A Tapestry of Lions

by Jennifer Roberson

  “That depends,” he gathered up his modest winnings, “on which game you refer to. With this one, aye; most certainly I am done. The other is not yet begun—” he grinned, “—and like to last all night.”

  She laughed softly. “Then coom prove it to me.”

  He rose and hooked a finger through the torque. He lifted it; then, using it, he pulled her closer, very close, so his breath warmed her face. “What more proof of my intent is necessary?”

  Her hand was skilled as she slid it between his legs. “There’s proof—and there’s proof.”

  Kellin laughed quietly. “Shansu, meijhana—or would you prefer an audience?”

  “Those words,” she said, brows lifting. “What are those words?”

  He said it into her ear. “I will explain them elsewhere.”

  Kirsty laughed and hooked an arm around his waist as his settled across her shoulders. “This way, my beastie—”

  “No.” He halted her instantly, humor dissipating. “Do not refer to me so.”

  “’Twas just…” Her defense died. She nodded.

  Kellin pulled her close, sorry he had broken the mood. “You know better where my room is.”

  Kirsty took him there.

  * * *

  He awakened hours later, aware of usca sourness in his mouth and a certain stiffness in his shoulders. Kirsty had proven her mettle, and had certainly drained him of his.

  The room was dark. It took Kellin a moment to adjust his eyes. The stub of a candle had long since melted down, so that the only illumination was from the seam of moonlight between ill-fitted shutters. It lent just enough light to see the pallor of Kirsty’s shoulder, jutting roofward. Raven hair and blankets obscured the rest of her.

  I like black hair—and such white, white skin. She was curled against him like a cat, rump set against his left hip. Would she purr, like Sima?

  But his mind drifted in search of an answer to an unknown question. He wondered what had wakened him. Usually he slept the night through, unless he dreamed of the Lion; but it had been weeks since the last nightmare, and he believed Kirsty had effectively banished the beast for the night. He lay in perfect silence, listening to her breathing.

  Lir, Sima said, has the girl stolen your senses along with other things? I have called for you three times.

  Ah. Kellin sighed and rubbed at his eyes. What is it?

  If you wish to ride to Valgaard, you had better leave your bed.

  Why? Do you want to leave now? It was ludicrous. I said we would go in the morning.

  Your horse is leaving. Sima sounded smug.

  My horse— He understood at once.

  Kellin sat up, swearing, and tossed the covers aside. Kirsty mumbled a protest and dragged the blankets back. His clothing lay in a tangled heap on the floor, and no doubt the leather was cold. Kellin swore again and reached for leggings.

  Kirsty turned as he buckled his belt. “Where d’ye go?”

  “To rescue my horse.” He meant to take his cloak, but Kirsty had pulled it up around her shoulders.

  She stared at him. “How d’ye know it wants rescuing?”

  “My lir told me.” He bent to pull on his boots.

  “Yer beast?”

  “Not a beast. She is a mountain cat.” He grinned briefly, tossing her the bone. “Her fur is as black and lovely as your hair.”

  Kirsty hunched up beneath blankets and cloak, unsure of the compliment. “Will ye coom back?”

  Kellin pulled open the door. “Would a man be so foolish as to desert you in the midst of a cold night?”

  Kirsty laughed. “Then I’ll gie ye sommat to remember me by.” She flung back cloak and coverlet, displaying cold-tautened breasts, and it was only with great effort that Kellin departed the room.

  * * *

  Upon exiting the roadhouse, Kellin was sorry he had left the cloak behind. The night was clear and cold, belying the season. Bare arms protested with pimpled flesh; he rubbed them vigorously, sliding fingertips across cooling lir-gold, and strode on toward the stable intending to settle the business at once, then hasten back to bed.

  The building was a black, square-angled blob in the moonlight, blocky and slump-roofed. He approached quietly, accustomed to making no sound in the litheness of his movements, and touched the knife hilt briefly.

  Sima’s tone was clear. They are taking the saddle, too.

  Kellin swore beneath his breath. Just as he reached the stable two men appeared, and a horse. His horse. The gelding was bridled and saddled, as if they intended to ride immediately.

  He recognized them from the common room. Greedier than I thought— Kellin moved out of shadow into moonlight. “I doubt you could pay my price. You lost in the game tonight.”

  They froze. One man clung to the horse, while his companion stiffened beside him. Then the first put up his chin. “Go back to Kirsty,” he said, “and we’ll let ye be. ’Twill be a gey cold night, the other.”

  The dialect was thick. Kellin deciphered it, then added his own comment. “’Twill be a gey cold night, withal—for one of us….” He slipped into the lilt he had learned from his grandmother. Erinnish was similar. “But I’ll be keeping yon horse for myself as well as the bonny lass.”

  Both men showed their knives. Kellin showed his. The display resulted in a muttered conversation between the two Homanans, as Kellin waited.

  Eventually his patience waned. “We each of us has a knife. In that, we are well-matched. But are you forgetting I am Cheysuli? If a knife will not do to persuade you who is better, lir-shape will.”

  It sufficed. The man holding the reins released the gelding at once as the other stepped away. The horse wandered back toward the warm stable.

  Kellin sighed. “Go on your way. That way.” He gestured. “You’ll be bedding down elsewhere, my boyos.”

  The men goggled at him. “We have a room!”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Ye canna do this!”

  “’Tis done.” He grinned at them. “You tried to steal my horse, but that’s done for the night. Now I’ve stolen your bed.” He gestured. “On your way.”

  They muttered something to one another, then turned toward the road.

  Kellin raised his voice. “Cheysuli i’halla shansu!”

  They did not, either of them, offer an answer he understood.

  “No, I thought not.” Kellin went after the horse, caught and gathered dragging reins, then led the gelding into the stable. “Disturbed your sleep, did they?” He reached for the knotted girth. “Then we are a proper pair—though I dare say I miss the woman more than—” He turned. The noise was slight, but his hearing better than most.

  It was too late. Weight descended upon him. Kellin went down with only a blurted protest.

  Five

  It was the cold that finally woke him. The earthen floor was packed hard as stone, and was twice as cold. The scattered straw offered no protection. Kellin’s flesh, as he roused, rose up on his bones all at once and he shivered violently in a sustained, convulsive shudder that jarred loose the fog from his head.

  “Gods—” His teeth clicked together and stayed there, clamped against the chattering he would not acknowledge.

  Awake again?

  He started to hitch himself up on one elbow, thought better of it almost at once, and stayed where he was. He rolled his head to one side and felt at the back of his skull, marking the lump. Something crusted in his fingers: dried blood, he guessed; at least it wasn’t still flowing.

  “Lir? Where are—uh.” He scowled as he found her seated very close to his side. Aggrievedly, he said, “You might have at least lay down next to me! Some warmth is better than none!”

  The last time we spoke of warmth, you claimed a woman’s better than mine.

  “That was in bed. Am I in bed now? No! I am lying sprawled on an icy stable floor with not even a saddle blanket for my—” He broke it off in astonishment. “—nor any clothing, either! My leathers—”

  Sima slitt
ed gold eyes against a stream of invective. When he at last ran out of oaths he stopped, caught his breath, and shut his eyes against the pain in his battered head.

  He felt empty, somehow—and then Kellin clutched a naked earlobe. “My lir-gold!” He sat upright, unmindful of his headache. “Gods—they took my gold!”

  Sima twitched her tail. Gold is gold. Blessed or no, its value to a man remains the same.

  “But—it took me so long to get it—”

  You were in no hurry, she reminded him primly. You denied it—and me—for a very long time.

  Kellin gingerly rubbed the back of his tender skull, then felt the stiffness of abused neck tendons and attempted to massage the pain away. “Gloating does not become you.”

  Everything becomes a lir.

  “And Blais’ knife, too.” Acknowledgment of a further atrocity sent a shudder through his body. “Oh, gods—oh, gods…my ring. My signet ring. Gods, lir—that ring signifies my rank and title!” He clutched the naked finger. “It has adorned the hand of every Prince of Homana since, since—” He gave it up. “Lir—” And then a burst of ironic laughter crowded out his panic. “Fitting, is it not? For ten years I rebel against the constraints of my rank—and now thieves steal its symbol from me! Surely the gods had a hand in this.”

  Or a foolish warrior.

  Levity vanished. “You are not in the least surprised.”

  I warned you. She licked a paw.

  “Does it mean nothing to you that what they have done is heretical? To rob a Cheysuli warrior of his lir-gold, and the Prince of Homana of his signet—”

  —is brave, if nothing else; I admire them for their gall. Sima blinked, then slitted eyes. You can fetch it back.

  “In a saddle blanket? They have taken everything else!”

  Surely the girl can bring you clothing.

  “The girl likely was part of this.” Realization stabbed him. “What coin I have left is in my room—” he reconsidered it, “—or was.”

  Then you will have to tend it yourself.

  Kellin swore again. Then, with excessive care, he got off the cold ground at last, found the nearest saddle blanket, and wrapped it around his loins. He was just tucking in the end when the stable door creaked open.

  Kirsty stood silhouetted in moonlight, swathed in his cloak. He saw the tabard and woolen skirt, and leather shoes. Unbound hair, tangled from the evening’s sport, hung below her hips.

  Sima blinked again. A conclusion perhaps best not jumped to.

  “Thieves,” Kellin declared in answer to Kirsty’s expression. “Did you know nothing of it?”

  She put up her chin. “If I knew aught, I’d be other than here, ye muddle-headed whelp! D’ye think me so foolish as to coom to ye if I knew?”

  “A clever woman would, merely to mislead me.” He was curt in his headache and humiliation. “Have you clothing I can put on?”

  Kirsty tossed back her untamed mane. “Ye’d look gey foolish in my clothing, ye ken.”

  Kellin sighed. “Aye, so I would. Have you men’s I might put on?”

  “Tam’ll hae some. T’will cost, and nae doot’ll be no’ to your liking, but better than ye wear now.” Her grin was abruptly sly. “Not that I’m minding, ye ken.”

  “I ken,” he said dryly. “And I will pay Tam. Though the gods know that torque alone would buy me a trunkful.”

  She clutched at it. “’Tis mine! Ye said so!”

  “’Tis yours. I said so. Keep it, Kirsty—run and fetch the clothing.” Silently he said, If I can trust you to come back.

  Kirsty swung on her heels and hastened away while Kellin sat down on a haphazard pile of grain sacks and tried to ignore the cold and the thumping in his head.

  She was back after all in but a handful of moments, and had the right of it; the clothing was not at all to his liking. But he put on the grimy smock and woolen baggy trews without complaint, then stuffed straw into the toes of Tam’s oversized, decaying boots so they at least remained on his feet. The soles were worn through, the poor heels all run down, but even tattered leather was better than bare feet.

  His earlobe hurt. The thieves had paid scant attention to the wire and how it hooked; they had wrenched it out of the hole with little regard to his flesh. But the lobe, if sore, was whole; he recalled very clearly that his grandsire lacked all of his.

  Kirsty touched his arms. “No’ the same wi’ nae gold.”

  Anger got the best of him. “Is that what you wanted all along?”

  She drew back, warding the torque against his eyes. “Nae! And I only meant ye dinna look the same wi’oot it, not that I wanted it! Now ye look like a Homanan, and a poor one at that!”

  He laughed with little amusement. “So I do; one might mistake me altogether as a common lowborn roadhouse-keeper.” He regretted the words at once; what had she done to deserve them? “I am sorry—I am poor company. My thanks for the clothing. Now—which way did they go?”

  “They?”

  “The thieves. You know them, do you not?”

  Kirsty said nothing.

  “I saw them earlier, in the common room. They knew you, Kirsty, and you knew them.” He paused. “I do not intend to kill them, merely fetch back my things. What they took is—sacred.” He left it at that.

  Kirsty chewed on a lock of hair. “North,” she said finally, “across the river.”

  It was very near dawn. Already the sky behind her began to lighten. “Into Solinde.”

  She shrugged. “They’re Solindish. They coom onc’t a four-week.”

  “To steal.”

  “To work.”

  “One and the same, perhaps?” Kellin sighed. “Which way across the river?”

  “Westward.” She jerked her head. “They might ha’ hurt ye worse.”

  “I said I will not kill them.” He glanced at the stalls. “I have need of a horse.”

  Sima questioned that. What of lir-shape?

  Within the link, he refused. Too dangerous. No balance, yet—and now no time to learn it. Kellin shivered. For now, I will ride a horse.

  Kirsty stared. “Now ye want a horse? Ye hae no such coin in your purse, ye ken. I looked—here ’tis—I dinna want it!” She slapped it into his hand. “I only meant, how will ye buy the horse?”

  “On promises,” he said.

  “Promises o’ what? You’ve naught left; you’ve said so.”

  He turned from her and moved to the nearest stall. “This one will do. Where is the bridle?—ah.” He took it down from its peg, slipped the posts that fenced in the horse, and slipped inside.

  “You’ll no’ turn thief,” she said. “That be Tam’s horse.”

  “Not yours.”

  “Nae. I own nothing but what I wear—and this.” She clutched the torque. Her black eyes were very bright, but it was not from good humor; Kellin thought perhaps tears. “Unless you mean to take it back.”

  “No, I will do no such thing. Here, have back the coin—it will pay for the clothing. But I also need a horse. If you would have Tam repaid for that, there is a thing you can do.” He bridled the piebald horse, then led it from the stall. He would not take saddle also; he took too much already. “If you would pay back Tam—and put coin in your pockets, as well—you need only go to Mujhara, and then to Homana-Mujhar.”

  “Homana-Mujhar!” She gaped. “To the palace?”

  “They’ll give you coin for the torque.” He swung up bareback onto the piebald back and winced; the spine was well delineated. “That way it will stay with like pieces instead of winding up with a money-lender…tell them I used it to pay a debt.”

  “Tell who?” She tossed back her head. “The Mujhar himself?”

  He grinned. “They do know me there.”

  She was instantly suspicious. “I’m to tell them Kellin sent me to trade this for coin? Och, aye—they’ll toss me oot i’ the street!”

  “Not immediately. After a meal, perhaps.” He glanced at Sima. Coming?

  She stood up from the shadows
and shook her coat free of straw, then slid out of darkness into the dawn of a new day. Kirsty let out a startled shriek and leapt back three paces.

  “My lir,” he said briefly. “Do you see what I mean about her fur and your hair? Both such a lovely, glossy black.”

  The girl clutched at the shining torque. “In the eyes,” she mumbled, staring at him. “E’en wi’oot the gold!”

  “I thank you,” Kellin said. “It is a compliment.”

  As he rode away from the stable, Kirsty called a final farewell. “Homana-Mujhar, indeed! I’ll be keeping this for myself!”

  Kellin sighed as he settled himself carefully athwart the treacherous spine. “Worth a trunkful of clothing and an entire herd of horses.”

  But less than your missing lir-gold, your ring—and your kinsman’s knife.

  Kellin offered no answer. Sima, as always, was right.

  * * *

  By the time they reached the ferry, Kellin’s discomfort in his nether regions matched the thumping in his head. He was altogether miserable, wishing for his horse back, and all his gold back, and the knife, and most particularly the saddle that would have made things, even on this horse, much easier to bear.

  He thought his head might burst. A closer inspection with fingers had not divulged anything he did not already know—the swelling was soft and tender, the cut dried. He wondered what they had struck him with—the roadhouse, perhaps?

  He began a complaint to Sima. They might have been— Halfway through the comment he cut off the communication through the link. It made his head hurt worse. He waved a gesture at the cat that dismissed conversation; she flicked tufted ears and held her silence accordingly, but he thought she looked amused.

  The ferry was docked this side of the river. Relieved, Kellin halted the piebald and slid off carefully, so as not to jar his head. A man was slumped against a cluster of posts roped together, the stub of a pipe clenched in his teeth. His eyes were closed, but he was not asleep.

  Kellin led the horse up. “Did you give passage to two men early this morning? Just before dawn?”

  One eye opened. Graying brown hair straggled around his face beneath a threadbare cap. “’Twould be hard for a body to walk across, would ye no’ say?”