Game of Souls (16 page)

“I’m sorry.”

“I have no memory of her,” Winslow shrugged, “so I don’t feel much when it comes up. There was a time I hated everything the Smear stood for, but now … I don’t know. Count Cardiff, on the other hand …” his voice trailed off.

“My father has always insisted that the Consortium had nothing to do with your mother’s death. And I believe him.”

“Do you know who killed yours?” Winslow asked.

“Exactly who? No.”

“But it’s why you train, why you wish to become a melder, to one day take revenge.”

“That and the Smear itself, the way we live.” The Day of Accolades was fast approaching. Months remained before it arrived. The thought of watching the suffering soured his stomach.

Winslow grunted as if he understood. “I wanted to become a melder so my father would be proud of me, but now, I’m not so sure. What would you do if you found out Delisar wasn’t your father?”

“I … I don’t know.” The thought had never crossed his mind. “I would be hurt. I would want to know who my real parents were and why they abandoned me. Beyond that, I couldn’t say.” He could imagine the turmoil Winslow was experiencing since the revelation. “You asked me once what was it that I wanted. Have you ever been down to the Smear on the Day of Accolades?”

“A few times when I was younger,” Winslow said. “The last few years … no. The grandest balls are held on that same day. A celebration of life. It’s an old custom. And I always got upset when I watched the children chosen. I wanted to be a Blade, and here I had to see people given a privilege that I thought were undeserving of it.”

“Undeserving? Trust me, most would rather hold onto their babies. For us in the Smear, it’s anything but a celebration or about being chosen. The wisemen come to
take
the king’s tribute.” Winslow stiffened. He obviously knew what it meant, but Keedar continued. “Many give up their children who might be gifted in soul magic in order to fill the army’s ranks or for the chance at becoming a Blade. Some, who know their children possess no skill, surrender their babies, or they try to, because the promise of a life in the court, in the armies, is better than how we live in the Smear, even if an early death follows.”

“I-I’m sorry,” Winslow whispered.

“What I want is to put an end to the Day of Accolades.” A sense of triumph eased through Keedar at having said the words. He felt comforted.

They fell into silence the rest of the way. When they arrived at the Keneshin Gate, Winslow announced himself. The guards hurried them inside through the sally port. Not long after, they parted ways.

As he hurried along the dark streets toward the Smear, Keedar contemplated the day’s events. He’d had a certain dislike for Winslow, but after today, the young noble had gained his respect for passing the tests. It was as Uncle Keshka often said: ‘A man’s strength is the measure of his soul.’

By the time he realized he was being followed, he’d passed into the Grey Ward, the reek of drains in need of cleaning filling his nostrils. The usual whores occupied one corner or another or bared their assets at one of the dimly lit inns along the cobbled streets. From the corner of his eyes, he picked out the four men who paid no attention to the women, not even in scorn for their moribund appearances. Although they tried to appear nonchalant, at times laughing with each other, he could tell their focus was on him. With his best chance to escape being the rooftops, Keedar veered down an alley.

He managed one step toward a wall when he heard a low buzz and something hard struck his knee. Pain shot up his leg, and it buckled. The clatter of metal on stone was a distant sound. He pitched forward.

A shadow loomed over him, the smell of pine cones drifting from it.

“A warning.” The voice carried a Marishman’s stilted accent. “Stay away from the counts’ sons if you wish to live. You’re being spared this time because you helped them. The next time, we won’t be as generous.”

The first kick to his ribs sent fire up his side. When other booted feet joined in, all he saw were bright lights, and then blackness.

A
Child and a Promise

W
ithout bothering to knock, Winslow shoved open the doors to Count Cardiff’s chambers. “Father, what did you do!” he shouted.

A hand with an iron grip snatched him from the shadowy depths of the drapes near the door. He clawed at the steely fingers, but they didn’t budge. When he glanced up, he met dark, glittering eyes hidden within a hood. A woodland scent drifted from the person. The meager light that trickled through the hood’s depths shone off a scarred cheek. The mottled flesh tried to jog a memory, one that was soon forgotten by the blade pressing against his sternum.

“Let him go.” Sounding mildly amused, Count Cardiff’s voice filtered across the room.

A pause ensued, and for the briefest moment, the grip tightened. Murderous intent radiated from the eyes within the hood.

Winslow sucked in a breath, fully expecting to feel the painful jab as the blade pierced his skin. Instead, he found his arm free. Count Cardiff’s protector slipped from the room, the door closing behind him with a barely audible click. Able to breathe once more, Winslow felt his chest unclench.

Incense burned as usual, its aroma dressing the entire room in fall’s garb. Today, the curtains were thrown back and tied off to allow in afternoon sunlight. The lush carpet beneath his feet matched the furniture and the rest of the room’s attire. In a fine cut grey shirt and jacket, Count Cardiff sat in a cushioned armchair, peering at Winslow over his glasses.

Across from him was Elaina. She wore a silver silk dress with ruffles on the sleeves, a split from her breastbone on down exposing the yellow satin beneath, its edges trimmed with lace.

“My wayward son, come, sit.” Count Cardiff gestured toward the nearby chair but his steel-eyed expression said it was a command not a request.

Seething once more, Winslow strode to the seat located close enough to obtain a whiff of citrus from Elaina. He felt her gaze on him as he sat, no doubt wanting to see his reaction to his favorite scent when they would meet at an inn near Walker’s Row. Since the chase in the Smear he had not indulged in her presence.

Normally, he would grace her with a smile, but today he was not in the mood. Not for her or Count Cardiff’s insistence on their marriage. He frowned as he met her teary-eyed gaze. Before Winslow could ask, Ainslen spoke.

“You see, my dear Lady Shenen, my son has decided to latch onto some dreg as a friend.” Count Cardiff stared Winslow in the eye, his gaze cold and unrelenting. “The dreg had to be warned of his proper place. I think my son means to take issue with me on the matter.” A smirk played across his face. “Have at it.”

“It wasn’t a warning or a lesson. You had him beaten half to death.”

“Hardly. Wasn’t he able to crawl away? A small mercy. Am I correct, Lady Shenen?”

“Count Cardiff has the right of it, Winslow,” Elaina said, her voice melodic chimes, despite what her eyes showed. “There’s a reason they belong in the Smear. A reason it is even called the Smear. They have no place among us. Sometimes I wish the king would wipe the district clean.”

“They’re people, Elaina, not animals. And having no place? Do you say that of the Blades that protect us?”

She pouted before pressing her thin lips into a line. “The Blades are an exception. The Dominion has shone on them.”

Expecting anything less from her or any of the other nobles would be too much. None could relate or wanted to familiarize themselves with the suffering of the Smear’s people. When he last spoke with Keedar the previous night, the young commoner’s words and plight had touched him. He spent the night contemplating the Day of Accolades and Far’an Senjin. Not until he’d spent time with Keedar did he put much thought to either or to the lives in the Smear.

“Perhaps I should send for Sorinya then, since the punishment wasn’t to your liking.”

“No,” Winslow said quickly, “what you did was quite enough.”

“So you approve of the dreg’s punishment?”

“Yes.” Winslow hung his head.

“Good, now to the matter at hand. Count Shenen has invited you to dinner three months hence. We both expect you to propose to Elaina at that time.”

“Father—”

“She’s with child.”

Winslow opened and closed his mouth. It couldn’t be. He’d taken every precaution. When he turned to look at Elaina, he saw tears well up in her eyes.
Why would she be crying?

“I missed my blood this month. One of the maids noticed and word got to my father. I had no choice but to tell him,” she whispered. “He was very upset. So much so that he sent one of his men to Walker’s Row.”

Winslow gaped.

“Now, we know which house and why,” Count Cardiff said.

Ainslen’s response and demeanor were a far cry from the outrage Winslow would have expected considering that House Hazline and Mandrigal had brokered a deal. In fact, the count’s eyes spoke of satisfaction, pleasure even. This being Count Cardiff, he knew the man was assessing all possibilities, unfolding the game in his head. Winslow understood the lack of concern. With this revelation, their houses would be joined regardless of what anyone else might wish.

What am I going to do?
He could not marry her. Love was out of the question. Children? He was less than prepared. Obviously, revealing how he felt wouldn’t go over well. So, he did nothing but sat wearing a stunned expression.

“I cannot say that I’m exactly pleased by this,” Count Cardiff said, “but in each situation there’s some good. A union between our two houses will do us well.”

Winslow stood and walked over to Elaina. Staring into her eyes, he held his hand out. She took it and stood. To avoid losing his nerve, he drew her into his arms, inhaling deeply, her citrus scent strong. He prayed this display would satisfy the count and give him time to think.

“I’ll do what is necessary for you and the child.” Winslow meant his words.

In his arms, he felt her chest rise and fall as she relaxed. Her face was cool against his. “Thank you.”

He considered sneaking away, but doing so would be continuing a vicious trend of parents abandoning their children in his family line. The thought gave him pause. If not the count, then who were his true parents? What heritage did he hold? With the thought and the anguish it brought, he squeezed Elaina harder. She sighed in contentment.

“Well,” the count said, “with that out of the way, if you will excuse us, Elaina, I have to speak to Winslow.”

After kissing her on the cheek, Winslow let her take her leave.

“Now to you,” Count Cardiff began, once the door closed, “you will not be seen with that dreg again. If you are, I
will
send Sorinya to bring me his head.”

Winslow shuddered as he recalled the night not so long ago. Sorinya had returned. A servant woke Winslow from his sleep to attend his father. When he walked into this same room, his father had three heads on the floor near the table. They were the Snakes that had shown themselves that night in the Smear.

Mouth drying, Winslow closed his eyes with the memory. “Sometimes I wonder if you are my father,” he muttered, “or my gaoler.”

“I’m the person saving you from yourself.”

“What if I need no saving? Why can I not grow to be who I wish?”

“To bring the Cardiff name down?” The count leaned forward. “Listen to me, and listen to me well, I am your father and provider, and as a Cardiff, you
will
do your duty to see us rise.”

Not even a hint of a lie.

“That starts with you marrying Elaina. You did the deed that saw her with child. I will not stand by and see our house pulled down by a conflict with her father now. I would let him kill you long before that day.”

Again, no deception. Winslow’s insides grew icy.

“As for this dreg you have befriended, I shall let him be on one condition. Never be seen with him again. Should anyone bring word to me of the contrary, I
will
have his head.”

“You won’t hear of me with him again,” Winslow said.

“Good, because I cannot afford any questions now. The shipment I expected will be here in the coming weeks. With it we will become the Hill’s most influential house, possibly surpass even King Jemare himself. Dangerous times are ahead. You have enough distractions already. You cannot afford any more. From now on, your time with Lestin will be extended.”

Winslow nodded. He would do exactly as he said.

C
aress of a Maiden

F
our weeks had passed since the beating. Still a bit sore from the broken bones he’d suffered, Keedar winced. The wisemen Father hired had done an admirable job knitting him back together, but they could do little about the spasms he suffered sometimes. Today, he sat by the murky pool, waning sunlight peeking through the trees, and watched as Winslow practiced his breathing and meditation. The noble was learning fast. Despite Winslow’s denial, Keedar wondered how much he knew of the attack that night.

None of it mattered much. Father insisted on keeping Winslow as an apprentice. It was Keedar’s job to help train him, so he did. However, they no longer returned to Kasandar together. In fact, Winslow had suggested they approach the city from different gates. That didn’t stop them from meeting later at night in the River Quarter. Not nearly as lawless as the Smear, it offered them an outlet from their lives, and with Winslow and Gaston disguised as scruffy sailors, it made for fun Keedar had not experienced since Raishaar was alive.

“Done. Shall we return?”

“Hmm? Oh, yes. Meet at the Hangman’s?”

Winslow smiled. “Certainly, why not? Seems as if you’ve taken to Rose.” He clapped Keedar on the back.

“I have no idea what you mean.”

“Whatever you say.” Winslow chucked. “Anyway, I’ll see you there within the hour.”

Headed in two different directions, they left the clearing. Rose’s silky tresses, dainty looks, and the roundness of her ass, so much like an apple, occupied Keedar’s mind. It wasn’t that he had any great feelings for her, but the serving girl knew what she was about. His release with her was unlike any other he experienced. When he reached the Humel Gate, he nodded to the man his father had stationed there, hurried inside, and took to the roofs. The last two weekends, he swore someone had followed him, but whenever he searched his surroundings, there was no one there. By the time he reached the Quarter with its briny air, the River Ost’s brackish waters flowing past the docks, and music and laughter tinkling up from its streets, Gaston and Winslow were already waiting outside the Hangman tavern.

“You two stand out like a hag with too much make-up. Painted all pretty and still can’t hide what she is.” Keedar stepped from the alley between the Hangman and its neighbor the Glittering Lady.

“I doubt that.” Since the first couple weeks of training with the Blades, Winslow had allowed his beard to grow, giving him a more rugged and scruffy look. “I think I can adequately play the part of one of you now.”

Gaston, more than a tad ridiculous in baggy sailor’s britches, a hat pulled down to shadow his eyes, his face too grimy, gave Keedar a grin. “I would have to agree with Wins.”

“You would. No matter what you two do, your hair is always too clean and your shoes too shiny. Which sailor or commoner you know that has polished boots? And we might not wash as often as you do, Gaston, but in the Quarter, a sailor’s face is not likely to be that filthy.”

Gaston scrubbed at his cheek.

“A lucky thing not everyone is as adept as you at spotting these issues. Shall we?” Winslow gestured to the door from which music and laughter drifted.

“I don’t mind if I do.” Keedar led the way inside. Soon they were drinking, laughing, and carousing within the tavern’s smoky confines.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” Gaston began, speech slurred, “what do you two do in the Parmien anyway?”

Keedar exchanged glances with Winslow.

“And don’t deny it,” Gaston waggled his finger at them, “I saw that look.”

“You’re seeing things,” Keedar said.

“I most certainly am not. My vision’s perfect.” Gaston leaned forward. “Come on, Wins, we’ve been friends forever, have we not? I followed you the last two weekends. Yes, yes, I know, you had someone dress like you to throw off anyone who follows, but you can’t hide that walk of yours from me. And you,” he pointed at Keedar, “you may take to the roofs, but it’s always at the same time, and my man watches you run toward the forest.”

“I wish you would have decided to train with the Blades,” Winslow said. “It’s nothing like we imagined.”

“So you said before. It can’t possibly be that hard.”

“On the way home, I’ll show you what my arms, back, and ribs look like. As for the Parmien, I go there one day every weekend to lessen the shock of what my body will experience when I return to the drillmaster. Think of it like riding a horse: the more you do it, the more your legs and ass become used to the chafing and your mind to the exertion.”

“And you?” Gaston turned his gaze to Keedar.

“Derins.” Keedar shrugged. “My father hunts them, I told you.”

“Ah. Coincidence then.” Gaston’s voice lowered. “I would be careful though. There are rumors spreading that you’re consorting with dregs, Wins. This doesn’t help,” he gestured around them, “but at least we’re disguised here.”

“People can say what they please. As long as no one sees me, it matters not.”

“And if your father gets wind of these little meetings?”

“He won’t.”

“But—”

“Look, Gaston. It’s bad enough that my apprenticeship is more like torture than training. I need some freedom, some way to escape it all. The quiet of the woods and being here with you two sometimes feel like all I have that’s my own.” Winslow’s expression hardened. “I will not let anyone take that away from me.”

“Fine, fine. I can understand that. I was simply warning you.”

“Well,” Keedar said, “if you two are finished arguing over your social issues, I think I’ll have another drink, and a girl.”

“Sounds as fine a plan as any.” Gaston grinned.

Winslow signaled for a serving girl. “Where’s Rose been tonight?”

“I have no idea. One of the girls said she didn’t come in to work.” Keedar wished she was there now. He could do without the way Gaston peered over his glass at them.

The rest of the night passed uneventfully. Patrons came and left. The talk among the rivermen and sailors centered on rumors of a Farlander fleet somewhere east in the Renigen Sea. It mattered little to Keedar. If they wished to invade Kasinia, it would be months for them to round the Giant’s Horn to the southeast in Darshan,
if
they chose that route. He doubted they would. The storms in the Raging Sea frightened the hardiest seafarers. Trying to land anywhere else meant either crossing the Steppes of the World to face the Thelusians or fighting the Marishmen in their mountain strongholds along the coast. Supposedly no one had ever won such a battle.

“Well, if it’s fine by you two, I’ll take my leave now,” Keedar said. Since Rose hadn’t appeared for work, he decided to pay her a visit.

Lost in their own drinks, and the pleasure the Hangman’s serving girls provided, the two of them waved him off. He dropped a few coins on the table, left, and immediately made his way to the rooftops.

Accompanied by Antelen’s pale strands and a chill wind, he approached Rose’s home in the Burrows, a twisted warren of lanes and storefronts in the River Quarter. The area smelled about as good as bilge water. As expected the window to her bedroom was lit. Standing directly across from it, he tried to see through the milky panes of the second floor abode, but could make out nothing. He shrugged, dropped down to the ground, and waited.

Not many folk were about at this hour, which he liked. He would be able to tell if anyone followed him. A couple rivermen swayed by, singing some song, speech slurred and raucous. When he was certain of his safety, he crossed the street, and headed to the entrance in the alley.

He smiled when he reached the door. The lantern hanging on its post cast its light on the single flower in a pot set against the wall. Rose was alone tonight. Keedar began to sing Maiden’s Caress, a song about a Marish serving girl who meets a Thelusian stonelord, turns out to be a runaway princess, and stops a centuries old war between the two kingdoms.

He made sure no one was looking, reached behind the pot and picked up the key. Within moments he was on his way up the stairs still humming the tune. When he entered her home, he inhaled, taking in the spicy aroma of perfume mingled with food. He frowned at an odd metallic scent and another that reminded him of the woods.

“Rose?” he called.

She would often meet him in the kitchen or the sitting room, but she was in neither. Drawn to the bedroom’s illumination, he headed in that direction.

“Rose?” Keedar pushed the door inward.

She was lying on the bed, sheets blood-soaked, lifeless eyes staring at the ceiling.

Immediately, Keedar snaked a hand to his dagger. A rustle like a whisper of wind came from behind him. The woodland smell suffused him.

Pine cones.

Keedar whipped the dagger out and threw it. In the same instant, he leaped after the weapon. Something snagged his cloak. He surged forward, the sound of tearing material a roar in his ears.

When his dagger hit the windowpane ahead, cracks appeared across its surface like spider webs. He hit the glass with his shoulder. Cold air greeted him.

Drawing on his soul, he hardened his
sintu
and pushed it away from his body, blasting away slivers of glass. As he fell he twisted to make sure he could land feet first. The instant his
sintu
met the cobblestone’s resistance, he imagined it being a soft spring and made it so, pushing off as he landed.

Something thudded nearby. A voice cursed.

As fast as he could, he bounded across the street to an alley. Not daring to glance back, he used the walls to spring up between the two buildings. When he gained the roof’s edge, he pulled himself onto its surface.

A scrabbling sound made him look down.

Cloak spilling about him, a man was trying to climb the walls. He fell down, swearing in Marish. When he glanced up, and their gazes met, the man snarled.

The scarred face sent a shiver through Keedar. He dashed away from the roof, fleeing to the Smear for all he was worth.