The White Mists of Power (19 page)

The white cat climbed on Seymour’s lap and started purring. It was heavier than it looked. He placed his palm on its back and it licked his arm. He pulled away. The contentment he had felt a moment ago was gone. “Who are you?”

“Vonda of Kerry.”

“The king’s magician?”

She shook her head. Light caught silvery strands of hair woven into her braid. “That’s not a position I want. He’s gone through fifteen magicians in thirty years.”

Seymour’s fingers found a sensitive spot under the cat’s chin. Its purring grew louder. His father’s banishment had to have occurred before Seymour was born. The king went through the magicians after his father had left. “Did you ever hear of Dysik the Great?”

She tapped a finger against her lips. Her hands were small and square, like the hands of a child. “He was before my time. But I’ve been told that no one could compare with him.”

“By whom?”

She laughed. “You ask so many questions! And I came over to find out about you.”

“There’s nothing to know.” The cat rubbed its head against Seymour’s hand. He rubbed back gently. He wanted to go back to sleep. Any questions about him would eventually lead to a discussion of his ineptness, and he wanted to avoid that.

“Nothing? You’re traveling with the bard, aren’t you? The new one?”

Seymour sighed. So she actually was interested in Byron. As were all the other women who approached Seymour. A few minutes into every conversation, the women would ask if they could meet Byron. “I arrived with a bard, yes.”

“And you’re a magician. Are you on a mission?”

“No.” Seymour scanned the courtyard. The dogs had finished fighting over the bone and rested against the door once again. Sunlight streamed along the cobblestones and accented the shadows against the walls. The courtyard was empty. He and Vonda were alone.

She tilted her head slightly, giving her face a quizzical expression. “Then you follow the bard?”

“I don’t follow anyone. And I can’t see that it’s your business.” His sharp tone startled the cat. It jumped off his lap and ran across the courtyard. He closed his eyes and waited for Vonda to leave.

“Oh, I see.” Her robes rustled, then he felt her body heat his arm as she leaned against the wall. “It’s a secret mission.”

He glanced at her, unable to tell if she was joking. “I saved his life and we’re traveling together, all right? Do you have more questions, or can I sleep?”

“Rumors. The son of Dysik the Great traveling with one of the bard guild’s most talented and secretive members.” Her voice lilted with amusement. “You don’t hide your feelings very well, friend Seymour.”

He brought his knees up to his chest and rested his chin on them. The guard was not supposed to have said anything. Now the entire palace was probably talking.

Vonda squeezed his arm. “Don’t worry,” she said. “Your secret is safe with me.”

“Apparently it’s not a secret,” he said. “And even if it was, how could I trust you? I don’t even know who you are.”

“I’m part of Lady Kerry’s entertainment troupe. We were going to leave several days ago, but the isolation proclamation trapped us here.”

Seymour glanced at her. He had never heard of the proclamation before. “We did have some trouble getting past the guard at the gate.”

A troupe of jugglers set up in the far end of the courtyard. They tossed balls that flashed red in the sun. “Didn’t your father train you?” Vonda asked.

The sound of the inn explosion rang through his ears, overlaid with his mother’s voice yelling at him to iceheal. “It didn’t go very well.”

“Why don’t you let me try?”

One of the jugglers dropped a ball. It bounced and rolled toward the side of the building, the juggler chasing, his skin flushed with embarrassment. Seymour understood the feeling. “I’m thirty-five years old, Vonda, and by anybody’s standards, I should be at least fifth class. My last employer thought death was the only way to cure my ineptness.”

“And what about your bard friend?”

“He doesn’t say anything.” Byron hadn’t even mentioned that horrible explosion in Coventon, although Afeno had said that Byron asked the Enos to heal Seymour. Sometimes Seymour thought it would be easier if they did talk.

“Let me know when you want to start training,” she said. He heard her skirts rustle as she stood to leave. He didn’t move. Eventually her footsteps rang over the cobblestones as she left the courtyard.

ii

Milord:

They have entered royal lands. I will wait until an opportune moment and then strike. The Lady Kerry is here with her entertainers and spies. I trust that she too will attempt to kill the bard, but I will be there first. No one uses magic to embarrass Corvo.

I plan to move slowly. I don’t know who the bard’s powerful magician is, and until I discover that, I will be very cautious. Be assured, my lord, that he will die before the appointed time.

The king, as you know, is in mourning. I have several weeks to work. I will wait one week before putting any plan into action. I hope to hear from you by then.

Corvo

iii

The night was dark and chill. Torches hanging from the walls of the courtyard in the entertainers’ quarters only ate at part of the darkness. The rest slipped in shadows across the stone walls, down the stone floors, and into the corners. Seymour leaned against a pile of coats that had been thrown by the wall. He sipped on a tankard of ale and watched the musicians tune their instruments.

The musicians–a horn player, a lute player, a drummer, a fiddler, and a piper–stood at the opposite end of the courtyard from Seymour. They leaned together, planned tunes, and stopped often to tune their instruments. Byron usually played on these nights, sometimes alone, sometimes with the group. This time he had given his lute to Colin, who stood beneath a nearby torch, clutching the lute for dear life.

The music started again, mournful and slow, taking a moment to find its rhythm. The dancers gathered in the middle of the courtyard, the place of the most light and the most shadows. Seymour squinted. He saw Byron, wearing his customary black, holding the hand of a young woman from another troupe. As the music’s pace grew, the dancers swung into movement. The women’s feet were bare. Their skirts rose above their ankles as they twirled. Seymour could see flashes of thigh in the half-light, and he wondered why he just watched. He should have been out there too, dancing with a woman that he would take to his bed.

The piper began a lilting melody that rose above the rest of the instruments. The dancers whirled to its sound. Patterns formed and disappeared, the steps grew more frenzied and intricate, the music louder and louder. People behind him began clapping, as if the music controlled their hands.

Then the dancers broke apart and joined their audience in clapping to the rhythm. Byron and his partner remained in the middle. He caught her in his arms and twirled her, her skirt rising, displaying her feet and legs to the crowd. Her laughter mingled with the pipes. The music slowed, and they separated, gripping each other’s waists as the piper began again. Around they spun, kicking and laughing as they went. The clapping grew louder, the dance grew wilder, until Byron and his partner became a blur of colorful clothes and flesh flying around the cobblestones.

The music rose in pitch, swelled, and stopped. The couple didn’t expect the ending. They tried to stop spinning, lost their balance, and fell together against the stones. Byron emerged from the tangle of skirts, then helped the woman up. The musicians started another rollicking number, and she tried to drag him into a dance, but he shook his head and let go of her arm. He grabbed a tankard of ale from Afeno and drank deeply, then handed the tankard back, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and walked toward Seymour, ignoring the women who tugged his arm.

Byron smiled, shook the water out of his hair, and leaned against the coats. “In my profession you have to be.” He took a deep breath and let it out. “I’ll be so glad when this waiting is over.”

Seymour glanced at him. The torchlight caressed Byron’s face, making him look younger. He had never mentioned the long wait before. “We might be here for a few more weeks.”

Byron didn’t move, but Seymour sensed tension rippling through him. “Where did you hear that?”

“That’s the gossip.” Seymour grabbed a coat sleeve and draped it across his arm. He was getting goose bumps. “They say the king is in mourning. His son died.”

“His son?” Byron sat up. He put a hand on Seymour’s leg. Byron’s palm was damp and too warm. “What happened?”

Seymour shook his head. “I don’t know. The woman who told me wasn’t too sure. She said that’s why we’re doing all of this waiting.”

The music grew louder as another fiddler and piper from a different troupe joined in. Nearly everyone was dancing now, clapping, laughing, and shouting. A few of the king’s retainers, who always watched the evening entertainment from a distance, allowed women to drag them into the dance.

“No one else seems to be mourning,” Byron said.

Seymour picked up his tankard. The ale was lukewarm and tasted sour. “It’s only a rumor.”

Byron stared at the musicians, all from different troupes, playing together. “In a few days we’ll all be fighting for a place at the king’s table,” he said. His voice sounded hollow. “You’ve worked up something, haven’t you?”

Seymour felt panic rise. The change of subject startled him. “I have something,” he lied. Maybe he would ask Vonda for help. He had been practicing all of the spells he knew, but they seemed even more hopeless than before. Simple spells that he had been able to perform in the past seemed even more difficult to him. He blamed the explosion. He kept hearing it every time he chanted his luck web.

A man stepped under the torchlight behind the musicians. He wore deep red robes that grabbed the firelight and made it seem brighter. He was bald and his lack of hair made his face seem both old and young at the same time. When he moved his hand, rings glittered.

Seymour finished his ale. He set the tankard aside and stared at the bald man. His presence marked something different. He was not a member of the entertainment troupe, nor was he a magician. He looked almost like gentry, although Seymour had never seen the deep red colors before. The man walked through the clappers at the edge of the crowd. When he reached the inner circle, the retainers stopped dancing. Other dancers, sensing something wrong, stopped too. The musicians brought their instruments down one by one, until a single pipe held and then faded.

Byron leaned forward. “What is going on?”

Seymour pointed at the bald man. “That man stopped this.”

“Lord Boton.” Byron burrowed back into the coats, trying to make himself small. “Maybe there is something to your rumor after all, Seymour.”

The lord was speaking to the retainers. Seymour could hear the deep bass of the lord’s voice, but not his words. As he spoke, he moved his hands, and his rings caught the light, sending flashes of glare into the crowd. When he finished speaking, the retainers nodded, then spoke to members of the crowd. One young retainer, his face flushed, leaned over as he passed Byron and Seymour.