Scar Felice (The Fourth Age of Shanakan Book 3) (26 page)

She tried to think of it as mercy. Karnack was suffering as no man should suffer, and she could release him from that pain. It seemed a good argument, but every time she framed it the words sounded like lies. It sounded like revenge.

Do not seek vengeance. Seek justice. Vengeance will cost you more than you can imagine.

The words rang in her mind – linked in some way to what Serhan had said. But what was justice? Killing him would not be justice, or as least not as she understood it. It was the easy way, and she would suffer for it. If he were a stranger she would not think it mercy. She would try to help.

So she could not kill him. It was a radical decision. She had grown up in a society where life cost no more than the whim of a lord, less than a bale of good cotton, and this was a man who had killed, and made her life a torment. Yet it had been her choice to make it a personal quest. She could have left the warrant in the hands of the guard, could have gone home to The Scar and laid Todric’s bones to rest. She could have mourned and laid flowers on his grave as a sister should.

It was because the world had changed and was all different now that she had been so shocked. She had been outraged by her brother’s death. It was so completely against the spirit of the new world.

Now she must make her decision in that spirit. Killing Karnack was something that she could not do. It was the old way. If he had been defiant and unrepentant, then maybe, but not now.

Yet she could not forgive him. When she thought of Todric and summoned his image, his voice, his smile she still felt the ache of loss, and bitterly resented the pointlessness of it. In all honesty she could not set him free, and Serhan was wrong in thinking it would heal the man. Karnack needed to make restitution, he needed to atone for his crime or he would not believe forgiveness. He needed a different kind of suffering.

So her heart told her that he must be her bondsman. It was the right thing to do, but she had not lied to the Mage Lord. The thought of his face, his voice, being around her day after day was intolerable. The thought occurred to her that she could make him wear a mask, cut out his tongue, but she recoiled at the idea. It was worse than the old ways, more self serving, more cruel.

There was an idea there, though. If Karnack could not be Karnack it would be acceptable. It was impossible, of course, but Serhan had said that he would help, and Serhan could do the impossible. He was the Mage Lord.

Hours had passed. She was hungry. In a lighter mood than she had known for a long time she rose from her bed and went in search of food and miracles.

Serhan had listened to her request with interest, and had not denied her at once. He was intrigued by the idea, but raised two objections. In the first case it was a piece of magic that he had never attempted, and it would be difficult to achieve. Secondly, he would not even try to do it if Karnack refused.

“But you will consider it?”

“I will, and I think I will discuss it with Borbonil. It may be a more familiar problem for him.”

Serhan turned to go, but Felice had more that she wanted to say; things that needed to be said.

“My Lord…”

“What is it?”

“I need to speak to you.” She hesitated, and he nodded encouragingly. “Forgive me if I seem to be wasting your time.” She could see the change in his expression. He understood at once, and she was grateful for that. It was something she could not speak of plainly, bound as she was by her oath to Alder. She had found an indirect route, a way of suggesting it, and did not wish him to think her a fool. “What would happen if one of the guardsmen stationed in a village was killed by a villager?”

He raised an eyebrow. “The men in the Kalla House would arrest him and hold him for trial.”

“And what if the man had friends, and there were only a few men in the Kalla House. I know that some have as few as five guards. For the sake of argument let us say that all five were killed by this man and his friends. What then?”

“We would send fifty men to restore order.”

“And if they were somehow defeated?”

“Most unlikely, Felice. However, in such a case I would send either Cabersky or Borbonil to impose order.”

“And they cannot be resisted – because they cannot be killed.”

“Not by men.”

Felice was silent for a moment. “I suggest, My Lord, that under no circumstances should you attempt to defeat the Ekloi.”

She saw his eyes widen a fraction. He had grasped her point, received her message completely and clearly. She could see that he wanted to ask a question, many questions, perhaps. How did she know that they were a hierarchy? What had been said? He was a man who preferred to evaluate the evidence himself, and she understood that. He had never been in a position to trust people or their judgement, but now he was warned, now he would be cautious.

“Thank you, Ima,” he said, reverting for a moment to the formal address, a sign of respect. “Was there anything else?”

“Just one thing. Borbonil and Cabersky are safe, for the moment at least.”

He nodded. “I had assumed as much, but it is good to hear it from a reliable source. You have done me a great service, Felice.” He sat down again, quite close to her, closer than they had been before, and looked at her eyes. “It had struck me that you do not ask much for yourself.”

“What do you mean?”

“You asked Borbonil for a favour, but it was not for yourself.”

She remembered the blind girl, Jem’s daughter. Helena. So long ago. “It seemed a shame,” she said.

“He did it, you know. He went to Pek and restored her sight. She is healed. He says that you owe him a favour.”

“He is right. I do.”

“Well, I believe that I owe
you
one.” He reached out and touched her face. She was surprised, and pulled away, but not before his fingers had touched her scar. She had almost forgotten it, grown used to the stares of pity and distaste that greeted her among strangers. In truth there had not been that many strangers to recoil at her disfigurement, but she was very much aware of it now. She felt it burn, as though Serhan had somehow set it alight by his touch, and she gasped, pressed her face into her hands.

It was gone. The scar was gone from her face as completely as though it had never been there. She ran her finger tips down her face carefully, hardly daring to believe them, but her skin was smooth and clean and whole again.

“You did not think to ask,” Serhan said. “I wondered if you would. It is the simplest thing. You asked Borbonil to cure a blind girl, and yet you did not ask this easy thing for yourself.”

She shook her head. “No,” she said. “I…”. Words would not come. She had thought herself scarred for life. She had not really thought at all.

“You impress me, Felice Caledon,” Serhan said. “I am not easily impressed. Now go and take your leisure while I consider your request. I will send for you when I have something to tell.”

She left.

For the first time in months there was nothing at all hanging over her. Karnack’s mark was wiped from her life. She had solved her final problem, and until another presented itself she was free to enjoy the great school and the town that lay by it. Her mood was almost unbearably light. She felt intoxicated with hope.

Some time during the day the gates of the school had been opened, and the candidates had been allowed out again. The school had returned to life. There were hundreds of them, some as young as fifteen, and others close to thirty years. She was surrounded by foreign accents, dark skins, bright colours – it was extraordinary.

What to do? She walked down into the town on what was now a busy road. Candidates of all shapes and sizes walked past her, barely sparing a glance in her direction. She was one among many, and she enjoyed that. One or two smiled at her, but they were the smiles that men give women in the hope that they will be returned. She smiled back, but kept walking.

Her steps led her eventually to the great square in the new part of town. Today it had been turned into a market. Stalls of many shapes and sizes with a surprising array of goods crammed the open spaces, and hundreds of people walked between them, buying, talking, smiling. The whole town breathed again, free from the threat of an unknown hand, the spectre of sudden death in the night. She allowed herself to enjoy one of her favourite things. She walked up and down the stalls, examining the goods, comparing the prices. There were opportunities here for a trader, some things that she could not find, and others that could be offered at a keener price. She toyed with the idea for a moment. There did not seem to be any large traders based here – most of the stalls were small, local efforts; people selling their surplus crops, a few men selling tools, cloth. It would be simple enough to become a major power in this market, and it could only grow. Someone would become wealthy here.

In time she became hungry and found herself near the tavern. She considered it for a moment. She had little money left, and no means of getting more. It would be better to eat back at the school where she could rely on hospitality, but she remembered the landlord in White Rock, who had told her this tavern was run by his brother, and she was curious. It even bore the same name: The Black Sword.

“Can’t make up your mind?”

It was a young man who had addressed her. He was sitting on a bench outside the tavern with a plate of bread and cheese beside him, a cup of ale in one hand. He was dark haired, his unkempt, uncut locks falling around his face, tanned by the sun, with brown eyes that seemed to measure what they looked at. His shoulders were broad, and he gave an impression of confidence and competence.

“Is it expensive to eat here?” she asked.

His eyes narrowed and he raised a finger. “East Scar,” he said. “I’m good with accents, and no, not very expensive, but it depends on what you eat.” He waved at his own plate. “Five coppers.”

“You must have heard a lot of accents,” she said. “Are you a trader?”

“No. I’ve never left White Rock’s lands, but all sorts come here, for the law, you know.”

“What do you do here?”

“I am a clerk,” he confessed. He made it sound a lowly profession, and in most places it might be. She had, in effect, been her father’s clerk in the Scar.

“In the law house or the school?”

“Law.”

She smiled. “You work for Delf Killore, the law master. He seems like a good man.”

“You have met him?” The man was surprised.

“I have had the honour,” she said.

“Now I have you,” he said, with what was clearly a degree of satisfaction with his own cleverness. “Felice Caledon.”

She was impressed despite herself. “How can you know that?” she asked.

“Simple enough. I know most of the faces here, and yours is a new one. You’re from East Scar, and there are not many from so far away, and even fewer have met with Delf.”

“But there are so many here…”

“I’m good with faces,” he said. He held out a hand. “Carn,” he said. “Carn san Rufus Barak, clerk to the lawmaster.”

She took the offered hand. “Felice san Marcos Caledon, trader,” she said.

“And adventurer,” he said. “Your name is well known here, and elsewhere I would wager.”

“I am a trader,” she insisted. “Nothing more. Any adventures that I may have had have been forced upon me by circumstance.”

“Quite so,” Carn said. His tone was approving. “Only a fool goes seeking danger. There is enough uncertainty around without going looking for more. Will you join me, Ima?”

“You will forgive me if I say no,” she said. “I am curious to meet the landlord. He has a brother who keeps a tavern at White Rock and asked me to pass on his regards.”

“Perhaps later?”

“Perhaps.”

She went inside. The layout was not dissimilar to the tavern in White Rock. The bar was in the same place and the tables and chairs were laid out in much the same manner, but it was remarkable what a difference a couple of hundred people made. She eased her way through the lively crowd. They seemed good natured and mostly made way if they saw her approaching, and otherwise needed only a tap on the shoulder. She soon found herself at the bar.

There were two men and a woman working steadily, filling mugs with ale, fetching wine, and calling orders back to the kitchen. As she watched a woman came out from the back and put two bowls on the bar, another man picked them up and carried them off into the press, instantly lost to sight. A grey haired man approached her.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“A cup of wine,” she said. “Nothing special, though, just ordinary wine.” He nodded and stepped back, found a cup and filled it from a bottle. He put it in front of her and told her the price.

“You seem to be prospering,” she said.

“We do very well,” the man said. Clearly he did not want to spend time talking. Other customers were waiting.

“Well,” she said. “Your brother sends his regards.”

The man stopped and looked at her.

“My brother?”

“In White Rock,” she said. “You are the landlord?” She may have it wrong. He may be only a hired man. To be honest he seemed a little old to be the brother of the man she had known in White Rock.

“Yes,” he said. “My brother. Of course. How is he?”

“He is well,” she said, “though not a tenth part as busy as yourself.”

“Did you want a room?” the man asked.

“Thank you, but no. I have a place at the school.”

“Well, you must stay a while,” he said. “I have no time, but I would hear more of my brother. Will you wait?”

“I’m not sure,” she said. She did not really want to sit in the crowd until trade died down. It could be hours.

“We have a private room, for honoured guests,” he said. “You could wait there. You can eat, if you like. No charge.”

It was too good an offer to turn down, and besides that she did not want to offend the man. She had little to tell, but he would be glad of what little she could tell him, she hoped. His brother was well, his tavern was surviving.

A woman brought her a menu, and she was allowed to choose what she wanted to eat. She was deliberately modest, choosing the less expensive items. There was a soup that did not cost much, and she added bread and cheese to that. It would be enough. She sipped her wine and waited, feeling ill at ease on her own. The noise from the main room sounded like the sea on a choppy day, but deeper in tone. She listened to it while she examined her surroundings.

She had chosen a comfortable leather chair placed at a table. There were three other chairs in the same style at the table, and another two tables laid out in the same way. The floor was carpeted with rugs of adequate quality in a traditional southern pattern of reds and blues. She guessed it was Samaran. There was a tapestry of quite poor quality on one wall, a door that led back to the main room of the tavern, and another that led to the kitchens. She had been in such a room before. It was a card room, she guessed. In the evenings the more moneyed clients would gather here to play castle and gamble. It reminded her of Yasu, and Todric.

A woman bustled in with a tray holding her soup, bread and cheese and another glass of wine. “Here you are,” the woman said. She was twice Felice’s age, and dressed in a brown, sack like dress. She was twice her size as well, and red faced.

“The wine…”

“On the house, Ima.”

“Thank you.”

The woman went away again, which made her glad, She did not like the way that the older woman had looked at her. It was a sort of resentful, despising look. It was possible that the tradesmen did not like the people from the school, despite relying on them for their livelihood.