Master of Crows (17 page)

“Forgive me,” he said in that calm, raspy voice.  “I didn’t see your hand there.”

His icy expression belied his sincerity.  Martise, shocked by what she’d just witnessed, shoved her way through the growing crowd surrounding the table.  Balian had stripped off his shirt.  Despite the blood dripping from his fingers, he presented a sight that had many a female in the mob sighing.  His friend tore a strip of cloth from the shirt and bandaged Balian’s injured hand.

Balian pulled a wicked knife from the sheath at his waist, brandishing it in front of Silhara with his good hand.  “Fuck your apologies.  I’m going to geld you.”

Silhara smiled, and the crowd sucked in a collective breath.  “Are you now?”

A voice behind Martise yelled to Balian.  “Leave it be, lad.  That’s the Master of Crows you just challenged.”

Balian paled but didn’t back down.  “I don’t care if you’re lord of a dung heap.”  He spat at Silhara’s feet.  “And you’re a coward if you have to use magic to win a fight.”

Silhara laughed in genuine amusement.  He shrugged out of his robe and dropped it on the table.  Balian tracked him from the other side as he walked to a clear space just outside the common area’s periphery.  The crowd followed, closing around the two combatants until they formed a makeshift arena.  Smashed between a sweating fishwife and a man almost as big as Gurn, Martise jostled for a clear view of the impending fight.

Sunlight flashed on metal as Silhara flipped his dagger expertly in his hand.  “You should listen to the wise man who spoke up,
boy
.  Take my apology for what it’s worth and walk away.  I don’t need magic to gut you from gullet to bollocks.”

He turned his back on Balian in clear dismissal.  Martise joined the chorus of warning cries as Balian bellowed and rushed him, dagger raised.  Silhara turned at the last minute, neatly side-stepped his opponent’s charge and smashed his hand between his shoulder blades.  Balian crashed into the crowd, miraculously avoiding stabbing anyone.  The spectators cheered.  Excited by a growing bloodlust, they thrust him back into the temporary arena.

Silhara shook his head in disgust.  “Colossal stupidity hidden by a fair face.  At least the gods are sometimes just.”

Once again, the mage courted death by turning his back.  Once again Balian rushed him.  Instead of side-stepping, Silhara turned and met him full-on, throwing a round house punch that snapped Balian’s head back and lifted him off his feet.  He struck the ground in cloud of dust.

Silhara stood over him.  “You’re beginning to annoy me.”

Balian rolled to his feet and spat out a gobbet of blood.  A split lip and swelling jaw didn’t stop him, and he struggled to his feet.  Three more rushes, with Silhara dodging and defeating every attack with kicks, slaps and punches—but never his knife—and Balian staggered.  Bloody and bruised, he glared at Silhara from the one eye not yet blackened.

“I’m gonna cut you good, sorcerer.”  His words were more slurred than a drunkard’s.

Silhara looked heavenward, as if imploring the gods.  “So you keep saying, pretty boy.”

Balian charged him again, and Martise shouted another warning.  Silhara, grim-faced and obviously tired of baiting his opponent, kicked his feet out from under him.  Balian skidded on his back in the dirt.  Before he gasped a breath, Silhara jerked his knife from his hand and pinned him to the ground with his knees pressed to Balian’s shoulders.  Martise’s ex-lover whimpered as the mage straddled him.  Armed with both knives, Silhara pressed his blade to Balian’s jugular and held the confiscated blade against his cheek.

“The crowd almost got it right,
boy
.  You challenged the Master of Crows, but you fought a dock whore’s bastard.  I was fighting in the muck while you were still tethered to your mother’s lead strings.”

Martise held her breath as he pressed the knife edge harder against Balian’s neck.  A line of blood swelled above the blade.  For all that she detested Balian, she didn’t want to see him die.  Not over this and not by the hand of the man who represented the greatest threat to her heart.

“Please, Master.  Don’t do this.”

Her voice, soft and imploring, carried over the noise of the crowd.  Silhara met her gaze, his black eyes flat.  The knife cut deeper.  Balian moaned in terror.  The pungent odor of urine suddenly filled the air.  Silhara continued to stare at her.

“Please,” she repeated.  “He isn’t worth it.”

A shadow of humanity returned to his gaze.  He blinked and focused his attention on his fallen rival.  “Pissed yourself, did you?  Now you know the taste of true fear.”  He flipped Balian’s dagger in his palm so that the tip pointed down, creating a depression in the fallen man’s cheek.  “These marks and cuts will heal in no time, and you’ll once again be a wench’s fantasy come to life.”  His smile thinned.

Whatever Balian saw in Silhara’s eyes made him twist and writhe, despite the threat of death.  He whined when Silhara deepened the bloody cut on his neck.

“A momento, I think.  So the ugliness within isn’t masked by the beauty without.”

Martise cried out at the same time Balian did.  “No!”

He ignored her and addressed Balian.  “One move and I’ll slit your throat.  Die handsome or live honest.  What will it be?”

As one the crowd hissed and groaned when Silhara slowly carved a half-moon design in Balian’s right cheek.  The man, beaten, humiliated and scarred, fainted.

When he was done, the Master of Crows stood and tossed Balian’s knife so that it stuck in the ground near his head.  No mercy softened his voice.  No remorse colored his tone.  “Don’t fret,
boy
,” he said.  “No one will notice it if you fuck in the dark.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Neith needed rain.  The grove baked in the descending sun’s dry heat, with trees losing leaves, shedding the raiment that demanded more water.  If the weather didn’t cooperate soon and provide some relief, his harvest next year would suffer, possibly fail.

Silhara stood at the entrance to his balcony and puffed on the hose attached to the
huqqah
at his feet.  The habit soothed him, kept him from kicking furniture or throwing breakables against the wall in frustration.  He should be thankful the well hadn’t dried up.  Instead he spent hours at night wondering if there was a way to manipulate the unseen rivers below ground to swell and rise and water the roots of his thirsty trees.

If it would only rain.

If Corruption would only pack up its star and leave.

If Conclave would only come and retrieve their spy before she completely destroyed his equilibrium and caused him to make the one mistake that would condemn him to death.

She was in the library now, scribbling at her notes, waiting for him to meet her so they could ruminate over what a gaggle of long-dead kings did to destroy a long-dead god, and how it might help him or the priesthood destroy Corruption.

He blew a stream of smoke into the air, manipulating it with a fingertip until it resembled the spiral insignia of Conclave.  The vortex of life to the center of eternity, a symbol of benevolence for a pitiless, avaricious canonry who had forgotten the true magic of the Gift bestowed on them.  The symbol disintegrated, shredded by the ceaseless summer winds.

Silhara had little faith Conclave would succeed in its endeavor to destroy Corruption.  Birdixan and his fellow kings were described in the brittle parchment as men of great position and nobility.  Save for the Luminary, leader of Conclave, he could think of no priest who came close to fulfilling the role of Birdixan and his brethren: none with the power and skill to battle the god and win.

Birdixan.  The name vexed him.  He’d seen or heard it before but didn’t remember where.  Martise, for all her learning and talent for recall, was unfamiliar with it.  He might not trust her completely, but he had great faith in her abilities.  If she didn’t recognize the name, few would.

Conclave’s spy was proving more helpful than he anticipated, and more alluring than he liked.

He’d caught glimpses of her in Eastern Prime’s marketplace as she followed Gurn from stall to stall.  She might slip unnoticed in most crowds, but he’d spotted her easily enough numerous times.  He’d never seen her so lighthearted or at ease as when she shopped with his servant and surveyed the pandemonium around her—at least until she entered the common area and overheard her erstwhile lover vilify her in the crudest terms.

He watched from the corner of one eye as she crept toward his table, her eyes dark with some unnamed dread.  He’d been peeling an apple, waiting patiently for her and Gurn to meet him.  He hadn’t paid any attention to the two men sitting across from him, having no interest in the ramblings of drunken braggarts.  It was Martise’s fixed gaze on them that made him take notice.

Balian’s remarks and the sight of Martise’s face, white with shame, had set his temper soaring.  For a moment it felt as if the dolt was insulting him instead of his apprentice.  Anger, mixed with no small amount of jealousy and possessiveness, roared through him.  Stabbing that knife point into the vulgar bastard’s hand went a long way to cooling him off.  Scarring and beating him bloody had made Silhara almost cheery.

Martise, visibly shaken by what she witnessed, remained mostly silent the rest of the day, occasionally tossing him complicated looks.  Gurn was not so quiet.  He’d seen the fight as well and signed rapidly, wanting to know what happened.  Silhara’s clipped “He insulted my household,” satisfied him.

That night in the inn, while Gurn slept near the door of their room and Martise slumbered on her pallet nearby, Silhara prepared one of his hand pipes and took a calming smoke by the window.  Below him, Eastern Prime slowly darkened, lamps winking out as pubs closed and households went to bed.  Beyond the town, the bay sang its tidal lullaby, rocking ships to sleep.

He’d congratulated himself on the deal he’d struck with Fors.  For all his blustering, the man knew the quality of Silhara’s product and the demand for it.  Even with the generous payment he’d given the mage, he’d still make a hefty profit off sales to the city’s population.

The heavy weight of the coin purse tied at his waist reassured him.  He’d done well, and though the purse would be significantly lighter once he paid the vendors Gurn had bartered with, they were set for another season.  His reputation had its uses, his Gift its reward, but neither made food appear on the table.  Only hard labor, stealing or the blessing of aristo birthright did that.  Silhara was intimately acquainted with the first two and scornful of the third.

A rustle of blankets made him look to where Martise slept.  She sat up, saw him at the window and rose.  A stray beam of moonlight revealed the shadow of slender thighs and the curve of a breast beneath her leine before she wrapped her long shawl around her and padded to him.  Her bare feet shone ivory in the dark.  He thought them pretty.  She smelled good too—of sleep and warm female.

 He pointed to Corruption’s star, now hovering over the bay.  His voice was soft.  “The Kurman no longer guide their flocks to the Brecken Falls.  Corruption has left its mark.  The rivers are salted, and the falls themselves fouled.  Crops are dying; trees are dying, and livestock as well.  The towns are emptying of people seeking food and refuge in the greater cities.”

She shook her head.  “I don’t understand.  Corruption hopes to rule the world again.  What is there to rule if all are dead and the lands laid waste?

“It’s called siege, apprentice.  Starve your enemies, bring them so low that the promise of the simplest necessity will seem a gift from the gods.  With enough patience you can break a man to the point he will do anything you command.”  He puffed on his pipe.  “Effective if unoriginal.”

“Do you think Conclave will find a way to stop the god?”

“I doubt it.  The priesthood’s greatest weakness is its vanity.  They’ll scour their libraries looking for the one spell that will kill the god, but they can’t use what their forbears used.  Corruption has had more than a thousand years to consider how he’ll defeat his adversaries if they try again.  The priests won’t look beyond their own walls for a solution.  They are Conclave, keepers of all the knowledge and arcane worth having.”  His smile was mocking.  “At least those things
they
consider important.”

She rubbed the end of her braid with her fingers.  Silhara imagined what all that red-hued hair would look like flowing free over her shoulders and down her back.  “Will you tell them what you found at Iwehvenn?”

“Yes, but will they listen?  I am no admirer of the priests, nor they of me.  To listen, you have to trust, or at least respect.”

He puffed on the pipe, waiting for the real reason she’d joined him at the window.

Her eyes, their copper color darkened to obsidian in the moon’s cold light, reflected gratitude and the remnants of shame.  “Today, at the market…”

Silhara held up a hand, and she fell silent.  “When I was nine, my mother serviced a wealthy merchant every week.”  His lip curled into a sneer.  “He’d deign to descend into the wharf filth and pay for an hour of her time, sometimes a full night.  She always sent me away when he came to our room.”  He pointed the pipe stem at Martise.  “Understand, I was born to a
houri
, raised around other
hourin
and almost became one myself.”  Martise’s expression showed no contempt at his revelation.

“I wasn’t an innocent about the nature of her profession.  She wasn’t protecting my childhood.”  An old revulsion, mixed with rage, burned within.  “The merchant was an odd sort and sought my mother out repeatedly.  The last time she pushed me out the door, I waited in an alcove, then sneaked back into the room.”  The pipe stem threatened to snap in his fingers.  “He had her crawling on her hands and knees naked, following him around and kissing the floor where he stepped.”  Martise gasped and covered her mouth, her eyes shining with pity and horror.  “He didn’t take her, didn’t touch her, and didn’t let her touch him.  He gained his pleasure by hearing her call herself names, tell him what undeserving scum she was, and how lucky she was to breathe the same air he did.”

Silhara paused, caught between the need to purge the vile image from his system and trying not to retch from reliving the memory.  A butterfly touch on his arm settled his seething emotions.  Martise’s fingers rested against his sleeve, a whisper of comfort.  His stomach calmed.

“He came on the floor and made her lick it up, then pissed on her before he left.”

Martise’s hand clenched his arm.  “No child should have to witness that,” she hissed in the dark.  “No woman should suffer it.  That was a monster, not a man.”

The past couldn’t be changed, but Silhara felt as if a suffocating weight slid off his chest.  He’d exacted his revenge decades earlier, dealt street justice that gave no quarter.  But only now did he feel as if the hideous shadow of that memory had lessened.  He didn’t question why, after so much time, he chose to unburden himself to a woman whose purpose was ruled by Conclave.  He had used it to make a point.  It had transformed into something else.  He trusted her to listen and not judge.  She repaid him with a reassuring clasp.  It was enough.

“Monsters are as vulnerable as men.  I followed the merchant when he left.”  He filled his mouth with pipe smoke and blew it out the window, watching it float, serpentine, in the air before dissipating.  “Taking a life leaves its mark on the soul.  I bear no scar from taking his.”

Martise removed her hand from his arm, and Silhara instantly missed her touch.  “He deserved it, whatever you did to him.  And more.”

He remained silent, watching the ships rock in the bay.

“You knew Balian spoke of me.”

“I guessed.  Men are not prone to wax poetic over a woman’s voice when they can talk about her breasts instead.  She’d have to be exceptional for such to be remarked.  Your voice is exceptional.”

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“What?  Make him bleed?”  Silhara shrugged.  “I enjoy a good brawl, though he wasn’t much of a challenge.  Your lover could learn a thing or two about knife fighting.”

Her shadowed eyes flashed.  “He isn’t my lover.”

For reasons he refused to consider, he was glad the detestable Balian had been relegated to her past.  “Gained a little wisdom, did you?”

“Age and experience do that for a person.”

“True.  There should be some reward for creaking bones and gray hair.”

He chuckled and she laughed softly.  They stayed by the window for almost an hour after that, quiet, until Martise hid a yawn behind her hand and bid him goodnight.

Now, the view at Neith was of plains and trees instead of sea, and he indulged in his smoke alone.  Once, he welcomed such solitude, but things had changed.  He missed those moments of camaraderie, the sense of companionship not even Gurn, despite his affable nature, could provide.

The events at the market place continued to play in his memory.  Silhara had rammed his dagger into Balian’s hand with relish, hoping he broke bone and severed tendons.  While he despised the man for his insults, he couldn’t banish the images that rose in his mind—of him in Balian’s place, with Martise clothed only in sun and the loose fall of her hair, on her knees before him, her mouth taking him in a deep caress.  He pressed a palm against his growing erection.

She continually surprised him.  Unremarkable on the surface, she was a study in contrasts.  She jumped at her own shadow but faced down a lich to save him.  He’d raced to her rescue when she’d screamed loud enough to bring the roof down, only to see her Gift hurl Corruption across the room.  He no longer believed her naturally submissive.  Quiet, yes, and good at hiding her emotions when she wished.  But that lowered gaze had far less to do with acknowledging him as superior and more to do with hiding the fact she sometimes wanted to knock his teeth down his throat.

And she served at Neith.  Even knowing his reputation and the fact she’d be left alone with two men in an isolated redoubt with no hope of rescue should they decide to harm her, she’d come to him as his false apprentice.  Cumbria must have promised her great rewards to risk so much.  He’d first assumed money, but weeks spent in her company proved him wrong.  Martise was motivated to act as the bishop’s eyes and ears, but the promise of coin wasn’t the lure.

That pleased him.  Such a woman, untroubled by his penury and the back-breaking labor of maintaining their survival, would do well here at Neith.  The thought ran like melted snow through him.  He tossed the
huqqah
hose aside in disgust.

One kiss, powerful enough to incinerate every last scrap of his reason and fire his blood, had him mooning over a future neither possible nor wanted.  Neith was crowded enough with him, Gurn and Cael in residence.  The occasional
houri
, bought for a night, was enough feminine companionship.