The Summoner (17 page)

“Although, in this case, Harrtuck is right.”

“Then you’ll do it?”

Vahanian laughed harshly. “This isn’t some high‐priced salle and I’m not your fencing instructor.

If I weren’t this good, I’d have been dead a long time ago. I learned what I know one fight at a time. I can’t teach that, and you can’t learn it any other way.”

“I want to kill the man who killed my family,” Tris said, surprised how flat the words sounded 137

when he actually brought himself to say them.

“And that will bring them back, right? Forget it. Nothing brings them back. Forget it and move on.” “I can’t bring them back, but I can stop Jared, make him pay for what he’s done.”

“All by yourself,” Vahanian mocked. “Kill the beast, save the princess, be a real hero.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“I’ve known a lot of heroes,” Vahanian returned. “Buried them myself.”

“I’d like a fighting chance. If you’re so good, you could give me that.”

“I don’t give anything,” Vahanian replied, turning away. “I’m paid. Well.”

“Then I’ll pay you. Double.”

“Double?”

“Yeah, double. As soon as we get to Dhasson.”

“Dhasson’s a long way away,” Vahanian replied skeptically. “You could be dead by then.”

“So could you. Guess we’ll both have to take our chances.”

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Vahanian smiled coldly. “Then you have a teacher. Be ready at dawn. Miss one day and the deal’s off.”

Tris nodded, feeling his stomach tighten.

“Good enough.”

“Now let me get some sleep, will you?” Vahanian grumbled, heading toward the bed of pine branches he had fashioned earlier. “I’ve had enough for one day.”

Tris watched him go, then drew a deep breath and headed out on his own patrol. He had the uneasy sensation that things were starting to come together, like being swept up in a swift current. Oh Kait, he thought. I’m sorry I let you down. He reached out in his mind in the darkness and felt a tingle of her familiar spirit, far away. Kait’s spirit blurred, as if something powerful were holding it back. He felt a glimmer of her presence, and sensed her terror. The image was gone as quickly as it came, like a heavy door sealing out the light. Tris opened his eyes, shaking at the contact.

Something imprisoned Kait’s spirit, something strong enough to keep her from coming at his summons, evil enough to frighten even the dead. The image of the glowing orb in Arontala’s chambers flashed into his mind. The only way to free Kait’s spirit would be to find the Soulcatcher and destroy the Obsidian King’s soul. And the only way to do that lay in destroying Arontala.

At dawn, Tris nudged Vahanian with his boot.

“Go away,” Vahanian grumbled, rolling over.

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Tris nudged again, and Vahanian opened one eye and groaned. “It’s dawn,” Tris said, taking perverse delight in the mercenary’s reaction. “Let’s go.”

With a curse, Vahanian grimaced and sat up. “All right, all right,” he muttered. “There’s a clearing over there,” he said, pointing. “Let’s go.”

Tris followed him to the clearing, his hand already on his sword. When they reached the open space, Vahanian stopped, and folded his arms across his chest. “Draw your sword,” the mercenary said, all traces of sleep gone. “Let me see your stance and grip.”

Tris complied, and Vahanian circled him, appraising. “Not bad,” the fighter said after a moment.

“At least you’ve had some training.”

“I need to know more than what they teach at the salle.”

“Well, if you’ve figured that out, you’re smarter by half than most of the aristocrats I’ve met,”

Vahanian muttered from behind him.

Tris had only the briefest warning, a rush of a sword slicing through the air. His reaction was more instinct than cunning as he wheeled, deflecting the blade at the last second, barely averting a nasty gash. The intensity of Vahanian’s attack made Tris wonder if the mercenary truly meant to harm him, as Tris parried blow after blow. But the determination in Vahanian’s eyes told Tris that the lessons had begun.

At the first clash of steel, a cry went up from the camp. Before Tris and Jonmarc had traded half a dozen blows, the others joined them at a run. While Vahanian’s advance absorbed Tris’s complete attention, out of the corner of his eye, he noted that Soterius’s sword was at the ready, suspecting the worst.

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“Just an early lesson,” Vahanian called to them, and Tris realized as he wheeled to parry that Vahanian was not even out of breath. On the other hand, Tris thought ruefully, it was taking his complete concentration to avoid getting hurt.

Vahanian’s sword whistled past Tris’s ear. Tris felt his heart pounding as he parried, knocking the blade away. If I Jive through my first lesson, I might learn something, Tris thought, clearing sweat‐soaked hair from his eyes.

Instinct warned Tris to duck. He swung his sword upward to clash his blade against Vahanian’s, deflecting but not stopping the point of his weapon. Tris cried out as the blade gashed his arm.

“Enough!” Vahanian shouted, lowering his sword. Breathing hard, Tris lowered his weapon, awaiting a trick. But Vahanian sheathed his sword and approached, frowning in real concern as Tris’s hand went to his injured shoulder.

“Let me see,” the fighter commanded, and Tris removed his hand, sticky with blood. “Not too bad,” Vahanian pronounced, examining the wound. “Wash it out with some of Harrtuck’s herb tea and bind it up. It’ll be gone in a few days.”

“You’re good,” Tris panted, cursing himself for being out of breath. Vahanian regarded him with amusement.

“Yeah. I’ve had to be,” Vahanian replied, standing back. “Whoever trained you did well on the basics,” he added. “But he played by the rules. Rule one out here is that there are no rules.”

“I noticed,” Tris answered ruefully, his hand covering his injured shoulder once more. Though the wound was not deep and would not impair his ability to fight, Jaquard, the palace armsmaster, would never have intentionally inflicted such an injury. Vahanian’s would be a 141

rougher school.

“You got one good defense in, right at the end,” Vahanian continued. “Just before you lost your focus. Do it again next time.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

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The caravan was ahead of the tavern’s report, and they caught up with it in less than a day. Tris and the others dismounted and led their horses into the bustle of the fair. Caravans were popular because they brought both entertainment and trade. Far from the cities, the caravans carried gossip about the court and fashion the rural women could discuss if not mimic.

This caravan came up from Trevath in the south. As Tris and the others made their way through the crowd looking for Maynard Linton, Tris wondered at the number of people involved in setting up the fair and moving the goods and animals. He had attended many fairs in Margolan, but always long after they were set up, never amid the bustle of the workers and entertainers behind the scenes.

“Some setup, huh?” Harrtuck elbowed him, guessing his thoughts.

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“A different view of things,” Tris admitted. “Amazing that everyone knows where to go.”

“Comes with practice,” Harrtuck shrugged. “I spent a while with a caravan out west a few years back. If there’s not much trouble about it’s a decent enough living, although the more peaceful it is, the more boring for types like us.”

Tris smiled at the swordsman’s casual acceptance. As if he knew what Tris was thinking, Harrtuck grinned. “Oh, Vahanian will toughen you up, never fear,” Harrtuck assured him with a laugh.

“We’ll make sure you earn your keep.” He paused. “Wait here,” he said to Tris and the others.

“I’m going to check some things out while Vahanian’s making our introductions. Stay out of trouble.”

“Do you think we’re in danger here?” Carroway whispered.

“Question is,” Soterius snorted, “can we possibly be in more danger?”

“Come on,” Vahanian called to them from near a large, weathered tent. “And be quick about it. I want you to meet the caravan master.” Before Vahanian could reach to draw back the tent flap, angry voices carried on the crisp air.

“Kaine, I’ve told you before,” an older man argued. “We are expected in Dhasson. If I let every rumor steer this caravan, we’d have never left our southern base.”

“How can you pay no mind?” an angry voice countered. “Traveler after traveler from the north tells of magicked beasts in Dhasson, yet you lead this caravan like you’re going to a summer picnic!”

“Foolish tales don’t pay for our food and horses,” the first voice returned. “We’ve survived war, 143

flood and locusts. We cannot run from shadows.”

“You’ll see these shadows,” the second voice argued. “And you’ll see what they’ll make of your precious caravan if you go to Dhasson!”

Vahanian drew back from the tent flap as angry boot steps neared from inside. A young, red-haired man shouldered his way through them without looking up. Tris and his friends exchanged glances, and watched as the man stomped off angrily into the fray of the caravan.

“You find a little bit of everything, even lunatics, in a caravan,” said Vahanian, dismissing the event breezily. “Follow me.”

Vahanian entered first, followed by Soterius, then Tris, Carroway and Harrtuck. The inside of the tent was furnished as comfortably as any room at court, Tris noted, although all of the furnishings and decorations were easily transportable. By the look of the rugs on the ground and the tapestries that hung from the tent’s sides, this caravan did a profitable business. “Jonmarc, this is a surprise,” greeted a booming voice. A short, round man with a coppery tan rose from behind a portable counting table and bustled over to meet them, grinning broadly. He clasped Vahanian’s hand in a firm handshake and slapped the mercenary on the shoulder, although Vahanian stood a head taller.

“Hello, Maynard,” Vahanian returned. “How’s business?”

“Adequate,” the fat trader returned, moving with nervous energy. “The south was good to us.

Took in some spices and silks that will trade well north. Been a while since they had a caravan through, so they were hungry for entertainment, too,” he added with a grin.

Vahanian chuckled. “I’m sure your people kept them well supplied.”

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“Nothing but the best,” Linton boasted. He turned his attention to Tris and the others. “But you’ve never been the caravan type, Jonmarc.”

“We’re looking to sign on, at least until you reach Dhasson.”

Linton’s eyes narrowed as he appraised the rest of the group, stopped at Tris, then looked back skeptically at the fighter. “I don’t suppose you’d tell me why?”

Vahanian shrugged. “Things change. Now it’s a good time to head north.”

“So you want somewhere to hide?”

Vahanian smiled. “Uh huh.”

“Who’s looking for you?”

“No one important. Jared of Margolan.”

Linton stepped forward, stopping in front of Tris. “These three look too saddle sore to be real hired swords,” the caravan master said.

Vahanian raised an eyebrow, waiting for the rest of Linton’s postulation.

“Their hands aren’t rough enough to have done much real work.”

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Beside him, Tris could feel Soterius start to bristle. Carroway looked tense, his gaze flickering around the room. Harrtuck seemed unruffled. Tris began to wonder if Vahanian’s idea was a good one. If we stand out so obviously…

“Let’s just say one goal is to remedy both those problems as quickly as possible,” Vahanian said blandly. “Calluses come fast on the road. You’ll get your money’s worth out of them setting up camp, even if we don’t see any bandits.”

Linton looked at Vahanian once more, as if weighing the danger against their friendship. Then, with a shrug, the trader broke into a broad smile. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you’d like, Jonmarc,” Linton offered, heading back to his counting table. “If word from the road is true, a few more hired swords—even marginal ones— may be very welcome.”

Vahanian crossed his arms. “What did you hear, Maynard?”

The fat caravan master shrugged. “Wild stories that get bigger with each retelling,” he replied.

“I’ve heard that some of the boarder clans may be restless, out on Dhasson’s outer fringes. And if that’s true,” he said, grinning, “then the good people of Dhasson may need some entertainment to ease their minds.”

“Is that all they’re saying?”

Linton frowned and looked down. “No, it’s not,” he said finally. “There’s talk of dark magic.

Monsters. You know the country folk, Jonmarc,” Linton said. “They blame magic for a cloudy day.”

Vahanian smiled. “Or a poor hand of cards,” he agreed. “Me, personally, I blame it for flat ale.”

He paused and cleared his throat. “Maynard, we couldn’t help overhearing your last, um, 146

guest…”

Linton’s face darkened, and he turned away. “Kaine. Devil Bitch take him! Signed on a week ago, and it’s been the longest week I can remember.”

“So get rid of him.”

Linton began to pace. “Goddess knows, I would like to. But he’s the best rigger we have, and my old rigger fell and broke his back. Might be able to sign on another one in Dhasson, but we won’t find one out here,” he said with a sweep of his arm, “in the middle of nowhere.”

Vahanian frowned. “Pretty convenient timing, wouldn’t you say, Maynard?”

The weathered caravan master looked up, and shook his head. “You’ve always been cautious to a fault, Jonmarc and, the Lady and Childe knows, it’s kept you alive. But sometimes, bad luck is just bad luck.”

Just then, the tent flap whisked back. “Maynard, are you here?” A dark‐haired woman strode into the room, stopping toe to toe with the stocky caravan master.

“What can I do for you, Carina?” Linton asked, unperturbed by the woman’s abrupt entrance.

She wore healer’s robes that hung loosely on her thin frame, and was no taller than the squat caravan master. Short, dark hair framed a pretty face with a determined expression. She had the pale skin of the clans near the

Northern Sea. Her green eyes glinted with fire and intelligence, and the set of her jaw made it clear that she would not be ignored. While it was equally clear that Carina had not noticed their presence, Tris could tell that Vahanian certainly noticed hers.