Bloodsongs (11 page)

 

 

 

Chapter Six

 

Forms of the future, shapes of the past

— the sea reflects the land —

Scattered shards on the leaves of the cards

Made whole by the knowing hand.

Turn, turn, turn them card by card,

All faces to the sun,

And fate be known to us alone

When all are turned and done.

When dreams and hopes are turned to troth —

Reveal them if you dare!

No chance to flee what eyes may see —

Dark angels of the air!

Wands and coins and cups may lie,

But ebon swords beware,

For truth is found when there abound

Dark angels of the air!

 

The Broken Sword was full of cooking smoke, the odors of stale bodies and stale wine, vomit, and worse. The floor was sticky with sweat and grease. Smoky oil lamps suspended from the ceiling beams provided illumination bright enough for customers to see their drinks, dim enough to hide the filth on the cups.

It was a crowded night in the tavern. Imric, the owner, turned his perpetual scowl around the room as he filled mugs with a dark, frothy brew from an immense stained keg. His one good eye gleamed as he watched the purses shrink and his cash box fatten. His wife, Bela, a noxious sow of a woman, pushed her way among the tables and standing customers, rolls of gross fat quivering, mouthing the lewdest suggestions to her regulars, spilling drink indiscriminately on anyone luckless enough to block her path.

If any were so foolish as to complain about the oafish service or the burnt victuals or the flat beer, or if any were so bold as to refuse payment, there was Orm. The giant kept constant guard by the front door; his eyes continually swept the tavern for any hint of trouble. He bore no weapons; he didn't need them. His fists were as lethal as any mace.

Frost shut her ears to the deafening noise of the crowd. Too many drunks and braggarts tonight. Not much chance to listen in on the individual conversations. Instead, she leaned over the table close to the small candle she herself had brought along, picked up her cards, and turned over the first one.

The Sword-soldier. She frowned. Twice tonight that one had turned up when she'd made a random deal. A dark-haired man, romantic, courageous, domineering, a bringer of change. She turned up the next card.

The Ace of Swords: strong love or hate; conquest and strife. She chewed her lip, studied the first card again, then exposed the next.

She peered at the painted eyes of the High Priestess, mysterious eyes that saw everything and nothing. Unknowable future, she interpreted, unforeseeable change, hidden influences. It clouded the meanings of the other two cards.

Frost shrugged, picked up the three, and shuffled them back into the deck. The readings never made sense; the cards did not work for her. She had no power over them. They were just part of her show, essential to her descroiyo disguise.

She dealt the cards to pass the time or for the amusement of any customer who dropped a coin in her palm. She told them what they needed to hear. It was easy. The faces on the cards made no difference. The poor man in rags wanted to hear of wealth. The wistful-eyed soldier sought love. The merchant, licking his lips and leaning forward so aggressively, craved influence. No, it wasn't the faces on the cards, but the faces of her marks that shaped her tales. She had only to look carefully at them and study their telling gazes to know which lie to speak.

As she spoke, she also listened. Sometimes they told her of Riothamus, of troop movements, of unrest in the countryside. Never directly, of course, but among the gossip and the complaints there was usually some item that piqued her interest. She learned news of the rebels whose activities had increased of late. Villages had been burned, guards murdered, supplies raided. She learned, too, of retaliations and counterattacks. As the nights went by, a picture of cruelty and savagery formed with blame enough for both sides.

The city of Kyr was buzzing with rumors, and sooner or later all rumors found their way to the Broken Sword. So, Frost kept her descroiyo fortune-telling guise and listened.

And waited for her son. Kel was coming. She could feel him like a hardness that grew in the center of her breast, a cold stone where once her heart had been. The rebel attacks were all in the south and west these days. He had to be near.

She drew a card from the deck, turned it, and smiled at the irony. The Prince of Demons grinned at her from the table. Truly, tonight the cards mocked her.

The tavern door opened. A gust of wind blew dust through the entrance. The lamplight flickered wildly, then settled again as the door softly closed. She looked up, expecting another soldier come for a drink with his comrades. Kyr was full of soldiers, and more arrived every day as the rebellion fomented.

But the newcomer was no soldier. His face was hidden beneath a dust-caked hood, and a heavy cloak concealed much of his form. He was tall, though, tall as Orm, who stood warily on guard at the entrance. The stranger gave a nod of greeting to the bare-chested giant but said nothing. He paused to survey the faces in the tavern before he took the three short steps down to the floor level, wended his way through the press of bodies, and took the stool directly opposite her.

He leaned his elbows on her small table. Her tiny candle failed to penetrate the shadow under his hood, and he did not look up. Suddenly a silver
minarin
appeared magically between two of his gloved fingers.

She leaned back on her seat. “I am descroiyo,” she said disdainfully. “Sleight of hand does not impress me.”

A second
minarin
appeared beside the other. He placed them on the table next to her cards.

“Now I'm impressed.” She swept the coins into her purse. “How do you come by Rholarothan money? Are you a traveler?”

He still had not thrown back the concealing hood; his face remained a mystery, but his voice was full and throaty. “Ask those.” He indicated her deck. “Let them tell you what they will.”

“Then it's a reading you seek,” she said, taking up her cards, shuffling them carefully. “For two
minarins
I'll tell you a wonderful future.”

“The truth will be sufficient,” he whispered, raising his head enough that she saw his mouth move. A close-trimmed beard of black and gray dressed his chin.

“Lay your fingers on the top card,” she instructed. “You must remove your gloves.” The stranger did as she requested, and she began the traditional descroiyo chant. “Forms of the future, shapes of the past—“

A little boy tugged on her sleeve, interrupting her. “Mistress, would your gentleman like some wine or ale while you divine his fortune?” In the lamplight and shadow his face looked small and innocent, wide-eyed. His name was Scafloc; he was the tavern owner's only son. A meaner brat did not live in the city.

She scowled at him. “Go away, or I'll turn you into a toad. We're busy.”

Scafloc stuck out his tongue. “You couldn't turn a trick on the busiest corner in town, you old fraud.”

A huge hand closed around Scafloc's head, twisted it back until the child was off balance. The stranger lifted him up, bent him over a knee, and raised a hand to strike.

Scafloc never cried out, but his desperate gaze sought Frost's. “If he dares,” the little boy hissed, “I swear I'll forget the message old Dromen Illstar told me to give you! I swear!”

“Wait,” she said, and the stranger stayed his blow. “Not that your backside doesn't need a good beating. If you've got a message from Illstar, then give it to me.”

Scafloc put on a false smile. “It'll cost you one of those silver coins I saw him give you.”

The customer raised his hand again, but again she stopped him. She took out one of the
minarins
and laid it on the table. When the child reached for it, she snatched it back. “No fair!” he squealed, eyes burning with fear and anger. He squirmed on the stranger's knee.

“First, the message.”

Scafloc swallowed. “Meet him in the Rathole tonight. He's got news you're after.”

She thought about that. Two months had passed since she'd come to Kyr, hoping to find a trace of the forces that fought King Riothamus. Find the rebels, she figured, and she would find her son, Kel. Find Kel, and she would find Oroladian.

She had questions to ask that sorcerer.

“How much did Illstar pay you?” she said to Scafloc.

The child shrugged. “That rotten old fart? Not a brass
quinz
.”

“Little liar.” She tossed the
minarin
over her shoulder. It disappeared among the scuffling feet of the inn's customers. Scafloc freed himself and dived for the coin.

“I'll pay you another,” the stranger offered.

“No need. One
minarin
is already twice what most of these pig-faces will pay.” She picked up the cards once more and reshuffled.

Before she could deal the first card, Scafloc reappeared with a tray and goblet of wine. “Compliments of the house,” he announced. He took the goblet from the tray, swallowed a great gulp of it himself, and then placed it before the stranger. He grinned, showing all his teeth, held up the
minarin
for Frost to see, then faded back into the crowd.

“Someday,” she said across the table to the hooded man, “some rat will do the world a great favor and eat that child's heart while he sleeps. Of course, the rat will die, but what a worthy sacrifice it will have made.”

She turned up the first card and placed it between them. A frown caused her brow to furrow. Again, that same card . . . .

“The Sword-soldier,” she said with some irritation. “It must represent you.” She looked across at him, still unable to see much of his face for that hood. “Swords are the cards of conquest and adventure, cards of strife and battle. Their element is air, for conquest may be as elusive as air, and the object of a quest may be as nebulous and ungraspable.” Almost, she reached across the table to sweep back his hood, but she resisted the impulse. “Beware the suit of Swords,” she warned. “Unlike the other cards, they never lie. This is a card for a strong, dark-haired warrior.”

He leaned closer to study the card but said nothing. She turned up the second and laid it over the first.

“Another Sword,” she said quietly. “The Queen. Sometimes, the Swords are called dark angels, and the Queen of Swords is the Night's Angel. She represents a widow, or perhaps a woman unable to bear children. She represents mourning or longing for someone far away.” Again, she sought the stranger's gaze, trying to measure his reaction. He sat steadfastly, fingers interlocked, regarding the cards. She fished for some clue that her interpretation was pleasing him. He had, after all, paid good coin. “You have a wife somewhere, perhaps? And she misses you?”

He didn't answer, but from beneath that hood she felt his eyes upon her.

She turned the third card and placed it upon the others. “The Silver Lady,” she intoned. “The moon.” She hesitated. It was an ill card foreshadowing danger. A descroiyo bearing bad news made no money. How should she phrase the lie? “This is a card of the imagination,” she started, “of intuition.” She looked up; for the briefest instant, the flickering of the lamplight reflected in his gaze. “Unforeseen perils mark your path,” she blurted. “Foes you do not know wait ahead.”

Now why had she said that? It made it harder to turn the reading around and give it a more positive interpretation. He'd said he wanted the truth, but truth could have lots of shadings.

“The Six of Cups,” she said, revealing the next card. “The element of Cups is water. This card represents an old acquaintance, someone in your past.”

His hand came across the table, settled on hers as she reached for the next card. She paused. There was warmth in his touch, a gentle fire that startled her. Without intending it, she leaned forward and brushed back his hood.

“Do you remember me?” he whispered. “Have I changed so much?”

She leaned back, slowly covering her mouth with her hands. She did know him; there was familiarity in that tousled dark mane now streaked with gray. She knew those eyes, so black and intense and challenging, that mouth, the shape of the jaw, those beautiful cheekbones. It was an older face, a reminder of how much time had gone by, but an unmistakable face.

“Telric,” she answered with a soft sigh. “By all the gods of all the nations . . .” She shook her head, suddenly weighed down by the press of her own years. She sighed again. “How did you ever find me?”

He took both her hands in his, leaning forward. “How could I tell you everything and make you believe me?” he said. “I've searched for you, woman, since that day when you left me alone on the steppes beneath Mount Drood.”

She regarded him across the candle flame. “Then you mean to finish the feud your father began. You've come to kill me.”

He shook his head, and there was sadness in his eyes when he looked back at her. “Lord Rholf died years ago in some petty war along the Rhianothan border. My last brother, too.” A sheepish grin lifted the corners of his lips. “After you spared my life on that mountain, I tried to convince him to leave you alone. He disowned me for it.”

She pulled her hands away, feeling uncomfortable under his gaze. The goblet of wine looked so inviting, but she refused to drink after that whelp Scafloc.

He unfastened his cloak, shook the dust from it, folded it, and laid it aside. “I tried to find you on my own,” he continued. “I traveled a lot, sent out spies, gleaned rumors and stories from the places where you passed. But I never seemed to catch up with you.”

He looked down into the small flame. “After my father and brother died, I returned to Shazad and reclaimed my inheritance. I could have had the governorship, too. That's hereditary. But I didn't want it.” He paused, then their gazes locked. “Father never forgave you for killing Than and Chavi, you know? He even sent assassins to find you.”