Lady Of Regret (Book 2) (18 page)

Rathe looked sideways at him.

“Think on it,” Loro began. “Nabar’s men hounded us down the Shadow Road, as sure as if we’d told them our route. Then you faced some shadow-man. We were set upon by Tulfa, who wanted to roast us on a spit. Then there’s Durogg, who nearly killed you with a touch. After that, Jathen would only agree to heal you if we agreed to fetch his worthless baubles. Now Wyvernmoor. We barely stepped foot into the village, before a pack of rogues decided we needed to die.”

Rathe could have argued, but Nesaea’s voice filled his mind.
“Yours is a fate buried in shadow, a life of woe, a harrowing storm to trouble your every step. Turn this way or that, but you will never escape distress, until the grave draws you to its loveless bosom.”

He held still for some time. “Soon as I was old enough to wield one, I have lived by the sword. I’ve made war across a handful of kingdoms, faced more enemies than I can count. Through all that, I never counted myself accursed or blessed. My enemies have changed since I was exiled to Fortress Hilan, but they are only enemies of a different war. I do not hold to curses.”

“Fools!” Horge cried, rushing out of the darkness. He skidded to a stop when the two warriors faced him, swords held ready to lay him open.

“You sniveling wretch,” Loro said, face twisted in anger. He advanced one step, another. “I’ve a mind to cut you into maggot bait, here and now!”

“What …
why
?” Horge blubbered, cowering away, hands raised.

“Leave him be,” Rathe ordered. If any man deserved pity, it was probably Horge. He also deserved a clout to the head, but that was a matter for another time.

Loro halted. “If it’s not a curse upon you, then this craven whoreson led us into a trap. I remind you, we came here at his word.”

“I don’t need reminders,” Rathe said, eyeing the feral little man. “Why did you bring us here? Speak the truth, or I’ll allow Loro to do as he wishes.”

“The Gelded Dragon,” Horge whimpered. “We need to go there.
Quickly
. Before anyone finds what you’ve done.” He looked toward the dancers, now struggling to keep up with a chaotic tune. No one on the green seemed inclined to leave all that light and laughter.

“We defended ourselves,” Rathe said.

“You’re outlanders who wear the robes of the Way of Knowing. Even if you are believed, the townsfolk will not take to you murdering men they know. And that’s how they’ll see it—
murder
. Come with me, before it’s too late.”

“What of the dead?” Loro asked.

Horge glanced at the corpses and shuddered. “Leave them. If luck favors us, everyone will think they got pissing drunk, and fought amongst themselves. Hereabouts, that’s not unheard of—” He cut off abruptly. “Where’s Ander?”

Rather and Loro looked around. All that remained of Ander was his stiffening hand. Loro laughed. “Seems he decided life was worth living.”

Rathe cursed under his breath at having missed the man’s absence. He pushed that aside, and fixed Horge with an unflinching eye. “Why are we here? The
truth
.”

Horge cringed, fingers plucking at the collar of his grubby tunic. “The friend I told you about is my sister. She waits at the Dragon.”

Considering they had found Horge at Deepreach nearly a fortnight gone, Rathe was about to ask why she would be expecting him. Horge answered before he could.

“At the last turning of the moon, we agreed to meet at the Gelded Dragon. She worries, my sister, and knew the mistake of getting tied to Jathen. If not for Durogg, I would’ve set out the day after you saved me from Tulfa and the shadowkin. If I delay any longer, I fear my sister will do something
foolish
. She’s very vicious, when angry. Come, my friends, and I will introduce you to her.”

“Worrisome and vicious?” Loro said dryly. “Sounds mad. I’d rather meet a hungry wolf.”

Horge’s lips trembled. “She is a wolf. I mean, that is to say, she can
behave
as a wolf, if pressed. Yes, very wolfish, very wild, very—”

Rathe waved Horge to a stop, before his gibbering grew intolerable. “Fetch your yak,” he commanded, “and take us to her. After we meet, I want a meal and a bed.”

“And a plump wench to nuzzle,” Loro added, a wide grin splitting his face.

Horge looked behind them, spun in a frantic circle. “Where’s Samba?”

“Where you left him….” Rathe trailed off. The yak was gone. “Seems your pack beast has taken the habits of his master. More’s the pity, as Samba ran off with all our supplies.”

With a regretful sigh, Loro said, “We should have eaten the smelly beast, while we had the chance.”

“Samba knows the way home,” Horge said, sounding more hopeful than sure. “We can fetch him on the morrow. Come, my sister waits.”

As they turned to leave, Rathe spared a last glance for Wull. He looked a child gone to sleep while playing in the street. Quietly, Rathe said, “I gave you the choice, friend, where you offered none. You should’ve heeded me.”

Wull did not answer. He was dead, and growing cold.

Chapter 22

Rathe had seen the inside of worse places, at least one or two. The Gelded Dragon reeked of sour ale and sawdust, with a hint of old vomit. Worse was the stench of the poorly tanned furs worn by the inn’s few patrons. With all the revelry outside, he had expected to find a welcoming haven of light and gaiety. Instead, he was greeted by a gloomy interior sparsely occupied by trappers and woodcutters, wild men all, with dirt-blackened nails, rotted teeth, and sour expressions. Some wore their hair long and matted. Others had shaved their skulls and decorated them with tattoos. A few looked up when Rathe and his companions stepped through the open door. Most searched for meaning or absolution within the depths of their wooden tankards.

“Gods damn my black soul,” Loro gasped, halting next to Rathe. When Horge tried to squeeze between them, the fat man dropped a heavy hand to his shoulder. “ ‘Women, wine, and song, the best of all can be had at the Dragon.’ Those were your words. Instead I see shit heaped upon shit.”

Horge missed Loro’s irritation, and nodded excitedly. “Aye, ‘tis true.” He jabbed a finger at a stout figure plodding under the burden of a serving tray loaded with tankards. “Vena will also do all you ask for a copper,” Horge said with a lecherous wink.

“Vena is a
woman
?” Loro said doubtfully. “Unless my eyes deceive, I see a beard decorating her chin.”

Horge looked confused. “Aye, that’s what makes her special. It’s rumored she can—”

He cut off with a squeak, when Loro dragged him close. “Don’t say another word, or I’ll have out your filthy tongue.”

Horge’s mouth worked, but no sound came.

“Where’s your sister?” Rathe asked, peering round the smoky common room. Back beyond the few mostly empty trestle tables, shadows lurked deep and plentiful.

“I don’t know,” Horge said, struggling to pry Loro’s thick fingers off his shoulder. “Master Gilip might have word of her.”

“Let him go,” Rathe said.

Loro obliged with a disgusted oath. “If you’re not cursed, then I am. Gods, I miss Fira. Mind you, she was a touch scrawny, and a hellcat to boot, but a man did not have to wonder about her being a woman. By the gods, I had no concern of her using a beard to tickle my fancy!”

Rathe pressed his lips together against a burst of laughter. Not so long ago, Loro had complained that Fira’s carnal appetites had shamed his own sordid morality.

Horge scurried ahead, nodding to a few surly fellows. They ignored him. At the empty bar, he stood on tiptoes to look over the edge. “Ah, there you are!”

Rathe struggled not to recoil from the man who stood up. Master Gilip leaned on the wooden bar. A pox had scarred his gaunt face, and his hair hung straight and coarse and yellow. His sunken eyes, underscored by dark, hanging folds, took in his newest customers.

“Master Gilip,” Horge said, “these are my friends, Rathe and Loro.”

“Didn’t know you had friends, Horge, even amongst the monks,” Gilip said, chuckling in a disconcertingly high-pitched voice. “Wull has been asking after you. Might be you want to catch up with him, soon as possible. Horge, are you ill?”

Horge swallowed. “Wull, you say? I … I’ll find him on the morrow. Aye, I’ll do just that.”

Master Gilip’s gaze roved over Rathe and Loro. “Well met, good brothers.” His tone was pleasant enough, but no love glinted in his gray eyes. “Ale, wine, or mead?”

“Ale,” Loro said, shoving Horge aside. “Bitter is better.”

“I’ve a cask of fresh goat piss.”

Loro dropped a handful of coppers on the bar, held up two fingers. Gilip swept up the coins with an approving chuckle. “And you, Brother Rathe?”

Rathe had a taste for wine, but guessed the request might not go over with such a hard lot of men. “Goat piss for me, as well,” he sighed.

Gilip waited for more coin. Rathe cocked his head at Loro. Grumbling, the fat man doled out another two coppers. Gilip made them disappear as fast as the first. A moment later, three wooden tankards, crowned in dark foam, slid across the bar.

Horge reached for one, but Loro slapped his hand away. “You’ll not drink on my coin.”

Horge licked his lips, rustled under his cloak, came up with a long, yellowed fang.

Gilip squinted at it. “Bear?”

“Frost leopard,” Horge corrected.

“Suppose I could make a necklace from it.” Gilip pursed his lips. “Add another, and you have a trade.”

Horge produced a second tooth, this one with the tip broken off, and placed both on the bar. “Have you seen Yiri about?”

“Aye,” Gilip said, turning back with a fourth tankard of ale. It was half full, but Horge took it without complaint. “At her usual table. Been waiting for you, I expect.”

Horge looked into the thick darkness at the back of the inn. “Has she … gotten up to any mischief?”

“You could name it that.” With a narrowed eye, Gilip reached under the bar and came up with a mug of rich dark wine. Rathe stifled a disbelieving groan.

Horge gulped his ale. With a contented sigh, he clunked the empty tankard atop the bar. “Has she been scrying again?”

“Not so as I would recognize it,” Gilip said. “I’ll tolerate the reading of leaves, even peering into mirrors and the like, but Yiri goes too far with her beetles and blood.”

Loro choked on his ale, spraying misty foam across the bar. Gilip scowled, tugged a filthy towel from his apron, and gave the wood a cursory swipe. “Put an end to that nonsense, Horge, and you and Yiri are welcome in the Dragon. Don’t, and I’ll toss you both out on your scrawny arses.”

“We paid your fee,” Horge whined.

“Aye, and I expected Yiri’s talents to draw folk in, not run ‘em off.”

“I’ll speak with her,” Horge promised, casting a longing glance at Loro’s second brimming tankard.

Gilip looked between Rathe and Loro. “When you’re done with Yiri, come back, have another round, and I’ll tell you about the dragon my grandfather gelded.”

Rathe followed the man’s gaze to the skull hanging over the crackling hearth, just where Horge had said it would be. Two small horns had been crudely affixed to the skull, and streaky red paint colored the bone.

Loro used the back of his hand to wipe foam from his lips. “If I do not miss my guess, that’s a horse skull.”

“As dragons spawned horses,” Gilip said in all seriousness, “there are similarities. Come back, and I’ll reveal all to you.”

As they made their way to the back of the common room, Rathe took a tentative sip of his ale. His tongue recoiled like a salted slug. Goat piss would be an improvement.

“Gods and demons,” Loro intoned, “this may be the finest ale I’ve ever had the pleasure of tasting.”

“Just so,” Rathe agreed, trying not to gag. Passing a man facedown and drooling on the tabletop, he placed the tankard near his limp hand. As he looked half-dead already, a little more could not hurt him.

Horge went around a half-wall, pushed through a curtain of strung beads, small skulls of vermin, and strips of tattered linen. “Yiri? That you, dear sister?”

“Did you get the Heart of Majonis?” came a woman’s curt reply. She sounded young and hostile.

Rathe peered into the dimness hovering round a low-burning candle. A slender shape hunkered in a chair, almost lost in shadow.

“Yiri!” Horge cried nervously. “I’m glad you are well. I’ve brought friends. This is Rathe and Loro, up from realms south of the Gyntors. They saved me from—”

“I asked about the Majonis crystal, idiot,” Yiri snapped, shoving back her chair and standing up. She was shorter even than Horge, her silhouette blade-thin. The gloom still shrouded her features.

Horge flinched back. “Aye, ‘tis safe with Jathen!”

Yiri’s head turned. The glint of one dark eye shone through a fall of matted black hair. “Nothing is safe in the hands of those goat-buggering monks, and surely not the Heart of Majonis. Had you not entangled yourself in their schemes, the crystal would be in our hands, where it should be.” She studied Rathe and Loro’s robes. “Can we expect to have you two fools along, until this venture is done?”