The Summoner (18 page)

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“Taking on clerics, Maynard?” Vahanian quipped.

“You’ve got to do something about Kaine,” Carina demanded, ignoring Vahanian’s comment.

“What now?”

“He’s got the riggers in an uproar,” Carina continued. “When he isn’t filling them full of ghost stories, he’s got them convinced that we’ll be snowed under on the northern route long before we get to Dhasson. He’s even got half of them believing that there are monsters waiting to eat them once we cross the border.” She sighed in complete exasperation. “Both my assistants quit this morning, just walked away muttering about monsters. They’re not the only ones you’ll lose unless you shut Kaine up.”

“Maybe I can help,” Vahanian interposed, stepping forward.

Carina appraised him coolly. “How?”

Vahanian managed his most charming smile. “I’ve run into Kaine’s type before. I can take him aside, talk some sense into him.”

By the expression on Carina’s face, the healer had no doubt as to just how that conversation would occur. “No thanks. Whatever bones you break, I just have to fix, and I’ve got more than enough work to do already.” She turned pointedly back to Linton. “If there’s something between ignoring Kaine and having him mashed to a pulp, I’d advise you to do it soon.”

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Linton clucked appeasingly. “I’m sure Jonmarc had something less unfriendly in mind,” he said with a warning glance at Vahanian, who shrugged. “I’ll talk with Kaine. It’s just that he’s the only rigger we have.”

Soterius spoke up. “I’m from the mountains,” he said, conveniently omitting just which mountains. “Everybody up there climbs. I don’t know much about tents, but there’s no problem getting to the top of one.”

“You’re just full of surprises,” Vahanian murmured under his breath to Tris.

“That could be useful,” Linton said, brightening. He put an arm around Carina’s shoulders as he walked the healer out. “I promise you,” he said to her, “I’ll take care of it.” With a look that said she was not completely convinced, Carina nodded and went her way. Linton turned back to Tris and his friends. “Go see the caravan for yourself,” Linton offered. “It may not be the biggest in the Winter Kingdoms, but you won’t go away disappointed.” He paused. “And don’t mind Carina.

She’s a spitfire, but she’s the best damn healer I’ve ever had. Lucky to have her. Just happened to be heading north, like you,” he added.

“Where do we go for a tent and some provisions?” Vahanian asked. “There wasn’t time to pack for the road.”

Linton gave him a skeptical look. “That bad, huh? Go see my provisioner. Tell him I sent you to him and he’ll see to your needs.”

“Thanks, Maynard,” Vahanian said as they moved toward the tent flap.

“It’ll be thanks enough if you don’t get me run out of town this time, Jonmarc.”

“I promise,” Vahanian replied with a roguish grin. “Uh huh,” Linton muttered skeptically. “We’ll 149

see.”

They filed out of the tent and into the bright mid‐morning sun. The air was crisp. Heading north would bring winter sooner, Tris thought as they joined the bustle of the caravan. Tris could see the traders setting up dozens of brightly tinted booths with gaily colored flags picturing their wares. The babble of voices carried in the clear air as work teams raised the large tents. Already, the air carried the smell of roasting meat and cooking vegetables, and Tris realized how hungry he was. “We’ve got a lot to do before there’s time for food,” Vahanian said.

On one side of the caravan grounds were the animal handlers, with their collection of exotic beasts. There was a great leathery stawar from the southern jungles, swishing its huge tail in boredom. In their cages, two adult maccons padded from side to side, their exquisite coats rippling and their dark eyes disquietingly intelligent. Beasts of every kind populated the cages, along with hundreds of squawking birds with brilliant plumages. Even at this distance, the smell was overpowering.

To the other side were the traders, setting out their wares: spices from Trevath, beautifully wrought jewelry and gems from the mines of Margolan, exquisite fabrics from the east, trinkets and pottery and hundreds of other desirables from the Winter Kingdoms. One merchant snapped out a small Noorish carpet from its packing, draping it on his booth with others in a casual display of wealth. Even the small rugs were far too expensive for any but the lesser nobility, Tris knew, although many such tapestries hung at Shekerishet. That had never seemed remarkable, but now Tris realized just how fabulously expensive even one such carpet must be.

The glint of gemstones came from another booth as a leathery old man bent over his tables.

Whether they were real or just clever fakes, Tris did not know, but the stones glittered with fire in the bright sun. The next booth offered the buttery leather of the western plains, tanned and worked by skilled artisans. Boots and sheaths, saddles and packs, or well‐worked leather armor all hung from the display. The merchant looked as preserved as his wares, his dark, dry brown skin tight over hawk‐like bones. He regarded the four newcomers for a moment, then looked back to his work.

“Not a bad place if you’ve got money to spend,” Harrtuck observed, sticking his hands in his 150

pockets.

“Well, well, there’s our ‘friend,’” Soterius said, as Tris followed his stare. At a cooking pit not far ahead of them, Carina the healer talked with an

old woman who was turning a spitted roast. “You know, Carina’s not bad looking, if you don’t mind a little temper.”

“She’s a healer, Ban,” Tris replied dryly. “I doubt she’s been waiting for you to liven up her life.”

Soterius grinned. “You never know. Practicing the healing arts could be a lonely business.”

Just then a huge, dark‐haired man came from between the tents and sauntered over to the cooking pit. Although he did not touch Carina, his stance and his proximity made it clear that they were a pair. He stood taller than Vahanian and was twice his bulk, with large hands and thick arms. A cloud of wild, dark curls framed his face, shadowing green eyes. He looked as if he could raise one of the largest caravan tents by himself, Tris thought. Carina spoke gently to him, and the giant smiled. There’s something odd about those two, Tris decided. Something that doesn’t fit here any better than we do. His speculations were interrupted as Vahanian called to them to follow.

The afternoon passed quickly setting up tents and booths. Soterius used his climbing skills to lend a hand with the rigging, while Carroway joined up with the bards and minstrels, and was soon laughing and trading stories with the group. Tris stretched and winced at sore muscles.

Lacking Soterius’s climbing expertise or Carroway’s talespinning talents, he joined Vahanian and Harrtuck in setting up camp. It was a vivid revelation that training to be a prince meant no training at all outside the court, and Tris was chagrined at his lack of skill in the simplest tasks.

Harrtuck stuck close to him, whispering instructions and fending off the curious, but Tris intercepted enough questioning glances and condescending instructions from the workmen to have a realistic appreciation of his skills.

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The few muscles that were not already sore from the road would be aching in the morning, Tris thought as he and the others lifted, steadied, pulled and pushed to ready the caravan for the night’s audiences. The other camp workers asked no questions. Harrtuck took to the activity effortlessly, though Vahanian remained watchful. Tris doubted that the fighter ever looked at ease. When the last ropes were tightened and the final stakes driven, Tris straightened painfully.

He wondered just how long it would take to harden to the demands of his new life, and whether he would survive that long.

Harrtuck stopped beside him and grinned. “And you thought supper was free. We’ll loosen you up with some sword practice,” Harrtuck promised, his grin broadening at the look on Tris’s face.

“Best way I know to relax after a long day. Not a bad way to meet some of the other hired swords around here, either,” he added, glancing around them. “I don’t mind the idea of knowing how good the other escorts are before we get into a tricky situation.”

“My thought exactly,” Vahanian said from behind Tris. Tris turned. The fighter’s dark hair was windblown and his sleeves were rolled up for work. Sweat glinted on his brow as he dragged an arm across his forehead. But other than that, Vahanian looked as comfortable as he ever did, Tris thought, relaxing a little. If he felt safe here, it was probably all right, Tris told himself.

Soterius joined them.

“Talk is thick with the ropers,” Soterius confided under his breath. “No one believes the old rigger’s accident was accidental. Watch your back around Kaine. He’s as well liked as a trapped skunk.” He paused. “And one more thing. He went out of his way to try to talk with me. Maybe he’s just nosy. But he tried his best to find out who I was and where I’d been. So, keep your guard up. I’ll bet a purse of gold he’ll try the same with each of you,” Soterius warned.

Vahanian shrugged. “His kind is in every caravan. The less said, the better.”

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“Do you think he’s a spy?” Tris asked.

Harrtuck snorted. “Anything’s possible. Best to keep your head up and your eyes open.”

When the supper fires were lit and dusk was just an hour away, Vahanian led Tris and the others to an open field not far from the edges of the camp. “Let’s start to put a little edge on your swordsmanship,” Vahanian said, unsheathing his sword. Soterius stepped forward, meeting the challenge.

“I think you’re underestimating what Jaquard taught us,” Soterius said, warily advancing.

A faint smile grew at the corners of Vahanian’s mouth. “Not really,” he said, raising his blade and beginning to circle. He thrust forward and Soterius parried, their swords clashing. Soterius wheeled and swung his blade, going high. There was a crash of steel and a blur as Vahanian dove and tumbled and Soterius’s eyes widened as he swung around, looking for his opponent.

Vahanian parried and ducked, dropping below Soterius’s guard and moved in, then Soterius gasped and dropped his weapon, clutching at his shoulder in surprise. Vahanian stepped back and opened the fist of his free hand to reveal a small dagger.

“Your armsmaster taught you the rules,” Vahanian said evenly as Soterius examined his shoulder and found only a scratch, although the cloth of his shirt was cut. “Out here, there aren’t any rules. And the sooner you learn that, the longer you’ll live.”

“You drew blood!” Soterius said in amazement.

Harrtuck made a disparaging noise. “He could’ve had your heart, boy! Takes skill to score so lightly. Jonmarc’s right. Alley skills, not tournament rules, are what keep you alive out here.”

“Up to the challenge?” Vahanian said to Tris with a grin. Tris smiled warily in return and took up 153

a fighting stance. He held few illusions about how the bout would turn out, but he set his jaw and sprang forward with a cry, taking the offensive. He saw a glimmer of surprise in Vahanian’s eyes. Vahanian met Tris’s blade in mid‐swing, deflecting it. Tris thrust forward and Vahanian sidestepped, bringing his own blade around so

quickly that Tris relied more on instinct and peripheral vision than sight to parry the blow. The blades clattered and slid along each other for an instant, and then Tris freed his weapon and pressed forward.

He sensed more than saw Vahanian drop and roll and wheeled to counter. Although the tip of his sword snagged on Vahanian’s sleeve, Tris felt a rush of air behind his right leg and then saw Vahanian spring to his feet, grinning widely, sword lowered.

“Nice job, Tris!” Soterius cheered.

Harrtuck guffawed. Tris lowered his sword and looked at Vahanian, not attempting to hide his chagrin. “I think you’d have hamstrung me if you’d made that blade connect, wouldn’t you?” Tris asked.

Vahanian jabbed the point of his sword into the soft ground and rested both hands on the pommel. He wasn’t even breathing hard, Tris noted sourly. “Right you are,” the mercenary replied.

“And it’s a good move if you’re fast enough, because you’re assured they won’t be coming after you.”

“That’s cheating,” Soterius replied with a knowing grin.

Vahanian shrugged. “When would you rather learn moves like these, now—or when some son of a whore clips you in a fight?”

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Soterius raised a hand in appeasement. “No contest from me on that one, Jonmarc,” he conceded. “I’ve spent enough time around the barracks to be a little dubious about chivalry and honor.”

Vahanian raised an eyebrow. “Chivalry, yes. Honor is another thing entirely.”

“That’s not a beginner’s move,” a rough voice said. They looked up to see the burly giant who had been with Carina.

“I’m not a beginner,” Vahanian replied neutrally. Tris noted that the fighter neither raised nor sheathed his sword, and he guessed that the mercenary sensed no threat.

“Obviously,” the large man answered. His unruly dark hair sat like a storm cloud around his face, and his skin was bronzed from a season out of doors. He was dressed in a simple tunic and pants, but the sword belt that hung from his ample waist was finely worked, and if the blade in the scabbard lived up to its pommel, it was well crafted, a working piece and not for show.

There’s more here than meets the eye, Tris thought.

“I’m Cam,” the dark‐haired fighter introduced himself, directing his comments to Vahanian but taking in the rest of them with a sweep of his glance. “I watched you practice. I’d like to join you if I could, for a few rounds.”

“Sure,” Vahanian agreed amiably. Maybe with luck, Tris thought, the big man would be a good source of information. At the least they should be able to learn something more about the other guards who attached themselves to the caravan.

Cam was surprisingly agile for his size, Tris found after a round with the giant, and good with his 155

sword, too. Although seeing the blade in action gave little opportunity to appreciate the artistry of its forging, Tris thought he glimpsed runes etched in the side of the blade, and a complex and foreign inscription on the guard. An unusual weapon for a hired fighter. He watched from a distance as Cam sparred with Harrtuck. Either the weapon was stolen or, like themselves, there was a story unwilling to be told.