Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 08 (20 page)

           
The insult was deliberate, and he
felt it strike true. He wanted to shout back, but knew it would gain him
nothing but additional scorn. Of late he and his grandfather had played a game
with the stakes residing in dominance. Brennan was the old wolf, Kellin the
new; one day the old would die.

           
Kellin tapped the blade against
wooden claws.

           
"Perhaps better suited than you
believe."

           
"Get up from there,"
Brennan repeated, "or I shall pull you up myself."

           
Kellin considered it. At a few years
beyond sixty the Mujhar was an aging man, but he was not infirm. His hair was
completely silver with white frost around his face, but the fierce eyes were
steady, the limbs did not tremble, and the arms with their weight of ftr-gold
did not shrivel and sag. He is taller and heavier than I, and he might be able
to do it.

           
Kellin rose with practiced elegance.
He made an elaborate bow to his grandfather and turned to walk away. but
Brennan reached out and caught one arm.

           
"How much longer?" he
rasped. "This comedy we play? Or is it a tragedy?"

           
Kellin knew the answer.
"Tragedy, my lord. What else could these walls house?"

           
Brennan's mouth flattened into a
thin, compressed line of displeasure. "What these walls will house, I
cannot say. But what they have housed in the past I can and do say: greater men
than you, though they were merely servants."

           
Kellin wrenched his arm away.
"You offer insult, my lord."

           
"I offer whatever I choose. By
the gods, Kellin—will you never grow up?"

           
Kellin spread his hands in mock
display. "Am I not a man?"

           
"No." Brennan's tone was
cold. "You are but a boy grown larger in size than in sense."

           
"Insult yet again." Kellin
was unoffended; it was all part of the game though the Mujhar did not view it
as such.

           
"What is your excuse?"
Brennan demanded. "That you lost people close to you? Well, do you think I
have not? Do you think none of us has suffered as you do?"

           
Stung, Kellin glared. "What I
suffer is my own concern!"

           
"And mine." Brennan faced
him down squarely,

           
"You lack a fehan. You know
why. You lost a tutor to sorcery, a friend to treachery, and a liege man to
Cheysuli custom. You know how. And yet you choose to wallow in grief and make
all of Mujhara suffer."

           
"Mujhara has nothing to do with
this!"

           
"It does." Brennan's tone
did not waver. "How many fights have you sought out—or caused, or
joined—because of childish vindictiveness? How many men have you fought—and
injured—because they were easy prey for your anger? How many bastards have you
sired, duly packed off to Clankeep where you need not concern yourself with
them?" More quietly, he said, "And how many guardsmen have died
because of you?"

           
"None because of me!"

           
"Oh? Then what of the four men
who died last night?"

           
"But that was not my
fault."

           
"Whose was it, then? I thought
you led them there on one of your Midden tours."

           
Anger boiled up. "Only because
you put them on my trail like hounds upon a fox!" Kellin glared.

           
"Call them off, grandsire. Then
no more will die."

           
Brennan's expression was implacable.
"Did you do it?"

           
"Did I—?" Kellin was
aghast. "You believe I would kill them?"

           
"Aye," Brennan answered
evenly. "I believe you might."

           
"How?" Kellin swallowed
the painful lump in his throat. "I am your own grandson. And you accuse me
of murder?"

           
"You have labored assiduously
to make me believe you are capable of anything."

           
"But . .." Kellin laughed
once, expelling air rather than amusement. "I never thought you would hate
me so."

           
"Do you think a man must hate
another to believe him capable of things another would not do?" Brennan
shook his head. "I do not hate you.

           
I know you better than you think,
and why you have twisted yourself into this travesty of the Kellin you once
were. I cannot understand it, but I am cognizant of why."

           
"Are you?" The anger was
banished now, replaced with bitter helplessness. "You are not me."

           
"Thank the gods, no."
Brennan lifted his shoulders briefly, as if shedding unwanted weight- "You
are not as hard as you believe. I see it in you, Kellin. You still care what
people think. It all matters to you, but you will not permit yourself to admit
it. You fight with yourself; do you think I am blind? I need no kivama to see
that two men live in your soul."

           
"You cannot begin to
know—"

           
"I can. I see what drives you,
I see what shapes you. I only wish you would not give into it. It does you more
harm than anyone else."

           
Kellin lashed out. "I do not
care what anyone else thinks, only you—" He checked abruptly; he had
divulged too much.

           
Brennan closed his eyes a moment.
"Then why this charade? If you truly do care what I think—"

           
"I do. I know what I have done;
it was done intentionally. I do not intend to alter it." Kellin's smile
was humorless. "This way, I cannot be hurt."

           
Lines were graven deeply into
Brennan's dark face. "You hurt yourself, this way."

           
"I can live with myself."

           
"Can you? Can you cohabit with
both men? Or must you destroy one to allow the other more freedom?"

           
Kellin spat his answer between his
teeth. "This is what I wanted. This is what I decided. This is what I
am."

           
Brennan made a dismissive gesture.
"Another time, then, for this; there is something more important. Tell me
what occurred last night."

           
Kellin sighed and stared down at the
knife still clenched in his hand. "It was Corwyth, the Ihlini who killed
Rogan and Urchin. He came to the tavern and told me Lochiel still wants me, and
will take me whenever he likes. Whenever he wishes, I was told, the Ihlini will
put out his hand and I will fall into it."

           
Brennan nodded. "An old Ihlini
trick. He terrorizes victims long before he confronts them."

           
"I have vanquished the
lion," Kellin said, "but he will look for something else. Corwyth has
convinced me Lochiel will be as patient as necessary."

           
"Kellin—"

           
"They were dead when I reached
them." Kellin looked at the knife, recalling the bulging eyes and pallid
faces. "There was nothing I could do."

           
"Then you must stay here,"
Brennan said. "Homana-Mujhar will shield you."

           
Kellin barked a laugh. "I would
go mad inside a ten-day!"

           
"There may be no choice."

           
"Mad, grandsire! I am halfway
there already." He flipped the knife in his hand, then again, until it
spun so the hilt and blade became alternating blurs. In mid-flip he caught it-
"I will not stay here."

           
Brennan's anger showed for the first
time since his arrival. "Is this some manner of expiation for your guilt?
A twisted version of i'toshaa-ni?"

           
"I feel no guilt," Kellin
told him. "That is for my jehan to do ... but I think it quite beyond
him."

           
Brennan groaned in sheer
frustration. "How many times have I told you? I have said again and
again—"

           
Kellin cut him off. "You have
said, and I have heard. But it means nothing. Not until he says it directly to
me."

           
Brennan shook his head. "I will
not send word to him again. That is finished."

           
Kellin nodded. "Because the
last time he refused to extend hospitality to your messenger and packed him off
home again. So, slighted, you surrender. I think my jehan must be mad as well,
to speak so to the Mujhar of Homana."

           
"Aidan does not speak for
himself, Kellin. He speaks for the gods."

           
"Facile words, grandsire. But
listen first to yourself—and then recall that he is your SON. I know very well
who should have the ordering of the other."

           
Brennan lost his temper. Kellin
listened in startled surprise; he had never thought to hear such language from
his grandfather.

           
"Go, then." At last the
royal fury was spent. "Go into the taverns and drink yourself into a
stupor.

           
Go to your light women and sire all
the bastards you wish so you may leave them as your jehan left you, wondering
what manner of man you are to desert a child." A pale indented ring
circled Brennan's mouth. "Risk your life and the lives of honorable men so
you may enter the game with Lochiel. I no longer care. You are Homana's heir
for now, but if I must I can find another."

           
Kellin laughed at him. "Who can
you find? From where? There are no more sons, grandsire; your cheysula gave you
but one. And no more grandsons, either; Aidan's loins are empty. He is in all
ways but half a man."

           
"Kellin—"

           
He raised his head. "There is
no heir to be found other than the one you invested twenty years ago."

           
Brennan reached out and caught the
flipping knife easily. "You are a fool," he said clearly.
"Perhaps Homana would be better off without you."

           
Kellin looked at the hand that held
his knife. He had not expected the weapon to be caught. Brennan was at least as
quick as he; a forcible reminder that the Mujhar of Homana was more than merely
a man, but a Cheysuli as well.

           
He met his grandfather's eyes.
"May I have it back?"

           
"No."

           
He did not avoid the packleader's
eyes. To do so was to submit. "I have need of a knife."

           
"You have another. Use
it."

           
Kellin clenched his teeth.
"That one belonged to Blais. I have sworn never to touch it."

           
"Then unswear it," the
Mujhar said. "Tu'halla dei, Kellin. Such things as that come easily to a
man who cares for nothing."

           
It was more than he had anticipated.
It twisted within his belly. "It shall be as this, then?"

           
Brennan did not move. "As you
have made it."

           
After a long moment, Kellin averted
his stare.

           
The young wolf, he acknowledged
ruefully, could not yet pull down the old.

           
In his chambers, Kellin sat on the
edge of his bed and stared at the small darkwood chest for a very long time. It
rested inoffensively on a bench against the wall, where he had placed it many
years before. He had looked at it often, stared at it, hated it, knowing what
it contained, but once locked it had never been opened again.

           
He drew in a deep breath, wishing he
need not consider doing what was so difficult, because he had made it so. He
realized that in truth he need not consider it; it was more than possible for
him to get another knife despite his grandfather's suggestion. He could buy one
in Mujhara, or find one in the palace, or even go to Clankeep and have one of
the warriors make him one; everyone knew Cheysuli long-knives were superior to
all others, and only one Cheysuli-made was worth the coin.

           
But the challenge had been put
forth. The old wolf mocked the young. The young wolf found it intolerable.

           
His palms were damp. In disgust
Kellin wiped them against his breeches-clad thighs. He tests you with this.
Prove to him you are stronger than he thinks.

           
Muttering an oath, Kellin slid off
his bed and strode without hesitation directly across to the chest. The lid and
the key atop it was layered with dust; he had ordered no one to touch the
chest.

           
Dust fell away as he picked up the
key, smearing fingertips. He blew the iron clean, squinting against motes,
hesitated a moment longer, then swore and unlocked the chest. Kellin flung back
the lid so sharply it thumped against the wall.

           
His lips were dry. He wet them. A
flutter of anticipation filled his belly. I would do better to leave this here,
as I vowed. I want no part of this. Blais is dead ten years, but it feels like
ten hours. Kellin's jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. Then he thrust a hand
inside and drew out the contents: a single Cheysuli long-knife.

           
The grief had not lessened with the
passage of years, and the act of retrieving the knife intensified it tenfold.
Kellin felt the tightening of his belly, the constriction of his throat, the
anguish of his spirit. The wound, despite the decade, was still too fresh.

           
Kellin held the knife lightly, so
that it lay cross-wise across his palm. Candlelight glinted off steel because
the hand beneath it trembled; he could not help himself. He recalled in precise
detail the instant of realization, the comprehension that Blais was doomed
because his lir was dead. In that moment he had come to understand the true
cost of the magic that lived in a Cheysuli's blood. And knew how much he feared
it.

           
The gods give warriors lir not to
bless them, but to curse them; to make them vulnerable, so they can never be
men but minions instead, set to serve spiteful gods. They give warriors lir
simply to take them away.

           
Kellin stared hard at the knife,
daring himself to break down. Beautifully balanced, the steel blade was etched
with Cheysuli runes denoting Blais' name and Houses: Homana first, and Erinn.

           
The grip itself was unadorned so as
not to interfere with the hand, but the pommel made up for the plainness. An
elaborate snarling wolf's head was set with emeralds for eyes.

           
Kellin's throat closed. To swallow
was painful.

           
"A waste," he said
tightly. "The gods would have done better to take me in his place."

           
But they had not, despite his pleas,
and he had cursed them for it often. Now he simply ignored them; there was no
place in Kellin's life for gods so vindictive and capricious as to first steal
his father, then permit his liege man to die.

           
Anger goaded his bruised spirit.
Kellin slammed shut the chest and turned to his belt with its now-empty sheath.
He slid the knife home with a decisive motion so that only the wolf's head
showed, snarling a warning to the world. Apropos, Kellin thought. Let them all
be forewarned.

           
He dressed rapidly, replacing soiled
breeches with new; a plain wool shirt and velvet doublet, both brown; and
Homanan-style boots. Over it all he fastened the belt, brushing the knife hilt
with the palm of his hand to make certain of its presence. Time I tested
Corwyth's promise.

           
The Mujhar had assigned new
watchdogs. Kellin wondered briefly if they knew or were curious about what had
become of the last four, but he did not trouble himself to ask. He merely told
them curtly to keep their distance, making no effort to befriend them or endear
himself to them; he did not want them as friends, and did not particularly care
what they thought of him.

           
This time Kellin rode; so did they.
They followed closely, but not so closely as to tread upon his mount's hooves.
Testing them—and himself—

           
he led them deep into the Midden to
its very heart, where the weight of filth and poverty was palpable.

           
No one will know me here. And so
they would not; Kellin wore nothing to give away his identify save his ruby
signet ring, but if the stone were turned inward against his palm no one would
see it. He preferred anonymity. Let those of the Midden believe he was a rich
Mujharan lordling gone slumming for a lark; he knew better. He wanted a game,
and a fight. As he had told the Mujhar, he did nothing without a point.

           
The tavern he selected lay at the
dead end of a narrow, dark street little better than the manure trench behind
the hall garderobe in Homana-Mujhar. It was a slump-shouldered hovel with
haphazard slantwise roof; the low door, badly cracked, hung crooked in
counterpoint to the roof.

           
The building resembled nothing so
much as a drunkard gone sloppy on too much liquor.

           
Kellin smiled tightly. This will do.
He dropped off his horse and waited impatiently for his watchdogs to join him
on the ground. "Three of you shall remain here," he said briefly.
"One I will take with me, because I must in compromise; it seems I have no
choice." He thrust the reins to one of the guardsmen. "Wait here, in
the shadows.

           
Do what you are honor-bound to do; I
make no claim on your loyalty. You answer the Mujhar's bidding, but answer also
a little of mine: leave me to myself this night." He gestured toward one
of them. The man was young, tall, blocky-shouldered, with pale blond hair and
blue eyes. "You will come in with me, but see you it is done without
excess attention. And strip off that tunic."

           
The young guardsman was startled. "My
lord?"

           
"Strip it off. I want no royal
dogs at my heels tonight." Kellin appraised him closely. "What is
your name?"

           
"Teague, my lord."

           
Kellin gestured. "Now."

           
Slowly Teague stripped out of his
crimson tunic with its black rampant lion. He handed it reluctantly to another
guardsman, then looked back at Kellin. "Anything else, my lord?"

           
"Rid yourself of your sword. Do
not protest—you have a knife still." He allowed derision to shape the tone.
"Surely more than enough weaponry for a member of the Mujharan
Guard."

           
Cheeks burning, Teague slowly
divested himself of the swordbelt and handed it over to the man who held his
tunic.

           
Kellin assessed him again, chewing
the inside of his cheek. Finally he sighed. "Even a horse with winter hair
still shows its blood." He bent and scooped up a handful of mud, then
smeared it purposefully across league's mail shirt to dull the polished links
and to foul the pristine breeches.

           
He ignored the young man's rigidity
and pinched mouth. When he was done, Kellin washed his hands in slushy snow,
then nodded at the discomfited guardsman. "They will not know you at
once."

           
Distaste was not entirely suppressed
though Teague made the effort. "They will not know me at all, my
lord."

           
Kellin grinned. "Better. Now,
my orders." He waited until his expectant silence gained Teague's complete
attention. "Once we are through that door I am not to be called 'my lord,'
nor do I desire your interference in anything I undertake."

           
Teague's jaw was tight. "We are
charged with your life, my lord. Would you have me turn my back on a knife
meant for yours?"

           
Kellin laughed. "Any knife
meant for my back would have to be fast indeed. I doubt I will come to
harm—though the gods know I would welcome the challenge." He gestured at
the remaining three guardsmen. "Take the horses and move into the
shadows."

           
"My lord?" Teague clearly
had not forsaken the honorific. "It is not for me to reprove you—"

           
"No. It is not."

           
"—but I think you should know
this is not the best of all places to spend your time drinking or dicing."

           
"Indeed," Kellin agreed
gravely. "That is precisely the point. Now—you are to go in and find your
own table. I require two things of you only: to sit apart from me, and to be
silent."

           
Teague cast a scowl at his companions
waiting in the shadows, then grudgingly nodded. "Aye."

           
Kellin jerked a thumb at the door.
and the muck-smeared guardsman went in muttering under his breath. Kellin
waited until enough time had passed to nullify the appearance of companionship,
then went in himself.

           
The stench of the hovel tavern
struck him first.

           
Soiled rushes littered the packed
earthen floor in crumbled bits and pieces Kellin was certain harbored all
manner of vermin. Only a handful of greasy, sputtering tallow candles illuminated
the room, exuding an acrid, rancid aroma and wan, ocherous light easily
dominated by shadows. An hour in such a place would render his clothing
irredeemable, but Kellin had every intention of remaining longer than that. He
anticipated a full night.

           
Teague sat at a small flimsy table
in the comer nearest the door. A crude clay jug stood at his elbow and an
equally lumpy cup rested in his hands, but he paid attention to neither.

           
Their eyes met, slid away. Kellin
was faintly surprised that Teague would enter so convincingly into subterfuge.
There was no hint of recognition in the guardsman's face and nothing about his
posture that divulged his true purpose. Mud clung to his mail shirt; a little
had spattered across a cheekbone, altering the angle. His hair now also was
mussed, as if he had scrubbed a hand through it hastily. Teague's expression
was closed, almost sullen, which suited Kellin's orders and the surroundings.

           
Kellin was deliberate in his perusal
of the room and its occupants, knowing the men measured him as carefully. He
allowed them time to mark his clothing, bearing, and size, as well as the heavy
knife at his belt. He wanted no one to undervalue him, so that when the fight
came it would be on equal terms. He admired the elegant simplicity of organized
viciousness.

           
The tavern was crowded, but mostly
because its size was negligible. Most of the men spoke in quiet tones lacking
aggression or challenge, as if each knew the other's worth and standing within
the context of the tavern, and did not overstep. There would be rivals, Kellin
knew, because it was the nature of men, but with the arrival of a stranger old
rivalries would be replaced with unity. He and Teague, apart or as one, would
be suspect, and therefore targets.

           
He grinned, and let them see it. He
let them see everything as he strode to the lone empty table and sat down upon
a stool, shouting to the wine-girl to bring him a jug of usca.

           
She came almost at once to judge the
cut of his cloth and the color of his coin. Kellin dropped a silver piece onto
the table and let it ring, flicking it in her direction with a single practiced
finger.

           
Only the gold of his ring showed;
the ruby with its etched rampant lion rested against his palm.

           
"Usca," he repeated,
"and beef."

           
She was a greasy, unkempt girl with
soiled clothing and filthy nails. She offered him a lone grimy dimple and a
smile with two teeth missing.