The Summoner (27 page)

She stood up, stretching, and set the items on the bed to one side, turning down the ample covers. “Well, at least we know we’re safe to sleep for tonight,” she said to Jae. She climbed into bed and the gyregon made himself comfortable on the chair next to her, wrapping his tail around himself with a contented hiss. “Enjoy it,” she said sleepily as she extinguished the candle.

“I don’t think we’ll sleep well until we’re home again.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

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Jonmarc Vahanian headed into the Boar’s Inn with caution. Inside, a motley clientele packed the greatroom. Toward the hearth, four merchants drank together over steaming trenchers heaped high with food. A small group of priests huddled near the wall, in quiet conversation over a bottle of wine. Three of the local baron’s guardsmen laughed raucously near the fire, uproarious over a joke and a large jug of ale.

Altogether unremarkable, he thought, scanning the crowd. Ploughmen and merchants drank together, while near the fire, a bard sang to a small audience. Vakkis was nowhere to be seen.

Vahanian ordered his food and a Cartelasian brandy to wash it down. He caught himself tapping his foot, and frowned. Long ago, he’d learned to listen to himself, to the instincts that kept him alive. He was nervous as a cat tonight, without good reason.

Arrestingly blue eyes locked with his. He froze. The blond man had not been there when he first scanned the room. The man was about Vahanian’s own age, with an aristocratic mien and hair the color of flax. He was thin, with a pallor that suggested he did not work in the sun. He regarded Vahanian with a mixture of curiosity and jadedness that sent a chill down the mercenary’s back.

“Here’s your brandy,” the barkeeper said, setting down Vahanian’s order with a thump. “Five skrivven if you please,” he said, pushing a trencher of steaming food next to the heavy glass tumbler. Vahanian dug for his coins and paid the innkeeper, then turned to find a table.

The flaxen‐haired man was gone.

Vahanian found a seat with his back to a wall, perfectly positioned to watch the inn’s clientele, nodding at the table’s other occupants as he squeezed into an open space. He looked back to where the blond man stood just an instant before, to assure himself that the man was indeed gone. Vahanian’s misgivings increased as he sipped his brandy. He should have seen the man pass on his way out. Vahanian was facing the stairs to the rooms above, so if the man had simply retired for the evening, Vahanian should have seen him leave by that way, too. The door to the kitchen was behind the bar, and the inn’s large windows were shut against the chill night air. The 225

man should still be in the tavern. But he was not.

Forcing his mind away from the flaxen‐haired stranger, Vahanian surveyed the room once more.

He had purposely chosen a table near the thick of the action, where he could hear as well as see.

Three burly guardsmen in nondescript livery finished up their ale at a table near the fire. The red‐haired one looked familiar, but Vahanian could not place him. Over the years there had been too many run‐ins with too many guards in too many places. By rights, he thought as he sipped his brandy, half the guardsmen in the Winter Kingdoms should look familiar.

He let his attention move from one overheard conversation to the next. The priests at the nearby table were from Nargi, but no arcane religious matters concerned them. The disappearance of a young noblewoman, possibly waylaid by slavers, consumed their conversation, morbid speculation mixing with what appeared to be genuine concern for the young woman’s welfare.

Not much chance for that, Vahanian thought as he tore off a piece of the warm bread. He had encountered slavers once before, enough to last him for a lifetime. They preferred less traveled byways through disputed territories, where neither king nor noble was likely to bring arms against them. Some mountain passes were nearly unusable because of them, for any but a large armed party.

If slavers were on the prowl again, perhaps a warning to Linton might be in order, Vahanian thought, letting the brandy burn its way down his throat. Across the room, the woeful strains of the bards’ songs reached him, a mournful tune about a young woman whose love for an Immortal doomed them both. It was an old tune, with as many variations as there were taverns, and when the guardsmen’s laughter drowned out the last chorus, Vahanian found he could fill in the last verse from memory.

“Gettin’ so that it’s not safe no more, trav‐elin’,” his companion to the right commented. “First the bandit gangs, as if common highwaymen weren’t bad enough,” his tablemate lamented.

“Not like the wolves or the weather warn’t enough of a problem. But now, it’s worth your life to journey north. If the magicked things don’t get you, slavers will.”

“Maybe the magicked things will get the slavers and save us the bother,” Vahanian replied.

His tablemate grunted. “Huh. You’d think so, but there’s enough profit to be made, I hear as 226

soon as one slaver disappears there are four more to take his place.” He leaned over conspiratorial‐ly. “Though I did hear that there were remains found, up on the Joursay Pass, that curdled even slavers’ blood,” he added in a rum‐soaked wheeze. “Naught but pieces of beasts, like they’d torn themselves to bits battling over what was left of some poor Goddess-forsaken group of travelers. Heard tell that the beasts warn’t nothing ever seen by nobody round here before, since the Great Wars. Magicked things, bless the Mother and Childe, straight out of the Tales.”

“Bound to be bad for business,” Vahanian remarked, half‐listening as he surveyed the room once more. It was unusually full for early in the

evening. Perhaps the rumors were getting credence. If travelers truly feared both slaving gangs and magic monsters, it would be no surprise if they had sought refuge early. Then again, he thought, perhaps both rumors were instigated by tavern owners to boost their business. He did something similar himself, years ago, in his river days. Started the story that one of the tributaries was infested with poisoned eels, and made sure that some dead ones washed up near there. By the time the scare had calmed down, Vahanian had managed to steal most of the business from his upstream rivals, based, not coincidentally, on the ill‐fated tributary. Of course, disclosure had resulted in hasty relocation, but such were the realities of business.

“You’re right, it’s too big a problem for any one man to worry hisself about,” Vahanian’s tablemate continued, undeterred by the lack of enthusiastic response. “Looks like old Vakkis has bitten off more than his share this time, I’d say.”

Vahanian’s attention snapped back to the present. “Why do you say that?” he asked casually, glancing down at his food to mask his acute interest. He could feel his heart beginning to pound.

“Why, he’s sold his services to King Jared, down in Margolan, to rid the border of slavers and bring back the mage that made the monsters,” the tradesman replied, in a tone that told Vahanian that it was no longer fresh news. “Says ‘twas the same wizard as killed King Bricen, Goddess rest his soul, and that like as not, kidnapped that noble lady for some awful dark sacrifice.” He shook his head, mopping up the last of the juices with his bread. “There’s one that’s dead for sure, that’s a fact,” he said ruefully, stuffing the bread into his wide mouth.

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“More’s the pity, since the King of Principality offered a mighty fine sum for her return.”

Just like Vakkis, Vahanian thought, feeling his fists clench under the table. He did not doubt that the bounty hunter was using the rumors of trouble in the north to hide his true quest to hunt down Tris. By linking Tris to the dark magic and the young noblewoman’s disappearance, Vakkis made it impossible for Vahanian and the others to count on aid from noble houses along the way. Dark Lady take his soul! Vahanian swore under his breath. Now they would have to be doubly careful. Whatever they were going to pay me, I want double, whether or not they bring down Arontala, he thought, finishing off his dinner. Not for the first time, he reconsidered his decision to guide the party to Dhasson.

“He’s got a king this time, Jonmarc, not just a general like at Chauvrenne,” Harrtuck had said, and Vahanian closed his eyes. A decade’s passing did little to cloud the memory of those horrors, or the knowledge of just how terribly a dark mage could twist a man of power and what evil could come of it. It didn’t take much to hear the screams of the villagers in his mind, recall their fear. The tavern smells of wood smoke and roasting meat were close enough to the smell of burning shacks and searing flesh that he fought

an urge to be sick. He forced the memories back, sure tonight’s sleep would not be dreamless.

The memories, and the chance to even the score with Arontala, were too powerful to walk away from, even now, even though he’d given up on hopeless causes long ago, at Chauvrenne.

Not yet ready to leave behind the light and warmth of the tavern, Vahanian lingered for a candlemark longer, listening to similar tales and watching the odd assortment of travelers.

Finally, he stood. “Good travels to you,” Vahanian said to his table companions. He had what he’d come for. Now to ride for the caravan and plan their northbound strategy—and press his employers even more about Arontala and his hold over Jared Drayke.

The three guardsmen emptied their jug of ale and made their way clumsily to the front as Vahanian stood. They pushed their way among the tables as they wended toward the doorway, jostling Vahanian hard as he got to his feet. So hard, that Vahanian took a second look at the red‐haired guardsman who pushed him as the loud group passed. Vahanian frowned. Something prickled again in the back of his mind. In his line of work, guardsmen were a necessary part of 228

doing business, whether that involved bribing them or eluding them. Still, for caution’s sake, Vahanian settled back into his chair on the pretense of ordering one last ale and waited for half a candlemark to let the guardsmen be on their way before venturing out of the tavern.

The alleyway in front of the inn was quiet when Vahanian finally left the building. He checked the narrow lane with a practiced eye. A beggar leaned on his staff at one end, picking at rags in a heap. In a shadowed doorway on the right, Vahanian could hear the sounds of a strumpet’s tryst. Along the street, the darkened stalls of the produce merchants waited for the morning market, with nets of plaster fruit strung above each empty stall and stacks of flat wheeled carts behind, awaiting the next morning’s cargo. Cautiously, he ventured down the stairs. His horse stood tethered just beyond the alley’s entrance. Vahanian’s hand fell to the hilt of the knife in his belt. Something was wrong, an inner sense told him. The sooner he reached his horse and headed for the caravan, the better.

The darkened doorways remained silent as he passed them. Ahead, the beggar shuffled and sang quietly to himself. With the main street only a few paces away, Vahanian began to chide himself. You’re losing your touch. Must be what starts to happen when you go into the guide business instead of real work.

The only warning Vahanian had was the whistle of the beggar’s staff as it swung full force for his shoulder blades. The rod connected hard, driving him to his knees, and behind him, Vahanian could hear the beggar laughing. As Vahanian scrambled to his feet, knife* already in hand, two of the guardsmen from the inn appeared at the entrance to the alley, closing the exit. Vahanian wheeled to find the “beggar”

peeling off the filthy rags to reveal the red‐haired guardsman from the tavern, leering drunkenly as he let the heavy staff bounce in his hands.

“Look, I’ve got no quarrel with you,” Vahanian gasped as he struggled to catch his breath. “Let me pass and we’ll just say that none of this ever happened.”

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The red‐haired guardsman shook his head. “I told you he wouldn’t even remember,” the drunken guard shouted to his friends. His eyes narrowed. “But I remember.”

The two guardsmen were slowly advancing, forcing Vahanian to back down the alley. Vahanian glanced past them at his waiting mount. An easy sprint, if he could get an opening. His horse was lightly tethered, important in a business that often required a quick exit.

“Whatever it is, you’ve got the wrong man,” Vahanian stalled, letting the two guardsmen step just a little closer. He dropped to a crouch and wheeled, his left leg arching high as he executed a near‐perfect Eastmark kick. Mid‐arch, he gasped as pain radiated down his bracing leg and it collapsed under him. He grasped at the knife buried hilt‐deep in his thigh.

“None of your tricks this time, Vahanian,” the red‐haired guardsman grated as Vahanian fought to stand. “I’ll have back the money you cheated me, or take my satisfaction out on your useless hide.”

Vahanian managed to get to his feet, although it was impossible to use his right leg for more than balance. “Look, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he gasped. There were too many

“dissatisfied customers” over the years, too many places and too many deals.

“Let me help your memory,” the red‐haired man said. “A card game in Jalwar five years ago.”

“Rubies,” Vahanian replied, his throat dry. “I paid you in rubies.”

The guardsman swung his staff once more, cracking across Vahanian’s ribs. “Glass,” he hissed as Vahanian gasped for air and staggered backward. “You gave me worthless glass. When I used your ‘rubies’ to pay my debts, the stinking tax collector arrested me for cheating him.” The drunken guard’s face hardened. “I worked off that debt in his fields, in his whore‐spawned fields, because of you.”

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“Look, whatever you want, I’m sure we can work something out,” Vahanian stalled. Running was out of the question, even if he could get past the guardsman’s two friends. He doubted he could make it back to the inn. Shouting for help would elicit no response from the inn’s patrons, who were too familiar with the nightly brawls to pay heed.

The guardsmen were trying to back him into one of the vendor’s stalls, where they could exact their payment undisturbed. As Vahanian backed toward the melon vendor’s table, he caught sight of the pendulous net of plaster fruit hanging overhead. If only, he thought, slowing his retreat to let his attackers get a little closer.