The King's Justice (7 page)

The mother's name is Rose, and she was widowed by the same plague that claimed Annwin Marker. For that reason, her anxiety for her fey daughter, Arbor, is greater than it was. And it has grown still greater since her meeting with the stranger. Her good husband had the gift of calming her. He saw no harm in
little Arbor's real or imagined sight, and his unconcern eased Rose's heart. Without him, she has been troubled daily by the fear that her daughter's wits have strayed. But now she has a new fear. The stranger's belief that Arbor's sight is real is beyond her comprehension.

In Settle's Crossways, a town remote from the larger world, and ignorant apart from the gossip of wagoneers and caravaners, the gift of unnatural sight is not preferable to an unbalanced mind.

But Arbor is not afraid. During the past day, she has spoken often of the stranger with the holes in his soul, and of her desire to help him. She has insisted that she can heal his holes, one or more of them. Seeing him again excites her. While Rose flinches in alarm, Arbor succeeds in pulling free of her mother's hand. She runs toward the stranger as though she means to leap into his arms.

Black sees her. He sees her desire to touch him. But he also sees her mother's fear. And he has his own reasons for caution. He knows what may become of the girl if she aids him while she is too young to understand what she does. He holds up one hand while the other secretly invokes a sigil of command.

Surprised by herself, the girl stops.

Rose hastens closer. “Arbor!” she cries in a voice that trembles too much to sound stern. “He is a stranger. Leave him alone.”

“But, Ma—” Arbor protests.

Still asserting his command, Black asks, “Your name is Arbor?” His tone is quiet reassurance.

The girl nods. She does not resist as her mother reclaims her hand.

Black meets the mother's wide stare. “And your name, madam?”

His command reaches her. Unwillingly, she replies, “Rose.” But then she musters her resolve. “What have you to do with us, sir?” She aches for her husband's presence at her side. He would speak more confidently. “You called my daughter precious. I do not understand you. She is precious only to me.”

Black nods. Soothing as water, he says, “Then hear me, Rose. Arbor has a gift for which I have no name. It is clear in her, though I cannot account for it. I am certain only that it is not ripe. When she is older, it will manifest more strongly, and more safely. For the present, it must not be spent on a stranger”—he gazes at Arbor ruefully—“even a stranger with holes in his soul.” Then he faces Rose again. “But you are precious also. You have your own gift. You call it fear or grief, but it has other names.

“There is a man who needs your gifts, both yours and Arbor's. He is Jon Marker.” Seeing Rose's bafflement, he adds, “You know of him. You know what he has lost. But perhaps you do not know that he is utterly alone.

“It would be a great kindness to befriend him.”

If Arbor feels an impulse to touch Jon Marker's pain, she will do herself no harm.

Rose is confounded. Her stare becomes a frown. It becomes dismay. “You wish me to befriend a man I do not know? A man I have never met?”

Black still holds up his hand, though it no longer commands. “Father Tenderson will introduce you,” he says because he wants to hurry away. “Or Father Whorry.”

Then he touches his hat and withdraws into the crowd.

Rose follows the stranger with her eyes until she loses sight of him. She hardly feels Arbor tug at her hand. She hardly hears her daughter ask, “Can we, Ma? Can we meet him? The man who needs us?” The stranger has turned the mother's world on its head, and she is no longer sure of her balance. She is nodding, but she does not know what she will do.

She does not know that Black has already put her from his mind. His thoughts run ahead of him rather than behind, traveling a road to a destination he cannot see, as he sifts through the throng until he clears the square. When he is able to gaze down the street, he scans it for the sign of the inn he seeks.

Soon he locates it. It is where the Dark priest told him it would be. At once, he ascends to the series of porches on that side and strides toward his goal. In his haste, he neglects to touch his hat to the townsfolk. They stare at him harder as he passes.

As he expects in a town of this size, the inn is also a tavern. Its swinging doors admit him to a room both larger and more elaborate than Bailey's establishment. It has chandeliers for light and padded chairs at round tables for its patrons. Long mirrors behind the bar reflect the bustle of serving-maids and boys carrying a greater variety of viands than Bailey can offer. And in
its own fashion, the place is as crowded as the square. Father Whorry has advised Black well. A profusion of wines, ales, and spirits flows as wagoneers, caravaners, and their guards demand refreshment after their long deprivation. Half or more of the men and women who have come with the caravan will resume their journey on the morrow with aching heads and complaining stomachs.

Amid the confusion, however, the shouts for service or companionship, the noise of camaraderie, and the clatter of eating, Black identifies the caravan-master without difficulty. She has the arms of a muleteer, the hands of a gravedigger, the hair of a wind-storm, and the bulk of a steer, but it is not by those signs that he knows her. He is sure of her because she sits at the only table that does not strain to accommodate too many patrons. Also her back is to the wall and her face to the door, she drinks sparingly, and the two men she permits to share her table defer to her as they eat.

As Black enters, the caravaners pay no heed, but every gaze that resides in Settle's Crossways snaps to him as though he has come flinging daggers.

Like the inn itself, and its patrons, this does not surprise Black. He expects it, not because he is a stranger, but rather by reason of his actions against Ing Hardiston and the storekeeper's comrades. He judges that Hardiston would not talk about his own defeat willingly, or permit his deeds to reflect discreditably on him. But the storekeeper needed a healer, as did one of his
men. An explanation would be required. Therefore he will have told his version of events—a courageous, honorable version—to everyone he encounters. By now, half the town has heard Ing Hardiston's tale.

This does not trouble Black. He has no use for the town's good will. And he sees no indication that Hardiston's tale has reached the caravan-master. She notices his arrival as she notices everything, but she betrays no reaction that will prevent him from speaking to her, or discourage her from answering.

Ignoring the townsfolk, he makes his way among the tables until he stands in front of Kelvera.

When she meets his gaze, he says her name with his accustomed silk. Without asking her permission, without removing his hat and cloak, he seats himself opposite her. She rests her forearms on the table. He does not. Her companions stare at him, openly astonished, but he does not regard them.

“Kelvera,” he says again. “Forgive my discourtesy. I must speak with you. The matter is urgent.”

He surprises her, though she gives no sign of her reaction. She is experienced and wily. In her many years of long journeys, guiding caravans through lands unknown to all but her and her captains, she has seen much, heard much, learned much. She knows a shaped man when she meets with one. They are rare in this kingdom, and have become more so since the ending of the old wars. Still she is certain that if this man exposes his arms, he will reveal an astonishing variety of glyphs, sigils, scarifications, and inlaid metals.

Holding the stranger's gaze, she tells her companions, “Another table.”

They rise from their chairs at once, though they do not mask their reluctance. One is her captain of guards. He commands the defense of her train. He does not pretend equanimity as he draws a poniard from his belt, shows it to the stranger, then stabs it into the table where it is ready for Kelvera's use. The other man is her captain of wagons, responsible for managing the diverse owners, burdens, teamsters, and beasts of her train. More readily than the guard captain, he goes to request a seat at a nearby table.

Black does not acknowledge the captains. Waiting, he ignores the poniard.

The caravan-master leans back in her chair. She does not judge the shaped man or determine her response in advance. Nor does she invite him to share her meal. When she has appraised him for a moment, searching her memories of other travels through this land, she says, “Call me Blossom.” Endless days of shouting have made her voice gruff as a grindstone. “You are?”

“Black,” he replies without hesitation. He is already sure of her. She will answer him or she will not. If she does, she will do so honestly. If she does not, she will betray no hint of what she withholds.

“Black, hmm?” muses Kelvera. “Interesting.” Her tone suggests disinterest. “Not a name I know.”

Black shrugs. He does not respond.

The caravan-master studies his silence. With an air of
distraction, as though she is unaware of what she does, she reaches out and taps the hilt of her guard captain's poniard. “An urgent matter, you said? Then speak. I cannot guess your mind.”

Black nods. “Blossom,” he says. Despite his haste, he hopes to distract her from her natural suspicions. “Why are you called Blossom?”

She raises her eyebrows. “
That
is what you wish to know? And you call it urgent? I am Blossom because it pleases me.”

Black almost smiles. “And I am Black because I have forgotten my other names. My travels have been as long as yours. I forget what I can. The rest is urgent. If it were not, I would forget it as well.”

Kelvera feels a tension in her shoulders easing. Rare as they are, shaped men are dangerous, and this one more so than others. Now, however, she understands that he is not dangerous to her. Frowning, she draws the poniard from the table and pushes it away from her.

“Then speak,” she repeats. “Those who trust me to lead them have their secrets. I will keep them. But anything else—” She spreads her hands to indicate the world she knows.

“Have you incurred losses?” he asks abruptly.

She squints at him. “What,
ever
?”

“In this kingdom,” he explains. “On this journey.”

“No,” she answers. Then she admits, “Attacks are inevitable. The wealth of my caravans is legend. But my captain of guards knows his duties. His men are well trained and armed. One guard took a spear in his thigh. An arrow killed the personal
servant of a dealer in fine spices. We left seven brigands dead. I do not call the outcome losses.”

Black nods again. “And no desertions?”

Kelvera slaps her hand on the table. She pretends indignation. “I treat my people well, men and women. They do not desert.” After a moment, she laughs humorlessly. “Not in this kingdom. The old wars began here. They ended here. This land is considered perilous. Shapers and wild powers are said to remain, perhaps hidden in this very forest. Even cowards do not desert here.”

Black's manner remains abrupt. “When did you last pass this way?” He means from west to east, from the strange deserts in the far west to the richly mined mountains a hundred leagues eastward.

The question catches Kelvera off guard. She counts backward in her mind. “Two seasons ago? No, more. But less than three.”

“Did you incur any losses
then
? Any desertions?” Black needs an explanation for Tamlin Marker's killer's ability to claim so many brigands without the aid of followers known in the town. “Did any wagons leave your train?”

The caravan-master collects her thoughts. “Any wagons?” She dismisses losses and desertions. “In this kingdom? Before the destinations they hired me to reach?”

Any matter that a shaped man considers urgent is important to her as well, though her reasons are not his. If Black is not dangerous to her, his presence and his questions imply danger nonetheless. His interest is a warning she means to heed.

For the third time, Black nods.

“Yes,” she replies slowly. She makes certain of her memories. “But not in Settle's Crossways. A league to the east. In virgin forest. Near that misplaced mountain, the old fumer. For no discernible reason.”

Soft as feathers on clean skin, Black urges, “Tell me.”

“We had not left the desert,” she answers, still slowly, “when a wagon purchased a place among us.” She trusts him to know of the desert she mentions. “Its owner was an old man. More than old. He appeared ancient, with a face cut by the erosion of years, skin worn thin until it seemed transparent, and a frame much emaciated. He wore a long robe that may once have been red, but was now faded to rust. His beard, white and well-kempt, reached to his waist. Altogether he resembled a hierophant who had given his life to the worship of a desert god.”

Black prepares another question, but Kelvera does not pause. Having chosen to answer, she answers fully.

“Still his movements were not decrepit,” she continues. “Indeed, his steps were sprightly when he elected to walk, which was seldom. Also his voice was not ancient, though it quavered. At times, laboring caravans raise a mighty din, yet he was able to make himself heard.

“We required a name. He allowed us to call him Sought.

“With him, he brought four guards, and also a teamster for his oxen, but no personal servant. We called his lack of an attendant strange, yet his wagon was stranger. It was all of wood, more a house on wheels than a wagon, and painted the same
worn hue as his robe. Also it was made without windows—without as much as chinks between the boards—to ease the heat within. Its only opening was a door at the rear, a door too sturdy to be forced, which remained locked at all times.”

The caravan-master shrugs. She has no cause to doubt her choices. “I accepted his company. I did not begrudge him his strangeness, and the price he offered was generous. But I would have accepted him without payment for the sake of his guards.