The Seascape Tattoo (27 page)

“For nine years. We married when I was sixteen years. He died in battle for our king three years ago.”

“I'm sorry.”

She studied him. “I might have been married even earlier, but I could not. I was in mourning.”

“In mourning … for what?”

“For the one I had been betrothed to in childhood. He disappeared when he was ten years old. I was eleven.”

The alarm began to creep up his neck.

“What … happened to him?”

“We do not know. He was traveling to visit a cousin, and the caravan was attacked, according to a survivor. No sign was ever found.”

“I see.” He set the wine down. The last thing in the world he needed at this moment was clouded senses. “And who,” he asked, already knowing the answer, “was the intended?”

She was watching him so very carefully. “He was the son of General Silith and his wife, Jade. Elio Silith.”

“And when were you betrothed?”

“At birth. His, not mine.”

“I would assume that you had some say in your eventual husband, as you were older at the time. I regret having to say this, but it may have been a blessing.”

Something about his answer pleased her. “That is so very much like what Elio would have said.”

“Or so you remember him. It was long ago.”

“Memory is a tricky thing,” she conceded. “But I believe I can trust my heart.”

They spoke on for a time, of life and the politics of Shrike, and the sea, which she loved. And at all times, at every moment, he was aware that there was a conversation going on beneath the conversation.
Who are you?

And at last, he began to wonder.

He remembered his youth in Azteca, but not his mother's face. Remembered little of his wanderings before he found the sea.

Which made it easy to turn his memories to the purpose at hand.

She listened, with a wit and wisdom in her words and smiles, her small gestures that he found calming, noting at every moment that somehow the room continued to grow smaller and more intimate. “It is a strange thing,” she said. “We know each other, know ourselves, largely by the people around us. They reinforce our memories, our identities. And ultimately they can create memory that didn't exist, just by telling us things again and again.”

What, then, was he to make of that? He didn't remember. He had no companions, no family to tell him. Anything was possible … except of course for any tattoos that had been placed in childhood.

No, damn it, not even that. Hadn't he seen Neoloth remove one set of tattoos and replace them with another? It would be absurd to think him the only mage with such ability.

Anything was …

The sun was nearing the horizon, the shadows long and deep. Somehow, Mijista Wile had drawn closer to him. So close that he could scent the wine upon her breath.

“What do you think of me?” she asked boldly, and as she said it Mijista made a presentation of herself. Her hair, her eyes—all seemed to glow.

“You are the very essence of a noblewoman,” he said honestly, and for the first time in his life, he wished he was another man. A man who had been born to such a station. Because nothing in him wanted to lie to this woman, and he had already told so many.

“And you have a politician's tongue,” she said. But while there was mockery in those words, there was also a hint of something else. Some challenge.

“Would you do me a favor?” Mijista asked, every word warm and wafting on a warm, moist breeze.

“Of course,” he answered.

“The boy I remember was my betrothed. And before he left, he showed me the tattoo that had been graven in his skin. It hurt terribly, he said. But he was very brave.”

She stood. “I also traveled, as the highborn do, between the Eight Kingdoms. And I also received such a tattoo. If you would care to see it, first show me yours.”

He took a deep breath. For what purpose had Jade Silith brought him to this house? Was this a trap? And yet … at no time had he claimed to be this or that person. True, they had manipulated the …

His brain wasn't working properly. As he was thinking, he was also standing up and, in standing, had already begun the unbuttoning, the shedding, there in the light from the setting sun. Until his chest was bare, and with it the tattoos that had once been upon the boy they had found in an unmarked grave.

Yes, the boy. He, Aros, could not be other than he was: a thief, a mercenary, a man of no consequence in the world. His momentary fantasy dispelled and …

She was touching him. Her fingers tracing their way across his chest. “Turn,” she said, and did the same thing along his back. “Strange,” she said. “The images are familiar. But … not so large as I would have expected.”

“I can't see my own back.”

“If you are the boy I remember—”

“I never claimed to be.”

She looked at him carefully. “No,” she said. “You never claimed to be. But here you are, in Shrike. In the chariot of the most powerful woman in the kingdom. Who brought you to me. What do you think of this?”

“I think that m'lady makes more of it than I do.”

“Yes. Well spoken. You are not the boy I knew,” she said. His heart raced. Then she said, “But you are the man he would have grown to be.”

Her lips pressed against his and then withdrew.

Eyes half-lidded, she took a half step backward.

And then showed him the tattoo on her back, as he had displayed his own. Faded blue, it covered most of her upper back: a dark, ten-year-old boy with an infectious smile.

 

TWENTY-EIGHT

Assassin

The carriage returned for Aros at dawn. Jade Silith was not in it.

Again, the coachman had no horses to manage and steered the steaming device with a lever that stuck through the floor, with a great wheel not too dissimilar to the wheel of a sailing ship.

“Where to, sir?”

Sir? Aros could think of precious few times in his life that he had ever been addressed in such a fashion, and fewer still when it was said without irony or hope of immediate reward.

Sir.

“To the Boar's Head Inn,” he replied. The coach began to wind along the narrow path, and in the darkness of early morning, it somehow seemed more sure-footed. Or … perhaps he was just less concerned, more relaxed.

He felt happy.

And it wasn't just the spectacular evening that Mijista Wile had afforded him. Not just the things she had said, or done, or what had happened since he'd returned from the desert.

It was the fact that everything before the desert had been artifice. But what had happened there, fighting beside the general and leaping down into the cavern to save him … Neoloth's trickery had had no part in that. That had been no fraud, no plan, no act. He had jumped into darkness to save a man he admired.

And that man had responded by promoting him. His wife had responded with the gratitude any loving wife might feel. Introducing him to society and then … to his former fiancée.

NO! Not his. The boy who had died in the desert, and been laid in his grave. Whose tattoos they had stolen.

Unless … for some reason he did not understand, those tattoos had been transferred from one boy to another. As if …

Well, but that way lay insanity.

But what was happening to him was insane. The general didn't care who he was—he cared that Aros had saved his life, at the risk of his own.

The general's wife didn't care. Oh, it was clear that she toyed with the notion that he was her son … but her mother's heart was ready to accept him regardless.

And what of Mijista Wile? Certainly part of what had happened between them could be considered a very intimate inspection of his tattoos. Madam Silith had known Mijista Wile was a lusty widow and could be trusted to report back. And what would be said? That the tattoos were there; yes, they were. But weren't quite right. Too small. Skewed, perhaps.

He had never claimed to be their son. In a world in which tattoos could be moved from one body to another or duplicated or removed … who knew what was possible?

He had pleasured the widow; and she, him. There had been no artifice about that, either. And the memory of her clutchings, and gaspings, and rising heat, and cooling kisses had been as real as anything in this world or the next.

He felt it. There was a place for him in this kingdom. In this place. And that was something he had never known before, in all his life, and all his wanderings.

*   *   *

Sunlight was creeping across the rooftops by the time he returned to their lodgings. There was a barracks berth for him, of course, but no one would question his return to the lodgings he shared with his manservant.

The very manservant waiting for Aros when he strode through the door.

Neoloth had been up for some time, apparently, working on a scroll. Aros wondered if another scroll may have been on the table just moments before, if a hasty substitution had been made when footsteps were heard on the stair.

“Ah, the hero returns,” Neoloth said, and his smile was not exactly a comforting thing. “It has been some time. I'd begun to wonder if you were coming back.”

“I keep my word,” the Aztec growled.

“So I have seen, and I appreciate that. In return, I can tell you that our purpose here grows sharp.”

“Eh?” Aros felt a wave of fatigue flowing over him. It had been … a strenuous evening. Mijista Wile was quite a woman. He wondered if she would be available again that evening …

“Listen to me,” Neoloth said sharply, drawing his attention back. “The stars are aligning to our purpose. I know where the princess is. I have an ally who can help her escape.”

“Ally?”

Neoloth nodded. “The same who helped me reach into your dream.”

Aros rubbed his head. “That was strange. It felt as if you were walking into my head. You and someone else.”

“Never mind that.”

“Who was she? Another magician?”

Neoloth's expression was a stone wall.
Do not ask. I will not say.

Aros shrugged. “All right. You saved my life. I won't ask how. What now?”

“Now,” Neoloth said, “you kill the general.”

Of all the things that Neoloth might have said, that was the last he had wanted to hear. “W-what? I think you had better spell that out for me.”

Neoloth sat next to him, exuding a sort of avuncular ease that felt positively serpentine. “I made an arrangement to save the princess. It involves the death of General Silith.”

“Why?”

“Because Silith was involved in a massacre some time ago, and my … ally wishes revenge. My ally can get the princess out of prison. We will have to get her to the ship, and away. That will require a distraction. I believe that freeing the captives would create enough chaos to—”

“Wait,” Aros said, holding his hands up. “Wait just a moment. Slow down. I never agreed to be an assassin. This is supposed to be a rescue mission.”

“It seems to me that you were perfectly happy to play the assassin on Catal Island, some time ago.”

Aros's eyebrows furrowed. “That was different.”

“How?”

“I didn't know him.”

“Oh, so that makes the difference? You've discovered morality?”

Aros slammed his fist on the table. “Do not speak to me as if I am some servant of yours, wizard. You can take my life, but you cannot take my honor. Silith has done me no wrong. In fact, he has treated me better than anyone ever has.
Ever
. His wife has treated me like a son. You tread very carefully here: do not think I will simply obey you if you snap your fingers.”

Neoloth ground his teeth. “You understand that, in order for us to complete our mission, I must have allies. There are costs to that. All I had to do was remain silent, and you and your precious general would have died. At great cost, I reached out to you, saved your life. I could have completed my mission without you. So … you owe General Silith. What do you owe me?”

Aros groaned. There was no escaping the logic. He had promised to free the princess. Neoloth had, in warning him, proved himself a worthy ally. He hadn't had to do that. Aros would never have known. Even if he had survived, he would never have suspected the wizard had any part in it.

What did he owe Neoloth? What did he owe General Silith?

By the serpent! He had never had to deal with a quandary like this one!

He had saved the general's life. Would he now take it?

He sighed. “I have no answer for you. I appreciate that you saved my life. It is true that I am in your debt, a greater debt than I owe the general. With that truth upon the table, can you see my dilemma?”

Neoloth nodded. The barbarian was in a hard place. The laws of hospitality were engaged the moment he took wine, meat, and bread in the general's house. Not to mention the promotions. And … he was not blind to the degree to which the barbarian was growing to admire the general.

He had not anticipated that Aros's pretending to be a son might blossom into the real emotions of being a son.

This was as delicate a moment as Neoloth had ever navigated. The future of his entire venture was being decided now, in this room, beneath this guttering candle. “All right, Aros,” Neoloth said. “Allow us to postpone our decision. Will that suffice?”

The barbarian nodded gratefully.

“What are your plans? I'll have to work around them. Are you near to learning anything?”

“I don't have your background,” Aros said. “I'm seeing things
you
might understand, if you saw enough. I've seen something like miniature volcanic explosions set off with little tubes, or inside big iron or bronze tubes, or tubes hung over a man's back. We'd be up against those in any assault, or maybe we could use them ourselves.”