Feast of Souls (45 page)

Standing at the top of the hill, Kamala gazed at the lights below. A caravan had parked its wagons on the lee side of the slope and torches still burned outside several of them, no doubt to hold thieves at bay. From one dark corner of the camp she could hear soft singing, too distant for her to make out if the singer were male or female. The merchants within the inn had partied their way to a far later hour than their servants had kept, apparently, and all but the guards and a few stragglers seemed to be soundly asleep.

She waited in silence a few moments, drinking in the quiet and the darkness. After a few minutes she saw a figure approaching. His black face was invisible in the darkness, but the gold hoops in his ears and the shimmer of his garments shone like fire in the moonlight.

He passed by where she stood, saw her, and stopped. The scent of ale and whore’s perfume clung to his silken robes.

“You have a fine voice,” Kamala said.

He cocked his head to one side. “You are the one who asked after Sankara.”

“Your ear is good.”

“Your accent is a strange mix. Western Delta, perhaps, overlaid by something more northern. Hard to mistake.”

A faint smile twitched her lips. “Your ear is
very
good.”

“My business rewards those who are observant.”

“And you travel much.”

He inclined his head. “That is also true.”

“I was intrigued by your tales of Sankara. Do you go there often?”

He was silent for a moment. His black eyes studied her, seeking… what? She did not know enough of the standards being applied to use sorcery to convince him he had found it.

At last he said, “It is a place where I occasionally have business. Why do you ask?”

“Your tales intrigue me. I would like to see that city for myself.”

“Truly?” Now it was he who smiled dryly. “Now, see, I would never have guessed that.”

Gently she twisted the threads of his consciousness, cutting short those which were wary of strangers, strengthening those which responded well to novelty and challenge. It thrilled her down to her toes to feel her spells take hold of him, to sense his very soul being reshaped at her command. Ethanus had taught her the skill in a theoretical sense, but she had never had the opportunity to use it before. One did not practice such arts upon one’s own master.

“I wish to see the world,” she said. “You would be valuable to me as a guide.”

If not for her sorcery he might have been displeased by her forwardness, but as it was his eyes narrowed thoughtfully, as if considering whether the youth he saw before him might actually serve some purpose. “You must have something of great value to offer,” he said at last, “or you would not speak to me thus. Judging from your attire, I would guess it is not money.”

“Again, you are insightful.”

“What, then?”

She raised up her hand before him, and in her palm made small lights appear and dance. It was a child’s trick, but it had the desired effect.

He looked at her sharply. “You are a witch?”

She nodded silently. And held her breath. There was no way now to guess what he was thinking now, which made it dangerous to try to influence him. Altering the threads of a man’s consciousness when you did not know what they were to start with was bound to cause a terrible tangle. If your assumptions were wrong enough you could destroy a man’s mind entirely.

She settled for binding a whisper of power to support her disguise. It would not do to have him guess her true gender. Merchants rarely took women into their retinue unless it was to see to their more private needs, and Kamala had no desire to play that role again.

Finally he said, “You are offering… what? I do not wish to mistake you.”

“Fair winds if you sail. Safe roads if you ride.”

His black eyes gleamed in the moonlight. “That is a lot of witchery to expend upon one journey.”

“I expect to travel comfortably.”

The night was silent, but for crickets. The singing in the distance had stopped.

“I travel by land,” he said. “And, as it happens, I am headed to the Free Lands. Though not directly.”

“I am in no rush,” she said casually. A necessary lie; she did not wish anyone to start asking questions about why this journey was of such pressing interest to her. “I am sure I could amuse myself along the way… shopping, perhaps.”

“No doubt.” He reached up a hand to stroke his chin thoughtfully; his gold earrings shimmered in the moonlight. “And if there were a business deal along the way that was not going as well as it should…”

“That is a more difficult art,” she said, “and costly.” The corner of her mouth twitched slightly. “The shopping would have to be
very
good.”

“Of course.”

“So we have a deal?”

He shook his head and made a
tsk-tsk
noise, smiling ever so slightly. “A wise man never signs a contract after a night of drinking. Lesson number one if you mean to be part of my business. Now, I am going to do something I should have done a long time ago, and seek my bed. In three days’ time I will be done with my business in Ban-doa and prepared to move on. If you come to the Third Moon on that night and ask for Netando, then we can discuss our terms. Is that acceptable?”

She nodded.

“And here.” He reached into his robe and pulled out a small purse; red silk embroidered with gold. He threw it to her. “Buy yourself some decent clothing. A man is judged by the company he keeps, yes?”

“My name is Kovan,” she told him.

He chuckled. “And I am sure I shall forget that by morning. Do remind me, will you?”

Without a further word he turned toward the inn once more. Even that place was quieter, now. Even the whores had fallen silent.

Three days.

Did she dare remain in one place for that long? What if some unnamed power really was pursuing her? Could this be what her dreams had been trying to warn her about, the danger of slowing down to rest, of giving it time to catch up with her?

Downward, the whirlpool is dragging her downward, into an unnamed and terrible darkness… the whirlpool closes over her head… beyond it, beneath it, is nothingness, utter nothingness
—

Three days.

“
Her fireworks are more magnificent than any I have seen a Magister produce
,” Netando had said, and another had added: “
She does not die
.”

The purse was full of silver. She stared at it for a long while, weighing her options. Then she, too, returned to the inn, and used some of it to arrange for a room for the next two nights. The rest she would spend on a proper young man’s clothing.

If indeed she would have to do battle with an unnamed darkness, she might as well be well dressed for the occasion.

The Feast hall in the Witch-Queen’s palace was full, and spirits were high. At the center of the U-shaped arrangement of couches and low tables Siderea reclined, her dark eyes glittering as she directed the gathering with subtle gestures: a finger lifted to order that flagons of mint wine be refilled over
here
, a delicate twist of the wrist to indicate that a tray of sweets should be delivered over
there
. When she laughed it was with a sound like wind chimes tinkling in the breeze, and the men surrounding her leaned close as they whispered choice secrets in her ear, hoping to win that laughter as a sign of her favor.

Into this gathering a servant came, unlike the others who were so festively attired in colorful silks and golden ornaments. This one was in plain woolen attire, and looked as if he had just been toiling in the gardens, or some other dirty place. The guests were inebriated enough that they did not notice his arrival—or did not care to acknowledge it if they did—but Siderea always kept close watch upon the business of her palace, even when her guests were not aware of it. A moment or two after the servant entered she glanced up at him, took his measure quickly, and then whispered apologies in the ears of the two men closest to her, and in a flurry of scarlet veils and tinkling jewelry, withdrew herself from their company.

“Send in the dancing girls,” she whispered to another servant as she passed, and he scurried off to obey.

The one who was waiting by the door shifted his weight nervously as she approached. This close to him she could see that his brown woolen doublet was spattered with something dark. “Not here,” she said quickly, and nodded for him to back out the way he had come. She followed him into the outer hallway, and from there indicated a side chamber where they might speak in private.

“Forgive me for interrupting you—” he said breathlessly, as soon as the door was shut.

“I assume you would not do so if you did not have good reason.”

He nodded. “I am sorry to say so, Majesty. I have heard word… there is someone here…” He seemed uncertain how to begin, and twisted his woolen hat in his hands as he struggled for words.

“Just say it,” she said quietly. “The manner of delivery does not concern me.”

“We have a visitor from Corialanus,” he said. “From the Western Reaches. He says… he says the whole of some city has been destroyed… everyone killed… there was some sort of great monster there You must hear the details from him, Lady, they are too terrible to repeat.”

An ice-cold serpent stirred in the Witch-Queen’s heart.
That will be Danton’s doing
.

“Take me,” she commanded.

She stopped briefly in the hall outside the feast chamber to give orders for more entertainment, and to make sure the guests’ flagons would be refilled with mint wine each time they emptied them; they would be less likely to notice her absence that way. She also called for a servant to run to her chambers and fetch her a somber kaftan that she might wear over her festive attire. If there had truly been a slaughter in Corialanus, it was not appropriate to hear the news in the silks and jewels of a celebratory costume. She pulled off her earrings as well and shed her necklace, dropping them into the hands of other servants as she walked; by the time they reached the chamber where the messenger was waiting, the only adornment remaining upon her was a slender anklet with tiny coins hanging from it, that jingled softly as she walked, and an opulent comb she could not easily dislodge.

Servants threw the doors open before her, revealing a room with yet more of her people inside. On the bed lay the man they were attending to, himself a figure covered in dirt and dried blood and even less pleasant substances. The smell coming forth from him was akin to the reek of an outhouse, and she was pleased to see that her people had already drawn a bath for him, though they would not move him into it until she gave the order.

She came to the side of the bed and looked down upon him; he did not seem to notice her. His skin was scored with many scratchmarks and also with one deep gouge, which her physician was trying to clean and dress, even as the man turned from side to side, moaning in the grip of some nightmare. Every now and then he would try to bat the physician away and another servant would come and pin him down, until he just lay there sobbing, exhausted, trapped in some remembrance that left him only half-aware of where he was, unaware of who was surrounding him.

She watched him for a moment, wishing she had one of her Magisters present to assist her. If Danton had made some move on Corialanus, that was the kind of news any one of them would wish to hear. But the price of relying upon the power of others was that sometimes they were just not around when you needed them.

A bowl of water had been set by the bed. With a silent gesture she ordered one of the servants to wet a cloth in it, wring it out, and give it to her. She sat down by the side of the visitor then, shushed the physician for a moment, and applied the cool cloth to the man’s burning head with all the delicacy of a butterfly’s wing.

The soothing motion seemed to break through some barrier in his mind; he grew still beneath her ministrations, slowly, and then looked up at her with eyes that seemed to contain a spark of awareness. They were encrusted from dried tears and perhaps worse, red-rimmed and bloodshot, and swollen from his repeated attempts to rub them clean.

“Dead,” he whispered. “They are all dead. Take care, Lady! It will come to this place too.”

Then a fit of coughing wracked his body, so powerfully that he shook from head to toe for struggling to contain it. When it was over Siderea gently wiped the phlegm from his lips, noting the fine threads of blood that seeped from his cracked, dry lips. The brief moment of lucidity had passed, however, and his eyes slowly ceased to focus on her and focused instead on some distant, unknown vista. She spoke to him softly, trying to rouse his interest, but he only stared into the distance, seemingly unaware that anyone had spoken to him.

Finally she stood, and gave the compress over to the hands of a servant.

“How did he come here?” she asked.

“He was found on the Great Road, just north of the city. The rider who brought him in said he was raving about monsters, or something like that. Evidently he had walked from Corialanus… or so he claims.”

Very likely
, she thought. His leather boots were worn through at the sole in several places, scored and pitted from gravel and thorns and stained with mud. Cori-alanus was not close by, and until one reached the Great Road, the way was not easy. He must have been traveling on foot for at least a week. No wonder his condition was so wretched.