Flamecaster

by Cinda Williams Chima

He heard a whoosh! as if all the air had been sucked away around him. The heat was suddenly blistering, and he staggered away, in what he prayed was the direction of the door.

  The door to the outside had been left open to release some of the heat of the kitchens, and the cool draft of air guided him. He crossed the threshold and felt the dirt and stones of the courtyard under his feet. The well would be ahead, at the center. Although he knew he should just keep moving, should try to get as far away from his attacker as possible, he just had to wash the awful dust away and hope. He had heard of blind healers, those who used only the gift, but he didn’t want to be one if he had a choice.

  He almost stumbled over the low wall around the well. There was always a bucket of water sitting on the ground beside it with a gourd for drinking. He groped for it with both hands. When he found it, he dropped to his knees next to it, grasped each side of the bucket, and plunged his head into the water.

  The water was icy cold, and there was almost immediate relief, although his eyes and face still burned. He scrubbed at his face with his hands, rinsing it again and again, opening his eyes to allow the water to sluice the burning powder away. When he lifted his head, the cold water sliding down his neck, he found that his vision was returning. He could see the shapes of the buildings that surrounded the courtyard, the bright bloody haze around the torches in the niches along the wall. Shuddering with relief, he immersed his face once again.

  He felt rather than heard a concussion, like an earthquake under his feet, and then another. He sat back on his heels, shaking his head like a dog, flinging water everywhere, and looked back toward the palace in time to see one wall of the kitchen slowly collapse into shards of stone. In his panicked state of mind, he thought at first it was the work of the Darian priest, bent on vengeance.

  Then he realized what was happening. He could picture all those barrels of lubricant in the basement, the barrel he’d shattered at the foot of the stairs, the wizard fire he’d sent after the assassin. When he saw the bright flicker of flame in the kitchen windows, he knew the conflagration was of his own making.

  Then, incredibly, a figure appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, a dark outline against the brightness behind. It can’t be, Ash thought desperately. The priest was impossible to kill. Ash found a metal rod on the ground next to the well, and wrapped his fingers around it. At least now he could see who was coming after him, and he would have something to turn the knife. He charged toward the man.

  The man stumbled and fell on his face, his back in flames. He was wearing cook’s whites, not a black robe. It was Hamon, the night baker.

  Ash dropped the club and sprang forward. When he reached Hamon, he ducked his face away from the flames and slid his hands under him, heaving him over onto his back. Hamon cried out in agony, but the weight of his body smothered the fire. Ash looked up to see Rolley standing over them, staring in mute shock.

  “Bring water from the well, and hurry!” Ash turned the baker back onto his stomach and tore away the charred strips of cloth that covered his back. Hamon’s flask rolled out onto the ground. He must have been passed out somewhere in the kitchen when the fire broke out.

  There was very little fabric left unburnt, and the flesh beneath was charred as well, with patches of black and pink like poorly roasted meat. Rolley was hovering with a bucket of water, and Ash took it and poured it over Hamon’s blistered back. The cook screamed out again, and then went limp and didn’t say anything more, which was a blessing. Ash sent Rolley for more water while he struggled with himself.

  He wanted more than anything to disappear. He had no idea if the assassin was alive or dead. If he was alive, the Darian priest knew his identity. If he talked, Ash would never leave the city alive.

  He didn’t know what the baker had seen, either, and might talk about later. But he also knew Hamon would die without treatment, and it was his fault. Rolley had seen him, too, and would ask questions if he disappeared.

  It wasn’t like he had a real choice.

  Ash squatted at Hamon’s head and put one hand on his shoulder, where an area of skin was still whole. He grasped his amulet with the other. He hoped the lingering effects of the Darian stone wouldn’t interfere with what he had to do. Healing a serious injury was less a matter of expending power than of absorbing Hamon’s pain and injury into himself. He closed his eyes, concentrated, searched Hamon for the pain, embraced it, stopped the flow of fluids to where they didn’t belong, redirected them, found the discontinuity that heralded an injury, began to reestablish the connections. This was healing at its most basic, healing without tools, reserved to those with the gift.

  Time passed. He didn’t move. He was vaguely aware of the commotion around him, people shouting, carrying water from the well, fighting the fire. Later, he sensed rather than saw an accumulation of people, watching, but he didn’t open his eyes. Hamon was doing his best to cast off his ruined flesh. Ash knew if he became distracted and lost control of his patient, he wouldn’t get him back.

  Finally, he sensed that there was no more pain and discord to gather, and Hamon seemed securely resettled in his body once more. Ash shuddered, let it go, sat back on his heels, and opened his eyes.

  Hamon’s back was bright pink, the color of skin that has been too long exposed to the sun, but the blisters and the charring were gone. The cook was breathing, slowly and evenly, like a man asleep.

  The light and heat of the fire had diminished, and Ash realized there was still a crowd of people around him. Without raising his eyes, he could see expensive boots, and the well-worn, sturdy boots of soldiers.

  “Well done, healer. Miraculous, even.” The voice came from behind and above him. “Only I wonder why you and I have never met before.” Ash turned and looked up, and found himself gazing into the cold blue eyes of the king of Arden.

  20

  ESCAPE FROM DELPHI

  Again and again, over more than a month of hunting and haircutting, the king of Arden’s words came back to Destin. Perhaps they were looking for a place to hide, and Delphi would do nicely, don’t you think?

  So far, it had done well enough. The month of grace he’d allowed was over. Destin had moved his operation into the Lady of Grace full-time. His guardsmen had scoured the city and now it was exceedingly rare to spot an uncut woman on the street. When they did find someone, she was in for a hard time. No one could claim ignorance, not anymore. Any unshorn woman was intentionally defying the order of the crown.

  The house-to-house search had begun. It went slowly. In some neighborhoods there were five families packed into space meant for one. Tiny houses slouched together, four to a lot: houses where the tenants changed every night, or where people slept in shifts.

  The searches went on at all hours, because so many of the people of Delphi worked long hours, night and day. Nighttime raids were often the most effective, because they caught people by surprise, in their beds, and bareheaded, at least if they had heat in their houses. When they found people who needed cutting, they sheared them right then and there. They included the sick (though not with plague), invalids, old women, and the simple. They also gathered up the street people and did them, too. Many of those actually did have vermin in their hair.

  Destin didn’t care to throw anyone in gaol. The prisons were already bulging, and his goal, after all, was to get everyone inspected and back to work. He made a few examples of people who had avoided inspection because they thought they were exempt. A few days in prison were enough to put fear into anyone, if they survived. Clermont’s men even searched the prison itself, because there was no reason why the girl couldn’t have gotten herself into trouble. It would have been ironic if he had found her there, but he didn’t.

  Destin had moved into an upstairs room at the Lady of Grace, which gave him a needed break from Clermont and his blackbirds. Lyle Talbot Truthteller continued to work at the inn one or two nights a week. Destin chose to leave him alone for the time being. The boy avoided Destin when he could, witho
ut making it obvious. He seemed pale and withdrawn, nervous as a sparrow.

  The weather stayed miserable. The howling wind blew away anything that wasn’t strapped down, and the snow drifted, in places swept almost clean away, in other places burying houses to their eaves. The town was running out of places to pile it, even when they shoved it out of the way. It never melted, but only packed down a little, as new layers fell. The snow turned a gritty gray soon after falling, so new snow was only a temporary improvement. Destin cursed the girl roundly, every day, in case she was alive and vulnerable to curses.

  Few travelers came to Delphi, or sought approval to leave, either, which was more surprising.

  One night Destin was sitting in the common room at the Lady. He’d just finished dinner and begun working on his second ale. It was one of those low moments when he wondered if he was destined to become a permanent resident in Delphi. He needed to find the girl, wherever she was, or make a new plan for the rest of his life. However short that might be.

  There were few people in the inn that night. The weather was nasty, and payday was a long way away. Lyle was taking a break from foretelling, and was eating his dinner in a corner, with his back to the room, to discourage any interruptions. When it was crowded, Lyle rarely ate while on duty. He never got a chance. But Will Hamlet sometimes spared the boy a bowl of stew or a meat pie when it was quiet.

  Clermont was hanging around, too, in case his men discovered any unshorn women out on the streets. He sulked in the corner, nursing his fourth ale. Two of his men, Hartigan and Virdenne, were sharing a table in the back. They were the best of Destin’s barbers.

  Destin was just contemplating whether he really needed a third ale when a man bulled through the front door, cursing and complaining loudly about the weather. The stranger stopped just inside with a great stomping of feet to clear them of snow. It melted into slushy gray puddles when it met the heat of the stove. He was wrapped in a huge woolen cloak, and it took him several turns to unwind himself from it and shed hat, gloves, and muffler. He was red-faced and heavyset, one of those people who create a commotion wherever they are, just by existing. Destin glared at him sourly over his mug of ale. The stranger carried an instrument case that he set carefully aside on a bench.

  “Hey, Will Hamlet!” the man said cheerily. “How you be after so many years?”

  Will looked up from wiping out tankards behind the bar. “Do I know you, sir?” he asked mildly.

  “Why, I’m Hamish Fry. Fiddle player and talespinner of renown. I played an engagement for you maybe ten years ago. I really brought in the customers, if you’ll remember. I wondered if you might have need of a little entertainment here again.” He looked around the nearly empty room. “Looks like you could use a bit of commerce.”

  Will shrugged. “We’ve been pretty steady of late. We have a fortuneteller, and he’s popular.” He nodded at Lyle, who didn’t turn around.

  “You don’t say so,” Hamish Fry said. “He don’t look so popular right now,” he added loudly, as if that might get a rise out of Lyle, but it didn’t. So he bellied up to the bar and ordered an ale.

  “I can’t say Delphi’s improved much,” the talespinner went on. He took a long drink and swiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. “In fact, I’d say it was worse than ever. I wouldn’t be up here now, but I had some trouble down south.”

  The man’s a fool, Destin thought. He’s probably on the run from the law and here he is admitting it for all to hear. He wondered if Hamish Fry had noticed Clermont at his table in the corner. Maybe not. His cloak was buckled over his colors, in a vain attempt to keep warm.

  “You know, there’s one thing I’m missing that would improve things around here,” Fry was saying with a grin. “The best thing in Delphi. Where’s that daughter of yours, Will? Pretty little thing, as I remember. She used to sit and listen to my stories, polite, she was. I bet she’s turning heads now.”

  Daughter? Will hadn’t mentioned a daughter. Destin looked up to see that the innkeeper was still polishing pewter, but all the blood had drained from his face. After a long pause, Will said, “She died. Four years ago.”

  “Died?” Fry reared back, surprised. “Well, that’s a bloody shame. How’d she die?”

  Will darted a glance at Destin, licking his lips, as if his presence made him nervous. “There was some trouble up at the mine,” he said finally. “There was several killed, and she was one.”

  It was odd, the way the innkeeper was reacting. If his daughter had died four years ago, he should be used to answering questions about her. Unless she had been involved in something she shouldn’t have been. Had there been some kind of rebellion or riot four years ago?

  “What was her name, Will?”

  “Her name?” Will had been polishing the same tankard for the entire conversation.

  “Your daughter. Usually, I never forget names and faces. It’s a gift I have, they tell me. But I just can’t—was it Jacie? Janet?” Fry’s brow furrowed, suggesting he was thinking hard.

  Will stared at him, shaking his head, a stricken look on his face.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve forgot your own daughter’s name,” Fry said, oblivious to the reaction he was getting.

  By then, Destin was on his feet and moving toward the bar. “Will,” he said in a friendly way. “I didn’t know you had a daughter.” He sensed, rather than saw Clermont moving, too, splitting out a little so they were coming at the innkeeper from two different directions.

  Will wasn’t looking at Hamish Fry anymore. His eyes were riveted on Destin. “I don’t like to talk about her. She . . . she was killed,” he repeated desperately. “She’s dead.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Destin said. “I’d like to hear more about that. Would you mind if I ask you a few questions about her?” He nodded toward the back room. “Let’s go in there. We’ll talk about it over an ale.” He reached out to put a hand on Will’s arm, but the innkeeper backed away, keeping the bar between them, shaking his head.

  “Jenna! It was Jenna,” Fry said triumphantly. “I never forget a name.” And then he stared, puzzled, at the three men circling the bar.

  “We don’t want to hurt her, Will,” Destin said. “We just want to find her.”

  “No!” Will cast about wildly, looking for any route of escape. Destin heard Clermont’s sword leave its scabbard.

  “No, Clermont, don’t hurt him,” Destin said quickly. “We need to talk to him.” He wanted to get his hands on Will Hamlet in order to spell him. If he could subdue him, they would quickly find out what they needed to know. But Will kept his eyes on Destin. He seemed more frightened of Destin’s empty hands than Clermont and his sword.

  He knows I’m a mage, Destin thought. He’s afraid of being questioned with magic.

  Will threw a glance over his shoulder, then bolted for the door. Clermont stepped into his path with his sword, aiming to turn him back. Will hesitated a fraction of a second. Then, with a cry, he sprang forward, seized the surprised guardsman by the shoulders, and impaled himself on Clermont’s blade, driving on until there were only inches between them. They stood face-to-face for a moment, innkeeper and guard, and then Will slid to the floor as Clermont, cursing, pulled his sword free.

  Then it was bedlam. Someone screamed, Destin and Clermont were both swearing, and Hamish Fry the tale-spinner was shrieking hysterically. The room quickly emptied as people fled madly through the doors.

  Except Lyle. The boy stood as if frozen, staring down at the body on the floor, his face a mask of horror.

  “Lyle! Quick, boy, find a healer!” Destin ordered, although he could tell by the look of things it was too late for that.

  But Lyle didn’t go for a healer. Instead, he sank to his knees next to the body of the innkeeper, cradled Will’s head in his arms, and lifted a high keening wail, a primitive animal cry of something lost, and lost forever. A voice that seemed wrong, somehow. Then Lyle looked up at Clermont, golden eyes blazing, mad with pain and
rage. He reached under the velvet jacket and came up with something shiny in his hand.

  A dagger. The shape of the blade struck a chord in Destin’s memory.

  Lyle barreled into Clermont, carrying the much larger man all the way to the ground. The blade rose and fell, twice. The truthteller reared back and met Destin’s gaze defiantly. He turned the blade, gripped the hilt with both hands, and buried the blade in his own chest.

  “Lyle! No!” Destin lunged at the boy, got a grip on his wrists, tightening his hold until the dagger clattered to the floor. The dragon hilt was gaudy with rubies and garnets, the blade dulled with blood.

  Destin realized, with a sick recognition, where he had seen that sort of dagger before. He knew that if he wiped off the blood, he’d find runes along the blade.

  He pushed Lyle down on his stomach on the floor, straddling him to keep him down. All of this was instinct. His mind was still trying to catch up, to divine why the boy was so distraught over the death of an innkeeper who had treated him with little more than indifference. Why a truthteller would carry a dagger encrusted with jewels, the sort of blade carried by the Carthian bloodsworn guard. Was the truthteller working for Cele, looking for the girl on his own? Did that explain his strange magic?

  And then it came to him.

  He reached for the hat first, the ridiculous velvet hat, and pulled. It was tightly secured with pins, and he had to yank at it several times before it came away in his hand, exposing a mass of hair pinned underneath. He raked his fingers roughly through it until it came free and tumbled down, pins clattering on the floor. A thick braid that was much too long for anyone in Delphi to be wearing these days.

  When he shoved it aside, the neck beneath was nearly black, smudged with dirt or coal dust, artfully so. Spitting into his hand, Destin scrubbed vigorously away at the dirt on the back of the boy’s neck. And, gradually, there was revealed, just below the hairline, a shining web of gold, centered by a faceted stone, embedded in his skin. A magemark.