Darkspell (24 page)

“It’s splendid,” she said with a spew of smoke and another hacking cough. “What’s the price if I buy ten bars?”

“Fifty silvers.”

“What? Naught less at all?”

“Naught.”

“Well, then, maybe I won’t buy a jot.”

He merely smiled, waiting.

“You’re a hard man, Sarco.” Reluctantly she laid the pipe down to let it go out. “I’ll get the coin.”

While Sarcyn counted out the bars, she disappeared
into another chamber, finally returning with the heavy handful of silver.

“Do you want one of the lasses while you re here?” she handed the coin over. “Free, of course.”

“My thanks, but I can’t. I’ve other business to attend to.”

“Come back tonight if you want.”

“I will, then. That blond with the kohl round her eyes—tell her to be ready. Will you remember the price you just set?”

Gwenca smiled, all gap-toothed.

“For you I’ll remember. Huh. Someone told me your tastes ran to lads. Did they lie?”

“What’s it to you?”

“Naught. Just an idle wondering. What are you, like some of them Bardek merchants, rolling your dice with either hand? They get their good time out of both cheeks and fur that way.”

Sarcyn stared straight at her.

“Old woman, you go too far.”

Gwenca flinched back. While Sarcyn finished dressing, she crouched in a chair and fingered her amulet.

When he left the Bilge, Sarcyn walked upriver, keeping off the main streets whenever possible. Although to avoid attention he was staying at an inn in another poor section of town, he refused to lodge anywhere near the Bilge, which held too many painful memories for him. His mother had been an expensive whore in a house much like Gwenca’s. On some whim she’d actually borne two children out of her many pregnancies, Sarcyn and his younger sister, Evy. She alternately spoiled and ignored them until she was strangled by a drunken sailor when Sarcyn was seven and Evy three. The brothel keeper kicked them out into the streets, where they lived as beggars for months, sleeping under wagons or in broken ale barrels, scrounging what coppers they could and fighting to keep the bigger boys from stealing their food.

Then one day a well-dressed merchant stopped to give them a copper and asked them why they were begging.
When Sarcyn told him, he gave them a couple more, and that day their bellies were full for the first time in months. Naturally, Sarcyn began to keep an eye out for this generous fellow. Every time he saw Alastyr, the merchant would give him more coins and stop to talk with the lads, too. Even though Sarcyn was a prematurely wise gutter rat, slowly Alastyr won his confidence. When the merchant offered to let the children come live with him, they wept in gratitude.

For some time Alastyr treated them kindly but distantly. They had nice clothes, warm beds, and all the food they wanted, but they rarely saw their benefactor. When he looked back on how happy he was then, Sarcyn felt only disgust for the innocent little fool he’d been. One night Alastyr came to his bedchamber, first coaxed him with promises and caresses, then coldly raped him. He remembered lying curled up on the bed afterward and weeping with both pain and shame. Although he thought of running away, there was nowhere to go but the cold and filth of the streets. Night after night he endured the merchant’s lust, his one consolation being that Alastyr had no interest in his sister. Somehow he wanted to spare Evy the shame.

But once they moved to Bardek to live, Alastyr turned his attention to the girl as well, especially after Sarcyn reached puberty and became less interesting, at least in bed. The year Sarcyn’s voice changed, Alastyr began using him for dark dweomer-workings, such as forcing him to scry under the master’s control or mesmerizing him so thoroughly that he had no idea of what he’d done in the trances. Alastyr did offer repayment for using him in this particular way: lessons in the dark dweomer itself. Evy he taught nothing. When she reached puberty, Alastyr sold her to a brothel.

Without even his sister left from his old life, Sarcyn devoted himself to the dark dweomer—it was all he had. Not, of course, that he phrased it that way to himself. In his mind he’d endured the first stages of a harsh apprenticeship in order to prove himself worthy of the dark power. And so he was still bound to Alastyr, even though
Sarcyn hated him so much that at times he dreamed of killing him in long, detailed dreams. It was worth putting up with the master to gain the knowledge—he told himself that constantly. At least he’d be free of Alastyr for some days now while he sold his wares. The master never stayed long in Cerrmor; there were too many people who might recognize him.

His way back to the inn took him through one of the many open squares in the city. Although there was no market that day, a good-sized crowd had gathered round a platform improvised from planks and ale barrels. On the platform stood a tall, slender man with the palest hair Sarcyn had ever seen and smoky-gray eyes. He was also very handsome, his regular features almost girlish. Sarcyn stayed to watch. With a flourish the fellow pulled a silk scarf from his shirtsleeve, tossed it up, and made it disappear seemingly in midair. The crowd laughed its approval.

“Greetings, fair citizens. I am a mountebank, a traveling minstrel, a storyteller who deals in naught but lies, jests, and fripperies. I am, in short, a gerthddyn, come to take you for a few pleasant hours to the land of never-was, never-will-be.” He made the scarf reappear, then vanish again. “I hail from Eldidd, and you may call me Salamander, because my real name’s so long that you’d never remember it.”

Laughing, the crowd tossed him a few coppers. Sarcyn considered simply returning to his inn, because this sort of nonsense had nothing to offer a man like him, who knew the true darkness of the world. On the other hand, the gerthddyn happened to be an excellent storyteller. When he launched into a tale of King Bran and a mighty wizard of the Dawntime, the crowd stood fascinated. He played all the parts, his voice lilting for a beautiful maiden, snarling for the evil wizard, rumbling for the mighty king. Every now and then he sang a song as part of the tale, his clear tenor ringing out. When he stopped halfway and pleaded exhaustion, coins showered down on him to revive his flagging spirits.

Even though he felt foolish for doing so, Sarcyn enjoyed
every minute of the tale. He was amused for more than the obvious reasons. Whenever the crowd shuddered with pleasurable fear at the abominable doings of the evil wizard, Sarcyn inwardly laughed. All that wanton slaughter and ridiculous scheming to do people useless harm had no place in the dark dweomer. Never once did the tale touch on the true heart of the working: mastery. First a man mastered himself until he was as cold and hard as a bar of iron, then he used that iron soul to pry what he wanted from the clutches of a hostile world. True, at times other people died or were broken, but they were the weak and deserved it. Their pain was only incidental, not the point of the matter.

At last the gerthddyn finished his tale, and the ragged edge to his voice showed why he wouldn’t do another, no matter how much the crowd pleaded. As the crowd broke up, the gerthddyn hopped down from his perch and walked away. Sarcyn worked his way through and pressed a silver coin into Salamander’s hand.

“That was the best-told tale I’ve ever heard. Can I stand you a tankard of ale? You need somewhat to ease your throat.”

“So I do.” Salamander considered him for a moment, then gave him a faint smile. “But alas, I cannot take you up on your most generous offer. I have a lass here in town, you see, who’s waiting for me at this very moment.”

There was just enough stress on the word “lass” to convey a clear message without discourtesy.

“Well and good, then,” Sarcyn said. “I’ll be on my way.”

As he walked off, Sarcyn was more troubled than disappointed. Either the gerthddyn had unusually good eyes, or he’d revealed more of his sudden interest than he’d meant to. Finally he decided that a man who wandered the roads for his living had seen enough to know a proposition when he heard one. Yet on the edge of the square he paused for one last look at the handsome gerthddyn and saw a crowd of Wildfolk trailing after him as he walked away. Sarcyn froze on the spot. Although Salamander seemed unaware of
his strange companions, their interest in him might have well meant that he had the dweomer of light. You were cursed lucky he turned down that tankard, he told himself. Then he hurried off to his inn. He would make very sure that the gerthddyn never got another look at him while he was in Cerrmor.

On the morrow the overcast lifted, and strong spring sun blazed on the harbor. As he stood on the poop deck of his Bardek merchantman, Elaeno, master of the ship, was wondering how the barbarians could stand wearing wool trousers in this kind of weather. Even though he himself was dressed in a simple linen tunic and sandals, the heat was oppressively humid. On his home island of Orystinna, summer days were parched and easier to bear. Below him on the main deck, the crew of Cerrmor longshoremen worked stripped to the waist. Nearby, Masupo, the merchant who’d hired the ship for this run, watched over every barrel and bale. Some of them contained fine glassware, specially made to sell to barbarian nobles.

“Sir?” the first mate called up. “The customs officials want to speak to you.”

“I’ll be right there.”

Waiting on the wooden pier were three blond, blue-eyed Deverry men, as hard to tell apart as most of the Cerrmor barbarians were. As Elaeno approached, they looked startled, then carefully arranged polite expressions on their faces. He was used to that, because he drew those startled looks even in the islands that Deverry men lumped together under the name of Bardek. Like many of the men on his home island, he was close to seven feet tall, heavily built, and his skin was a rich bluish black, not one of the various common shades of brown.

“Good morrow, Captain,” said one of the barbarians. “My name is Lord Merryn, chief of customs for his grace, Gwerbret Ladoic of Cerrmor.”

“And a good morrow to you, my lord. What do you need from me?”

“The permission to search your ship after the cargo’s
been unloaded. I realize that it’s somewhat of an indignity, but we’ve been having a problem with smuggled goods of a certain kind. If you insist, we’ll exempt your ship, but if so, neither you nor any of your men can come ashore.”

“I’ve got no quarrel with that. I’ll wager his lordship means opium and poisons, and I’ll have no truck with that foul trade.”

“Well and good, then, and my thanks. It’s also my duty to warn you that if you have any slaves onboard, we won’t hunt them down for you if they seek freedom.”

“The people of my island don’t own slaves.” Elaeno heard the growl in his voice. “My apologies, my lord. It’s a touchy subject among us, but of course, you wouldn’t realize that.”

“I didn’t, at that. My apologies to you, Captain.”

The other two officials looked profoundly embarrassed. Elaeno himself felt uncomfortable. He was as bad as they were, he knew, always lumping all foreigners together unless he watched himself.

“I must compliment you on your command of our language,” Merryn said after a moment.

“My thanks. I learned it as a child, you see. My family had taken in a boarder from Deverry, an herbman who came to study with our physicians. Since we’re a trading house, my father traded lessons for his keep.”

“Ah, I see. Good bargain, it sounds like.”

“It was.” Elaeno was thinking that the bargain had been a better one than ever these men could know.

Once the goods were unloaded onto the pier, one crew of customs men went through them and argued with Masupo about the duties while a second searched every inch of the ship. Elaeno stood on the poop, leaned comfortably onto the rail, and watched the sun sparkling on the gentle swell of the sea. Since water was his most congenial element, he reached Nevyn’s mind easily and heard the old man’s thought that it would take him a moment to find a focus. Soon the image of Nevyn’s face built up on the sea.

“So,”
he thought to Elaeno.
“You’re in Deverry, are you?”

“I am, down in Cerrmor. We’ll be in port for a fortnight, most like.”

“Splendid. I’m on my way to Cerrmor now. I’ll probably get there in a couple of days. Did my letter reach you before you left?”

“It did, and a grim bit of news it was. I asked around various harbors, and I’ve got information for you.”

“Wonderful, but don’t tell me now. We might be overheard.”

“Indeed? Then I’ll see you when you reach town. I’ll be living aboard while we’re in port.”

“Very well. Oh, here, Salamander’s in Cerrmor. He’s staying at an inn called the Blue Parrot, a fitting enough name.”

“The Chattering Magpie would be even better. Ye gods, it’s hard to believe that the lad has the true dweomer.”

“Well, what do you expect from the son of an elven bard? But our Ebañy has his uses, wild lad or not.”

Nevyn’s image winked out. His hands clasped behind his back, Elaeno paced back and forth. If Nevyn was afraid of spies, the situation must be grave indeed. He felt angry, as he always did at the thought of the dark dweomer. It would be very satisfying to get his massive hands around the neck of a foul master one fine day, but of course, it was better to fight them with subtler weapons.

It was just three days later that Sarcyn was loitering outside a tavern just on the edge of the Bilge. With his aura wrapped tight around him, he leaned against the building and waited for the courier. He never told any of the various men who smuggled drugs and poisons into Deverry where he was actually staying in Cerrmor; they knew to find him here, and he would lead them to a safe place for their transaction. In some minutes he saw Dryn’s stout figure coming along the narrow street. Sarcyn was just about to release his aura and reveal himself when six city wardens appeared from an alley and surrounded the merchant.

“Hold!” one barked. “In the gwerbret’s name!”

“What’s all this, good warden?” Dryn tried to muster a smile.

“You’ll find out back in the wardroom.”