Curse: The Dark God Book 2 (19 page)

“So who are you looking for then?” asked the Mistress.

Sugar sighed, rolled her duck, looking for any pin feathers she might have missed. “I admit I was looking for Urban, but—”

“Aha!” said the Mistress.

“That Urban’s a long side of beef,” said the plump one longingly.

The Mistress waved her finger at Sugar. “A word of advice. Foreigners are tempting. And I’m as liberal as they come, but I suggest you stick to what you know. It’s always best that way. A man who’s got his feet planted here is likely to stay. Someone just in off the boat, well, who knows if the next day he’ll step back on again and sail away, leaving you behind with another responsibility growing in your belly?”

Sugar was not going to get pregnant.

“You’re one to talk,” said one of the women.

“I am,” declared the mistress. “I’ve learned by hard experience.”

The curly-headed woman guffawed at that comment. Sugar expected some coarse joke to follow, but the mistress said, “Don’t you go letting a set of good teeth and an interesting accent mislead you.”

“You underestimate me,” said Sugar. She picked up another duck and dipped it in the pot, holding its head out of the water. Legs sat beside her plucking with the rest of the women. He couldn’t always catch all the pin feathers, but he did a good job on the ones that were easy to feel with your hand. “Legs,” she said, “help me out here.”

Legs shook a couple of feathers from his hand. “Well, if the truth be told, he did call her ‘your loveliness’.”

That brought a round of titters.

“But Sugar wouldn’t have any of his nonsense,” he continued. “I was there. I heard it all. Still, I don’t want her to shun him just yet. I believe he has a song I want to learn. A singer’s always got to be increasing his basket of songs.”

“What song is that?” asked one of the women.

“A tale about soft women,” said Legs.

The mistress looked at Legs. “And what would a little whip like you know about soft women?”

“Nothing,” said Legs. “That’s why I wanted to learn the song.”

The mistress laughed. “And why haven’t you sung for us? Is all your entertainment reserved for men?”

“There’s a cost, you know,” Legs said. “I don’t come cheap. Not even to the Ladies of the Tub.”

“Ladies are we?” one said. “Looks like we’re moving upstairs, girls.”

A number of the other women laughed.

The Mistress said, “What cost? It’s not like we’re rolling in coin.”

“A kiss,” Legs said matter-of-factly.

Sugar smiled to herself and shook her head. Such the performer, but she was glad he’d taken the focus off her.

“You’re taking kisses from the men, are you?” asked the Mistress. “I didn’t peg you as the type.”

For a moment Legs was speechless. The women laughed. Then Legs recovered. “To be truthful, the men’s breath stinks, and so I demand nothing but hard copper from them.”

The mistress grinned. “What do you say, girls? Do you think we can muster up a little coin for our singer?”

Legs held his cheek up, waiting for payment. But the mistress and two others gave him solid kisses on the mouth instead. When they released him, Legs staggered back, blushing, and that only made the women laugh more.

Sugar decided that perhaps, in the Mistress, Legs had finally met his match. Still blushing, he straightened himself and declared, “For such lips I shall sing of epic love and glory!” He cleared his throat. The women waited. Then he proceeded to regale them in serious tones with a silly song about a group of goats who outsmarted a farmer’s wife. The women laughed and plucked and laughed some more. When Legs finished, they applauded.

Thank the Six for Legs, she thought. Then she realized she held a thread to the weave of her mother’s necklace. She’d found it sometime during the song but was too preoccupied with Legs’s singing to notice. The shock of it made her lose the thread, but she soon found it again.

The weave had been impenetrable. But now that she’d found it, this part of the pattern was clear as day. It was like those moments when someone points to the grain in the side of a board and tells you there’s a face in it. At first you see nothing. But once you find the face, you can see nothing else.

Legs and the women continued to banter, but she tuned out the conversation and followed the thread. It was long and complicated, but she eventually came to a terminus of sorts. Weaves, she had been taught by River, had mouths. Quickening the weave required you to feed it Fire. Was this a mouth?

She opened herself just a bit and felt the weave pull. She released her Fire, and the weave took it. At first, she only gave it small amounts, thinking the weave would quicken at any moment. But it was far more hungry than that. And so she fed it a steady stream until it almost felt as if it were suckling.

And then she stopped. What if she was doing this wrong? What if the Fire was not filling it, but simply spilling into the air? It would attract frights. And even if it wasn’t spilling, she couldn’t really gauge how much Fire she was giving. She hadn’t learned that skill yet. What if it sucked years from her? The thought scared her.

She sat there a moment more, then decided to press on. Urban had told her to do this, and was there really any other way to quicken it?

The mistress ordered the women to stand and stretch and share some watered ale before they finished the last of the ducks. Sugar rolled her duck over to start on that side, and the weave suddenly thrummed about her neck.

She jumped. Then she realized what she’d done, and a thrill ran through her. She’d done it!

She had scarcely begun to enjoy her success when an itch began to build along her limbs. It quickly grew into a heat that ran along her very bones. Then the heat turned into a sharp pain.

She gasped.

The Mistress looked at her.

Sugar’s vision began to double. There was a rushing in her ears. Her panic rose. What had she been thinking, doing this alone?

This was wrong, terribly wrong!

The pain grew. Sugar dropped her duck, fumbled with the necklace’s clasp, then tore it from her throat and flung it to the ground like it was a snake. A moment later the pain receded.

Sugar blinked. Her vision returned.

The mistress looked at the necklace lying on the ground. “The foreigner gave you that, didn’t he?”

“It was my mother’s.”

The Mistress nodded and took a large drink from her cup. “Best pick it up, girl.”

Sugar did and put it in a pocket. The Mistress offered her a cup of watered ale, a knowing look in her eyes. Sugar took it and drank.

After a few moments she calmed, and the realization of what she’d just done filled her. Despite the pain, she’d quickened a weave! At least, she thought she had. She’d done
something
. Which meant she was that much closer to her mother and the lore Mother had wanted Sugar to have. But the pain gave her pause. Maybe this pain is what Urban had felt. Maybe the weave had rejected her too.

She replaced her cup and started in on another duck, the necklace in her pocket. Just as she was finishing, one of the women said, “Don’t look now, but here comes that glittering side of beef.”

Sugar glanced up the road toward the fortress gate. Urban was indeed coming, driving a smaller wagon pulled by one horse. His own white horse followed behind on a tether.

The Mistress watched him for a bit, then cocked her head. “That one’s definitely not for a new woman like yourself. Someone more mature, on the other hand, might reconsider a scruple or two.”

“Two?” one of the women asked. “I thought you tossed all yours out with the bad fruit.”

The Mistress gave her a look, then smoothed a stray lock out of her face and tucked it back with the rest of her hair she’d braided up off her neck.

Urban hailed Sugar.

She rose. “Take care of Legs,” she said to the Mistress.

“Aye,” said the mistress. “We’ll keep our little singer as snug as a bean in a barrel. And you save some of that foreigner for those better able to handle such men.”

“You can have all of him. I’m not planning on taking even a nibble.”

“Bold words,” the plump woman said.

The Mistress took on a more serious tone. “You be careful, girl.”

Sugar patted the knife belted at her waist, the one her father had taught her to use. “I’ve got a friend to keep me company.”

21

Withers

SUGAR WALKED TO the wagon. Urban was wearing brown trousers and a dark gray tunic with a black leather vest. The bruise about his eye had already begun to turn yellow, which meant he must have been multiplying his own healing.

“Today you meet my cook,” he said.

The Mistress called after Sugar: “Keep that knife ready!”

Urban glanced down at her belt, and then he grinned and offered her his hand.

Sugar waved his hand off and climbed up onto the wagon seat on her own. He smelled of sweat and leather and the spiced oil in his hair. When she was settled, he flicked the reins. They rode out of the fortress, over the bridge, and along the road to the village. A young girl leading a red steer to the fortress moved off the road to let them pass.

When the girl was behind them, Urban said, “Have you been practicing?”

“I have,” she said.

“Are you wearing a weave?”

“My governor.”

“Give me your hand.”

Sugar placed her hand in his and readied herself for an attack, but none came. He turned her hand over and examined it. “Not a lady’s soft-gloved skin, is it?”

Sugar couldn’t help her station. She was not so rich as to be able to afford servants and pleasant lotions. She did use a little fat now and again to keep her hands from chapping to the point where they cracked and bled, but she knew they were not beautiful.

“You can read a lot about a person from their hands,” he said. “You’ve got a very old scar here. What is that from?”

“A knife.”

“Cooking?”

“I was practicing with my father, trying to disarm him.”

“Oh?” he asked and cocked an eyebrow.

“My Da liked to fight and wrestle. He was teaching me. Said no daughter of his was going to be a helpless thing.”

“And are you helpless?”

“I can hold my own.”

Urban nodded. “We’ll see.” Immediately, he attacked, trying to push through the doors of her soul.

She slammed herself closed, more in panic than anything else.

“Good,” he said. “Open.”

She relaxed and opened the doors of her soul again.

He struck again. Again, she shut him out. He tried three more times, but she blocked his every attempt. The panic was still there, but she also felt a bit of pride.

“You
did
practice,” he said. “And what about your mother’s weave?”

“I believe I found the mouth,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

She prepared to explain, but he struck again, and this time caught her off guard. He pressed past her barrier toward the center of her being. It was suffocating, bewildering. She fought, trying to dislodge him, but she could not shake his presence. Her panic rose until she felt he truly did mean her harm. He held his presence one terrifying moment longer, then retreated.

She slammed her doors shut and wrenched away from him. Lords, she could take a punch, but this was something else—a feeling of total loss of control, as if she were slipping uncontrollably toward a precipice.

She looked at him and wondered if anyone knew what Urban’s true intentions were.

“Keep working,” he said. “There are things in the world of soul that would possess you. Where you’re going, one slip might mean the difference between coming back to your body and never coming back at all.”

She swallowed, but then she reminded herself that Mother had done this. If she had been brave and mastered it, then Sugar could as well.

They rode the wagon into the village. A number of the folk there waved in friendly greeting as they passed by. Sugar returned their greeting.

“You said you found the mouth?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“I’m not surprised. Progress with the lore seems to come in spurts. You’ll work for some time with no noticeable result, and then it’s all epiphanies. Did you feel a heat, a tearing along the bones?”

She nodded.

“Disorientation?”

“Yes.”

“Perfect,” he said. “You’re going to do it again.”

“I almost passed out. Maybe the weave rejected me.”

“No, if it had rejected you, you wouldn’t have been able to suckle it. You almost walked with your soul.”

“What about the pain?”

“The pain is but a moment, and then you are free.”

It sounded ominous to her. “What if I can’t get back into my body?”

“That’s why I wanted you to practice opening and closing.”

There had to be more to it than that. “But what happens if things go wrong?”

He held his hand up. “I’m going to defer to one wiser than I. You can ask him when we get to camp. In the meantime, how good are you at multiplying and diminishing?”

“I’m okay.”

He shook his head. “Weaves of might can become a crutch. You want to get off of them as soon as possible.”

“That’s what River said. She sat with me a number of times, but with so many candidates our sessions were brief.”

“Take off your governor and give me your hand again,” he said.

Sugar was wary of another attack, but she took off her candidate’s weave, and placed her hand in his.

Urban reached out to her soul, just a touch, and connected with her so she could sense him. She’d done this with River. This hand-to-hand practice allowed a more experienced lore user to guide a less experienced one until she could do it on her own.

He multiplied his Fire. She multiplied hers to match. He diminished. She did the same.

“I’ve heard about your father and mother,” he said. “Tell me the full story of these last few months.”

“I’m sure you’ve heard it from Argoth.”

“Not your version. I want to hear what happened to you. I want it from the beginning.”

They followed the road out of the village and into the surrounding fields. Sugar started with the birth of Cotton, her little brother, and Lanky the stork. As she talked, he continued to multiply and diminish. She followed and felt the joy of the Fire grow and decrease, felt the vigor in her limbs multiply and diminish. She told him about the mob, her flight. Urban listened and nodded, making small changes to his Fire. They entered the woods. At one point an enormous flock of birds wheeled over head, landed in a tree, and took flight again. She continued and told him most of the details of the fight in the cave. He listened and prodded her with questions.

When she finished, he said, “Captain Argoth knew my father decades ago. Argoth had a different name then. He was a different man. A frightening man. But my father brought him into the light, made him a tree in the Grove of Hismayas. He was a man of many secrets then. It appears some things haven’t changed.”

Sugar said nothing.

“Have you thought about what you and your brother will do should this dream of Shim’s fall apart?”

“You’re not committed to Shim’s cause?”

“I’m committed to certain principles, and to my crew, of which you are now a part.”

“Sounds a bit fair-weathered to me.”

He smiled. “I stick with mine through thick and thin. On the other hand, I’m not a big fan of committing myself to another man’s suicide.”

“You think that’s what this is?”

“Not at this moment. Right now it’s a wondrous opportunity. But opportunities don’t last forever. Conditions change. New facts come to light. I suggest you think about that. You have a brother to take care of.”

“I’m committed to my friends,” she said.

“And have you thought of how you might help save them if Shim fails?”

“I assume Argoth and the Creek Widow have such things planned.”

“Have they shared them with you?”

“No,” she said defensively.

“Then don’t assume. I owe your mother. I aim to see you’re taken care of. Shim’s dream carries a great amount of risk. When was the last time someone tried to build an army of sleth and take on a glorydom? I’m not sure even Hismayas attempted this, and you know what happened to him. It never hurts to run scenarios of potential risks through your mind. So, have you made contingency plans?”

She ignored the question. He had just said he owed her mother. What did that mean?

He waited for an answer.

“Look, I’m not going to abandon my duty when things get rough.”

“I’m not asking you to. I’m just suggesting you look down the path a bit. Just as your mother would have.”

“You knew my mother?”

He smiled. “We’re almost to the camp,” he said. “We already passed through the first picket.”

Sugar looked around. “I didn’t see anyone.”

“You’re not meant to.”

“What about my mother?”

“All in good time,” he said.

Another fifty yards and they turned down a lane that was starting to grow weeds at the edges. Through the trees an old woodman’s shack came into view. Half of it was covered in vines. Smoke trailed up out of a stone chimney.

“Not much to look at,” she said. “And where are all your men?”

“A big show of force would only attract attention,” said Urban. “But our sentries are posted.”

As they came closer, she saw Soddam, the big man that had first scared her at Redthorn, sitting on a stump, skinning an apple with his big knife. When they entered the yard, Soddam plopped a slice of apple in his mouth and stood. “I don’t think I’ve seen a more pretty ferret,” he said. “Welcome.”

The slit pupils of his orangish-brown eyes still unnerved her.“I’m not the ferret yet.”

“You will be,” he said. “Old Withers is waiting expectantly.”

She caught a whiff of the appetizing odor of roasting meat.

Urban pulled the horse to a stop, then set the wagon brake. They clambered down, and then Urban led her over to the door of the shack and opened it. The delicious aroma of cooking washed over her—meat, sweet onions, and some type of bread.

Inside the shack stood a table, some bunks, a hearth with a small fire. A thin old man squatted next to the fire stirring a pot. Other pots sat next to him in the coals.

“Withers,” said Urban. “This is Sugar, Purity’s girl.”

“Keep that door open,” the man said without turning. “Any visitors need to find an easy way out.” He lit a braid of godsweed in the coals. When it caught fire, he waved the braid back and forth, spreading the sweet smoke into the corners of the room and up into the rafters, working from the back of the shack to the door. When he finished, he whistled for Soddam, handed him the braid, and instructed him to smoke the area around the house. At last he turned to Sugar. His face was wrinkled and brown. His mouth was missing a number of teeth. “I’ve been waiting for you,” he said kindly enough. Then he took a step back and looked her up and down. “Hum,” he grunted and took her wrist. With his other hand he pinched the skin along her arm, gauging its thickness. When he’d gauged the back of her arm, he shook his head. “Not good.” He pinched her waist in three spots. “Not good at all.”

“She’s ready to learn,” said Urban.

Withers poked her in the ribs. “Starve her, I told the Captain, and then all we’ll have is bones. If you’re going to walk, you need some flesh to come back to. I’m not going to teach you anything until your belly’s full. That’s the first order of business. Everything’s easier when you eat, especially walking.” He motioned at the table. “Sit.”

Sugar sat at the wooden table. Withers turned back to his pots. In moments he produced a bowl full of some kind of fowl, which he’d been cooking with vegetables and raisins. In another pot were biscuits covered with melted cheese. In yet another pot were apples cooked down to butter.

“Here,” he said and scooped some of the meat and raisins onto a wooden plate. “We found this fat fellow this morning strolling about the yard.” On another table lay some pheasant tail feathers. She assumed those had, as recently as this morning, belonged to the fat fellow she was about to eat.

“And you’ll have some of this,” he said and added some biscuits. He laid the plate in front of her with a spoon. “Go on,” he said rubbing his knuckles.

Sugar picked up the spoon and took a bite of the pheasant. It was pure delight in her mouth.

“Ha,” Withers said and pointed at her. “Like a starved dog. Try the bread now. Go on.”

She took a bite of the biscuit. It was flaky and redolent with butter. “This is very good,” she said.

“No speaking,” he said. “Chew. That is all.”

And so she ate and chewed, him watching her, and ate some more until she was almost stuffed. Then he brought out one more pot full of walnuts candied with butter and honey.

“I can’t,” she said.

He tipped his head and looked out from underneath his eyebrows as if he didn’t believe a word of it.

“No, truly,” she said.

“You’ll take them with you for later,” he said and put the pot back. He sat down next to her and began to examine the working of her joints, clucking like a hen, asking her about twinges. He made her open her mouth so he could inspect her teeth. He opened a shutter to get a bit better light and checked her eyes. He smelled her hair and felt the quality of her muscle. He poked and prodded until she felt like a goose on the table.

At last he finished. “So let us see the weave,” he said.

She produced her mother’s necklace. He held out the end of a wooden spoon, and she looped the necklace over it. Then he held it up to the light and began fingering the segments and making small sounds of approval. He fingered the horse and a moment later snatched his hand back.

He said, “The soul and flesh are bound together, but the proper weave can loosen that binding without breaking it altogether and killing the wearer.” He held the necklace out to her, and she removed it from the spoon.

She said, “Urban says you were a Walker.”

“Oh, my dear. My sweet biscuit. I walked glorious paths.”

“He doesn’t walk anymore,” said Urban. “Not for a long time. The ability was seared out of him.”

“Seared?”

Withers sucked in through the teeth he had. “They were all dying anyway. I just made sure it didn’t go to waste. No harm done. And then I’d use it on my pigs. I raised the most succulent pigs in the territory. I put it to good use.”

“Many years ago he cooked for a warlord,” said Urban. “After the battles, he’d go out among the fallen.”

“Only the enemy fallen,” Withers corrected.