Master of Crows (16 page)

In short order, she and Gurn secured a room, a meal and three pallets for the night.  Just as quickly, they returned to the market.  By the time they reached the outskirts, Martise was tired, sweaty and thirsty from jogging after Gurn.  She promptly forgot such small annoyances amidst the controlled chaos and color of Eastern Prime’s thriving market.

Everything from grain and weaponry to birds and fruit were hawked in the various stalls.  One merchant nearly deafened her with his enthusiastic pitch about the exquisiteness of his silks and cottons imported from the Glimmer lands.  Colorful parrots squawked in cages hung on poles while food merchants roasted mutton over open pits behind their stalls and sold it by the slice with a stack of warm flatbread.  The mouthwatering smell of charred meat mixed with the less pleasant odor of unwashed bodies and fish.  Cutpurses flitted like shadow through the crowds along with scrawny, nimble-fingered pickpockets.  Beggars shared muddy paths with scantily garbed
hourin
, each hoping to earn a coin through pity or lust.

Gurn kept a firm grip on her arm.  Martise hoped he knew their end destination because she was soon lost, unable to see or navigate a way to the market’s boundaries.  Luckily, his size cleared a path wherever they went, and they soon emerged into a quieter part of the market.

The giant grinned at her and signed
“Thank the gods!”
He mimicked the act of drinking from a flask.

Parched from the long trip and just happy to stand in a spot where the crowd didn’t crush her, Martise accepted his offer with gusto.  “Oh yes.  Anything, Gurn.  I have a mouth full of sand.”

He led her to a canopied stall selling melons and fruit drinks.  The vendor recognized Gurn and welcomed him with a smile.  “Gurn, I wondered what happened to you.  I expected to see you last week.”  He winked at Martise and bowed.

She took the lead from Gurn.  “Might we purchase two of your drinks?”

The merchant jumped to fulfill their order, crushing the melon in a bowl until it resembled nothing more than a pink slurry.  He added honey and wine to the concoction and poured it into wooden goblets.  Sweet and refreshing, the beverage cooled her parched throat.

As Gurn led her back toward the chaos of the market’s central hub, she caught a brief glimpse of scarlet robes.  The crowd parted just enough for her to see Silhara standing at the edge of a stall that sold brightly colored silks, stacks of woven carpets and crossbows.  Engrossed in conversation with two men, he didn’t notice her.  Kurman tribesmen, from their clothing and stance.  Black-haired and shorter than the coastal peoples, they wore the full trousers, vests and pointed shoes typical of the mountain nomads.  Too far away to hear their conversation, she watched them conversed with Silhara in a mix of dramatic hand motions and sharp exclamations.

She lost sight of them when Gurn pulled her through the throng toward another stall displaying crocks and jars of various sizes.  He released her once they were inside the booth and motioned to the merchant.  Martise stood by and watched, fascinated, as Gurn haggled in a combination of hand signals, grunts and verbal prompts from the seller.

A tap on her shoulder made her jump.  She whirled, nearly colliding with the person standing so close to her.

“Martise!  We meet again.”

If the ground suddenly opened up at her feet, she would have stepped willingly into the chasm.  The man smiling at her was breathtaking, handsome enough to stop women and men in their tracks for a second look.  Thick blond hair grazed his muscular shoulders.  The eyes gazing back at her were heavily lashed—bluer than a mountain lake and shallower than a rain puddle.  He had a sculpted face of unlined perfection, as if the deities who created him chose one moment to bless a human with godlike beauty.

Eight years earlier, he’d been a dream come to life, a surprising gift to a young woman whose station and appearance barred her from the chance at such things as love and the companionship of a mate.  But dreams faded before reality.  She’d aged since then, grown wiser and discovered the vain, hollow man behind the stunning visage.

“Hello, Balian.”

Her cool greeting became a squeak when he lifted her and crushed her in an enthusiastic embrace.  Still reeling from the unexpected clasp, she squeaked again when Gurn almost broke both of Balian’s arms wresting her from him.

Flustered by the sudden attack, Balian mouthed a foul insult, then paled when he got a good look at Martise’s rescuer.  “Ah, forgive me.  I didn’t realize you were here with your man.”

She was tempted to let his assumption stand.  Faced with Gurn’s obvious protective stance and warning glare, Balian would make short work of reacquainting himself with her and disappear into the crowd.  Handsome, yes.  Brave, no.

Still, curiosity trumped practicality.  The man who’d introduced her to the carnal pleasures of the flesh and spouted lies of faith and adoration in her ear had not risen much from his original station.  Once a stable hand at Asher, Balian had big dreams of setting out and making his fortune.  His clothing, as worn as hers, revealed he hadn’t succeeded in that quest.

“Gurn is a friend.”  She touched the giant’s arm.  “It’s all right, Gurn.  I know him.”

Gurn hesitated, then slowly backed away, just enough to give her privacy but still close enough defend her if necessary.

Balian eyed Gurn, wary and braced to dart into the throng in case the giant suddenly turned on him.  When Gurn ignored him, he gave Martise a wide, flirtatious smile.  “You haven’t changed, Martise.  Still serving Asher?”

“Yes, though I serve another house for the summer.”

He peered over her shoulder and around her in a false show of inquiry.  “No husband or children hanging on your skirts?  Ah, wait.  You aren’t allowed to marry.”

Martise stared at him, unmoved.  Balian always had a talent for conversational barbs.

“And you, Balian?  You left Asher to make your fortune in the world.”  He flushed under her derisive gaze, one she knew Silhara would appreciate.  What had she ever seen in this dim, arrogant peacock?  “Has the world been unkind?”

His fair features turned ugly.  “Kinder than it’s been to you.  I’m still a free man.”  He paused, treating her to the same scornful gaze she’d bestowed on him.  “Sometimes I don’t understand why I ever bedded you.

Such words from him might have cut her at one time.  Now, she felt nothing more than a mild annoyance at his blustering.  “You bedded me because ‘I had a body more beautiful than the costliest
houri
and a voice that made you come.’  At least I think those were your words.  You bragged to your friends while deep in your cups.  You weren’t very coherent at the time.”

Her blunt response and lack of reaction rendered him speechless.  He soon recovered and with an offer that made a lie of his insult.  “You always did conceal your finest assets.”  He leered, peering at her long skirts and layered tunic as if he saw the body beneath them.  “And you never found me lacking.  Come with me.  I’ve a room nearby and wine smuggled out of Karanset.  We can renew old friendships.”

She imagined such a scene.  A dive near the wharf where the rooms were separated by parchment-thin walls and crawling with rats.  He’d take her quick at first, as he always preferred.  Against the wall or on a lice-infested pallet stained with the evidence of his previous couplings.  Martise’s lip curled in revulsion, and she wished for a stiff shot of Peleta’s Fire to cleanse the sudden sour taste off her palate.

“No thank you,” she said and walked away.  The outraged growl behind her made her smile.

“A woman like you shouldn’t be so choosey, Martise.”

She turned back to him.  “A man like you shouldn’t aim so high, Balian.”

“Bitch,” he snapped, loud enough for Gurn to hear.  Gurn lunged, almost knocking Martise down in his zeal to reach Balian.  Her erstwhile lover yelped in fear and fled into the teeming sea of people.  She grabbed the back of Gurn’s tunic before he followed his quarry.

“Let him go, Gurn.”  He stared at her, his silent anger palpable.  She took his hand and squeezed.  “Such words only hurt when the person saying them means something to you.”

He signed to her.  She caught the basics of his question and shook her head.

“He was important to me once.  No longer.”  She squeezed his hand again.  “Come.  Don’t you have supplies to buy?  I don’t want to be held over the coals by your master for distracting you from your tasks.”

Balian faded from her thoughts as she followed Gurn through the marketplace and watched him bargain with vendors over prices and quantities of goods with nothing more than a shake or nod of his head and a raised eyebrow.  By the time they made they made their way to the common area to meet Silhara and break for a meal, he’d purchased bags of milled flour, jars of olives and honey, a barrel of salted fish, two small barrels of wine, a pair of nanny goats and new clippers—all to be loaded into the wagon at the end of the day.  He’d even bargained down the price of the wool cloth and skein of thread she’d selected.

The common area was an open-air pub.  Tables and benches covered the grassy area, unprotected from the sun.  Stalls selling all manner of food, ale and wine surrounded the perimeter, and many of the merchants and alewives stalked the tables hawking their goods directly to the patrons.

Tantalizing scents of roasted mutton and pork mixed with the yeasty smell of bread teased her nostrils.  Her stomach growled and was echoed by Gurn’s.

“I’m starved.”  She scanned the long rows of tables, searching for a tall, forbidding man in a scarlet robe.  “I hope the master won’t make us wait until evening to eat.”

After looking over the crowd, Gurn pointed to a table near the perimeter of the common area.  His unmistakable and irreverent sign for “horse’s ass” let her know he’d spotted Silhara.  She laughed and nudged him toward the food stalls.  “Please get us some food.  I’m ready to gnaw on one of these tables.”  He hesitated, and she reassured him.  “I’ll be fine.  The common area is safer than the market itself.  There are even families with small children here.”

Gurn surveyed the crowd, this time with a more eagle eye and finally nodded.  Martise watched him head for a stall selling chicken and racks of skewered mutton.

She aimed for the tell-tale scarlet robe several tables away and wove through the clusters of people eating and drinking.  The sight she came upon made the air freeze in her lungs.  Darting behind a large man doing his best to coax a young alewife out of her bodice, Martise hid in his shadow and prayed those at Silhara’s table hadn’t seen her.

The sorcerer sat alone on one side, peeling an apple with his boot dagger.  Across from him, Balian sat with a friend, drinking from a tankard and laughing raucously at something his companion said.  Martise grumbled under her breath.  Of all the rotten luck.  She didn’t care if Balian hurled insults at her directly.  She did mind if he did so in front of Silhara.  Beyond the humiliation of having an old lover regale the mage with her many physical shortcomings, he could expose Cumbria’s lie of her being his ward.  She knew Silhara didn’t believe a word Cumbria told him.  No one accused the sorcerer of being too trusting, but unless he confronted her directly or heard the truth from someone else, Martise intended to cling doggedly to the story the bishop concocted.

She circled around the courting couple and slinked past a knot of women until she found a corner bench out of view but close enough to hear what they said.

Mothers often admonished their children not to listen at doors or windows because what they might hear something they didn’t like.  That wisdom sat hard on Martise’s shoulders as she caught the middle of Balian’s conversation.

He quaffed the wine, wiping away the dribble from the corner of his mouth.  “Plain as a stick and shy around people.  Until you got her in the stable or on a pallet.  She could suck a man dry with a tongue that made you see heaven.  And fuck all night.  Beautiful body too.  If I hadn’t seen virgin blood on my cock that first time, I might have thought her a priest-whore.”

Martise closed her eyes for a moment and hoped she didn’t retch.  She’d long ago abandoned the illusion that Balian had cared for her.  But to hear him tear her down to his friend and in front of Silhara—lessen her until she was nothing more than a bitch in heat—sickened her.

Silhara straddled the bench, silent, his profile to his table mates.  As intent as a supplicant at prayer, he pared the apple until the long spiral of peel fell to the ground.  His dour features gave no hint of his thoughts.

Balian’s companion refilled their tankards from a nearby pitcher.  “A lot of women can fuck like weasels, mate.  Prettier women.  And you’ve a face to lure ‘em in.”

Balian puffed up at the compliment, reminding Martise of a bullfrog in mating season.  “True, but they didn’t have her voice.  My cock got hard just hearing her talk.  And when she moaned…”  His eyes rolled back in ecstasy.  “Good gods, I just about shot my seed every time.”

Bile rose in her throat.  The friend replied but too softly for her to hear.  Balian, on the other hand, bellowed his opinion.  “Just fuck ‘em in the dark, mate.  You can put any face you want on them when you do that.”

Martise prayed Silhara’s lack of reaction meant he didn’t recognize whom Balian insulted.  She doubted it.  Balian had waxed rhapsodic about her voice, and for all she knew, had mentioned her name in earlier conversation.  Silhara was no fool.

He cupped the apple in his hand.  Paring it into slices, he placed it on the table.  He cleaned the knife on his trousers, turned and, quick as a striking serpent, buried the lethal tip in the back of her ex-lover’s hand where it rested on the table.

Balian's shocked bellow of pain ripped through the common area, halting all conversation.  He bolted to his feet and bellowed again as the movement pulled on his arm.  He stared at his bloodied hand and then at Silhara, wild-eyed.

“Bursin’s bollocks!  You stupid bastard!”

Silhara rose as well, grasped Balian’s wrist and yanked the knife out with merciless efficiency.  Another agonized shriek rent the air.  Silhara swiped the bloodied blade clean on a stunned bystander’s shirtsleeve.