A large Bauden man, with a thick black mustache, a stiletto sheathed at his hip, and a bastard sword slung on his back—Damor Nev, bodyguard to Lilliana Bastian—blocked Sal’s path.
Somehow, in the haze of alcohol, Sal had forgotten about Damor Nev. Now, with the man standing before him, Sal’s jaw began to throb, a phantom ache from the punch the bodyguard had given him on the Bridge of the Lady.
“Pardon me, sir,” Sal said coolly, despite the weakness he felt in his knees. “Wasn’t looking where I was going. ”
“Back off, and look them eyes elsewhere,” said the bodyguard.
The alcohol coursing through his veins gave Sal enough liquid courage that he decided to sidestep the man-at-arms and address Lilliana directly. “That one there is the one you want,” Sal said, trying to convey more confidence than he felt. “True indigo will bring out your eyes.”
“I told you to back off,” said Damor Nev, putting a hand on his stiletto. “Back off or I’ll put this in your belly, I will.”
Lilliana laid a consoling hand on the bodyguard’s arm. “You look familiar,” she said to Sal. “What do you know of scarves?”
“Little and less,” Sal said. “But I know something of weaving, and even more of dyeing, and that scarf you’re holding is true indigo.”
The cart vendor, a little man with big ears and a mouth of widely spaced yellow teeth, perked up at this. “That is the truth, yes, genuine indigo.”
“Go on,” said Lilliana, her perfect lips forming a smile. “Why should that matter to me?”
“Here in Dijvois,” Sal said, “woad is far more common because it’s cheaply acquired in Pargeche—or any province of Nelgand, for that matter. True indigo is only found in the East. It has always been difficult to acquire in Pargeche, but due to recent trade tariffs set in motion by the High Council, the price of indigo has nearly tripled.”
“The Naidia tariffs?”
“Why, yes, that would be them,” Sal said. “The High Council has imposed yet another tariff, which has upset the balance of things—or should I say, kept the power in the hands of those who have the coin.”
“Oh, and you know it was the High Council?” Lilliana asked with a knowing smirk. “But why not the duke, if you are going to blame someone? Or me, for that matter. You’re certain it was not me?”
Sal smiled. “Oh, My Lady, I could never fault you, but I do blame the duke. Of course, Duke Tadej merely had his High Council place the tariffs due to pressure from the merchant guilds.”
“The merchant guilds? You assume this is the reason? Would not the Dijvois merchant guilds profit from cheaper indigo?” Lilliana asked playfully. “Would they not have petitioned against such tariffs? Whereas I would have nothing to lose.”
The Shiikali scarf merchant seemed to have little to say where trade tariffs were concerned. He looked to Sal, mouth open.
Lilliana’s eyes were stunning, in the literal sense. When their gazes locked, Sal felt his body shut down. His thoughts seemed jumbled, his tongue thick and heavy as though it did not fit in his mouth. Sal swallowed. “The merchant guilds would benefit where indigo is concerned, but much of the indigo in Nelgand is shipped here by the Naidia Trading Company. What little indigo the Nelsigh merchant guilds handle pales in comparison to their trade in woad. If indigo were cheaper, how would the Nelsigh merchant guilds unload their stocks of cheaply acquired woad dye?”
“And how is it you know so much about trade?” said Lilliana, running the wool scarf through her fingers.
“It’s not trade I know. As I said, I know something of dyeing, and a bit about wool, for that matter.”
Something flashed in Lilliana’s eyes—curiosity, or mischief perhaps. “And tell me, should I buy a scarf because it is a pretty color? This day is Fitzen, the day of winter’s welcome. Not long and the snows will be upon us. Should I not want for something warm as well as beautiful?”
The little merchant opened his mouth, but Lilliana held up a hand, palm out. “Dear sir, I would like to hear what this man has to say about the subject.”
The merchant’s brow wrinkled, but he closed his mouth and made an obsequious little bow.
“The character of the object is equally important as the look. Though I think you will find that scarf there is as well suited to the winter snows as it is to your alluring eyes.”
Damor Nev scowled.
“How do you know the weave is good?” Lilliana asked.
“Do you see the cross weave?” Sal asked. “That pattern comes from a special loom found only in the East. That pattern is the marking of a spider loom. They’re the best looms in the known world, and can create such things as a weaver could only dream of if they were using a traditional spinner’s loom.”
Lilliana nodded. “I’ll take this one,” she told the merchant.
The little man smiled an ugly smile, rubbing his wrinkled hands together. “A wise choice. This is one of my finest pieces indeed. As you have heard, it is of the highest quality, and of course commands a considerable price.”
“How considerable?” asked Lilliana.
“But My Lady, certainly a woman of your, uh, social standing would not balk at a figure if it was indeed fair, yes?”
“How much?” Lilliana said, her tone flat.
“I would need sufficient krom, yes, fifty silvers is fair. Forty if you are paying in the gold.”
Lilliana gave a false laugh and tossed the scarf at the little Shiikali. “Thank you for your time,” she said to the merchant.
“Forty krom,” the merchant said, “Thirty-five if this is in the gold.”
Lilliana did not deign to respond. She turned and walked away from the cart.
The vendor pursued, thrusting the scarf before her. “Thirty silvers, I could not go any lower.”
Lilliana gave the man a scornful look. “I’ll not pay nobility tax in my own city.”
“Dear lady, please, twenty-five in silvers, I could not possibly sell it for a dingé less than this, else I lose money in the sale.”
“I’d give seven if I believed it was worth five, but I will pay five if it will get you gone.”
“Five? By the gods, this does not cover the cost of dyeing alone. I can go no lower than twenty in silver.”
“Nine gold krom,” Lilliana said.
“Oh, but lady, surely if you can do nine, you can do fifteen.”
“I’d not pay him more than five and an iron,” Sal said, fixing the little merchant with a knowing look.
The man stammered, knowing good and well that Sal had the right of it.
“Ten,” Lilliana said .
“Dear lady, my wife shall rage when I tell her how cheaply I have sold this, yes. But a man must feed his children. Five hungry mouths with little hands tugging at the sleeves of my shirt for want of food to fill their empty bellies. Ten it is, yes, ten krom gold, but know I have made little in profit this day, very little. It is for the sake of your beauty and the need of my children that I am willing to do this thing.”
Lilliana smiled at the man and slipped him an extra krom. “For your children.”
The man bowed, muttering words of thanks as Lilliana took her scarf and began to walk away.
“Thank you for your help,” Lilliana said to Sal. “Enjoy your Fitzen. Come, Damor.”
“My Lady, might I accompany you?” Sal quickly asked.
“I believe Damor is all the company I can handle at present. Good day.”
Sal stepped forward, but Damor Nev moved into his path.
“The lady said good day, now bugger off.”
Sal dodged the bodyguard and slipped past. “Is it not fate that we should meet again?” Sal called after Lilliana.
Sal winced as the breath was driven from his lungs. Damor Nev wrapped him in a tight hug and lifted him into the air.
Sal kicked and writhed, but Damor’s grip was like a vise, crushing his chest and ribs.
“Hold a moment, Damor,” Lilliana called out. “I’ve changed my mind.”
The bodyguard set Sal down on his feet as easily as a grown man would a child.
“Fate,” said Lilliana. “A most auspicious choice of words. Come, I believe I’ll let you escort me after all.”
Sal followed as Lilliana weaved through the crowd, Damor a step behind him.
“You must tell me,” Lilliana said, “how is it you know so much of looms and dyes?”
Sal shrugged. “My elder sister prenticed to a clothier for some years before going off on her own. I apprenticed to my sister, and in turn picked up a thing or two about the trade. I also know something of herb lore, if you’re interested.”
“Herb lore?” she asked skeptically.
“My sister uses herbs to press into the weave, gives the clothing a sweet smell. Lavender is her favorite, but I prefer meadowsweet myself.”
“You’re not what I expected,” Lilliana said, smirking.
“Is that good or bad?”
She laughed. “This way. Just a bit farther now.”
Damor followed a few paces behind, his mustache twitching in irritation.
They seemed to be headed for a tattered, faded green tent, patched with an assortment of colors, so many patches that it looked mottled. The tent was tucked into a dark corner of the square, one of the only deserted spots in the entire market.
“What’s this, now?” Sal asked.
“Fate,” said Lilliana, a slight smile playing on her lips—her soft, full lips that begged to be kissed.
“My Lady,” said Damor Nev, a hint of concern creeping into his tone, “is this wise?”
Lilliana fixed Damor with a deadpan stare, her mouth pressed into a thin line.
The bodyguard cleared his throat. “Yes, right you are, My Lady.”
She fixed her gaze on Sal. “Before we enter, there’s one thing I’d like to clear up,” Lilliana said. “You mentioned we’ve met before, and you do look familiar, as though I know you from somewhere. And yet I fear we don’t move in the same social circles. It only now occurs to me to ask. How do I know you?”
“I—you slapped me on the ear once—no, twice—just before your big friend Damor here nearly broke my jaw.”
Lilliana’s eyes widened as realization struck home.
“The Bridge of the Lady,” she gasped.
“You!” said Damor Nev, reaching for the bastard sword slung across his back .
“Damor, no,” Lilliana said, gripping the Bauden man by the wrist before he could fully unsheathe his blade. “Not here, not now.”
Sal’s knees had gone weak. His heart was in his throat, his palms sweating.
“My Lady, this street scum deserves no less.”
“Be that as it may, I am beginning to enjoy his company, and I fear that if you took his head he might become less than companionable.”
Damor Nev scowled, lips curling back to show clenched teeth.
“Most grateful, My Lady,” Sal said.
“Lilliana Bastian,” she said. “And this is Damor Nev.”
“Salvatori Lorenzo,” Sal said.
“Well then, Salvatori Lorenzo, shall we tempt fate?”
Sal shrugged, trying to seem as though he’d not nearly loosed his bowels a moment before.
Lilliana gestured to the tent. “After you, good sir.”
Sal pushed past the tent flap, heavy fabric that provided more resistance than he’d expected. Lilliana entered just behind.
The air was acrid with smoke. Before them was a table of cedar, a seven-pointed star carved into the top. Seated behind the table was an old woman, her thin hair so white it was nearly translucent, her brown, wrinkled skin like dried leather. She fixed Sal with milky white eyes devoid of pupil and iris. The look sent a shiver down his spine. Her eyes seemed to see nothing, and yet somehow they seemed to see everything.
The old woman put her nose in the air, sniffing like a hound. She stretched out a quivering hand. “I can smell the storm. It clings to you, boy,” she said, fixing blind eyes on Sal, blind white eyes that seemed to see both into and through him.
“We’ve come seeking a telling,” Lilliana said. “Will you gift us your sight?”
The old woman was a seer, though it seemed an odd title for a woman who was blind in both eyes.
“For the gift of far-sight one must first surrender their eyes,” said the old woman, her eerie gaze still fixed on Sal as though she knew his thoughts. “This is the way it has always been, boy. I am no blind old beggar woman. No, I can see you upon all seven planes, upon all of the paths which your spirit would wander. Many paths I see within you.”
Sal reached for the locket that hung about his neck. The pulsating energy circulated through his body.
“You will give us a reading, then?” Lilliana asked.
The old woman frowned. “I see the thing you wear upon your neck. I see it clearly for what it is, and I smell the storm within. It leaves a sour taste in my mouth. Unhand it or leave my presence.”
Lilliana flashed Sal a questioning look, but he shook his head, deciding not to explain, and let go of the locket.
The woman closed her blind eyes and lifted her nose once more, sniffing at the air with long, slow inhalations. “And too, I smell the dead that haunt you. They come to you, call to you, do they not?”
The words sent a chill coursing through his blood. “They ask for help, but I can’t help them,” Sal said, ignoring the stare he felt from Lilliana.
“Seek not the knowledge of the dead,” said the old woman. “The dead have no answers for the living, they have naught but regrets.”
“I don’t ask for answers,” said Sal, “merely peace while I sleep.”
“Peace will come,” the woman said. “Yet it must be earned. Gifts are not freely given, nor lessons freely learned. Help is given to those who seek, and knowledge to those who listen. Heroes are not merely born, they are forged in the fires of life.”
Sal sighed. That was all well and good, but what in Sacrull’s hell was it supposed to mean?
Lilliana shook her head, a look of bafflement in her eyes. “Sorry, what are we talking about here?”
“You ask for peace, and peace will come. I have seen you in my dreams, and your dreams. I have seen your dead men, and I have seen what you will become. It will be your choice, to accept the call or to turn from the Light. No matter your choosing, peace will come.”
“Right. Well, this has all been quite informative,” Sal said. “But I think we’ll be leaving now. ”
“I’d like a reading,” said Lilliana. “From your deck.”
The old woman turned her blind white eyes on the young noblewoman and flashed a crooked smile revealing yellowed teeth. She put her hand above a deck of painted wooden cards. As her hand hovered above the cards, she closed her eyes and a faint rush of energy emanated from the space between her wrinkled hand and the wooden cards.
The teller shook her head.
“What is it?” asked Lilliana. “Is there a problem?”
“No problem,” the crone said, “but the deck has spoken. I cannot give you a telling.”
When she opened her eyes, they were locked on Sal.
The chill returned.
“What do you mean?” Lilliana asked. “Why not? I can pay, and I have asked for a telling.”
“It is not a question of coin. In matters of fate, I am merely witness. I do not control the deck any more than I control the future.”
Lilliana opened her mouth and closed it. She looked to Sal, her big blue eyes imploring him to assist.
“Is there anything we can do?” Sal said. “She would like the reading. I can pay a considerable amount.” She had said it was not an issue of coin, but when folk said that, Sal found, they usually meant they wanted more.
The old woman sneered, a less than appealing sight to behold. “I’d expect daft remarks to come from an empty-headed highborn. I have said this is no question of coin. Though should you desire, you may give me as much coin as pleases your empty head. But if you want to hel
p, you may take a seat and close your mouth.”
Sal sat.
“But,” Lilliana said, “you only just told me you could not read my fortune—”
“Yours, no”—she turned her blind gaze on Sal—“but his .”
“No,” Sal said, standing and shaking his head.
“Whether you stay or go, the cards will be read. You cannot stop the passage of time by leaving. Would you hear what the cards have to tell?”
Sal sat, nervous and slightly queasy, but Lilliana was enthusiastic as she sat in the chair next to him. There was something about her joy that soothed the sick, ominous feeling in his belly.
The teller closed her eyes and drew the first card. The painted wooden card showed a young man dressed in motley, a dog running at his heels. “The fool, face up,” said the reader. “New beginnings, blind loyalty, and limitless potential.”
She slid the first card to one point of the septagram and turned the next card. It faced upside down, and showed an old man seated beneath an archway, with ten gold coins falling from the sky. “Ten of Pentacles. You have suffered loss, an inheritance”—she paused—“a kingdom.”
Sal sat upright. He didn’t understand what she meant. He had never been rich. Certainly he had never been in possession of a kingdom. For a moment he wondered whether the whole thing might be a sham.
The reader slid the second card to one of the seven points of the star and drew another. Her eyes were closed, her face growing grim as she revealed the third card.
Sal was bemused. He didn’t know what direction the card faced. He had never seen a solid black card before, and had no idea what it meant.
“Death,” said the teller, sliding the card to the bottom point of the star.
Without another word of explanation, she reached for the next card.
“Hold on,” Sal said. “What do you mean, ‘Death’?”
The teller gave no notice that she had heard, her clouded eyes fixed on a point behind Sal.
Sal looked to Lilliana to say something, but she was engrossed by the cards. Her hands were shaking as she watched with bated breath.
A vague statement, Death. Whose death? Pavalo Picarri’s death, Anton’s death? Or was she speaking of Sal’s death ?
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