Glimpses (10 page)

The merchant in Straightford had been clever,
too. He must have paid some wandering drysian to charm his purse;
the strings had tightened around Seregil’s wrist the minute he
touched silver. The man had friends on the street, too, who’d been
quick to come to his aid. Seregil had barely avoided another
beating, and escaped by throwing himself off a bridge into the
raging river that swept through the center of the town.

He looked down at the tattered remains of the
purse still clinging around his right wrist. The silken bag had
torn as he fought his way to shore, and what coins it had held were
lost. The charmed purse strings still bit into his flesh, too tight
to pull off, and he had no knife to cut them. If he hadn’t failed
at all Nysander’s lessons, he reflected sourly, he might have had
the wit to break the charm.

Then again, if I’d had any knack for magic, I
wouldn’t be here, alone, barefoot and starving, in the woods at ass
end of nowhere among stupid, ugly, flint-hearted Tírfaie, would
I?

He sat back on his heels and gazed around,
hating this foreign landscape almost more than he hated himself at
the moment. The river, the road, the thick forest on every side, it
wasn’t so different from the lands of his father’s fai’thast, yet
it was.

He could go back to Rhíminee, of course;
never mind all his tearful parting vows. Nysander had wept, too,
when he’d left that last time, and begged him to stay, but Seregil
had earned no place among wizards, only derision for his
bungling.

He probably could have a place at court
again, if he was willing to humble himself; he was still Queen’s
kin, despite the disgrace that dogged him. They’d find him some new
menial office to fill. The debacles of his failed scribeship and
Orëska apprenticeship would fade in time, and rumors about him and
the prince. People wouldn’t always laugh behind their hands when he
passed.

Yes, they will.

The autumn sun was sinking fast now and he
was too exhausted to go any further. And why bother? He’d been
running away for months now, not going toward anything. He couldn’t
recall the last time he’d actually had a destination.

“Piss on that!” he growled aloud. He drank
some water to calm his empty belly, then looked around for shelter.
Nothing in particular presented itself, so he hobbled up the
hillside to a copse and hunkered down against the sunny side of a
fir tree, trying to find a comfortable angle between the roots. The
sun was almost touching the distant mountain tops. The gentle
breeze was going cold and finding the rents in his ragged coat and
breeches. Shivering, he pulled a foot up on his thigh and gingerly
picked at a sharp stone lodged in his heel. The bottoms of his feet
were filthy and covered in small scratches and cuts. As a child he
wandered the forests of Bôkthersa on bare feet well callused and
tough, but those days were long gone.

Better for you to have taken that boatman’s
offer in Isil, the mocking voice in his head went on. At least
you’d be under a roof. He’d probably even have stood you a tavern
meal after, if you’d played him right ...

A wave of despair washed over him. Not for
the first time, he wondered why he hadn’t done as the others had
years ago: filled his pockets with ballast stones and thrown
himself overboard that first day of exile, when his homeland
slipped away under the horizon behind the ship.

The glint of sun on water winked at him
through the trees below. There was nothing to stop him from doing
it now, except that he was too cold, too tired, and too miserable
to muster the energy it would take to walk back down to the bank
and throw himself in.

***

He must have nodded off. Otherwise a Tírfaie
would never have gotten as close as this one had. As it was, he
just had time to throw himself into a nearby clump of caneberry
bushes before the man stepped from the trees less than twenty feet
from where he’d been sitting. Scratched and shaken, Seregil peered
out through the thorny stalks, watching the intruder stroll up the
hill.

The last glow of sunset was at the man’s
back, casting long shadows in front of him. All Seregil could make
out at first was a tall, broad-shouldered figure, with a long
scabbard swinging heavily against its left hip.

The man halted near the tree, then looked
around. “Hullo?” A young, deep voice, colored by an accent Seregil
couldn’t place. “Don’t be scared, girl. I won’t hurt you.”

Girl? Seregil allowed himself a sour smile.
Stupid, blind fool of a Tírfaie, just like all the others. By the
Light, he was sick of the whole lot.

All the same, this one had gotten dangerously
close, and Seregil couldn’t move now without being heard. Looking
quickly around, he found a fist-sized rock in reach and gripped
it.

The fellow turned slightly and the light
struck his face. He was man-grown but still young by Tír reckoning.
His face was strongly boned, and freckled as a trout’s sides.
Coarse auburn hair hung in an unkempt mass over his shoulders. A
sparse, coppery moustache drooped over the corners of his mouth and
his cheeks and chin were thatched with stubble. His battered
corselet and worn boots marked him as a wanderer of some sort, at
best a caravan guard; at worst, a bandit.

Harsh experience had taught Seregil something
of reading faces; this man was not stupid, not at all. All the time
he was gazing about, he seemed to have an ear cocked in Seregil’s
direction. He knows I’m here. Seregil gripped the rock, bracing for
an attack. If he could surprise the man, stun him with a
well-placed blow, then he could escape, perhaps even with the sword
and that bundle the man had over his shoulder. He didn’t look the
sort to travel without food or flints.

But the man just stood there a moment longer,
then shrugged. “Suit yourself, girl.” With that, he dropped his
bundle and set about gathering sticks and tinder for a fire.

Sprawled on the damp ground, Seregil watched
with growing suspicion as the fellow struck a spark with his knife
and a flint and kindled a good blaze under the tree. When it was
burning well, he rummaged in his bundle and brought out a small
iron pot and a few cloth-wrapped parcels. Leaving his supplies by
the fire, he headed down to the river with the pot.

It was tempting to make a dash for the
supplies, but it was obviously a ruse to draw him out. Seregil
stayed where he was, and presently the man came back with his pot
and some green ash sticks he’d cut at the riverbank. He rigged up a
fire hook with some of them and set the pot of water over the
flames. Then he sharpened another stick with his knife, unwrapped
the parcels, and fixed a large chunk of yellow cheese and some
sausages on the stick to toast.

Soon a mouth-watering aroma spread over the
little clearing. Seregil’s stomach, empty these past two days
except for river water and what little he could forage, let out a
long growl.

As if he’d heard, the man called out, “More
than enough for two here, girl. From the glimpse I got of you, I’d
say you could use something solid under your ribs. And a blanket,
too. I won’t ask to share it with you. I swear by the Flame and the
Four.”

Seregil remained where he was, hating the man
even more.

“Come now, I know you’re there. That
raspberry patch won’t make much of a bower for you when the dew
falls.” After a long moment, the fellow let out an exasperated
sigh. “No? Well, I won’t force you out, but I don’t fancy sleeping
with you lurking there like that, so we’re both in for a weary
night.”

Seregil lay still, mouth watering, as the dew
settled through his scant clothing, chilling him from the back as
the damp ground chilled him from the front. The sausages sizzled on
their stick, redolent of rosemary, mutton, and garlic. He hadn’t
smelled anything so good since the market stalls at Cirna. By the
Light, how long ago? Two years? Three? The aroma reminded him
suddenly of Nysander, too. His old master had always had good
sausage like that at breakfast, and toasted cheese. And soft white
bread with honey and jam.

He ached with hunger now, and something else,
too. Something that made his throat tighten and his eyes sting.

It was almost certainly a trick, he thought,
blinking away the smoke that had blurred his vision for a moment.
He flexed the fingers that had gone stiff around the rock. This was
no bandit. This man knew how to wait, how to bait his prey. That
was warning enough.

All the same, he could just as easily have
come after him. The man knew where he was, and assumed he was
dealing with a defenseless girl. Why all the calling and
courting?

Seregil wrestled with his doubts a little
longer, but the smell of hot food weighted the argument against
caution. At last he called out, “What do you want with me?”

His voice came out hoarse as a rook’s; he
hadn’t spoken to anyone in days.

“Nothing,” the man replied, lifting the meat
and cheese from the fire and examining them closely. “This is about
ready.”

Still not looking in Seregil’s direction, he
reached into his bundle again and threw something into the steaming
pot. A moment later Seregil smelled the sharp, rich tang of tea.
Real tea from Zengat by the smell, not the stinking mess of boiled
leaves and roots they brewed up here in the wilderness.

“I’ve an extra mug here somewhere, girl.
You’re welcome to it.”

That decided it. Either this was a civilized
fellow, or he knew enough to steal from such. Seregil stood up
slowly, braced to run if the man proved treacherous after all. “I’m
not a girl,” he croaked.

The man looked over at him and his moustache
twitched in what might have been a grin. “So you’re not. My
apologies, lad. You ran off so fast I didn’t have time to make a
proper study of you. You won’t be needing that, though you’re
welcome to hang onto it if it makes you feel any safer.”

Seregil glanced down and saw that he was
still clutching the rock. No doubt he looked ridiculous to the big
swordsman, but he kept it anyway.

“Come on if you’re hungry,” the man urged.
“I’m not getting up to serve you.”

Seregil pulled himself free of the thorny
canes and limped to the fire, giving the stranger a wide berth and
keeping the fire between them. The man stayed where he was, but
leaned over to hand Seregil the toasting stick.

He took it, and watched warily as the man
found a cup and tossed it over to him. He caught it easily and set
it down beside him.

“Welcome. My name’s Micum,” his host said,
resting his large hands on his knees where Seregil could see them,
clearly a calculated move to show he meant no harm. Seregil ignored
the expectant pause that followed. He gave his name to no Tír.

“I don’t have a knife,” he said at last. In
fact, it was all he could do not to gnaw the meat and cheese
straight off the toasting stick, but that would have been common,
and poor thanks for the hospitality offered.

The stranger drew the knife from his belt and
held it out, handle foremost.

Seregil tensed again. If he reached for it,
distracted with food and one hand busy with the stick, it would be
a simple matter for the other man to grab for his wrist.

He’d hardly finished the thought when Micum
placed the knife on the ground between them and sat back. “You’re a
cautious one, aren’t you? Though from the looks of you, maybe you
have good cause to be.”

It was nearly dark now, but the firelight
shone full on his face and for the first time Seregil was able to
look him in the eye at close range. Light eyes, he had, bright at
the moment with friendly amusement. Seregil snatched up the knife
and cut the purse string from his wrist, then carved himself a
portion.

“You’ll want this, too.” Micum tossed a chunk
of stale brown bread neatly over the fire and into Seregil’s
lap.