Scarlet and the White Wolf [01] - Scarlet and the White Wolf (6 page)

Scarlet and the White Wolf--Book One

by Kirby Crow

Skeld's Ferry and the Iron River—were clearly visible from every angle. It was just a high, flat space stuck like a shelf between two small mountains, but it was the shortest road through from north to south. The only other road was the old Salt Road, a lonely, meandering path through the sandy lowland valley between the riverbank and the Neriti hills that took three times longer to traverse than Whetstone Pass. It was also thick with slavers and cutthroats who were not above raping the occasional wife or carrying off a daughter or son to the Morturii slave markets.

Travelers would pay for safe passage through the busier pass rather than risk the Salt Road, and old Dira the whoremaster, bless his black, lecherous heart, had remembered that the Kasiri had an ancient claim to a remote mountain road in Byzantur near Lysia. Dira had a yurt full of pretty male doves and winsome flowers to feed, slaves all, and the old man was anxious about the state of his purse. It had been a thin year for almost everyone in Byzantur, and the Longspur krait had no fodder stored up for their beasts or any amount of coin or goods they could trade to get through the cold season. They came to the pass in late summer, when all other Kasiri were heading back into Chrj and winter pastures. Whetstone pass was their last option before they must admit defeat and disband the Longspur krait to larger, more prosperous tribes. Disbandment meant not only the death of a krait, but of family ties as well, and all Kasiri feared such an end.

Today's travelers were quiet enough. Most had been warned of a well-armed Kasiri krait astride the road and had 45

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come prepared to sigh and pay as little as they could get away with. Others, it seemed, were less informed.

The screaming woman was a fat matron with a shock of iron-gray hair stuffed under a billowing yellow bonnet. She had locked hands with one of the Kasiri and was jerking and tugging at him and yowling so loud that several of the men had stepped back to jeer at the poor fellow. The other travelers were growing skittish at the noise and a few were longingly eyeing the western road they had recently ascended from the Channel.

Liall jerked his chin up at Peysho, and the man came to see what he wanted. "Aye, Wolf?"

"What's amiss? That shrieking will have them all fleeing off the side of the mountain like a horde of verrit."

"Oh, her?" Peysho jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Her weddin' ring, I gather."

"Is it worth much?"

The enforcer shook his head and spat into the snow. His uncouth accent was Falx and grew heavier when he drank, so that at times Liall, himself not a native to this continent, could barely understand him. "Nowt but pewter with a shine o' gold painted on. I've got teeth in me head worth more."

Liall laughed and called out to the unfortunate Kasiri, who turned out to be cat-eyed Kio. Kio was actively trying to retreat from the shouting, scolding matron, but she had him in a limpet's grasp and would not let him go.

"Ho! You there! Let her keep her rusty ring."

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Kio ducked a slap aimed at his head and tried to dance further away from her. She was on him like tick. "I'm trying, Atya, but she won't leave off!"

There was a scatter of laughter, old Torva and Eraph and a few others, and Peysho grinned and went to settle the fracas.

Liall did not stay to watch. There was a smaller line of travelers coming up the southern road from Lysia, and that was his post for the day. Among Kasiri, even a chieftain was expected to do his share of work.

Lysia was the nearest village to the mountain, being nestled right up under the shadow of the Nerit's belly like a chick to a mother hen. It was not an opulent village by any means, but compared to the bedraggled traffic that drifted in on corked and tar-painted ships from Patra and trundled up the mountain in a steady trickle from the long Sea Road, they were at least prosperous. The travelers had been many of late, for there was much civil unrest in Byzantur and rumors of war on the horizon. Whether it was war with the Bled or civil war amongst themselves, no one seemed to know, but the traffic was heavier day by day as people deserted the virtually undefended northern reaches of Byzantur and headed south to the capital cities.

Liall settled himself in a wooden chair behind a stone bench that served for a bargaining board and began the day's work. He had dressed for the occasion in a thin, leather hunting jacket over black breeches and high boots with iron buckles up the side. His lean waist was cinched by a studded knife-belt with a pair of very fine Morturii long-knives hanging in their silver-capped sheaths. He wore no hat, and the 47

Scarlet and the White Wolf--Book One

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whiteness of his close-cropped hair drew stares. His face was not the usual face one would see in Byzantur or Morturii or even in the wondrous city of Ajir, for not even the exotic slave markets of Minh had ever dared to hold a Rshani in captivity.

Liall's cheekbones were like carved shelves of stone and his skin was the color of deep amber. His expressive eyes, thickly lashed in silver, were a pale, washed-out blue, and his angular features were planed so sharply that they could have been carved from oak. His hands were large, long, and graceful. In Byzantur, among the dark-haired Aralyrin and the slight, beautiful Hilurin, who have skin like pearl and hair the color of blackest soot, he was as unusual as a green cat. He did not believe his face held any beauty, but he knew that very few in Byzantur had ever seen anyone like him. For that, they would have to travel beyond the continent to his home in the far, icy north, where all men live in darkness for half the year.

The air was chilly and the temperature dropping rapidly, but Liall had been raised in a far colder climate. He wore no cloak or overcoat, only a ruff made from the pelt of a white wolf to keep his neck warm, and (purely for vanity) a teardrop sapphire from one ear. He looked, he hoped, sufficiently imposing.

The first two travelers, a bard and a female dancer, were well acquainted with toll roads and Kasiri and paid what he asked without blinking. The third was a well-fed Sondek merchant who pled dire poverty until Peysho shook him by the neck until his teeth rattled, at which point he produced a half-bit of gold from the lining of his pocket, along with many 48

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a stuttered apology. Liall worked through the line of travelers and then waited for the next batch to come through, which they did in small groups broken up by the passing of an hour or half an hour. The day went by that way, and Liall was yawning by the time the last traveler approached.

The last in line was a Byzan pedlar, known by his knee-length leather coat dyed a shade of deepest red, the color of the migrating redbird that travels the entire circumference of Nemerl in one year. He was a slight, pure-blooded Hilurin lad of no more than twenty, with astonishing dark eyes, soot-black hair, and pale, fair skin like the petal of a white rose.

Like all Hilurin males, his chin and face were naturally hairless, which often hid the age of Hilurin men and made them appear younger than they were. He also carried a sturdy stave with him, perhaps for walking or perhaps for fighting off bandits.

Liall stared until the young man shifted his booted feet and looked away in discomfort. How small he is, Liall thought. The top of his head would not reach my chin.

Although the pedlar was small, Liall knew better than to judge him by that. The Aralyrin army was the most determined fighting unit on the continent, and this young one before him was partly of that blood. He did not want to admit it, but Hilurins fascinated him. Their proud tenacity, their secretive, aloof nature, and the legends his own people had concerning their ancient origins captured Liall's enormous curiosity. His natural inquisitiveness stirred the latent scholar in his soul and made him yearn for the days once spent reading gilt-edged books and perusing ancient manuscripts.

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As always, his memories prodded the dark places inside him that he habitually left undisturbed, and he was troubled and unaccountably annoyed at the innocent pedlar.

Elden, who used to be Lina's husband until she got fed up with him and joined another camp to the east in Chrj, moved to stand behind the handsome pedlar and looked him up and down like he was a piece of meat he had a mind to purchase, leering in a suggestive manner. Liall found this distasteful and he gave Elden a scowl until the man retreated.

"Well, red-coat, and what does a pedlar have for the Wolf?" Liall asked, giving the pedlar a warm look that was rewarded with a frown of suspicion and dislike.

"It's been a lean year, Atya," the pedlar began, dropping into the customary speech of a born haggler. Despite the frown, the lad addressed him respectfully enough and gave him his proper chieftain's title. His voice was low and pleasant to the ear.

More than pleasant, Liall admitted privately, to look at as well as to hear. He studied the pedlar's face and decided the Hilurin was exceptionally attractive, despite the smallness.

"So I hear, but luckily we have had good trade this week,"

Liall said. "My krait is fed and warmed by city garments, and my needs are not what they were a month ago. Otherwise, you would not get through for less than everything you carry and what is on your back besides."

"And then I'd freeze in the snow," the pedlar said resentfully. "A real wolf wouldn't be that cruel. He'd kill me quickly and be done with it."

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Liall did not care for his tone, too haughty for a mere pedlar and clever besides, and the young man was staring at him with frank scorn. Though Liall was used to sensing the ever-present disdain from village folk, most took more care to hide it than this one. Byzans were coldly disapproving, but passive and distant. This one before him was different. He was fire to their water.

"There are wolves and then there are
wolves,"
Liall said.

"Either way, fast or slow, you would be just as dead. Do you really want that?"

The pedlar's eyes flickered a little. It might have been fear.

Liall waved his hand and laughed. He did not enjoy frightening youngsters, even youngsters who disliked him.

"My fangs are whetted enough for one day. Let me see your wares."

The pedlar slipped the ratty, well-padded pack off his shoulder and carefully emptied its contents onto the stone as a few more of the krait, having gleaned what they could from the Sea Road, gathered round to watch. Liall waited as the young man neatly stacked all the items and made a tidy pile of them.

"Is this all?"

"All, bandit-wolf."

Liall gazed at him evenly. It was on the tip of his tongue to inform the pedlar that the Kasiri had an ancient claim to this pass that made the toll legal in their eyes, but he closed his mouth firmly. Why was he contemplating explaining himself to a mere peasant boy? Being a thief had never bothered him before.

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"I ask you again: is this all?"

The pedlar would not meet his eyes.

"I could have you searched."

The pedlar shrugged, apparently unaffected.

"Searched like a Minh would," he added. "In places no gentleman would think to look."

The pedlar hesitated before he reached down and produced a little gilded bottle of perfume from his boot, placing it like a crown on the pile. Liall saw then that the pedlar's left glove looked strange, too narrow in some way, and he realized that this one carried a rare genetic marker of the Hilurin: a four-fingered hand. The young man saw the direction of Liall's gaze and looked uncomfortable, but made no move to hide his deformity.

Liall picked up the scent and sniffed it. Blue poppy and probably the best item he had. Beside it was placed a little metal and glass compass, which is another trademark of the pedlar's profession. Few traveled without at least a compass and a hand-map of Byzantur. Kio moved to stand behind Liall and fixed the pedlar with his aureate gaze, his delicate features turning down in disapproval.

"I see you've met the Minh," Liall said wryly, which provoked a volley of fresh laughter.

He looked resigned. "Take what you will, I can't stop you."

"Just so, you cannot."

Liall's long fingers dug through his little pile of cheap wares and tin silver-plate, splaying them over the stone. It was not much. There was little to provoke desire or greed on the part of anyone but the most desperate of thieves. In the Byzantur 52

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tradition, this pedlar traveled light and poor. Probably a wise habit, since he also traveled alone, unarmed, and was young and pretty enough to tempt men to acts other than thievery.

Perhaps that was his true profession? But no, Lysia was a Hilurin village and there would be no street of doves and flowers there, no ivory-walled bhoros or ghilan houses to tempt a virtuous people to carnal lust. Dira the whoremaster had hoped this would mean more traffic for his trade, but alas, most Hilurin males seemed to be prudes.

The pedlar caught him staring at him and met his eyes boldly. "Perhaps we could make a trade," Liall offered. He slowly dropped his gaze to rake across the lithe body before him, and the high color rose in the pedlar's cheeks. Not so innocent after all, he thought. He takes my meaning quickly enough.

The pedlar backed up a step, alarm crossing his features.

Kio frowned. "These stuffy, milk-faced Hilurin," he sneered. "They should all wear masks so a man isn't tempted to waste his time courting cold stone."

Liall threw Kio an annoyed glance, and the Morturii's face went sheepish. "Sorry, Atya," he muttered.