The Charnel Prince (25 page)

“She told you about that, did she? And you’ve waited this long to ask me about it?”

“I want to know what I’m up against.”

“I would tell you if I knew,” Vaseto said. “Not the usual sort of knight, but that’s obvious. As the countess said, the fellow was still alive, after a fashion, but not exactly in a condition to speak.” She wrinkled her brow. “Don’t you object to this at all? You seem all too eager to accept a most absurd notion.”

“I have seen shinecraft and encrotacnia enough this past year,” Neil said. “I’ve no reason to doubt the countess and every reason to believe her. If she told me they were the
eschasl
themselves come back from the grave, I would credit it.”

“Eschasl?” Vaseto said. “You mean the Skasloi? You Lierish can certainly mangle up words, I’ll give you that. In any event, the men we’re talking about are human, or started that way. We did find the more ordinary sort of corpse, as well. If I had to guess, they’re from your country, or some other northern place, for several had yellow hair like yours, and light-colored eyes. They were not Vitellian.”

“Which leads me to wonder how they came so deep into your country on a mission of murder.”

Vaseto grinned. “But you already know the answer to that, or at least you have some suspicion. Someone here is helping them.”

“The Church?”

“Not the Church, but maybe someone in the Church. Or it might be the merchant guilds, given your Sir Quinte’s attentions. Or it could be any random prince, who knows? But they have aid here, of that you can be sure.”

“And have they aid in z’Espino?”

“That’s likely enough. A copper minser could corrupt most any official in this wicked town.”

Neil nodded, looking with fresh eyes at the landscape that lay between him and city.

“What’s that down there?” he asked, pointing to where the road they were on joined a larger way. Along it, numerous tents and stalls had been set up. Just past the joining, the road crossed a stone bridge over a canal, and there was a gate on the city side.

“That’s where the merchant guilds take their taxes,” Vaseto replied. “Why do you ask?”

“Because if I were looking for someone entering or leaving z’Espino, that’s where I might place myself.”

Vaseto nodded. “Good. I’ll make you a suspicious man yet.”

“They might be looking for me, too,” Neil said.

“Good boy.”

He felt she might have been talking to one of her dogs. He glanced at her, but she was staring intently at the travelers who were cueing up to cross the bridge.

“I have an idea,” she said.

———«»——————«»——————«»———

Neil pressed his eye to the crack in the wagon wall. Through the narrow slit, he saw mostly color—silks and satin and brightly dyed cotton swirling like a thousand flower petals in the wind. Faces were nearly lost in it, but he caught them now and then.

The wain jounced to a stop. He tried to find the view he was after, by half crouching and gazing through a knothole.

A group of men in orange surcoats was talking to the drivers of wagons and those on foot or with pack animals. They examined cargo sometimes, sometimes let the travelers pass with little comment. A few arguments erupted, ending when coins changed hands. Beyond all that, at the gate, were more men, these armed, and he could see the archers in the towers above the gate.

He kept looking, cursing the knothole for affording such a small field of vision. The guildsmen were moving toward the wagon he sheltered in. Soon, he would have to—

It wasn’t his eyes that gave him the clue, but his ears. The cloud of unintelligible Vitellian surrounding him had become transparent. Now, through that clearness, he heard a language he recognized. A language he loathed. Hanzish.

He couldn’t make out what they were saying, but he knew the cadence of it, the long vowel glides and throat-catching gutturals. His hands clenched involuntarily into fists.

He moved to another crack, bumping his head in the process. “
Hiss
, back there,” a voice whispered furiously. “There’s no bargain if you don’t lie still, as you were told.”

“A moment,” Neil replied.

“No moment. Get in your place,
now
.”

A face pushed through the curtain, and light flooded in. Neil saw only the silhouette of a broad-brimmed hat and the faint glint of leaf-green eyes.

“Do you see anyone with light hair out there?”

“The two Hanzish with the guildsmen? Yes. Now lie down!”

“You see them?”

“Of course I see them. They’re watching people, watching the guildsmen do their work. Looking for you, I’d guess, and they’ll find you if you don’t lie still!”

Another face pushed through, this one Vaseto’s. “Do it, you great idiot. I’m your eyes here! I’ve marked them. Now play your part.”

Neil hesitated for a moment, but realized he had no choice now. He couldn’t fight all of the guildsmen and the Hanzish, too . . .

He lay back, pulled the cloth up over his mouth, just as someone thumped on the back of the wagon. He tried to slow his breathing, but with a start realized he’d forgotten something. The coins! He found them and placed them on his eyes, just as the back wagon flap rustled.

He held his breath.

“
Pis’es ecic egmo
?
” someone asked sharply.

“
Uno viro morto
,” A heavily ironic voice said. Neil recognized it as that of the Sefry man who spoke for the rest of them.

“
Ol Viedo! Pis?
”

Neil felt fingers grab his arm. He fought the instinct to leap up.

Then he felt fingers brush his forehead. His breath was going stale, and his lungs began to hurt.

“
Chiano Vechioda daz’Ofina
,” the Sefry replied. “
Mortat daca crussa
.
”

The fingers jerked away. “
Diuvo
!
” the guildsman shouted, and the flap closed. There followed an argument he could not make out. Finally, after long moments, the wagon started moving again. After an eternity of wooden wheels grinding and stopping on stone, someone tapped his boot.

“You can get up now,” Vaseto said.

Neil took the coins from his eyes and sat up. “We’re through the gate?”

“Yes, no thanks to you,” Vaseto grumbled. “Didn’t I tell you it would work?”

“He [garbled] of me. In another instant he would have reckoned I was still warm.”

“Probably. I didn’t say it was without risk. But the Sefry played their parts well.”

“What did they tell him?”

“That you died of the bloody-pus plague.” She smiled. “The makeup helped.”

Neil nodded, scratching at the counterfeit welts the Sefry had made of flour and pig’s blood.

“He’s probably off praying right now,” she added. She jerked her head. “Come on.”

He poked his head out the back of the wain. They were in some sort of square surrounded by tall buildings. One, with a high dome, was likely a temple. People bustled everywhere, as strangely and colorfully dressed as the caravaners at the bridge.

They went around to the front of the wagon, where three Sefry sat under an awning, swaddled thickly against the sun.

“Thank you,” Neil said.

One of the Sefry, an old woman, snorted. The other two ignored him.

“How did you get them to help?” Neil asked Vaseto as she led him across the square.

“I told them I would reveal the hidden space in their wagon where they were carrying their contraband.”

“How did you know about that?”

“I didn’t,” she said. “Not for certain. But I know a thing or two about Sefry, and that clan almost always carries contraband.”

“That’s good to know.”

“They also owe me a few favors. Or did. We just used up most of them. So don’t waste this chance. Keep that wig on. Don’t let your straw mat show.”

Neil plucked at the horsehair mummer’s wig that had been pulled over his own close-cropped hair. “I don’t care for it,” he muttered.

“You’re a true beauty with it on,” Vaseto told him. “Now, try not to talk too much, especially if someone speaks to you in Hansan or Crothanic. You’re a traveler from Ilsepeq, here to visit the shrine of Vanth.”

“Where’s Ilsepeq?”

“I’ve no idea. Neither will anyone you tell. But Espinitos pride themselves on their knowledge of the world, so no one will admit that. Just practice this: ‘
Edio dot Ilsepeq. Nefatio Vitellian.
’”

“Edio dat Islepeq,” Neil tried experimentally. “Ne fatio Vitellian.”

“Very good,” Vaseto said. “You sound exactly as if you don’t speak a word of Vitellian.”

“I don’t,” Neil said.

“Well, that explains it. Now come, let’s find your girls.”

“I LIKE THAT ONE,” Mery said absently. She was lying stomach down on a rug, her legs kicking up behind her.

“Do you?” Leoff asked, continuing to play the hammarharp. “I’m pleased that you like it.”

She made fists and rested her chin on them. “It’s sad, but not in the way that makes you cry. Like autumn coming.”

“Melancholy?” Leoff said.

She pinched her mouth thoughtfully. “I guess so.”

“Like autumn coming,” Leoff mused. He smiled faintly, stopped, dipped his quill in ink, and made a notation on the music.

“What did you write?” Mery said.

“I wrote, ‘like autumn coming,’” he said. “So the musicians will know how to play it.” He turned in his seat. “Are you ready for your lesson?”

She brightened a bit. “Yes.”

“Come sit beside me, then.”

She got up, brushed the front of her dress, and then scooted onto [missing]. “Let’s see we were working on the third mode, weren’t we?”

“Uh-huh.” She tapped the freshly noted music. “Can I try this?”

He glanced at her. “You can try,” he said.

Mery placed her fingers on the keyboard, and a look of intense concentration came over her face. She bit her lip and played the first chord, walked the melody up, and on the third bar stopped, a look of sudden consternation on her features.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“I can’t reach,” she said.

“That’s right,” he said. “Do you know why?”

“My hands aren’t big enough.”

He smiled. “No one’s hands are big enough. This isn’t really written for hammarharp. That bottom line would be played by a bass croth.”

“But you just played it.”

“I cheated,” he said. “I transposed the notes up an octave. I just wanted an idea how it all sounded together. To really know, we’ll have to have an ensemble play it.”

“Oh.” She pointed. “What’s that line, then?”

“That’s the hautboy.”

“And this?”

“That’s the tenor voice.”

“Someone singing?”

“Exactly.”

She played the single line. “Are there words?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“I don’t see them.”

He tapped his head. “They’re still in here, with the rest of it.”

She blinked at him. “You’re making it up?”

“I’m making it up,” he confirmed.

“What are the words?”

“The first word is
ih
,” Leoff said solemnly.

“Ih? That’s the servants’ word for I.”

“Yes,” he said. “It’s a very important word. It’s the first time it’s been used like this.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’m not sure I do myself.”

“But why the servants’ language? Why not the king’s tongue?”

“Because most people in Crotheny speak Almannish, not the
king’s tongue.”

“They do?” He nodded.

“Is that because they’re all servants?”

He laughed. “In a way, I suppose so.”

“We all of us are servants,” a feminine voice said from the doorway. “It’s only a matter of whom we serve.”

Leoff turned in his seat. A woman stood there. At first he noticed only her eyes, cut gems of topaz that glittered with a deep green fire. They held him mercilessly, and kept his throat tight for too long. He broke the gaze finally.

“Lady,” he managed, “I have not had the pleasure.” He reached for his crutches and managed to stand and make a little bow.

The woman smiled. She had ash-blond hair that hung in curls and a pleasantly dimpled face that was beginning to show some age. He reckoned her to be in her mid-thirties. “I am Ambria Gramme,” she told him.

Leoff felt his mouth drop open, and closed it. “You’re Mery’s mother?” he said. “I’m very pleased to meet you. I must say, she is a delight, and a most promising student.”