Dark Magic (28 page)

They met with Bracht’s acceptance and once the beasts were unsaddled and the children paid to rub them down and see to their feeding, the two men followed Katya into the caravanserai.

The larger part of the lower floor was occupied by a single chamber, divided into an area at the rear set aside for eating and the rest devoted to casual drinking. A generous fire blazed in a spacious hearth, its heat trapped by the shuttered windows, and several patrons were already settled to their dinners, others seated in the drinking area with mugs of foaming ale or flasks of wine before them. They looked up as Calandryll and Bracht came in, but none paid them more attention than newcomers might usually find, subjecting them to a cursory examination before returning to their own conversations. Of Katya there was no sign and they approached the counter, where a plump, red-cheeked man with pale, fine hair arranged in thin strands across his balding pate greeted them cheerfully. At his back, pinned to a shelf holding earthenware mugs, was notice of Calandryll’s proscription; he started at the sight, drawing his cloak
tighter about him to conceal the hand that moved to his sword’s hilt.

Bracht envinced no such hesitation, but called for ale like any thirsty wayfarer and inquired as to Katya’s whereabouts.

“Gone to bathe,” the innkeeper replied as he tapped a barrel. “She said you’d be wanting two rooms.”

“Aye,” said Bracht, “and baths ourselves.”

“Soon as the lady’s done.” The man set mugs before them, studying their faces with unconcealed interest. “Kerns, are you? Long way from home, eh? Freeswords?”

Bracht nodded; Calandryll found it difficult to take his eyes from the poster. The balding man saw his interest and grinned. “Ten thousand varre, eh? Handsome reward that. Wonder what he did?” He turned as he spoke, regarding the likeness, then moved to face them again. “The Domm Tobias stayed here, you know. Him and his lady. On a progress, they were, and he had that put up.”

There was no suspicion in either his gaze or his voice and Calandryll felt himself begin to relax. At his elbow Bracht drank with relish and stared openly at the bill.

“Aye, it’s a handsome reward,” he murmured, wiping a mustache of foam from his mouth. “I’d not object to earning that, did I encounter him.”

The innkeeper rested the expanse of his stomach against the counter and shrugged. “Rumor is he’s fled to Kandahar,” he declared as if imparting some secret knowledge. “They say he poisoned his father and tried to murder his brother—the Domm, now, who stayed here—but that failed and he looked for refuge with the Kand rebels. You heard about that?”

Bracht nodded again, solemnly.

“So where are you bound?” asked the garrulous in-keeper. “Back home, eh? I’m called Portus, by the way.”

“Bracht,” said the Kern, and indicated Calandryll with his mug. “This is Calan.”

“Welcome to you both,” said Portus. “Escorting the lady, are you? Not that she need fear many, from the way she bears herself.”

“No,” Bracht agreed.

Portus seemed more interested in his own questions than their answers, the flow of his conversation continuing unabated as he turned to draw himself a mug.

“So you’re northbound, eh? We don’t see too many Kerns around here. Some freeswords like you every once in a while; maybe the odd horse trader looking to cut himself a better deal than he’d find in Gannshold.”

Confident now that his disguise was effective, Calandryll chose to take a part. Thickening his voice in what he trusted was a fair approximation of Bracht’s accent, he said, “We heard of one but recently. A man named Daven Tyras?”

“Was a half-blood passed through some while past,” Portus returned. “A closemouthed man, he was; but that, as I recall, was the name he gave.”

“A man with sandy hair and a broken nose?” Calandryll asked.

“That’s him,” Portus agreed. “A friend of yours, is he?”

“We know him,” Calandryll said, grateful for this confirmation: for all they were some weeks behind Rhythamun, at least they were on the right trail. “He trades in horses, out of Gannshold.”

“Never said where he was going.” Portus shrugged. “In fact, he hardly said a thing. A surly fellow, I thought. No offense to Kerns.”

“There’s none taken,” said Bracht.

Portus nodded and, seeing their mugs emptied, scooped them up and filled them unasked. “Didn’t drink much either”—he beamed—“and that, from what I’ve seen, is unlike a Kern. Fond of your ale, you fellows.”

“Of good ale,” Bracht said.

“You’ll taste none better.” The fat man tilted his own mug, setting it down with an enthusiastic smacking of his plump lips. “The Alda valley may be famous for its wine, but I reckon we brew some of the best ale, too.”

He appeared set to engage them in idle talk all evening and Calandryll, feeling his legs and shoulders stiffening, began to wonder how they might escape his loquacity. He was saved from excuses by the woman who stuck her head past a half-opened door to call that the lady was done with her bathing and anyone else requiring a tub should speak up now.

“These two,” Portus shouted back. Then softer to them, “You’ll not object to sharing a tub, I trust?”

“So long as it’s hot,” Calandryll declared.

“You could boil lobsters in it,” said the innkeeper. “Talking of which, shall I have the kitchen prepare your dinner? We keep a fixed menu here, but I can promise you it’s good.”

“As soon we’re done,” Bracht agreed.

“A boy’ll bring you to your room after,” Portus promised. “Key’s in the door and dinner’ll be waiting.”

The Kern nodded his thanks and downed his ale. Calandryll followed suit, a trifle slower, and they hefted their saddlebags and walked toward the inner door. There, a corridor revealed a narrow staircase leading to the upper level and the kitchen, from which came appetizing smells to confirm Portus’s boast, the woman who had called beckoning them to an open doorway that emitted clouds of steam. “It’s all set out,” she said, lifting her apron to wipe at her sweat-beaded face. “Shout when you’re ready.”

They went into the bathroom, finding a massive wooden tub awash with near-boiling water, coarse soap and rough towels laid out on a table beside two buckets of cold water. Without further ado they stripped and lowered themselves into the bath. Both set their sheated swords upright against the tub.

“So we follow his trail,” Bracht murmured, scrubbing vigorously at his scarred chest.

“But weeks behind.” Calandryll felt the aches begin to ease from his body, sighing contentedly. For all the urgency of their quest, at this moment he wanted nothing more than to lay back in the hot water, letting it work its simple magic.

“He makes no effort to conceal himself,” Bracht said, “and mayhap travels in no great haste—if we ride hard . . .”

“Aye.” Calandryll sank deeper, the water lapping against his chin, the heat rendering him drowsy. To think of Rhythamun was difficult as he relaxed; to contemplate what they should do if—when!—they caught up harder: he forced his drooping eyes open, his mind to concentrate. “But what then?”

“Then”—Bracht shrugged, grinning fiercely— “what happens happens. Some godly intervention, perhaps.”

Calandryll grunted vague agreement, less confident than the Kern. It was Bracht’s way to take each day as it came, his still to worry, to ponder the outcome of events. He was not, despite the intervention of Burash in Kandahar, certain that they could rely on the Younger Gods coming to their aid; yet without such assistance he could envisage no means by which they might overcome the warlock. They, after all, were no more than human, frail as all mortal flesh, while Rhythamun had at his command all the powers of the occult. Blades were of no account against that strength, yet steel and cunning were all they had, save hope. Perhaps, he mused, it was better to adopt Bracht’s pragmatism; and hope the gods would play a part.

He pushed doubt away and himself upright, applying soap with a determination that sent water slopping over the edges of the tub.

When they both were done, doused with cold water and toweled dry, dressed again, they quit the bath chamber and called for someone to bring them to
their room. One of the stable boys came running, leading them up the stairs to a chamber overlooking the courtyard, two beds against the wall, the bulk of a chimney between imparting a cozy warmth.

“The lady awaits you downstairs,” the child advised them, staring with wide-eyed curiosity. “Are you really Kern frees words?”

“Aye,” Bracht replied, and to Calandryll when the gaping child was gone, “It seems my guising is effective.”

“Indeed.” Calandryll adjusted his scabbard, grinning ruefully. “While I remain on foot. Ahorse my body must yet remember how hard a saddle is.”

Bracht chuckled. “A few days on the road will bring that back.”

“Aye,” Calandryll groaned, “a few hard days.”

Still chuckling, Bracht motioned him through the door and they went down to the common room to find Katya.

She sat alone to the rear of the dining area, a mug of ale untouched before her, her face somber, ignoring the curious stares that came her way. The smile she offered them was brief and her grey eyes were cloudy with some indefinable emotion. They took places to either side as Portus bustled up with brimming mugs in hand, announcing the imminent arrival of their dinner.

“The grey suits you?” asked Bracht.

“You chose well.”

Her voice was dull and Calandryll saw a flicker of concern spark in Bracht’s eyes. He sought to divert her by telling her what they had learned of Daven Tyras, but still she remained introverted, only nodding in response, unlike her usual self.

“Do we set a hard pace, and he not hurry,” Bracht said with a sidelong glance at Calandryll, “we may yet overtake him ere we reach Gannshold.”

“Aye,” was all she said to that and Calandryll saw Bracht frown, his own face registering doubt at this uncharacteristic dullness.

Soup was set before them then and they ate awhile in a silence broken at last by the woman.

“I had not thought it would feel like this,” she murmured, pushing her bowl away still half full. “I feel . . . alone,”

“We are with you,” Bracht said gently.

“Aye.” She favored them each with a wan smile. “And I thank you for that, but still . . .” She shook her head, eyes lowered as the bowls were removed and platters of roasted meat set in their places. “Forgive me.”

It came as a shock to Calandryll to see tears glisten in the corners of her eyes, moist announcement of a vulnerability he had not seen in her before, nor suspected. He saw Bracht take her hand, holding it gently, his voice low as he bent toward her. What the Kern said he could not hear, but Katya brightened a little and ducked her head once, straightening on the bench and flexing her shoulders as if she sought to shuck off the melancholy that gripped her.

“I have never before been apart from my folk,” she said quietly. “I had not thought we should be separated; nor, when we parted, that I should feel it so. It will pass, I suppose.”

This was said fiercer, as if she endeavored to convince herself, and Bracht said earnestly, “It will, my word on it.”

“And your word is good,” she said as softly as before.

Bracht nodded. “I know what it is to leave your homeland and your people, to go among strangers,” he said. “Calandryll, too. Three wanderers, we are, but while we are together we are, in a fashion, among our own folk.”

Katya smiled again at that reassurance, but there remained about her still that air of loss, as if she wanted to accept his words but could not, entirely, believe in them.

“Time heals the wounds of parting,” Calandryll offered, and would have said more had Portus not joined
them, settling himself across the table with genial in-sensitivity. He inquired how they liked their dinner, blithely ignorant of Bracht’s hostile glare, remarking on Katya’s lack of appetite as if he feared his cuisine failed to meet with their approval.

“The meal is excellent,” Calandryll said tactfully, “but we rode hard today and the lady is tired.”

Katya flashed him a grateful glance for that and soon after excused herself.

“We leave at first light,” Bracht called as she moved away, answered with a wave.

Portus watched her depart, his eyes admiring. “A handsome woman,” he murmured. “Not like any Kern I’ve seen.”

Both men ignored the question implicit in his voice, though he seemed neither to notice or take offense, but promptly engaged them in another somewhat one-sided conversation. They ate as he talked, content to listen and pick up what news they might, learning that Tobias had passed a night in the caravanserai several weeks ago; that the word out of Kandahar was of a land divided, Sathoman ek’Hennem holding all the eastern coast as the Tyrant massed an army to confront the rebels; that all trade with the war-torn kingdom had ceased. It was mostly gossip and among it all there was little of interest or advantage, save that Daven Tyras rode a piebald horse and traveled alone. They let him prattle on until his attention was diverted by other patrons demanding service and took that opportunity to find their beds.

They were, as Calandryll had anticipated, soft, and he sank rapidly into a dreamless sleep, emerging reluctantly as Bracht shook his shoulder, bidding him rise.

He clambered from the warmth of the bed, shivering as he dressed, remembering to draw his hair back and bind it in the fashion of Cuan na’For. As an afterthought, he checked his pillow, pleased to find no trace of black on the linen: the dye the Kern had used seemed most effective. Then, carrying their cloaks
and saddlebags, they went together to Katya’s chamber. She was clad and seemed anxious to depart, though no more cheerful than the night before. Calandryll thought she likely sought the occupation of travel as a palliative and certainly she ate her breakfast with better appetite, or at least speedily, as though it represented an unwanted delay.

They settled their account, Portus markedly less garrulous in the cold light of morning, and fetched their animals from the stables.

The sun was barely above the horizon, a sullen disc of dull gold that cast unwelcoming light over the frost riming the cobbles, their breath steaming as they cinched harness and swung astride the horses. None others were about so early, save the inn’s folk, and they clattered out onto the road as if they were the only three in all the world. To the north, long banks of livid cloud, lit yellow along their undersides, hung low in the sky, presaging an unseasonal snowfall, as though the elements themselves were disarrayed. The wind was off the sea, tangy with ocean scent, but as they cantered northward it swung around, driving the cloud banks steadily closer. By midmorning snow skirled from a sky gone entirely grey, melting in great droplets on their cloaks and the hides of the sweating horses, layering the countryside with a mantle of white. By noon it was falling harder, gathering on the road so that the packed dirt grew treacherous and they were forced to proceed slower, wary of the horses stumbling. Even so, they held a fast enough pace that by midafternoon they had reached the second caravanserai.