Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 08 (5 page)

           
The watchdogs were there, right
there, so close they blocked the sun. But Kellin ignored them. He stared at the
young woman. "Tell him to show me. Now!"

           
The ivory-dark faced paled.
"Tuqhoc never shows—Tuqhoc does."

           
Kellin did not so much as blink even
as the watchdogs crowded him. He pulled free of a hand: Rogan's. "Tell him
what I said."

           
Tuqhoc, clearly disturbed by the
change in tone and stance—and the free use of his own name—barked out a clipped
question. The young woman answered reluctantly. Tuqhoc repeated himself, as if
disbelieving, then laughed. For the first time emotion glinted in his eyes.
Tuqhoc smiled at Kellin and made a declaration in the Steppes tongue.

           
Rogan's hands closed on both
shoulders decisively. "We are leaving. I warned you, my lord."

           
"No," Kellin declared. To
the young woman;

           
"What did he say?"

           
"Tuqhoc says, if he shows, you
die."

           
"Only a fool taunts a Steppes
warrior—I thought you knew better." Rogan's hands forced Kellin to turn.
"Away. Now."

           
Kellin tore free. "Show
me!" Even as Rogan blurted an order, the watchdogs closed on the warrior,
drawing swords. Kellin ducked around one man, then slid through two others. The
dark Steppes eyes were fixed on the approaching men in fierce challenge. Kellin
desperately wanted to regain that attention for himself. "Show me!"
he shouted.

           
Tuqhoc slipped the guard easily, so
easily—even as the challenge was accepted. In one quick, effortless motion
Tuqhoc plucked the knife from the thong around his neck and threw.

           
For Kellin, the knife was all. He
was only peripherally aware of the women crying out, the guttural invective of
the warrior as the watchdogs pressed steel against his flesh.

           
Rogan reached for him—

           
Too late. The knife was in the air.
And even as Rogan twisted, intending to protect his charge by using his own body
as shield, Kellin stepped nimbly aside. For ME—

           
He saw the blade, watched it, judged
its arc, its angle, anticipated its path. Then he reached out and slapped the
blade to the ground.

           
"By the gods—" Rogan
caught his shoulders and jerked him aside. "Have you any idea—?"

           
Kellin did. He could not help it. He
stared at the warrior, at the Steppes women, at the knife in the street. He
knew precisely what he had done, and why.

           
He wanted to shout his exultation,
but knew better. He looked at the watchdogs and saw the fixed, almost feral set
of jaws; the grimness in their faces; the acknowledgment in their eyes as they
caged the Steppesman with steel.

           
It was not his place to gloat;
Cheysuli warriors did not lower themselves to such unnecessary displays.

           
Kellin bent and picked up the knife.
He noted the odd greenish color and oily texture of the blade. He looked at
Rogan, then at the young woman whose eyes were astonished.

           
As much as for his tutor's benefit
as for hers, Kellin said: "Tell Tuqhoc that I am Cheysuli."

           
Rogan's hand shut more firmly on
Kellin's shoulder and guided him away despite his burgeoning protest. Kellin
was aware of the Mujharan Guard speaking to Tuqhoc and the young woman, of the
tension in Rogan's body, and of the startled murmuring of the crowd.

           
"Wait—" He wanted to twist
away from Rogan's grasp, to confront Tuqhoc of the Steppes and see the
acknowledgment in his eyes, as it was in the woman's, that a Cheysuli, regardless
of youth and size, was someone to be respected. But Rogan permitted no movement
save that engineered by himself. Doesn't he understand? Doesn't he know?

           
Unerringly—-and unsparing of his
firmness—the Homanan guided Kellin away from the wagons to a quieter pocket in
the square some distance away. His tone was flat, as if he squeezed out all
emotion for fear of showing too much. "Let me see your hand."

           
Now that the moment had passed and
he could no longer see the Steppes warrior, Kellin's elation died. He felt
listless, robbed of his victory. Sullenly he extended his hand, allowing Rogan
to see the slice across the fleshy part of three fingers and the blood running
down his palm.

           
Tight-mouthed, Rogan muttered
something

           
about childish fancies; Kellin
promptly snatched back his bleeding hand and pressed it against the sausage-stained
jerkin. The uneaten suhoqla grasped in his ether hand grew colder by the
moment.

           
Rogan said crisply, "I will
find something with which to bind these cuts."

           
Blood mingled with sausage grease as
Kellin pressed the fingers against his jerkin. It stung badly enough to make
the comers of his mouth crimp, but he would not speak of it. He would give away
nothing. "Leave it be. It has already stopped." He fisted his hand so
hard the knuckles turned white, then displayed it to Rogan. "You see.”

           
The tutor shook his head slowly, but
he gave the hand only the merest contemplation; he looked mostly at Kellin's
face, as if judging him.

           
I won't let him know, Kellin put up
his chin. "I am a warrior. Such things do not trouble warriors."

           
Rogan shook his head again.
Something broke in his eyes: an odd, twisted anguish. His breath hissed between
white teeth. "While you are fixed wholly on comporting yourself as a
warrior, neglecting to recall you are still but a boy—I realize it will do
little if any good to point out that the knife could have killed you." The
teeth clamped themselves shut. "But I'll wager that was part of the reason
you challenged him. Yet you should know that such folly could result in serious
repercussions."

           
"But I could see—"

           
Rogan cut off the protest. "If
not for yourself, for me and the guard! Do you realize what would become of us
if you came to harm?"

           
Kellin had not considered that. He
looked at Rogan more closely and saw the very real fear in his tutor's eyes.
Shame goaded. "No," he admitted, then anxiousness usurped it, and the
need to explain. "But I needed him to see. To know—"

           
"Know what? That you are a boy
too accustomed to having his own way?"

           
"That I am Cheysuli."
Kellin squeezed his cut hand more tightly closed. "I want them all to
know. They have to know—they have to understand that I am not he—"

           
"Kellin—"

           
"Don't you see? I have to prove
I am a true man, not a coward—that I will not turn my back on duty and my
people—and—and—" he swallowed painfully, finishing his explanation quickly,
un-evenly, "—any sons I might sire."

           
Rogan's mouth loosened. After a
moment it tightened again, and the muscles of his jaw rolled briefly. Quietly,
he said, "Promise me never to do such a thoughtless thing again."

           
Feeling small, Kellin nodded, then
essayed a final attempt at explanation. "I watched his eyes.

           
Tuqhoc's. I knew when he would
throw, and how, and what the knife would do. I had only to put out my hand, and
the knife was there," He shrugged self-consciously, seeing the-arrested
expression in Rogan's eyes. "I just knew. I saw." Dismayed, he
observed his congealing sausage as Rogan fixed him with a more penetrating
assessment. Kellin extended the stick with its weight of greasy suhoqla.
"Do you want this?"

           
The Homanan grimaced. "I cannot
abide the foul taste of those things. You wanted it—eat it."

           
But Kellin's appetite was banished
by aftermath. "It's cold." He glanced around, spied a likely looking
dog, and approached to offer the sausage. The mongrel investigated the meat,
wrinkled its nose and sneezed, then departed speedily.

           
"That says something for your
taste," Rogan remarked dryly. He drew his own knife, cut a strip of fabric
from the hem of his tunic, motioned a passing water-seller over and bought a
cup. He dipped the cloth into the water and began to wipe the cut clean.
"By the gods, the Queen will have my hide for this .. . you are covered
with grease and blood."

           
Rogan's ministrations hurt. No
longer hungry, Kellin discarded the suhoqla. He bit into his lip as the
watchdogs came up and resumed their places, though the distance between their
charge and their persons was much smaller now.

           
Humiliation scorched his face;
warriors did not, he believed, submit so easily to public nursing. "I want
to see the market."

           
Rogan looped the fabric around the
fingers and palm to make a bandage, then tied it off. "We are in the
market; look around, and you will see it."

           
He tightened the knot- "There.
It will do until we return to the palace."

           
Kellin's mind was no longer on the
stinging cut or its makeshift bandage. He frowned as a young boy passed by,
calling out in singsong Homanan.

           
"A fortune-teller!"

           
"No," Rogan said promptly.

           
"But Rogan—"

           
"Such things are a waste of
good coin." Rogan shrugged. "You are Cheysuli. You already know your
tahlmorra."

           
"But you don't yet know
yours," Grinning anticipation, Kellin locked his bandaged hand over
Rogan's wrist. "Don't you want to find out if you'll share your bed with
Melora or Belinda?"

           
Rogan coughed a laugh, glancing
sidelong at the guards. "No mere fortune-teller can predict that.

           
Women do what they choose to do;
they do not depend on fate."

           
Kellin tugged his tutor in the
direction the passing boy had indicated. "Let us go, Rogan. That boy says
the fortune-teller can predict what becomes of me."

           
"That boy is a shill. He says
what he's told to say, and the fortune-teller says what he's paid to say."

           
"Rogan!”

           
Rogan sighed. "If you desire it
so much—"

           
"Aye!" Kellin tugged him
on until they stood before a tent slumped halfheartedly against a wall. A black
cat, small version of the Mujhar's lir, Sleeta, lay stretched out on a faded
rug before the entrance, idly licking one paw; beside him curled a half-grown
fawn-hued dog who barely lifted an eyelid. The tent itself was small, its
once-glorious stripes faded gold against pale brown, so that it merged into the
wall. "My grandsire gave you coin for such things," Kellin reminded
his tutor. "Surely he could not count it ill-spent if we enjoyed it!"

           
Graying eyebrows arched. "A
sound point. That much you have mastered, if not your history."

           
Rogan gestured for the guardsmen to
precede them into the tent.

           
"No!" Kellin cried.

           
"They must, Kellin. The Mujhar
has given orders. And after what you provoked in the Steppes warrior, I should
take you home immediately."

           
Kellin compromised immediately.
"They may come wait here." His gesture encompassed the rug and
entrance. "But not inside the tent. A fortune is a private thing."

           
"I cannot allow the Prince
of—"

           
"Say nothing of titles!"
Ketlin cried. "How will the fortune-teller give me the truth otherwise? If
he knows what I am, it cheats the game."

           
"At least you admit it is a
game, for which I thank the gods; you are not entirely gullible. But rules are
rules; the Mujhar is my lord, not you."

           
Rogan ordered one of the guardsmen
into the tent.

           
"He will see that it is
safe."

           
Kellin waited impatiently until the
guardsman came out again. When the man nodded his head, Rogan had him and his
companions assume posts just outside the tent.

           
"Now?" Kellin asked, and
as Rogan nodded he slipped through the doorflap.

           
Inside the tent, Kellin found the
shadows stuffy and redolent of an acrid, spice-laden smoke that set his eyes to
watering. He wiped at them hastily, wrinkling his nose at the smell very much
as the street dog did to the suhoqla, and squinted to peer through the thready
haze- A gauzy dark curtain merged with shadow to hide a portion of the tent; he
and Rogan stood in what a castle-raised boy would call an antechamber, though
the walls were fabric in place of stone.

           
Rogan bent slightly, resting a hand
on Kellin's shoulder as he spoke in a low tone. "You must recall that he
works for coin, Kellin. Put no faith in his words."

           
Kellin frowned. "Don't spoil
it."

           
"I merely forewarn that what he
says—"

           
"Don't spoil it!"

           
The gauzy curtain was parted. The
fortune-teller was a nondescript, colorless foreign man of indeterminate features,
wearing baggy saffron pantaloons and three silk vests over a plain tunic: one
dyed blue, the next red, the third bright green.

           
"Forgive an old man his vice: I
smoke husath, which is not suitable for guests unless they also share the
vice." He moved out of the shadowed curtain, bringing the sweet-sour aroma
with him.

           
"I do not believe either of you
would care for it."

           
"What is it?" Kellin was
fascinated.

           
Rogan stirred slightly.
"Indeed, a vice. It puts dreams in a man's head."

           
Kellin shrugged. "Dreams are
not so bad. I dream every night."

           
"Husath dreams are different.
They can be dangerous when they make a man forget to eat or drink." Rogan
stared hard at the man- "The boy wants his fortune told, nothing more. You
need not initiate him into a curiosity that may prove dangerous."

           
"Of course." The man
smiled faintly and gestured to a rug spread across the floor. "Be in
comfort, and I will share with you your future, and a little of your
past."

           
"He is all of ten; his past is
short," Rogan said dryly. "This shouldn't take long."

           
"It will take as long as it
must." The fortune-teller gestured again. "I promise you no tricks,
no husath, no nonsense, only the truth."

           
Kellin turned and gazed up at Rogan.
"You first."

           
The brows arched again. "We came
for you."

           
"You first."

           
Rogan considered it, then
surrendered gracefully, folding long legs to seat himself upon the rug just
opposite the fortune-teller. "For the boy's sake, then."

           
"And nothing for
yourself?" The fortune-teller's teeth were stained pale yellow. "Give
me your hands."

           
Kellin dropped to his knees and
waited eagerly.

           
"Go on, Rogan. Give him your
hands."