Shadowdance (43 page)

Some of the homes he passed now were occupied. Windows were opened to catch the breeze. Sometimes, voices spilled out. An argument from this one. A laugh from that one. Once, a small child's face peered out and watched him pass.

He arrived at another bridge and turned right, following the road of which it was part, away from the river. An old man came walking toward him, slouched forward under the weight of a sack he carried slung across one shoulder.

Innowen pulled back on the reins, and his horse stopped. "Is this...?"

The old man passed him by, refusing to answer or even to acknowledge him. Innowen twisted around to watch him disappear across the bridge. With a shrug, he rode onward until he found the village square.

He approached the well that stood in the center of the town. Without dismounting, he looked around. A door slammed off to his left. A pair of voices rose in deep-throated laughter. Innowen observed the two men who stumbled toward the well. They were halfway across the square when they saw him and stopped.

"Well, well, a traveler," said the taller of the two men, a black-haired, bearded fellow dressed in a leather kilt and a ragged tunic. Innowen noted the short dagger on the belt around his waist.

"Who might ye be, comin' here so late in the middle o' the night, now?" The shorter, and obviously younger, man gave off a reek of beer that Innowen could smell as they came closer.

He turned just enough to let them see the sword he wore—the soldier's sword, which Baktus had given him. The Witch's ruby-hilted blade remained wrapped in the bundle with her armor and his dolls. "What village is this?" Innowen asked evenly.

"Shanalane," said the older man, eyeing the sword. "Why, don't ye know where ye're goin', or are ye jus' ridin' around the countryside for the fun of it?"

Innowen ignored the question. "Was that an inn you just came from? I could use a drink and a bite to eat."

"Couldn't we all, now," the younger man laughed drunkenly. "Ye like to buy us a drink, stranger?"

Innowen considered. "Sorry," he said at last. "My poor coins will barely stretch for one meal tonight." He looked the older man in the eyes as he spoke the lie.

The younger one took a half step forward and reached toward Innowen's foot. "That's not very friendly...."

His older comrade caught his arm and yanked him back. "Ferget it, Chaddi," he said, still watching Innowen's eyes. "He's not worth the trouble." Quickly, he ushered a mumbling Chaddi away and down a side street.

Innowen waited until they were gone, then rode toward the door the pair had emerged through. There was no sign or anything to declare if it was an inn or a tavern. Voices sounded loudly from inside, however. He dismounted slowly, keeping the reins of his horse in one hand. In his uncertainty, he thought of knocking on the door, but at last pulled it open.

It was a tavern, all right. A dozen men sat around tables, pouring mugs of liquid down their throats, and holding conversations between gulps. Another half dozen stood in a group at the back of the tavern tossing knives at a painted block of wood. A large sweating man sat on a stool just inside the door. His head was shaved bald, and a small gold hoop gleamed in the drooping lobe of his left ear. He turned and regarded Innowen with a cool, even gaze. "In or out," he grumbled.

Innowen hesitated, mindful of the reins in his hand. "Is there someplace close where I can stable my horse?" he said. "I've come a long way."

The doorman with the earring eyed him again, noting his sword and clothing, peering around the door past Innowen for a look at the horse. "Wait," he answered, pushing Innowen back outside and closing the door in his face.

Innowen frowned, but waited, twisting the reins around one hand as he idly stroked his horse's neck with the other. He didn't wait long. The door opened, and another man emerged, wearing an apron, which he wiped over both his hands. His hair was black and curly, and his grin reminded Innowen startlingly of Taelyn.

"Hot tonight, isn't it?" the man remarked casually, extending his hand to clasp Innowen's forearm. There was power in his grip, and Innowen liked him at once, finding him a pleasant change from the first four souls he'd met in this village.

"All the nights are hot," Innowen answered. "I'm Petroklos, a traveler."

"And I'm Moryn."

Innowen's head tilted to one side as he studied the man with renewed interest. "That's a Mureibet name," he said.

Moryn's left brow elevated, and he, too, gave Innowen a closer look. "You must be well-traveled, indeed. My father was from Mureibet, but he settled here with my Isporan mother." His grin broadened. "People who know me around here call me Mourn."

The two finally let go of each other's forearms. "Merit said you needed your horse looked after," Mourn remarked, taking the reins from Innowen's hand. "Let me see to him. I'm friends with the owner of the only stable still open on this side of the river, and I'll get you a good price. It's not far. You go on in and have a drink. There'll be food when I get back."

"My thanks," Innowen said, pleased by such hospitality. "Do you have rooms? I haven't slept for some time."

"No rooms, I'm afraid," Mourn answered, biting a corner of his lip. "Shanalane hasn't been able to support an inn for quite a while. Few travelers come this way since the river dried up." He paused, then the corners of his mouth turned up in a renewed smile. "If you like, though, you can sleep with me. I've plenty of room. The bed is soft and big enough, and I won't disturb you."

Innowen hesitated. "That's a generous offer to make to a stranger."

Mourn shrugged. "Anyone who's been to Mureibet must have stories to tell. Me, I've never left this village in my life, except to sail upriver to Kharkus, which doesn't count. Don't worry, Petroklos. You'll earn a night's keep with tale-telling. Now go inside while I get fresh straw and oats for your horse."

Innowen collected his two bundles from around the horse's shoulders, and Mourn led the animal away. Innowen went into the tavern. Choosing a table near the door, he sat down and looked around.

The giant by the door—Mourn had called him Merit—never took his eyes off Innowen. After a few moments, a young girl separated from the group of knife-throwers and approached him. At first, he assumed she was a prostitute. Why else would she be in such a place? But she only asked his preference, "Beer, ale, or wine."

"Wine," he told her, and shortly she brought it to him in the same heavy earthen mug used for beer or ale. Innowen put one of his gold
cymorens
on the table. The girl's eyes widened at sight of it, but before she could make a move, Merit waved her away and shook his head. The girl retreated instantly.

The giant raised his bulk from the stool and ambled over. He covered the shining coin with one meaty hand and pushed it toward Innowen with a frown. "Don't show that around here," he said gruffly. "We don't need no trouble." He turned and took up his perch on the stool, and never looked Innowen's way again.

Innowen sighed and slipped the coin back into his belt. As he raised his mug of wine and sipped, he glanced around the room, wondering why he had come here, what he had hoped to find. Shanalane was something of a disappointment, only an old fishing and shipping town, dried up like the river, which had been its livelihood.

Still, somewhere in the hills close by was the Witch's keep. He didn't understand it, but he wanted to see where Minarik and Minowee had trysted and where Vashni must have been born. Innowen had had time to think on the road here, time to lay their faces one upon the other in his mind, and he had no doubt that Vashni was Minarik's son.

He took a gulp of his wine. The pieces of a great puzzle were, at last, coming together. Yet the picture they would form when all were joined still eluded him.

* * *

When Innowen woke up, Mourn's bedroom was utterly dark. He had slept the day away, then, and he smiled to himself, for he had not quite figured out what he would say if his newfound friend discovered his unusual problem.

When he tried to slide out of bed, however, his legs refused to cooperate. His pulse quickened for an instant, and he knew a moment of cold fear. If it was night, then he should be whole again. He forced himself to be calm. It must not be night, he told himself. He felt around. Mourn was not in bed, and his place on the sheets next to the wall was cold.

Innowen rolled over clumsily, his legs a heavy, impeding, weight. Mourn must have crawled off the end of the bed or stepped lightly over him while he slept. There was no space between the far side of the mattress and the wall. Innowen remembered a window, though, just above the bed. It had been open last night to let the warm breeze play over them while they talked and told tales.

He reached out and sighed with relief as his fingers brushed rough cloth. Mourn had closed the shutters and draped a thick woolen blanket over the window to shut out the sunlight so that it wouldn't wake Innowen. He gave a tug, and the blanket came down. A bright shaft of light slipped through the gap between the wooden shutters. He gave them a push, and they flung outward, flooding the room with daylight.

Innowen dragged himself up on his elbows and peered out. As near as he could, tell, it was afternoon at least. He gazed down into the street as a cart trundled by, drawn by a single ox, laden with possessions. A man, a woman, and a dirty child sat on the board huddled close together. It was clear they were leaving town.

Near the well in the center of the square, an old man sat surrounded by a ragged gathering of boys and girls. From the occasional gestures he made, and from the rapt expressions on the children's faces, Innowen guessed he was a storyteller.

Across the square, a door opened and banged closed. A pair of women strolled toward the well with large hydria jars carefully balanced on their shoulders. They talked together as they walked, but when they reached the well they fell silent in the presence of the old man. At first, Innowen assumed it was out of the same deference Isporan women showed any man, but as he watched, he realized the two had only paused from their labors to listen to part of the old one's tale before they filled their jars.

A trio of dogs sniffed their way along the gutters of the, street that led to the bridge, searching for scraps. A blackbird sailed through the blue and settled on a rooftop. It watched the dogs and waited for a chance to steal anything they might find. Somewhere, a baby began to cry with a weak voice that quickly surrendered to a mother's soft singing.

Peals of laughter rang out from the children by the well, an unexpected sound that suddenly touched Innowen. For all the suffering in Ispor, life still went on. He gazed at the storyteller with a profound respect. The old man was a bringer of joy in hard times. Innowen could tell, even from his faraway window, that Shanalane's children loved him.

Very close, another door banged shut. Just below the window, Mourn appeared with a bucket, which he carried to the gutter and emptied. The dogs were there in no time, yapping at his heels, poking their snouts into the gutter as he poured. But it was only mop water and old grease. The dogs lost interest and trotted off as Mourn set the bucket down and paused to wipe his face with the end of his apron.

Innowen backed away from the window. If Mourn didn't look up and see him, perhaps the tavern keeper would leave him alone, under the impression that Innowen would sleep all day. That would be easiest. Then, as soon as the sun set, he could simply get up and walk downstairs. He pursed his lips and settled back into the pillows, wondering what he could do to pass the time without drawing attention to himself.

A few moments later, Mourn eased into the room. His face looked weary, but he smiled when he saw Innowen. "I saw the open shutters," he said, "so I guessed you were awake."

Innowen pretended to yawn. "I'm still pretty tired," he lied. "I'll probably stay in bed the rest of the day, if you don't mind."

Mourn wiped his hands on his apron, a habit Innowen realized was compulsive with him. Then he untied it, crumpled it, and dropped it on the floor. He stretched out on the huge bed beside Innowen and let go a weary sigh as he closed his eyes.

Innowen studied his new friend. When they had first met in the street, he had thought that Mourn was older, but as they had talked through the night and now, with sunshine lighting Mourn's face, Innowen realized they were of a similar age. Mourn
looked
older, though. Hard work had lined and toughened his face, and years of travail had peppered his black hair with early gray. On impulse, Innowen reached out and brushed an unruly lock back from Mourn's forehead.

"Why'd you do that?" Mourn said, opening his eyes, twisting his head so that he could look at Innowen.

"You remind me of someone," Innowen answered honestly, thinking of Taelyn. "A friend I lost recently."

Mourn's expression softened. He turned on his side, folding one arm under his head. "Sounds like there's a story there," he said.

Innowen groaned and clutched his stomach with both arms. "No, please! Have mercy!" He made a face and waved his arms crazily to lighten the mood, refusing to give in to the sadness that thoughts of Taelyn brought. "I'm hoarse from tale-telling. Dawn was coloring the rim of the sky when you finally let me quit. You know more about my life than I do!"

The grin faded from Mourn's face, and his eyes took on a distant look. For a moment, he seemed to gaze right past Innowen. "I doubt that," he said quietly.