by Kirby Crow
At first, he had hoped to find some travelers who could tell him the condition of the Salt Road, but there were few guests at the inn. He played darts and stars for a bit before he got bored, then took his bitterbeer to sit nursing it by the fire, watching the snow falling past the one window and thinking about what Scaja said about wanderlust and being lost. Behind him, a man tuned up his tal vielle and began to play a slow melody, joined a moment later by a farmer strumming a dittern. Scarlet vaguely knew the men for Hilurin freeholders who worked the land north below Lysia, but he was in no mood for music or talking.
He had nearly finished his drink when a lean-faced Aralyrin soldier clad in the red and brown colors of the regular Byzan army sauntered over to stand by his table. The soldier wore a crimson bindweed vine embroidered on his sleeve—the badge of the Flower Prince—and had a single green stripe on his collar that denoted his middle rank of captain. Scarlet knew all the ranks, and he was on talking terms with several of the soldiers stationed at the Patra garrison, which he passed on his journeys to Ankar.
“No luck sneaking by the Wolf, eh?”
It was said with dripping sympathy, an oily tone that whispered dark alleys and bad bargains. Scarlet studied the seasoned warrior and noted that, for all the shabby appearance of his uniform, he had a fine fighting axe hanging at his belt, and his boots and the metal-studded leather armor he wore on his wrists and legs were sound.
“No,” he returned shortly. “And how did you get wind of my business?”
“The village Watch.”
Old Kev, who had been the first to greet him home. Scaja must have told him what happened on the Pass, which meant everyone in Lysia knew. The soldier took a seat beside him without being asked.
Now that the soldier was nearer to the fire, Scarlet saw that his face was scarred: two long slashes on either cheek, which looked to be deliberately done. A punishment, perhaps. He had the black eyes of a Hilurin, but he was too tall and hairy to have much of the blood. His face had the plain, weather-worn look of the north: high cheekbones, a scattering of short brown beard on his chin, a lank scrawl of shoulder-length hair halfway between black and brown with reddish tints, and a long, thin nose that spoke of his Morturii ancestry.
“Pity,” the soldier said, and lifted his mug. “Not quite clever enough.”
“Perhaps not,” Scarlet allowed. He wondered what the soldier wanted with him. He still wore his long pedlar’s coat, so perhaps the man just wanted news of the road. In a moment more, the soldier asked for exactly that.
“Nothing unusual. There’s a fever in Zarabek, but that’s no news this time of year. Nantua has a new mayor and he’s thinking of putting a tax on pedlar’s goods, the puffed-up prick. Good luck to him, since the trade in Nantua is already so poor that only good-hearted chapmen bother to stop.”
The soldier nodded and grinned, the long scars giving his face a sardonic cast. He was older than Scarlet first estimated. Now that the man was close, Scarlet realized that something about him disturbed his traveler’s sense, warning him to beware. His eyes were drawn again to the crimson vine on the soldier’s sleeve, and he reminded himself that this one served the Flower Prince and had sworn an oath to uphold justice and rule in Byzantur. Perhaps they were both just having a cross night.
“And are you a good-hearted chapman?”
He shrugged. “That depends.”
“On what, son?”
Scarlet did not like to be named a boy. He disliked it even more that night and that was no fault of the soldier’s, but he glared anyway. “I’m a man grown and not your son, soldier.”
The scarred man laughed, throwing his head back. Scarlet saw that he had one chipped canine tooth and the rest white and strong. His eyes twinkled at Scarlet in false good humor. “Fair enough. Your pardon, sir, and may I freshen your cup in apology?”
Scarlet was simmering but mollified. His pride had taken a thrashing from Liall, and he was short-tempered and sore.
Mirilee had been the alewife at Rufa’s taberna since before Scarlet was born. She came to pour their cups full and the soldier passed her a coin. When she had gone, the soldier looked at Scarlet pensively and pursed his lips in thought.
“I hear that a farmer named Kellun is taking a cartload of wool to be washed and dyed over the pass. Perhaps you can travel with him.” His white teeth flashed in the lamplight. “Inside the wool.”
The thought of traveling inside a cartload of greasy, unwashed wool was unpleasant. Scarlet grimaced and took a sip, wishing the soldier would leave him alone. Then he remembered Jerivet the potter, Scaja’s old friend. Jerivet was planning to go over the pass with goods meant for the Bledlands market, and he loaded his cart with straw to cushion his wares, packing it around the plates and cups to prevent breakage. If he gave the potter a few copper slips to pay toward whatever toll the Kasiri charged, he might agree to help him.
The soldier leaned forward. “You’ve thought of something,” he said genially. “I can see it in your eyes.”
“Perhaps,” Scarlet answered and shrugged. He was coming to dislike this soldier with a long nose too interested in his business. “Good evening.” He rose and left his drink half-finished.
He did not see the soldier’s eyes follow him as he drew the collar of his red coat tighter and went out into the snowy night, nor did he see the calculating smile that crossed the soldier’s face as he picked up the abandoned mug and slowly drank.
SCAJA SEEMED RESIGNED when he revealed his plan, but did not try to forbid it. He only put on his cap and went to speak to Jerivet. Jerivet said it was the foolishness of youth and seemed to think it was a grand adventure, and was patiently disposed with Scarlet when the next bright, snow-free dawn arrived and the pedlar showed up on his doorstep wearing a sheepish look.
“I hope this works out the way you want, Scarlet.” Jerivet grinned as he covered him with straw, delighted to be part of some mischief at his age. “Your dad says you’re a stubborn one.”
Scarlet tried to find a comfortable position in the back of the cart amid the piles of crockery. “Thank you, Jerivet,” he said sincerely, just before the old man dropped another bundle of straw on his head and spread it over him. He sneezed and they struck out for the pass.
He had never realized before how rocky the road to the pass was. Riding in the back of a cart surrounded by pottery and covered in straw was not the most comfortable way to travel, and he hoped there were no insects in the straw. He consoled himself that the wool would have been a worse situation.
As they drew closer to the pass, he heard voices being raised: traveler’s complaints, Kasiri calling back and forth, and one voice he recognized immediately. He recalled Liall as he stood before the campfire, how the bald enforcer, Peysho, had thrown him at Liall’s feet like a gift. The atya had been surprised, but there had also been amusement in his gaze and some other emotion Scarlet could not recognize.
“Well, well, gran’ther, what have ye here?”
He recognized that rough voice, too. It was Peysho, who had seemed curiously sympathetic when he pushed him back down the road last time.
“Load of pottery, meant for market,” Jerivet told him happily.
“Let’s have a look at it, then,” Peysho said, and there was rustling in the straw not far from his feet. Scarlet froze and held his breath.
“Good wares,” said a voice, startlingly near. It was Liall. “Not fancywork. Plain, strong, crockery. A silver bit, old man, to see it safely to market.”
“Aye,” Jerivet said pleasantly. He heard a clinking sound. “I’ve not a silver bit, but I’ve five coppers. Will it do?”
Liall’s voice was just as agreeable. “As good as. Or, if you will, a set of plates.”
“One only?” Jerivet returned quickly, and the haggling began in earnest.
He should have known. Jerivet could dicker the skin off a Minh and make him like it. Scarlet sighed inwardly and held very still as Jerivet pulled out saucers and bowls to extol their value.
Jerivet’s rummaging shifted the straw, and the end of Scarlet’s nose began to tickle, then someone else reached in near his face and pulled out a bowl. A shower of very fine dust fell on his cheek.
He sneezed.
There was a moment of silence before an iron hand reached in and clamped around his wrist, and then he was hauled bodily out of the cart, covered in scattered hay. His pack followed, tossed at his feet, and he was mortally glad he had left the bottle of blue poppy scent behind.
Liall truly looked like a robber prince today, with a small sapphire earring dangling over the white fur around his neck, and a fine blue woolen cloak with a polished silver brooch. Both his pale eyebrows climbed as he studied the pedlar.
“Well, old man, it seems pottery is not all you carry,” he said smilingly to Jerivet.
“He didn’t know,” Scarlet said hastily, afraid they would punish Jerivet. Jerivet’s expression went briefly startled before smoothing out again.
“And you are a poor liar,” Liall said. He turned to Jerivet. “Let you and I be done, old man, two of everything and two copper bits, and you are paid for the journey.” He laid his hand on Scarlet’s shoulder for an instant before Scarlet threw it off. “This one we will not charge you for, but he will not cross with you either.”
“This boy is son to an old friend,” Jerivet admitted. “I can’t leave him here if you mean to harm him.” His whiskered jaw tightened. “I’ll fight you if I have to.”
“Have I hurt any of your people yet? Do not fear for him, old father. One of everything and one copper bit, and I am paid,” Liall said, dropping his price even lower.
“Done,” Jerivet declared, and promptly began piling glazed crockery into Peysho’s arms.
“You, on the other hand, have not paid at all,” Liall murmured aside to Scarlet.
Scarlet glared, wanting to hit him.
Jerivet finished with the crockery and dropped the promised copper coin into the bowl on the top of the pile. He gave Scarlet a sad, sympathetic look before climbing back onto his cart, and Scarlet was a little sorry for having ruined the old man’s adventure.
“I’ll see you when I get back, lad. I will,” Jerivet shot a look at Liall, “or there’ll be pure hell to pay.” He clicked his tongue and the old dray horse moved forward over the rutted road that led through the pass and down to Khurelen.
“Well!” Liall slapped his hands together and turned to look down on Scarlet, smiling broadly. “The toll has risen for you again, redbird.”
Peysho gave them both an arch look and muttered an order to the Kasiri hanging about. They scattered and Peysho trudged toward a round red tent on a raised wooden pavilion, balancing crockery on his arms with little grace. It was the largest and richest tent in the camp, and Scarlet suspected it was Liall’s own dwelling.
Though he had no fondness for Peysho, he was dismayed when the man was gone, because it left him alone with Liall.
“I admire your resourcefulness,” Liall said as he plucked a hay straw from Scarlet’s hair. “But I fear I cannot reward it.” He put the end of the straw in his mouth and chewed it thoughtfully as Scarlet stood there embarrassed and uncertain what to do next. “However, since you are so determined, I will offer you another bargain: stay with me tonight and you will have free passage for a full turning of the year.”
“No.”
“You are so swift to refuse,” Liall complained. “Am I that ugly?”
Scarlet clamped his lips shut. No, you’re that handsome. It was truth, but it was his truth, not to be forced out of him.
“Very well.” Liall crushed the straw and cast it aside. “If you will not be moved by desire, perhaps I can trust in the natural parsimony of Byzans. Stay the night and I will pay you a hundred sellivar.”
Scarlet’s first reaction was to gape at him. Not only had he already been told no twice, but... one night worth a hundred silver coins? A full year’s pay? The man was clearly mad. “You have no sense!”
“You value yourself too cheaply, pretty one.”
His face went hot. “Scarlet,” he announced in defense. “My name is Scarlet.”
Liall tilted his head back. “A fair name for a fair lad, and it suits you, if I understand the meaning. Tell me, Scarlet; do you lie awake at night dreaming up these tricks?”
“If I did, I would succeed better.”
Liall laughed. “You wrong me to think me less clever.”
“I can’t take the whole blame for this,” Scarlet muttered. He was already resigned to being sent back to Lysia. “The soldier did suggest wool, but raw wool has fleas.”
Liall took a step toward him. Before he could retreat at this new intrusion, Liall had fitted his hand under Scarlet’s chin. The chieftain studied his face intently.
“A soldier?" he echoed, his nearly colorless eyes glittering. “Give me his name.”
“I... I can’t, for he never gave it.”
“And like a true Byzan, you never asked. What does he look like? Perhaps I know him.”
“Lean, with a chipped tooth and scars on both sides of his face,” Scarlet said without thinking, and winced when Liall’s fingers tightened. He did not like the soldier’s manners, but he had no reason to wish him ill or bring the atya’s wrath down on him. Also, the soldier wore the Flower Prince’s badge and so was sworn to uphold the law in Byzantur. “He meant nothing, I’m sure. He was teasing me for my failure.”
“Your failure?” That white brow arched again. “Ah, your stealth in the forest, or lack of it. He sounds an unkind fellow at the very least, taking his pleasure in misfortune.”
“It’s an unkind world,” Scarlet informed, very aware of Liall’s hand on him.
“Indeed, but not everyone who mocks you means you ill, just as everyone who lays a hand on you is not necessarily your enemy. Tell me more of this soldier.”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“What was his rank?”
“Captain. He wore the crimson vine on his sleeve.” Scarlet tried to pull away, but Liall was not letting go. “What does it matter?”
“Perhaps I’m merely jealous.” Liall leaned close again, and for a moment Scarlet believed he was going to claim the kiss. “Consider it: a single night for a hundred coins.”
Liall’s breath was warm on his skin, scented with spice and cloves, his voice deep and compelling. There were lines of sorrow or pain around his eyes, a trace of bitterness or grief perhaps, and it took Scarlet by surprise to see it so clearly. Liall smelled clean, like the herbs Linhona put in the clothes press, and that surprised him, too. He expected a Kasiri to smell of leather and sweat and horse. Pale eyes held his searchingly, and for one heartbeat, he nearly leaned into Liall. He caught himself an inch away and jerked back.
“N-no,” he stammered, appalled at himself and embarrassed by the awareness in Liall’s gaze. Was this magic? Had he been bewitched by some Kasiri sorcery? No, not a spell, only fascination, and an ill one at that. What was he thinking? Liall had offered nothing but shameful bargains, and would bring him nothing but harm. He was behaving like a fool.
“No,” he said more strongly.
Liall shrugged. He dropped his hand and Scarlet took a step back. “As you wish, pretty Scarlet.”
Scarlet ground his teeth together. “Have I leave to go?”
“Down to the village,” Liall agreed.
Damn him. Scarlet shouldered his pack and turned to trudge back down the long road, cursing under his breath.
“Scarlet,” Liall called out when he was several paces away. “Wait one moment.”
He paused and looked over his shoulder.
Liall was waiting with one hand on his hip and a look of honest questioning on his face. “I do not intend to harm you. Despite what you may think of me, I am not in the habit of brutalizing my bedmates. It is also my suspicion that you and I are alike in our tastes, and that you would take much pleasure in my touch. Why not just give me what I want and be on your way?”
Scarlet took a de
ep breath and resisted the impulse to hurl his pack at the atya’s head. If the bastard was puzzled, it was no fault of his. “If you must ask, then you wouldn’t understand my answer.”
Peysho’s Story
WHEN THE PEDLAR LEFT the second time, Liall had little hope of seeing him again. There was enough trade north to Patra and Sondek to keep an industrious pedlar busy, so there was no need for him to come through the pass if he knew there was trouble waiting. In all likelihood, he reasoned, the pedlar would decide that the toll road was too much trouble, and would either take his business north or go south by another way.
And then he had tried his latest trick. When Liall hauled the hay-covered pedlar out of the wagon, he wisely resisted the urge to double over in laughter, for the boy’s pride was already dented. He reminded Liall of someone he used to know: a hot-tempered boy who never took no for an answer and did precisely what everyone told him he could not do. A boy who had no respect for authority and no inkling of how much his reckless nature kept his mother up at night.
You lost that boy, Liall reminded himself, and wondered if that was the real reason he pressed the pedlar to accept his invitation. There was a Rshani legend of an enchanted mirror that showed only the past and ensnared all who gazed within, until one day a young man with no memory looked into the mirror and broke the charm. Truly, he thought, a man without memory might count himself blessed. Regret was a persistent hound.
The pedlar—no, Scarlet—had swayed into him at the last, closed his eyes like he wanted that kiss after all, but then he recalled his pride and withdrew. Liall was in favor of pride, until having it did a man more ill than good. Scarlet worried him. Liall believed the boy was putting up a bold front to show that he would not be intimidated, and was not really as intemperate or impetuous as he appeared. He had mentioned a man: the soldier of the crimson vine. Perhaps it was the soldier who put him up to it?