Touched By Magic (The King's Wolf Saga)

by Doranna Durgin

  Her mouth twisted slightly. "I told you yesterday, we can't blame our customers for what Hurley does. Or at least, I said something like that. You look better today. Did you go back to see the horse you liked?" She looked back at him as she led him inside, and laughed wryly. "Never mind. I just about have Northie mouth sometimes. You find yourself a table, and Melly or I'll be along directly to see what you want."

  Reandn went to the corner he'd used the day before, found it unoccupied and sat with his back to the wall. Still, as he stared at his toes, replaying the fight in his mind—automatically preparing his defenses for Saxe—he was not prepared for Lina's march to confrontation.

  "Brutal!" she said, stopping at his table. His shirt, forgotten in the street, settled onto wood in a sigh of material. Reandn slowly moved his gaze from his feet to Lina's face.

  "When a man starts trouble, he's got to take what it brings him," he said flatly.

  "Some are just as good at running away," she said, scorn on her face.

  "You had Tanager follow me, you came all the way down here, just so you could say that?" he asked, honest surprise coloring his voice. " I hope you feel the better for it."

  "I came," she said, annunciating each word clearly and inviting herself to sit at the table, "to see if you wouldn't reconsider talking to Pa-Farren. And to give you these." She pushed a pile of leather under the table with her foot, her voice no less brusque. "They were my husband's. Tanager outgrew them—and they're of a size with the ones you left."

  He glanced under the table. "You think you can buy me with boots?"

  Her lips pressed together in a thin line, a faint flush reddening her cheeks and forehead. "They were a reason to come and talk to you."

  Reandn withdrew his outstretched feet and leaned over his elbows on the table. "Lina," he said, "I have nothing to say to your father."

  More scorn. "Because he was a wizard."

  "I've had this discussion with Tanager," he replied shortly, "although I imagine you already know that."

  "I do." She crossed her arms. "My father is a good man, no matter his former avocation. You can't go around distrusting everyone who worked in magic. Or do you have a little fetish about other people, too? How do you feel about barbers? Or sailors?"

  "I've a hard spot in my heart for men who guard tavern entrances, and pushy women," Reandn said suddenly, fiercely.

  She withdrew slightly, surprised, sudden apprehension on her face. "But—" she started, and forced herself to continue, her voice low and earnest instead of filled with anger, "he's only trying to help. And there is no magic left to fear."

  His eyes narrowed. "Then how did I get here, meira?" His hand shot out to grip her wrist. "Pretty substantial grip for a man who's living in King's Keep, wouldn't you say?" He dropped her wrist to snatch his crumpled shirt; she drew back uncertainly as he thrust it at her, displaying the fine sewn seams. Adela-sewn. "How does a woman fade away to nothing but my memories, meira? You can tell Pa-Farren I know all about wizard's magic, and I'll have no more of it!" He dropped the shirt with the same finality as he'd dropped her wrist, and leaned back in the chair, his glare defying her to answer.

  Her hands shook as she deliberately rested them on the table; one finger touched the shirt, seemingly despite itself. "I don't understand what you're saying," she said, her voice carefully even; her gaze flicked to his hands.

  He looked down to find his thumb rubbing against the ring on his little finger. His eyes closed tightly against the sight, and against the sudden rush of emotion. DelaDelaDela his heart cried, sad little whispers of loss; he fought for composure. Without opening his eyes he said harshly, "You don't have to understand. Just leave me alone."

  Her chair scraped as she pushed it back. When he was able to open his eyes, she was gone, and he was alone again. He saw with dull surprise that she had left the boots, and he pulled them on without thinking about it, only absently noting their fit. His thoughts were divided, pervaded with mourning, tangled in Lina's words.

  Temptation, to think he could have an ally armed with a wizard's knowledge, someone who could deal with Ronsin on even terms. But his distrust was real, and solid—and he could not trust a man who said he was no longer a wizard—that magic no longer existed in this world.

  For Reandn knew differently. Of all his memories from the confusing fugue state after his arrival here, one of the clearest was that moment when the pressure of magic rang in his ears.

  A wizard who lied about magic could be trusted with nothing.

  He wished for more experience with the men of magic—an understanding of their strengths and weaknesses and how to deal with either. When a Wolf fought, or stalked, or trailed, he was there for anyone with eyes to see and understand. But Ronsin had just stood there, fingers tracing patterns in the air—first holding Adela in place, then melting her away—and then taking Reandn himself, and tossing him south. There seemed no predicting what a wizard would do, and when he would do it.

  The very thought of facing Ronsin made a sudden chill run down Reandn's back—and then another one, when he realized that was exactly what he was fighting so hard to do.

  "Are you all right?" Ania asked, arriving at the table. "Hurley didn't hurt you, did he?"

  "He hardly had the time," Kelton said, coming up behind her.

  Reandn took a deep breath and tried to bury his thoughts. "I'm fine," he said, and looked at Ania. "Why don't you bring me whatever the kitchen's got the most of tonight."

  "But we've got four different things to choose from," Ania protested helpfully.

  "Then you choose," Reandn told her. She looked from his serious expression to Kelton's equally grim face, and forced a smile. "Whatever we have the most of, then." She turned away, leaving the two men with no buffer.

  Kelton took a good long look at him, and Reandn knew what he saw. A man with Northern-long hair in need of cleansing, a rivulet of sweat running from his temple onto a grim face. No doubt he had circles under his eyes and that slightly wild look that stood him in good stead when it came to backing down the rowdies.

  But there must have been something else, too, for Kelton's demeanor changed subtly, his stance becoming almost imperceptibly less aggressive—though his words were hardly cowed. "I wish you'd let me handle that."

  "I've never been good at letting people push me around," Reandn said, with no apology.

  "In another moment I would have had him in hand," Kelton insisted.

  Reandn said a little straighter. "He rushed me. He wanted to do it from the first time he saw me. Did you want to let him break a few ribs while I was waiting?"

  Kelton gave him another long look. "You knew you could take him," he said quietly.

  Reandn hesitated, not quite sure if it was a question, and if so, exactly what that question was. He finally gave a single nod. "If I didn't make any mistakes."

  Kelton scratched his chin and looked away, glancing back as he said, "That arm's a bad break. He'll be unable to work for weeks."

  "If you make it a habit to pick on strangers, sooner or later you're going to pick on the wrong one. You should keep Hurley on a chain."

  A pause. "You may be right. But I'm coming at this sideways. In that single moment, you became the man who beat Hurley. I'd like you to consider taking his place while he heals."

  I'm not staying.

  And yet it would give him something to do—something to keep his mind off what he'd lost—and off the drive to do something about it.

  Not to mention it would get him on the road, better supplied, better honed.

  It wouldn't do much for his anonymity, but Hurley had already seen to that. He raised a brow at Kelton.

  The man wasn't slow to understand. "Room, board, and one parscore a week."

  "No room, one supper a day, and four parscores a week," Reandn countered immediately.

  Kelton raised an eyebrow, lowered it thoughtfully, and squinted one eye. "Three parscores," he said at last.

  "And dibs on the red me
at," Reandn added with finality. "And...I may leave with little notice."

  "You done something I should know about?" Kelton asked sharply.

  Reandn shook his head. "No. But I have something I need to do."

  The proprietor nodded after a moment. "Start today. We open mid-morning, close around sunset, this time of year. You've got basically one duty—no one drunk comes in here, and no gangs. No whores, either."

  "I expect I can handle any of those," Reandn said. "But I'll be leaving shortly before you close. I've got other responsibilities."

  Kelton frowned, his mouth opening to dicker a protest.

  Reandn cut him off, a single shake of the head. "It's a previous commitment."

  After a calculated moment, Kelton gave an exaggerated sigh and nodded, touching his heart in the Northern signal of sealing a deal. Surprised by the courtesy, Reandn returned the gesture. As Kelton left for the kitchen, Reandn leaned back against the wall to pick up his threads of thought. Saxe's voice sounded in his mind loudly enough, no doubt about that. Double guard duty? You might as well be a Hound.

  Not for long. This was but a means to the end. Ronsin. The name rumbled through his brain in a constant counterpoint to the call of Adela's sweet contralto.

  Reandn thought it likely that before much more time passed, Tenaebra would welcome them all in her realm of violent death—and he thought it should probably frighten him that he didn't care.

  But it didn't.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  Chapter 9

  The afternoon heat beat at Reandn; the unfamiliar boots chafed his feet. The Unicorn's patrons gave him wary sideways glances, as though finding him in Hurley's spot had somehow destroyed the order of their lives.

  Thank the Lady that Kelton had sent him to a back room for a shave and the liberal use of a rag and warm water, or the whole situation would have been a downright scandal.

  Not that the thought didn't amuse him.

  As the day cooled and the customers slackened, Reandn raided the kitchen for scraps. At the quarter-bell, he bid goodnight to Kelton, Ania, and Melly and headed for the outskirts of town with long strides.

  The market still thronged with buyers when he arrived; the erstwhile guards hadn't yet arrived. Bergren spoke to a young woman who held the lead rope of a goose-rumped pack horse—driving a hard bargain, by the look on her face. Bergren's quick patter didn't falter as he saw Reandn, but his eyes relaxed, and his face held relief.

  The bay waited with moderate patience, tied at the outside of the corral with a loose halter over his bridle, snapping at flies—or trying to, since the lead rope brought him up short. Stomping a leg in irritation, he laid his ears back at no one in particular to let the world know he was mad.

  Reandn gave him a commiserating pat on the rump and went to rummage in Bergren's tack and fodder shed, where he found a couple of small canvas sacks and an old piece of supple leather. By the time Bergren finished with the girl, loosed the new horse into the corral, and caught up with Reandn, one sack held a supply of rocks; the other, a cache of sun-dried horse droppings. Reandn sat on a short basket-weave stool with his back against the shed.

  Bergren looked at him askance, hands on hips.

  "Have you got an awl?" Reandn asked, unconcerned about that expression.

  Frown still in place, the merchant walked noisily past Reandn, made a great deal of commotion inside the shed, and returned with the tool. "Here," he grunted. "Now, suppose you let me in on this. I'll never sell that bag in this condition."

  "Probably not," Reandn agreed, placing the leather against the wood frame of the stool between his knees and applying the awl. "But it's going to help save your business, so it'll earn its keep regardless."

  Bergren's frown made his jowls grow tenfold. "I don't see how."

  "I think it'll be a surprise to them, too," Reandn told him, and grinned.

  Bergren had the sense to leave it at that. He merely nodded when Reandn asked him to take the bay to the hitching circle. A glance showed the animal to be much happier with other horses' tails working at the flies alongside his own—just as well, since the guards were less likely to take special notice of the gelding there.

  Reandn held the new leather sling up for inspection, decided it would do, and knotted the bag ties together, flinging them over one shoulder. With a glance to locate the market guards, he headed away from the market bustle and into the surrounding woods.

  Just inside the tree line, he dropped the heavy bags, shook his shoulder loose, and took a careful look through the pines. At King's Keep, the pines had scrubby needles and sappy prickles that threatened any creature within range, but these tall, straight trees were bereft of lower branches, aside from the dead limbs that jutted out to snag the unwary. Although the air near the ground remained still, the pine crowns swayed in the breeze, keeping up a constant whisper in their long, soft needles.

  Bergren's corral sat not far away, deep in the evening shade from the trees. The needle-covered ground cushioned Reandn's feet as he walked along the roughly circular market perimeter, clearing the dead branches, both underfoot and head-height, out of his way. At the edge of the forest, the young pines brushed him in a gentle caress, providing cover.

  When he was at the edge of sling range from Bergren's area, he stopped, dropped to his haunches and stared thoughtfully at the dusky marketplace. Convenient of them, he decided, to have arranged the stock area out on a little point away from the other booths and tents. He could approach it unseen from two-thirds of its perimeter. Quietly, he made his way back to the canvas bags.

  As the market emptied and the guards arrived, it quickly turned into a dark night, thick with clouds that the quarter-moon could not hope to pierce. He'd been hoping for more visibility, but then, what he couldn't see, neither could they. When darkness had fully fallen, Reandn abandoned the woods, creeping toward the horses to stand watch. It didn't take long.

  Without a care in the world, two of the men fumbled toward the corral, carrying only a dim candle lamp. Reandn smiled. With the lamp blinding their night vision, they'd never see him. A quick wind-up and snap of his wrist, and he sent a quick series of manure clods into the bunched herd; the startled horses scooted around inside the corral, snorting indignantly. Under the cover of their noise he crept closer, and loosed a rock toward the dark blot holding the lamp. The yelp that rang out declared a lucky shot, and in the fuss Reandn circled back around the corral, putting the lamp in line-of-sight from the opposite direction.

  "G'wan, you're in my way," one of the men growled.

  "I been hit by a rock!" the injured party protested. "I think my rib's broke!"

  "One of the horses kicked something up," the impatient voice said. "Just get the gate and be done with it." One of the gate bars moved, a slide of wood against wood. In quick succession Reandn sent missiles at both men, and then into the horses; they milled nervously around in the corral, crowding the gate.

  "What the Hells—" His previous victim, growing angry.

  "Dark Lady," swore the other, dropping the candle lamp. It broke against the ground and left them in darkness; Reandn sent a few more clods at the noise they were still making.

  "What the Hells you got going on over there?" shouted a voice from the center of the market. "Hurry up, will you? We got things to do tonight."

  "I'm not letting these nags out like this! Or maybe you want to get run down in the dark!"

  "Well, Tenaebra's tits, Rulf, what're you doin' to 'em?" the voice was closer now, and Reandn tracked the man's progress by his long, lazy strides. "Why'n the Hells did you put out the lamp—"

  Reandn let fly, and the man found out. The commotion brought reinforcements; by now they realized they were being deliberately taunted, mocked with missiles of horse manure. When they made an effort to approach the corral, Reandn harried them with dangerous rocks rather than the softer clods. He was lucky enough to knock one of the men senseless and after that they concentrated all their efforts on finding him—but
the darkness lent enough cover that Reandn was never driven to flee on the bay gelding.

  When dawn came, Reandn was safe in the pines—and the arriving merchants discovered harried, manure stained guards who were quick to depart. The marketplace was abuzz by the time Bergren arrived.

  Reandn greeted him from the doorstep of the tack and feed shed, tired but satisfied—although he held no illusions the night work would continue to be so easy. The waxing moon would soon light his shadowy hiding places—and as soon as the guards realized he was there to stay, they'd make serious efforts to find him.

  If they did find him, he wasn't likely to survive—and he had things to do before he faced Dela again.

  But he was a Wolf. He wouldn't be found. And then he'd be on the road, heading for home, with Ronsin none the wiser.

  Bergren stood at the corral full of horses and the unlikely number of manure clods laying about his sales area, and raised a begrudgingly impressed eyebrow at the Wolf. He thrust a canvas bag at Reandn. "Breakfast. Don't get it mixed up with that other bag of yours."

  Reandn just grinned.

  ~~~~~

  In the next two nights, the erstwhile guards took more blows—one, Reandn thought, had probably needed stitches, and had certainly been concussed. Another limped during the day, favoring his bruised thigh.

  He'd have to be more careful. If he angered them deeply enough, the guards would drop their façade of usefulness to make stopping him their priority—while wreaking revenge on Bergren's corrals and horses.

  The only thing stopping them, likely, was the consequence. Such direct action would make it impossible to keep the Locals out of the situation—the gang kept a fine balance between merchant pride, perceived helplessness, and Local ignorance, and aggressive action would change that.

  The nights became a hunt—although it was never clear who was hunted and who was prey—and Reandn did his best to ride that balance. As the moon grew brighter, the chase became more intense—but Reandn reveled in it. Exhaustion brought sleep without dreams; activity kept his mind from loss. And if he was stuck in Maurant, earning himself a horse and provisions, the harder he had to work at it, the less energy he had to chafe at the delay.