am still not certain that you will not." Rakashi stared up at her. She noticed his gaze flick momentarily over to the terrace, where his half-spear lay sheathed. Soria breathed a frustrated sigh. She walked over to the terrace, took his weapon and the rest of his clothing and threw them down next to him.
"Iridan didn't deserve to die, but you were doing what you were born to do. I get it. They put you in his path ... you were honor-bound to stand your ground, he was determined to prove he could take on anything," Soria said. "I am more hurt that you hid it from me, like pretending it didn't happen could make it go away. Did you think I would never find out?"
"I had other concerns as well," Rakashi admitted. Soria's eyes widened.
"Brannis ..." she whispered. "You can't let him find out! He will kill you, in both worlds, if he knows you killed Iridan."
"You confirm my suspicion as well. He already mistrusts me. I fear he would not react as rationally as you have." Rakashi climbed to his feet and began untangling his clothes from the pile Soria had presented him.
"Oh no. You haven't flown free quite yet. I may forgive you, but not yet," Soria said.
"What if I cleared the path between you and Brannis in Veydrus?" Rakashi asked as he pulled on his tunic.
"You bastard. You did this for me?"
"Iridan was violent. By your own word and by all measure I have taken of him, Brannis has been unfailingly kind to you. Yes, I did it for you."
Soria swallowed a rising lump in her throat, but she could not refute his argument. Did I secretly wish him dead?
"Get out of here. We can talk about this back in Veydrus. I have a party to dress for."
* * * * * * * *
Dinner that night was lavish, hosted by Lord Harwick in his son's home. Brannis had gone home to change into more formal attire and retrieve Soria. By the time they returned, a number of other guests had already arrived. Minor noblemen and gentlemen from the Society of Learned Men filled Tomas Harwick's sitting room as their wives congregated in the foyer; the former smoked pipes and drank brandy, the latter sipped wine while partaking of pastry cakes and gossip. Brannis deposited Soria among the ladies, for which he received a withering glare. He shrugged it away with an amused smile and went to join Lord Harwick's peers.
There was one young man in the sitting room who looked out of place. He had met the lad before, but Brannis hardly recognized Neelan Tillman with his hair combed, the light scruff shaved from his cheeks, and a well-tailored suit wrapped around him. The suit fit him ill
—in spirit, if not in its shape—causing him to squirm and chafe against the stiff, starched collar and fight with unruly ruffles. Brannis nodded acknowledgement to him as he looked for his host.
Soria passed the time drinking more than her share of the wine. Getting drunk enough to enjoy the company of the lighthearted, lightheaded ladies was difficult, since the wine seemed to have been cut with juice. She knew she would have only found herself a different sort of bored were she to intrude upon the stodgy old men in the other room, so she hung around the periphery of conversations, trying to look interested and keep from being engaged directly.
"Good evening Lady Soria," a lyrical voice called out behind her.
"Miss Abbiley, how are you this fine evening?" Soria replied. She was enough of a natural actress to betray none of the antipathy she felt for the girl—unfairly she realized, since Abbiley seemed a sweet girl, but that was almost the point. Soria had visited the girl's studio some two months prior in disguise—nothing elaborate, just hair, eyes, mannerisms. As near as Soria could tell, Abbiley had never drawn the connection between her and "Darlah Silverweave." For an artist, it seemed an unforgivable lack of observational skill.
"Oh, wonderful. Isn't this a splendid party? I'm sure it's all stale bread to you by now, but I can't get used to all this finery," Abbiley turned about as she spoke, gawking at the surroundings. It was the same manor that Abbiley visited regularly, just filled with wealthy personages, extra servants, and more food and drink than usual.
"I don't suppose that I've ever gotten used to these affairs," Soria admitted. "It's the clothes, the dressing up special, pretending that's what is important, trying to impress everyone else while they try to impress you in return. Too often I spoil the effect by failing to act snooty enough to match my dress. Everyone else wishes they could act like normal folk too, but they all cluck their tongues like it’s some serious offense."
"Well, everyone has been very kind to me. If I have been spoiling anything they have yet to mention it," Abbiley replied.
Of course not, Soria mused. You are lowborn, so they expect it of you. They overlook it all for the novelty.
"I am sure you are just naturally suited to these affairs," Soria replied. She gave a little nod to indicate she would be continuing along to other parts of the gathering and managed to avoid Abbiley for the remainder of the wait until the servants gathered them to the table for dinner.
"How are you holding up?" Brannis whispered in Soria's ear as he pulled out her chair and helped her to her seat.
"I played nice with your peasant girl," Soria whispered in reply, using Kadrin in case anyone overheard. It was a fringe benefit of being a bit exotic; her Kheshi accent made it perfectly plausible for her to be speaking in a foreign language in hushed conversations at the table. It might have been considered a bit rude, but far less so than what she had actually said.
The conversation improved over dinner with the mixing of the sexes. Lord Harwick in particular knew everyone, and his voice carried the length of the table, allowing Brannis and Soria to hear him from the far end where they were seated. Still, it was a dinner party; there was a limit to how interesting conversation was allowed to get.
After a fine dinner of Feru boar—imported live and butchered just that morning—the servants came and refilled everyone's wineglasses. Lord Harwick rose to speak, and his guests fell quiet.
"Lords and Ladies, if I might have your attention for just a moment." Lord Harwick paused for form's sake, since all eyes were already turned his way. "This gathering tonight was at the behest of my son Tomas. Lest I use up all the wind in the room first, I will allow him the chance to speak."
"Thank you, father," Tomas said as he rose and Lord Harwick sat. The boyish nobleman's face was plastered with a goofy smile as he stood for a moment, looking out over the guests. Soria looked sidelong at Brannis. She knew he could not see what was coming. She took his hand under the table. "Thank you, everyone, for joining us tonight. I look out and see friends old and new, and no finer friends could a man wish for. Thus it is before all of you as witnesses that I ask," he turned to Abbiley, "Abbiley Tillman, would you marry me?"
Abbiley froze, her expression blank. When the realization dawned, she said nothing, but leapt from her seat to wrap her arms about Tomas's neck. Tomas laughed as he recovered from his surprise and wrapped his own arms about her waist to keep them from overbalancing and toppling to the floor.
Soria felt Brannis's hand tighten around hers; she squeezed back. She knew it was Kyrus's memories making it hard on him, but also that he had been growing to see himself and Kyrus, more and more, as the two sides of a coin, just the way she saw Juliana. Both sides of her had been in love with Brannis as far back as she cared to remember, but it was still new to him, and he struggled with conflicting feelings about Abbiley. Soria hated it.
"I shall take that as a 'yes' then?" Tomas said, still laughing.
"Oh yes, yes!" Abbiley gushed. There was cheering and applause. Soria released Brannis's hand and kicked him beneath the table—it took two kicks before he realized he ought to clap as well. One of Tomas's friends gave a toast to the betrothed couple, and the atmosphere of the party brightened with talk of a wedding.
It was some time before it was polite for Brannis and Soria to leave, but Soria took Brannis away from the manor as soon as that time arrived.
"I don't know why he felt we needed to be there for that," Soria said as they walked home. They carried their cloaks despite the cold night air. Both had gotten drunk during the celebration, and the warmth of the alcohol kept them from noticing the weather much.
"He had a point to make," Brannis said deliberately, fighting his way around a slur. "You and me here. No Abbiley for Kyrus. No Abbiley for Brannis to keep until Kyrus gets home. Kyrus takes Celia, at least for now," Brannis amended quickly, fearing to anger Soria when he was too drunk to defend himself properly. "We can figure out Kyrus and Juliana someday, I think."
"You and me, huh?" Soria said.
"Yup."
"I'm holding you to that," Soria said. She slid her arm through Brannis's and squeezed tight.
* * * * * * * *
The bazaars of Marker's Point swarmed with bodies. Cloth of red, yellow, brown, and a hundred other colors swirled in a chaotic dance without rhythm or harmony. A dozen languages were shouted, one louder than the next, as hawkers sought to drown out their competitors and merchants and buyers haggled over the din. A horse and wagon cleared a small space as folk kept a wary distance from hoof and wheel; a man with a wicker basket of bread rolls would routinely use it as a ram to batter his way through the throngs. The only way to reliably navigate the city without harassment was to appear dangerous. Hulking bodies and openly carried weapons hinted at the possibility of violence.
A sheathed sword and a pistol tucked into the front of a pair of trousers were a good way to keep from being bothered. Tanner perused the stalls of the marketplace at leisure. The shielding spell he cast each morning was still offering its protection. He browsed idly, not much interested in purchasing anything. It was a break from his routine, from the incessant wobbling of the decks beneath his feet. The bazaar was a potpourri of smells that were never meant to be mixed: musky spices, cooked meats, sawdust, leather, perfumes, and the perspiring bodies of men and women from a hundred different cultures. It still was a better odor than the cloying stink of four-score pirates sweating, drinking and pissing within the close confines of the Fair Trader's hull.
"How much for the flagon?" Tanner inquired on a whim. He had taken a sudden fancy to a pewter vessel hanging amid a host of others similar to it. If he ever managed to rejoin his companions, it would make a fine gift for Zellisan.
"Two hundred fonns," the peddler replied with a thick Kheshi accent. Tanner frowned, checking the heft of his coin purse and trying to remember its contents.
"I haven't got any fonns. Can you change a trade bar?" He pulled one of the finger-sized square bars of gold from his purse and held
it up for the merchant's inspection.
"Bah, go find moneychanger. I not have that much coin in whole cart. You buy everything, I take trade bar, else you come back with fonn."
Tanner gave the peddler's cart a dismissive look and shoved the trade bar back into his coin purse. He made use of one of the better Kheshi curse words Soria had taught him as he turned to leave, and received a long string of Kheshi in return, none of which he understood.
As he continued through the endless markets, he felt a tingling in the back of his neck. He had developed an instinct from his years working in the roughest parts of cities; he was being followed. The same men, seen too many times—first at the bootblack stall, then at the peddler with the spitted sausages, and again as he left the pewtersmith. He had not gotten a good look yet to confirm it, but he trusted the instincts that had kept him alive over the years—a coinblade's life was best suited to someone paranoid.
Ducking into a storefront, he purchased a wide-brimmed hat. Though he had not stopped to check his reflection, he knew he must look ridiculous in it. That was the point. He headed back down the street he had been on, moving hastily through the crowd and looking all about him as he went; when he saw what he was searching for, he would know it. If he was indeed being followed, then his pursuers could not possibly have lost track of him. He kept up his pace. The streets of Marker's Point ran miles along the crescent-moon shape of the city.
Up ahead, Tanner saw a girl—a young slip of a thing—carrying a tall wicker basket balanced on her head. If you included the basket, she was nearly his height. He quickened his pace to catch up with her and gently slipped the hat from his head and onto the top of the basket she carried. The hat and Tanner parted ways at the next cross-street.
“Well, Marker's Point, it has been fun yet again,” Tanner whispered as a small knot of unsavory ruffians rushed by to pursue the hat. Denrik's men had been looking for him. Tanner sighed. On the upside, even had those pirates caught him, all they were likely to do was fetch him on the captain's behalf. The downside was that it likely meant the end of shore leave.