Seeds of Betrayal (21 page)

The innkeeper stood. “You’re free to finish your meal,” he told them. “But you won’t be buying a room. Not here, not tonight.”

The Qirsi grabbed his arm. “Wait. You said you hadn’t seen anyone like the man we described, and then you said, ‘at least not recently.’ What did you mean?”

Rodaf pulled his arm free, glaring at the man. For a moment he considered just walking away, or better yet, demanding that they leave the Ironwood immediately. But Grinsa pulled a ten-qinde round from his pocket and tossed it on the table, where it sat glittering with the glow of the candles that lit the room.

After eyeing it briefly, the innkeeper picked it up. “There was a man like the one you describe who used to sing in one of the festivals. It’s been a few years now, but it could be the same man.”

“Do you remember his name?” Grinsa asked.

Rodaf searched his memory for some time. “No,” he said at last. “I’ve forgotten.”

“Corbin, perhaps?”

The innkeeper raised an eyebrow. “Yes, that was it. I guess it was the same man.”

Grinsa nodded. “Thank you, Rodaf. We’ll leave after we’ve eaten, and we won’t return. You have my word.”

Rodaf turned away and walked back to the bar, wondering if he had been rash in telling the men to leave. The boy might have been from Eibithar, but he certainly didn’t look like the northern kingdom had treated him well. The innkeeper was just about to tell them that he had reconsidered, and that they could stay the night, when the door to the inn opened again and four of the duke’s soldiers stepped in from the wind and cold.

Immediately, both Grinsa and the boy lowered their heads, as if intent on their food and ale. The guards glanced at them as they made their way to the ale tap, but they showed no sign that they were actually looking for the pair. Grinsa stared after the men, his head still down so that he could watch the soldiers without being too obvious. Whatever had brought them to Bistari, Rodaf wanted no part of it. Let them find beds at one of the other inns. He considered pointing the pair out to the soldiers, but though the lad was a northerner, he immediately thought better of it. He didn’t want trouble, and he couldn’t afford a reputation as a man who couldn’t be trusted by his patrons. Nothing ruined a tavern’s business faster than that.

The soldiers didn’t stay long. As they did most nights, they drank their ales and returned to the castle. Once they were gone, Grinsa and the Eandi boy pushed back from their table. The boy stepped to the door, but the white-hair walked over to Rodaf and handed him another five qinde, more than enough to pay for their food and drink.

“That’s a lot of gold you’ve given me,” the innkeeper said. “I told you before, I can’t tell you anything else.”

“I realize that. But you could have pointed us out to those men, and you didn’t. I’m grateful.”

Grinsa held his gaze a moment longer, then turned to go.

“What is it you want with the singer?” Rodaf called after him.

The Qirsi faced him again. “He killed a friend of ours and left the boy to take the blame. We’d like to discuss that with him.”

Rodaf nodded, wishing he hadn’t asked. He didn’t start to breathe again until the door closed behind them, and he found himself alone with Winso and the others.

It seemed to have grown colder just in the short time it took them to eat supper. The wind still howled through the city streets, carrying the chill, damp scent of the Scabbard, and a fine rain had begun to fall. Tavis couldn’t imagine how it didn’t turn to snow, so frigid was the air.

He and the Qirsi walked through the streets of Bistari, skirting the marketplace so as to keep their distance from Castle Bistari.

“I told you not to speak,” Grinsa said, his voice tight, as if he were fighting to control his temper. “What’s the good of using a false name if you’re going to give away the fact that we’re from Eibithar?”

“I’m not certain there’s any good in it at all,” he said. He had never liked the idea of using an alias. He was Tavis of Curgh, son of a duke and heir to one of the great houses of Eibithar. Why should he have to hide his true name like some road brigand on the moors? Using Xaver MarCullet’s name helped a bit. At least this way he could honor his friend and liege man, maybe even atone in some small way for the knife wound he gave the boy after his terrifying Fating several turns back. Still, he would have preferred to stop hiding and travel the countryside openly as a noble. Let the Aneirans be damned.

“We’ve spoken of this before, Tavis,” the Qirsi said wearily. “You’re an Eibitharian lord in the heart of your kingdom’s most bitter enemy. Your scars already make you an object of interest.”

Tavis looked away. He didn’t need the gleaner to tell him that. Everywhere they went he felt the stares, and each day he cursed Aindreas of Kentigern for the torture that had so marked him.

“Using your real name would be far too dangerous,” Grinsa went on. “All we need is for one person to recognize you and all would be lost.”

“If you’re so worried about others noticing us, perhaps you should stop throwing my father’s gold around like a drunken baron. You gave that man fifteen qinde for old meat, hard cheese, and stale bread. You learned nothing from him of any importance.”

“Actually that’s not true. I learned that Corbin had been here before, albeit not necessarily when Chago died. And I satisfied myself that the man we’re looking for and the man we’re describing are one and the same. It may not be much, but it’s something. It’s more than we had before we went in.” He grinned. “And you forgot the ale. Your father’s gold bought that as well, and I thought it was rather good.”

Tavis had to smile. “It was all right,” he admitted, “for an Aneiran brew.” They walked in silence for a few paces and he glanced at the gleaner, trying to gauge his mood. “Where are we going now?”

“To another tavern, one where we’ll be able to get a room.”

“How do you know?”

“It’s a Qirsi inn. The Silver Marten.”

The boy nodded, but said nothing. He had grown used to this by now-sleeping and eating among white-hairs. They stared at him as well, but at least in the Qirsi taverns he could convince himself that they did so because he was Eandi, rather than because of the marks on his face.

“You still think Corbin killed Bistari’s duke?” he asked. “The innkeeper seemed certain that it was the king’s men.”

Grinsa shrugged, his eyes trained on the street. “I don’t know. We’ve been searching Aneira for more than three turns now, and we’ve yet to find Brienne’s killer. I had hoped that following the Western Festival would lead us to him, but that didn’t work. I had hoped to find something in Tantreve, even though the marquess there died more than a year ago. That turned out to be a wasted journey as well. This just seemed like the most likely place to look next.” He let out a slow breath. “Maybe we need to try something new.”

Tavis knew what would come next. Grinsa wanted to look for Shurik, once the first minister to Aindreas of Kentigern, who betrayed his duke to Rouel of Mertesse. The gleaner hoped that Shurik could help them find those leading the Qirsi conspiracy, which he believed had paid for Brienne’s murder. Tavis didn’t doubt that all this was true, but he felt that finding the assassin and proving that he killed Brienne would take far less time than thwarting an entire conspiracy. Since he couldn’t reclaim his place in the Order of Ascension or his birthright as heir to the House of Curgh until he proved himself innocent of Brienne’s murder, he had insisted that they follow Corbin rather than the renegade Qirsi.

“We don’t need something new,” he said in a flat voice. “We need to keep looking for the assassin. It may be that he’s left Aneira by now. For all we know he’s back in Eibithar.”

“At least we know that Shurik’s not. He would have sought asylum in Mertesse. He must still be there.”

Tavis gave a silent curse. He might as well have been arguing the gleaner’s cause for him.

“One more turn, Grinsa,” he said, though it pained him to do so. “If we’ve found nothing by the Night of Two Moons in Qirsar’s Turn, we’ll start north for Mertesse.”

The Qirsi looked at him with unconcealed surprise. “Do you mean that?”

He nodded. “We’ve found nothing so far. I’m no closer to taking back my name than I was when we left Eibithar. Whatever you think me, I’m not a fool.”

“Not usually, no.”

Again Tavis smiled, though he also shook his head. No one had ever spoken to him as Grinsa did, not even Xaver, who had been his best friend for as long as he could remember. From any other man, the gibes Grinsa dealt him would have seemed impudent. But with the help of Fotir jal Salene, his father’s first minister, the gleaner had freed him from Kentigern’s dungeon. In doing so, he revealed himself as a Weaver, the most powerful kind of Qirsi sorcerer, and the most feared and hated by the Eandi. Not only had he saved Tavis’s life, he had trusted the boy with his own. No one had done so much for him or asked so much of him. Theirs remained a difficult partnership. Grinsa made no secret of the fact that he thought Tavis spoiled, thoughtless, and childish, nor did he hesitate to point out other faults in the boy as he noticed them. For his part, Tavis often resented the Qirsi’s attempts to order him about, as if Grinsa were his surrogate father. But Tavis relied on the man as he had few others, and he sensed that he had begun to earn Grinsa’s trust as well.

They reached the Silver Marten a short time later. Pausing briefly on the threshold, his hand on the door handle, Grinsa looked back at him, a plea in his yellow eyes.

“Don’t say a thing.”

“I won’t.” When the gleaner continued to stare at him, he smiled, adding, “You have my word.”

Tavis followed Grinsa into the tavern, the warm air and aromas of cooking meats and stews wrapping themselves around him like a blanket. There were a few more people here than there had been at the Iron wood, but still the inn was nearly empty. All the faces he saw were pale, all the eyes yellow. Who could have imagined that he would ever spend so much time with sorcerers? Looking around the tavern, however, another thought came to him.

“You know,” he said softly, “if Corbin was hired by a Qirsi, he might have come here. And he would have stood out like a Revel tumbler in a cloister.”

Grinsa gave him that look, the one that always came to his face when Tavis surprised him with an insight. It almost seemed to say,
See what you can do when you think
?

“Choose us a table,” the gleaner said. “I’ll buy two ales and speak with the barman.”

Tavis nodded and walked to the back of the tavern. He sensed the inn’s patrons watching him, but he tried to ignore their stares. A few moments later, Grinsa joined him.

“He’s going to bring our ales and sit with us for a time. Remember-”

“I know,” Tavis said. “Say nothing.”

“It may be even more important here, Tavis. These people may trust me because I’m Qirsi, but they’ll be wary of questions, particularly if they think we’re enemies of the movement. For all we know, this is the man who paid for Chago’s blood.”

Before Tavis could respond, the Qirsi bar man emerged from behind the bar, carrying two tankards. He smiled at them, but Tavis could see the man staring at the scars on his face.
Talk about standing out
, he thought, wishing he could hide under the table.

“Looks like you’ve had a rough time of it, my young friend,” the man said, setting the tankards on the table and sitting beside Tavis.

At least he was honest enough to talk about the scars. Better that than the silent, sidelong glances Tavis had endured for the past several turns.

“He met up with some thieves a while back,” Grinsa said. “We were in Caerisse at the time, the Paalniri Wild. He doesn’t really like to speak of it.”

“I should think not.” The man leaned closer to examine the wounds. “Looks like he’s healed well,” he said, glancing at Grinsa. “Your work?”

“I’m not a healer. I found someone in Enharfe to help him.”

The bar man nodded. “I see.” He gazed at the scars a moment longer, then faced the gleaner. “You said you had questions for me.”

“We do. We’re wondering if you’ve seen an Eandi man in the last turn or so. A singer.” Grinsa described the assassin briefly.

“Yes. I’ve seen him.”

Grinsa blinked. “What?”

“I’ve seen him,” the barman said again.

The gleaner just stared at him, as if unable to believe what he was hearing. “You’ve seen him recently?”

“Yes. He came in for an ale one night during the last waning.”

Tavis and Grinsa shared a look. That was just around the time the duke of Bistari was killed.

“Did he speak with anyone?” Grinsa asked, leaning forward.

“As I remember it, he did.”

“Who?”

The man faltered. “What is it you want with the singer?” he asked. He eyed Tavis briefly. “Is he the one who did this to the boy?”

The gleaner shook his head. “No. I assure you he’s not.”

“Then why are you so eager to find him?”

“Let’s just say that he owes us something. We need to find him so that we can collect on an old debt.”

The barman seemed to consider this.

“Now please, who was it he talked to?”

“I misspoke before,” the man said, his eyes flicking about the tavern uneasily. “I remember now. He didn’t speak with anyone.”

He was lying. Tavis didn’t need to be a gleaner to see that. He almost challenged the man, but Grinsa beat him to it.

“But a moment ago you said-”

“I was wrong. He sat alone the whole time he was here. I’m sure of it.” His face had turned ashen and his brow was suddenly damp. It almost seemed that he felt a dagger at his back.

“So you’re telling me that an Eandi singer came into your tavern, drank an ale, and then left without speaking to anyone.”

“That’s right.”

Grinsa shook his head. “I don’t believe you. Most Eandi would rather take off an arm than sit among white-hairs.”