Flamecaster (16 page)

“You read the notice. The city gates are locked until the inspections are over. Anyone who wants to leave has to get approval. And the storms have started, and they say there are wolves already running outside of the town.” What she really meant, was: I'm not going to run away.

She remembered what she'd said to Riley four years ago. We are chosen, you and I, and we're destined for great things. We'll write our own story, you'll see.

She'd never considered that it could be a short story with a sad ending. The fact was, she didn't believe in destiny, or miracles, or magemarks—not anymore.

“I'll be careful, Da,” she said. “I'll be fine. I promise.”

Her father looked at her, chewing on his lower lip. “I have something to show you,” he said finally. He lay on the floor next to her bed and pulled out a small chest that was underneath. It had always been there, as long as Jenna could remember, and it was always kept locked. But this time, he drew a key out of his pocket and unlocked it. He opened it and lifted out a bundle wrapped in many layers of cloth. He unwound the cloth, and spread the contents on the bed.

Jenna's hand went first to the dagger. It caught her eye, as shiny things always did. Its hilt was twin dragons, twined together, and layered with red stones—rubies and garnets, she guessed, though she'd never seen real ones up close.

With her free hand, she reached for the magemark
under her hair, brushing her fingers over the stone that centered it. The magemark hummed with power.

“Yes,” her father said. “The stones are the same.”

When she withdrew it from its sheath, the blade was bright and razor-sharp, as if it had not lain under her bed for more than a decade. And along the blade, runes glowed red against bluish steel—letters in a language she didn't know.

There was a fitted leather breastplate, also covered in runes, and clearly made to fit a woman, and a pair of finely made leather gloves. Not the kind meant to keep your hands warm—the kind that ladies wore to go riding. She pulled them on, and they fit perfectly, extending partway up her arms. She extended her hands, admiring them, then pulled the gloves off and laid them back on the bed. Not very practical for a coal miner in Delphi.

Finally, there was a broken pendant on a chain, a fragment of an instrument that reminded her of a spoked wheel, but not quite. It looked to be made of gold (likely brass) with markings all along the edge and a kind of spinner anchored at the center. It tingled a bit in her palm, meaning it was flashcraft.

When Jenna looked up at her father he said, “That's part of a mariner's astrolabe, or made to look like one, at least.” He took it from her and slipped the chain over her head so that it rested just below her collarbone. “It may help you find your way.”

Not if it's broken, she thought. “Where did all this come from?”

“Your grandmother left it for you. The pendant was your birth father's. I don't know about the dagger and the rest. Maybe it was your birth mother's.”

Jenna stroked the leather armor again. People said that northern women rode into battle shrieking like banshees. “Was she a—a warrior?”

“I don't know,” her father said with a wistful smile. “A warrior. I suppose that suits you, in a way.”

No, Jenna thought. I'm the kind of warrior who slips down alleys and hides in the dark places. Not the kind who rides into battle.

Jenna scooped up the dagger again, turning it this way and that, so it caught the light. Her mother's. It felt strangely balanced, like it belonged in her hand. She struck a pose, like she'd seen young mudback officers do with their swords. Of course, this wasn't a sword. This was a weapon that was meant to be hidden and used on the sly.

Maybe it suited her after all.

She quickly pushed it back into its sheath. There was no point in falling in love with a thing that could put food on the table and a roof over their heads.

“You should've sold this,” she said. “We could have gone anywhere. We still can. You won't have to worry about leaving the tavern behind. We can start over, somewhere else, and build a finer place than this. On the ocean, maybe.”

The ocean called to her, even though she'd only seen it in stories.

“No. It's your legacy, and I'll not sell it. I should have given it to you long before now. I know how you love beautiful things, and you've had little enough beauty in your life. Keep it with you, and maybe it will somehow keep you safe if they . . .” He shook his head, blotting at his eyes with the back of his hand. “I don't know what else to do.”

Jenna allowed herself to be persuaded. She hung the dagger on a hook on the wall, next to her clothes. When she reached up to adjust her collar, her fingers lingered on the magemark. She traced it, a hot spiderweb of metal centered by cool stone. As much as she tried to dismiss it, there was a weight and importance to it. She had to resist the urge to touch it whenever her mind wandered.

With some effort, Jenna pulled her hand away. “I don't care what my grandmother said. There couldn't be anything powerful about me—nothing someone would hunt me down for, anyway.”

“How do you know?”

“Because if there were, the king of Arden would be dead.”

Ash pivoted in the center of the arena, cueing the king's roan to shift from a walk to a trot. His paces were smooth, unbroken, with no sign that he was favoring his front leg. Ash had him on a lunge line and a halter, not the best means of control for a high-spirited horse, but Crusher was fast becoming the best-mannered horse in the barn—at least when Ash was handling him. When he called “Whoa!” the gelding trotted over and lowered his head for a scratch, snuffling into his hand.

“Good job,” Ash murmured. “Don't get too comfortable. I'll be back after lunch for another go.” That had become their routine, an hour-long workout on a lunge line in the mornings and afternoons.

“I can't believe what you've done with that horse. It's like you put a spell on him.”

Ash turned, startled. It was Bellamy.

“Nothing to do with spellcraft,” Ash said. “He's not in pain anymore, and that makes all the difference.”

“Maybe so, but he's still unpredictable around anyone else.”

“He's got a lot of bad habits to unlearn,” Ash said. “I'll work on that. Nobody should be riding him now, anyway, and he needs to stay on soft ground. Another couple of weeks, we can begin putting him under saddle. Rolley can take over lunging him, once I've given him some pointers.” Rolley was one of the grooms, the best of the lot in Ash's opinion.

“And here I thought I was the one in charge,” Bellamy said wryly. He held up his hand when Ash opened his mouth to apologize. “Never mind. Skill and talent give a man a certain authority. Now there's a mare in the army livery I'd like you to take a look at.”

After just a few weeks with Bellamy, Ash's role had changed from that of farrier to that of consulting healer to the royal stables, the army paddocks, and the kennels. He might prefer to be working in the healing halls instead of the stables, but there was plenty of work to do here.

Still, he hadn't really come here to find a job. He was no nearer to his goal of killing the king of Arden than when he'd arrived, and he saw no likelihood that would
change. He was getting to know grooms, stable hands, and servants of all kinds, but he'd not laid eyes on any member of the royal family since his arrival. Apparently, His Majesty didn't spend much time in the barn. Somehow, Ash needed to work his way into the palace itself.

Patience, he told himself. You knew that it was going to take time. He just wasn't sure how much time he had. For all he knew, an attack on his mother and sister was already in the works.

When Ash returned to work Crusher in late afternoon, his stall was empty. Perplexed, Ash looked down the row, wondering who had moved him, and why. The other box stalls were empty, too. That's when he heard a commotion out in the courtyard, shouts and curses, the snap of a whip, and a horse's scream.

Rolley burst into the barn, a whip in one hand, his face ghostly pale. “Adam! Come quick! It's the roan—I tried to tell him he wasn't fit to be rid, but he wouldn't listen.”

Ash bolted from the stable, nearly colliding with a group of bluebloods in hunting attire who huddled to one side, gripping the reins of their horses while a groom struggled to control a pack of leashed mastiffs. And beyond them was Crusher, ears flat, eyes rolling, bucking and crow-hopping, doing his best to fling his rider off his back. Meanwhile, Marshall Bellamy was trying to move in close enough to grab hold of the gelding's reins without being trampled in the process.

The rider was skilled, to have kept his seat for that long, but just as Ash arrived, the gelding slammed against a stone wall and finally succeeded in dislodging him. The man fell, rolling, trying to evade the horse's flying hooves.

Ash's first instinct was to let Crusher trample the fool, but Bellamy was moving in again, stepping between the horse and the fallen rider, desperately trying to drive the gelding back far enough so that the rider could scramble away. Fearing the horse marshall would be trampled instead, Ash came in from the side, managed to snag one of the reins, and pulled the gelding's head around so he circled away from the other two. He managed to get a hand on Crusher's withers and pushed soothing magic into him. He kept on turning the horse in a tight circle, repeating “whoa!” until the plunging stopped and the ears came forward and Crusher stood still, shaking and blowing hard. On three legs.

Blood was running down the fourth leg. Not the one with the abscessed hoof. Ash didn't need a close look to tell that the cannon bone was shattered just above the fetlock, the bone poking through the skin. That sometimes happened when a lame horse put too much pressure on his three healthy legs. Ash pressed his fingers between the gelding's eyes, trying to help him with the pain, but it nearly knocked him on his ass.

Bellamy walked toward him. “You all right, Adam?”

Ash shook his head, pointed wordlessly at the broken
leg, and Bellamy's face went gray. “Scummer,” the marshall muttered, and looked away.

The rider was on his feet now, brushing himself off, straightening his sleeves. He wore a fine hunting coat, embroidered with red hawks, now besmirched with dirt. A long cut across his cheek oozed blood, and his sandy hair was disheveled.

The rest of the hunting party clustered around him, chattering like sparrows. “Your Majesty? Are you injured? Shall we call Master Merrill? Thank the Maker you weren't killed!”

Your Majesty
.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl while Ash's heart accelerated, thumping painfully in his chest. He watched wordlessly as the king of Arden shook off his courtiers, grabbed Rolley by the front of his barn coat, and yanked him close. “Imbecile. I thought you said that beast was improving. He's worse than before.” He gave Rolley a shake.

“Y-your Majesty,” Rolley croaked, teeth chattering. “I—I'm sorry.”

With that, King Gerard backhanded Rolley across the face, sending him staggering.

A red mist collected before Ash's eyes. This was the man who'd tried to bully his mother into marrying him. Who'd been responsible for the murder of his sister and his father. Who'd tried to murder him, and would do so again in a heartbeat.

This was the monster to blame for so many losses. The world would be a better place without him.

Taking hold of his amulet, Ash took a step toward the king, but Bellamy stepped in front of him, gripping his shoulders and glaring into his eyes.

“Don't lose your head, Adam.”

“Get out of my way.”

“No,” the horse marshall said. “It won't do poor Crusher any good, and you'll likely get us all killed. I'm the one that hired you, remember.”

“It's worth it,” Ash growled, trying to push past him, but Bellamy gripped his arm and held on.

“Not to me and Rolley, it isn't,” Bellamy said. “And not to you, either, because you won't touch him, not with magery. He's got a charm against it, or something.”

“A charm against magery?” Ash looked past Bellamy to the king, once again surrounded by his anxious crew. “Are you talking about a talisman, or—”

“I wouldn't know about such things.” Bellamy made the sign of Malthus. “If you just
have
to give it a go, do it somewhere other than my barn.”

The marshall turned toward the king. “I'm sorry about what happened, Your Majesty,” he said. “Rolley here was right, the gelding was improving. I don't know what got into him today. Now we'll have to put him down, I'm afraid.”

The king slapped his riding gloves across his palm. “Do
it,” he said. “The beast is a devil.” He turned and walked away without a backward glance. And, with him, Ash's first chance at making good on his promise.

Ash watched him go. Was he being smart, strategic, levelheaded? Or was he simply a coward?

Destin Karn was in a good mood. For the first time since arriving in Delphi, he felt he was making some measurable progress on the hunt for the rune-marked girl. Even if he never found her, he could at least prove he'd been thorough in the attempt. Not that any kind of failure would play well in Ardenscourt.

He'd just supervised the barbering of a hundred women coming off the day shift in the mines. Miners had been especially hard to reach, since it seemed that they were always either working or sleeping. So he'd set up a “hygiene station” at the army camp on the road to the mines, so it wouldn't take them far out of their way.

Over several weeks, Destin had streamlined the hair-
cutting process and handpicked his barbers, choosing the least brutal and the most skillful of Clermont's blackbirds. Each woman treated was fitted with a pair of silver earrings to signify that she had been examined. He'd wrung the silver for the jewelry from the Lord Mayor, who was as corrupt as they come.

He hoped that by making the process as painless as possible, citizens would be encouraged to cooperate. The sooner he got it done, the closer he might be to getting out of Delphi. He only wished he could get shed of Clermont, who insisted on helping. In fact, the captain of the Guard was sticking to him tight as a horse tick.

Destin and his blackbird shadow rode through a blinding snowstorm all the way to town, the sound of their horses' hooves muffled by the thickening blanket. When they finally reached the city gates, they had to hail the guards to be admitted, the result of Destin's order. As they entered the city, Destin realized he was tired of the Mug and Mutton, overfamiliar with all of its marginal fare, and weary of the serving girls who scattered at their approach.

Maybe it would be worth visiting one of the smaller inns, a place they hadn't quartered in. The food might be better, or at least different. He'd heard good reports about the Lady of Grace, in the quiet north end, so he decided to give it a try. Clermont, of course, tagged along.

A painting of a beautiful noblewoman decorated the sign outside. The entrance opened into a large front room
with a fireplace at one end and a heating stove at the other. The common room was full. Destin hoped that boded well for the food. Before he chose a table, he walked the length of the room and stuck his head into a smaller room at the back. It had a fireplace, also, and tables for playing nicks and bones.

Destin and Clermont settled themselves in the corner of the main room and ordered up mugs of ale and meat pies. When the pies came, they were enclosed in a tender, flaky crust, fat with meat and vegetables. Destin focused on his food until the edge was off his hunger, and then he once again began to take an interest in his surroundings.

The crowd in the Lady of Grace was more genteel than that which frequented the Mug and Mutton. For one thing, there were women among the customers as well as the help. There were merchants and tradesmen, and travelers complaining about the locking of the gates. A few off-duty officers from the regular army shared a large table at the back. As usual, people kept their distance from Destin and Clermont, but it was less obvious than in the rough-and-tumble atmosphere of the Mug and Mutton.

Some kind of entertainment was going on in the far corner. A crowd had gathered around a table, some standing, some sitting, including soldiers, guardsmen, and travelers. Although Destin couldn't see above the heads of those who were standing, they were all staring down intently, and now and then they broke into laughter, sometimes
elbowing each other, as if to say, “Good one.” Could be a storyteller, Destin thought, though it was difficult to fathom why a traveling talespinner would visit Delphi this time of the year. The weather and the tips were better farther south.

The party in the corner went on while Destin finished his meat pie and ordered up another mug of ale. Finally, it seemed the show was over. Some people drifted away, reclaiming their own tables again. He could just make out somebody sitting against the wall, and then some more patrons gathered around, blocking his view again.

When his server brought his ale, he asked her what was going on.

“It's a fortuneteller. He reads the cards for people, moves from inn to inn. People seem to like him. Calls himself Lyle Truthteller.” She grinned. “Oftimes he tells too much truth, as some have found. But he always draws a crowd.”

Destin was mildly curious. When it came to entertainment, a fortuneteller was rarer than a talespinner or musician. True, most of them were frauds—experts at learning a little bit about a person so they could spit it back. Anyone who could truly predict the future wouldn't while his time away in a tavern. Still, they could be amusing, and he had time to kill before the night shift let out at the mines.

When the server returned with Clermont's ale, Destin
put a hand on her arm. “Ask Truthteller to join us.” He nodded toward the crowd in the corner. “We wish to talk with him.”

She threw a doubtful glance toward where the fortune-teller held court, and a worried look at Destin. “I'll see what I can do, sir,” she said.

When she returned, her face was pale, and her eyes large. “He says thank you, but he's more comfortable where he is. Sir,” she added, as if mimicking the way the fortuneteller had tacked it on as an afterthought.

Destin straightened, surprised. Most entertainers would jump at the chance to impress someone close to the king. Or would be afraid to refuse, in any case. “Did you tell him who I am?” He turned the mug in his hands.

“I did, sir,” the server said, licking her lips. “Maybe the spell is on him. I'm not sure I was getting through, if you know what I mean. I wouldn't take it the wrong way, sir, if I were you.”

Clermont gripped the server by the wrist so that she cried out in pain. He jerked her close, so they were eye to eye, and said, “You tell that insolent whey-faced tavern rat to—”

“Let her go, Clermont,” Destin growled, his good mood quickly dissipating. “It's not her fault, and it's not that important.”

Clermont's eyes narrowed in annoyance. He released the server and she hurried away, rubbing her wrist. Then he
leaned across the table. “You're new here, Lieutenant, and you don't know how things work. The thing is, you can't let these Delphian curs think they can get away with—”

Slamming his tankard down, Destin reached across the table and gripped Clermont's wrist. The captain's eyes went wide, and he howled in pain, struggling to pull away.

All around them, the other patrons focused on their meals, pretending not to hear.

Destin leaned in close to the captain. “I'm only going to tell you this once, so I suggest that you listen. I'd like to have a drink in a tavern where the help isn't scared to get near me. I think I'll learn a lot more that way. I don't need you to second-guess my decisions. Keep it up and I might forget that, technically, you outrank me.” Then he let go.

Clermont looked down at his charred and blistered wrist, then back up at Destin. “You—you—you're—”

“Yes,” Destin said, “I am. Now shut up and stay here.” He rose, picked up his ale, and crossed the room to the fortuneteller's table. He didn't look back to see what Clermont did or did not do.

The fortuneteller's clients were a polished young man wearing a fine silk surcoat with a ruffled collar, and a handsome older woman in a well-cut traveling suit. Destin might have thought they were mother and son, except that they were holding hands and smiling at each other like newlyweds or lovers. They did not notice Destin's approach because they were facing the corner, where the
truthteller sat. Destin stood just behind the pair so that he had an excellent view of the proceedings. The other spectators took one look at Destin and gradually slipped away, finding things to do in other parts of the tavern.

The seer was a young man, hardly more than a boy, medium tall, with delicate features, dressed in an odd assortment of clothing. He wore a tunic that hung loosely on his spare frame, a surcoat that must have been fine at one time, but now was threadbare and frayed at the edges. The sleeves hung to his fingertips, and bits of tired lace peeked out at the wrist and collar. On his head he wore a large, flat velvet cap of an old-fashioned style, as if he were the scion of an old-money family that had fallen on hard times.

If the truthteller saw Destin approach, he gave no sign of it. He was shuffling cards, and they flashed so quickly under his long fingers that they seemed to appear and disappear. He had the woman cut them, and cut them again. Then he pulled cards from the deck and turned them over, slapping them down on the table in rows. Destin could see that they were not regular playing cards, though they shared some of the same symbols. The boy looked them over, then lifted his gaze to the lady. His eyes were distinctive—a stunning golden color, like a cat's or a raptor's. Destin wondered how he did that—if he used some kind of potion or treatment to get them to look that way. However he achieved it, it certainly gave him an otherworldly look.

“I see a long journey,” the boy said. He did look tranced, and his voice had a whispery, mysterious quality, giving the impression that he drew his knowledge from some sacred well within, and not from the cards.

“Well done!” the woman said, smiling. “Garren and I have come all the way from Havensgate this morning.” She seemed terribly excited to find out something she already knew.

I could do that well, Destin thought, noting the dust layered on the hem of the lady's skirt, the mud splattered on the gentleman's boots. Garren apparently agreed, because he made a skeptical face and touched his companion's elbow. “Let's go upstairs, Catherine. We need to make an early start in the morning.”

“Just a few more minutes, darling,” Catherine said. “I want to hear what else he has to say.”

The boy picked up another card. This time he looked directly at Garren. “You will lose a great deal of money.”

The young man rolled his eyes. “Oh, really,” he said. “How horrifying! When exactly will this happen?”

Lyle Truthteller smiled mysteriously. “Soon. Very soon.”

“Will I be robbed? Will I have bad luck betting on the horses?” The young man gulped down his drink and signaled for another.

Truthteller turned another card, ran his finger over its surface, and looked up at Catherine. “You are being
deceived by someone close to you,” he said.

“Really.” Catherine glanced at Garren. “Can you tell me who it is?”

“The cards tell us what they will tell us, but not always everything we need to know.”

Another easy guess, Destin thought. In his experience, family and friends are always the first to stick a knife in your back. Garren seemed a little rattled, though. He shifted in his seat and looked toward the stairs again.

Truthteller fixed Garren with a penetrating gaze. “I see a letter, addressed to you, from Angelique.”

Garren turned white as the snow that was falling outside. “I . . . what do you mean? I don't know any Angelique.”

Catherine stared at him in surprise. “Why, Garren, of course you know Angelique, the clerk in my shop in Whitehall?”

Garren planted both hands on the table and pushed to his feet. “Let's go. This is a waste of time.”

“It says . . .” The seer frowned, as if trying to make out a hazy script. “It says, ‘I'm not going to sleep with you anymore, you faithless bastard.'”

The young man shook his head, his mouth forming a “no” though no sound came out. Catherine was looking alert and interested now. “Excuse me? What's that again?”

“‘I think I've caught something from you, Garren,'” the boy went on, eyes half-closed. “‘I'm itching where I never itched before. If you're looking for that silk dressing
gown, the one with the dragons—'”

“Dragons?” Catherine looked from Garren to Truthteller, startled recognition on her face.

“‘—you left it here, but don't come looking for it, because I threw it in the dustbun . . .'” Truthteller squinted. “I guess that's ‘dustbin.' ‘If you think you can come back here any time you please and wrap your legs around my—'”

“Enough!” Garren roared, as if trying to drown out the truthteller. “Don't listen to this scummer-tongued devil.” He stumbled a bit over “scummer-tongued.” “Come, Catherine.” He stalked toward the stairs, looking back over his shoulder once to see if the lady was following. She wasn't. She sat staring thoughtfully at Truthteller, who sat relaxed, expressionless, his arms circling the cards on the table, as if protecting them.

Catherine stirred then, seeming to shake off a bit of disappointment. She reached into her handbag, drew out a small pouch, and tossed it onto the table without counting the contents. It clanked as it landed, heavily. She didn't look happy, but rather like someone who has had a narrow escape.

“Thank you, Truthteller,” she said slowly. “I think you have saved me a great deal of grief.” She rose from her chair with great dignity and walked away, back straight, toward the stairs.

The boy swept the cards together and shuffled them again, staring straight out in front of him. The pouch
had disappeared. Destin sat down in the chair Garren had vacated.

All of Destin's skepticism had disappeared in the face of the seer's performance. All he had left was a crowd of questions. “How did you do that?” he demanded.

The boy turned his eyes to him. He flinched back a bit, as if startled. Collecting himself, he said, “Foreseeing is an art, not a science. Sometimes you get nothing, and sometimes you get a very . . . clear . . . picture.” By now the cards had disappeared into the sleeve of his jacket, and then the boy was standing. “By your leave, my lord.” He bowed deeply, and made to turn away.

“Wait!” Destin commanded. “Sit a while. I want to know more about this . . . foreseeing.”