The Scourge of Muirwood (15 page)

Malcolm did not and released his grip on her cloak and motioned for her to proceed down the ramp. She did, glancing back at him once and saw he was still watching her. When she looked back at the path ahead, she was struck with a paralyzing fear. The dock swarmed with sailors who were painted with dazzling tattoos. Every person she saw had ink stained on their skin. There were cobweb like patterns on their arms, necks, and even across some bald heads. She raised the cowl of her cloak to shield her face and walked through the throngs, noticing every man and woman thus disfigured with tattoos. There was a humid haze of languidness in the air. Men walked and shuffled with staggered steps. Indolent men were resting on the ground, cradling a mug of drink. The smell of cider was thick in the air, a yeasty smell that made what little hunger she had vanish. Eyes followed her. People brushed past her and she felt hands reaching for her pouches, her bag. Clutching the pouch with the orb tightly, she used her forearms to thrust people away from her who came too close. It seemed that everyone was drunken. Their speech was lively and relaxed and followed the more formal manner of speech that Malcolm had demonstrated. Though their faces had varying forms of tattoos, none she met had glowing eyes.

Lia retreated into a side alley where it was dark and where she did not see anyone loitering expect one man sleeping. She opened the pouch and summoned the orb’s power, asking it to guide her to an inn where she could find a guide to Dochte Abbey who could help her with knowledge of the tides. The spindles were sluggish, as if the very air of Vezins made it difficult for them to move. They pointed the way and she noticed it immediately, a short, squat house smashed between two larger ones and she walked across the crowded street towards it. Night was falling quickly and she wondered if it would be safer to sleep outside the port town.

Lia pushed open the door and the strong smell of incense flavored the air. Huge wagon wheels with torches were hung from chains in the rafter. The inn was a giant main floor with ladders leading up to wooden lofts constructed around the perimeter. It reminded her vaguely of the Aldermaston’s kitchen, for it was about the same size. The lofts seemed to be where the visitors slept. Strings were hung with curtains to offer a little privacy.

The innkeeper was a woman, probably forty or fifty years old with brown hair streaked with gray. She did not have any tattoos but she scowled at Lia when she entered.

“Thou wilt not find any cider here,” she said harshly in Dahomeyjan, waving at Lia in annoyance. “But if thou seekest a meal and lodging, that I have.”

Lia was relieved. Most of the patrons were sailors, hunched over bowls and slurping the soup. They had tattoos, but the innkeeper woman approaching her warily did not, though she was trying quite unashamedly to look past Lia’s hood.

She thought a moment, then decided to use court Dahomeyjan instead of port speech. She did not want to pretend to know her way. “I do not want any cider,” Lia replied, feeling the words come out of her mouth effortlessly.

The woman cocked her head. “You sound foreign.”

“I just arrived today,” Lia answered. “I am hungry. May I have some of your soup?” An idea struck her, a way she might begin to earn the woman’s trust and gain some information from her.

“Dost thou need a pallet? Or is it the soup only thou cravest?”

“Let me first taste the soup. Then I will decide.”

The innkeeper scowled at her and then walked back towards the large oven in the corner where a huge cauldron was bubbling and seething. It smelled overcooked and ill-made. The woman scooped up a spoonful of scalding soup and Lia tasted it gingerly. It was hot but had no flavor except for a little marrow.

“Dost thou want soup and a room, or just the soup?” the innkeeper repeated, folding her arms and staring at Lia archly. She pitched her voice lower. “When the men-folk see thee, they will bother thee. They will offer thee gold to touch thee. If thou camest here to sell thyself, go elsewhere.”

Lia sipped from the spoon again. “If anyone touches me, I will break their hands.”

That earned her a smile. “What seekest thou?”

“A guide to Dochte Abbey. When must I leave to make it with the tide?”

The innkeeper nodded shrewdly. “Thou knowest what thou art asking. A fine kettle of fish. Who told thee to come hither?”

Lia smiled and handed her the spoon.

“Jouvent!” the innkeeper said gustily. A boy of about ten approached from the room, holding a cap in his hands. He was tall and husky for ten, with dark hair that was combed straight down his forehead, the tips like quills and he had pale blue eyes. He was young, but he had the wary look of a cat, ready to jump or pounce. His eyes belied his age. They looked haunted by things he must have witnessed.

“Aye, mother?” He glanced from the innkeeper to Lia in a soft tone. He nodded to Lia respectfully.

“The lad can take thee to Dochte Abbey. But thou must depart whilst it is yet dark. We are quiet and good for sleep and rest, such as we are, because we serve no cider.” She brushed her hand through Jouvent’s hair. “Soup, pallet, and a guide. What wilt thou pay me?”

There was something in her eyes that Lia trusted. She was an honest woman living her best in a hive of filth and treachery. The way she caressed the boy’s hair revealed something of her personality that reminded Lia of Pasqua.

“Knowledge worth a hundred crowns,” Lia answered and watched the woman gape in shock.

“What art thou jesting at?” she challenged, laughing with surprise. “A hundred crowns? Thou dost not look as if thy had ten. By my troth, thou dost not.”

Lia looked at the cutting table next to the cauldron. She gave the wise innkeeper a fresh look. “I will teach you how to make a soup that will fill your inn every night. Soups and breads and desserts. I know many recipes. If you let me stay here, I will teach you some of what I know.” Lia looked at the boy. “Would you like to taste a real soup, Jouvent?”

His eyes widened hungrily. “Aye, my lady.”

“Then you must pay attention and watch me. I will teach you.”

“Where didst thou learn to cook?” the innkeeper said, curious now. Something unspoken passed between them as Lia took an onion from the table. She peeled back the crackling skin and smelled it. It was fresh.

“When I was Jouvent’s age, I learned to cook for an Aldermaston. These are good onions. Let me show you how to cut them. There is a way to cut them very fine. You need spices. I can show Jouvent how to gather plants on our walk to the Abbey. Here, let me show you.”

Lia began to cook. It all came rushing back to her. There were beans to soften, strips of salt pork to add, and spices. From her rucksack, she withdrew spices they had never seen before, but smelled wonderful. Both watched her with fascination as she worked, quickly and deftly, adding new aromas to the bubbling cauldron. The smell in the inn began to shift and so did the mood. Others entered, but it was not a rowdy crowd and many left as soon as they learned there was no cider.

With a sharp knife, Lia smashed a clove of garlic and mixed it with the onions and then added them to the soup, scraping the wooden board clean and then adding some salt and crushed peppers. She smelled the soup, tasted it often, and then sprinkled some sprigs of thyme leaves.

Jouvent stared at the pot, his eyes wide with hunger and anticipation.

“Taste it,” Lia whispered. He obeyed, producing a spoon from his pocket and gently ladled some soup into his mouth. The expression on his face pleased her.

“Aye, my lady. It is good soup,” he mumbled.

Lia nodded and tousled his hair. “You watch people, Jouvent. You learn by watching. I will dare say that you know many tales and stories.”

He nodded shyly.

“What news from Dochte Abbey?” she asked.

He took another spoonful of soup and devoured it. He fished around for a chunk of meat and then chewed it, nearly burning his tongue. When he finished, he looked at her again. His eyes were wise beyond his years, as she had noticed earlier. “Talk of marriage and war. The king of Comoros, he has come thither to study at the Abbey. If thou wilt listen, thou wilt hear he shall marry a lass. She be the heir of Demont. They shall marry and stop all the warring in that accursed land.” He slurped more of the soup. “If they do not marry, there will be a war. There be too many from Comoros here and they crave the warring to happen. Dost thou know who stays at the Lily here in Vezins? Another earl from Comoros, he be. A fine swordsman. Thou may call him Dieyre. An’ he is paying ten crowns for the boy or man who brings him word of a boat a comin’ from Comoros. I know’ve a boat just arrived from Doviur, but the Holk was not the vessel he seeks.” He seemed ashamed of a sudden, as if realizing that he was talking too much.

But Lia could not control her expression of dismay. She could do nothing but stare in shock at the little boy who, between mouthfuls of soup, had just revealed the worst news she could imagine. If the wretched who believed she was Ellowyn Demont consented to marry the king, what impact would it have on Lia if the truth became known? She had no desire to marry the young king, whose father she had slain with a Pry-rian arrow. Even though he had been under the guardianship of Garen Demont, she knew he must have been corrupted by Pareigis. The thought of being forced to marry him sickened her.

It was equally alarming to learn that Dieyre was in Vezins. When she thought of Reome carrying his child, she wanted to run him through with her gladius. How much suffering he had caused and continued to cause. He was undoubtedly waiting for a ship to bring Marciana to him. What would he do when he learned it was not coming? She could see the additional pieces of the Queen Dowager’s plan locking together. At Muirwood’s cloisters, Lia had witnessed Dieyre promoting marriage between Ellowyn Demont and the young king. He had tried to persuade her to aim for it.

She realized with a very real throb of terror that she had very little time to thwart it.

Lia stayed up late baking bread, pizzelles, and even a sambocade. The soup cauldron was scraped empty before the guests had settled for the night, sharing ladders to climb up to the loft curtains. In the time she had spent with them, she had learned the innkeeper’s name – Huette – and also learned the Jouvent was not her natural son. She had lost three children to fevers and sickness and then lost her husband to the sea. Instead of despairing, she had started the inn to support herself. On a stormy night that had battered the dock-bound ships, a young woman from the Abbey had come. She was very ill and very rich and very much with child and Jouvent had been born by the hearth that night. The young woman was determined to abandon the child at the Abbey, but Huette had persuaded her to leave the child with her since bringing it out into the storm would have killed it for certain. The young woman did not care what happened to the child, so long as she was rid of it. She never left her name and she never came again. Lia stared at the boy as the innkeeper shared the story. Though a sickly thing at birth, he had managed to survive the winter and had grown strong and sturdy ever since.

The guests were all settled before midnight, and Huette tamped down the fires, locked the door and windows, and started sweeping up the spills and crumbs from the rush matting. Jouvent stared into the chimney, at the soot-choked Leering carved into the wall at the back of it. He stared at it, long and hard, but nothing happened.

“Why do you stare at the gargouelle?” Lia asked him softly.

He did not look at her. He shook his head.

“Tell me,” she whispered.

“Mother warned me never to tell of it. Too many Dochte Mandar about. They know when things happen.”

Lia stared at the Leering’s eyes and summoned their power with a thought, just enough to make the eyes glow red.

Jouvent looked at her knowingly. “Thou art a maston,” he whispered. He did not ask her to confirm it. He already knew.

“When did you realize it?” she answered softly, watching Huette as she cleaned the tables and decided to join her and help.

“I saw a peek at thy chaen,” he answered, his eyes meeting hers. “Earlier. I meant no disrespect, but I saw it and then I knew what it was.”

“How did you know?”

“The mastons find us,” he whispered. “Somehow they know they are safe here. Thou art safe here. In the morn, I will take thee to the Abbey. But I must warn thee. The Dochte Mandar have promised fifteen crown for any maston turned in. It is a lot of coin, my lady, and my mother and I are poor. But we always have enough to eat. Somehow, there is always enough. I judge it that by not turning thee in, there are blessings on our house.”

Lia smiled at him and stifled a yawn.

“Thou shouldst sleep,” he said. “Lay on my pallet, near the fire. I shall help mother.”

Lia could not argue, for she was exhausted. She stretched out on the pallet near the oven and stared at the winking embers as they died, one by one. Little bits of ash sizzled and she breathed in the scents and flavors that reminded her hauntingly of Pasqua’s kitchen. In her mind, she could hear the old woman bustling about, thumping ladles and fussing over stubborn dough. The guests at the inn had enjoyed her treats that night. She had earned some lavish compliments and the extra coin had made it the most prosperous evening throughout Huette’s time as an innkeeper.