Bonds of Vengeance (74 page)

“I’ve told you before, Tavis. When I have a vision of someone’s fate, be it in a dream or during a gleaning, I’m merely seeing one possible future among many.”

“Then why tell me all that you did about my fight with the singer?”

Grinsa gave a small shrug, his mouth twisting. “Because if what I saw turns out to be real, I want you to know what to expect.” He started to say more, then appeared to stop himself.

“You don’t want that vision to be real, do you? You’ve said all along that you never saw the end of our battle, but you don’t like what you did see, isn’t that right?”

“When it comes right down to it, I don’t like the whole idea of you fighting this man. But yes, given the choice, I’d rather you fought him elsewhere, somewhere a bit less—”

He halted abruptly, falling silent and turning his head slightly, as if listening for something behind them.

“Did you hear that?” he whispered.

“Hear what?”

“Footsteps.”

Tavis looked back down the lane they had been following. They were near the inn at which they had taken a room and the street seemed to be empty. Actually the entire town, the name of which he had already forgotten, struck him as rather desolate.

“I didn’t hear anything.”

“This isn’t the first time I’ve had this feeling.”

“What feeling?”

“That we’re being followed, watched. I even had it in the tavern just now, while we were sitting with the peddler. It seemed that someone else was listening to our conversation.”

Had it been any other man, Tavis wouldn’t have been alarmed. Even coming from the gleaner, it sounded like little more than irrational fear born of too many days worrying about assassins and conspiracies. But he had never known Grinsa to speak of such things without cause, and though he wasn’t certain that a Weaver’s powers of perception were any stronger than those of other Qirsi, he felt certain that they were more finely honed than his own.

“What do you want to do?” he asked.

Grinsa continued to stare down the street. Finally he shook his head. “I don’t think there’s anything we can do. If we were being followed, whoever it was will have seen us stop and will be ever more cautious.” He started walking again, a bit more quickly than before, and the young lord hurried to follow him. “I should have been more careful,” he murmured, more to himself than to Tavis. “Next time I won’t turn until I’m certain that I can catch him.”

Tihod watched them from a shadowy alleyway between a smithy and a wheelwright’s shop, cursing his own foolishness and fearing that at any moment the gleaner might start back up the lane toward where he was hiding. He had already determined to his own satisfaction that Grinsa and the Curgh boy were returning to their inn. After their conversation with the drunken peddler, he was certain that they would be eager to retire for the night, so as to begin the final leg of their journey to Helke with first light. Once he realized the direction in which they were walking from the pub, he should have stopped following and gone back to his own room. Instead, he had continued after them, ignoring the risk.

It had been no more than the scuff of his boot on the dirt lane that made Grinsa stop, a slight misstep that other men would have missed. Certainly Tavis hadn’t noticed it. Dusaan would have, but the Weaver was not like other men—it seemed he and Grinsa had more in common than just the extent of their powers.

Perhaps wielding such magic—knowing that if the extent of their power were discovered by the Eandi they would be executed—made men like Dusaan and Grinsa more cautious than others, and thus more aware of their surroundings. Or maybe possessing so many magics that were linked to the land and the elements—fire, mists and winds, language of beasts—also served to heighten a Weaver’s perceptions of the world in which he lived. Whatever the explanation, Tihod knew that he would have to be more careful if he were to make an attempt on Grinsa’s life without getting killed himself.

He couldn’t hear what the gleaner and Tavis said to each other, but after a few moments they started walking again. Without leaving the alley, Tihod watched them enter the inn. Still he didn’t move, lest Grinsa was watching for him from within the tavern. Only after he had waited for some time did he finally step warily into the lane and make his way back to his inn and the small, dingy room he had rented for the night.

He missed his ship. For a man accustomed to sleeping in the comfortable cabin of his own vessel, being carried into his slumber each night by the gentle rise and fall of the sea, a tavern bed was a terrible place to pass the night. He hadn’t slept well since leaving Duvenry, nor did he have much of an appetite. He knew that many found the sea unsettling to the stomach, but he, of course, did not. He didn’t understand how anyone could live and sleep and eat on this dead rock they called land. On the ocean Tihod felt that he was riding the back of some great living beast, moving as she did, living by her rhythms and off her bounty. The pitch and roll of his ship on the ocean waves, the taste of sea spray on his lips, the scent of brine in the wind—these gave him more than a livelihood, they gave him life. They fed his appetite and his thirst, they told him when to sleep and when to wake, they gave life and color to his dreams at night. They even enhanced the act of love. He had once lain with a woman on land, in some tavern bedchamber in Aneira, and the experience only confirmed for him what he had already known. Women, like food and wine, like storms and sunsets, were best enjoyed on the sea.

Dusaan, who had never traveled well by ship himself, had nevertheless come to appreciate Tihod’s passion for the sea, and so had been deeply surprised three nights before when he entered the merchant’s dreams.

“You’re not on your ship,” the Weaver had said immediately, a look of concern in his golden eyes. “Why?”

They were standing together on Ayvencalde Moor, as they always did during these encounters, the stones and grasses bathed in bright sunlight, a soft wind stirring Dusaan’s wild white hair.

Tihod told him of finding Grinsa and Tavis in Duvenry and of his decision to follow the two of them north to Helke, where he hoped they would lead him to the assassin. He had expected Dusaan to be pleased by these tidings, perhaps even to compliment him on his decision to follow the gleaner over land. Instead, he warned Tihod to be careful and vowed that they would speak again before the merchant and his quarry reached Helke.

Thus, Tihod knew even as he drifted toward sleep that Dusaan would walk in his dreams again this night. In fact, it seemed the Weaver had been waiting for him, for as soon as he fell asleep he found himself on the moor again, wading through the tall grasses. Dusaan stood some distance away, the still waters of the Scabbard at his back.

“What news?” he demanded, as Tihod halted before him.

“I’m in Krilde, less than a day’s walk from Helke.”

“Grinsa and the boy are there as well?”

“Yes. They spoke with a peddler tonight, a man who had heard Cadel singing in Helke just a few days ago. He gave them the name of a tavern. If all goes as I expect, this matter will be settled by this time tomorrow.”

“This isn’t something that can or should be rushed,” Dusaan said, his face grim.

“I know that. I was only saying—”

“I want you to find the assassin before they do. Get to Helke first—leave tonight if you have to. Pay him the usual and have him kill both men. I don’t want you fighting Grinsa.”

“You’re going to send an Eandi assassin to kill a Weaver?”

“He’s killed Qirsi before.”

“Never a Qirsi like this.”

“And you have?”

“That’s not the point, and you know it,” Tihod said. “I’m sure that Cadel is very good at what he does—”

“He’s the best in the Forelands.”

“But skill with a blade or a garrote isn’t enough in this case. No matter
how good he is with a weapon, without any magic at his disposal, he stands no chance against Grinsa.”

“Believe me when I tell you that you don’t either.”

“Then neither of us should make the attempt.”

Dusaan narrowed his eyes, as if trying to gauge whether Tihod was merely arguing the point to anger him.

“This is a task for an assassin,” he said slowly. “And should Cadel die trying to kill Grinsa, then I’ll find another assassin. If necessary, I’ll send a dozen. Assassins can be replaced. You can’t.”

Tihod grinned. “True. But I’ve left my ship, and come a long way. I refuse to allow this effort to be in vain. I may not be a Weaver, but I have powers and I know how to use them.”

“Any power you have Grinsa can turn to his purposes. You think that because you can shape, and raise a mist, that you’re powerful enough to fight him?” Dusaan gave a short, sharp laugh. “You’re not.”

“Perhaps you’re right, but surely he’ll be expecting Cadel to attack him. There’s no chance at all that the assassin will surprise him. Both he and the boy know what Cadel looks like. They know he’s in Helke. But they know nothing of me. If I strike fast enough, Grinsa won’t have time to turn my powers against me.”

Dusaan glared at him, the look on his face as cold and hard as ice in the northern reaches. Tihod had pushed him far, perhaps too far. Dusaan was not a man accustomed to having others argue with him, either in his capacity as Harel’s high chancellor or as leader of the movement. No one else in all the Forelands would have dared speak to him this way, and though Tihod did not think that Dusaan would harm him, he did realize that one way or another, this discussion was nearing its end.

“You’ll work with Cadel,” the Weaver said at last. “There are two of them, there should be two of you as well. I still want you to get to Helke ahead of the gleaner. Find Cadel and tell him what’s happening. I’ve heard that he doesn’t particularly like taking our gold—apparently he has little more regard for our people than do the nobles he kills—but one would hope that he’d see the benefit of working with you in this instance.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“Offer him more money. That always seems to work with the Eandi.”

“And if after Grinsa is dead, he’s still reluctant to take on this new job?”

“We have other inducements that should convince him to do as we ask. They always have in the past.”

The merchant nodded. “Very well.”

“I still don’t like this, Tihod. I’ve made no secret of the fact that I want this man dead, but losing you would be too high a price to pay for his life. If it seems that your encounter is going badly, get away from him as quickly as you can. I won’t think ill of you for doing so.”

“Don’t worry,” Tihod told him. “I don’t want him killing me any more than you do.”

“No,” the Weaver said, “I don’t suppose you do.”

Tihod awoke with a start to a room still dark with night. He had no idea of the time, though he couldn’t imagine that it was much past midnight. Still, he didn’t feel tired, and while he wasn’t one of Dusaan’s servants, to drop all that he was doing and follow the Weaver’s commands, he did recognize sound advice when he heard it. Best he start for Helke now and find Cadel before Grinsa and the boy did. Had he been in a larger city—Duvenry, for instance, or Strempfar—he would have had to contend with a locked gate and guards who saw in every Qirsi a possible threat to their realm. But Krilde was too small a town for walls and guards. He could come and go as he chose. The innkeeper might think it strange that he was leaving at such an hour, but an extra five qinde would buy his silence.

In a few moments, he had dressed and was making his way down the tavern stairs and out into the warm night air. He didn’t like being abroad at night, but the moons were still up, peering dully through the mist, shedding some light on the village and the surrounding country. And if his powers were enough to let him face a Weaver with confidence, certainly they were more than a match for any road brigands he might meet.

Soon Tihod was out of the village, following a winding, rutted mud road through the moors of the Wethy Crown. Under the red and white moons, the jumbled boulders and swaying grasses took on a ghostly quality, as if wraiths lurked behind each stone. The sky to the north flashed again and again with lightning, but the night remained silent save for the soft wind and the intermittent call of a distant owl.

He walked for several hours, pausing at dawn to pull a piece of dried
meat from his travel sack and drink from a small spring by the road. With first light, he caught sight of Helke Castle, an austere ash-colored fortress that towered above the city of Helke. To the west he could see the waters of the Gulf of Kreanna, dark as a scar and dotted with whitecaps. The wind had begun to freshen, and Tihod smelled a storm brewing. It would rain later in the day. A sea captain knew such things.

By the time he reached the city walls, the gates had been opened, and though the guards at the south gate eyed him with the suspicion and contempt such men seemed to reserve for Qirsi travelers, they let him pass into the city without question. He went first to the marketplace, where he found a Qirsi peddler and asked about the Grey Seal.

“I hear it’s a fine tavern,” the man said, spreading his wares on the ground and pausing occasionally to examine his work with a critical eye. “Good food, excellent ale, and, as o’ late, decent music as well. The cost is a bit dear, but tha’ doesn’t seem to stop them tha’ goes there from fillin’ themselves.” He looked up, meeting Tihod’s gaze. “It’s no’ one o’ ours, though, cousin, despite the name.”

Qirsi taverns and inns often bore names such as the White Dragon, or the Grey Falcon, as a way of letting Qirsi patrons know that they would be welcomed. They were, of course, free to spend their gold in any tavern, regardless of whether it was run by a Qirsi or an Eandi, but most Qirsi tended to limit themselves to those establishments run by others of their race.

“Yes, I had heard that,” Tihod said. “I need to find someone there.” Then, as an afterthought, he asked, “Is there an inn within the city walls where I might take a room?”

“ ’Course there is. The Silver Whale, on the west side o’ the city. Not far really from the Seal. Go t’ the west end o’ the marketplace, then follow the prior’s lane toward the sanctuary. There’ll be three narrow alleys on yer right—the first will take ye t’ the Seal, the second t’ the Whale.”