Scarlet and the White Wolf [01] - Scarlet and the White Wolf (10 page)

Scarlet hung his head. He would have to get water from the well and heat it if he did not want Linhona to scold him for the soot on his sheets.

Scaja read his mind. "Go and get the water," he advised,

"and I'll pour us one."

Scarlet hauled in a bucket of water, icy-cold from the well and set it on the iron plate above the fire to heat. He thought about using his Gift to whisper the water to be just a tad warmer, or dropping a withy-thought into the fireplace to brighten the coals, but Scaja disapproved of using Deva's Gift so casually. The water would heat in its own time.

"Tried to sneak by him, did you?" Scaja asked in an offhanded manner.

He nodded shortly.

"Didn't work?"

"What does it look like?"

Scaja paused for a long moment. "He didn't hurt you, did he? If he—"

"No, Scaja," he responded quickly. "I was hurt more by the thorns in the forest."

"Ah." Scaja subsided.

They lapsed into silence as they waited for the water to heat.

"Have you thought that just paying his toll might be the easiest way to get through?" Scaja asked, handing him a mug half-full of pale green
anguisange.
Scarlet was surprised, for anguisange, or serpent's blood, as it was called commonly, 81

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was Scaja's favorite. The price was dear, so he almost never had any. He must have been saving it.

"I can't," he hedged, taking a drink. The potent wine burned him all the way to his toes.

Scaja shrugged. "I don't approve of tolling, but the man's been fair enough from the talk I've heard. He's never taken more than a body can afford and there's not been anyone hurt or killed, although a few wore shredded pride when they stumbled back. Like you."

Scarlet took off his shirt, knelt by the fire to lift the bucket off the plate, and set it on the well-scrubbed stone hearth. He cupped his hands and splashed water on his face. It was still cold, but anything was better than facing Scaja when he told him the rest.

"He doesn't want goods or coin from me."

Scaja frowned. "No?"

"No."

A moment passed. "Well, are you going to tell me?"

"First, he wanted a kiss," he stuttered, and Scaja's brow clouded with anger. "And now he wants me for an hour."

Scaja's jaw dropped and they avoided looking at each other for a moment. "Oh." He cleared his throat. Shock was evident on his face. "Well." He coughed. "I see."

"I'd have given him his damned kiss tonight," Scarlet blurted, reaching for a cloth to wipe his face. "But he changed his damned price."

Scaja coughed again. "A man does not sell himself to anyone," he cautioned firmly. "Lying with another for pleasure or love is one thing; this is quite another. I'll put my fist to 82

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yon Wolf if he ever stirs from his mountain, and to you if you ever let such fish-rot get to you." Scaja's black brows knitted together until there was a deep, angry groove in his forehead.

"We'll see if he acts the rapist after I set his boots on fire. I can send a withy to kindle a fire in Jerivet's hearth all the way from here, you know."

He knew. Scarlet was afraid his father was angered enough to go out seeking Liall, but Scaja shook his head.

"I'm too old to go picking fights. I don't blame him for his desire, only that he sought to force it on you." He chewed his lip for a moment. "He hasn't threatened you, has he?"

Scarlet thought back. "No. Not seriously."

Scaja nodded. "You take after your birth-mother, you know. She was a beauty, like you."

He scowled and splashed water as he washed his arms, not wanting to be reminded of what the Wolf had called him, even if Scaja meant to compliment. His pride had taken enough of a beating for one day.

"Perhaps it would be best if you took the Salt Road for a while until his fancy lessens. He'll find someone else to catch his eye and you'll see he's no longer interested."

"And if that doesn't work?"

"If that doesn't work, then maybe his fancy isn't a passing thing," Scaja mused, stoking the fire with another split of wood. "Do you think him handsome, this Wolf?"

Scarlet was beginning to think he was in the wrong house.

Scaja had never been so plain with him before. His heart sped up a little. "Why would that matter to me?"

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Scaja shrugged. "Beauty always matters to youth, and I no longer know what interests you in a mate. You don't talk to me anymore." Hurt bled into his words. "Scarlet, I've been wanting to ask you if—"

"No." The denial was out before he could stop it.

"It is not common among Hilurin men," Scaja went on,

"but no one would take it ill if you—"

"I said
no!"
he exclaimed, shocked and frightened for no reason that he could name. I can't tell him, he thought as his heart slammed against his ribs in sudden panic. I can't!

"Shush!" Scaja scolded. "You'll wake the house." He pushed at the embers with the poker and waited a minute before speaking again. "I'm not accusing you, and I'm not suggesting you give in to him. No such thing," he said low and forcefully. "I'm just ... I've noted that no girl has ever caught your eye in Lysia. Not since you were old enough to think about such things."

Scarlet waited, feeling very cold, as if dread was ice and it was seeping into his marrow. After a long moment, Scaja poked the fire a bit more and looked briefly at his son. Scarlet looked away. His heart felt like a lump of glass in his chest.

"Well, then," Scaja said cheerlessly, taking his silence for meaning. "I'd hoped we could talk about this like men, but I see you're not keen on it. You're grown now and master of your own life, I suppose."

They sat in silence for a long moment. "I'm worried about you," Scaja confessed. "Your spirit isn't here in Lysia and it never has been. When you took to wandering, I was happy for you. I thought you'd found what you were looking for, 84

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because every time you came back, you were so eager to be off again. I guess I thought you must have been hurrying back to someone you loved, though why you'd hide that from me..." his words trailed off and he shook his head as if clearing it of evil thoughts. "Now I know there's no one, and I begin to think your travels are less about wanderlust than just plain being lost."

"I'm not lost," Scarlet finally got out, wondering what spell was on his tongue that he could not talk about
this
with Scaja, when they could talk about everything else. This odd, tangled thing that would not allow his blood to warm when a pretty girl gave him an admiring eye, but made him feel jumpy and sick and turned his belly to knots of confusion when it was a handsome man. He had seen the slender youths for sale in the Morturii souks. Unfortunate, underfed young men with painted lips and cheeks patted with red powder, stripped to the skin and wriggling to show off their bodies to the crowd, hoping some rich jeweler or lonely widower would buy them. More often than not it was a rough soldier from some encampment, or a silk-clad Minh trader who did not haggle, but only inspected their bodies as if they were cattle, making them turn and pose for his probing fingers. The boys made doe-eyes at the prosperous buyers, lowering their eyelashes and pursing their mouths into pouts, but at the soldiers and the rogues they showed contempt and subtle defiance and generally tried to make it known, by silences and ill-looks and other ways that were not openly rebellious, that they would not make for a good purchase.

Often, when a particularly pretty, high-priced youth was being 85

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offered, there would be a public display of his talents to entice the crowd and drive his cost up.

Scarlet thought of the cheers and catcalls rising from the crowd when the slave knelt before some hired actor or handsome servant, and how sick he felt to realize that he shared an affinity with those sweating men who watched the most avidly.

I'm not like that, he thought fiercely. I have to be in the souk, I'm a pedlar! And I wouldn't do any of those ... things.

"I'm just not sure where I'm supposed to be," he confessed, skirting the other issue. That much was true. It was what drove his wandering feet: the desire to find out where he belonged and, honestly, with whom. He loved his family, but ever since his childhood, he knew there was someone out in the world waiting to be found. Someone meant for
him.
He just had to keep looking.

"Well, either road, it won't hurt you to cool your heels at home for a bit," Scaja said heavily, putting the poker away and facing him. "Until you know what it is you're looking for, don't be in such a hurry to run off and find it. Sometimes the answer's right in front of us. We're just moving too fast to see it."

Scarlet nodded. It was only good sense his father was talking. He finished washing and dried off before taking up his drink again.

* * * *

Scarlet was still edgy when he went to bed, and sleep was a long time finding him. Linhona was glad to see him in the 86

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morning, which dawned cold but crystal clear. The mild winter season was nearly upon them and it seemed wisest, if he must take the longer Salt Road, to stay until the weather shifted again. It would only snow in the mountain and high passes anyway, but the copper weather-witch on the roof promised it would come down hard and nothing was guaranteed in Nemerl, so he stayed in Lysia.

True to prediction, the snow came and lingered for four days. There was not much in the house to occupy his time, and Scaja's workshop was only big enough for one craftsman.

Two days of a young, energetic man underfoot, one who was used to being busy from dawn to sunset, and Scaja started growling, so Scarlet spent some time visiting Shansi, the blacksmith's apprentice who was to marry Annaya. Shansi seemed like a likely enough lad, solemn, not overly handsome, and serious about his trade. The apprentice spent a good hour showing his potential brother-in-law around his uncle's smithy before Scarlet began yawning and bid him good night. It was dark when he stopped by Rufa's for bitterbeer and pipes.

At first, he had hoped to find some travelers who could tell him the condition of the Salt Road, but there were few guests at the inn. He played darts and stars for a bit before he got bored, then took his bitterbeer to sit nursing it by the fire, watching the snow falling past the one window and thinking about what Scaja said about wanderlust and being lost.

Behind him, a man tuned up his tal vielle and began to play a slow melody, joined a moment later by a farmer strumming a dittern. Scarlet vaguely knew the men for Hilurin free-holders 87

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who worked the land north below Lysia, but he was in no mood for music or talking.

He had nearly finished his drink when a lean-faced Aralyrin soldier clad in the red and brown colors of the regular Byzan army sauntered over to stand by his table. The soldier wore a crimson bindweed vine embroidered on his sleeve—the badge of the Flower Prince—and had a single green stripe on his collar that denoted his middle rank of captain. Scarlet knew all the ranks, and he was on talking terms with several of the soldiers stationed at the Patra garrison, which he had to pass on each and every one of his trips to Ankar.

"No luck sneaking by the Wolf, eh?"

It was said with dripping sympathy, an oily tone that whispered dark alleys and bad bargains. Scarlet studied the seasoned warrior and noted that, for all the shabby appearance of his uniform, he had a fine fighting axe hanging at his belt, and his boots and the metal-studded leather armor he wore on his wrists and legs were sound.

"No," he returned shortly. "And how did you get wind of my business?"

"The village Watch."

Old Kev, who had been the first to greet him home. Scaja must have told him what happened on the Pass, which meant everyone in Lysia knew. The soldier took a seat beside him without being asked.

Now that the soldier was nearer to the fire, Scarlet saw that his face was scarred: two long slashes on either cheek, which looked to be deliberately done. A punishment, perhaps.

He had the black eyes of a Hilurin, but he was too tall and 88

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hairy to have much of the blood. His face had the plain, weather-worn look of the north: high cheekbones, a scattering of short brown beard on his chin, a lank scrawl of shoulder-length hair halfway between black and brown with reddish tints, and a long, thin nose that spoke of his Morturii ancestry.

"Pity," the soldier said, and lifted his mug. "Not quite clever enough."

"Perhaps not," he allowed. Scarlet wondered what the soldier wanted with him. He still wore his long pedlar's coat, so perhaps the man just wanted news of the road. In a moment more, the soldier asked.

"Nothing unusual. There's a fever in Zarabek, but that's no news this time of year. Nantua has a new mayor and he's thinking of putting a tax on pedlar's goods, the puffed-up prick. Good luck to him, since the trade in Natua is already so poor that only good-hearted chapmen bother to stop."

The soldier nodded and grinned, the long scars giving his face a sardonic cast. He was older than Scarlet first estimated. Now that the man was close, Scarlet realized that something about the soldier disturbed his traveler's sense, warning him to beware. His eyes were drawn again to the crimson vine on the soldier's sleeve, and he reminded himself that this one served the Flower Prince and had sworn an oath to uphold justice and rule in Byzantur. Perhaps they were both just having a cross night.

"And are you a good-hearted chapman?"

He shrugged. "That depends."