Lirtensa turned into one of the threadlike alleyways between a row of shops that pandered to the foreign soldiers on furlough who stayed on Pudar’s upper east side. The gaudy architecture of the gambling house included a jaggedly edged rain gutter. Its pattern drew scalloped shadows through the alley, plunging it into a darkness that did not faze Lirtensa. Through the years, night had become as familiar as his guardsman’s uniform, and he prided himself on perceiving presence and movement without sight.
Yet, this time, Lirtensa’s talent failed him. Without warning, an arm looped around his throat. A stifling hand clamped over his mouth, and he felt the cold touch of steel through his shirt against his spine.
Accustomed to rough dealers, Lirtensa did not panic. He went still, waiting. As professionally as the stalker had ambushed him, if his attacker wanted him dead, he would be so already.
A voice hissed into his ear, low and coarse, Eastern in accent. “Lirte?”
Easterners had called Lirtensa by this designation before. He also knew they shortened names to indicate station, reducing those of inferiors in much the same way Westerners did so as to indicate informality and friendship. He nodded once cautiously.
“You will not scream,” the Easterner said.
It was a statement, not a question, and the implication that he might shriek in terror offended Lirtensa. Again, he nodded.
The hand disappeared from his mouth, and he no longer felt the dagger at his back. The stalker released him with a brisk, strong movement that spun him completely around.
Lirtensa caught his balance with as much dignity as possible and studied the other through the darkness. Bold defiance and composure seemed to work best with the compassionless. Gradually, his eyes carved form from blackness. The stalker was a woman, though she stood tall enough to meet his gaze directly level. She wore a single-piece black outfit that buttoned from neck to crotch. Her short, raven hair seemed as blunt as her manner, and her swarthy skin made her appear like the incarnate figure of darkness itself.
Despite his courage, Lirtensa could not escape a jolt of surprise. He had never seen such confidence exuded by any woman. From an Eastern woman, it seemed horribly misplaced. For the first time in months, Lirtensa knew the stirrings of fear.
The woman’s black eyes roved over Lirtensa only briefly. She seemed bored by him. “You have a client who plans to kill Colbey Calistinsson.”
Lirtensa brushed a greasy curl from his face. Though intimidated, he would not allow himself to seem so. “A strange assumption, lady. One I couldn’t admit even were it true.”
Her expression went even more stony. “My name is not ‘lady’. It’s Chezrith. Do not change or butcher it, or I will respond in kind.” Clearly, “in kind” did not refer to Lirtensa’s name. “And I didn’t ask you a question. Until I do, you need not speak.” Steel flashed momentarily as she tossed her dagger from right hand to left, then plucked another, fully sheathed, from a slit in her boot. “Give this to he or she who plans to kill the Renshai.”
Lirtensa fixed his blue eyes on Chezrith, saying nothing, simply waiting for her to explain. Information volunteered cost nothing, and a quiet calm usually fared better than chattiness. Besides, she had not questioned him, and Lirtensa knew better than to antagonize one who had already proven her competence.
“It contains a deadly poison.”
Poison. The promise intrigued Lirtensa nearly as much as the woman discomforted him. He had obtained toxins for clients before. Enough money would send him in search of even the illegal types, most of which required milking deadly reptiles or distilling massive quantities of Eastern herbs. But few dared to handle a substance that posed nearly as much danger to wielder as victim.
“The assassin will need to get close to him; a passing scratch won’t do. A vital stab would be best, of course. The poison works quickly, but nothing can kill instantaneously; and Colbey will fight to his last breath.”
A chill shuddered through Lirtensa; he managed to suppress the outward signs. He had worked with Easterners and their evil before, but the depth of this woman’s casual cruelty went beyond his normal clientele. He had no wish to work with her and even less to arouse her rage. He sought a tactful way out of the association. He made no move to take the dagger. “I can’t pay for this.”
“I have no use for your money, Lirte. I want only one thing, the staff Colbey carries. Handle it as little as possible and with care. Its danger makes even my own seem paltry.” Chezrith sneered. “Just see to it my gift finds the right hands.”
Lirtensa avoided the woman’s direct and solid gaze, hating to become indebted to such a creature, yet seeing no way to refuse. “Thank you,” he said, modulating his voice to sound respectful but not too grateful. Gushing, like begging for mercy, seemed to incite the cruelty in people such as Chezrith. He reached for the proffered dagger balanced on her palm.
As Lirtensa took the weapon, Chezrith closed her fingers over his. He swiveled his eyes to meet hers, finding them a flat, depthless black that did not differentiate pupil from iris. She spoke, her voice passionless. “If I find out this weapon got used against any enemy but Colbey, I will extract payment.” The corners of her mouth flicked upward into the most repulsive grin Lirtensa had ever seen. “And it won’t be in money.”
Threats of any kind angered Lirtensa, but he held his tongue. He had not lasted so long among Pudar’s ugliest by delivering faulty goods or promises. “I’ll see to it that the dagger reaches my client. I can’t vouch, nor become responsible, for a client’s competence. If you want me to hire a professional, I’ll try to arrange it. I’ll have to pay him dearly, assuming I can even find one willing to stand against Colbey.”
Chezrith laughed. “There are advantages to amateurs. Ignorance sires courage. A man can’t fear obstacles he doesn’t see.” She released Lirtensa’s hand.
Lirtensa took the dagger. Thumbing aside the hidden flaps in his belt, he nestled it inside. The knot of its presence against his skin made him want to squirm, irrationally afraid it might poison him through two layers of leather and one of cloth. “There are still some obstacles I can see. First, my client was supposed to meet me two days ago. More importantly, I haven’t made much progress finding Colbey.”
Chezrith back-stepped slightly, deeper into the shadows. The darkness hid her eyes and her expression. “The Renshai has many enemies. If this client doesn’t come, have patience. Another will. As to Colbey’s whereabouts, he’s in Bruen. If he survives there . . .” She paused, apparently savoring some private knowledge. “. . . chances are almost certain he’ll come here. Anything he wants, he can find in Pudar, and I have reason to believe he’ll have need of a horse.” Another smirking pause ensued before she finished. “If he doesn’t head for Pudar, surely you can track him elsewhere.”
Lirtensa tried to phrase his dilemma without sounding demanding. “Spies cost money, Lady Chezrith.”
“Money.” Chezrith made a sudden movement.
Before Lirtensa thought to move aside, a fist-sized pouch carved an arc through the air, landing at his feet with muffled clinks. Lirtensa’s heart quickened. He knew the sound of coins too well, and no music seemed more beautiful. Cautiously, he crouched, the offering disappearing into his callused, dirt-rimed hand in an instant. Even as he rose, sudden pain blossomed through his thigh. Startled as well as hurt, he skittered aside, his other hand clawing his sword free in an instant.
Chezrith remained in the same place. Though Lirtensa could not see her face, her stance alone told him she was smiling. Now safely distanced from her, he let his attention stray momentarily to the agony of his leg. A blade had sliced a gash in the fabric of his uniform britches. A jagged cut in the skin of his leg gaped, trailing blood in a long stain. He pressed his back to the wall, sword angled between himself and the threat.
When Chezrith still did not move but simply watched him with unconcealed amusement, Lirtensa applied pressure to the wound. Pain and rage banished all thought of politeness. “You bit
ch! Why in hell did you do that?”
Chezrith let the silence hang before answering with the same deliberate composure she had maintained from the start. “I just wanted to give you something to remember me.” Her laugh rumbled through the alleyway.
* * *
The shouts and rumbling waves of conversation that filled Pudar’s market streets echoed in Colbey’s ears, and he wondered if he would ever fully adjust to the noise. Westerners from scores of towns pressed along the city roadways, a single solid mass of movement. Occasionally, a swarthy Easterner or a bearded, braided Northman wandered through the crowd, looking conspicuously out of place and lost amid the hubbub. Yet, despite the size of the crowd crammed onto the cobbled streets, and its seemingly constant motion, Colbey found method to the chaos. The citizens did not touch one another as they moved, whether with the steady flow of traffic or at a separate, personal pace. And they seemed to take extra care not to trample or shove the children, a commodity war and disease had made more precious than any item sold on the streets.
Taking advantage of the conventions that left at least small gaps between the shoppers, Colbey threaded a swift steady course through the Pudarian square. Years of combat had taught him to assess distances and decisions in an instant, as well as to know the position of every part of his body, and of those around him, at all times. Disinterested in the shine and glimmer of the merchants’ wares, he kept a pace triple that of the general cadence. Not once did he brush another, even with the awkwardly long staff or the two swords at his belt.
A mixed conglomeration of spices thickened air already choked with the odor of warm, unwashed bodies. Merchants or their assistants screamed for attention, trying to catch individual gazes in the mass of movement. Any patron who paused to look became the instant focus of the sellers, and even Colbey found fruit and trinkets pressed on him by merchants extolling the virtues of their products. Colbey shifted to the center, away from the shops and stands, where the traffic tended to remain thinner.
Though Colbey hurried, the vigilance that had become necessary routine showed him a general aura of contentment that had not been a part of the trading city’s past. Job openings had become myriad and varied, left by citizens turned soldiers, then corpses, and the offspring they did not sire. As a result, youths found more choice when it came to apprenticeships, and they gravitated toward the traders they preferred rather than those who needed them. As a teacher, Colbey had always found enthusiasm the greatest boon to education; few students frustrated him more than those with natural talent but no will to learn. By selecting preferred livelihoods, the youths brought new fire, flare, and competence to their labors and a bright future to a Westlands that the Wizards believed would soon fall to chaos’ destruction. The elders’ need for extra hands forced them to treat their children with the seriousness and respect due adults, as the constantly warring Renshai had done for centuries.
The aristiri perched on Colbey’s shoulder, calm despite the shove and bustle of the Pudarian square. Formynder’s composure surprised and pleased the Renshai. He had not expected the shy hawk to remain with him through the clamor of a trading town, yet it seemed unruffled by the sights and sounds around it. It hunkered down on Colbey’s shoulder, shifting with each dodge through the crowd, its talons clasping only onto cloth and sparing the Renshai’s flesh beneath cloak and tunic.
At length, the roadway opened onto a central crossroads from which five streets radiated like the legs of a beetle. In its middle, too many horses crammed into a trampled, muddy pasture. They stood in lines, nose to rump, swatting flies in circular patterns that fanned their tails across neighboring muzzles. A barn abutted the building, the odor of hay wafting from it and a gaily painted sign tacked to the side. It read “Crossroad Fyn’s World’s Best Horses.”
The motley sampling of animals in the pasture gave Colbey little on which to pin his hopes. He had come more from a need for completion than any hope he might find a suitable steed. He had already visited every other stable in Pudar, and he had left this one for last. In the heart of the marketplace, its prices would far exceed those of the farmers or dealers on the fringes and travelers would daily pick over the best of its stock. He had hoped that the imminence of evening and market closing would thin the crowds. Yet, as the sun approached the horizon, its sinking rays silvering the last hour of open marketing, Colbey still found himself weaving through the masses.
Little traffic filled the square itself. Horses had a specific clientele, rarely impulsively bought, and nearly all of the patrons quickly dispersed along their chosen path without giving the stable a second glance.
Colbey approached the pasture, savoring the clean, crisp air and the elbow room he had gained. He studied the horses, each stomping hoof and whisking tail. He saw nothing irresistible, nor even particularly interesting. He dismissed twelve of sixteen simply because of the position and shape of their muscles. Three of the culls shifted forehooves as well as hind, apparently lame. Most of the others would serve as short distance riding horses, reasonable transportation to nearby towns in the West. Of the remaining four, two carried too much weight to manage the quick escapes or narrow maneuvering required for combat. Another kept its head low, spirit broken by some previous master. The last had rheumy eyes and cracked hooves, sick or aged.
The aristiri hopped to the upper rail, skittering back and forth. Apparently, it, too, appreciated the open space and a chance to stretch its legs and wings.
Colbey sighed, wondering if he had become too picky. A mount like Frost Reaver came once in a lifetime or never, selectively bred by the Erythanian king and chosen by knights to whom a horse was as important as a sword was to a Renshai. He knew he would probably never find another as valuable, in looks, competence, or temperament; nor did he have such a need. I only have to find something that can take me to Béarn. The thought brought a nervous smile. When he reunited with Frost Reaver, he had no guarantee that he could win the horse’s confidence back. And to take a risk on an inferior steed with Wizards chasing him was folly. His only defense against their magic was a swift attack. A horse that bucked or shied would prove worse than no mount at all.
Apparently in response to Colbey’s scrutiny of the horses, a man emerged from the stable. He wore a stained, homespun shirt and britches, and a leather apron protected his legs. Hay spotted his hair, and wisps jutted from every pocket. He rubbed grimy hands together, redistributing the dirt, and grinned at Colbey. “Good lot of horses there, eh?”
“Eh,” Colbey repeated, disgusted. He had spent the day studying inferior horses while farmers and merchants extolled the virtues of nags. “If you don’t mind walking.”
The man’s smile disappeared. “There’s one or two out there that’s not the best. But any of them would serve a traveler well enough.”
Formynder ruffled its feathers, but otherwise remained still.
“Not this traveler.” Colbey shook his head, knowing he should never have bothered to come here. The wade through hordes of shoppers had made him irritable, and he had no patience for another merchant’s pitch. “Got anything inside?” He jerked a thumb toward the barn.
The horse merchant glanced over Colbey briefly, taking in the plain but well tailored clothing, the staff, and the paired swords at his hips. Though unadorned, the steel weapons should tell the merchant that he carried at least some money, though he had given nearly all of it to the farmer in Bruen. Then the stranger’s gaze alighted on Formynder, and he stared. Without taking his eyes from the bird, he asked. “Is that an aristiri?”
Colbey followed the merchant’s focus. “Yes.”
“Is it male or female?”
The question seemed ludicrous. As far as Colbey could tell, neither this bird nor any other had obvious sexual orientation. “Male, I think. I wouldn’t know.” Recalling something that Captain had said, he added. “It does sing.”
The merchant nodded. “Male, then.” Reluctantly, he tore his gaze from the bird to Colbey. “May I touch it?”
This query seemed even more ridiculous. “That would have to be the bird’s decision.”
Hesitantly, the man extended a finger, moving it slowly toward the hawk. It turned its head so that one black-rimmed, blue eye gazed directly at the approaching digit, but it did not move. With an expression of indignation, it allowed the stranger to run a gentle finger along its crest twice. Then, apparently having had enough, it bounced to Colbey’s shoulder.
“Inside?” Colbey reminded, scarcely daring to believe anything could distract a merchant from a sale.
The man’s gaze swept from Colbey’s shoulder to his face. “Two inside. Two of the finest you’ll have ever seen. Come with me.”
Colbey doubted the claim. Frost Reaver aside, he had plucked the superior steeds from many herds. Then, he had been able to settle for underworked or overfed horses with potential; his training and that of others had turned them into the Renshai’s best war mounts. Still, it only made sense to peruse what the merchant had. He followed the man to the stable and inside.
Hay filled most of the stalls, and barrels of water and grain lined one wall. A portion of the building had been roped aside for well-oiled bridles, halters, and saddles, apparently for sale. An assortment of pitchforks, shovels, and hay hooks lay propped against the walls or scattered across the floor. Ropes dangled from an overhead loft, looped over pulleys anchored in the ceiling. Two horses occupied separate stalls, with an empty one between them. The merchant indicated a massive buckskin that pranced within the confines, its hooves crashing repeatedly against the wood with a strength that made it shudder. It had chewed the upper lip of wood into pale irregularities. Light filtering in from the doorway made its golden hide shimmer.
Child of Thunder (Renshai Trilogy) Page 36