This Crooked Way (33 page)

“Voin?”

“Um. Yes. Do you know her work?”

“I've heard of her,” I said, a little imprecisely. I pulled on my gown, the one they had put on me today. “Thanks, Reijka. We owe you, and not just money. I'll—”

“Savage Triumphator, will you slow down a moment?” she wailed, hanging onto my arm as I tried to get out the door.

“I'm not sure how many moments I've got at the moment,” I said.

“You say you owe me, not just in money. Pay me off in time. Just a little of your time, Naeli.”

I was reluctant, but she had my word. “All right.” I shook her hold off but turned back to face her.

She seemed a little unready. “Mother of stones,” she muttered, “why do I always get interested in women like you?”

Women like me.
I goggled. So much for my insight into the minds of others. I'd been sure it was Roble she was after. Thend must have gotten his Sight from my husband's blood, if it's one of those hereditary things.

“If that's what you wanted to tell me,” I said, “I have to tell you—”

“No, no. I just wanted to shock you a bit, I guess. You're always being such a bitch to me. Very unprofessional: I'm sorry. But: look, Naeli. This place isn't safe for you anymore, you or your family. The harthing, or whatever it was. The binding spell. It's not safe.”

“I know.”

“I don't know what's going on—”

“Neither do I. Not really.”

“Sure, Resident Naeli, sure. You were tearing out of here because you had no idea where you were going. No, I'm not asking you to tell me; I imagine you have some sort of reason for not doing that. And Morlock—”

I hadn't decided what to do about Morlock, yet. I shook my head.

“Then what are you going to do about it? No; never mind. You wouldn't tell me anyway. I'm telling you: I'm planning a business venture that will take me out of the city and on tour through the towns of the north for some time. I think you and your family could profit by the change of scenery. You should think about coming along with me. That's all.”

“Hm.” It
was
worth thinking about. But it sort of depended on whether I sided with Morlock or Aurelius, and I wasn't sure what I was going to do about that yet. “Have you talked to the others?”

She threw up her hands. “Of course! But what's the use in that without also talking to you?”

I closed my eyes. I could almost see it. Maybe I had seen it, while in the haze of Aurelius's binding spell.

“You're exaggerating, I think,” I said, opening my eyes. “Roble's his own man, and Bann and Thend are getting there. And Fasra might be as tough as any of them.”

“So I exaggerate. It's one way to tell a kind of truth.”

I didn't really agree with that, but it wasn't worth pursuing just then. “I'll have to think about it.” I could hear other people moving around the house. “And I have to go now.”

“Think,” she said. “Go. I hope you come back next time better off than you came back last time.”

“Me too. I…I still owe you, Reijka.”

“Stop flirting with me,” she snapped, and I turned and left before I could tell if she was joking.

I went down the back stairs and out the back door. Fortunately, my gown had a few stray coins tucked away in pockets. I used them to pay the toll on the Camlann Bridge and to cross Whisper Street so I could get to the Badonhill Hostel. Aurelius and I were going to have a little conversation.

The streets of Aflraun were even busier that day. Whisper Street was packed with those ill-smelling louts doing their shuffling dance; I decided it must be some kind of cult.

There were more duels, too, all over the place: I was splashed with blood three different times by the time I reached my destination. Disgusting. Narkunden might be as dull as dishwater, but at least it was clean dishwater: you could go about your business without swaggering bravoes waving their blood-soaked swords at passersby.

The marketplace outside the Badonhill Hostel was bustling with buyers and sellers, and the tables of the portico were full of people cooling their heels and slurping down Zyrn's special mind-wiping tea, or perhaps brews even more delightful.

One table near the hostel wall was occupied by only one person, an elderly fellow dressed in blue and white, quietly reading a book.

I sat down across from him and said, “I could learn to hate you, old man.”

Aurelius put down the book he was reading—a different one than last time; this was bound in some kind of gray leather—and said, “I know. You wouldn't be the first, believe me. But I had to try it. It was the most efficient way to get what I want, and what I want is fearfully important to my wife's safety.”

“What is it?”

“I want unrestricted access to that crooked house Morlock has built in Narkunden. There are protections placed around it so that only certain people may enter, or allow others to enter.”

“Can't you break through his protections?”

“The path of least resistance is almost always the wisest one, my dear.”

“I never found it so.”

Aurelius spread his hands in a disturbingly familiar gesture. “A philosophical difference. But you should be glad I don't want to put your family on the front lines of a magical war. They tend to take a fearful toll on innocent bystanders.”

“Not that you care.”

“Of course I don't. You see how frank I am with you. In a very few years, as I or Morlock count them, you will all be dead anyway. But I know that
you
care and, as it happens, that gives us a common interest.”

“If I could get my family away—”

“No. I must ask you not to do that. Anything like that would surely give Morlock notice I am coming. I must be allowed to enter the house at a time he does not expect. That means you, your brother, and your children must all be there.”

“So that you can use us as human shields. To limit the severity of Morlock's counterattack.”

“No. I just want access. I would let you and yours flee before I went in to confront Morlock. If I can find some way to assure you of that, I'd like to do so.”

I sort of believed him. It made a certain amount of sense. Whatever sort of force he was planning to bring with him, Roble and my boys could probably make trouble for them. I wouldn't rule Fasra out of any action, either: what she lacks in muscle she makes up for in moxie.

“I'm not agreeing to anything,” I said.

“I don't expect you to.”

“But how will I reach you if I decide to go along with you? Because I'm never setting foot in this hellhole of a city again if I can help it.”

“What? Aflraun?” The old man smiled broadly. “I like it. The place has flavor.”

“So does henbane,” I said. “Don't waste time with me, Aurelius. You either read this possibility in your little map of the future, or you can't do half of what you say.”

His smile became even broader. He drew his map of the future from his heavy cloak and unrolled it. Inside the map was a crooked coin; it looked as if it had been bent somehow. He handed it to me.

“If you decide to help me,” Aurelius said, “break the coin. You can do it with your fingers with a little effort, as long as you do it intentionally; it won't break by accident. When you break it, I will know and I will come to the crooked house so that you can let me in.”

“How long will it take you to get there?” I pocketed the coin.

“As soon as I can,” he said composedly. “It may depend on circumstances. You understand.”

I understood. He probably had it figured to the splintered half-heartbeat, but he wasn't going to tell me. A knowledge-hoarder. Well, I already knew that about him.

“Is your name also Ambrosius?” I asked, trying to knock him off his game a little.

He laughed pleasantly, but after a few moments it became clear that he wasn't going to say anything.

“Is the old woman in the jar your wife?” I asked. “She said she didn't know you. Assuming you are who you say you are.”

“I am,” the old man replied, “but I am more than that. You'll have to get used to this, if we are to have an acceptable alliance, Naeli. I tend to tell the truth, but I will always know more than I say.”

A crooked shadow fell over the table. I looked up to see Morlock standing beside me. “Good day to you both,” he said.

I said a faint hello. Aurelius muttered something, and his fingers twitched toward his open map with the moving multicolored squiggles. Then he froze as Morlock put down on the table a blue glazed jar, much like the one I had seen in his workshop. Morlock unhooked his sword belt (thrown over his shoulder as a baldric) and hung it on the back of a chair. He sat down without waiting for an invitation.

“The Badonhill Hostel,” Morlock said, stretching out his legs comfortably. “I suppose you call yourself Aurelius around here.”

Aurelius had been watching Morlock with his mouth partly open. Now his mouth snapped shut, and I was almost sure his pale cheeks were flushing slightly. “I have a perfect right to that name,” he said after a moment.

Morlock laughed raspingly.

Now I was sure about the blush. Aurelius's jaw clenched twice. Then his face relaxed and he said, “May I offer you something, my boy? A glass of wine, or perhaps something stronger? I taught them how to use a still, here, and they make the most remarkable beverage out of potatoes. I'm sure you'd enjoy it.”

“No, thanks.”

I had no idea what that exchange meant, but Aurelius obviously felt he had scored a point. “If you change your mind,” he said kindly, “let me know. I always keep a little nearby. Very nearby.”

Morlock reached out and tapped the open map. “Teleomancy?” he asked.

“Yes,” Aurelius said curtly.

“It won't work.”

“Won't it? Won't it, indeed? Why not, pray tell? Listen closely, Naeli. We are to be favored with a lecture by the master of all makers. Do try to pay attention.”

“Intentions are not actions. And not all events are intentional acts.”

Aurelius laughed now. His laugh was more musical than Morlock's (everyone's is), but somehow it was more unpleasant. He rolled up his map of the future and said, with a polite smile lighting his face, “Well, I must make the best of what poor talents I have. Corrected, whenever possible, by your enormous wisdom.”

Morlock opened his hands, closed them.

“A daring retort,” Aurelius said to me. “With conversation like that, it's a wonder his wife left him.”

“Hey,” I said, “leave me out of your pissing match.”

Aurelius's features wrinkled more deeply with distaste. “A delightfully urbane image. Yes, Morlock, by all means let us leave Naeli out of our
pissing match.
Was there something else you came here to say? Or was it just to give your aged father a few pointers on teleomancy and other forms of urination?”

Aged father.
That certainly explained a lot.

“My true father has been dead these three hundred years or more,” Morlock said somewhat heatedly.

“Ah, yes,” Aurelius drawled. “Old Father Tyr, gone through the Gate in the West, to sit in judgement with Those-Who-Watch until the end of time. That's the story they tell under Thrymhaiam, isn't it? Trust a dwarf to invent a tedious afterlife. Just
sitting
, you know, and
judging.
What a pity he isn't sitting here now. To judge what became of the man he raised. But his dead hand lives, doesn't it, Morlock—his grip from beyond the grave?” Aurelius gestured at the sheath hanging from the empty chair. “Tyrfing: ‘Tyr's grip.’ That's what the name of your deadly sword means, doesn't it?”

“Maybe I should have called it ‘Merlin's tongue,’” Morlock replied.

“Good God, how unkind,” Aurelius said, now very much at ease. “What would Old Father Tyr say if he heard you talking that way to your
ruthen
father?” He snapped his fingers, and Zyrn appeared from the half-hidden doorway. “Are you sure you won't have something to wet your throat? I can see this is going to be a long conversation.”

Morlock looked at Zyrn's face, which Aurelius (or Merlin?) had yet to do in my presence. Morlock said to his father
(ruthen
father: I think that means natural father, as opposed to
harven
—the foster father who raises you), “The conversation needn't be long. I just came to see that Naeli wasn't poisoned again.”

Aurelius/Merlin shook his head irritably. “We've been over that, and we're friends now—I think I can say that, Naeli?”

“You may,” I said. “I won't.”

“Well,” the old man said, “I myself feel the need of a little something. Zyrn—”

“Zyrn,” Morlock interrupted, “would you be free?”

The waiter's flat pebble-like eyes fixed on Morlock's. “Master?”

“I am not your master,” said the crooked man. “Would you be free?”

The pebble-like eyes flicked from Morlock to Aurelius to Morlock again. “Master. Yes, master.”

Morlock stood and, reaching his fingers into Zyrn's tightly bound hair, ripped something loose. A little blood came with it, and Zyrn fell sobbing to his knees. Morlock dropped the thing in his hand on the ground and crushed it with his heel. Zyrn leaped to his feet and ran away laughing hysterically into the marketplace crowd.

“You insolent little prick,” the old man said, all pretence of civility dropped. He clapped his hands and the table was all of a sudden surrounded by armed men.

“This man offends me,” the old man said. “I'll pay the usual fee.”

“We fight,” said one of the armed men, tapping Morlock on the chest. “Get me? Bring your sword. No need to be splashing your greasy gut-stuff on everyone's table.”

“I am Morlock Ambrosius.”

Five or six of the armed men looked at Morlock, looked at Aurelius, and walked away from the table.

But the one who had challenged Morlock wasn't fazed.

“I figure it is you,” the challenger said. “The old man, he is always complaining about you. You are a bad fellow, I think, very greasy. Besides, I see your painting down to the Mainmarket Justiciar's House. I know it is you. Kreck, you are even uglier in person. I spit on your ugly face. I spit on your ugly mother. She krecks with dogs, I think. Ugly ones, the only ones that will take her. You get me? We fight. My name—”

“I don't care what your name is.”