The Vildecaz Talents: The complete set of Vildecaz Stories including Nimuar's Loss, The Deceptive Oracle and Agnith's Promise (36 page)

By the time Rygnee returned with one of the inn’s footmen in tow, a sling of cut logs hanging from his shoulder, Erianthee had managed to dress herself and was brushing her dark-gold hair, making ready for Rygnee’s masterful touch. She had finished her pourri-flower tea and had removed the small cauldron from its hook over the fire.

Rygnee pointed to the fireplace. “There. Another log or two is needed.”

The footman nodded and went to put the sling down in the metal box next to the hearth. Then he poked at the embers, added a handful of bark-peelings to rekindle the flames, and finally put two logs on the grate, and stood while they began to char. As he turned to leave the room, Erianthee handed him three gaylings for his service; he snatched the coins and retreated with alacrity.

‘You’d think the coins were on fire,” said Erianthee as the door banged closed behind the footman.

“That’s because the servants are all scared to talk to you. Elet was boasting last night in the tavern about the important sorceress he is escorting.” Rygnee held out her upturned hands in an indication of disgust. “They’re all afraid of you, thanks to Elet and his need to puff himself up.”

“But I’m not a sorceress,” said Erianthee. “I have my talent – there’s no reason to deny it – but I’m not a sorceress.”

“I tried to tell them that, in the kitchen, but they wouldn’t believe me. They believe you’re being summoned to Court because of your talent.”

“Which I am,” said Erianthee. “But I doubt that’s what they mean.”

“You’re right. They think you are a prognosticatrix, and that you are going to reveal the identities of his enemies.”

“Oh, zlatz,” said Erianthee, realizing that her day of pleasant recovery had just taken a turn for the worse, and an echo of her nightmare made her fret. “I wonder why Elet had to speak up.”

“Call you a sorceress, you mean?” Rygnee ventured. “To seem more capable than he is. To make himself more important.”

“Those are certainly part of it,” said Erinanthee, her uneasiness increasing. “But there is more to it, I’m certain.”

“Don’t bother yourself trying to figure out what it might be. Men like Elet are so shallow, they are unfathomable.” Rygnee took up the little cauldron. “Why don’t I make you more of your pourri-flower infusion while we wait for your breakfast to arrive?”

Erianthee allowed herself to be persuaded. “I’d like that,” she said as she drew up one of the sling-chairs to the fire. As she settled into the seat, she blurted out, “I wish Kloveon were still with us.” Shocked at this forlorn admission, she started to apologize, only to have Rygnee cut her off.

“I know, Duzeon. I know.”

* * *

Sinj Umver called a halt half-way through their second day of travel. The steady drizzle that had been falling was turning to sleet and the sky was upholstered over with heavy clouds that threatened to drop a load of snow upon them once night took over the mountains. Cold had sunk its icy claws into them, and their animals had begun to have difficulty climbing the rocky trail. “Duzeon Ninianee,” he said, his voice muffled by the high fur collar of his quansaj. “There is a small trappers’ inn not three hours from here, at the Waniat Crossroad. We could be there before day’s end and could have stalls for our mounts and beds for our backs.” He rode the largest of his three, and led two pack-mules, and from the way he was sitting, his shoulder pulling the lead-ropes was becoming stiff.

“To say nothing of hot wine and a good stew,” Ninianee said with difficulty; she had wrapped a long, thick scarf of drugh-ox wool around her head and most of her face as protection from the weather.

“All those things. The inn also has a bath-house, if that would suit you.”

“It sounds wonderful.” Her lips felt stiff with cold, and she strained to be heard. “What’s the name of this place? How far does it take us off the road to the Golozath Oracle?”

“It’s called The Ioraj. We shouldn’t try to sleep in tents tonight, and our mounts need a stall in a barn. The Ioraj isn’t far off the road to the Golozath Oracle, perhaps staying there will add an hour to our travels when we move on.”

“Assuming we can travel at all.” She looked bleakly toward where she thought the horizon ought to be.

“These first storms at the end of autumn are always quick to end,” Umver reminded her. “We’ll have clear skies in a day or two.”

“If you think it advisable, then by all means, let’s go there,” she said, grateful that she wouldn’t have to spend this miserable night in a drafty tent, for no matter how much she might cast spells to keep the tent sealed and warm, the spells didn’t often last long in such worsening weather.

“Very well, then, we go to the Crossroad,” said Umver, and swung his three mules around to the west, letting Ninianee fall in behind him. He had lit a lantern and now opened both the front and back panels so that she could more readily follow him as the storm closed in.

The trail was well-marked but hard to follow in such weather. They kept on at a steady plod under the thickening clouds. They rode hunched against the wind, their heads lowered, their gloved hands close to their bodies to gain as much warmth from them as they could.

After what seemed most of a day, they reached a cross-road, and there stood The Ioraj, a cluster of buildings inside stout walls. A pair of lanterns illuminated the inn’s sign, now swaying in the wind, the stark light from the lanterns making the ioraj appear to be flying.

“Pull up, and wait here!” Umver shouted as he dismounted, moving slowly. He handed her his lead-ropes and reins, and trudged off toward a small declivity in the wall.

Ninianee was glad for the opportunity to rest. She studied the stockade, noticing that the gates were of a double thickness of logs and planks. The whole place gave off the faint glow of protective spells. Whatever was outside the inn, thought Ninianee, the landlord was prepared to fend it off. She remained in the saddle while Umver went to the alcove beside the gate and struck a gong. In a short while, he spoke to someone – Ninianee couldn’t make out the words over the wind – and came back to take the reins and lead-ropes. “They’ll open the gate for us.”

“You’re known here?” she asked.

“I am. I’ve trapped in these mountains off and on for fifteen years.” He patted the rump of her pony. “You’ll be safe here, Duzeon.”

“Thank you,” she responded automatically, unsure this was true. Many remote inns were said to be traps laid by robbers for the unwary.

“And you may rest without fear,” he added, squinting up at her as if aware of her reservations. “There are powerful spells on this place, and almost nothing can penetrate its barriers.”

Ninianee nodded, wondering, and not for the first time, how much he knew about her mission.

Two ostlers with lanterns came out of the open gate, taking the reins and lead-ropes from Umver and offering to help Ninianee out of the saddle.

“I’ll dismount once we’re inside,” she said, and clapped her heels to Jenshaz’s sides, then followed the others through the gate.

The Ioraj had a large courtyard, with a stable, a barn, a tavern, two hostelries, and a bath-house fanned out around it, each building opening onto the courtyard. Over the tavern was a weathered sculpture of its namesake – a winged feline with the head of a Gaz-owl – and near-by, two large water-troughs ran clear, and warm enough to have thin veils of steam over them. The landlord was standing outside the tavern, ready to welcome them, his face set into a permanent smile. The aroma of roasting meat and beer wafted around him, tantalizing, reminding Ninianee how hungry she ought to be, after so many long hours on the trail. She was still too cold to realize any other desire than the need for warmth.

  “Let me hold your pony while you dismount,” said Umver, coming to her side and extending his hand to her.

“Thank you,” she said again as she swung out of the saddle, disguising the stiffness in her back and legs as best she could.

“Welcome, Sinj Umver!” The landlord surged forward, his eyes shining with speculation as he looked Ninianee over, nodding to Umver. “So a woman has finally tamed you.”

“That day hasn’t come, Banorin, nor is this woman the one who would bind me. I am guiding her,” said Umver without emotion. “We will need private rooms – one for each of us – and a turn in the bath-house after we eat.” He called after the ostlers. “Stack the trunks and cases outside the stalls. We’ll ask for the ones we need after we have a welcome-cup.”

“I will take one case now,” said Ninianee, and hurried to catch the ostlers before she reached the stable. With hands that felt like paddles, she loosened the tarpaulin-tie and unbuckled the case containing the ivory gift-cup of Bandikrion, the Destinizer. “I have need of this.”

“As you wish,” said the nearer ostler, then tugged the animals out of the storm, leaving Ninianee to get herself as far as the tavern.

She held the case close to her and stepped carefully on the wet cobble-stones, leaning a little into the wind. As she reached the door, Umver opened it for her, and drew her into the low-ceilinged tap-room. She allowed him to move her toward a seat near the fire, where she unwound the long drugh-ox wool scarf and let the heat from the cavernous fireplace make her cold skin tingle. The sensation, uncomfortable at first, became quite pleasant in a little while, and she said, “If there is hot wine, I would love a cup of it.”

“No hot wine,” said Umver, “but there is eayon-brandy. It will warm you better than hot wine, especially if I put a heated poker in it.”

“Fine, fine,” she said, feeling fatigue fall over her like a damp cloak. She might have suspected a spell being cast, but knew it was the combination of cold, wet, and a hard ride.

“Then something to eat,” Umver went on as if he hadn’t noticed her exhaustion. “We’re famished.”

“I’m too tired to eat,” said Ninianee. “Just the brandy and a bed will do for me.” She made a motion to push away an imaginary plate of food.

But Umver would not listen to her. “We will be traveling again tomorrow, so you will want to make the most of this opportunity. You mightn’t be hungry now, but by tomorrow you will be.”

She nodded, not quite hearing him. “Bontaj,” she muttered, ashamed that she should be flagging when he clearly was not.

“You are worn out. So am I, but I am more used to it than you are, and I know what must be done,” said Umver, then called out, “Meat for us both, and your best bread. Cheese, if you have any, and baked lantern-fruit. Bring me two tankards of eayon-brandy, and permit me to heat the poker.”

“We have no more lantern-fruit, but I may have some preserves that will suit you.” The landlord bowed and toddled off toward the kitchen.

“Do you always conduct yourself so . . . so highhandedly?” Ninianee asked. “That man deserved better of you.”

“I can’t be bothered with useless conventions, not out here, particularly not at this time of year.” He dragged a small bench up and straddled it. “If I were to wait for proper form and manners, then I might well perish, and so might you. Banorin would agree, if you’d like to ask him. He isn’t offended. He knows those who travel the roads at the onset of winter are not ones to observe polite ceremony.”

“Would he say so if he were?” Ninianee tried not to yawn, then surrendered to the impulse.

“He would. He would also refuse to let me stop here,” said Umver.

“Then I will strive to be grateful for your uncouth conduct.”

He barked a single laugh. “Little as you think it, that day will come.”

She wanted to change this irritating subject. She rubbed her eyes. “When do we perform the Meal Rite for Visitors?”

“We don’t – it’s another useless form here. Banorin doesn’t expect it, and it would make him inclined to remember you, which isn’t advisable if you want your passage to go unmarked.”

“But – “

”Spill a little oil and a little salt if you want to make an offering, just don’t let anyone but me see you do it.” He glared at the fireplace. “Do nothing to show your rank, or your mission.”

“All right,” said Ninianee, and yawned.

“Be careful what you say here. Banorin has been known to sell information.”

“And you think someone might ask about me?”

Umver shrugged. “You have said you don’t want your mission known. The best way to accomplish that is to say nothing about it. Keep to your room tonight, and leave a pair of gaylings for the service you are given.”

She made the sign for secrecy as she said, “I have no doubt I will sleep well tonight.”

“Once you have eaten and had a bath, yes,” he told her, taking his tone from hers. “If you try to sleep now, your muscles will be tight and sore in the morning, and you will have to stop for the day well before sundown. That will slow our progress and risk riding through heavy snows. They’re coming.”

“Not that we can discern sundown in this weather,” she said.

“You know what I mean. You will not last through the day without food and sound rest.”

She bristled at this. “I do have experience of hunting and long rides.”

“Yes, Duzeon, you do, or I wouldn’t have agreed to guide you beyond Vildecaz.” He looked up to see the landlord bringing a basket of oat-cakes and a tub of butter. “Oh, very good.”

Banorin nodded as he put these down on the nearest table. “The tankards of eayon-brandy will be next. Go ahead and heat the poker.”