The White Mists of Power (9 page)

The kid hit Afeno’s ear, and the shooting ache made Afeno roll over. He kneed the boy in the groin and the kid fell over. He heard applause. Afeno glanced up. A group of street fighters and retainers had gathered around them. Coins glinted. They were betting on the fight.

The betting made Afeno even angrier. He hugged the sausage and started to run, but the kid tackled him. Afeno rolled until he faced the kid, then he kicked and bit. The kid pummeled Afeno. Tears were running down the kid’s face, leaving tracks in the dirt.

Afeno pushed the kid off with his feet, and ignored the cheering. He gripped the sausage like a sword and as the kid stood up, took a swing. The kid ducked.

Suddenly someone grabbed Afeno by he scruff of the neck. His feet dangled above the ground. He clung to the sausage, wondering if he dared drop it and fight his way free. Damn those fighters. They were in the way.

The kid was still within reach. Afeno kicked him. The person holding Afeno’s neck shook him. “Stop it. Stop it now.”

The man’s voice was soft and deep. He didn’t yell, but his tone seemed menacing. Another man came from behind and held the kid’s shoulders.

“Hey! You got no business here!” one of the fighters yelled. The man was brawny, with arms the size of the sausage. Afeno turned his head from side to side, trying to see his captor.

“Let go of the sausage,” said the man holding Afeno. Afeno held on tighter.

“Let go,” the man said, “or I’ll free it myself.” His grip tightened. The collar of Afeno’s ripped shirt dug into his neck. He dropped the sausage. His stomach growled and he felt even more discouraged than he had before. The sausage thumped at the kid’s feet.

“You have no right!” the fighter yelled.

“When you address me, you say ‘sir.’” The man lowered Afeno to the ground, but kept a firm grip on his shoulder. Afeno turned and saw his captor for the first time. He wore a black cape and pants made from a rich material. Lace decorated his wrists and his collar. But his face was covered with scratches and his skin was too pale. Deep circled ran under his eyes.

“I don’t call anybody sir, especially not a lordling in lace and velvet,” said the fighter. The man was big, with thick forearms and a tattoo on his hand. The other fighters closed around him. Afeno wriggled, trying to get free. The sausage wasn’t worth being in the middle of this kind of fight. Magic had told him that no one would win with one of these. If Afeno did get away, he would try to grab some of the coins as he ran.

“Pick up your money and go,” the lord said. He pushed back his cape. A fine gold scabbard rested against his hip. The hilt of the sword sparkled with a hundred small jewels, enough to keep Afeno fed for years. “And give the boys some gold for the insult you paid them.”

“No.” The fighter drew a dagger from his belt. “But we may let them have some of your riches.”

The lord let go of Afeno’s shoulders. Afeno reached for the sausage when the man holding the kid grabbed him. “You wait.” Afeno glanced at the man. He wore dirty magician’s robes, and his face was covered with dust.

“Do you know that the penalty for attacking a gentleman in this city is death?” the lord asked.

The fighter shrugged. “They’ll never know who did it.”

The lord spread his legs to improve his balance. A larger crowd had gathered around them. Afeno thought he recognized a few faces. “They’ll know,” the lord said. “I’ve already sent one of my retainers for the mayor’s guards.”

The retainers who had been betting with the street fighters backed away. Afeno tried to wrench himself from the magician’s grasp. Afeno didn’t want to see the mayor’s guards. The magician held on tightly. “Just wait,” he said.

The leader waved his dagger. “They aren’t here yet, lordling.”

He lunged at the lord. Afeno stepped back, into the magician. The lord’s sword glinted as it appeared, and with a single clink of metal against metal, the fighter’s dagger spun into the crowd. People screamed and hurried out of the way. The lord held the sword at his side and faced the fighter.

“Anyone else?” he asked. The fighters shook their heads. The lord sheathed his sword. “All right, then. You owe the boys some money.”

The fighters tossed coins at the lord. The money shimmered and sparkled like rain in sunlight. The coins tinkled as they fell. The lord stood and watched; everyone stood and watched. Afeno held himself still. The minute the magician let him go, he would grab as much money as he could.

The fighters turned away and walked down the street. The leader picked up his dagger, rubbed its blade against his trousers, and stuck it in his belt. Then he followed the others.

The lord watched them with a slight smile. As soon as they disappeared, he said, “Thank you for the help, Seymour.”

The magician’s face flushed. “You could have got us killed.”

“Here.” The lord took Afeno’s arm and the kid’s. His fingers squeezed into Afeno’s flesh. “Would you pick up the coins and cut the sausage in half?”

“You said that’s ours!” Afeno tried to shake himself from the lord’s grasp. The grip was too tight–and Afeno was too weak from the last few weeks. His arm would be bruised.

“The sausage is yours,” the lord said. “But Seymour will divide it for you civilly–unless you want to continue fighting?”

The lord let go of Afeno then. Afeno rubbed his arm. He could try to take everything, but the lord was too quick with a sword. Or he could wait until the lord left and steal from the kid. That seemed best.

The magician gathered the coins. Afeno watched closely, trying to see if the magician pocketed any of it. But he just put the money in little piles.

The lord crouched in front of the kid and pulled out a lace handkerchief. He wiped blood away from the kid’s nose. The kid let him. Afeno would have pulled away. The kid sniffled a little. He looked too young to be scrounging on his own.

“Rounds.” The lord sounded as if rounds were horrible. Rounds were fine with Afeno. They weren’t nearly as much as a gold piece, but they bought food on the street. “Ten gold pieces each. What are your names, boys?”

Afeno snorted. His mother had been knifed by one of her clients when Afeno was Colin’s age, and he had managed to scramble on his own for a while. Then he had met Magic and they worked together until Magic disappeared with their money. “No family and no home. I make my way by stealing. Doesn’t that worry you?”

“No.” The lord smiled. “Not since I’m the one who caught you.”

Afeno flushed. His luck had turned poor. He was doing so badly that he didn’t notice an obvious mark because he had been fighting for a sausage.

“What about you, Colin?” the lord asked. “You’re alone too.”

Colin’s eyes filled with tears. He blinked hard and cleared his throat before he spoke. “My mother died of fever, and my father met Lord Dakin’s hounds. He managed to send me here to an uncle, but my uncle didn’t want me.”

The lord nodded. The magician put his hand on the lord’s arm. “No,” the magician whispered.

The lord didn’t seem to notice. “You boys will never survive in this city carrying ten gold pieces.”

“Yes, we will,” Afeno said. He could handle himself. The lord was going to cheat them after all. Afeno should have known better than to trust the man.

“I’ll make you an offer,” the lord said, as if Afeno hadn’t spoken. “I’ll pay you a copper per day over and above your gold if you travel with us. My friend and I need some companions to do the fetching for us.”

Afeno frowned. Lords had retainers. They didn’t need the help of beggar boys. “What happened to your men?”

The lord grinned. “I have no men. And I’m no gentleman.”

That explained the cuts on his face. He had stolen the clothes. The whole thing still made no sense, though. Why wasn’t he keeping the gold for himself?

Afeno hesitated. If he went with the lord, he would have food and money. Once he had accumulated enough of both and regained his strength, he could go out on his own again. He didn’t want to trust another companion so soon. “I’ll go too,” he said.

iii

The innkeeper gave them his last room. Seymour stopped at the door, while Byron went inside and set down the valise. The room was smaller than the one he had had in Dakin’s great house, but cozier. The pallet was wide and thick, and sat on a wooden frame. Large coverlets made the bed almost chest high. A table rested beneath a square window, and a chair leaned against the wall.

“I thought I’d never see a bed again,” Seymour said. He walked inside the room and collapsed on the coverlets. The pallet seemed even softer than the one he had had at the hut. He raised one foot in the air. With the money Byron had stolen that afternoon, he had bought Seymour new clothes and boots. Seymour wasn’t used to wearing trousers and the boots were stiff. They aggravated the blisters he had gotten on the walk to town.

He stared at the shiny, torturous boot and pulled it off. Then he repeated the procedure with the other foot. He curled and massaged his toes. “I may never walk again.”

“
When you address me, you say ‘sir.’”

Byron shrugged. “Nice line, huh?”

“You meant that when you said it. You know how to use a sword like the gentry, and yet you steal as if you’ve done that before too. Then you treat fighters with righteous anger when they wager on children.” Seymour propped a pillow against the wall and leaned back. “Why?”

Byron pulled off his cape and folded it across the chair. Then he sat on the bed, took off his boots, and sighed. “I slapped an old woman once over a half-eaten piece of meat. She still managed to swallow it before I could grab it, and I was so hungry I could have killed her for it. I saw one of Lord Seritz’s men behead a child for picking a gold piece off the street. That’s when I decided I didn’t owe the nobility anything. If their clothes gave them license to do what they wanted, then all I needed was a fine outfit.”

“It’s not that simple,” Seymour said.

“Isn’t it? I don’t misuse the clothes, and I don’t steal unless I have to. Even then I don’t like it.” Byron closed his eyes. Within seconds his breathing was solid and even. Seymour rubbed his feet, finding more blisters. Then he propped himself on an elbow and looked at Byron.

His skin was pale with exhaustion, but the scratches were fading from his face. His fingers were long and slender–magician’s hands, Seymour’s father would have called them, but Seymour knew that Byron had no magic.

Byron’s eyes opened, and for a moment Seymour found himself being appraised in return. Then Byron sat up. “I can’t sleep just yet, Seymour. I think I’ll go down and get something to eat. Want to join me?”

Seymour frown, wondering what Byron had seen. An inept, broken-down magician, too old to have an eighth-level seal, wearing the wrong clothes and a perpetually frightened expression on his face. Now that they were in the city, Byron should have gotten rid of him. Instead he bought Seymour new clothes and talked about traveling to the palace together.

“I’ll come down with you,” Seymour said.

Byron smiled and stretched, then stood up. Seymour reached for his boots and slid them over his feet, wincing each time he hit a blister. When he stood, one of the blisters burst, and he limped to the door.

Laughter drifted up from the common room. The hallways smelled of ale and cooked meat. Seymour hadn’t realized how hungry he was. He walked down the stairs, gripping the railing the entire way. His feet didn’t bend properly in the boots. It felt as if he had strapped thick wood to the bottom of his feet. The trousers felt awkward too. They constricted his waist and rubbed against the inside of his legs. Seymour had worn magician’s robes his entire life. The soft shirt and tight trousers–squire’s clothing–made him feel like another person.

Only a few people sat in the common room. A table full of local merchants drank and laughed. A serving girl huddled near the hearth. At another table a woman and a man stared at their food as if using it as an excuse not to talk to each other.