The Four Forges (47 page)

The two Vaelinars who watched her did not wear veils, although their garments spoke of wealth. She peered up at them cautiously from her curtsy and the one whose skin looked like light, burnished copper beckoned her to her feet. She’d seen such rich color of skin among the elven but rarely. Even more rare was the bronze of gold coins, so deep it looked like gilding. She’d seen a man pass by on the Calcort streets who looked like that, drawing gazes from everyone, and ignoring them. These two had not come to ignore her, it seemed. The copper lady said, “We could not help but overhear the singing. Imagine our surprise to find such as you doing laundry.”

“My deepest apologies for awakening you. I meant no offense.”

“Offense? One might as well be offended by the bakers and the carters who are up at this hour as well. No, my dear, one can’t be offended by honest workers even if their day seems to start a bit early. We weren’t awakened, but taking in a bit of exercise when we heard you. We wondered if you were the famed laundress who magics away impossible stains.” This came from the dark-haired woman behind the first, a fan in her hand, fluttering now and then as if to emphasize a word. Her soft laughter took the edge off, although her interest in Rivergrace stayed sharp. Her eyes of deepest brown had green sparks in them, but her blood seemed most notable by her ears of sharp and swept-back points, her hair tucked behind them.

Her face grew warm at the notion that anyone would speak of her. “I could hardly be famous.”

The fan fluttered. “Town gossip is not to be believed, but enjoyed. Might your mother be the new seamstress we’ve gotten word about? We hear an old shop has new life in it, and engaging designs, and good craftsmanship now.”

Rivergrace rose stiffly from her curtsy, unable to hold it any longer. “I hope so if you’re speaking of Lily Farbranch, new proprietor and keyholder of the Greathouse shop. I’ll get her for you—”

“No need,” said the copper-hued one sharply and held up a hand to halt her. “Rumors on the street will carry us to her shop later, in good time. I have other curiosities at the moment.” She swept close to Rivergrace, eying her up and down as if memorizing her in detail. “What House or Holding is yours? What Lines?”

Grace froze in her tracks. “I-I—”

“Come now. Farbranch is a Dweller name, I believe, and you’re one of the Suldarran, one of us. Give me your bloodlines.” The copper-hued one leaned very near, her look intense.

Grace felt her heart begin to pound, as if threatened by her, and the dark-haired one put her fan to the crook of her companion’s arm as she murmured a soft word Rivergrace could not understand to draw her back. She felt her damp sleeve pushed up her arm, her thin white scar clearly visible, and she pushed her sleeve down, flustered, muttering, “Farbranch is the only name I know.”

“Don’t be daft, your blood history is evident. Why pretend you are a rustic when you are obviously not? Half, perhaps, not full-blooded, there is something other about you, yet...”

Grace took a step back, found the well’s crossbars at her hip, preventing farther retreat as the other unnerved her. She wanted them to go away, but held her tongue, not wanting to rouse the others or cause trouble. The power of the Vaelinars in Calcort seemed to be like their faces, often veiled but indisputably there.

“Your mother and father. Tell me who they are.” The smooth voice held an edge like a sword’s blade, her visitor full of quiet menace as she cornered Rivergrace.

“She may well not know,” her companion offered.

“Unfortunate, but a possibility.” A hand tipped with long, elegant nails raised, traced the air before her eyes and then, almost gently, lifted a strand of her hair away from her brow, smoothing it back. She looked upon Rivergrace with a cold assessment that burned a fire through her, sending her senses reeling away, and she clung to the well to stay on her feet. “I see some of the blood in her, but . . . you may well be right. Yet another by-blow. She has the eyes but not a touch of power in her.”

She felt the words around her, on the air, hot and stifling, her limbs going weak in every joint, her body struggling just to breathe, all thought fleeing.

“You’re certain? What about the laundry?”

The copper-hued woman swung about, backhanding her companion across the face in a vicious slap. “Never question me again. I know what I know. Do you think it takes Talent to wash away a stain? Velk!”

The dark-haired woman put her hands to her face, smothering a noise, and then pulled a veil from her purse and dropped it about her quickly, concealing and hiding both her injury and her fear.

The interrogator traced her fingers over Rivergrace’s face again, paying no heed as she gave out a soft gasp and collapsed helplessly to lie at their feet. Darkness sharply defined by the edge of a hot sun began to claim her and she heard faintly, “I do not comprehend what Sevryn sees in her.”

“Perhaps it is only what any man sees in a woman.”

“Perhaps.”

Soft steps moved away from her as Rivergrace lost her struggle to understand and shadow claimed her.

“Lily says you’ll be at the shop late, so I’ll send Keldan by at lamplighting to bring the two of you home. We’ll not have you fainting again in the summer sun. ’Tis different here than at home—the old orchards—and I expect the two of you to show better sense than to let the heat get to you.” Tolby had his head inside a deep vat, and leaned out only long enough to send them on their way. He finished with a wave that set them off, and his last words were muffled by the good, aged wood of the restored vat to which each of them dutifully replied, “Love you, Da,” before going.

Embarrassed but grateful to be freed and away from fussing, Rivergrace wore her veil pulled back, letting the fresh morning air sweep across her face, with its scents that she had become used to. The neighborhoods had their own flavor, each of them, but she loved the bakery best. The smell of fresh baking bread cooled into faintness, the baking done, the racks and shelves of the bread sellers filled. Some of them had small shops within their thresholds, with tiny pastries and drinks to be had, although most simply bustled about delivering their goods to the various estates and inns around town. A new aroma of freshly squeezed fruits into juice wafted to them, as did other, more unpleasant odors of city living. A songbird swept past her ear with a startled chirp as they passed under a cobbler’s overhang. Looking up, she saw a nest tucked into its crossbeams.

Nutmeg caught her elbow immediately as her head tilted up, up, and back, and Rivergrace shrugged her off as her sister fought to right her. “I’m just looking!” She pointed up at the eaves and nest.

“Oh.”

She nudged her sister. “I’m not going to drop again, all right?”

“I fainted once,” Nutmeg declared, still standing very close to her, as if she thought she could catch Grace.

“I remember. I wouldn’t call it fainting. You’d had all that hard cider and then the Barrel boy tried to kiss you . . .”

“Hmmmpf,” said Nutmeg. “Felt like a swoon to me.”

“No doubt it did.” She wasn’t sure what a faint felt like, for she didn’t remember much beyond hanging the laundry and then pausing by the well for a break, and then waking with Keldan hollering for Lily, and dumping half a bucket of water on her. The rest of the morning she’d as soon forget, with Lily worrying over her before leaving, and Tolby frowning and stomping around, muttering something about being useless when it came to female troubles.

She hooked Nutmeg by the elbow. “At least he wanted a kiss. As I recall, they all wanted kisses from you!”

Nutmeg’s cheeks grew even rosier as she admitted that to be truth, and they laughed at each other, walking down the row.

Snatches of conversation reached them. “... and rain coming, in a day or two, blessed be.”

“Aye, not a pelting, though, shouldna be this time of summer. It’ll be a warm rain and what wouldn’t I do for a cold shower from the north, just for a day! What do you hear about the dance . . .”

“The miller is talking about raising his prices again, curse his hide. I make little enough money as it is, and now the grain is nearly as dear as gold . . .”

“Blame the traders for their profits, and beyond them, blame the cursed elves. They have a stranglehold on everything . . .”

“Messenger! Coming through!”

The two of them turned about to see if it was Walther, but another lad ran by, taller, calf muscles bulging from the cuffs of his short pants as he raced past them.

Something caught the corner of her vision from that quick glance, but when she turned her head, nothing was there. She tripped in her tracks and caught herself by grabbing Nutmeg’s shoulder. She could have sworn she’d seen a figure watching them intently among the growing crowd. Had someone been there? Did one of Walther’s crew dodge around behind them in the shadows, practicing stealthy arts which, she was certain, did not suffer because their leader now had a legitimate job as a messenger boy? Dropping her veil into place, she looked about carefully and caught no other sign of someone, yet felt a tickling at the back of her neck as if being studied.

“You’re jumpy,” complained Nutmeg as she caught her by the shoulder a second time.

“Am I?” She patted down her skirts and fell back into a stroll before pitching her voice slightly above a whisper. “I think we’re being followed.”

Nutmeg swiveled about. “No one there.”

“I can see that.”

Her sister bounced back into stride. “Maybe it was an admirer.”

Grace found herself smiling down over that. “You think so?”

Nutmeg tossed her lustrous hair back over her shoulder with an extra bounce. “They are bound to notice us sooner or later! They will be knocking down the door to ask Da permission to dance with us.”

“I can hardly wait.”

“I know I can’t! Once the gowns are measured and made, maybe we’ll have some free time. I hear the whole rest of the summer and the harvest months are filled with dances and teas and festivals.” With another toss of her head, Nutmeg led them down the lane which began to grow crowded with workers and vendors and a few early shoppers. Dwellers and Kernans mingled cheerfully, doing business, the Dwellers with the perpetual cheer and bluster she knew so well, and the Kernans with a morose, resigned air. It was their city, a trader hub, but they barely held the majority of the numbers anymore, swelled with Dwellers moving in from farms to ply their industry wherever they could. Nutmeg moved among them with a sway of her body, like dancing without a partner, and Rivergrace did her best to follow her agile sister. She did draw looks, although Grace couldn’t tell if it was because of her audacious plowing through the crowd or her prettiness as Nutmeg led. Laughing softly in spite of herself, she followed after, much as if they were racing to the tallest tree by the orchards to see who could scale it fastest. She bumped into a body and came to an abrupt halt, staring upward.

A bare chest of soft, golden hue, cloaked in a hide of forkhorn, the fur combed and burnished met her examination. He smelled of woodsmoke and incense. The man folded his arms and glared down at her, dark amber eyes full of Galdarkan disdain. She bobbed in apology. He jabbed a thumb across the road. “Two sides. You walk over there.”

Rivergrace glanced across the street to the unpaved side with its littered gutter. Nutmeg had retraced her steps and rejoined Grace who drew herself taller and looked the man in his hard eyes. “Like you, I will walk where I wish,” she answered, and sailed past him, Nutmeg in her tow. Something wet splattered at her heels.

“Some men!” muttered Nutmeg who now hurried to keep up with Grace’s long, agitated stride. “Imagine that.”

She did. Only she imagined that it was her veil, and not her gender, that had evoked the Galdarkan’s arrogance.

 
 
Lariel stepped inside the Conference room which would be grand in any of the provinces, noting that the table had been replaced since the last time she’d attended, or at least had been given a new top, for the scars from her sword were gone. More than a scar, as she recalled, the tabletop had split where her blade struck. She stood inside the doorway a moment, gathering her thoughts as to what she would and would not say later in the day. It wasn’t that she’d come unprepared, it was that her decision to say certain things seemed subject to a tide of approval, much like a beleagured shoreline, sometimes inundated and sometimes laid out to dry under an unforgiving sun.

“Your Highness,” murmured Bistane out of the shadows, emerging quickly enough that he startled her despite his greeting, but she did not jump. His dark blue eyes held a smile for her.

Instead, she hooked her toe about a chair leg and pulled the chair out a little, so she could settle onto it, and look up at him. “Bistane,” she responded. “Are you early or am I later than I thought?”

“We are both unforgivably early.” He seated himself opposite her. “I was, in fact, hoping to find you here. I know your habit of preparedness.” The intensity of the color of his eyes softened the harsh contours of his face and short hair. A warrior through and through, the hands he folded on the tabletop showed scattered scars and calluses. “I wanted you to be aware of this before I presented it.”

“Oh?” She arched an eyebrow. Like her, he often cut through words and preliminaries, blunt but effective.

“I will propose abandoning the Accords.”

She might have expected that from others, but not Bistane. Various among them had rankled about it for decades, even centuries, but it kept them in check and balance. She did not bother to hide the faint surprise which bubbled to the surface. He’d expected it, or he would not have taken care to warn her.

“You will ask why, and I will not be able to give a full answer in chambers, but I’ll speak now.” He leaned forward, resting on his forearms. “Whatever good the Accords have done us, their usefulness is past. We need to ready for war again, and they cause too many of us to hesitate. The Accords were meant not only to keep us from killing each other as we consolidated our positions but to keep us here, on the western coast. Now we must grow or our own entropy will be our worst enemy. We are meant to stretch our influence and enrich the lives of the world around us, Lara. We need to give up the past and move forward.”