Wintertide (13 page)

But the part of her heart that ached with Rylan’s departure also stung with the deaths of Rina, the children, and Aric and Tavis. And she knew if she let herself dwell on these sensations it would tear her apart.

She waited until she could no longer see the top of his dark head before turning from the open window. She had to get out of the room. Rylan’s presence was too strong here. If she sat, she would pine. Better to keep her mind busy. She had her own problems to solve before he returned.

Moments later, she strode past the bubbling fountain, scattering a flock of pigeons that had descended on a slim crust of bread. She headed for the Old Quarter and a street that was called the Street of Dreams.

The pavement was uneven, the cobblestones jutting at odd angles. She slowed her pace lest she stumble and turn her ankle. The Governor’s Mansion was at her back. She viewed the neglected condition of the thin row houses around her and was relatively certain His Excellency rarely looked out of his northward windows.

It struck her also that there were no children in this section of the city. Everywhere else she and Rylan traveled, the shouts and giggles of youngsters at play resounded down the long alleyways; ragdolls were perched on open windowsills. But not here. It was as if the Old Quarter had come to embody what its name portended. Only the elderly ambled slowly down its streets.

An ancient woman, her frizzled gray hair bound up in a dark yellow scarf, sat on a crumbling doorstep clasping a cane in her trembling hand. Rheumy eyes followed Khamsin’s approach.

“Blessings upon you, Tanta.” Khamsin spoke to the old crone as she had been taught was proper.

Sagging jowls worked convulsively. “I’m not your Tanta, child!”

“I seek an herbal shop. On this street, perhaps? Is this Windward Lane?

“What street? Windward Lane? You’re far from there. It’s far away. Far away.”

“Or a Healer. Do you know of a a Healer called Ciro? I’ve been told he can be found in the Old Quarter. Do you know of him?”

“No. Don’t know. Don’t know nothing.”

“Perhaps if you could tell me of someone I could ask who…”

“No!” The ancient voice rasped. “Don’t know. Don’t know no-thing. Now, go. Go!” And she struck out at Khamsin with her cane.

Khamsin jumped out of her way and stepped back. “Apologies, Tanta, for disturbing you. Blessings of the day.” And she left.

A white-haired man and woman, arms laden with cloth-wrapped bundles, started to cross the narrow street just as Khamsin appeared from around a corner. They stopped upon spotting her and hurriedly retraced their steps. Their sunken eyes darted left and right as they blended back into the shadows.

A street sweeper finally pointed her in the right direction. “Windward’s three blocks to yer right,” he said gruffly. He pulled his knitted cap over his brow and turned away.

She almost missed the narrow alley. The small wooden street sign was warped and faded. The letters were gone; only a worn symbol for the wind remained. She stepped into the shadows. The lane sloped towards the sea. She passed a bootmaker’s, a tobacconist’s and a rug seller’s. Then the lane turned slightly and widened. The narrow stone buildings here had wooden porches, many with broken railings. Thin curtains fluttered in the windows. This row of buildings was residences, not merchant shops. She smelled the aroma of a vegetable stew. But she saw no one.

Another block and the shabby residences gave way to shuttered shops. A flicker of light on her left drew her. The sign above the door was a carving of a compass. The letters below it spelled out ‘map maker.’

The heavy door was open. A thin man sat bent with his nose almost to the top of the table. Four candelabras on tall stands flanked the table. Their light filled the small shop and spilled out into the dim light of Windward Lane.

Khamsin cleared her throat. “Pardon, Sirrah. But could you tell me if there’s an herb seller’s shop nearby?”

The long plume on the man’s pen made short fluttering motions. “Sometimes,” he replied, without looking up.

“Sometimes?”

“That’s what I said. Sometimes. Sometime there is. Sometimes there’s not.”

“And when there is, where would this shop be?”

“Where it always is, whether it’s there or not.”

Khamsin hoped the man’s maps were more precise than his answers. “And where is it always?”

“Across from Queenie’s Tavern.”

“On Windward Lane?”

“Fishbelly.”

“Pardon?”

“Fishbelly.” The feather plume jerked left and right. His face was still inches from the parchment covering the table. “Fishbelly Street.”

“And how far is Fishbelly Street from here?”

“Thirty seven strides. Or twice a dog run.”

Strides? Dog run? The unfamiliar terms were less important than the fact that she wasn’t far from her goal. She relayed her thanks to the top of the mapmaker’s head, for he had yet to raise his eyes.

She returned to the rutted lane and began to count her steps.

Her strides, she decided at forty-four, must be shorter than the mapmaker’s. At fifty-one she saw the sign for Fishbelly Street, and Queenie’s Tavern on the corner. On opposite corners were other shops, but none purported to sell herbs.

She had just decided to enter the tavern and ask more questions when she noticed a narrow door next to the cabinetmaker. A faded moonpetal blossom was stenciled on the front.

She pulled the latch. The door swung open. She stepped into a round brick courtyard. An ornate metal bench sat next to a second door, directly in front of her.

A sign that read “Moonpetal Herbs and Healing Balms” was propped on the bench. Next to it was another sign. Closed.

She knocked on the door, just in case. There was no answer.

Closed. She’d come all this way and the herb shop was closed. Perhaps that’s what the mapmaker meant. Not that the shop changed locations, or disappeared. But that it was open on an irregular schedule.

She bit back a sigh of disappointment and left the courtyard.

Fishbelly was a wider, and brighter, street than Windward Lane. The sun was almost overheard and Khamsin stood for a moment, arms folded over her chest, and tried to decide if she should ask more questions, or satisfy the rumblings just now starting in her stomach.

Or possibly, she thought as she stared at the squat corner building that housed Queenie’s Tavern, she could do both.

The stone steps were crumbling and worn from the tread of many boots. She wondered briefly, as she stepped inside, if Rylan had ever been here. He’d known of the location of the herb shop. And Queenie’s was the first tavern she’d seen on her long walk down Windward Lane.

She pulled a few small silver coins from her pocket and lay them on the scarred, wooden table. She hooked her right foot underneath, pulling the low bench towards her. The fieldstone floor beneath her boots was cracked and stained and there was a pile of gray straw in one corner. She sat, the coins at her fingertips, and waited.

There were three other patrons in the low-ceilinged tavern. The thick, wooden beams were crusted with smoky cobwebs. They glanced disinterestedly at her arrival and she at them, though her appraisal was more thorough. She’d spent much of her life reading illusive messages in flickering elementals. Her eyes were trained to see and record.

Two men in grimy workshirts sat at the table in the corner; one was elderly, the other, a son or nephew, middle-aged. Both had round, flat faces and bulbous noses. The older man’s face bore lines of age; the younger, a faint scar across his forehead. The third man who sat by himself near the small hearth was neither middle-aged nor elderly, but somewhere in between. He appeared thin upon first glance, but his ebony-toned forearms were muscular and covered with curly, black hair; his hands, callused. His shoulders weren’t hunched like the other two and his back was straight. A knitted cap was pulled over his ears. He wore a streaked over-tunic, suggesting to Khamsin that he entered the tavern only moments before her and had not yet sufficiently lost the chill in his body to necessitate the removal of his garments. Though the temperature was mild in the city for late autumn, it would be much colder out on the Great Sea. The faint aroma of salt and fish that assailed her as she strode by him told her that was his previous location.

Finally, there was a noise from the back room. A fleshy, pink-faced woman, her gray-streaked hair pulled severely back into a bun, emerged through the dark green door curtains. Her bright yellow dress was low-cut, edged in what once was an expensive lace. It showed off an ample amount of the woman’s large bosom. A faded, patchwork apron wrapped around her thick waist, its pocket bulging with coin. The woman ambled over to Khamsin’s table and leaned one hand on it as she spoke.

“What’s yer interest, lad? Come on, I ain’t got all day!”

As if it were she and not Khamsin who had been kept waiting for over ten minutes.

“A mug of hot tea and some bread and some cheese, if you have any, Mistress.”

The older woman leaned closer. “You ain’t no lad and you ain’t from ’round here, that’s for true.”

“No,” Khamsin agreed, meeting the dark eyes levelly. “But I’m hungry and would like something to eat.”

“Hmpff! Well, pushy little lady, ain’t ye now, missy?” But she waddled back to the kitchen, the sight of the coins on the table overriding any personal prejudices.

The tavern-keep brought a small plate then returned to the kitchen. Khamsin ate her small meal in silence. The bread was fresh; better than expected and the cheese, aged, but with a mellow flavor. The tea, however, was weak and watery. Still, it was hot and felt good in her empty stomach.

She removed her cloak and sat, letting the steam from the mug filter past her face. There was a loud noise behind her; a scraping of a wooden bench backwards. She turned to find the father-and-son pair stepping in her direction. She pulled her short hunting knife from its sheath by the time the younger one lay his greasy hand on her shoulder.

“Pardon, Sirrah.” She disliked his touch.

“Queenie’s right. She is a lass!” He leered down at her, the line of his scar pink against his pale skin.

The older man squinted his eyes, deepening the lines on his leathery face. “So she is, so she is.” Thin lips parted into a toothless grin.

“I don’t see where I’m any concern of yours, Sirrahs.”

The two exchanged glances. “Don’t get many like you in this part of the city,” said Scar-face, his hand still on her shoulder.

Khamsin tensed her body then suddenly sprang to her feet. The younger man lost his grip on her. She held the short knife at waist level, not flashing or brandishing it but simply making its presence known.

“Don’t play rough with me, girl!” Scar-face reached for her but stopped as a loud, grating voice filled the room.

“All right, all right, you two bastards!” Queenie stood in the doorway, hands on her pudgy hips. “Enough, now. Leave the little missy alone.”

“Should’ve let you take ’em, lass,” she added as the two men grumbled their way out the door. “But I just washed me floor and I didn’t want you to get it all dirty.”

She plucked a grimy rag from beneath her apron and threw it at the man in the knitted cap, still seated at his table. “And what’s wrong with you, Captain, lettin’ those two get out of hand like that? Where’s your sense of kinship? She’s Cove-people. Can’t you hear it in the way she talks?”

“I heard,” the dark man replied, folding the towel neatly into a square. “That’s why I didn’t interfere. She can take care of herself.”

Queenie patted Khamsin’s head as if she were a stray mongrel. “Well, you can have your peace an’ quiet an’ privacy back now, lass. We won’t be botherin’ you. What ever’s brought you up to the City sure don’t have nothing to do with the Captain and myself.”

“Wait.” Khamsin took a step in Queenie’s direction. “Perhaps you can help. I’m a stranger here and I need some information. I’m looking for a Healer. A man named Ciro. Have you ever heard of him?”

Queenie’s dark gaze darted to the Captain. “Ciro? Ciro? Name’s got a nice sound to it but I can’t say for sure.”

“What ails you that you seek a Healer?” The Captain studied Khamsin for any outwards signs of an infirmity.

“Nothing. I’m a Healer, myself. I’ve been instructed to seek him out.”

“You?” Queenie’s broad face registered surprise.

Khamsin nodded.

“And since when do Healer’s travel as boys and carry knives?”

“Since Hill Raiders attacked my village and killed my husband.”

Dark eyes softened. “Ach, lass, ’tis strange times we live in.” Queenie’s hands fluttered helplessly before her and she turned, heading for the kitchen. “Let me get you a nice cup of hot tea.”

Khamsin took her seat.

“May I join you, Lady?” The Captain removed his cap. His tightly curled black hair was dotted with silver.

“Please.”

Queenie was back with the tea and set the mug before Khamsin. “So it’s old Ciro you want, eh?”

“You know him?”

Again, the troubled exchange of glances. “Know
of
him.”

“No one else seems to.”

The Captain dropped his voice. “Everyone knows. Few will admit.”

“Where do I find him?”

“You don’t. At least, there’s no residence that bears his name. But it’s said that, sometimes late at night, he’s been seen in the old bell tower at the end of the Street of Dreams. But as to when he will show up there?” The Captain shrugged.

“You best not go lookin’ for him, lass.” It was Queenie. “They say he’s quite mad and you know that means trouble. A mad wizard.” She shook her head.

“He’s a wizard?”

“But I thought you knew?”

“No. I only knew that I had to find him. His sign was that, well, it wasn’t an easy reading, you understand. But I thought I interpreted his sign as a Healer. Though the signs are somewhat similar.”

Queenie lay fleshy fingers against her lips. “He was a Healer, once. But that was a long time ago. Some say he’s even older than the Sorcerer.”