The Raven Ring (7 page)

The woman reached the bench on the other side of the table and paused. Her eyes studied Eleret with unconcealed interest. “May I join you?” she said just before the silence became acutely uncomfortable.

“There’s no dagger in the door to stop you,” Eleret replied, shrugging one shoulder.

“A curious expression.” The woman seated herself sideways and swung her legs awkwardly over the top of the bench. Her green skirt trailed behind and caught on something; she had to squirm for a moment before she could settle into a comfortable position.

“It’s something my grandmother used to say.” Eleret made her tone as flat and unencouraging as she could. She lowered her eyes to her meal, hoping the other woman would take the hint. It was not entirely pretense; eating right-handed took considerable concentration. The comforting feel of the dagger’s hilt in her left hand was worth the inconvenience.

“I see.” The woman hesitated. “I was wondering whether you would be willing to help me.”

“Help you do what?” Eleret asked, still wary.

“I am a…collector of ancient relics; my name is Jonystra Nirandol. I am on my way to Kith Alunel, and have only a few days to spend in Ciaron. I will not be able to look through most of the shops. I was hoping…that is…would you tell me if you see anything I might find interesting?”

Eleret tore off a piece of bread and dipped it into the steaming soup. Deliberately, she swirled it to collect the anonymous bits of vegetables that floated in the thick brown liquid. “I have business of my own to attend to,” she said, and bit into the sop.

“I do not wish to keep you from it,” Jonystra said earnestly. “But I am sure that, wherever your business takes you, you will see things that I will not. All I ask is that you tell me of them, or leave a message.”

“What kinds of things?”

“Old ones, preferably small enough to carry easily,” Jonystra said. “Scent bottles, brooches, seals, rings—that sort of thing. For the right merchandise, I will pay well. Very well.”

Her voice was eager. Too eager. Eleret kept her expression neutral. “I can’t promise I’ll notice anything you’d like, but I’ll keep you in mind.”

“Thank you.” Jonystra’s smile held anticipation and a touch of relief. “Anything small and old, remember—rings, buckles, gloves, anything.”

“I’ll remember. How long will you be in Ciaron? I wouldn’t want to make you miss something just because I waited too long to leave you a message.”

“Three or four days. The caravan master isn’t sure how long it will take to find the cloth he wants, so it could be longer.” Jonystra raised her cup and sipped at it. “How long will you be here?”

Warning-horn calls echoed through Eleret’s mind. “Two weeks, at least,” she lied.

Jonystra’s eyebrows rose. “You are young to have so much business in this city.”

“Oh, I should finish my business in three or four days,” Eleret said, forcing a smile. “But I’ve never been in the city before, and I intend to make the most of it.”

“Ah. Then you must let me recommend a few places for you to see. I have been here many times, and I know Ciaron well.”

Eleret let Jonystra turn the conversation. For the rest of the meal, the other woman described various sights, streets, shops, and amusements that she felt no visitor to Ciaron should miss. Eleret listened carefully, noting each name and occasionally asking for directions so that she could be certain of avoiding the places that moved Jonystra to the greatest heights of enthusiasm. The dark-haired woman might be entirely honest and sincere; the sun might shine someday in the Alimar Caves, too. Eleret wouldn’t wager a broken arrow on either one. She escaped as soon as she finished her soup and returned to her room, where she barred the door and went to bed early. She had a great deal to do the next day, and she had the feeling that the sooner she was done with her business and away from Ciaron, the better.

She rose early and breakfasted without seeing any sign of Jonystra, then left, heading for the offices of the Imperial Guard. The streets were just as crowded as they had been the previous afternoon, and they made Eleret just as uncomfortable. Twice, she nearly tripped herself with the folds of the unfamiliar skirt. It was a relief when she finally reached the block of square stone buildings that housed the Guard.

Following Climeral’s directions, Eleret went straight to the central building. A middle-aged woman in uniform gave her a questioning look at the main door, but when Eleret explained what she wanted, the woman summoned a boy to escort her to the Commander’s staff rooms. They passed several bored-looking guards posted at intervals along the hall before the boy threw open a door and announced importantly, “Freelady Salven for Commander Weziral.”

Eleret stepped through the door into a high-ceilinged room, automatically noting a second door in the far wall. The bare floor and stone walls magnified the smallest sound, and she stopped walking as soon as she was inside. As she entered, three men looked up from a litter of paper that all but covered the top of a large square table. The one in the center, a tall man with a face like chiseled rock, said, “To see the Commander? Why?”

“I have business with him,” Eleret replied.

“I can imagine,” the man on the right muttered, eyeing Eleret. He was the youngest of the three men, and the only one not in uniform. His hair was a greasy brown, and his eyes were small and narrow.

“The Commander cannot see everyone,” the tall man said, with a glance at the previous speaker that should have frozen him where he sat. “We are members of his staff; I’m sure we can handle your business for you.”

“Sure,” the man on the right said, leering. “We’ll be happy to…handle you.”

“Maggen!” The tall man turned his head. “Your connections obliged me to give you this position; they do not oblige me to put up with insubordination, interruptions, or insinuations. If you wish to continue drawing your outrageously lavish pay, you will confine your remarks to the business of the Guard. Have I made myself clear?”

“Abundantly,” Maggen said. He leaned back against the wall, smiling slightly, his eyes fixed insolently on Eleret.

Eleret kept her own eyes fixed on the tall man. “Adept Climeral at the school of the Island of the Third Moon runs said I was to see Commander Weziral,” she told him. “He didn’t mention anything about staff.”

“I see. In that case, I will let him know you are here. What was the name again?”

“Eleret Salven.”

Maggen’s sneer vanished, and he straightened abruptly. The tall man gave him a warning glance, then nodded to Eleret and went to the inner door. He knocked, waited a moment, and entered, leaving Eleret facing Maggen and his remaining companion.

“You know I, uh, didn’t mean anything personal,” Maggen said, looking nervously at Eleret.

“Then perhaps you should have been more formal,” Eleret said.

“Look, I don’t want—”

The third man cleared his throat and glanced meaningfully from Maggen to the inner door. Maggen broke off in mid-sentence. Eleret suppressed both a relieved smile and a strong desire to pace, wondering how much longer the tall man would take.

The inner door opened. “The Commander will see you, Freelady Salven,” the tall man said. He gestured her inside and closed the door behind her.

THREE

C
OMMANDER
W
EZIRAL WAS A
small, gray-haired man who radiated a cheerful energy that Eleret found immensely appealing. He sat behind a barricade of shelves, books, boxes, and crates that seemed to be taking over the entire office. Dusty sunlight fell through a high, narrow window slit behind him, accompanied by the unmistakable sounds of someone directing an exercise drill outside.

“You’re Eleret Salven?” the Commander said as the door closed. “Sit down, sit down, you’ll give me a crick in my neck if I have to keep looking up at you.”

“Thank you, Commander,” Eleret said. She selected the only one of the plain wooden chairs that did not have books and papers stacked on it and seated herself. She looked up to find herself gazing into the shrewdest pair of eyes she had seen since her grandfather had been killed in a Syaski raid.

“Tell me why you’re here,” the Commander said.

“To pick up my mother’s things. She was in the Imperial Guard; her name was Tamm Salven. She died at—” What was it Gralith had said? “—at Kesandir, about six weeks ago. Adept Climeral said I was to speak to you.”

“I know all that,” Weziral said impatiently. “I mean, why did you, yourself, come to Ciaron?”

“Pa was hurt, and Nilly and Jiv are too young,” Eleret said, surprised by the question.

The Commander made an irritated noise. “It’s a long, hard trip. We could have sent your mother’s things. So why did you come?”

Eleret shrugged. “It wouldn’t have been right to let someone else bring them home, once we knew. Ma wouldn’t…wouldn’t have liked it.” Her eyes prickled, remembering.

There was a brief silence, then Weziral said gently, “You’re very like her.”

“Thank you,” Eleret managed. She took a deep, shaky breath. “May I have her things now?”

“In a moment. There are some facts you should know first; frankly, I thought you’d gotten wind of them somehow, and that was why you’d come.”

Eleret tensed. “What are you talking about?”

“Your mother’s death. I’m not satisfied with the reports I’ve gotten. Tamm Salven was seriously wounded, but she shouldn’t have died of it.” Weziral’s face hardened briefly. “I don’t like losing good officers. I especially don’t like it when there’s no reason for it to happen.”

“No reason?” Eleret blinked. “What do you mean? Gralith didn’t know the details, but we thought—we thought that she died of her wounds, or perhaps that one of them went bad. Even little ones do, sometimes.” All the way to Ciaron, she had been trying not to examine that last possibility too closely. When she was eleven, she had worked with the healers after the Battle of Kilimar Pass, and she had vivid memories of the puffy, oozing wounds, the smothered moans, and the stench. She didn’t want to have to picture her mother in the place of those she had helped tend.

“It wasn’t wound-fever,” Weziral said. “And the healers tell me she was beginning to mend.”

“Then how did she die?”

“If I knew that, I wouldn’t be tacking across the harbor like this,” Weziral said dryly. “All I
know
is that Salven died unexpectedly in the night, four days after the fight at Kesandir, under the care of one of the best healers I have in the field, of clean wounds that had begun to close.”

“You think someone murdered her.”

“I think the whole thing smells worse than haddock that’s been three days in the sun, but I don’t have any facts that can tell me why or how. When I find some, I’ll see that you’re told.”

Eleret nodded.

“It’s not only your mother’s death,” Weziral went on. He bent and picked up a plain wooden box from somewhere beside his feet. He set the box on the table in front of him and gazed at Eleret across the lid. “Someone tried to ambush the messenger team who brought me the news of Kesandir. They were amateurs, and unsuccessful ones at that, but that kind of thing isn’t supposed to happen in the middle of Ciaronese territory. And since this”—he tapped the box—“arrived three weeks ago, there have been two attempts to break into my office. Draw your own conclusions.”

“Ma found something that someone wants very badly,” Eleret said without hesitation.

“Exactly.”

“Do you know what it is?”

“No. I haven’t even opened the box; you can see that the seals are still intact,” Weziral replied. “I admit to an enormous curiosity, quite apart from my professional interest, and I would take it as a personal favor if you could see your way to opening it up here.”

“Of course.” The wooden box was nearly a foot and a half on a side, but from the way the Commander had lifted it there was not much inside. It would be simpler to unload it here, and she would attract less attention carrying a small bundle back to the inn.

Weziral beckoned, and Eleret came forward. She examined the seals briefly, then pulled out her knife and began removing them. Weziral’s eyes widened. “Is that a Sadorthan dagger?”

“Yes,” Eleret said, working the point carefully under the wax. “Ma gave it to me when I started hunting regularly, so I’d have a good one when I needed to skin something. It cost more than we could really afford, but Ma said it would be worth it in the long run.”

“I should think so. Do you have any idea how many people in Ciaron would cheerfully slit your throat to get their hands on that dagger?”

“On my
knife
?” Eleret said incredulously.

“I didn’t think you did. You’d do well to keep it out of sight, unless you intend to go looking for trouble.”

“Cilhar don’t hunt trouble.” Eleret kept her face and voice neutral to avoid showing how much the conversation unsettled her.

“Trouble seems to find quite a few of them nevertheless,” Weziral replied. “Under the circumstances—”

“I’ll be careful.”

The last of the seals came loose as she spoke. Eleret wiped the film of wax from the end of her dagger and slid it through her pocket and into its sheath. Then she reached out with both hands and opened the box.

There was not much inside: a worn leather pouch for raven’s-feet, a dagger in an embroidered sheath, and a waterproof kit bag that covered the bottom of the box. Eleret lifted the things out one at a time and set them on the table. Suddenly she stiffened. Under the kit bag, lying crosswise in the bottom of the box, was a thick braid of chestnut hair. A strand of yellow wool wound through the coils, and both ends were bound with red cord. Yellow for honor; red for death in battle. How had the Ciaronese known? Eleret tore her gaze away and looked up, questioning.

“Salven wasn’t the only Cilhar at Kesandir,” Weziral said. “There aren’t many of your people in the army, but they keep track of one another. According to the report, one of them showed up at the medical tent shortly after Salven died and insisted on doing things his way. That was part of it.” He gestured at the braid.

“Part?” Eleret said unsteadily around a fist-sized knot in her throat.