Angus Wells - The God Wars 01 (10 page)

from the palace."

          
 
"The palace!" Lara hooted.
"Listen to him—the palace! He'll tell us he's the bloody Domm next."

           
"Bloody
nobles!" cried an angry voice. "Get him!"

           
"No,
please!"

           
Calandryll thrust out
defensive hands as the table was dragged away. The flagon, the goblet and
Lara's cup tumbled to the floor in a spray of breaking glass. Hands fastened on
his tunic. He heard someone shout, "Watch out! He's got a knife."

 
         
He
had forgotten the dagger and would likely not have used it even had it not been
snatched from the sheath and tossed aside. Fleetingly he thought that Tobias
would have remembered that, and used the weapon, but then a fist hit his cheek
and he thought only of the pain.

           
It got worse as more fists struck
him, filling his belly with a surging nausea that doubled him over, barely
aware of the blows that crashed against his back. He realized that he was on
the floor when sawdust joined the taste of blood in his mouth and a boot
thudded hard into his ribs. He struggled to rise, but was knocked down, drawing
knees to his chest, arms protective about his head. They began to kick him,
warming to their sport, boots landing against his back and thighs and chest.

 
          
Then,
abruptly, it ended and he heard a harsh voice say, "That's enough!"

 
          
"Who
says?" came a snarling answer.

 
          
"I
do."

 
          
Calandryll
lowered his arms, peering from swollen eyes at a pair of well-worn black boots,
cracks like friendly wrinkles striating the leather. He looked up, at leathern
breeks, a wide swordbelt hung with falchion and long dagger, a shirt of soft
leather beneath a tunic of the same material, all black. He could not see the
man's face because he turned as he spoke, eyeing the crowd.

 
          
"You'll
stop us?" There was contempt in the question.

      
     
 
Confidence in the reply: "If I must. He's
had enough. He's learned his lesson."
          
 
"Give him some more," Lara urged.

           
Calandryll saw a tanned hand
descend to the hilt of the falchion, then gasped as steel rustled against
leather. The falchion slid from its scabbard, smooth as a striking serpent,
lamplight glinting briefly on the blade. It flick- I ered out and a man
shouted, sword clattering loud in the sudden silence.

           
"I'd prefer not to kill
you."

 
          
The
voice was accented, not from any Lyssian, the statement flat, as though no
doubt existed that the implicit threat could be made good. Calandryll heard the
thud of a sword rammed home into scabbard.

 
          
"Stand
up."

 
          
He
spat blood and got his hands under him, fingers splayed wide on the dirty
floor. It hurt, but he got to his feet, swaying, moaning as he straightened his
back and pain shot fiery through his side. One eye was closing, the other
blurred as he saw that he was of a height with his savior, that the man's hair
was long and black as his clothes, drawn into a loose queue like a horse's
tail. The eyes that swung momentarily toward him were a startling blue,
surrounded by tiny wrinkles as though accustomed to narrowing against the glare
of the sun, set deep in a face tanned near as dark as his shirt, the nose
flattened where some old blow had broken it, the mouth wide, drawn back from
even teeth.

 
          
"Can
you walk?"

 
          
He
tried a tentative step and nodded, the motion spilling blood from his nose.

 
          
"Then
walk to the door. No one will stop you. Eh?"

 
          
The
grunted question was emphasized by the falchion: Calandryll moved toward the
door.

 
          
His
rescuer paused, studying the crowd, knees slightly bent, his blade extended as
he backed away.

 
          
Thorson
asked, "What about the wine he drank?"

 
          
The
man laughed curtly. "Take his knife in payment, it's a pretty enough
blade. Now leave him be, and don't think to follow us."

 
          
He
moved swiftly to the door, finding Calandryll still there, shouldering tne
younger man roughly through.

 
          
"Quick!"
he urged. "They'll likely find their nerve in a moment and there's more
than even I can handle."

 
          
He
locked a hand on Calandryll's arm and hurried his bloodied charge across the
plaza to the closest alley. Calandryll had no choice but to match his lengthy
stride, despite the agony that lanced his body with each step. The stranger
dragged him along the alley as angry shouts echoed behind, ducking into a
smaller passageway, then turning again, winding a way deeper into the maze of
passages.

 
          
At
last he halted and Calandryll slumped against a wall, panting, clutching at his
aching ribs.

 
          
"It's
unwise to come coinless into the Sailors Gate," his companion advised,
then chuckled, "and none too bright for innocents like you to bring
coin."

 
          
"I'd
have paid tomorrow," Calandryll grunted, probing teeth with tongue.

 
          
"Let
Thorson keep your dagger," said the man. "And learn to use a blade if
you intend to wear one."

 
          
Calandryll
nodded, moaned.

 
          
"I
owe you thanks."

 
          
The
man shrugged: "Accepted. Now—I'd best see you safe home."

 
          
Calandryll
groaned at the thought. Suddenly the notion of returning to the palace, bloody
and disheveled, his dagger lost, was more than he could bear.

 
          
"No,"
he muttered. "I mean—please?—not like this. Tomorrow. I'll return
tomorrow."

 
          
The
man studied him critically, then grinned. "I take it this is no habit of
yours?"

 
          
"No."
Calandryll shook his head, groaning afresh at the pain that buffeted the
interior of his skull. "I've never done this before."

 
          
"Best
not do it again. But you've a point—you look a mess." He paused, chewing
his lower lip, then shrugged again. "Very well, I've a room with space for
another on the floor. Come on."

 
          
He
hauled Calandryll from the wall, supporting the young man as he tottered.
Calandryll felt mightily grateful for the arm that held him upright: he was not
sure he could walk any farther unaided.

 
          
"My
name is Calandryll," he said. "How are you called?"

 
          
"Bracht,"
said the man. "I am called Bracht."

 
         
Sunlight
shone in a dust-filled band from the window set high in the wall, forcing
reluctant consciousness on Calandryll. It illuminated his face, filling his
closed eyes with a fierce red that seemed to bum a way into the nethermost
regions of his skull. He groaned, reaching for the tasseled cord that would
bring a servant, cool water to slake the thirst drying his mouth, some
restorative potion for the pounding that assailed his head. His hand struck
rough plaster and the shock opened his eyes, wincing as the light struck louder
gongs of pain from the templates of his confused mind. Squinting, he saw that
there was no bell cord, only a whitewashed wall, a plain wooden sill beneath
the casement admitting the offensive brilliance. He groaned again, sitting up,
instantly regretting the movement, and rubbed at his temples, struggling
to
pin down memories that danced like fireflies through the tortured convolutions
of his whirling head. He had been in a tavern and there had been a woman, a
fight. He gasped, turning to examine the room. He was not in the palace;
someone had rescued him from a beating. Bracht—yes, that had been his name. A
dark man, dressed all in black; a mercenary. And Bracht had agreed to let him
sleep here because he had been afraid— or ashamed—to return to the palace.

 
          
Where
here
was, he had no idea. It looked to be a room in some cheap inn or
lodging house. There was a bed, neatly made, a single chair, a washstand, a
small cupboard; the floor was uncarpeted, plain boards, scarred and dusty; the
ceiling low, the angles of the obtruding beams suggesting the room was located
high, beneath the roof. He lay on a blanket, another covering him; of Bracht
there was no sign.

 
          
He
shuddered, regretting the excesses of the night; regretting more the
confrontation that must be inevitable on his return, and pushed the blanket
away. He was naked beneath its dun-colored wool and ugly bruises discolored his
ribs and thighs. He looked at the washstand, praying that the ewer held clean,
cool water, and began to rise. It seemed then that daggers drove between his
ribs and the muscles of his legs screamed in agony: he fell back, panting,
twisting awkwardly to avoid the light burning his eyes. Closing them seemed the
wisest course, so he did that, and fell asleep again.

 
          
When
next he woke, the sun had shifted across the sky and the window no longer cast
its radiance on his face, though his head still throbbed and it seemed his body
was wrapped in heated bands that creaked a painful protest at every movement.
His thirst was worse, his tongue furred and swollen in a mouth seemingly filled
with sand. He gritted his teeth, feeling at least one loosened, and rolled onto
his belly. Rising on hands and knees was an effort that brought sweat to his
brow, standing an exercise he doubted he could complete. The muscles of his
belly protested, and when he straightened his back he thought his spine must
break. Bent over, shuffling like an old man, he crabbed a way to the washstand
and grasped the ewer in shaking hands. The water that spilled into the bowl was
tepid, stale, but he drank it as though his life depended on it, then filled
the bowl again and dunked his face.

 
          
Such
rudimentary ablutions went a little way toward clearing his head and he
examined the room again, wondering where his clothes might be. He found them in
the cupboard, folded neatly, though stained with wine and blood. His fingers
told him the gore had likely come from his nose and lips, which felt swollen,
horribly tender, and he shuddered afresh at the notion of presenting himself to
his father in such condition. Sighing, unsure which part of his body felt
worse, he tugged on his soiled clothing and stumbled to the door.

           
It opened on a low-roofed corridor
that appeared to circuit three sides of the building. A narrow staircase
offering a way to the levels below. He descended with both hands on the
banister, each step jarring shafts of agony through body and mind, arriving
finally at a hall running the length of the building. The sound of voices came
from behind a door and he went through into the kitchen, where the smell of
food managed simultaneously to inform him that he was hungry and to nauseate
him. He hung on the door, blinking, and a large woman, her hair bound up in a
turban of dirty white, pointed an accusatory ladle in his direction.

 
          
"Food's
not ready yet."

 
          
"Bracht?"
he succeeded in mumbling.

 
          
"The
swordsman? In the yard, playing with his toys."

 
          
The
ladle swung to indicate the farther end of the hall and Calandryll grunted
thanks and began to shuffle awkwardly toward the open door there.

 
          
Outside
the sun was bright, a fresh onslaught against his aching head, the air sweet
with the promise of spring and stables. He halted, noticing that the hand he
raised to shade his eyes trembled. He leaned wearily against the door frame,
peering across a cobbled yard, horses staring incuriously back at him from the
stalls on the far side; racked barrels standing against one of the high
surrounding walls.

 
          
Bracht
stood alone at the center, the falchion extended, the curved blade glittering.
He was stripped to the waist, sweat lending a sheen to his dark skin. Muscles
rippled on his shoulders and back as he executed a series of delicate, almost
terpsichorean steps, the sword feinting, thrusting, riposting against some
invisible opponent. He spun, sweeping a sideways cut, and saw that he was
observed.

 
          
"Calandryll!"
He seemed unaware that the falchion shifted to a defensive position even as he
called the greeting. "You wake at last."

 
          
Calandryll
nodded and the blade lowered, Bracht grinning as he slid the steel into its
sheath.

 
          
"How
do you feel?"

 
          
"Awful."
He grinned weakly as the man came toward him, seeing as he approached that pale
scars streaked ribs and chest. "My head pounds and my body's in
torment."

           
"You were beaten hard, and I
suspect you've little head for liquor." Bracht smiled as he said it,
crossing to a water butt, splashing his face and torso. "You've nothing
broken, though—you'll mend."

 
          
He
fetched a strip of cloth from beside the butt and toweled himself dry
_;
pulled on his shirt. Calandryll waited, vaguely resenting the absence of any
hint of sympathy. Bracht laced his shirt and came to face the younger man,
studying him critically.

 
          
"A
healer can supply ointments for the bruises and in a week or so you'll look
yourself again."

 
          
Calandryll
felt a rush of alarm. "A week? How do I look now?"

 
          
"As
if some drunken sailors used you for a kick ball. You'll not be kissing any
maidens until your mouth heals, though I doubt they'd want you to with a face
like that."

 
          
"Dera
help me!" Calandryll moaned.

 
          
"It's
not permanent," Bracht chuckled.

 
          
"My
father will flay me," muttered Calandryll. "He'll have me watched!
I'll never be able to leave the palace!"

 
          
"The
palace?" Curiosity flickered in the blue eyes. "You spoke of the
palace last night. Who are you?"

 
          
"Calandryll
den Karynth, son of Bylath," he answered.

 
          
"The
Domm?" Bracht whistled. "That was no boast, then?"

 
          
Calandryll
shook his head; and groaned anew as the movement reminded him that it hurt.
"No," he said, "my father is the Domm of Secca, and I am in
grave trouble."

 
          
"I
sense a story." Bracht jabbed a finger in the direction of the hall.
"And stories are best told on a full stomach and a mug of ale."

 
          
"I
cannot eat," Calandryll complained, "and ale ... ugh."

 
          
Bracht
ignored him, turning him with a hand upon his shoulder to steer him back into
the inn, along the hall to the spacious dining room. "Trust me," he
advised, "I suspect I have more experience of these things than you."

 
          
Calandryll
allowed the man to settle him in a comfortable chair and watched as he crossed
to the serving hatch. This place was more salubrious than the tavern of last
night, the air redolent of pine from the fresh sawdust sprinkled on the floor,
the windows open to admit the faint scent of early honeysuckle from the vines
covering the outer facade, and the scattering of men and women already seated
at the wooden tables ignored him after their initial examination.

 
          
Bracht
returned with two mugs, one surmounted with ale froth, the other containing a
dark liquid.

 
          
"Drink."
He indicated the second mug. "It'll clear your head."

 
          
Calandryll
doubted that, but when he sipped the bitter liquid he was surprised to find it
palatable, the drumming inside his skull abating, the nausea that roiled his
stomach easing. Bracht downed a healthy measure of ale and wiped the white
mustache from his upper lip, lounging back in his chair.

 
          
"So,
tell me."

 
          
It
seemed to Calandryll that he owed the swordsman at least that much, and there
was something about the man that prompted confidence; he began to speak, sipping
the restorative, explaining the events that had rought him to the Sailors Gate.

 
          
Bracht
rose when he was done and fetched two more mugs over, soon followed by bowls of
stew. Calandryll found that appetite overcame revulsion, and that the stew was
good, further settling his stomach.

 
          
"You've
a problem," Bracht remarked equably. "What do you propose to do about
it?"

 
          
"I
don't know." Calandryll's reply was mournful.

           
"Best think of something. If
Namada's lost to you and you've no desire to become a priest, you'd best find
some other course."

           
"If I flee Secca—even if I was
able to get away—Tobias would likely employ Chaipaku to hunt me down."

 
          
Bracht's
response lacked sympathy, as if the notion of such danger was something he took
for granted: "Life is complicated in Lysse, my friend. In Cuan na'For
things are simpler."

 
          
"Cuan
na'For?" Calandryll stared at the man, his own curiosity aroused now,
overwhelming his self-pity. "We name your homeland Kern. You belong to the
horse- clans?"

 
          
"I
did. I was bom Asyth. I left my clan because ..." Bracht's blue eyes
clouded for a moment; a shadow passing over his features. "I had
reasons."

 
          
He
fell silent and Calandryll saw that he did not wish to discuss those reasons.
No matter: it was exciting enough to encounter a Kern,- the land to the north
was largely a mystery, the horseclans' contacts with Lysse confined to the
trading of the animals they herded to market at Gannshold or Forshold. “How
came you here?" he asked.