by DAVID B. COE
It was a more honest answer than he had any right to expect, perhaps a more honest one than he deserved. No doubt if Villyd felt this way, his men did as well. Raising an army to fight the king would not work. Villyd’s words made that clear, as had his own conversation with Marston.
But Shanstead had said something else this night that gave the duke reason to think there could be another way. A year ago he wouldn’t have believed himself capable of considering such a thing. But a year ago Brienne still lived. A year ago the man who had harbored her killer did not wear Eibithar’s jeweled crown.
Chapter Nine
Bistari, Aneira
The tavern was so empty, so quiet, that Rodaf could hear the sign out front rattling in the wind. He often heard it during the days, but by this hour on most nights enough people crowded the tables of his inn to make it hard to hear an order from a man standing right in front of him, much less any sounds from beyond the tavern walls. Not that he should have expected any better. It was his own fault for opening at all one night before Bohdan’s Night. Aliya warned him it would be like this tonight, and though he had told her to keep her mind on her stitching, he had to admit that she had been right. He wouldn’t bother opening tomorrow night, nor would he do this again next year. For now, however, he had little choice but to remain open and serve those who came in.
The Ironwood wasn’t completely empty. Old Winso was here, as usual, as were a few of the others. And since he had already told the serving girls to go home for the night, it cost him nothing to keep his doors open. Still, it would have been nice to be back in his private room, sitting before a fire, sipping a dark Sanbiri wine. Knowing how much Aliya enjoyed a good blaze on a cold night, there was no telling where the evening might have led.
Rodaf couldn’t help but notice the strangers as soon as they entered the tavern. Even on a regular night, when the inn was so choked with men and women that a person could barely move, they would have caught his attention. Such an unlikely pair could hardly expect to go anywhere without drawing stares, though it seemed clear to the innkeeper that they hoped to go unnoticed.
One of them was Qirsi, a tall, broad-shouldered man who looked more like a swordsman than a sorcerer. His eyes were the color of torch flame and his white hair fell loose to the middle of his back. The other-well, it was hard to say what the other was. Eandi, to be sure, with the fine features and graceful swagger of a court noble, and deep blue eyes to match. He looked young, though it was difficult to guess his age, for his face bore a lattice of dark, angry scars that made Rodaf, who had seen his share of wounds and scars, shudder in spite of himself. More than anything else, though, their clothes drew his eye. They were travel-stained and poor-fitting. Almost too much so. Rather than making the strangers look indigent, their filthy road coats and torn trousers simply seemed out of place. There was an old Aneiran saying, “A man is more than his clothes.” But for these two, it was more than just an adage. In fairness to the travelers, Rodaf had spent much of his life observing people-he grew up as the son and grandson of innkeepers. Their clothes might have fooled others. Seeing such tatters might have kept another man from even bothering to look at their faces. But Rodaf couldn’t help thinking that the two were running from something.
“Welcome to the Ironwood, friends,” he said, raising a hand in greeting and forcing a smile.
The Qirsi nodded, glancing around the tavern as if searching for someone. “Thank you, good sir,” he said, his eye coming to rest at last on Rodaf’s face. The accent was subtle, and the innkeeper couldn’t quite place it. “Might we get some ale and a bit to eat?”
“You have coin to pay?” Rodaf knew they did, but dressed as they were, the strangers would expect him to ask.
“Yes, we do.”
The innkeeper waved a hand at the empty tables. “Then please make yourselves comfortable.” He started back toward the kitchen. “I hope cheeses and dried meats are all right,” he called to them. “I sent my cook home with the prior’s bells.”
The Qirsi said something he couldn’t hear, but Rodaf didn’t bother asking him to repeat it. These two wouldn’t object to anything he served. To do so would have been to make themselves too conspicuous.
He brought them the cheese and meats as well as a half loaf of dark bread and two tankards of black ale. The men said nothing as he set the food and drink in front of them, but Rodaf felt them watching him. They made him uneasy, and he found himself hoping that they would move on rather than asking to buy a room for the night, despite the six qinde it would bring him.
“Is there anything else you need?” he asked, looking from the younger man to the Qirsi.
“Actually there is,” the white-hair said. “We were hoping you might join us for a moment. We have some questions for you.”
He shook his head. “I’m not one for answering questions. Not for strangers.”
“I can understand that,” the Qirsi said. “But there’s gold in it for you if you’ll talk to us.”
Rodaf hesitated, twisting his mouth in a way Aliya would have understood. “Dressed as you are, I’m surprised to hear you offering gold. That’s sure to make people take notice.”
The white-hair grinned and turned to his companion. “See, I told you he was the one to find. Rodaf Wantaro of the Ironwood sees things other men miss. Didn’t I say that?”
The other man nodded and gave a thin, unconvincing smile.
“Have we met, friend?” Rodaf asked, staring at the man, and feeling his stomach tighten.
“No,” the Qirsi said. “But I’ve heard others speak of you. I gathered, from what they said, that we should talk to you.”
“About what?”
The white-hair indicated an empty chair with a nod. “Please sit, Rodaf.”
Reluctantly, the innkeeper pulled a chair up to their table.
“My name is Grinsa,” the Qirsi said. He gestured at his friend. “This is Xaver.”
Rodaf nodded at the Eandi, but the lad only stared at him.
“What is it you want to ask me?” the innkeeper asked, trying to sound like he had far more important things to do than sit with them.
“We heard of the garroting of your duke,” Grinsa said, biting into a strip of dried meat. “There’s talk of it all over the kingdom. People here must have been terribly angry.”
Rodaf shrugged. “Some were. House Bistari and House Solkara have hated one another for centuries, and old Chago did nothing to win this king’s affections. I suppose it was just a matter of time before Carden grew angry enough to send his assassins.”
“So you believe it was the king’s men who did this.”
“Of course,” the innkeeper said. “Everyone does.”
“Did you notice any strangers in the city around the time your duke was killed?”
“We get strangers all the time.” Rodaf gave a small smile. “Even the evening before Bohdan’s Night. Bistari sits at the edge of the Great Forest, on the shores of the Scabbard, and between the Kett and the Rassor. During the course of a single turn I see peddlers and merchants from almost every dukedom in every kingdom in the Forelands. Asking me if I’ve noticed a stranger is like asking a Wethy trader if he noticed a five-qinde piece.”
“You might remember this man,” the Qirsi said. “He’s a musician. Long black hair, beard, pale blue eyes. He’s slightly taller than I am, lean but powerfully built.”
Rodaf shook his head. “I don’t think I’ve seen anyone like that, at least not recently.”
“Think harder,” the younger one said.
“Xaver-”
“Well, he didn’t even consider it,” the lad said, turning to Grinsa. “He just said no.”
Rodaf looked the boy up and down. The odd clothes made more sense now. He recognized the accent.
“You’re from Eibithar,” he said, the words coming out as an accusation.
“South Wethyrn actually,” the Qirsi said quickly. “We both are.”
The accents were similar. For som
e it was easy to confuse Jistingham and Glyndwr. But Rodaf knew better. As he’d said a moment before, running an inn in Bistari, he met men from every part of the Forelands, including Eibithar. He wasn’t mistaken, and he could see from the look in the boy’s eyes that his companion had warned him not to speak.
The innkeeper stood. “You’re free to finish your meal,” he told them. “But you won’t be buying a room. Not here, not tonight.”
The Qirsi grabbed his arm. “Wait. You said you hadn’t seen anyone like the man we described, and then you said, ‘at least not recently.’ What did you mean?”
Rodaf pulled his arm free, glaring at the man. For a moment he considered just walking away, or better yet, demanding that they leave the Ironwood immediately. But Grinsa pulled a ten-qinde round from his pocket and tossed it on the table, where it sat glittering with the glow of the candles that lit the room.
After eyeing it briefly, the innkeeper picked it up. “There was a man like the one you describe who used to sing in one of the festivals. It’s been a few years now, but it could be the same man.”
“Do you remember his name?” Grinsa asked.
Rodaf searched his memory for some time. “No,” he said at last. “I’ve forgotten.”
“Corbin, perhaps?”
The innkeeper raised an eyebrow. “Yes, that was it. I guess it was the same man.”
Grinsa nodded. “Thank you, Rodaf. We’ll leave after we’ve eaten, and we won’t return. You have my word.”
Rodaf turned away and walked back to the bar, wondering if he had been rash in telling the men to leave. The boy might have been from Eibithar, but he certainly didn’t look like the northern kingdom had treated him well. The innkeeper was just about to tell them that he had reconsidered, and that they could stay the night, when the door to the inn opened again and four of the duke’s soldiers stepped in from the wind and cold.
Immediately, both Grinsa and the boy lowered their heads, as if intent on their food and ale. The guards glanced at them as they made their way to the ale tap, but they showed no sign that they were actually looking for the pair. Grinsa stared after the men, his head still down so that he could watch the soldiers without being too obvious. Whatever had brought them to Bistari, Rodaf wanted no part of it. Let them find beds at one of the other inns. He considered pointing the pair out to the soldiers, but though the lad was a northerner, he immediately thought better of it. He didn’t want trouble, and he couldn’t afford a reputation as a man who couldn’t be trusted by his patrons. Nothing ruined a tavern’s business faster than that.
The soldiers didn’t stay long. As they did most nights, they drank their ales and returned to the castle. Once they were gone, Grinsa and the Eandi boy pushed back from their table. The boy stepped to the door, but the white-hair walked over to Rodaf and handed him another five qinde, more than enough to pay for their food and drink.
“That’s a lot of gold you’ve given me,” the innkeeper said. “I told you before, I can’t tell you anything else.”
“I realize that. But you could have pointed us out to those men, and you didn’t. I’m grateful.”
Grinsa held his gaze a moment longer, then turned to go.
“What is it you want with the singer?” Rodaf called after him.
The Qirsi faced him again. “He killed a friend of ours and left the boy to take the blame. We’d like to discuss that with him.”
Rodaf nodded, wishing he hadn’t asked. He didn’t start to breathe again until the door closed behind them, and he found himself alone with Winso and the others.
It seemed to have grown colder just in the short time it took them to eat supper. The wind still howled through the city streets, carrying the chill, damp scent of the Scabbard, and a fine rain had begun to fall. Tavis couldn’t imagine how it didn’t turn to snow, so frigid was the air.
He and the Qirsi walked through the streets of Bistari, skirting the marketplace so as to keep their distance from Castle Bistari.
“I told you not to speak,” Grinsa said, his voice tight, as if he were fighting to control his temper. “What’s the good of using a false name if you’re going to give away the fact that we’re from Eibithar?”
“I’m not certain there’s any good in it at all,” he said. He had never liked the idea of using an alias. He was Tavis of Curgh, son of a duke and heir to one of the great houses of Eibithar. Why should he have to hide his true name like some road brigand on the moors? Using Xaver MarCullet’s name helped a bit. At least this way he could honor his friend and liege man, maybe even atone in some small way for the knife wound he gave the boy after his terrifying Fating several turns back. Still, he would have preferred to stop hiding and travel the countryside openly as a noble. Let the Aneirans be damned.
“We’ve spoken of this before, Tavis,” the Qirsi said wearily. “You’re an Eibitharian lord in the heart of your kingdom’s most bitter enemy. Your scars already make you an object of interest.”
Tavis looked away. He didn’t need the gleaner to tell him that. Everywhere they went he felt the stares, and each day he cursed Aindreas of Kentigern for the torture that had so marked him.
“Using your real name would be far too dangerous,” Grinsa went on. “All we need is for one person to recognize you and all would be lost.”
“If you’re so worried about others noticing us, perhaps you should stop throwing my father’s gold around like a drunken baron. You gave that man fifteen qinde for old meat, hard cheese, and stale bread. You learned nothing from him of any importance.”
“Actually that’s not true. I learned that Corbin had been here before, albeit not necessarily when Chago died. And I satisfied myself that the man we’re looking for and the man we’re describing are one and the same. It may not be much, but it’s something. It’s more than we had before we went in.” He grinned. “And you forgot the ale. Your father’s gold bought that as well, and I thought it was rather good.”
Tavis had to smile. “It was all right,” he admitted, “for an Aneiran brew.” They walked in silence for a few paces and he glanced at the gleaner, trying to gauge his mood. “Where are we going now?”
“To another tavern, one where we’ll be able to get a room.”
“How do you know?”
“It’s a Qirsi inn. The Silver Marten.”
The boy nodded, but said nothing. He had grown used to this by now-sleeping and eating among white-hairs. They stared at him as well, but at least in the Qirsi taverns he could convince himself that they did so because he was Eandi, rather than because of the marks on his face.
“You still think Corbin killed Bistari’s duke?” he asked. “The innkeeper seemed certain that it was the king’s men.”
Grinsa shrugged, his eyes trained on the street. “I don’t know. We’ve been searching Aneira for more than three turns now, and we’ve yet to find Brienne’s killer. I had hoped that following the Western Festival would lead us to him, but that didn’t work. I had hoped to find something in Tantreve, even though the marquess there died more than a year ago. That turned out to be a wasted journey as well. This just seemed like the most likely place to look next.” He let out a slow breath. “Maybe we need to try something new.”
Tavis knew what would come next. Grinsa wanted to look for Shurik, once the first minister to Aindreas of Kentigern, who betrayed his duke to Rouel of Mertesse. The gleaner hoped that Shurik could help them find those leading the Qirsi conspiracy, which he believed had paid for Brienne’s murder. Tavis didn’t doubt that all this was true, but he felt that finding the assassin and proving that he killed Brienne would take far less time than thwarting an entire conspiracy. Since he couldn’t reclaim his place in the Order of Ascension or his birthright as heir to the House of Curgh until he proved himself innocent of Brienne’s murder, he had insisted that they follow Corbin rather than the renegade Qirsi.
“We don’t need something new,” he said in a flat voice. “We need to keep looking for the assassin. It may be that he’
s left Aneira by now. For all we know he’s back in Eibithar.”
“At least we know that Shurik’s not. He would have sought asylum in Mertesse. He must still be there.”
Tavis gave a silent curse. He might as well have been arguing the gleaner’s cause for him.
“One more turn, Grinsa,” he said, though it pained him to do so. “If we’ve found nothing by the Night of Two Moons in Qirsar’s Turn, we’ll start north for Mertesse.”
The Qirsi looked at him with unconcealed surprise. “Do you mean that?”
He nodded. “We’ve found nothing so far. I’m no closer to taking back my name than I was when we left Eibithar. Whatever you think me, I’m not a fool.”
“Not usually, no.”
Again Tavis smiled, though he also shook his head. No one had ever spoken to him as Grinsa did, not even Xaver, who had been his best friend for as long as he could remember. From any other man, the gibes Grinsa dealt him would have seemed impudent. But with the help of Fotir jal Salene, his father’s first minister, the gleaner had freed him from Kentigern’s dungeon. In doing so, he revealed himself as a Weaver, the most powerful kind of Qirsi sorcerer, and the most feared and hated by the Eandi. Not only had he saved Tavis’s life, he had trusted the boy with his own. No one had done so much for him or asked so much of him. Theirs remained a difficult partnership. Grinsa made no secret of the fact that he thought Tavis spoiled, thoughtless, and childish, nor did he hesitate to point out other faults in the boy as he noticed them. For his part, Tavis often resented the Qirsi’s attempts to order him about, as if Grinsa were his surrogate father. But Tavis relied on the man as he had few others, and he sensed that he had begun to earn Grinsa’s trust as well.
They reached the Silver Marten a short time later. Pausing briefly on the threshold, his hand on the door handle, Grinsa looked back at him, a plea in his yellow eyes.
“Don’t say a thing.”