The Vildecaz Talents: The complete set of Vildecaz Stories including Nimuar's Loss, The Deceptive Oracle and Agnith's Promise (37 page)

“That I will,” said Umver, getting up and taking the stoutest poker from its rack beside the hearth. He thrust it into the heart of the fire, and came back to Ninianee. “You’re plucky enough for a noble, I’ll say that, and more self-sufficient than most. But you’re also used to having help around you, and that can be dangerous out here in the middle of the mountains.”

“I know that,” she said forcefully.

“I have no doubt that you do,” said Umver. “But knowing a thing and experiencing it are not the same, are they?”

“No, but knowledge makes the experience less dangerous, wouldn’t you agree?” She was beginning to feel a bit better. Her hands no longer tingled and ached, and her face seemed less fixed. Emboldened, she asked, “Why does it gall you so much to admit that I am not wholly unprepared for this journey?”

“It doesn’t gall me, it worries me. You might assume you are more prepared than you are, and that could lead to difficulties. You have courage, but that’s not always useful, not out here. I am charged with keeping you from harm, even it is harm you seek.” Umver rubbed at his short beard, almost white against the leathery tan of his skin. “If you weren’t able to deal with any of the trials of this trek, I could easily insist that we turn back, but you won’t allow that. If I said I’m turning back, you would continue on without me, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes,” she said bluntly.

“That is what bothers me. You’re almost capable of managing on your own, were the weather less harsh. That gives you the kind of courage that can easily become recklessness. And recklessness can lead to calamity.” Without giving her a chance to answer, he stood up to take the tankards from Banorin. Setting them on the table, he swung around, took the padded glove from the hook next to the poker, seized the poker that was now glowing red, and sank it, hissing and spitting, into the nearest tankard. “That one’s yours, Duzeon,” he said, and saw the shocked look in Banorin’s small, bright eyes. He shoved the poker back into the fire. “Drink it while it’s steaming.”

She grabbed the handle of the tankard and brought the vessel to her lips, inhaling the fragrant, intoxicating steam. “Thank you.”

He paid little attention to her as he went about preparing his own tankard. By the time he quenched the glowing poker in the tankard of brandy, she had taken her first few sips. “You’ll want some food with that, or your head will ring like a gong when you waken.”

“I suppose so,” she said, and looked at the oat-cakes. Putting the tankard aside, she selected one of the oat-cakes and the paddle in the tub of butter. She used this to rub a swath of butter on the oat-cake, then bit into it, thinking that few things had ever tasted as good as this simple fare.

“The meat will be out shortly,” said Umver. “Be ready for it.”

“I will.” She ate some more, then drank another swig of brandy. She could feel her thoughts come alive as the brandy-fumes sank deeply into her, ending the last of the cold that had impaled her on its gelid tines.

The landlord reappeared with a tray of three kinds of sliced meats laid out in neat fans and two large jars of condiments, one spicy, one savory. He set this down between them and took knives and forks from the pocket of his apron. “If you are still hungry when this is finished, I can bring more. The cheese will be brought in a bit, and preserved machei-fruit.”

“Oh, good,” said Ninianee. “I like machei-fruit.”

The landlord bowed and made an awkward respect. “It is my pleasure to serve it to you.”

Umver shook his head as he drank his brandy. “I’ll want another one of these,” he said, tapping the side of the tankard.

“Certainly,” said the landlord, and hurried from the taproom toward the kitchen once again.

“Is the inn without other guests?” Ninianee asked as she looked around the taproom.

“Probably,” said Umver. “They have few visitors at this time of year. There may be one or two travelers in the dormitories, but they will keep to their bunks and the fireplaces in the dormitories. You notice there are no bar-maids or bar-lads serving here, and only the ostlers and cooks are working. In the summer, there are four of each in the taproom, and five cooks in the kitchen.” He drank more from his tankard, then pronged a slice of meat from the platter and began to chew on it. “Not that this smaller staff is unusual in the late autumn. Winter is even more austere at this inn.”

“Because no one is on the roads, or almost no one.”

“That is the right of it.”

Ninianee realized that no trenchers, let alone plates, would be provided, so she did as he had, and stuck her fork into a wedge of meat, lifting it up and taking a bite from it. “What if I want the condiments?”

“Remove a little from the container with your knife and spread it over the meat before you eat. That’s the custom in this region.”

She nodded and did as he instructed. In a short while she was able to do this quite handily. As she ate, her appetite increased so that by the time the landlord brought the cheese, she wished she had more capacity so that she could consume much more.

“The bath-house is almost ready,” the landlord announced. “The woman should go first. I will have my daughter accompany her. She’s almost through with her duties in the kitchen.”

“Thank you,” said Ninianee, and had the uneasy suspicion that this man was not often thanked for his service, so she took two gaylings from her wallet and laid them on the table.

This time the landlord made a profound respect as he picked up the coins. “Too gracious,” he murmured, and withdrew to the kitchen.

“He’ll expect more gratuities, you know,” said Umver, scraping off a curl of the nutty-tasting cheese they had been brought.

“If he continues to do well by us, he shall have them, and welcome.”

“You don’t comprehend the people of the Cazboarth Range, do you?”

“Of course I do,” she snapped. “This region is my region, you will remember, and I have traveled through much of it.”

“No, Vildecaz is your region – the Cazboarth Range is a great deal more than a single Duzky.”

Ninianee felt her indignation rising. “You may be right, but you assume that I know nothing about what lies beyond Vildecaz’s borders, and that is certainly not the case.” She was shocked at how readily she succumbed to the urge to chastise him, but she had no desire to stop herself, not now. “I have spoken with travelers from all over the north of Theninzalk, as well as those from the Drowned World, and have profited by what they’ve told me. No matter what you assume, I am not an ignorant and arrogant fool, with no notion of what we face. Had you listened to anything I said yesterday, you would know better.”

“Good enough,” said Umver, unimpressed by her outburst. “You’ve made your point. I won’t assume you’re ignorant, just inexperienced, and inclined to think you are more prepared than you are.”

This was enough of a slight to make Ninianee want to box his ears, but she refused to be provoked. “I am not unprepared, Umver. You may want to think me incapable of – “

The landlord came in from the kitchen once more, made a respect and said, “My daughter is ready to take you to the bath-house. Follow her and you will have privacy.”

Ninianee recovered herself as well as she could. “I thank you,” she said, and got to her feet, looking back at Umver. “I will return before long, and I will want to go directly to my room.”

“Then you shall,” said the landlord before Umver could speak. “I’ll tell my daughter – her name is Heignith, a name of good omen – to attend to that when you’re through, and guide you to the chamber you are assigned. Then you, Umver, and I, will take our turn in the bath-house.”

“I appreciate your service and attention,” said Ninianee, and put her fork and knife next to her empty tankard, then rose and prepared to find her way to the bath-house.

“You’ll want your – “ Umver began.

“ – quansaj. I know,” she said as she took the garment from the rack near the fireplace.

Umver made a minor respect, and watched as she hastened out of the taproom, her quansaj flung around her shoulders. Only when she was out of the room did he say, “I ought to go supervise the moving of our chests. Which rooms will you assign to us?”

“The ones with the blue door and the orange door,” said Banorin. “You know where the keys are.”

“And I know which spells will serve to lock them securely,” said Umver, giving the landlord a direct stare. “In the morning, everything will be as it was when we retire tonight.”

“Of course it will,” said Banorin, sniffing to show his opinion. “We’re not like The Nard-Martin.”

“I wouldn’t take a woman like the one I’m guiding to The Nard-Martin, as you must know. Even if we had time enough to travel there.” He folded his arms. “But I won’t tolerate any mischief from you or your staff.”

“Never,” said Banorin.

Umver retrieved his barlo-cloak from the rack, and pulled it on, although it was damp enough to be unpleasant to wear. “I won’t be long. As soon as our chests are moved, I’ll be ready to bathe.”

“Yes, Umver,” said the landlord, shaking his head as he watched Umver stride out of the door. He began to gather up the remnants of the meal when a new figure appeared in the door. “You are welcome to The Ioraj,” he said without much emotion as he took stock of the pale-eyed man in the engulfing quansaj and broad-brimmed, low-pulled down on his brow.

“Thank you, landlord.”

The stillness of the newcomer struck Banorin as disturbing. He went on leerily,

“What do you want?”

The stranger respected him. “I seek a room for the night, a private one, very private, so that no one need know I am here. I will pay extra for that privacy. And the same for my animals. I will use back entrances if you have them, for my room and their stalls.” He smiled at Banorin even as he reached under his cloak for his wallet.

“A private room, servants’ entrances. There are only two other guests here.” He couldn’t keep the speculation out of his voice.

“Necessary precautions, I assure you,” said the stranger, handing over four golden damzejes. “This should cover any inconvenience my requests may cause you.”

“You are alone?”

“But for my animals, I am,” he answered.

The stranger no longer seemed sinister. “Then it will be my privilege to serve you, – ?“ Banorin left the new guest’s name hanging as he made his respect.

“Moncaz Guimar,” said Doms Guyon.

The road was wider and in better repair now, and the towns were larger and closer together, so that in spite of the rain, travel was fairly quick and most nights were spent at inns between sheets. Even the winds had abated, benefitting from the range of the spells of the weather-witches in Tiumboj, who held all but the strongest tempests at bay throughout Porcaz.

“We are making good time,” said Erianthee as she sat down for the evening meal after the Meal Rite for Visitors.

“Tiumboj by noon day after tomorrow, assuming we travel at a reasonable pace. No need to hurry now, but we can’t dawdle, either,” Hajmindor Elet informed Erianthee as they looked over their sumptuous meal provided by the superior cooks at The Firnij, a large, handsome inn across from the Magistrates’ Court in the center of Gremilvee. The dining room was attractively appointed with a large number of tables, each accommodating six diners, made of polished wood in the style of Riast’s Court, and set with spoons and forks of Fahnine design. On the walls there were three fireplaces, each with a side of game turning on spits over the crackling flames, and manned by two scullions and a minor cook to serve the meat.

“Venison, pork, and lamb,” the Cook-Major announced from the doorway to the kitchen, very grand in a hupslan of heavy light-brown Fahnine-cotton and embroidered with the symbols of his art. He, himself, was a large man after the nature of his skill, and he spoke sonorously, as if every word had a taste as well as a sound to convey. “There are condiments in the rolling tray, and new bread just out of the oven. There are thimble-cabbages in milk, three kinds of fruit, a fish stew, and eight kinds of cheese. If you want something sweet, we have candied-flower buns with honey, merry-twists, and spiced berry wines. Whatever pleases the Duzeon, we will do our utmost to supply.”

“Thank you,” said Erianthee, her brown eyes shining as she looked at the spits. “Very fine fare.” She herself had honored the occasion by donning her banquet gaunel, a glorious, high-waisted garment of lavender tongue-satin that seemed as active as the flames. Her guin was of Mozh-cloth, and her honey-colored hair was dressed in an elaborate knot topped with a mesh of gold thread.

“Most gracious,” said the Cook-Major.

“Just make sure the portions are large and the wine and beer don’t run out,” said Elet loudly, and was seconded by his men thumping the tops of their tables with their fists. Elet had made no concessions to the occasion aside from putting on a doga of don-colored drugh-ox wool and putting his best dagger in his belt-scabbard.

“I will order my staff to look to your needs,” said the Cook-Major, and respected the guests grandly before returning to his kitchen to supervise the meal.

“This is a most delightful place,” said Okeij ae-Dysin loudly, toasting Elet. “The best we’ve stayed in since we set out.”