The Soprano Sorceress: The First Book of the Spellsong Cycle

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  The player appeared puzzled, but Markan answered crisply, “Yes, Lady Anna.”

  The heavy man in gray looked away. Markan’s eyes twinkled, but his face remained stem as the three dismounted and tied their mounts.

  Anna let Markan and Daffyd flank her on the way into the inn. Inside, the main floor was warmer than the porch, and Anna removed the soggy hat. Behind a narrow counter at the end of the entryway stood a narrow-faced woman in a brown shirt.

  “Looking for lodging?”

  “What have you for a party of five?” Anna asked.

  The woman glanced from Anna, then to the armsman and the player. “And who else?”

  “Two more armsmen,” Markan said. “My lady travels light.”

  “You can have the corner place, lady. That’s a gold, for the private bed and the common room. You get a basin and a towel, and common fare for all.”

  The no-nonsense manner indicated that was to be expected, but Anna paused.

  “Our mounts?” asked Markan. “The usual copper each?”

  “For five? That’s for hay. If you want grain, say an extra two coppers. Visula might ask four, but it’s late.” The innkeeper paused. “That’s a gold and seven coppers … if you want the grain.”

  Anna managed not to fumble with the wallet, and laid a gold and a silver on the counter, waiting.

  The three coppers came back slowly, as if the innkeeper were expecting some largess.

  The sorceress smiled. “Extra service is paid for after it is rendered … if it’s merited.”

  Markan’s lips stiffened momentarily.

  “You won’t find better on the whole highway to Falcor, lady. No you won’t!”

  “Then I’m sure we’ll both be satisfied,” Anna answered with a smile.

  “You want I should show you the room?”

  “Daffyd … you come with me. Will you take care of the mounts and baggage, Markan?” Anna asked.

  “We’ll stable them and bring things up.” Markan turned to the woman keeper. “The front corner or the back?”

  “Back, a’course. Quieter for a lady.”

  Anna followed the older woman up stairs barely wide enough for the innkeeper’s broad hips, and down a narrow hall where every plank creaked.

  “Here you be.”

  The room directly off the hall held six pallets of a dubious nature, an oil lamp on a wall sconce, and a single narrow window.

  Through the door from the outer room, Anna stepped into the corner room. Small, not much more than three yards square, it had a window with the two-shutter arrangement—louvers on the inside and heavy open shutters on the outside. A single worn towel lay folded across the base on the lumpy narrow double bed that had no pillows. A nightstand containing a basin and pitcher on one side and a single squat lamp with a sooty mantle stood between the bed and the window. Two wooden chairs and a cracked and battered chamberpot completed the furnishings.

  “Be bringing up the water soon as I leave.”

  “I’d appreciate that,” Anna said.

  The woman sniffed and headed back down the dim hall, the floorboards creaking under her weight.

  “It’s not much better than the tents in Pamr,” Daffyd observed sourly, massaging his thighs.

  Anna refrained from shaking her head. Compared to the Black Pony, the El Reno Motel she’d stayed in for Irenia’s senior recital had been a palace—if only she’d known! If the Black Pony happened to be better than most, Anna wasn’t sure she wouldn’t prefer a bedroll in the open air to the rest of the inns. Of course, inns probably had greater appeal before the dark ones had cut off all the rain and snow.

  Markan clumped down the hall and into the room, handing Anna her saddlebags and lutar case. “Lady … the way you handled Quisa … even Lady Anientta couldn’t have done that.” The armsman shook his head and surveyed the room with a laugh. “Hasn’t changed much. It’s still better than most.”

  Anna carried the saddlebags back into her room and set them in the wooden chair closest to the window.

  “Here’s a good solid bucket of water!” announced Quisa.

  Markan intercepted it. “Thank you, Quisa.”

  “You’re with that lord down south, aren’t you, fellow?”

  “Lord Hryding,” Markan agreed. “We’re headed to Falcor.”

  “Takes all kinds, it does.” Quisa shook her head and waddled back out the door.

  Fridric, provisions bags in hand, had to flatten himself against the wall to allow Quisa to pass.

  Stepan was laughing as he brought in the last of the saddlebags. “I waited until she came down, but, no, you just had to get up the stairs.”

  “You were right,” Fridric conceded.

  “What’s in these?” Stepan lifted the two irregular bags. “They clank, like blades and stuff.”

  “Blades and stuff,” Anna admitted. “I thought they might be worth something.”

  “More than in your purse,” Markan said. “Could I ask …”

  “You can ask.” Anna forced a smile.

  “Never mind, lady. Better I not know.”

  “I’m hungry,” Fridric said, almost plaintively.

  “Best we eat early. Food just gets tougher,” Markan suggested.

  “I’d like to wash up a little,” Anna said.

  “Not enough water for all of us,” Markan observed, glancing toward Anna’s room.

  “I think I can handle that.”

  Anna washed first, then managed to clean the water in the basin and bucket twice with the water spell. She sat in the empty chair and looked out the window while the others washed.

  Two armsmen in purple rode past the inn, but neither stopped. A setterlike dog dashed across the street after something she couldn’t see, and loud voices echoed from the porch.

  Her head kept aching, even after she held it in both hands and massaged her forehead. She finished the water in the bottle Markan had brought with her saddlebags, and that helped.

  “We’re ready, lady,” Daffyd offered softly.

  Anna stood, her legs suddenly unsteady. After two steps, they uncramped somewhat.

  “Can you ward our stuff?” asked Stepan.

  “Ward?” she answered.

  “Keep it safe.”

  “Let me think a moment.” It took more than a minute, but Anna did come up with what she hoped would serve.

  “Sing, sing a song;

  keep them safe to last our whole night long.

  Don’t worry’cause it’s sure strong enough

  for those who don’t belong.

  Just sing, sing a song.”

  She rubbed her forehead, which had begun to throb, probably from all the spells and no food for several glasses. Sorcery on an empty stomach hurt, she had discovered.

  “Strange ward,” murmured Fridric.

  “Strange or not, it will work,” opined Markan.

  Anna hoped so.

  The entire inn seemed to creak as they walked in single file down the hall and to the lower level. The public room was half empty, with a large table in the near corner.

  “Take the corner chair, lady,” Markan suggested, though Anna had already decided on that.

  The five had scarcely wedged themselves around the circular battered and grease-stained wooden table before the squat serving woman arrived, her trousers and tunic brown from a variety of sources beyond the color of the fabric. “Standard fare?”

  “What else is there tonight?” asked Anna.

  The serving woman glanced toward the squared arch through which smoke oozed and lowered her voice. “Nothing anyone should try.”

  Anna felt the comment was honest. “Standard fare all around.”

  Markan nodded minutely.

  “Drinks? Beer, red stuff about all we got.”

  “Red stuff?” asked Daffyd.

  “Call it wine, but it’s half vinegar, so I call it red stuff. Visula’s always on me for it, but … customers like to know.” A toothy grin followed, showing too many blackened
teeth.

  “Beer,” suggested Markan.

  Anna agreed, and, after that, so did the others.

  “Five more for the drinks,” said the server.

  “When they come,” answered Markan.

  Anna wanted to massage her forehead, which throbbed more fiercely. She needed to eat. Instead, she withdrew, trying to ignore the greasy air, the odor of sweat and burned meat, and the too-loud conversations.

  “Visula thinks he’s got the only inn on the road.”

  “He does, the dissonant devil.”

  “Who’s the lady, there?”

  “ … three, four armsmen, but she rode in, no carriage …”

  “Who cares? … prefer a good blade any day …”

  Five tin mugs clunked onto the table.

  “Where’s your five?” asked the serving woman.

  Anna laid five coppers on the wood, which vanished in a different kind of magic, and pulled one of the mugs in front of her. She studied the soapy-looking liquid even as Markan took a deep draught.

  “Good …”

  She didn’t quite believe him, and tried a sip. Lukewarm or not, it wasn’t bad. She had another sip.

  Stepan swallowed half a mug.

  “Lad … easy,” cautioned Markan. “The lady Anna isn’t about to pay to get you sick.”

  Before Anna took a third sip, the serving woman was back with five large steaming bowls filled with a thick dark liquid leavened with lumps. “Road stew,” she announced, staring at Anna.

  Anna got the message, and looked to Markan. The armsman mouthed “two.” Anna fumbled out a pair of coppers.

  With a smile the serving woman swept them away. “Enjoy. The bread’s a-coming. Hot, too.”

  Within moments, it had—two long black loaves.

  Anna glanced around—no cutlery … nothing. Markan had out his own dagger. Do as the Romans, or whoever, do. Anna ended up spearing the chunks of meat with her own dagger, nibbling on them, and sopping up the gravy with her bread.

  Her headache began to subside. What was it? She’d had trouble with blood sugar before, but it seemed even worse on Erde. Was doing sorcery worsening the effect?

  As she ate, around them, the half spoken, half shouted conversations swirled.

  “ … a dissonant fool ol’ Berfir was …”

  “ … Prophet’ll save us, but that’s to keep the Liedfuhr off his ass, not’cause he gives a single note about us.”

  Anna looked down at the empty bread basket and the empty bowl. Had she really eaten it all? Her eyes felt heavy. Maybe the bed wouldn’t be too lumpy. Maybe.

  59

  With the sun beating into her eyes, low enough that the battered hat’s brim was useless, Anna squinted toward the west and the road that merged with a red stone bridge.

  Moving past her on the left was a wagon drawn by two horses that plodded stolidly forward and raised road dust that seemed to hang just high enough for her to breathe. The driver stared at the road without ever looking at Anna, Daffyd, and the three armsmen.

  Anna rubbed her nose gently.

  Daffyd sneezed once, twice.

  “The dust never ends,” Markan said.

  The player sneezed again, and so did Stepan. Anna squeezed her nose and tried not to sneeze as well—and failed. Her eyes watered with the explosive force of the sneeze.

  “ … wish we would get enough rain to lay the dust,” gasped Stepan.

  Anna agreed, but blotted her eyes on her sleeve, then straightened in the saddle.

  A rider wearing a sash of cream and green pounded past the armsman and toward the east. The sorceress’s eyes followed the rider for a moment.

  “Prophet’s messenger, for all the good it will do him.” Markan paused, then added. “No one will listen, and no one will tell him anything.”

  Anna smiled ruefully—that sounded familiar, just like academic politics at Ames or anywhere else.

  A small square tower stood at the eastern end of the bridge, door bolted shut, upper windows shuttered. Dust coated the stones, softening the harsh red. As Anna’s eyes passed over the structure, she wondered why the small tower had ever been built, since it would have been useless against any army. A tollhouse that could no longer even pay for itself?

  “Up there, three deks or so, is where the Fal and the Chean come together,” Markan said idly as his mount’s hoofs clacked on the broad stones that paved the approach to the bridge.

  Wide enough for two wagons abreast, the stone bridge across the Falche River consisted of three sections. The first ran about a hundred yards from the east bluff of the river to a wide stone pier built up from a small island covered with brush and willows. The second section extended somewhat less than a hundred yards to another stone pier that rose out of the placid-looking muddy water. The last section stretched from the pier to the western bluff of the river—and the eastern part of Falcor.

  The ruts in the stone pavement testified to the bridge’s age, as did the loose mortar in the railing. A single cargo raft, steered with a tiller and containing pallets of something, floated south of the span, a dark brown splotch on the light brown water that shimmered almost silver in the late-afternoon sun.

  As Farinelli carried her off the bridge and onto the rough cobblestones of the road, Anna studied the small square that consisted of one statue on a pedestal in a paved area from which five streets branched. Like every other town she had seen in Defalk, Falcor lacked walls. Was that because sorcerers could break them down or because the countries were so far inland that walls were seldom needed? Or for some other reason?

  “Which way?” she asked Markan, slowing Farinelli.

  “The river road, the one to the left. The liedburg is south of the city proper.” As he spoke to Anna, Markan turned in the saddle and pointed toward Fridric. “Unfurl the banner.”

  The streets of Falcor were paved, if dust-and dirtcovered, and the sounds of the city echoed along the narrow streets.

  “Knives sharpened …” Cling, cling! “Knives sharpened …”

  “’Ware the wagon!’Ware the wagon!”

  Anna looked up and saw the chamberpot, reining up Farinelli just before the sloppy mess splashed into the open sewer that ran along the right side of the street.

  Flies swirled around them, smaller and swifter than the large horseflies on the highway. The street narrowed more, and an odor compounded of horse manure, sewage, spoiled food, and kitchen fires drifted around Anna. No wonder medieval minstrels extolled the countryside.

  “Beautiful Falcor …” murmured Anna. Brill’s hall seemed impossibly distant, impossibly clean. As with so many things in her life, Anna was reminded that the better aspects were often transitory—like Irenia … like earth itself. She drew herself erect on the gelding, steeled herself for the ordeal that would come.

  The equivalent of a dozen blocks farther south, they reached another square, containing women, children, and carts drawn up randomly on the pavement. From several carts the smoke of fowl being cooked on braziers rose, and Anna was reminded of how Mario had smelled every night the year he had worked for KFC.

  “Roasted fowl! Roasted fowl, two a quarter, two a quarter …”

  “ … hot fowl rolls … hot rolls …”

  “Stenjabs! Get your stenjabs here!”

  What were stenjabs? Anna had no desire to find out, and neither Markan nor Daffyd made any comment.

  “Lady? A fowl for your men?”

  The sorceress shook her head.

  “Probably diseased,” Markan said under his breath as they rode from the open area back onto a street wider than that which had taken them from the bridge.

  The dwellings were larger south of the square, with lower level walls built of large square red building stones, like brownstones, and only shuttered entrances on the street level. Up a level were balconies and windows, and higher, tile roofs.

  The street sewers were covered—mostly—with slabs of stone.

  As the street sloped downhill, Markan gestur
ed to the castle—the first real castle Anna had seen—on the opposite hill, overlooking Falcor, with the Falche River to the left. “The liedburg.”

  A banner comprised of two cream-and-green triangles, over which was superimposed a golden trumpet, flew from the staff above the gates.

  Anna nodded and took off the floppy hat, using her hands to try to push her hair into some semblance of order.

  “Good idea,” said Daffyd.

  Don’t condescend to me! she thought, but only smiled.

  The street widened into an avenue as it flattened in the space under the liedburg. An expanse of grass a full hundred yards wide surrounded the castle on three sides, with the eastern side of the bluff overlooking the river.

  Markan slowed his mount at the stone-paved road to the gates.

  The walls around the liedburg were not perfunctory, but a full twenty yards high, made of massive red stone blocks, designed to withstand sieges. In the flat below the walls on the side closest to the river, were set up rows of tents, and armsmen lounged in the shade created by the canvas. Several peered toward Anna and her entourage as they headed across the open area to the gates.

  A full squad of guards in leathers and sea-green sashes was drawn up, half on each side of the gate. While the gates were open, a network of bars that resembled a portcullis with a small doorway in the middle blocked the gate opening.

  “We might as well ride on.” Anna flicked the reins, and Farinelli stepped forward, his hoofs loud on the hard stone.

  “Who are you?” asked the weathered subofficer who stepped forward when Anna reined up short of the guards. Then he added less peremptorily, “Lady?”

  “I am the lady Anna. I am here responding to the Prophet’s proclamation. The armsmen escorting me represent the fealty of Lord Hryding, and his demonstration of goodwill.”

  “The lady who?”

  “The lady Anna,” she repeated, forcing herself not to explain. No lady would explain in public.

  “Who is she? Some lord’s daughter … .”

  “ … another doxie for Behlem?”

  “ … got none, not with his consort …”

  “ … she that sorceress?”