A groom met him and guided their horses into their empty stalls. The stables were almost full. They passed a restless-looking grey with wild eyes, and a tired roan stallion. Something brushed over Ashley’s memory like a willow-frond touching a stream, but it was gone.
The Crowbar, finally I get to visit the Crowbar!
The prospect thrilled him the way forbidden things are wont to do. He was a Lightgifter, and knew he was expected to avoid the Crowbar’s trade. Which was why it was so alluring.
It won’t hurt just to look.
Music pulsed faintly through the steamed windows at the rear of the inn, and Ashley’s hand trembled with excitement as he reached the door and turned the handle.
Air laden with heat, sweat, smoke and ale passed over him like the gust from a summer storm. The bard’s song threaded urgently through the scents. Lamps filled the haze with a ruddy light, voices clamoured and roared from half-lit faces, dark cloaks swept by. The floor felt uneven underfoot. It was covered with wood shavings.
The door swung shut behind him, and Ashley found himself facing a group of rough-looking men. They were circled about a table where two burly Swords arm-wrestled. Two men in black cloaks leant against the bar and eyed Ashley. The one tilted his head toward the other, said something unintelligible, and they both roared with laughter. They continued to watch him as he walked unsteadily through the crowd.
The men in the common-room blended into the dark shadows when compared to the women present. Ashley felt his throat go dry as he took in their dress. The fashion seemed to be deep open cloaks with raised collars, and then underclothes, nothing in between. Ashley gulped as he realised the woman before him was returning his gaze. She wore a low-cut bodice which barely covered her to her thighs. Her smooth legs were naked to the tops of her high leather boots. He felt his face burning as he caught her eye again. She watched him with an impish, cunning grin. He felt like a chicken being eyed by a fox. His pulse thundered in his ears.
It was a delicious sensation. He kept his gaze on the floor, and wove his way further through the common-room, closer to the bard and the distant exit.
He pushed through a knot of people, and found himself close to the small stage where a woman danced. He recognised her instantly, and felt his knees go weak. The noise of the crowd swirled around him. He was in the centre of a whirlpool of lusty, drunken heat.
It was Gabrielle. The dark woman of his dreams. Her face was unmistakable, the waves of raven-hair, the secretive smile, the black silk bodice covering her voluptuous breasts. And at her throat, set on a silver chain, a black crystal orb. She must be a Shadowcaster. His feet rooted in fear, Ashley stared at Gabrielle.
How could I have seen her in my thoughts, when I’ve never seen her before? How could I know her, without ever having been here?
Gabrielle moved in time to the bard’s lilting music, her feet shifting fluidly to the melody of his pipe, her body pulsing in sensuous curves. Her hands wove empty patterns in the air, and from time to time she threw her head back and slid her hands through her hair, or over her body. She caressed herself in ways every man present wanted to, and yet there was a restraint to the crowd, a sense that no one would touch her without her word. For she was dangerous. The forbidden nature of her body increased her glamour, and Ashley became aware of just how many men were grouped around him. She didn’t seem to notice him in particular; she danced to the crowd. He was just another moth drawn to the flame.
My dream girl?
“What’s the matter, Lightgifter? Missing your Sisters back home?” teased a loud man behind Ashley. A hand shook him roughly, but he didn’t dare turn. He knew that tone of voice—it always led to trouble.
“They fall young, these days,” someone added.
“Gifters always come sniffing at the door of the Crow, wanting more than their starched white virgins,” taunted the first speaker. It was one of the black-cloaked men whom he had seen at the bar.
“This one’s sniffing all right, oh yes he’s sniffing!” bellowed the second fellow, a heavy-set man with a cauliflower nose.
“You joining us for a drink, young man?” cajoled the black-cloak.
“Uh, er, I’ve got to go,” Ashley stammered, trying to back his way out of the crowd. The men were all too big, burly, unfamiliar. Closing.
An iron grip stopped his retreat. He was shoved into the centre of the circle.
“Drink,” a rough voice ordered from behind him. From the corner of his eye Ashley identified the second black-cloak.
Another Shadowcaster, it must be. How many here are Shadowcasters?
A tankard of something thick and dark was forced into his hand. The brute with the cauliflower nose clashed a similar tankard against it. Ashley struggled to maintain his grip, and some of the fluid slopped over his wrist.
“Oooh, can’t hold his drink,” taunted someone within the crowd. Ashley tried to take in the whole group of men. The danger could come from anywhere in this crowd. He felt very conspicuous in his white robe.
“Welcome to Fendwarrow, lad,” roared the flat-nosed brute, and the others tittered. “Let’s see if those wobbly knees are made of steel or soap.” He lifted a tankard to his lips, and with his spare hand guided Ashley to do the same. Ashley’s nose burned with the alcoholic vapours. The group of men pressed close, spoiling for sport, or a fight, Ashley couldn’t decide which.
I’ll take the drink if they’ll leave me be.
Ashley tilted the tankard and swallowed the first draught of the cold, thick liquid. It seared his throat instantly, and he made to drop the tankard, but the brute continued to tilt it as he upended his own. Ashley took another gulp, then another, swallowing air at the same time in his haste to avoid drowning in the rush of liquor. The last of the drink spilled past his nose. The guiding grip was removed to the accompaniment of a gap-toothed smile.
Ashley spluttered as the full force of the drink hit him. His eyes watered cruelly, and it felt as if something had removed his lungs from his chest. No air seemed to be getting down his throat.
“Nectar of the Gods, lad! Now you know what proper Dwarrow-wine tastes like, but not what it feels like. Genn’lmen!” Ashley was shoved across the group by strong hands. “The Crow Twister!”
He was shoved back the way he had come, then turned, then pushed, spun, pushed, twisted, pushed again. Every time he felt as if he would fall, but strong hands grasped him roughly, and he was tossed across the circle again. The world whirled with red lamplight, dark faces, rustling cloaks, and pulsing sound. The pushes became more and more rapid, and he presumed the circle had narrowed, but he had no way of seeing. Everything whirled about his eyes.
“All right, boys, you’ve had your fun with him,” a deep voice cut in. Ashley fell to his hands and knees—the pushing stopped, but the world continued to spin. A pair of polished leather boots came into a vague focus before him.
“Let him be.”
Ashley looked up to see a fuzzed image of one of the muscled Swords who had been arm-wrestling near the door. The man rested his right hand casually on his sword hilt. The Fendwarrens seemed to respect the Sword, for they parted slightly and allowed Ashley to stagger to his feet. Even so, Ashley caught a few muttered curses directed at the Sword. Ashley burned with shame when he realised that the dancer Gabrielle must have witnessed the entire charade. He broke from the circle, and headed for the door.
“I think the Lightgifter pissed himself,” someone shouted close behind him. He felt his robe being yanked up, and something splashed against his legs. Roars of laughter and cheers chased his back as a tankard clattered to the floor. He ran for the door and out into the foyer.
A toad-like man sat behind a reception desk. When he saw Ashley burst into the room, he chuckled into the many folds of his chin. He was cloaked in a oily green garment which reminded Ashley of pond-weed.
“Three-oh-four-‘n-five,” was all he said, pointing up to the stairs at his back. He went back to polishing a gold plate on the desk.
When Ashley fled up the stairs, the after-effect of the Dwarrow-wine gripped him. A banshee had been released inside his head—his blood pounded, his thoughts roared, and his breath burned like fire in his chest. He missed his footing many times, but didn’t care. Every step put him further from the rude laughter and heady scents of the common-room. And Gabrielle.
* * *
When Garyll finally joined them in room three-oh-four, they had all but finished their evening meal. Keegan had insisted on a separate room, but Grace had offered to share hers with Ashley. There were two beds in each room, so the offer was surely innocent enough, but knowing what he knew, Ashley couldn’t help but wonder about the Sister’s quick smile. Sharing a room would conserve their funds, he supposed. He was suddenly conscious of his dishevelled appearance, and the cloud of Dwarrow-fumes about him. He wished desperately that Grace’s eyes would linger on something else but him for a while. But he had accepted the offer, to a quickening pulse.
You’re seeing things that aren’t there, he berated himself. She’s a Sister, you’re a Half-knot, she can’t possibly be interested in you.
The food had been well-prepared, a little spicy for Ashley’s palate, but anything was welcome after their gruelling day in the saddle. Ashley’s head still swam with the memory of the common-room, and he didn’t trust his tongue with long words. They had spoken little during the meal.
Garyll brought news which forced discussion.
“There’s no sign of the Shadowcaster Arkell, but your Lightgifter friends are staying here at the Crow,” Garyll said as he eased himself into a chair beside the door.
“Rosreece and Hosanna?” Father Keegan asked.
“The innkeeper wouldn’t give me any details at first, said it wasn’t proper. But one of the Swords says he saw them enter Fendwarrow yesterday on the Southwind road. A blonde woman and a tall man who kept his hood drawn, in white robes. Sound like your friends? They stabled at the Crow. I had to remind Mukwallis of my blade before he would give the room number. He said they’ve ordered five bottles of Dwarrow, and don’t want to be disturbed.”
“The horses!” Ashley blurted out. “That’s what I saw. Their horses are stabled here.”
“Well why didn’t you speak up sooner, boy?” Keegan bristled. “Too busy carousing with the locals?”
Ashley couldn’t defend himself from the quip.
“The room number?” Keegan asked Garyll.
“One-ten, down the passage on the first floor. It’s your affair, I’ll not interrupt their evening. Who knows why they’ve stayed here two days?”
“Ashley,” Father Keegan commanded, “go down and call them to meet us.”
Ashley just wanted to hide in a corner, but he couldn’t exactly refuse the senior Lightgifter.
“What if they are,” Ashley faltered, “um, busy?”
Sister Grace gave him a surprised look.
“Oh, shatter them!” Father Keegan snapped. “We are here to bring a murderer to justice, not to throw a party. If they are acting indecently they deserve interruption. Tell them to meet us here in three-oh-four.”
Ashley found his way down the stairs, and through the foyer. He cast a wary eye toward the revelry in the common-room. Thankfully, no one noticed him. The front-desk was abandoned. He crept down the corridor, counting the numbered doors as the sounds grew fainter again.
One-eight. One-nine.
He raised his hand to knock on the thick timber door at the end of the corridor, drawing a breath in nervousness.
Two days? What were they up to?
His knuckles rapped the door lightly. The sturdy wood absorbed the sound, and he was just about to strike the door with more commitment, when a short cry made him pause. It was muffled through the woodwork. He wasn’t sure if it was pain or pleasure, but the cry unsettled him.
It is not my place to get involved. Lover’s quarrel, lover’s problem. She’s old enough to look after herself.
Ashley didn’t have enough to go on, and he knew that his blood ran thick with Dwarrow. But he brought his hand down hard on the door with the second knock, and kept on rapping for a time.
He shifted uneasily. Something squished under his tread, and he kicked it clear of his boot. Jurrum-leaves. Used ones.
This place is a cesspool of debauchery.
It didn’t stop at the jurrum. On the floor beside the leaves, was a collection of something that looked like flaked skin. Revulsion skittered up his spine. He wanted to leave the Crowbar, and never come back.
“Who is it?” came the muffled voice of a woman through the dark oak panelling.
“Ashley Logán. Is that you, Hosanna?”
There was a pause. “Yes.”
“Can I come in?”
“No.” Another pause. “What do you want?”
“We need to meet. Father Keegan sent me. We’re in three-oh-four, with the Swordmaster. Can you both come when you –” Ashley faltered again, and blushed furiously as he realised what he had been about to say. “When you can,” he ended lamely.
There was a long silence from the other side of the door. Not quite a silence, Ashley realised. Angry whispers teased the limit of his hearing. He probed with his mind, hoping that his erratic ability would serve him.
Nothing.
“Give us a while,” Hosanna said in an odd voice. “Now go away. We don’t wish to be disturbed.”
Ashley felt like a little boy caught spying. He gritted his teeth, and backed away from the door. The next time Father Keegan could call them himself.
Suddenly an angry thought snaked through the ether, shockingly intense : Lightgifters be damned! How many shall I have to rid myself of?
Ashley recoiled. He felt shamed for trying to snoop in Rosreece’s mind; he had intercepted a thought he shouldn’t have known.
Ashley expected Rosreece to wrench the door open and blast him with a wave of indignation. But the door remained firmly closed. Maybe the Gifter was drunk, to be so angry at the disturbance. It was not Ashley’s affair.
He retreated from the corridor as fast as he could. An uneasiness followed him like the echo of that first small cry he had heard.
When he reached the foyer, he veered left, away from the common-room and the stairs. He didn’t want to face Keegan’s judgements, and he needed to find somewhere to relieve the Dwarrow-wine. He passed a few rooms, a bustling steaming kitchen, then a scullery. The smell of wasted food washed over him as he pushed through a door to a courtyard.
Smells about right, he thought wryly. He spotted his goal. A low building squatted against the far wall of the courtyard. A walkway sheltered by a sagging roof hugged the wall and led toward the outhouse. Two lamps glowed along the walkway, the others had burned themselves out, or were too blackened for their flames to be visible.
When he returned from the outhouse, he entered the Crowbar behind a couple wearing hooded crimson robes. The vegetable waste of the kitchens masked their smell at first, but as they staggered through the corridor ahead of him, Ashley caught the reek of alcohol. They disappeared into the common-room when Ashley took the stairs from the foyer.
Ashley shook his head, he couldn’t believe that they needed to drink any more.
* * *
Hosanna and Rosreece had still not arrived. Ashley sat quietly beside Sister Grace. Father Keegan paced the floor. Garyll sharpened his sword, but ceased when Grace gritted her teeth at the torturous sound. Sister Grace wove a Healall spell, and Ashley felt his riding-pains fade. As he sobered, he became aware of a singular unease; a worry like a mosquito on the back of his neck, pricking him with its intuitive proboscis. Something was wrong. He just couldn’t fit the missing piece into the puzzle.
The horse had rolled wild eyes at him, Rosreese’s horse. It had been frightened by something, yet apparently it had been stabled for a full day. The horse should not still be nervous. And Hosanna and Rosreece had been riding hard, their trail should have been cold, yet here they were, barely hours ahead.
> Ashley chewed his lip.
Five bottles of Dwarrow-wine?
He had tasted a few mouthfuls in the common-room, and it was not fair to call it wine. Distilled poison would be closer to the mark. One bottle would down two men; after five bottles the Gifters would surely never wake again. The extravagance didn’t make sense.
Celebrating their success? Or drowning their failure?
Rosreece had not spoken, Hosanna had sounded tense and angry; failure then. But if they had failed to capture the Shadowcaster, then why was there freshly chewed jurrum in the corridor outside their room?
Captain Steed had mentioned the Shadowcaster’s habit. They had seen jurrum at Phantom Acres. Jurrum on the road to Fendwarrow.
In a dreadful moment of deduction, he knew.
The vicious thought from beyond the door of one-ten had not been Rosreece’s at all. With a cry he leapt to his feet.
“The murderer is with Hosanna!”
“What makes you say that, boy?” Father Keegan demanded.
Ashley felt suddenly trapped. He couldn’t tell them of his mind-skill, they would ridicule him. “Jurrum,” he said, “beside the door of one-ten. Wet, chewed jurrum.”
“So how does that tell you it’s the Shadowcaster we seek?” Keegan retorted. “Many of them here chew jurrum. The Crowbar’s renowned for it.”
“I saw flakes of skin as well. The Captain said the Shadowcaster was burn-scarred. He must have scratched his scabs outside the door. And I heard—a strange voice there.”
Garyll was on his feet. “Your eyes and ears are sharp, Ashley Logán. You should have spoken of it sooner.”
“I only put it all together now.”
Keegan glowered at him. “Your mind was clouded by all that carousing, no doubt.”
“He’s thinking clearly now!” said Glavenor, making for the door. “This explains Mukwallis’s manner, if he were hiding the Shadowcaster.” The Swordmaster rushed from the room.
They crowded through the door, and pounded down the stairs after him. Ashley prayed that he hadn’t made too many assumptions. If it really was the Shadowcaster who was with Hosanna, then where was Rosreece?
The Riddler's Gift: First Tale of the Lifesong (The Tale of the Lifesong) Page 29