The Queen of Mages (31 page)

Something kept Karen from running. She
shuffled over, moved the stool a few feet away, and sat down.
“Who’re you?”

“My name is Lucy,” the woman said. “Lucy
Marks.”

Karen learned that Lucy owned a brothel, a
place where men paid women to lie with them. Lucy said that her
girls were treated well, and offered Karen safety: a bedroom of her
own; food; clean clothing. In exchange, Karen would cook and clean
and fetch and serve, and when she came of age, she would join the
other girls, and lie with men for money, some of which Karen would
keep, and some of which would go to Lucy.

“Of age” was years away. Karen had never had
to think past the next day, and had never had more than two coppers
to rub together. It seemed like something out of a story. Karen’s
instinct was to run and hide in her dusty attic. But this once she
told her instinct to be quiet, and Lucy told her where to find the
brothel.

Karen was taken in, and good to her word,
Lucy gave her a bedroom—shared with other girls, but that was all
right, for they were friendly and smelled nice—and food and
clothing, as promised. And in addition, Lucy gave her a new name:
Katin Berisha, in the Elibander style. All the girls had Elibander
names; it made them sound like noblewomen, which enticed men and
made them willing to pay more. Berisha, she was told, was an
ancient Garovan queen, renowned for her beauty.

Almost immediately, Karen—Katin—met Lucy’s
daughter, Amira. Amira was a year older than Katin, and it was made
clear at once that Amira would never lie with men for money. Lucy
was training her to run the brothel, so that she would inherit it
when Lucy passed on.

Amira and Katin became fast friends. Amira
never asked anything of Katin beyond companionship. They talked in
the halls, they gossiped late at night, they peeked at the
brothel’s lounge from the balcony above and whispered jests about
the lecherous men down below.

Amira had been raised, mostly by servants,
in a town house a short distance away. Lucy had scrimped and saved
and connived her way to owning the brothel, insisting that her
daughter would never have to work on her back the way Lucy had. Men
called it a crime, for Amira was far more beautiful than any of the
other girls.

A few years passed. Amira grew ever more
radiant, and the day when Katin would first lie with men grew
closer. And then, one day, when Katin was sixteen, Lucy told her
that it was time.

Katin did not elaborate on that. There was
no point, and anyway Liam did not ask. She skipped ahead to the day
the following winter when Valmir Estaile had first set foot in the
establishment. Like all men, he sought only companionship for the
evening, but when he saw Amira he was struck dumb. He asked for
her, and was refused by Miss Lucy. He returned the next day and
offered double the usual price, but again he was rebuffed. Each
time he came back, and was told he would have to make do with
another girl, no matter how much he offered for Amira.

Finally, at the break of spring, he returned
one last time, accompanied by a nervous trade agent. They ensconced
themselves with Miss Lucy, and Valmir offered to marry Amira,
proving his worth with documentation of his extensive wealth and
holdings. She would have more money and comfort than Lucy could
ever hope to offer her, and in exchange, Valmir would gain a
beautiful, vivacious, and thoroughly charming wife, whom he could
show off to his friends and business partners.

Lucy took the offer to her daughter. Amira
might be flighty and impulsive, but she was no fool. She accepted
the offer straight away, on the single condition that Katin become
her maid.

Lucy was furious. Katin was a steady earner
for the brothel; not in high demand, but not often idle. Katin sat
and listened as Amira and her mother battled over her fate. Amira
finally went to Valmir herself, and convinced him to pay something
akin to a bride price—a year’s earnings—for Lucy to release Katin.
A princely sum to her, but mere pocket change to Valmir.

And so Katin had become Amira’s maid, until
Valmir and his wife had been granted peerage. At Amira’s
insistence, Valmir paid for
vala
training for Katin.

“And then he died so suddenly, from the
galloping cough.” Katin shuddered, remembering the man who had
helped free her. There had been no love between him and Amira, just
an amiable partnership. They both got what they wanted.
Did
I?

She slumped a little, fatigue settling on
her like a cloak. “We meant no harm by this deception,” she
insisted. “That life was left behind us, and it was one we never
chose. You
must
not tell Dardan. Amira might one day tell
him, but that is her decision.”

Liam stared away for a long minute. “It may
not matter. For all we know, Dardan is dead, or they’ve fled across
the sea, and we’ll never hear from them again.” He rubbed his eyes.
“We need to rest. Half the night is gone, and we must leave the
city the instant the gate opens. Taya will not be pleased with
either of us, especially once my ruse is discovered.”
Or that
poor servant you killed.
Katin shook that thought off as Liam
continued. “Which by now it probably has been. At least we don’t
have to worry about Edon.”

“What? What do you mean?”

Liam stared. “No one told you? Edon and his
army rode for Vasland a week ago.”

Katin clenched her jaw. Taya had let her
believe that she was still protecting Katin from Edon, that she
could not be set free.
One more reason to hate that
family.

They would need to rise in a few hours. Liam
blew out the lamp, and they lay down in the narrow bed. Katin would
have let him bed her, if he’d asked, but he merely held her until
he fell asleep.

Katin hated to ask the Caretaker for help,
but tonight she set aside her pride and made a prayer to the Aspect
of Chaos that the morning would find them leaving Callaston, and
not returning to the palace in chains.

Amira and Dardan reined to a halt at the
edge of the slope. They gazed down into the valley at Tyndam Town
nestled beside a river. The River Kallain, it was named, after the
first Elibander explorer to discover it. Not that the Caelanders
hadn’t already had a name for it, but whatever that had been was
lost to history.

They saw no obvious regiments of royal
soldiers waiting to arrest them. After a moment, Dardan nodded,
satisfied of their safety, and they began down the long slope
toward the town.

Dardan insisted that this Count Barnard
Kirth, who ruled over Tyndam County, was a friendly man. Amira
hoped so. Dardan’s distress after Thorncross had nearly broken
Amira’s heart. Amira had certainly been disappointed herself, but
aside from giving them money and food, what help could nobles
provide against a power like Edon’s?

Still, if Dardan believed that Count Kirth
might help them, then she would not object. Certainly they could
not receive any colder a reception than they’d had from that rotten
Elmer Brahim.

Foxhill Keep plucked at her memory as they
trod through the golden grasses toward the town. The fire and death
and chaos had blurred, leaving only a bitter regret that she had
brought it on by keeping her power secret, and that she had left
Katin behind. The Caretaker alone knew what had happened to the
girl.

At least Dardan had never chastised Amira
for keeping the secret. He seemed to understand why she’d done it,
and he didn’t blame her for Foxhill Keep. Most men would have run
screaming if they’d ended up betrothed to a witch. Dardan had
forgiven her and stuck by her side. So why did she keep blaming
herself?

She made herself focus on the land before
them. Where Tyndam Town sat astride it, the River Kallain was no
more than a wide, shallow creek that meandered off to the north.
The town nestled in a valley between long, stony ridges crowned
with pine trees. The main road was off to their right; Dardan had
insisted that they approach from the woods, in case the road was
watched by Edon’s men.

No longer sheltered by trees, Amira donned
her kettle helm against the sun’s glare. The summer had been damply
hot, but now, cooling autumn breezes came along more often than
they had even a few days before.

They rejoined the road, and as they drew
close to the town Amira could make out the details of individual
buildings. The houses had steeper roofs than in Hedenham, of a
reddish-brown wood that glowed in the afternoon sun. The walls were
all whitewashed plaster, with spots of color here and there, ochres
and yellows and tans. Chimney smoke settled into a thin haze over
the town, penned in by the ridges to either side.

They caught up to a wagon drawn by an old
draft horse. It bore a whole family, brothers and sisters and
cousins and an old grandmother perched on the wagon’s seat, next to
a man who was likely her son. Three young girls, one of whom looked
almost of age, gaped at Amira in her trousers and mail. They
whispered and grinned at each other. Amira was heartened to see
something so mundane and normal as children giggling.

One of the girls shifted over to the edge of
the wagon and got Amira’s attention. “Are you a soldier?”

Amira grinned. “Worse than that,” she said.
“I’m a witch!”

“Amira,” Dardan muttered.

The girls in the wagon shrieked and laughed,
and the oldest boy, barely of age, leaned over the side of the
wagon. “You look more like a farmer’s daughter,” he judged. “You
ever kill a man with that?”

Amira glanced down at her sword. She’d never
even drawn it, this blade she’d taken from a dead bandit. A flash
of blood appeared in her vision for a moment, the bandit collapsing
into a heap as she pushed—“No.” She glanced at Dardan. His jaw was
clenched tight. What was he so grumpy about? There was no reason to
shun contact with
everyone
. “I kill men with this,” she said
to the boy, and blew a kiss at him.

This drew more hoots and shouts from the
other children, and the boy blushed. Amira grinned and looked
directly at Dardan, whose cheeks were as red as the boy’s. Now her
betrothed stared straight ahead. Didn’t he know when he was being
teased?

“A whole family heading into town,” she
said, addressing the wagon again. “And finely dressed, I see.” They
were all in their best, starched linen dresses and bonnets for the
girls, vests and neckties and shiny boots on the boys.

“There’s a dance tonight in the square,”
said the oldest boy, who’d recovered from his embarrassment and
clearly relished the attention from a beautiful woman, dingy though
her clothes might be.

“Jimsy wants a kissy-kiss,” sang one of the
girls. The boy swatted at her but she ducked aside.

“Well,” Amira confided, “dances are indeed a
good place for kissing.” She eyed Dardan again. A dance
would
be a good place for kissing. It had been near on two
weeks since Foxhill Keep, and nothing but gloom and terror since.
She and Dardan could both use some entertainment.

The family’s father, driving the horses,
glanced back at her. “Quiet down, you lot,” he snapped at his
brood. “What business have you here, strangers?” he addressed
Amira.

She waved a hand airily. “Following fortune,
good sir. Tell me, is tonight’s dance open to one and all?”

“Any who can conduct themselves peacefully,”
he said, eyeing her weapons. “We don’t want troublemakers.”

“Then we shall be no trouble at all,” she
said, smiling, and dropped back toward Dardan.

“What are you doing?” he whispered
urgently.

“Having a chat. Is something wrong?”

“We should not be making ourselves noticed.”
His eyes cast around now, as if spies might be lurking in the grass
all around.

Amira sighed. “We cannot spend all our days
being grim and aloof. Not even at a time like this. In fact, I
believe it’s especially important that we keep our spirits up.
Doesn’t a dance sound like fun?”

“Fun? My lady—” He cut off, and glanced at
the wagon. “Amira. We must go directly to the count and speak with
him at once. There is no time for this.”

“On the contrary, the count will likely be
at this dance of theirs. What better place to approach him?”

Dardan shook his head. “I will not have
it.”

His refusal rankled Amira. “Well, I will,”
she said, and kicked her horse to a trot. Dardan did not race after
her as she’d hoped he might, but nonetheless she did not slow down
or turn back.

Tyndam’s square was of a size with
Hedenham’s, though it was unpaved, a border of packed dirt around a
well-tended field of grass. Amira steered clear of the magistrate’s
office on the near edge and rode for the inn on the other side.
Townsfolk were setting up long trestle tables on the grass, to bear
refreshments for the festivities.

She settled at a table in the common room of
the River’s Bounty and got a cup of wine. Dardan stepped inside
several minutes later, slapping the dust from his clothes. He
dumped himself into the chair opposite her and leaned in close.
“What in the black spirits is wrong with you? You’re doing nothing
but calling attention to us. We should have gone to find the
count’s manor directly, as I said.”

“I asked the innkeep. The count will indeed
be at the dance tonight.” Amira shoved her wine cup at him.
“Drink.”

Dardan stared down at it. “Why? Have you
poisoned it?”

“Would that be preferable?”

“The way you’re acting, yes,” he said, but
took a gulp, and another. A serving girl brought them more wine.
They sat for an hour, trading drinks and loosening up as the sun
went down and darkness settled outside. Dardan eventually ordered
dinner, and devoured two large steaks and a mound of mashed
potatoes. It dug into their silver, but she was in no mood to nag
him about their finances. Count Kirth would help them with funds,
or he wouldn’t, and a few coins would make no great difference in
their fortunes.

A rhythmic thumping came from without,
followed by shouts and cheering. Amira drained her fourth cup of
wine. She was quite tipsy now, but she’d always had a strong
stomach. Even most men she knew couldn’t hold their liquor half as
well. Amira pulled Dardan to his feet, planted a kiss on him, and
then ran outside into the evening, laughing at his startled
expression.

A hundred townsfolk or more were scattered
across the square, their hubbub filling her ears. A ragged group of
local musicians played at one edge of the grass, wielding harps
large and small, horns, drums, and a large bass viol. The music of
Tyndam County seemed to involve a great deal of pounding and
stomping; even the harps were used as percussion. It made for a
grand cacophony, and even the old and infirm, seated on benches at
the edge of the square, tapped their feet in rhythm.

Everyone else danced, or rested with cups of
ale in hand. Amira saw the boy from the wagon dancing in circles
with a brown-haired girl his own age. Two long lines formed across
the grass, couples facing each other in formal dance. Others
whirled around in exuberant pairs, hands held high. There was none
of the grandeur of the summer ball, but a great deal more
enthusiasm.

Amira doffed her mail shirt and piled it
with her kettle helm and sword near where she’d tied up her horse.
She dragged a protesting Dardan onto the grass, and they joined the
long lines, clapping hands and swinging past each other in time
with the music.

Torches on tall poles flickered over the
proceedings, casting a skein of shadows. Amira’s blood rose as the
music filled her ears and sweat trickled down her back. After
several minutes in the lines, she pulled Dardan away and they spun
each other about. She finally caught him grinning, his worries left
behind in a haze of drink and song.

After a half hour, Amira needed to catch her
breath. She skipped aside, taking a cup of ale from one of the
common tables. Dardan had been seized by a gray-haired matron who
twirled him around like a rag doll, making Amira laugh. She gazed
around the crowd, reveling in the simple pleasure of a country
dance.

Only a minor fistfight marred the
proceedings. Two middle-aged men, flushed and weaving drunk,
clashed together all of a sudden, throwing clumsy punches. They
were separated almost at once by a swarm of other men, who had the
look of kin to the two brawlers. There were some nasty looks and
sharp words cast, but soon enough the knots of men dissolved back
into the crowd and it was as if nothing had happened.

She noticed a more courtly cluster of men
standing to one side. They all wore finery and seemed to be
centered around a man who, in his aspect, resembled Count Asmus.
She wondered if this was Count Kirth. Made intrepid by drink, she
marched toward him, still clutching her half-empty cup.

“Count Barnard Kirth?” she called out as she
came near, taking care to enunciate clearly so as not to sound as
drunk as she felt.

He turned his head, and blinked at the
apparition who approached him: a sweaty, tipsy blonde girl wearing
a tunic, leather vest, and trousers. “And who might you be?”

“A weary traveler, grateful for your town’s
hospitality.” She bowed low and flung her arms wide, rather than
try a curtsey.

“Odd raiment, for a girl,” the count
remarked. The other men around him chuckled knowingly.

“Odd times, m’lord,” Amira replied. “A new
king, nobles warring…” She shook her head sadly, but gestured back
at the dance. “It is good to find such life and warmth in the
world, as we head toward winter.”

The count frowned. “Warring? What do you
speak of?”

“Ah,” Amira hesitated, raising her eyebrows.
“Perhaps… a moment alone, my lord?” She took a step away from the
crowd. There would be no true privacy out here, but the count
nodded after a moment and followed her, his
valo
trailing
behind.

The count looked at least fifty years of age
and was taller than Amira by a head. His dark blond hair had long
since been overtaken by gray, but he kept it trimmed close. His
beard had grown white at the chin, fading to pale blond along the
jaw. Amira thought he would have been a wide, strong man in his
youth, but the years had added quite a belly to him.

He came to a stop some distance away from
the other men, who Amira assumed were barons and wealthy merchants.
Amira could feel their eyes on her, and she forced herself to come
no closer than arm’s reach to the count. Hanging on the man would
be all too easy in her state. He might not be the kind to tolerate
such public affections from a strange woman.

“M’lord has no doubt had news of the king,”
she began. She had to stop herself from giggling.
Too much ale.
Was this a good idea?

Count Barnard nodded. “A week past,” he
said. “This celebration was meant to help raise spirits in the wake
of that terrible news.”

“And well done, may I say,” Amira agreed.
“Do you see that man over there?” She pointed out Dardan, who had
escaped from the matron’s clutches, and stood at the edge of the
grass, bouncing to the music. “That is Lord Dardan Tarian.”

Barnard jerked, and stared at Dardan.
“Indeed… He does resemble the boy, though it’s been a few years
since I last saw him. If that is indeed Lord Tarian, where is his
valo
? Or his father? And who in Chaos are you?”

“A victim of King Edon’s wrath,” she
whispered. “May we call upon you in the morning to discuss matters,
my lord? I fear a full recounting of events would not be prudent
here.” She managed caution on that point, at least. Little lights
swam in her vision. She was seized by a momentary madness to use
her ember.
No. It would be impolite to incinerate the
count.

Count Barnard exchanged an uneasy glance
with his
valo
, a man who seemed only half the count’s age.
After a moment, the count turned back to her. “Indeed. My manor is
at the eastern edge of town. Come in the morning.”