by Dave Gross
I meant it, too. That was an expensive knife.
Vili rushed me. I faded left and hooked his leg with my foot, shoving him as he hurtled past. He stumbled but turned fast, much more agile than I’d have guessed. He lowered his head and growled, showing his teeth. His canines were long and yellow. An animal stink rose from his skin, and the light hair on his bare shoulders grew thick.
I wished I had that silvered knife back in my hand.
The circle around us widened and grew quiet. Vili’s growl grew deeper, and his face began to change. His heavy eyebrows grew together, the hair spreading down his widening nose and across his low forehead. His jaws lengthened, and those big teeth swelled even bigger. Before you could say ‘werewolf,’ he was on me.
I grabbed his long ears and held tight. His fists battered my ribs, but I was more worried about the teeth. While I focused on keeping his jaws away from my throat, his knee shot up into my groin. He howled as the spike in my leather cup split his kneecap. I’d need a tailor tomorrow, but he’d need a crutch.
I pulled him over my leg and threw him to the ground, still hanging onto his ears. He clutched at me, and I could feel his fingers turn to steel spikes, digging hard into my neck. I put my face close to his and gave Vili the big smile.
It’s something I try not to do often because my teeth are not my best feature. I have to pay the street barbers extra when I want a scrape, and the kindest thing anyone ever said about my smile is that it reminded him of a box of good silver the butler had dropped.
Someone in the crowd screamed, and half the audience ran for home or temple. Even the Sczarni ceased their clapping.
“Don’t make me bite you, boy,” I said, heedless of the fact that he looked a good five years older than me. Judging from the smell, I was pretty sure he was the one I’d just scared the piss out of.
One of the other Sczarni shouted out a translation. Vili gradually relaxed his grip, his eyes never leaving mine, and lay still on his back. I stood up, watching for any sign of fight to return to him.
When I moved out of reach, I saw that most of the crowd had vanished. Soon I would be alone with the Sczarni, so it was definitely time to leave. I turned to see the kid fleeing from my knife, which was still stuck fast in the jeweler’s block. I wish I’d seen him straining to remove it. I pulled it out, lifting the heavy block an inch before the blade came out.
Vili slunk back into the group of Sczarni. Without the crowd to mask their numbers, I counted fourteen. They cast sidelong glances toward the gray-haired fiddler, and I realized he was their boss—chief, headman, or whatever. I touched my chin to him before realizing the Chelish gesture might not translate, but he returned it in a way that made me think it did. That might mean things were settled and done, or it might just mean I could have a head start.
As I moved away, Malena said, “Wait. Do not be angry with us, Radovan. Let me cast the Harrowing for you. A gift.”
All the best sayings about revenge come from the Sczarni, so I knew it was a bad idea to linger among them without a crowd nearby. Also, I’ve never liked Harrowers. They’re worse than most other fortune tellers because every once in a while you find a true Harrower, one of those card-readers who can actually see something from a distance of a thousand days. More often you’ve just paid a few silver to a con artist, and you walk away thinking you’ve learned something about yourself, but it’s just the usual Sczarni patter, some bullshit about love, some bullshit about wealth, some other bullshit about your generous nature tempered by your inquisitive mind. I could do it myself, if I could keep a straight face.
No matter how I looked at it, there was no good reason to stay for a card trick. Still, the idea of slinking off looking no braver than Vili in front of Malena—that rankled.
Before I had made up my mind to leave, a couple of Sczarni women brought out a little round table and two stools before retreating, leaving only Malena and me in the center of the carpets. The fiddler lingered nearby, maybe thinking of himself as a chaperone.
It was all out in the open in the middle of Caliphas, and there was still plenty of daylight. What the hell? I took a seat across from Malena.
She left out the introductory mumbo-jumbo I’d seen before and simply passed me her Harrow deck. The cards were old, but the edges were still sharp enough that I didn’t immediately notice the marks of a card sharp. I turned them over and looked at the faces: The Juggler, The Peacock, The Queen Mother, The Paladin. I’d seen them all before, painted by other artists. Whoever had created this deck had a creepy sort of talent, or maybe the images just seemed more ominous in my current circumstances.
Satisfied that I’d smeared enough of my spirit or whatever all over her cards, Malena took them back. “Why you have come,” she said while shuffling the cards. She riffled them like a dockside gambler and lay them face up not in the familiar box but in a crescent pattern with the horns facing me. “What you will find.”
Finally, without comment, she placed a single card face-down between the horns of the crescent.
She began from the center with The Fiend. “This is where you come from,” she said. “A place of strength.”
“That’s incredible,” I said. She ignored my sarcasm. If her fingers were as keen as I imagined, it was no great trick to place the cards where she wanted, and after seeing my big smile, she couldn’t help but realize I had ancestors from a warmer climate.
“Here are forces that compel you.” She indicated the adjacent cards, the tyrant and the wanderer. She waxed poetical about the aspects of the mind and personality, and I nodded without really listening. Her eyes were greener than I had realized earlier, and she had extra piercings on each earlobe. The tattoo of a snake ran across her neck and down one shoulder. I wanted to follow it, but there was the fiddler looming nearby. Would I start another fight by brushing a lock of hair off of that bare, tanned shoulder?
“These are forces that oppose you,” she said. There were The Idiot and Betrayal, good choices. “And these may aid or mislead you.” The Mute Hag and The Dance. That one seemed about half-good to me, present company considered, and I was getting nervous. I glanced around to see no one else in sight.
She had reached the horns of the crescent and described The Twin and The Empty Throne as the shadows of my destiny. Perfect, I thought. Next she’d tell me I was to inherit the riches of a long-lost brother, and then the fiddler would offer to sell me a land deed.
I stood up. She looked up at me with an enigmatic expression. Was she waiting for me to ask a question now? To offer her money? I touched my purse to make sure it was still on my hip, but then I noticed she had not touched the final card. I flipped it over.
The card depicted a man standing atop a moonlit hill, a scepter in his hand and a crown at his feet. Below him, a dozen glowing eyes peered out from the shadows as if waiting for a command from above.
“No!” shouted the fiddler. He kicked over the table, scattering the cards.
Something in the tone of his voice gave me a start. I’d backed up several steps before I realized what I’d done. Malena bent to pick up the cards, and the fiddler scolded her in Varisian. I caught only a few words, but their body language told me everything I needed to know. She had done something wrong, and he was furious.
“What’s the problem?” I asked.
“Quickly,” said Malena. She pressed something into my hand. “Here is your coin. Now go!”
The fiddler pointed at me with his outer fingers, sort of a reverse of the tines. “Get away from my family, devil,” he said. “You are cursed!”
“Well, yeah,” was the snappiest remark I could muster. Still, I knew my cue when I heard it. I backed away from oracle’s row. Only after I’d turned the corner did I look at what Malena had given me.
A copper piece, and not even a shiny new one. The head of the ancient lord on its face was verdigris against the black grime of decades, maybe centuries. Maybe more than that. He was a handsome fellow, but with a sour look on his face,
as if he’d just tasted something he’d expected to like but had to spit it out.
“You and me both,” I told him.
Chapter Three
The Lepidstadt Scar
As I offered my hand to convey Mistress Tara into the carriage, her escort interposed himself so abruptly that I was obliged to step back to avoid receiving his shoulder in my chest. My acquaintance with Casomir Galdana was less than an hour old, but already I regretted my promise to escort him home.
From someone among her extensive network of admirers, rivals, and sycophants, Carmilla had learned of your intent to visit the estate of Count Lucinean Galdana in hopes of gaining access to his family library. At first I was dubious that a lord of Ustalav should open his private holdings to a Pathfinder, but I should not have been surprised to learn your powers of personal persuasion are equal to the eloquence of your written reports. Carmilla had also heard that you impressed Galdana sufficiently that you stayed at his estate at Willowmourn for several days this past spring. And indeed it is true that disdain for our Society need not be universally held through the nobles of Ustalav.
I have never met the present Count Galdana, but of his predecessor I recall only a jolly disposition and a propensity for country humor and boasts of recent hunting excursions. What gossip I had gleaned since arriving portrayed the present Count of Amaans as an avid huntsman so frequently afield that the nobles of Caliphas were more accustomed to receiving one of his near relations, this time his sister’s son Casomir. In return for her information, Carmilla asked only that I escort Casomir and his cousin, Tara, to Willowmourn.
That Carmilla’s request coincided perfectly with my own designs did not escape my notice, nor have I been deaf to the whispers of her desire to undermine the place of House Ordranto. Surely Casomir could have hired his own guards and carriage, but Carmilla insisted that sharing the luxury of my own vehicle would offer a favorable impression that could only aid me in gaining access to the Galdana family library. In other circumstances, I might have hesitated before allowing myself to be manipulated in such a manner, but weighing the likelihood that Carmilla was using my visit to cast suspicion on Count Galdana against the prospect of finding you, I judged the danger worth the cost.
Casomir Galdana was the icon of Ustalavic nobility. Lean of frame and cheek, he already displayed a shadow of dark beard after the noon hour, although by contrast his hair was pale as winter straw. I noted the rapier at his hip and, beneath his left eye, a familiar sort of scar. With no offspring of his own, his uncle the Count had adopted him, a gesture not uncommon among Ustalavic nobility, especially between uncles and a sister’s son. In return for the honor, Casomir attended such duties as the count did not wish to fulfill personally, such as fetching their cousin from Caliphas.
Casomir’s cousin Tara had lately arrived from Vudra, where her father served as the Ustalav ambassador until his retirement a decade ago. While the ambassador wished to enjoy his remaining days in the balmy climate of his wife’s homeland, he desired their daughter, upon her majority, to experience his native culture. I suspect as well he hoped her stay in Ustalav society might provoke a fortuitous marriage.
Tara possesses the beauty peculiar to those of mixed parentage, if you will forgive so self-serving an opinion. Her complexion is the color of crushed cinnamon, and her eyes are so black that one must look carefully to realize that she has not used belladonna to enlarge her pupils. Yet upon this Vudran palette rests the aquiline nose common to the Varisians of Ustalav, and her hair more reflects the brilliance of spun copper than the earthy tones of henna.
Unfortunately, the young woman has spoken fewer than two dozen words since our acquaintance, all of them practiced courtesies. I suspect her constitution is ill suited to the autumn weather, or perhaps she has not yet adjusted to the local cuisine. Or perhaps she had sampled too broadly of the Prince’s wine and endured the same aftereffects from which I was suffering. Whatever the cause, at least her delicate constitution offers no offense, unlike Casomir’s excessive protection of his cousin.
Casomir should have been more appreciative of my presence, for without it he might have suffered more than a shoulder in the chest. When his second glance at Radovan assured him of my bodyguard’s hell-tainted nature, Casomir’s blunt inquiries as to his parentage ventured close to insult. Radovan understood more of the Varisian than I expected, but happily his response was polite, if not servile enough to satisfy Casomir’s ill temper. I wish Radovan would redouble his efforts to learn the local tongue, for fewer natives of Ustalav will understand his Taldane as we travel away from Caliphas.
There was one more unfortunate incident of note before we departed the city. Nicola had earlier apologized for the delay in procuring the supplies, but it was of no consequence since I had postponed our departure by one day to allow Casomir and Tara to dispense with their local obligations. Still Nicola flitted about, and there was no mistaking Radovan’s sly smile when he noticed my valet’s agitation. When I observed Nicola’s constant touching of a new coin purse, I realized what must have occurred.
I summoned Radovan to my side on the pretense of inspecting the six guards he had chosen. They were a rough lot, but judging from the amputees and drunkards I had seen loitering beside the hiring post, Radovan had chosen the most able. Only two showed any military demeanor, and one wore a high collar that did not quite conceal the ugly scar of a noose.
“How many convicts?” I asked Radovan.
He jutted his jaw in that half-smile that tells me he had predicted my first question. “Just the one,” he said. “The question is: which one?”
That he asked meant the answer was not obvious, unless he were bluffing me. Radovan relishes in misdirection, a quality I appreciate far more when it is employed in my service rather than at my expense. The ploy should have irritated me, but it is difficult to resist a puzzle, even a simple one.
Thus, I discounted the hanged man, whom Radovan told me was named Costin. The pair who struck me as former soldiers were Anton and Dimitru. They sat on a low wall near the stables, not looking directly at us, but obviously aware of our conversation and ready to move the moment they heard an order. Luca, a lean fellow with a burn on the back of one hand, inspected the riding horses before finally saddling a gray mare for himself. Costin stood with one foot on the wall, leaning toward one-eyed Emil. They shared a pipe carved to resemble a sleeping bear, but despite their efforts at nonchalance, their eyes continually flicked toward the curtained window of the red carriage, where they had last seen the beauteous Tara vanish. The last, a long-haired youth named Grigor, was missing the little finger of one hand. He looked down the sight of his crossbow for what must have been the third time since our arrival.
I indicated the third man.
“Yeah, Luca,” said Radovan, sounding deflated. “But what was he in for?”
“Horse theft,” I said. “He knows the beasts well, and the traditional Ustalavic punishment for theft is branding the back of the hand.”
Radovan nodded his appreciation. It was not an especially astute deduction, but I expressed it confidently enough to impress him. Such occasions were becoming uncommon after so long an association. Still, the answer provided the segue I required.
“There is a lesson in that for you,” I said. “Such a brand would inhibit your ability to mingle in certain circles.”
Radovan normally exhibits few tells, but I noticed a slight tightening at the base of his jaw. He nodded but said nothing. There was a time when that would have been enough to confirm an understanding between us, but I felt the need for clarity.
I said, “I trust that Nicola will find his misplaced purse among the baggage.”
Radovan looked toward the sun, which had just surpassed the horizon. “I’m surprised he hasn’t already.”
In happier times he might have amused me with a witty rejoinder, but my admonishment rankled him. Perhaps the fault is mine for allowing such informality over the years.
Too late for
such thoughts. I could leave my guests waiting no longer, so I summoned Nicola with a snap of my fingers, and we boarded the carriage. Moments later, the hired driver cracked the reins, and we began our journey north, into the heart of Ustalav.
Road travel is never so comfortable as in the red carriage. Four generations of human and halfling servants have maintained the carriage since the day of my birth, yet it has never required repair. Nor has its lustrous color faded. Neither the springs nor, incredibly, the wheels have ever required replacement, although I have the latter re-shod in fresh steel as a matter of annual maintenance. Its interior is like a tiny drawing room, the facing seats covered in thick leather upholstery as luxurious as any armchair. They conceal ample storage compartments, which the servants had filled with my belongings to make room on the roof for my guests’ baggage. The spacious windows still contain their original glass. Beside them, tiny enchanted lamps emit light at a touch. Unfortunately, neither of my fellow passengers seemed to appreciate the comforts as I do.
To ameliorate Tara’s discomfort, I drew the curtains, but Casomir permitted no further ministrations. Once Tara began to doze, however, he surprised me by leaning forward to engage me in conversation.
“Forgive me, Your Excellency,” he said. “I fear I have offered you offense. My concern for my cousin’s health—”
“Think nothing of it,” I said, as one does. “I hope the travel will not aggravate her condition.”
“Condition?” he said archly. “What do you mean by—?”