The Gambler's Fortune (Einarinn 3) (66 page)

“Mother, Fithian.” He handed each a drink and refilled the proffered cups wordlessly.

“So what’s it all about, Keisy?” Ismenia demanded once she had regained her breath.

“Fith?” Keisyl turned to his uncle in some surprise.

The old man shook his tousled silver head, mouth down-turned. “Not for me to say, lad.” He mopped his forehead with a sleeve, the faded yellow of the cuff newly mended with brighter thread. “It’s for you two alone. I’ll go on up and look to the workings.”

Ismenia watched him go with a mixture of resignation, irritation and affection. “He’s been itching to get back to the diggings, the old fool. Goats is boys’ work, as far as he’s concerned. All right, Keisy, what is so important I have to leave the girls and come hiking all the way up here? I’m not as young as I was, you know.”

Keisyl managed a faint smile at her determined cheerfulness. It died in the next breath. “Come and see.”

Walking into the dell, he skirted the long-dead ashes of the fire and went to the sturdy tool cache. The door was secured by a simple wooden wedge, which Keisyl kicked aside with the split toe of his boot. Reaching into the gloom, he dragged a cowering figure out into the sunlight.

Ismenia’s hands leaped to her face to stifle a startled cry. “Jeirran?”

Keisyl looked down at the naked figure hunched on the ground, hair and beard matted with dirt where they hadn’t been scorched away by fire, body smeared with heedless filth, feet foul with sores, hands bleeding from raw blisters, one finger missing its nail and swollen into a suppurating mass. “I think so,” he said finally.

The sound of voices lifted the wretch’s head, face blank, mouth slack and drool glistening on chapped and crusted lips. The eyes were the worst, blue as ever but as mindless as those newly opened in a mewling pup.

“I thought he was dead,” whispered Ismenia. “I thought Maewelin had claimed her due, rot his heart!”

“Looks like Misaen wanted him after all.” Keisyl chewed on a thumbnail. “Now what do we do with him?”

“Where did you find him?” Ismenia shook her head in wonderment.

“He was scuttling around the diggings.” Keisyl couldn’t restrain a shudder. “I thought it was some gwelgar knitted out of grass and mud, come to look for naughty children.”

His laugh had no humor in it but the miserable thing looked up and mimicked him, the sound hoarse and horrible.

Keisyl raised a hand but could not land the blow. He turned away, shivering despite the hot sun. Ismenia looked down at the hollow shell of a man, just staring vacantly at nothing again. “What are we to do with him?”

Keisyl heaved a reluctant sigh. “I suppose we can keep him up here for a while, clean him up, feed him up.” He looked with distaste at the sores where a few maggots still clung. “If it were only me involved, as Misaen made me, I’d do nothing, Mother, I’d drive him off and bless the day, but Eirys—”

“You think Eirys needs this?” Ismenia turned sharply. “You think Eirys, after Sheltya scared her half witless before declaring her guilt-free, do you think she needs this wreck of a man to drain her of hope and life when she should be looking to her child? Eirys must never know of this. You must never speak of it, never breathe a word, not even on your deathbed, not even when Solstice sun stirs your bones.” She fell silent, trembling, narrow shoulders hunched as she clasped her hands in a vain effort to still them.

Keisyl drew his mother inside strong arms, her faded hair fluttering against the frayed collar of his shirt. Gradually her trembling eased. “So what do we do?”

Ismenia gently eased herself free, patting Keisyl’s shoulder in meaningless reassurance and smoothing the laces of his shirt. “He owes the soke a life, doesn’t he?”

Keisyl drew a long breath before answering. “There’s Eirys’ baby?”

Ismenia shook her head. “That’s not the same. That child is her gift to the blood, and as long as she still mopes for Jeirran I can’t see her bringing another to bed. Why didn’t he die at the Teyvafess?” she raged suddenly, “Then we could have shown her the body and had done.”

“And if she’d had his bones to lay in the cavern, that grief could have killed the babe in her belly.” Keisyl shook his head. “It was only the hope that he might somehow still live that saved her. You said so yourself.”

“So do we take that hope from her? If she’s brought to bed before the turn of the season, I wouldn’t give much for the chances of the child coming through the winter.” Ismenia pulled the embroidered kerchief from her head and twisted the cloth around her hands. “He owes the soke a life,” she repeated softly. “If it weren’t for him, I’d still have my Teiro, my baby boy.” Her face crumpled as if she was about to weep and she hid her face in the meadow flowers dotting the white linen.

Keisyl scrubbed away his own sudden, angry tears and reached for his mother’s hands, but when she lifted her eyes they were dry and resolved. “He owes the soke a life and we will claim it.”

“We have that right, don’t we?” said Keisyl cautiously. “Kinder than letting him wander and starve or die of a fever.”

“I don’t want to be kind,” said Ismenia bitterly. “I’d like to stake him out for the ravens, Maewelin be my witness! No, his life is forfeit and better that we know he is dead than wonder when he’s going to come scraping at the gatepost like a lost hound come home.”

“He found his way here, Misaen only knows how,” agreed Keisyl with distaste.

Ismenia reached for the sun-scorched shoulder draped with foul hair, but drew her hand back. “I’m not touching it,” she muttered. “Keisy, get me a stick and fetch yourself a hammer or something. I know where to go.”

Keisyl frowned. “Do we want Fithian?”

Ismenia shook her head. “Our choice, our burden.”

It didn’t take much prodding to get the wretch to its feet, following the old woman biddably enough as she led the way up beyond the workings. They crossed the ridge, the rustling grasses of a sheltered plateau, going beyond to skirt a spread of tangled bushes and finally climbing over a stony speckled bank to find a marshy stretch of broken ground dotted with thick green tussocks.

“The old ways were hard, but so were the times, and given all we’ve been through this year, I think old ways are called for.“ Ismenia looked sharply at Keisyl. ”You know what to do?”

Keisyl stepped behind the blankly staring figure and hefted the rock hammer in practiced hands. The blow came in hard and sure; the pitiable thing fell face forward and Ismenia pressed her narrow boot down on the back of its neck, pressing hard into the thick brown water of the bog. Keisyl waited silently until she withdrew her foot and then used the hammer to push the corpse farther into the mire.

“I’d have been within my rights to drown him unstunned,” Ismenia said, but with little passion. “If the bog takes him and tans him, then that’s Misaen’s judgment. Still, you can come up here next spring. If there are any bones, you can take them to the cavern in the Lidrasoke. Let him rest with his people and whisper a warning to any who might think to follow his example.”

“Come on, my lovely, let’s get home.” She clapped her hands briskly together and turned to begin walking so fast Keisyl had to hurry to keep up. “We must look forward now,” she continued. “We have Eirys and the baby to care for. Maewelin has finally blessed Theilyn, so there’ll be no come-by-chance to spoil her prospects. In a year or so we can think about taking her out and about. There are a few likely lads I have my eye on, so if I invite their mothers and sisters to coo over the baby, Theilyn will have a chance to meet them with no one making anything of it. Perhaps she’ll make a sensible choice if she’s allowed to take her time. One daughter falling in love at first sight, all overcome by Solstice jollities, is quite enough. And there’s nothing like a babe in arms to get a maiden feeling broody.” She tucked her arm through Keisyl’s and smiled up at him.

“There’ll be some pretty girl, last in a long family, willing to take her rights in coin and leave her fess to bring children and laughter to ours again, for the sake of a husband as handsome as you.”

“Perhaps, one day,” allowed Keisyl dryly, but his eyes were wistful.

“We must look forward now,” repeated Ismenia firmly. They left the bog without a backward glance.

The Boar and Elder Tavern, Hadrumal,

23rd of Aft-Summer

I had to look around the crowded tap room two or three times before I finally spotted Pered laughing in a corner with a friend. Pushing my way through a gaggle of prentice wizards, I waved to him. He stood up, taking the bottles of wine to free my hands. I snapped my fingers at a serving maid who barely spared me a look and smiled at her when her head spun back for a startled second glance. “Wine please, Ferl River if you have it.”

Pered gave me a hug and then held me at arm’s length, shaking his head. “You are going to have to do something about that hair.”

“Does it really look that bad?” I asked quizzically.

“You look like that striped butter toffee my sister makes for her children,” he said frankly. “Ryshad will hate it.”

I shrugged. “I’ve seen him in a beard. I’m not about to risk dying it after bleach; it’ll go green or all fall out.”

Pered’s ready laugh narrowed his hazel eyes. “Oh, I’ve finished the copy of that song book. Don’t let me forget to give it to you.”

“Many thanks. You don’t think anyone will be wondering why Shiv’s been so keen to study it, do you?” I didn’t particularly want attention drawn his way, especially not when someone might remember the mage’s lover was one of Hadrumal’s most accomplished scriveners.

Pered shook his head. “Not when he’s spending every day closeted with Usara and that Mountain woman, hammering out some new theory on this Artifice.”

“Has he had a chance to bespeak anyone in Toremal yet?” I tried to sound offhand but had to answer Pered’s knowing grin with a sheepish smile of my own.

“He bespoke Casuel last night. Cas was being his usual petty-minded self but he did tell Shiv that your Ryshad has ‘performed signal service to the Emperor, even if with somewhat unexpected consequences.’ Apparently Ryshad wants you to take a ship for Toremal or Zyoutessela as soon as you can. You’d better book passage and make haste to reclaim your beloved from the delights of the Empire.”

“As soon as Planir pays up,” I said firmly, quelling my own desire to head straight down to the docks and jump on the nearest ship. “Signal service to the Emperor” had to mean Ryshad would have winnings to equal mine, didn’t it?

Pered nodded at the bottles. “Our esteemed Archmage probably thinks that fair payment.”

“Something on account, perhaps. He doesn’t buy me off so easily.” I tapped my goblet of Ferl River white against the green glass of the vintage Califerian flagons. “They can wash down lunch.”

Pered took a long swallow of his ale. “As soon as the others arrive, we can go home. Shiv’s been busy all morning and I must have made ten trips to the market for things he’s been wanting.”

I ran a finger around a puddle on the tabletop. “How’s he taken the news about Otrick?”

The good humor faded from Pered’s blunt-featured face. “Badly. He’s spent the last few nights just staring at the ceiling, muttering how if he’d been allowed to go then something would have been found to save the old pirate.”

“I don’t see how he figures that,” I retorted. “Even Usara’s had to admit there was no hope. Aritane said his mind had been killed outright.”

“You know wizards,” Pered shrugged his stocky shoulders. “Always think everything’s down to them and never take no for an answer.”

“Saedrin bless them.” I raised my glass in a sarcastic salute.

“I’ll give him a few more days and then start asking him who he thinks will be made the new Cloud-Master or -Mistress. That should get him out of the mopes.” Pered gestured with his tankard. “He should be a good one to ask for a tip, if you fancy hanging around long enough to make a wager on it.”

I turned to see who he meant and saw Darni entering the tavern with an angular woman on his arm. Her face was nothing remarkable, long black hair plaited down her back. Her clothes were everyday honey-colored wool, but she carried herself with considerable grace. “Who’s that with him?”

“Strell, his wife.” Pered looked surprised. “Haven’t you met?”

“I think Darni prefers to keep me and mine out of his home life,” I laughed.

“Oh, I got to dance with her last Equinox,” said Pered, mock proud. “Darni may not know what to make of me and Shiv, but he does allow we’re safe to be let near his wife.”

“She looks as if she can take care of herself,” I observed.

“She can,” Pered assured me. “She’s an alchemist. Mess with her and your house will probably burn down.”

“Who’s burning down houses?” asked ’Gren with interest. Sorgrad was close behind him as they pushed their way to our corner.

“No one,” I said repressively. “Pered was saying there’d be money to be made if we can bet on the right candidate for Cloud-Master.”

“Mages lay wagers on things like that?” Sorgrad was surprised.

Pered grinned at him. “Mages don’t, but the rest of us do.”

“Must be the only game in town, somewhere this small,” commented ’Gren a trifle sourly.

I tried to gauge his degree of restlessness and looked at Sorgrad. “So, how much longer are you going to be kicking your heels here? I thought Shiv said that Kalion was going to intercede for you with Draximal? Wasn’t that what Planir told him to do?”

Sorgrad nodded. “Draximal’s all squared away. We’re taking a boat for Col in four days’ time.”

That was a relief; ’Gren should be able to contain himself for that long before looking for mischief. Hadrumal didn’t strike me as a good place for him to be bored. I frowned. “That’s going to be a long hike to Lescar. Wouldn’t you be better off waiting for passage to Peorle?”

“We’re not going to Lescar.” Sorgrad drained his tankard. “We thought we’d visit Solura.”

Pered looked at him with some surprise. “Shiv told me you were mage-born. You’re not going to stay here and study?”

“Why should I?” demanded Sorgrad, but not aggressively. “Magebirth’s no more than a minor inconvenience to me.”