[Shadowed Path 02] - Candle in the Storm

by Morgan Howell

“I seek to work for someone who still respects the Balance.”

  Gurdy beamed. “You’re in luck! My master still honors Karm. He’s a cloth merchant, the richest one in Bremven. He always needs men for his caravans. His name’s Commodus.”

  “But would he dare hire someone with ties to Karm’s temple?”

  “My master’s unafraid of the black-robed ones. Until just recently, a Sarf lived with us. My own mistress became his Bearer.”

  “It’s a comfort to know na everyone’s forsaken the goddess. But how could a woman become a Bearer after the temple had fallen?”

  “I’ve no idea,” replied Gurdy. “I didn’t understand it then, and I don’t now. I’ve no idea why Yim would even want to be a Bearer. She gave up a lot.”

  “Yim?”

  “That was my mistress’s name. Actually, she was my mistress for only a day. She was a slave before then. When she became my master’s ward, I was to attend her. She left the very first night, and when she came back with Honus, she was a Bearer. I don’t know how it happened, it just did.”

  “Who’s Honus?”

  “Her Sarf. He became her Sarf when she became a Bearer.” Gurdy sighed. “Then it was back to being a house slave for me. Yim gave up her lovely room and slept in humble quarters, though she and Honus dined with the master.”

  “Your tale seems proof that Karm has na forsaken Bremven.” Daijen gazed affectionately at Gurdy, then lowered his voice to a more intimate tone. “As does your kindness.”

  Gurdy flushed. “It’s nothing.”

  “It means everything to me,” said Daijen. “Can I carry your bundle? It looks heavy.”

  “I can manage. The boat’s right ahead.”

  As Daijen watched Gurdy rush off to deliver her package, he was satisfied that he had learned everything of use from her. Nevertheless, he didn’t depart. Daijen disliked leaving loose ends.

  When Gurdy returned to the wharf, she was pleased to find her new acquaintance waiting. “Would you say Commodus is an understanding man?” he asked.

  “He’s very kind.”

  “Then surely he will na begrudge you a little rest. It’s pleasant on the riverbank.” The man Gurdy knew as Rangar held out a small golden-brown pastry. “I’ve a berry tart. Will you share it with me?”

  Gurdy needed no persuasion. She followed Rangar away from the busy wharf to a quiet stretch of river and a sun-warmed stone on its shore. There she removed her sandals and dangled her feet in the clear flowing water. Her companion did likewise and handed her the tart. Its sweetness complemented Gurdy’s mood. “Oh Rangar, this is so good! You must taste it!”

  Rangar didn’t look at the tart. Instead, he gazed lovingly into her eyes as he touched a finger to the corner of her mouth and drew it away bearing a drop of berry juice. Delicately and slowly, he licked his fingertip. In a soulful voice he said, “It’s luscious.”

  Gurdy felt she was in a romantic tale. She was no longer plain, or even a slave. Everything faded compared to the enchanting eyes that fixed on hers. She bit into the tart, smearing her lips with red sweetness. “Would you like another taste?”

  Rangar’s hand gently brushed Gurdy’s cheek, then traveled to caress the back of her neck. With exquisite slowness, his lips moved toward hers. Gurdy was transfixed with anticipation. She felt the warmth of his breath, then the softness of his lips. Then a stab of pain broke the spell. “Ow!” she cried.

  Rangar’s gaze seemed to follow something in the sky. “A hornet!” he said. “Did it sting you?”

  “I’m afraid so,” said Gurdy, touching the back of her neck.

  “It must have been drawn by the tart. Are you all right?” “I think so, but it hurts.”

  Rangar bent over to wave his hand in the water. For an instant, Gurdy thought she saw something shiny fall from his fingertips and tumble into the depths. Then Rangar withdrew his wet hand to rub her neck. His touch was not only cool and soothing but also tender, and Gurdy became convinced that her eyes had been tricked. I saw only a reflection , she thought. “Oh Rangar, that feels good.”

  “I’m glad,” he replied. “But you should get out of the sun.”

  “Maybe I should. I feel a little woozy.”

  Rangar stood and helped Gurdy rise. “I’d walk you back to your master’s house, but perhaps we should na be seen together.”

  “Why?” asked Gurdy, not bothering to hide her disappointment.

  “Your master may na hire me if he knows I care for you. It’d be better if people think we’re strangers when we meet again.”

  “I’ll keep your secret,” said Gurdy. She touched Rangar’s cheek as she moved closer to him, berry juice still coloring her pursed lips.

  Rangar bent down to fasten his sandals. “Then I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Yes,” replied Gurdy with a sigh. “We’ll meet again tomorrow.” She put on her sandals.

  While Rangar remained on the riverbank, Gurdy headed back to her master’s house. There she kept her delicious secret as she worked the rest of the day polishing the huge dining hall table. It seemed to her that the day had turned hot, and the heat made her dizzy. She went to bed without eating dinner and lay upon her straw-filled mattress, drenched in sweat. When she fell into a fitful sleep, heat entered her dream.

  Gurdy stood alone on a featureless plain where the sun beat down from an empty sky. It was oppressively hot. “Come into the shade,” said a voice. Gurdy turned and saw Rangar standing in a patch of shadow. Neither had been there before. As Gurdy walked toward him, she realized that she was naked and the heat didn’t radiate from the sun, but from Rangar’s eyes. She stepped into the shade, and it turned cold. Rangar’s mouth was smeared with red. Berry juice , Gurdy thought. She moved to kiss it away.

  THREE

  THE FOLLOWING morning found Commodus in his counting room. He stared listlessly out the window, for the news of Gurdy’s death had made him melancholy. Jev, his steward, had been terse in reporting her demise, remarking that Gurdy “looked ill” last evening and her mattress was soaked with sweat when they found her. With dry eyes, Jev had supposed she died of a fever and let the matter rest.

  Commodus couldn’t let it rest so easily. He mourned the young woman, not because he cared for her especially, but because it seemed that nobody did. The more Commodus thought of Gurdy’s lonely death, the more he thought of Yim’s sentiments on slavery. She had wanted him to free Gurdy. Despite his respect for Yim, he had scoffed at the idea and said Gurdy was happy, with all her needs met. Upon recalling his arguments, Commodus felt they rang hollow. The silken robe that Gurdy would wear upon her funeral pyre had cost him more than she did.

  A knock interrupted his musings. “Yes,” said Commodus.

  Jev’s voice came from behind the door. “Sire, a young trader wishes to speak with you.”

  “I told you I’d see no one.”

  “It’s about gold brocade, sire. He wants to order two dozen bolts.”

  “Did you say two dozen?”

  “Yes, sire. Two dozen.”

  Commodus opened the door. “Do you know him?”

  “No, sire,” replied Jev. “He says his name is Rangar and that he comes from Averen.”

  “They don’t wear such finery in Averen,” said Commodus with puzzlement. “Still, two dozen bolts. I guess I’ll see him.”

  Jev ushered in a stranger carrying a parchment-wrapped bundle and then departed. Commodus met his visitor suspiciously, for he didn’t like the man’s eyes. “My steward says you’re interested in gold brocade.”

  “Yes,” replied the man. “My name’s Rangar, sire, and I’m new to Bremven. I’d like to commission a pattern. The client will provide the gold.”

  “That’s not the common practice,” said Commodus, glancing at the bundle. “I think your client’s overtrusting.” When he looked up and saw that Rangar was regarding him with a piercing gaze, he grew angry and glanced away. “I know that look! And I can defeat it!”

  “I needed assurance that you’r
e honest.”

  “That’s one use for that trick, but only one.”

  “Please, sire. I beg your pardon. I’ve been cheated so often, I probe thoughts out of caution. You possess the same ability, otherwise you wouldn’t have detected me.”

  “If you had asked around, you’d know my reputation.”

  “I did, sire. And forsooth, it sounded too good to be true. I’ve even heard tell that you sheltered a Bearer and her Sarf when most now lack the courage to honor the goddess.”

  Commodus looked at Rangar sharply. “Who told you that?”

  “A slave girl. She babbled on and on about it.”

  “You’ve questioned one of my slaves?”

  “Of course not. I merely asked directions. She volunteered the rest.”

  “Well, you shouldn’t listen to a slave girl’s prattle. I sheltered no one.” Commodus glanced at his visitor, saw that he wasn’t deceived, and quickly changed the subject. Pointing to the parchment-covered bundle, he asked, “Is that a sample of the pattern?”

  “Yes,” replied Rangar as he unfolded its wrapping.

  Commodus frowned when he saw the elaborately embroidered black cloth it contained. “This is for vestments worn by the Devourer’s priests.”

  “So? They’ll pay well.”

  “I detest the Black Temple. I’ll not garb its priests.”

  “I’ve no love for the Devourer either. But profit and religion are separate spheres.”

  “Perhaps to you. I feel differently. Find another source for your brocade.”

  “At least give me the benefit of your expertise. I worry that I’ve been cheated again. Could you tell me if the gold thread in this sample is full weight? It’s supposed to be three grains an ell.”

  “You shouldn’t be dealing in brocades if you can’t tell that,” said Commodus. Nevertheless, he decided to oblige the man in order to get rid of him more quickly. Taking the sample, he ran his fingers over the cloth to feel its gold thread. Suddenly, Commodus jerked back his hand. “Someone left a pin in it.” He sucked the dot of blood from his finger, then smiled. “They stuck you, too. The thread’s too soft to be full weight.”

  Rangar looked dejected. “Just as I feared.”

  “If I were you, son, I wouldn’t deal with the Black Temple. You can lose more than money there. Now, since we’ve no further business, I wish to be alone.” Commodus turned to face the window and was glad to hear Rangar leave. The man had left a foul impression, and Commodus was certain that he had been interested in something other than brocade. The Black Temple draws scoundrels like shit draws flies, and Bremven’s the worse for it , he thought. Yim was wise to leave when she did . He rubbed his fingertip, which was still sore where the pin had pricked it. As he did, the room seemed to grow warmer.

  Jev entered a little while later. “That was a waste of time,” said Commodus. “I’ll see no one else today. Send up a boy to fan me. This heat’s making me woozy.”

  The summer’s warmth made for quick funerals, and Daijen returned to the counting room only two days after his first visit. “I’m so sorry to hear of your father’s demise,” he said.

  “Thank you,” said Dommus. “It was a shock. A sudden fever took him.”

  “Summer can bring evil vapors,” said Daijen. “It’s most tragic. I only met him once, but your father impressed me as an honest and principled man. I felt honored to do business with him. He did mention my order? It was a large one.”

  “No,” said Dommus. “He didn’t speak of it. Or of you, for that matter. What’s your name again?”

  “Rangar. Perhaps he didn’t mention me because we hadn’t sealed our bargain. I had to speak to my client first.”

  “Well, I know nothing about it. What does this business concern?”

  Daijen unwrapped a parchment-covered bundle to reveal a piece of black brocade, richly woven with gold. “Twenty-four bolts, and that’s only the first order.”

  Dommus’s face lit up with excitement. “Two dozen bolts!” He glanced at Daijen, who met his eyes with a piercing stare. Unlike his father, Dommus was easily ensnared. His expression quickly took on the trusting look of one who recognizes a fellow soul. Upon seeing it, Daijen smiled as one worldly man does to another.

  Dommus returned the smile. “This is fine work,” he said, reaching out to touch the brocade.

  Daijen stayed his hand and plucked a needle from the stitching. “I’m sorry, some careless fool left this in the cloth. I wouldn’t want you pricked.”

  Dommus fingered the work appreciatively. “Expensive stuff,” he said. “Why go through me? It’s more common to deal directly with the weavers.”

  “I’m seldom in Bremven,” replied Daijen. “I need someone to insure the quality. That concerns my client more than price.”

  “And your client’s the Black Temple?”

  “Yes. Is that a problem?”

  “I’m a merchant,” said Dommus. “Gold is gold.”

  “So religion presents no difficulties?”

  “The only problem I have with religion concerns an overstock of dark blue cloth. With Karm’s temple destroyed, I can’t give it away.”

  “Yes, it’s worth your life to go about in blue,” said Daijen with an air of sympathy. “Beatings and worse. You’d think the emperor would stop such persecutions.”

  “Morvus is under Lord Bahl’s thumb,” replied Dommus.

  “He’ll do nothing.”

  “Then why not dye the blue cloth black and sell it for priests’ robes?”

  Dommus grinned. “I like that idea.” He fingered the gold cloth again. “Two dozen bolts you say?”

  “In the first order,” replied Daijen. “Just name your price. They’ll pay it.”

  Dommus grinned more broadly. “Would you like some wine while we work out our arrangement?”

  “As long as it’s chilled.”

  Dommus was into his second goblet before all the particulars were put into writing. By then, he looked quite pleased with himself. Daijen was equally satisfied. “I’m like you, Dommus,” he said. “I might sell to the Black Temple, but to me they’re merely customers. Religion doesn’t interest me, but I’m sorry I missed meeting Yim.”

  “Yim?”

  “Yes, the woman Bearer. Your father spoke of her.”

  “Oh yes, Karmamatus,” said Dommus. “Well, she might be Karm’s beloved, but did Father also tell you she was a slave?”

  “No,” said Daijen feigning surprise. “This sounds like a strange tale.”

  “You’ll never hear one stranger,” said Dommus in a confidential tone.

  Daijen leaned forward, looking intrigued. “How does one go from slave to Bearer?”

  “Well, she came with this Sarf ”

  “Honus?”

  “Yes, Honus,” said Dommus. “He freed her and more or less dumped her here. Father took her in as a favor. Not that I minded. As we used to say—she was as pretty as the goddess. Only eighteen winters. Long, walnut hair. Big, dark eyes. She filled out a silk robe quite nicely.”

  Daijen gave Dommus an earthy look. “Someone worth tupping?”

  Dommus grinned back. “I’ll say,” he said. “Not that I got any. Though, I might have if it weren’t for Honus.”

  “He interfered?”

  “Not in the way you might think. He dumped her because he planned vengeance on the Black Temple. Somehow, Yim found out. I think she forced it from Father, though I can’t imagine how. Anyway, she rushed out that very night.”

  “And?”

  “She stopped Honus. Good thing for us she did. Otherwise, you and I would lack some lucrative clients. If any man could wipe out the black priests, it’s Honus. He has quite a reputation.”

  “He must have been furious with her.”

  “Quite the opposite,” said Dommus. “Afterward, he worshipped her, and I mean literally.”

  “So she became his Bearer?” said Daijen. “In one night? I thought it took years to become one.”

  Dommus shrugg
ed. “I guess not. Honus certainly believed she was holy. Father did, too. It got tiresome.”

  “I can imagine,” said Daijen. “Bearers are a stiff-necked lot, and their Sarfs are even worse. How’d you get rid of them?”

  “They left on their own accord. Just five days ago.”

  “For where?” asked Daijen casually.

  “Averen,” replied Dommus. “Something to do with Lord Bahl.”

  “Bahl?”

  “That’s what Father said. It worried him.”

  “I’d think it might,” said Daijen. “What did they hope to accomplish?”

  “Beats me,” said Dommus. “All I know is that it was a waste of a fine-looking woman. She was tuppable, Rangar. Very tuppable.”

  Daijen left Dommus’s company confident that he had solved his puzzle. Everything he had learned fitted with his informants’ reports and his vision at Karm’s temple. Yim’s the one who enraged my master . Daijen was certain of it. There were no other possibilities. Furthermore, Dommus had not only confirmed the enemy’s identity; he had said where she was headed.

  As Daijen returned to his lodgings, he didn’t reflect on the irony that the blood Yim had denied the Devourer would have been spilled in the Black Temple. As far as his master was concerned, blood was blood. As long as it wasn’t Daijen’s own, it didn’t matter to him either. At the moment, he was particularly pleased with himself, for it had taken just seven days to ferret out Yim. Now that Daijen knew she was his target, he turned his thoughts to her annihilation.

  FOUR

  IT WAS growing dark, but not quickly enough. There was nowhere for Yim to hide. Though the brush was dense and tangled, it was only waist-high, and a recent flood had stripped its leaves. It wouldn’t screen her from sight. Moreover, her tracks stood out on the muddy ground. Yim’s only chance was to outrun her pursuer. She slipped the pack from her shoulders, wishing she had abandoned it earlier. She opened its flap and took out the knife. A puny weapon against a sword . Then Yim turned her attention to her sandal. Its strap had come loose and examination showed that it had broken. No time to fix it . Already, Yim heard boots crunching on loose stone.

  Yim removed her sandals and resumed running. From the corner of her eye, she glimpsed the man who had been tracking her. He sheathed his sword and ran also. Yim followed a streambed because it offered the easiest path, its banks having been swept clear of brush by floodwaters. Without the heavy pack, Yim outpaced her pursuer, and it seemed she would escape. She ran until she was winded.