The Mark of Ran (14 page)

A silk shirt, dark as a raven’s back, woolen breeches, and a sleeveless tunic. There was embroidery about the tunic’s neck, black on sable, silk thread. Two horses entangled in a repeated but variegated pattern, their necks entwining, side by side sometimes, in other places running headlong at each other. He admired it, drank from the brandy bottle, admired it some more. He must buy Arexa some frippery for this; it was exquisite.

He dressed hurriedly, set Fleam in her place by the head of his bed, and took a deep breath.

Your time approaches.

It was the sword, speaking to him.

It is right and fitting that you be here. You can follow any path in life you wish, but in the end it is inevitable that you come into your full self. You can be master in a place such as this. Only command me.

It was the brandy. He grinned at the blank walls, drank again of the Cavaillis, patted Fleam affectionately, and left the room, his shoulder striking the doorframe as he exited.

They came two by two, in coaches, in hired barouches, on horseback, with liveried servants behind them and armed retainers shadowing them up the tortuous Cartsway. The great and the good, trooping obediently to Psellos’s door. They avoided his laughing eyes and were reluctant to shake his hand, but they came anyway, drawn by the glitter of their fellows, like moths to a flame irresistible. And perhaps Psellos’s reputation only made the occasion more delectable. There were Feathermen lurking in every side street, producing a delicious shudder in the passing carriages. The occupants did not know that the King of Thieves had been paid to make this evening inviolate. Not so much as a beggar stirred in Ascari without his leave, and he had been bribed to ensure that there would be no hitches on the road to the Tower.

Rowen was dressed in a tight-laced bodice that emphasized her slim form and lent sex to its strength and athleticism. Her raven hair was piled up upon her head with silver clasps and her arms and shoulders were bare. The scars upon those shoulders had been powdered out of existence and the black velvet of her skirt hid all but the toes of her iron-buckled boots. She and Rol did not look at each other as they stood with Psellos in the massive atrium of the Tower and welcomed the entering guests.

Ascari, and by extension Gascar, was an oligarchy of sorts, ruled by the heads of half a dozen noble families who had been powerful in the city for time out of mind. These tolerated Psellos much as they tolerated the King of Thieves; because he was useful, in his own way, and because his eradication would take far too much blood and treasure for it to be contemplated. The Tower in which these worthies stood was older by far than the foundation of the city that men knew. Rol had learned that it was a place of the Elder Race, a hollow stronghold constructed by them in the lost millennia of the current world’s shaping. Psellos had found it derelict and forgotten half a century before, and had taken it as his own—even then he had possessed the funds to make a capital city turn a blind eye. Now only graybeards remembered it as anything other than Psellos’s Tower. Rol could not help but wonder whether Psellos had found more than he claimed in the rubble-choked lower levels of the place’s foundations. The Tower had had a name once, he was sure of that, but no surviving record revealed it.

That was by the by. This night the ancient structure was nothing more than a grand place to hold a party, holding a frisson of half-remembered fear for the assembled guests, but not much more. Psellos had told Rol that even the most privileged of life’s travelers must feel fear, or what they think is fear, every now and again. No man is content with ease and leisure and plenty, even the most indulged libertine. Especially the most indulged libertine. Which was why some of them had paid a fool’s ransom to bed Rowen. Because she made them afraid.

I have come to understand many things since eating dried fish on board
Gannet,
Rol thought. But the knowledge of these things I would sooner do without.

He smiled and bobbed his head and shook hands with limp-wristed rich men, brushed his lips across the knuckles of their preening wives (many of whom eyed him with open lasciviousness) and wondered at the display of delighted interest that Psellos maintained in front of this endless stream of
cattle.

The splendid windowed chamber Rol had only seen once before had been cleared of all its more grisly contents and now a massive U-shaped table had been assembled within, the closed end backing onto the windowed wall. It seated sixscore with ease, with room left over for extravagant table displays of flowers and silver and marching lines of silver candlesticks. Hearths were uncovered and lit along the straight wall and ornate hangings bright with gold leaf hung between them. Servants scurried hither and thither like dispatch riders on a battlefield, marshaled by the increasingly shrill cries of Quare. Dozens, scores of people milled around accepting dainties from proffered trays, savoring the most mellow of Psellos’s wines, running their eyes along the riches on display with some wonder and not a little envy. Rol found himself wondering how many of those present had bought and tasted his blood, or Rowen’s. Partaking of the monster. A small, bleak smile curled upon his face like a cat in a warm place. Then he caught Rowen’s eye, and her utter indifference wiped his face clean again.

He left the grand chamber, bowing to those who seemed self-important enough to justify it, and made his way down the Tower stairs to the kitchens. The brandy was singing in his veins, and the wine he had drunk on top of that had not helped the bright detachment of his mind. They would not be sitting down to eat for a long while yet, and he felt the need of some ballast in his belly.

The activity in the kitchen resembled that within a command post at the height of a major battle. Gibble—this would be his last Harvest Feast—was bellowing orders, consulting lists, clipping the kitchen scullions’ ears, and dipping his grubby finger into various bubbling pots, whilst all around him his subordinates were plucking, gutting, slicing, dicing, and mashing as though their lives depended upon it. There was one small island of calm, however. In the corner farthest from the fire a ragged man with a threadbare cap pushed back on his head sat eating and drinking nonchalantly at a small table. From the cap a single bedraggled feather dangled. Every so often one of the many extra serving-men and -women Psellos had hired for the night would come up to him and speak quietly in his ear. The ragged man would nod thoughtfully, as though filing away information for future use. He looked up as if he had felt the weight of Rol’s appraisal and his face split in a yellow smile. He waved Rol over.

“Well, if it’s not the apprentice. Sit, lad, take the weight off your boot-soles. You look as though you had seen a spirit. Have some wine—one glass will do us both, I’m sure.”

Rol did as he was bidden. He needed the wine. The King of Thieves tore the flesh from a drumstick and leaned back in his chair. His eyes were black with no discernible iris and his unshaven chin was shiny with grease. He looked Rol up and down casually, but Rol had the feeling that the black eyes noted every fold and thread of his clothing.

“I am called Canker. You know me, I think.”

“I know you.”

“Fine work, that little job you pulled off in our guildhouse. Even had Psellos not bought your life from us, I’d have been inclined to let you live out of sheer curiosity.”

“I—I never thought—” Rol stammered. “If I had known—”

“Yes, yes. That is all water down a drain now, though”—and here his avuncular manner wore thin—“it would not be wise to try such a stunt again. I have a reputation to think of, after all.”

Rol nodded and drank from the grease-rimmed glass.

“But you have made a very personal reparation, so we will let bygones be bygones, eh?” He saw Rol’s puzzled look, and chuckled. “Your blood, my boy. We’ve had quite a taste of it. It’s fitting enough—life for life, you might say.”

Rol’s stomach turned, and the wine seemed to curdle within it.

“We miss Rowen, though—that is a thoroughbred filly if ever there was one. Psellos has done his best over the past while, of course—he has promised a dark-haired little seamstress for tonight. I dare say she’s on her way to the waterfront already.”

Something in Rol’s eyes made the King of Thieves flinch and push back his chair. One dirt-blackened hand reached under his rags.

“Yes, Psellos is right. There’s a lot to be done with you yet. Hood those eyes, my lad, or someone will have them out.”

Rol rose slowly, hands clear of his sides. “Enjoy your meal,” he said to Canker, and backed away, the black stare fixed on him like that of a snake. Finally he turned and left the kitchen, ignoring Gibble’s wave, the maids and scullions making way for him as though his touch would burn them. In a way, he thought, it might.

Psellos had sat Rol on his left, Rowen on his right. The clothing of all three, though rich and beautifully worked, was an exercise in sable, a deliberate contrast to the plumaged finery of the guests. Before them the long arms of the U-shaped table ran out into a haze of candlelight and the gleam of silver and gold. A small army of waiters danced attendance on those present, making sure no glass was empty for long, and a succession of courses arrived with smooth efficiency. Venison, rare and red, wild boar, wildfowl of every description, and a cornucopia of fruit and root vegetables and sauceboats.

Rol’s left-hand neighbor was one of the council elders, and he kept leaning across him to talk to Psellos. Finally the Master introduced them. “Councillor Pachydon, allow me to present my—ah—protégé, Rol of Dennifrey.”

“So this is him! He’s a trifle young, Psellos. Is he up to the job?” The councillor was a portly man with protuberant, bloodshot eyes which looked as though they were about to pop out of his head.

Psellos stared at Pachydon in icy silence. At last he said, “This is not the place to be discussing business, Councillor.”

“It was a fair question.”

“You will find that Rol is perfectly capable of providing complete satisfaction. Now, please, I think you will find that this next course begs your complete and undivided attention.”

Rol stared whitely at the Master. He was about to get up from the table when Psellos’s iron-hard grip pinched the nerve behind his knee. His lower leg went numb.

“Not now, my young friend, we have a show to put on,” Psellos murmured. “Remember your manners.”

“My turn to be pimped out now, is it?” Rol hissed.

“Shut your mouth, you young fool. I’ll talk to you when we rise from table and not before. Until then, keep a civil tongue in your head or remain a mute.”

A long night. There were speeches to sit through, praising the host and his hospitality. Some speakers were pious and invoked the gods; others were raucous and lewd with drink. Several young blades sent notes to Rowen via salver-bearing waiters. By the time the cloth had been drawn she had a little pile of them sitting beside her glass, all unread. Psellos swept them into his pocket.

At the end the Master rose himself, and proposed a toast to health, commerce, and the continuing prosperity of Ascari. His listeners applauded politely or thumped the table, but they seemed to like the sound of their own voices better than his. At last the diners rose and began to drift toward the bright firelit hearths at the back of the chamber, some more steadily than others, whilst the worst of the debris was cleared from the tables and fresh candles lit. Scores of stools were produced and on these the ladies sat fanning their painted faces, for it was close in the room and many of the gentlemen were now smoking pipes of whitherb. The servers went to and fro freshening drinks and collecting glasses. Some looked more like prizefighters than waiters, and they seemed to linger near knots of conversation, fiddling unnecessarily with the stuff on their trays. Psellos watched Rol’s frown follow their movements, and smiled.

“The Feathermen are an adaptable bunch, are they not? Canker and I gather more information on this one night of the year than on the rest combined.”

Of course. There must always be an angle, some advantage to be gained.

Rowen had disentangled herself from the attentions of half a dozen young noblemen and joined Rol and Psellos. The three stood apart from the chattering crowd and watched them, as a shepherd will look down on his sheep. With a kind of proprietorial detachment.

I, too, Rol thought. I do it now.

“Not even the inauguration of a new council gets a throng as well-bred as this,” Psellos said with relish. “A good night, in all.”

Then he turned to Rol, cold and entirely businesslike.

“Pachydon is one of the richest Mercanters of Gascar. The long and the short of it is that he wants a man killed. Tomorrow night.”

Rol felt the muscles of his face tighten. “And I am to do it.”

“You are to do it. Consider it a kind of final examination. Rowen’s phase of your instruction is almost over. Soon you will have a new tutor.”

“Who?”

“Our mutual friend, the King of Thieves. He will put the final polish upon you.”

Rol glanced at Rowen. She kept his gaze for a moment, and something opened in her eyes, a kind of pity.

“Who is the man I am to murder?”

“His name is Canoval. Lord Canoval to such as you and me.”

“Why?”

“Ah, Rol, that is the one question you must never ask.
How,
by all means,
when,
certainly, but
why
? No. There is no need for that one.”

“Where does he live? How do I recognize him?”

“That’s more like it. As to recognizing him, he is here tonight, and I will make sure you meet him. The where of it will be handled by Canker. He has been monitoring the lordship’s movements for several weeks now, not that these aristocrats are anything but predictable. Canker will be your mentor in this thing, he will hold your hand, as it were. It is a test in killing, but not simply some inane slaughter. You must show us that you can practice some finesse.” Psellos had not looked at Rol once as he spoke. His eyes were ranging about the chamber, alighting with interest now and again, registering faces.