A Tapestry of Lions

by Jennifer Roberson

  Kellin suppressed a retort. “Then you did.”

  “Dinna see bodies in the river, do ye?—though they be carried awa’ by now.” The other eye opened. “She’s angry in the spring.”

  Kellin looked beyond the man he took to be the ferry-master to the river beyond. It was spring, and the river did seem angry; the thaw had thickened the Bluetooth so that it ran nearly out of its banks, with a high, fast current that would suck a man down all too easily.

  “They robbed me,” Kellin said. “I am angry, also.”

  The ferry-master squinted. “Doesna look like ye had so much to steal.”

  “Now, no. Before, I did. This is the best I could do,” he paused. “Did you give two Solindishmen passage across the river?”

  “If I said aye, would ye be after passage, too?”

  “The woman said it was where they were bound.”

  “Kirsty?” The man brightened. He was, Kellin judged, nearly as old as the Mujhar. “Did she send ye, then?”

  “She sent me.”

  He raked Kellin with a glance from brown eyes set deeply in shadowed sockets. “Then ye must ha’ pleased her. She’s no needing to be sending a robbed man after those who coom to see her onc’t a four-week.”

  Kellin hung onto his patience with effort. The thudding in his head made it increasingly difficult. “We pleased each other well enough. Did the men cross here?”

  “Dinna walk, did they?” He heaved himself from the planking and jabbed the pipe in Sima’s direction. “She tame, yon cat?”

  Kellin opened his mouth to vigorously deny that a lir could be tamed; he shut it once he recalled what Kirsty had said: that he could, in Tam’s clothing, pass as a Homanan. This close to Solinde, this close to Valgaard, it might be better to keep his mouth shut with regard to lir. “Aye,” he said. “Tame enough.”

  “Then you’d best go no farther north,” the ferry-master warned. “There’s a man o’er the Pass who pays gold and jewels for cats like her.”

  He was indignant. “Who does?”

  The ferry-master made a sign against evil. “A man,” he said only. “He’d hae her faster than the river would eat a man.” His truculence now was vanished. “Aye, they crossed. Will ye?”

  “I will. At once.”

  The man unwound the coil of rope tying up the ferry. “Hae ye coin for it?”

  “I have—” No. He did not. “—this horse.”

  “That horse! That one? What would I be doing wi’ Tam’s old nag?”

  “Mine was stolen,” Kellin said tightly through his teeth. “I bought this one to track the thieves, so I might get back my own mount—which is, I might add, considerably better than ‘Tam’s old nag.’”

  “Aye, it would be, ye ken? Not many worse than Tam’s old nag.” He jerked his head toward the ferry. “Coom aboard, then, you and yon cat…if Kirsty sent ye after them, there’s a reason for’t. I’ll no’ take the nag.” He grinned briefly. “Kirsty’ll make it right.”

  Knowing how she spent her nights, Kellin judged she would. Nonetheless, he was grateful.

  Almost as soon as he was aboard, Kellin was sorry. The Bluetooth fought the ferry every inch of the way, spuming over the sides of the flat, thick platform until the boards ran white with foam. The old piebald spread his legs and dropped his head even as Kellin grabbed hold of a rope; Sima dug claws into aged wood and lashed her tail angrily in counterpoint to the heaves the ferry-master put to the ropes.

  By the time they reached the other side, Kellin’s tattered clothing was soaked. Sima bared her teeth and shook droplets free of her coat. As soon as the ferry thumped the bank she sprang for land; Kellin led the piebald off and thanks the gods for putting firm land beneath his feet.

  “Aye,” the ferry-master said, “she’s a gey wicked bitch in the spring. Summer’s better.” He jerked his head westward. “That way, they went. They won’t be expecting ye, so they willna be in a hurry. Ye’ll hae them by sundoon.”

  Kellin nodded thanks. “Is this because of Kirsty?”

  “Och, she’s a right’un, that lass…but ye’ve a pinched look in the eyes that says they hit ye a mite too hard.” He grinned around the pipe. “And ye speak too well for a man born to wear Tam’s clothes.” He jerked his head again. “Gi’ on wi’ ye, then. Ye’ll be back by tomorrow, and ye can pay for your ride.”

  Kellin smiled. “Cheysuli i’halla—” He broke it off instantly, cursing the headache that mangled his wits so.

  The ferry-master’s eyebrows shot up beneath the lock of greasy hair. “Ah. Well, then. Not tame after all, is she?” He coughed. “Yon cat.”

  “No.” Kellin swung up onto the piebald and wished immediately his pride had permitted him to find a log and mount, like a woman. “There are times I wish she were.”

  The brown eyes were sharp. “Then ’tisn’t the horse you’re wanting, or the coin…more like cat-shaped gold, is’t?”

  “More like,” Kellin said. He kicked the horse into motion.

  “Aye, well…I’ve no’ known them to be so foolish before.” He briefly showed a gap-toothed grin that gave way to the pipestem. “Be wary of Solinde. Up here so close to Valgaard—well…” He let it go. “They’d be wanting more than yon cat.”

  This time he did not hesitate. “Leijhana tu’sai. Cheysuli i’halla shansu.”

  Six

  The westward road was not so well-traveled as the one cutting down from the Bluetooth into the center of Homana. It was narrow and twisty, winding its way through silted huddles of downed trees and acres of water-smoothed boulders carried this way and that by a temperamental river gone over its banks to suck back again, leaving detritus in its wake. Tam’s old nag was not a particularly coordinated horse, and Kellin spent much of his time trying to keep his head very still upon his neck as the horse stumbled its way along.

  “By sundown,” Kellin muttered in reference to the ferry-master’s prediction as the piebald tripped again. “By then, I may well be lacking a head entirely. It will have fallen off and rolled to a halt amidst that pile of boulders, there, and when the crows have picked it clean no one will know the difference between it and that rock, there.”

  Sima chanced the lir-link. I will go on ahead. Let me find them—I will come back and fetch you.

  It pulsed within his skull. Kellin hissed in pain and shut his eyes against it, then waved her on. “Go. I am little threat to them if I find them in this state. They will laugh, and be on about their business with no fear of me.”

  The cat whipped her tail, then left at a springy lope.

  The horse stumbled on. After a while Kellin balanced himself, shut his eyes, and gave himself over to a state very akin to sleep, in hopes that when he awoke the pain would be dispersed.

  * * *

  He roused to a quiet voice pitched over a rush of water. “I had expected to eat alone, but your horse has other ideas.” A pause. “I am glad of the company; will you share my meal?”

  Kellin opened his eyes. He slumped atop the piebald, which had in turn wandered off the road to a cluster of tumbled boulders very near the river’s edge. He smelled smoke and fish. It made his belly rumble.

  The stranger laughed. “I will take that as acceptance.”

  “Where am I?” Kellin glanced around. The road was not so far; he could see it winding westward.

  “Here,” the man said, amused. “At my campsite, such as it is; but I have had good fortune in my fishing, and there is enough for us both.” His hazel eyes were friendly. The piebald snorted against the hand that held his bridle; the stranger grinned and pushed the muzzle away. “You have been hard used; I have wine for the ache.”

  He was a young, fine-featured man, perhaps Kellin’s age or a year or two older. His hair was dark, nearly black, and fell smoothly to his shoulders. His clothing was spun of good wool of uniform yarn. Kellin marked him a well-to-do man: linen tunic died blue, with black embroidery at the collar; black-dyed breeches; good boots, and a brilliant crimson cloak thrown on loosely o
ver shoulders.

  Kellin considered refusing. There were the thieves to think about. But his head did ache, his belly did rumble—and Sima was on their trail. He need only wait for her, and by the time she returned, his condition would be improved.

  “My thanks,” he said. Then recalled what he looked like. “But I have nothing—”

  The stranger waved a hand. “Your company is enough. I am not so far from my destination; I can be generous.” He smiled again. “You might do better to walk, then to go another step atop this horse.”

  “Aye.” Kellin smiled crookedly and slid off, gritting his teeth against the pounding in his head. It was worse, not better; but the road was hard and the horse clumsy. He was lucky his head remained on his neck.

  “My name is Devin,” the stranger said as Kellin pulled the reins over the piebald’s neck. “The wine I have is Solindish white; will it do?”

  Kellin followed. “Any wine will do. I am not fit to judge its taste.” A glance from Devin told Kellin he had perhaps misphrased his answer; he had meant because of his head, but Devin’s quick assessment indicated the stranger believed he meant his station. He thinks me a poor man; well, for the moment, I am. He led the piebald to the water-wracked, uprooted tree at the riverbank and tied him to a branch next to Devin’s mount, a fine glossy bay very like Kellin’s stolen horse.

  A fire was built between a tumble of clustered boulders and the water’s edge, hosting two speckled fish speared and hung belly-up along two stripped branches resting in crotched braces. The lap of the river was but paces away, so the sound was loud. Devin squatted near the fire, digging through packs. “Here.” He tossed the wineskin. “I have another; drink as you will. I will tend the fish.”

  Kellin caught the skin as he turned from the piebald and swallowed, glad of the liquor’s bite. If he drank enough, it would dull the pounding in his head, but that would be poor manners. He owed Devin sober companionship, not the rudeness of a man undone by misfortune.

  Devin made conversation as he inspected the sizzling fish. “I misjudged the distance,” he said, “or I would have stayed the night in the last roadhouse I passed. The ground is a hard bed when one is used to better.” He lifted one of the speared fish. “Here. Trout. I daresay it will complement the wine.”

  Kellin accepted the proffered fish-laden stick with thanks and sat down against the closest boulder. He thought Devin was indeed accustomed to better; a sapphire gleamed on one hand, while a band of twisted gold glinted on the other.

  Devin took the other fish for himself and sat back against his packs, blowing to cool the meat. “Have you a wife?” he asked.

  Kellin shook his head. His mouth was full of fish.

  “Ah. Well, neither do I—for but a four-week more!” He grinned. “I am bound for my wedding. Wish me good fortune, my friend, and that the girl is comely…I have no wish to share my bed with a plain woman!”

  Kellin swallowed. “You have never seen her?”

  “No. A dynastic thing, this marriage. To bind the bloodlines closer.” Devin chewed thoughtfully. “A man like you weds for love, or lust—or because the woman has conceived, and her father insists!—but a man like me, well…” He sighed. “No choice for either of us. The match was suggested by her father, and mine accepted eagerly; one cannot help but to rise in service to a powerful lord.”

  Kellin’s smile was crooked. “No.”

  “I envy you. You need not wed at all, if that is your desire—well, I should not complain; my lot is better than yours.” Devin’s attitude was friendly enough, but all too obviously he believed Kellin lowborn. “What is your trade?”

  Kellin wanted to laugh. If he told Devin the truth— He grinned, thinking of the thieves. “What other trade is there but to aspire to higher in life—and the coin to make it possible?”

  Devin’s eyes narrowed consideringly as he washed down trout with wine. “You are a passing fair mimic.”

  “A mimic?”

  “Aye. Put on finer clothing, wash the grime from your face, you could pass for a highborn man.” He stoppered the wineskin. “You might make a mummer.”

  Kellin laughed, thinking of his grandparents. “There are those who have accused me of that very thing. I did but playact the role, they said—then admonished me to learn my part better.” He jerked his head westward. “When you came down the road, did you pass two men with a bay very like your own?”

  Devin shrugged. “I passed many people. I do not recall the horse.” His eyes brightened over the fish. “Why?”

  “The horse they have is mine. It was stolen from me…” He ran a hand through tousled hair. “You see, I am not precisely the man I appear to be.” Kellin plucked at Tam’s grimy tunic. “They took more than my horse.”

  “And left you with that piebald horse and another’s clothing?” Devin shouted a laugh. “Aye, it makes sense—you have not the manner of a lowborn man, either.”

  Kellin thought of the Midden and his visits. “Some might argue with that.”

  “Well, at least they left you your life. Did they knock you on the head?” He grinned as Kellin grimaced an answer. “I thought so. The dullness in your eyes…aye, well, drink more wine.” He finished his fish. “If I were not expected, I would help you catch the thieves. I have certain gifts that would improve the sport.”

  “Gifts?”

  Devin grinned. “Arts.” He reached for the wineskin, then turned as movement on the road caught his eyes. Almost at once he froze. “Be still!” He put out a hand. “Do not move—gods, but what a beauty…and a fitting gift for the girl’s father. He covets them. I shall have to see if I can take her.”

  Kellin turned, asking, “Covets what—?” And broke off immediately. Suspicion blossomed.

  He dropped the fish, set down the wineskin quietly, and wished he had his knife. He stared hard at the friendly stranger.

  “She is lovely!” Devin breathed.

  Kellin did not answer. He reached out very carefully and closed his hand around the hilt of Devin’s knife.

  Devin twisted at once, slapping down at Kellin’s grasping hand. “What are you—wait—” He rolled and scrambled up, poised for attack. The light in his eyes was gone, replaced by a cold, piercing stillness. Quietly, he said “Only a fool steals from an Ihlini.”

  The cold knot solidified in Kellin’s belly. He knelt on one knee with the other booted foot planted, grasping a stolen knife. “And only a fool thinks he can capture a lir.”

  Realization kindled in Devin’s eyes, then damped to coals. He shook his head. “You have no power before me.”

  “Nor you before me.”

  Devin raised his hands. “I have these.”

  “And I have your knife.”

  Devin’s eyes narrowed. His young face was stretched taut across prominent cheekbones. His lips were bloodless. He studied Kellin carefully, then murmured something beneath his breath. “They say—” He shut his mouth, then began again. “They say we are very alike. Ihlini and Cheysuli. That we are bloodkin.” He remained half crouched, prepared to receive an onrush. “Do you believe it?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “It does. If there is truth to it. If we are to kill one another.”

  “Are we?”

  Devin shrugged. “To serve Asar-Suti, I will kill whomever I must—” In one smooth motion he ripped his cloak from his shoulders and swirled it at Kellin, snapping weighted corners.

  The blaze of crimson came at his face, aimed for his eyes. Kellin ducked the cloak easily enough, but it served merely as distraction; Devin scooped up and hurled a river rock that nearly struck Kellin’s head.

  Ku’resh— As Kellin dodged it, the Ihlini hurled himself forward.

  They went down together hard, smashing into rocks spewed up by the Bluetooth River. Devin’s fingers dug into Kellin’s throat. He squirmed beneath the Ihlini, thrashing legs to gain leverage, and managed to thrust a knee upward that imperiled Devin’s balance. The Ihlini tensed, shifted, and Kellin bucked
him off. The knife was lost somehow, but he scrambled to his feet even as Devin came up clawing.

  It was an obscene dance, an intercourse of grasping hands reaching to crush a throat. Kellin was aware of Sima’s nearness by the sound of her growls and snarls, but the link was completely empty. In its place was an odd disorientation, a buzzing interference that told him all too clearly what he should have known before; what he would have known before had his wits not been so muddled.

  They were too near the river. Sand shifted. Rocks rolled. Kellin’s feet slid inside oversized, straw-stuffed boots. No foothold— He slipped even as Devin changed grasp, and Kellin stumbled. He brought the heel of his right hand up against the underside of Devin’s jaw, meaning to snap the neck, but the Ihlini twisted his head sharply aside.

  This, then— Kellin hooked a foot and caught Devin’s ankle. He dropped the Ihlini, then turned and lunged for the knife but a pace away.

  Devin’s feet scissored out. Kellin, caught, fell hard, trying to twist, but Devin’s hands were on him. —knife—

  The Ihlini had it. Kellin saw the brief glint, saw the tip meet Tam’s grimy fabric, then plunge through.

  Gods—Sima— He squirmed, sucking in his belly.

  Devin gasped a triumphant laugh. Steel dug through flesh and slid between ribs. The Ihlini’s mouth was a rictus of victory and exertion. “Who wins this one?”

  Kellin jerked himself off the blade, willing himself not to think of the pain, the damage, the risk. He saw the blood smearing steel, saw the crimson droplets staining damp sand, but refused to acknowledge it.

  He twisted his torso and brought up a booted foot. One thrashing thrust jarred against Devin’s thigh, then glanced off. It was enough. Kellin levered himself up, grasping hair and tunic, and threw Devin over. He let his weight fall and pinned the Ihlini, then grabbed handfuls of dark hair and began to smash the skull against the sand.

  The wound was bad. If he did not kill Devin soon, he would soon bleed to death. What a sweet irony if they killed one another.