Vault Of Heaven 01 - The Unremembered (22 page)

Braethen silently thanked his father. “I am a novice sodalist, recently bound to a Sheason. We came last night to Myrr, and almost immediately he was taken into custody by the League. He’s done nothing wrong. I only want to find out if he’s all right.”

“I suspect it’s all true up until that last bit,” Rhye said.

“Yup,” Jartamara agreed.

“You’re right. If he’s in danger, I need to help him. But how is that wrong?”

“I don’t think any of us commented on morality here, boy,” A’Thalia said. “And by the way, these fellows here happen to be authors, too. Though, mostly that garbage they use in teaching regiments. Except for Molanerus. He can spin a damn fine tale.”

“How do I help him?” Braethen pressed.

“Well, it just so happens we’ve heard about your Sheason, Braethen son of A’Posian. News of accusations travel fast in the story trade. He’s alive. Leastways, that’s what our reading fans tell us. And we have a few in the dungeons who need our wares to pass their lonely hours. So, we believe it.”

“What’s to be done with him?”

“That’ll depend on him.” A’Rhye loaded some tobaccom into a pipe. “Two stripes to the Sheason anymore. One will argue with his jailer, and like as not wind up swinging. Another will show his submissive side and be kept in jail for a piece of time. What’s your Sheason like?”

Braethen panicked. “Is there appeal to the local ruling class?”

“Crolsus?” A’Thaila asked. “You’re talking about a man who asks folks to curtsy to his hat when they pass it sitting on that pole in the square. That help you with your assessment?”

Braethen looked down at the four elderly men. They would help, but how? Then he hit upon an idea. “Can you tell me which cell he’s in?”

“Aye,” said A’Jartamara, “that too is something our readers in the pit would know. But I don’t see how that’s going to—”

“Architecture.”

That was all he had to say. They understood immediately, and scuttled into the stacks to dig through the books.

And as they were looking, A’Thalia said, “Had a gentleman here a moon ago asking for books on the same subject. But not for Myrr. Recityv.”

When Braethen heard those words, it was as if a warbird had flown warning overhead.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Crones

The highwayman led the woman and his men at an easy pace on the dark road. The stars shone bright enough to navigate by, and they were close enough to their initial destination that he didn’t wish to set camp and waste another day. Besides, the night revealed yet another guise of the road, one he savored and held close.

After two days of travel, he finally turned off the road and followed a path so obscure that he’d never have recognized it at night had he not known of it before.

Many times had he come this way to visit the crone in her cottage set back deep in the whispering aspens.

The night air rattled the leaves, lending to their arrival the music of nature’s applause. A dim glow could be seen behind heavy curtains at the window. A streamer of smoke rose in a silver wisp from the chimney above. She could not have been expecting them, but as they dismounted, the door to a shadowy room opened quietly.

The highwayman ordered his men to tend the horses and pitch camp as he took his captive by the arm and led her into the cottage. He closed the door and turned, his keen eyes already adjusted to the dimness. The woman sat in a rocker near the fire with knitting needles held in her knobby fingers, working bland yarn into what might become a shawl. The room seemed to press inward, confining them, the smell of old age, of one who rarely gets beyond her door, hanging on the musty air.

“Greetings,” he said.

“And yourself, highwayman. What prize do you bring with you tonight?” The crone didn’t turn, her eyes fixed on her knitting.

“I don’t need much of you, and I apologize for the hour—”

“No you don’t,” she interrupted. “You’re eager to have your answers. That’s why you steer yourself through the shadows with this woman. But no matter. What will I have for your intrusion to make it worth my time? And don’t play at lying with me. You’re a good one at it, but I can see your deceptions, lest you forget why you come to me to begin with.”

In the shadows of the crone’s knitting room, the highwayman smiled to himself. He appreciated her directness and lack of moralizing. He suspected that she’d removed herself from the company of others precisely because she lacked the grace others tried to enforce in polite society. That, and her special talents, which he was sure others had not understood.

Special talents. The very reason for his visit.

“I have three bolts of fine cloth that are yours. And I’ve got a horse that you may have if you’ve a use for it.” He waited to see if his offer would prove agreeable.

“You’ve some ale, too, no doubt,” she said. “I’ll have everything you carry.”

“Done.”

Her fingers stopped, and her milky eyes turned toward them. The woman recoiled into the highwayman from the crone’s awful stare, and he put a bracing arm around her shoulders.

“Bring her closer.” The crone’s voice came softly, but cracked and thin, as if it had been abused somehow in her youth.

The highwayman had to use some earnest force to get the woman moving toward the crone’s rocking chair. Finally, he whispered in her ear, “Consider the old woman a healer. She will do you no harm. Think carefully, what would it profit me to come all this way only to allow something to happen to you now?”

The woman let her feet be led, and they eased toward the crone’s chair, their footfalls loud in the room. So close, in the glow of the firelight, he could see the hair on the crone’s upper lip—vanity was clearly not her vice. The hag stared up at them both, her clouded eyes never seeming to quite look directly at either of them. Still, he knew a kind of
seeing
was taking place. Then she motioned for the woman to stand directly in front of her.

He let the woman go, and stood back as the crone put her knobby fingers on the woman’s stomach and began to grope around her breasts and hips and loins and thighs, slowly returning to the woman’s naval with an awkward caress.

“What are you doing?” the woman finally asked, and tried to step away.

The crone’s bony hand shot out and grasped the woman’s wrist, holding her tight and near.

“This highwayman took me from my husband by force!” the woman yelled. “Are you one of his conspirators? Are you so quick to profit from the lawless actions of this bandit? Where’s your womanhood?”

The crone raised a dry cackle in the confines of her small room. Her milky eyes seemed almost youthful again with the light of the humor there. “Womanhood? Child, you are naive. You’ve seen too many skies to claim gender as a common bond with a stranger and expect it to be any kind of defense.”

“And
you’ve
seen too many if you deal with a man who would seize a woman against her will.” The captive stared at the crone with bright defiance and anger.

“Where was this husband of yours? Why did
he
not defend your will?” A slight smile drew at one corner of the hag’s mouth.

The woman looked at the highwayman, who stared back evenly. “He chose to live in hope of my rescue.”

“I see. Well, if you come to ill use, then you both will revisit the prudence of that choice, won’t you?” Then the frown of the aged and bitter stole over the crone’s face. “I don’t have time for this. Come stand here or your captor will force you to do it. Either way, child.”

Several moments passed, the highwayman relishing the battling emotions he could see in the woman’s face. The contest of indignation and acquiescence. He remembered it well from his own life, and his mood darkened at the thought. Then finally the woman approached the crone, who again put her hands on the woman’s stomach.

As the night waned, the old woman began to mutter to herself as she slowly moved her wizened hands in circles over his captive’s navel. The scene struck him as ceremonial after a fashion, the two women locked in a strange union. But it also smacked of rape in a way he couldn’t articulate. As the highwayman watched, despite his need of both women, revulsion touched his mind in long remembrances of other women in dark, small rooms. Other women who used and were used in unholy transactions that damned them equally. He recalled the tight, painful feeling of those rooms, and could almost feel in his throat the unanswered, sobbing prayers that he’d offered in them so long ago.

But those memories were interrupted when the crone stopped muttering and dropped her hands. His captive collapsed to her knees, spent. The hag took up the half-knitted shawl and wiped at her brow and hairy lip before turning her clouded eyes back to the highwayman. She stared a good long time, again not seeing but
seeing
him in a way that long ago might have disquieted him.

Tonight, he simply needed an answer.

“Get the bolts of cloth and the ale,” the crone said.

“And the woman?” he asked.

The crone shook her head. “Her womb is ruined. She’ll not bear children. Never has. Never will.”

“Are you sure? She does not look too old. And she has fire in her.” He didn’t like to think that for all his effort he had come up empty-handed.

“Did you happen to notice any children when you snatched this one from her husband?” The crone’s loose, wrinkled skin shrugged into an awful smile that showed gums bereft of teeth. “Something makes you hasty this time, highwayman. It’s dirty work to seize the living. And it’s worse when you get it wrong. Sometimes that can’t be helped. But what makes you careless? There are signs that may be read to increase your odds of success, eh, besides just seeing children about. You know them, I think. Make your gambles, but do so wisely.” Her smile faded, and she asked again, “What urgency causes you to forget such simple things?”

The highwayman looked deep into the milky eyes of the crone, his anger mounting. “Damnation!” he howled. He took a threatening step toward the hag and stopped. The desire to pull his knife across her throat was held just barely in check by the fact that she was not to blame. He then whirled on his captive, raising a fist. Someone must pay! His creditors would not be lenient with
him
.

He nearly struck the woman down before realizing that damaged goods fetch lesser prices.

The highwayman shot a gaze back at the crone. She was right. He’d been working too fast of late. He’d gotten sloppy. But there were still bargains to be struck. Oaths to be fulfilled. Though not things to be spoken of here.

“Get the bolts of cloth and the ale,” the crone repeated and went back to her knitting.

The highwayman stepped into the darkness beyond the door, where the aspen leaves whispered in the soughing wind. The slow, chill breeze touched his skin, cooling his anger. Already he yearned once more to take his chances. Tomorrow he’d go back to the road, where he would try again.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

A Need for Pretense

The sun shone bright upon the teeming roads of the city. A thick smell rose from the mixture of mud and wet straw. Small shops lined the byway, men and women hawking all manner of roots and elixirs. Others called to passersby to survey their fine coats or breeches, most fashioned of wool. A few carts displayed garish hats and scarves and belts. Most infrequent were the stores selling any kind of weapon. Rather, men selling dangerous wares stood in the recessed doorways of buildings that appeared otherwise abandoned. Knives or knuckle spikes lay on brown cloth near their feet, the proprietor standing back in a recess smoking from a pipe or a rolled bit of sweetleaf and watching the street cautiously.

“Which way?” Sutter asked.

“All gumption and no sense, Nails,” Tahn said, and slapped his back. “Where else? The palace.”

Sutter grinned. “You’ll make a fine advisor when I become king.”

Tahn laughed. “If you’re ever king, root-digger, I’ll wear the hat of bells and dance a heel-toe jig for your amusement.” They started east toward the city center.

At each cross street they stopped and marveled at the throngs of people milling on the road. Tahn looked on in amazement as the palace slowly rose before them. Soon the straw gave way to cobblestones. Men and women walked more slowly here, their shoes low cut, and the women without stockings. Wagons were replaced by carriages drawn by a single horse.

“Look at that,” Sutter said in a hushed, awed voice.

To their right walked two men in long amethyst cloaks, carrying spears. Each spear bore a short violet pennon emblazoned with a yellow hawk holding a set of scales in its talons.

“City guard,” Sutter said with glee. “They’ve got to be.” Sun glinted off their helmets and the studs in their armor. Not ten strides behind them came another pair of guards similarly dressed but bearing maces hung at their waist.

“Come on.” Tahn pulled at Sutter’s cloak. “Let’s not look so conspicuous.”

The two approached a crowd gathered tightly together. Their attention seemed focused toward a fountain.