Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 08 (44 page)

           
He thought his head might burst. A
closer inspection with fingers had not divulged anything he did not already
know—the swelling was soft and tender, the cut dried. He wondered what they had
struck him with—the roadhouse, perhaps?

           
He began a complaint to Sima. They
might have been— Halfway through the comment he cut off the communication
through the link. It made his head hurt worse. He waved a gesture at the cat
that dismissed conversation; she flicked tufted ears and held her silence
accordingly, but he thought she looked amused.

           
The ferry was docked this side of
the river. Relieved, Kellin halted the piebald and slid off carefully, so as
not to jar his head. A man was slumped against a cluster of posts roped
together, the stub of a pipe clenched in his teeth. His eyes were closed, but
he was not asleep.

           
Kellin led the horse up. "Did
you give passage to two men early this morning? Just before dawn?"

           
One eye opened. Graying brown hair
straggled around his face beneath a threadbare cap. " 'Twould be hard for
a body to walk across, would ye no' say?"

           
Kellin suppressed a retort.
"Then you did."

           
"Dinna see bodies in the river,
do ye?—though they be carried awa' by now." The other eye opened.
"She's angry in the spring."

           
Kellin looked beyond the man he took
to be the ferry-master to the river beyond. It was spring, and the river did
seem angry; the thaw had thickened the Bluetooth so that it ran nearly out of
its banks, with a high, fast current that would suck a man down all too easily.

           
"They robbed me," Kellin
said. "I am angry, also."

           
The ferry-master squinted.
"Doesna look like ye had so much to steal."

           
"Now, no. Before, I did. This
is the best I could do," he paused. "Did you give two Solindishmen
passage across the river?"

           
"If I said aye, would ye be
after passage, too?"

           
"The woman said it was where
they were bound."

           
"Kirsty?" The man
brightened. He was, Kellin judged, nearly as old as the Mujhar. "Did she
send ye, then?"

           
"She sent me."

           
He raked Kellin with a glance from
brown eyes set deeply in shadowed sockets. "Then ye must ha' pleased her.
She's no needing to be sending a robbed man after those who coom to see her
onc't a four-week."

           
Kellin hung onto his patience with
effort. The thudding in his head made it increasingly difficult.

           
"We pleased each other well
enough. Did the men cross here?"

           
"Dinna walk, did they?" He
heaved himself from the planking and jabbed the pipe in Sima's direction. "She
tame, yon cat?"

           
Kellin opened his mouth to
vigorously deny that a lir could be tamed; he shut it once he recalled what
Kirsty had said: that he could, in
Tarn
's
clothing, pass as a Homanan. This close to Solinde, this close to Valgaard, it
might be better to keep his mouth shut with regard to lir. "Aye," he
said. "Tame enough."

           
"Then you'd best go no farther
north," the ferry-master warned. "There's a man o'er the Pass who
pays gold and jewels for cats like her."

           
He was indignant. "Who
does?"

           
The ferry-master made a sign against
evil. "A man," he said only. "He'd hae her faster than the river
would eat a man." His truculence now was vanished. "Aye, they
crossed. Will ye?"

           
"I will. At once."

           
The man unwound the coil of rope
tying up the ferry. "Hae ye coin for it?"

           
"I have—" No. He did not.
"—this horse."

           
"That horse! That one? What
would I be doing wi'
Tarn
's old nag?"

           
"Mine was stolen," Kellin
said tightly through his teeth. "I bought this one to track the thieves,
so I might get back my own mount—which is, I might add, considerably better
than '
Tarn
's old nag.' "

           
"Aye, it would be, ye ken? Not
many worse than
Tarn
's old nag." He jerked his head toward
the ferry. "Coom aboard, then, you and yon cat ... if Kirsty sent ye after
them, there's a reason for't. I'll no' take the nag." He grinned briefly.
"Kirsty'll make it right."

           
Knowing how she spent her nights,
Kellin judged she would. Nonetheless, he was grateful.

           
Almost as soon as he was aboard,
Kellin was sorry. The Bluetooth fought the ferry every inch of the way, spuming
over the sides of the flat, thick platform until the boards ran white with
foam.

           
The old piebald spread his legs and
dropped his head even as Kellin grabbed hold of a rope; Sima dug claws into
aged wood and lashed her tail angrily in counterpoint to the heaves the
ferry-master put to the ropes.

           
By the time they reached the other
side, Kellin's tattered clothing was soaked. Sima bared her teeth and shook
droplets free of her coat. As soon as the ferry thumped the bank she sprang for
land; Kellin led the piebald off and thanks the gods for putting firm land
beneath his feet.

           
"Aye," the ferry-master
said, "she's a gey wicked bitch in the spring. Summer's better," He
jerked his head westward. "That way, they went. They won't be expecting
ye, so they willna be in a hurry. Ye'll hae them by sundoon."

           
Kellin nodded thanks. "Is this
because of Kirsty?"

           
"Och, she's a right'un, that
lass .. . but ye've a pinched look in the eyes that says they hit ye a mite too
hard." He grinned around the pipe. "And ye speak too well for a man
born to wear
Tarn
's clothes." He jerked his head again.
"Gi’ on wi' ye, then. Ye'll be back by tomorrow, and ye can pay for your
ride."

           
Kellin smiled. "Cheysuli
i'halla—" He broke it off instantly, cursing the headache that mangled his
wits so.

           
The ferry-master's eyebrows shot up
beneath the lock of greasy hair. "Ah. Well, then. Not tame after all, is
she?" He coughed. "Yon cat."

           
"No." Kellin swung up onto
the piebald and wished immediately his pride had permitted him to find a log
and mount, like a woman. "There are times I wish she were."

           
The brown eyes were sharp.
"Then 'tisn't the horse you're wanting, or the coin . . . more like
cat-shaped gold, is't?"

           
"More like," Kellin said.
He kicked the horse into motion.

           
"Aye, well . .. I've no' known
them to be so foolish before." He briefly showed a gap-toothed grin that
gave way to the pipestem. "Be wary of Solinde. Up here so close to
Valgaard—well . .." He let it go. "They'd be wanting more than yon
cat."

           
This time he did not hesitate.
"Leijhana tu'sai. Cheysuli i'halla shansu."

           
The westward road was not so
well-traveled as the one cutting down from the Bluetooth into the center of
Homana. It was narrow and twisty, winding its way through silted huddles of
downed trees and acres of water-smoothed boulders carried this way and that by
a temperamental river gone over its banks to suck back again, leaving detritus
in its wake.
Tarn
's old nag was not a particularly
coordinated horse, and Kellin spent much of his time trying to keep his head
very still upon his neck as the horse stumbled its way along.

           
"By sundown," Kellin
muttered in reference to the ferry-master's prediction as the piebald tripped
again. "By then, I may well be lacking a head entirety. It will have
fallen off and rolled to a halt amidst that pile of boulders, there, and when
the crows have picked it clean no one will know the difference between it and
that rock, there."

           
Sima chanced the lir-link. I will go
on ahead. Let me find them—I will come back and fetch you.

           
It pulsed within his skull. Kellin
hissed in pain and shut his eyes against it, then waved her on.

           
"Go, I am little threat to them
if I find them in this state. They will laugh, and be on about their business
with no fear of me."

           
The cat whipped her tail, then left
at a springy lope.

           
The horse stumbled on. After a while
Kellin balanced himself, shut his eyes, and gave himself over to a state very
akin to sleep, in hopes that when he awoke the pain would be dispersed.

           
He roused to a quiet voice pitched
over a rush of water. "I had expected to eat alone, but your horse has
other ideas." A pause. "I am glad of the company; will you share my
meal?"

           
Kellin opened his eyes. He slumped
atop the piebald, which had in turn wandered off the road to a cluster of
tumbled boulders very near the river's edge. He smelled smoke and fish. It made
his belly rumble.

           
The stranger laughed. "I will
take that as acceptance."

           
"Where am I?" Kellin
glanced around. The road was not so far; he could see it winding Westward.

           
"Here," the man said,
amused. "At my campsite, such as it is; but I have had good fortune in my
fishing, and there is enough for us both." His hazel eyes were friendly-
The piebald snorted against the hand that held his bridle; the stranger grinned
and pushed the muzzle away. "You have been hard used; I have wine for the
ache."

           
He was a young, fine-featured man,
perhaps Kellin's age or a year or two older. His hair was dark, nearly black,
and fell smoothly to his shoulders.

           
His clothing was spun of good wool
of uniform yarn. Kellin marked him a well-to-do man: linen tunic died blue,
with black embroidery at the collar; black-dyed breeches; good boots, and a
brilliant crimson cloak thrown on loosely over shoulders.

           
Kellin considered refusing. There
were the thieves to think about. But his head did ache, his belly did
rumble—and Sima was on their trail. He need only wait for her, and by the time
she returned, his condition would be improved.

           
"My thanks," he said. Then
recalled what he looked like. "But I have nothing—"

           
The stranger waved a hand.
"Your company is enough. I am not so far from my destination; I can be
generous." He smiled again. "You might do better to walk, then to go
another step atop this horse."

           
"Aye." Kellin smiled
crookedly and slid off, gritting his teeth against the pounding in his head. It
was worse, not better; but the road was hard and the horse clumsy. He was lucky
his head remained on his neck.

           
"My name is Devin," the
stranger said as Kellin pulled the reins over the piebald's neck. "The
wine I have is Solindish white; will it do?"

           
Kellin followed. "Any wine will
do. I am not fit to judge its taste." A glance from Devin told Kellin he
had perhaps misphrased his answer; he had meant because of his head, but
Devin's quick assessment indicated the stranger believed he meant his station.
He thinks me a poor man; well, for the moment, I am. He led the piebald to the
water-wracked, uprooted tree at the riverbank and tied him to a branch next to
Devin's mount, a fine glossy bay very like Kellin's stolen horse.

           
A fire was built between a tumble of
clustered boulders and the water's edge, hosting two speck-led fish speared and
hung belly-up along two stripped branches resting in crotched braces. The lap
of the river was but paces away, so the sound was loud. Devin squatted near the
fire, digging through packs. "Here." He tossed the wineskin. "I
have another; drink as you will. I will tend the fish."

           
Kellin caught the skin as he turned
from the piebald and swallowed, glad of the liquor's bite.

           
If he drank enough, it would dull
the pounding in his head, but that would be poor manners. He owed Devin sober
companionship, not the rudeness of a man undone by misfortune.

           
Devin made conversation as he
inspected the sizzling fish. "I misjudged the distance," he said,
"or I would have stayed the night in the last roadhouse I passed. The
ground is a hard bed when one is used to better." He lifted one of the
speared fish. "Here. Trout. I daresay it will complement the wine."

           
Kellin accepted the proffered
fish-laden stick with thanks and sat down against the closest boulder. He
thought Devin was indeed accustomed to better; a sapphire gleamed on one hand,
while a band of twisted gold glinted on the other, Devin took the other fish
for himself and sat back against his packs, blowing to cool the meat.

           
"Have you a wife?" he
asked.

           
Kellin shook his head. His mouth was
full of fish.

           
"Ah. Well, neither do I—for but
a four-week more!" He grinned. "I am-bound for my wedding. Wish me
good fortune, my friend, and that the girl is comely ... I have no wish to
share my bed with a plain woman!"

           
Kellin swallowed. "You have
never seen her?"

           
"No. A dynastic thing, this
marriage. To bind the bloodlines closer." Devin chewed thoughtfully.

           
"A man like you weds for love,
or lust—or because the woman has conceived, and her father insists!—but a man
like me, well ..." He sighed. "No choice for either of us. The match
was suggested by her father, and mine accepted eagerly; one cannot help but to
rise in service to a powerful lord."

           
Kellin's smile was crooked.
"No."

           
"I envy you. You need not wed
at all, if that is your desire—well, I should not complain; my lot is better
than yours." Devin's attitude was friendly enough, but all too obviously
he believed Kellin lowborn. "What is your trade?"

           
Kellin wanted to laugh. If he told
Devin the truth— He grinned, thinking of the thieves. "What other trade is
there but to aspire to higher in life—and the coin to make it possible?"

           
Devin's eyes narrowed consideringly
as he washed down trout with wine. "You are a passing fair mimic."

           
"A mimic?"

           
"Aye. Put on finer clothing,
wash the grime from your face, you could pass for a highborn man."

           
He stoppered the wineskin. "You
might make a mummer."

           
Kellin laughed, thinking of his
grandparents.

           
"There are those who have
accused me of that very thing. I did but playact the role, they said—then
admonished me to learn my part better." He jerked his head westward-
"When you came down the road, did you pass two men with a bay very like
your own?"

           
Devin shrugged. "I passed many
people. I do not recall the horse." His eyes brightened over the fish.
"Why?"

           
"The horse they have is mine.
It was stolen from me ..." He ran a hand through tousled hair. "You
see, I am not precisely the man I appear to be." Kellin plucked at
Tarn
's grimy tunic. "They took more than my
horse."

           
"And left you with that piebald
horse and another's clothing?" Devin shouted a laugh. "Aye, it makes
sense—you have not the manner of a lowborn man, either."

           
Kellin thought of the Midden and his
visits.

           
"Some might argue with
that."

           
"Well. at least they left you
your life. Did they knock you on the head?" He grinned as Kellin grimaced
an answer. "I thought so. The dullness in your eyes ... aye, well, drink
more wine." He finished his fish. "If I were not expected, I would
help you catch the thieves. I have certain gifts that would improve the
sport."

           
"Gifts?"

           
Devin grinned. "Arts." He
reached for the wineskin, then turned as movement on the road caught his eyes.
Almost at once he froze. "Be still!" He put out a hand- "Do not
move—gods, but what a beauty . . . and a fitting gift for the girl's father. He
covets them. I shall have to see if I can take her."

           
Kellin turned, asking, "Covets
what—?" And broke off immediately. Suspicion blossomed.

           
He dropped the fish, set down the
wineskin quietly, and wished he had his knife. He stared hard at the friendly
stranger.

           
"She is lovely'." Devin
breathed.

           
Kellin did not answer. He reached
out very carefully and closed his hand around the hilt of Devin's knife.

           
Devin twisted at once, slapping down
at Kellin's grasping hand. "What are you—wait—" He rolled and
scrambled up, poised for attack. The light in his eyes was gone, replaced by a
cold, piercing stillness. Quietly, he said "Only a fool steals from an
Ihlini."

           
The cold knot solidified in Kellin's
belly. He knelt on one knee with the other booted foot planted, grasping a stolen
knife. "And only a fool thinks he can capture a lir."

           
Realization kindled in Devin's eyes,
then damped to coals. He shook his head. "You have no power before
me."

           
"Nor you before me."

           
Devin raised his hands. "I have
these."

           
"And I have your knife."

           
Devin's eyes narrowed. His young
face was stretched taut across prominent cheekbones. His lips were bloodless.
He studied Kellin carefully, then murmured something beneath his breath.

           
"They say—" He shut his
mouth, then began again. "They say we are very alike. Ihlini and Cheysuli.
That we are bloodkin." He remained half crouched, prepared to receive an
onrush. "Do you believe it?"

           
"Does it matter?"

           
"It does. If there is truth to
it. If we are to kill one another."

           
"Are we?"

           
Devin shrugged. "To serve
Asar-Suti, I will kill whomever I must—" In one smooth motion he ripped
his cloak from his shoulders and swirled it at Kellin, snapping weighted corners.

           
The blaze of crimson came at his
face, aimed for his eyes. Kellin ducked the cloak easily enough, but it served
merely as distraction; Devin scooped up and hurled a river rock that nearly
struck Kellin's head.

           
Ku'resh— As Keliin dodged it, the
Ihlini hurled himself forward.

           
They went down together hard,
smashing into rocks spewed up by the
Bluetooth
River
. Devin's fingers dug into Kellin's throat. He squirmed beneath the
Ihlini, thrashing legs to gain leverage, and managed to thrust a knee upward
that imperiled Devin's balance. The Ihlini tensed, shifted, and Kellin bucked
him off. The knife was lost somehow, but he scrambled to his feet even as Devin
came up clawing.

           
It was an obscene dance, an
intercourse of grasping hands reaching to crush a throat. Kellin was aware of
Sima's nearness by the sound of her growls and snarls, but the link was
completely empty. In its place was an odd disorientation, a buzzing
interference that told him all too clearly what he should have known before;
what he would have known before had his wits not been so muddled.