“I doubt that.” Lessa had descended the stairs as he spoke, and now she stood by the table, tracing random patterns across the wood. “But even though it’s not a lesson, I think it is a sort of test.”
“In what way?”
Lessa followed the table’s edge with her thumb. “Lady Margraine isn’t kind, or generous. I don’t think she would help anyone for its own sake, and you and she may end up being enemies one day. But on the other hand, the longer we can hold out against Elgar, the longer she has to make her own preparations to engage him. I think she saw the good to be had in helping you, but she was too capricious to just tell you what you needed to know.” She tapped the page in front of him. “It’s intelligence she values—didn’t she say that? Or maybe I just guessed it. So it’s a test of your intelligence—she left it up to that, the way some people leave things up to luck, or to the gods. She buried her advice somewhere in here, and if you’re smart enough to figure it out, then she thinks you deserve to have it. If you can’t figure it out … well, she’d probably just say it’s nothing to her.”
She was right; Kel was certain of it. “Well, I will figure it out,” he said. “She’s not the only one who can be smart.”
“I know you will,” Lessa said, and smiled at him. It faded quickly, though, and she glanced out the window at the mist-shrouded trees. “Are you very sad about Cadfael?”
Kel slumped a little lower in his chair. “I wish he would’ve stayed. I think we could’ve … helped each other, somehow. But it was his choice, and it’s not as if I’m going to pine for him. We managed before he came, and we’ll manage now.” He looked at her closely. “You were never very fond of him, were you?”
She shook her head, but he wasn’t quite sure what that meant. “I don’t think he was a bad man, just … dangerous to have around. He was so focused on that one thing, and besides that there was just … nothing. I felt nothing else from him.”
Kel fidgeted, but he wasn’t about to correct her. Cadfael had cared only about his vengeance, and after that … he’d said himself he didn’t care if he died, hadn’t he? And Kel had thought at times that even his grudge against Shinsei was just an excuse to die, whatever he may have said to the contrary—that it was just a way of convincing himself that his death had accomplished something, instead of springing solely from his own weakness. “I wonder what it would take to make him happy again.”
“Restore his sister to life,” Lessa said immediately. “And neither one of us can do that, can we?”
No, Kel thought. Even magic couldn’t conquer death—didn’t the spell books agree on that? And even if it could, magic had deserted this world, hadn’t it? When he was little, he’d read story after story about crippled mages. The poets seemed to like them—they probably thought it balanced out, magical ability and physical weakness. But Kel was just a cripple of the ordinary sort: his weakness was real, no matter what he did, so he had to try to make his strength real as well, in his mind and his heart and his will.
Would that be enough to protect Reglay? Well, probably not. But he wouldn’t know until he tried, would he?
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Thanks to Irjan, Morgan and Braddock had reached Issamira proper without incident, and their days afterward had proved similarly uneventful. Grass and living trees had started cropping up quickly once they’d reached the other side of the Curse, and the ground had turned the normal shade of brown—perhaps it had even gotten a bit too moist, as they’d had to squelch through more than one muddy patch of road on their way to the village where Nasser was holed up. The village itself appeared rather muddy too, the crooked wooden buildings packed too close together. It was bigger than Morgan would have expected, and that made her a little nervous. They’d been traveling for some time now, and she was about as used to being outside Valyanrend as she probably ever would be, but she was used to knowing the culture of a place, of being an insider rather than an outsider.
Braddock indicated a large and lopsided building that seemed to be the village’s sad excuse for a tavern. “There. Nas’s letter said he’d wait outside the tavern every day at sundown for as long as he could—whatever that means.”
“At least we’re right on time,” Morgan said.
He nodded. “If he’s here, he’ll be close, but he’ll be expecting Vash. I don’t think that’ll complicate things, but it might.”
Morgan stayed by his side as he walked around the tavern, peering through the near-darkness at this loiterer and that. Most of them were drunk, on their way either homeward or into the nearest ditch. But finally Braddock stopped several yards from a man leaning against the tavern’s far side. “Nas,” he said, not even a question. “It’s been some time.”
The man turned to him unhurriedly, his eyebrows lifting as he smiled. “Well, this is unexpected! Perhaps the gods do hear us after all.” Morgan herself had expected to see a man of an age with Braddock and Vash, but Nasser was easily fifteen or twenty years older, though he seemed no less spry for that. He was dark-skinned, like the people of Akozuchi to the southeast, but his lack of accent suggested he hadn’t been born there. She was also surprised to see he dressed well for a mercenary—no bright colors or flashy ornaments, to be sure, but clean gray linen and new leather boots, with a dark blue coat stuffed under one arm that was doubtless too warm to wear in the southern heat. He wore his hair very short, with only the barest fuzz keeping him from baldness, and his stubble was considerably better maintained than Braddock’s. Besides the coat, a small pack, and an ample quiver, over one shoulder he carried what seemed, even to Morgan’s untrained eye, to be a very shoddy bow indeed.
Braddock smiled at the greeting, though it seemed to perplex him as much as it had Morgan. “What do the gods have to do with it?”
Nasser’s smile only widened, showing off a set of perfect teeth. “Why, I was only just now thinking how, in my current troubles, an ox would suit me far better than a weasel, and here you are.”
Braddock scratched the back of his neck sheepishly. “Well, it’s not the gods that sent me, sorry to say.” When Morgan and Nasser both kept looking at him expectantly, he started. “Oh. Ah, Nas, this is Morgan Imrick. She’s, ah … well, she owns a tavern, but to sum it up, she’s not there now, and so … here we are.”
Nasser let the somewhat less than an explanation pass easily enough, and shook Morgan’s hand firmly. “I see he hasn’t become any more eloquent since I knew him. I’d offer my condolences, but I’m afraid they wouldn’t be genuine—I confess to being rather fond of his clumsiness.”
“I don’t object to it myself,” Morgan said. “Forgive me, but … what’s this about a weasel and an ox?”
The mischievous glint in his eye reminded her of Roger. “They are my dear old friends, of course. Vash is the weasel because he’s … not precisely a coward—I’ve seen him perform feats no true coward could stomach. But his courage doesn’t come out until he really needs it, the way weasels can be tenacious when cornered. And Braddock is the ox because—”
“Oh, no, you needn’t explain that part,” Morgan said. “I found it entirely apt, I assure you.”
“Yes,” Braddock said, “well, now that we’ve all had a laugh at my expense, perhaps I could explain—”
“Ah,” Nasser said. “Yes, please do. I assume your arrival in my time of need is not quite a coincidence?”
“Almost,” Braddock said. “It was chance that I was with Vash when your message arrived, but I was the one who decided to head down your way when I realized he wouldn’t. We tried to send a message ahead, but I don’t think it reached you.”
“It didn’t,” Nasser agreed. “The gods only know where it is now—and whoever carried it. I don’t suppose it matters.” He adjusted the bow on his shoulder. “You are prepared to help, then?”
“I’m prepared to try. Your letter wasn’t exactly clear, so I didn’t know how serious…” He trailed off, grimacing. “It’s nothing to do with your family, is it?”
&nb
sp; Nasser looked almost shocked. “No, no, thank the gods. Kira is still making rounds in southern Hallarnon, and my daughter … well, she’s wherever it suits her to be, but not part of my trouble. I’m sorry if I worried you, but I did think I was only writing to Vash, and you know how he is. No, the heart of the matter is…” He scowled, gritting his teeth. “My bow’s been stolen,” he said at last.
Braddock nodded at the one he carried. “I was wondering about that, aye.”
Nasser turned his head to regard it with the kind of glare reserved for only the foulest refuse. “This? I bought this crooked spawn of a gallows tree because I had to loose my arrows from something, but I can’t be rid of it soon enough, I promise you.”
Morgan squinted at it. “Did the other truly mean so much to you?”
Nasser looked to Braddock in disbelief. “Did it mean so much to me, the lady asks! With respect, Miss Imrick, I carved that bow myself out of the only straight-grained block of bowyer’s mulberry I’ve ever seen in my life. It has been with me for nearly twenty years, through more fights than I can count, and never once disappointed me. It is simply not replaceable.”
“It took me long enough to cure my kitchen boy of calling me Miss Imrick,” Morgan said. “I don’t think anyone else has ever tried, and I’m certainly not about to let you start. And I take your point—gods know I’ve heard Braddock moan about his ax enough times for me to understand the way some people can get about their weapons.”
“What happened to your ax?” Nasser asked, with genuine concern.
Braddock gave a tragic sigh. “Been a bit busy since we parted, Nas, and, well, the end of it is, Morgan and I escaped a prison cell, but the ax didn’t.”
Nasser seemed more interested in the ax than the prison. Were all mercenaries like this? “Which one was it? Not the one you favored when we were in Reglay?”
“The very same.”
Nasser shook his head sorrowfully, but Morgan broke in before he could start commending the damned thing to the gods. “Well, it wasn’t as if that was the only ax you had, was it? What’s wrong with the one you’re using now?”
“There’s nothing wrong with it, Morgan, it’s just … a great pity I had to lose the other, that’s all.”
Morgan gave up. “Fine. My deepest condolences. Now, if we’re going to talk about weapons, can we at least talk about the one that called us here?” To Nasser, she said, “Who is it that stole your bow, and how can we help you get it back?”
Nasser’s brow furrowed. “Bandits stole it, and you can help me get it back by slitting their throats, bashing their heads in, or otherwise disposing of them.”
“They stole it, but left you alive?” Braddock asked.
“We didn’t meet on the road or in the field,” Nasser said. “Well, strictly speaking we didn’t properly meet at all. They attacked a tavern where I’d had rather a long night, and I’m ashamed to say that by the time I awoke, one of the fools was already laying hands on my bow—anyone who knows anything about them would see they don’t make two like that in a million. I would have pursued him, but, well, he’d already taken my weapon. In the absence of truly life-threatening situations, I don’t fight with my fists; I’m not that uncouth.”
Braddock started to laugh. “Oh, Nas, you picked the wrong person to say that to.”
Nasser stared at Morgan, his eyes wide. “Truly? Well, I suppose that explains why you don’t carry a sword.”
Morgan held up a hand. “It’s not what you think; I’m not some brawl-hardened expert at it. You’d be surprised how many people don’t know the right way to throw a punch, that’s all.” She cracked her knuckles absently. “So … how is it you plan to find this bandit who stole your bow, let alone kill him?”
Nasser leaned forward, his eyes intent; he’d clearly spent some time thinking through that very question. “I found out later that those bandits have become well known in this area—they’ve attacked nearly every inn, tavern, or settlement nearby. It’s clear they’re growing bolder by the day. But, well … have you heard of a place called Ibb’s Rest?”
Morgan and Braddock exchanged a glance. “We have, actually,” Morgan said. “That’s one of those … traveler’s havens, isn’t it?”
Nasser nodded. “The Issamiri are very protective of whatever scraps of their pre-imperial religion they could save from the Ninists. Strictly speaking, all waypoints on a journey are due proper reverence, but the traveler’s havens especially so, since they cater to all equally. But the fact that these bandits are willing to strike inns to begin with means they are certainly not religious bandits, and thus it’s only a matter of time before they pluck up the audacity to pillage Ibb’s Rest.” He folded his arms. “I intend to be waiting for them when they do.”
That silenced both Morgan and Braddock for a bit, and they looked at each other, Braddock scuffing one foot in the dirt. “This traveler’s haven … anyone can go there, anyone can stay there, and nobody pays so much as a copper for it, is that right?”
Nasser rubbed the back of his hand along his jaw. “Well, that’s the idea, but a significant problem does present itself. One may stay at a traveler’s haven without paying, but only if one is a traveler … so those who impose on its hosts’ hospitality for too long tend to get unceremoniously turned out.”
“So if we do go there, we have to hope these bandits show themselves somewhat quickly,” Morgan finished.
“Aye, though there’s nothing stopping us from making camp nearby if we do get turned out.”
Braddock was still mulling it over. “These bandits,” he said. “Just how many of them are you expecting?”
Nasser shrugged. “Hard to say. We’ll be outnumbered, certainly, but we’ll have surprise on our side, and I doubt we’ll be the only patrons at Ibb’s Rest fighting back.”
Braddock still looked dubious. “With your own bow there’s none can best you, Nas, but with that thing…”
“It’s crooked as a demon root to be sure, but my skill remains,” Nasser said. “I practiced enough with the damned thing; my shots won’t suffer much.”
“Morgan?” Braddock asked.
“I … doubt I’ll be much help with the killing part,” she admitted. “But if the bandits are loose in this area anyway, we might be attacked anywhere we go as it is. Why not make ready for them in this traveler’s haven and take our stand where we’ll be prepared?”
Braddock finally nodded. “All right. There you have it, Nas.”
Nasser bowed jauntily. “And I thank you both for it.” Then he laughed. “Don’t look so gloomy, my dear ox. I’ll fashion this adventure into a fine tale, you’ll see. Even that stubborn daughter of mine will be impressed.”
That made Braddock smile. “Do you really not know where she is? What exactly is she up to?”
“She sends her mother a letter every so often—I’ll get the newest details from Kira when I return, scant as they will undoubtedly be. Beyond that, I know nothing, and will continue to know nothing until the next time she decides to drop in at home.” He sighed. “When she was a child, she thought I could pull the very stars down from the sky. Now that she’s a woman grown—barely—she thinks I am an old man with old ideas.” Then he suddenly grinned. “She thought she could shoot better than me too, but our latest contest soon put an end to that. Even she had to admit my skill then. So it seems her father is still good for somewhat more than pitching into a shallow grave—until she’s learned all my tricks, at least.”
“Does she talk as much as you do?” Braddock asked.
Nasser laughed. “My friend, no one talks as much as I do.”
“I know a swindling Sheather who could challenge you there,” Morgan said.
Braddock groaned. “Let’s hope to the gods they never meet.”
* * *
Chandler’s Assorted Goods was a small corner store a stone’s throw from Iron’s Den, whose owner seemed to have taken more care with the bright colors on the red-and-green-painted sign than with the haph
azard attempts at patching the holes in the roof. It was also the third chandler’s shop Marceline had visited in as many days, and compared to Webb’s Waxen Wonders and Wares for Fire and Water (candles and soap, she assumed), she found the directness a little refreshing. She took a deep breath, tried uselessly to arrange her hair, and walked through the door as nonchalantly as she could manage.
The man behind the counter was pale and short, with small, watery blue eyes, but he looked genuinely kind when he smiled, and if he was smiling, he probably hadn’t already assumed she was a thief. “Afternoon, miss.”
“Ah—good afternoon,” Marceline said, trying to speak the way Cerise would have. “I’m afraid I’m—not a customer, really, but … there’s a young man who comes here, and I was wondering…”
She had thought it through as best she could, as well as she hoped Tom or Roger would have, and had come up with this: the leader of the resistance, Tom had heard, was some sort of amateur historian, a “book reader” who lived in Iron’s Den. But Iron’s Den was filled with tradesmen—blacksmiths, fletchers, tanners, and the like—and if this young man lived there, he was almost certainly either one of them or apprenticed to one of them. As such, he’d have to work his trade during the day, so if he read for any length of time, he’d have to do it at night. And if he read enough that he was famous for it, he’d have to go through candles like a sickle through wheat. The trouble was finding out where he got them—especially given that she hardly knew anything else about him.
But the chandler gave a deep sigh, shaking his head. “Another one? How does that boy find time for an honest day’s work with all the heads he’s busy turning?” He peered at her worriedly. “You look awfully young, you know, miss. Just what sort of overtures has our Mouse been making to you?”
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