Will Shetterly - Witch Blood (13 page)

I WOKE IN
the middle of the night to a scream. It came from far away, and I might have thought it the wind if I had never been to war.

I was alone on my sleeping pallet. Naiji had left me after one last dalliance, saying that though she would lie with a boundman, she would never sleep with one. I snatched up my axe and short sword and dashed nude to the door that connected our rooms. No one answered my poundings. Her door was bolted from within, and I cursed myself for not telling her to leave it unlocked.

I ran into the hall. Neither torches nor candles burned in the wall sconces. A few windows opened on the courtyard, but they were narrow slits from which archers could fire at intruders who had breached the main gates, and most of the windows were hung with rags to reduce drafts. Little light escaped the drapes to help me. My eyes had adjusted enough to see some shadows as darker than others, but nothing more. I found the latch to Naiji’s hall door by touch and memory. It did not turn beneath my hand.

“Naiji!” I shouted. Only silence greeted my call.

I kicked to the side, striking the oak planking with the heel and edge of my foot. Shock raced through my entire leg. The door rang like a giant bass drum. It did not give.

I had kicked again and failed again when a dark shape hurried down the hall. “You,” the other said. I recognized the voice of Talivane’s grey-haired captain and realized that she must be using witchsight. “You might practice your technique when no one sleeps.”

I said, “Open this door.”

“Why?”

“I heard a scream. It didn’t sound like passion.”

“It wasn’t from Lady Naiji’s room.”

“No? Where is she?”

“She doesn’t answer to you, you know.”

“I must know that she’s safe.”

“Or?”

I could see that the captain’s bronze sword was unsheathed. I wondered if she could sustain her witchsight while fencing against my steel weapons. “I must know that she’s safe,” I repeated.

“Why?”

“It’s my job.”

The captain sighed. “Come.”

We walked down dark halls and I began to wish I had dressed. The soles of my feet cringed with each step, and my shoulders began to shiver. “I don’t suppose you’d care to lend me your cloak?” I asked.

“Not really.”

“You may have noticed that I’m not wearing any clothes.”

“Oh, my,” she said. “I’m shocked. Simply shocked.” After a moment, she added, “I see it isn’t true, what they say about your people.”

I decided not to ask whether this was a compliment or an insult.

The only noise was the slight scuffing of Feschian’s boots on the dusty floor. When I felt the tiles become slippery clean under my feet, I knew we approached important chambers. The captain stopped me with a firm hand against my chest. She knocked loudly against a door that I could barely see.

Talivane’s weary voice answered. “What now?”

“The lady’s pet is restless,” said the captain.

“Is Lady Naiji safe?” I asked.

“Rifkin,” said Naiji from the far side of the door. “I thought you’d be too tired to wake again.”

“You’re well?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“And the scream?”

“That was not me.”

I waited a moment, then asked, “And I needn’t know who it was?”

“He is quick,” said Talivane, loudly enough that I might easily overhear.

“It sounded as if someone died.”

“That’s correct,” said Talivane. “We were questioning one of the Spirits. He was too reluctant to speak.”

“I see.”

“I’m well,” said Naiji. “Go back to sleep, Rifkin.”

“Fine,” I said as civilly as I could, and I stalked off.

The captain followed.

“You want something?” I asked.

“You’re returning to your room?”

“Why do you care?”

“First, it’s my job to know where everyone is. Second, your room’s back the other way.”

“Oh.” I turned around and continued walking.

“You seem angry.”

“Do I?”

“The Gromandiels are masters here. They act as they please.”

“I know that.”

“You disapprove of torture? The Spirit, if he had been convinced to speak, might have said something that could save us all.”

“Perhaps.” I consciously relaxed the tensions in my limbs, for I feared that if I did not, the captain would see that I understood too much: Talivane had lied to me, and not well.

That someone died, I did not doubt. That it was one of the Spirits, I could accept. But torture is a messy business. Talivane, fastidious as he seemed, would hardly have prisoners brought up from the dungeons to bleed and piss and puke and sweat and shit on his bedroom floor. Further, he would never allow anyone to escape him by such an easy path as death.

As for Naiji’s presence at whatever had happened, I could only remind myself that her morals were not mine, that our relationship was delineated by the words of our vow. And yet I had to admit that I liked the way she cocked her head to one side when she considered a question, the way she had laughed almost childishly when we were alone in the bath and she had done something that especially pleased me, the way—

“It won’t be easy for you,” the captain said.

“That’s an expression of sympathy?”

“Of some sympathy.”

“Which means you’ll lend me your cloak?”

“We’re almost to your room, southerner.”

“Call me Rifkin.”

“Call me Lady.”

“What a coincidence. I had a dog once named—”

“Or call me Captain, if you prefer, or Feschian.”

“Why?”

“That’s my name. I wouldn’t have you confuse me with a bitch.”

“Unlikely. There’s only one...”

“What?”

“Nothing.” I wouldn’t make jokes at Naiji’s expense, whether she deserved them or not.

“You should be careful in this castle.”

“Really? A shame. I’d planned to spend my time traipsing about, festooning the gargoyles with lily garlands.”

“Oh?” said Feschian.

“Maybe not,” I conceded. “I doubt Avarineo would wear his.”

“You act like one of those youths who consider themselves troublemakers.”

“Hardly. I’m one of those old men who consider themselves troublemakers.”

“Very funny, Rifkin. Naiji says—”

“Naiji?”

“She’s only the Lady Naiji before strangers and those who believe in protocol.”

“Like her brother?”

“Like her brother,” Feschian agreed.

We stopped in the hall. The captain seemed to be waiting. “You were saying?”

“I was saying that Naiji said you fashion yourself a philosopher.”

“Never,” said I. “A philosopher is someone trapped in a web of words, lost in a maze of metaphors, buried beneath a...” I searched for a suitable phrase.

“A philosopher,” said Feschian, “is someone who blames his inability to perceive the universe on the universe itself, or on the nature of perception. You’re not that.”

“Good.”

“You’re just someone who hasn’t decided whether he wants to die. Don’t endanger Naiji if you choose death. This is your room. Good night.”

I stared while Feschian walked away. “Ha!” I called as her shadow merged with the night. “And maybe you’re wrong!” To show how little her remark had affected me, I went into my room and slammed the door. Twice.

Strangely, I fell asleep almost immediately. At some point before waking, I dreamt of black-garbed assassins with demon faces who pursued me through a maze that changed from street to castle hall to forest to mountain trail to cavern. No matter where I ran or how quickly, the demon faces followed, steel daggers glittering in their hands.

Something brushed against my shoulder. I snatched a thin wrist and held it tight. My left hand began to drive upward like a spear. “It’s me!” gasped Chifeo. I stopped the thrust just short of his neck.

“Sorry,” I said, releasing him. “I’m usually not so touchy in the morning.”

Chifeo put his hand to his throat and coughed. “I’ll, ah, wake you by calling you, next time, Lor— Ah, Rifkin.”

“I should’ve wakened when you entered the room.”

“I wish you had, Lor— Rifkin.”

“I had a dream. It confused things for me.”

“Yes, Rifkin.” Chifeo nodded. “I understand.” He backed warily out of the room. “A dream.”

I made a quick toilet, dunking myself in the shallow bathing pool and shaving with my stiletto. My new clothes proved to be a sleeveless burgundy tunic, a sky-blue cotton shirt with wide sleeves, and indigo pants of wool. I studied the effect in the bathroom’s tiled mirror. The colors clashed with my brown belt and boots. Maybe someone would insult my dress. Maybe Talivane would. Maybe he would decide that I dressed so badly, he should try to kill me. Then I could kill him and convince Naiji to abandon this castle. That cheered me up, until I thought that Talivane might be color-blind. I decided to wear the brown boots anyway, just in case he wasn’t.

I left in search of breakfast. A young and freckled red-haired man grinned when I entered the kitchen. I walked in with perfect confidence, so he would know that I belonged here and should be fed. Following a guard’s directions, I had already entered the stable, the smithy, and the great hall with the same confidence. “Do you like my boots?” I asked.

“What? Oh. Yes! Very much.”

Talivane undoubtedly had more taste.

“So!” said the red-haired man. He wore an apron, which proclaimed him the cook. But then, considering his opinion of my boots, he may only have been eccentric. “Hungry?”

“A little.” No one else was present, except for a striped cat and a wolfish dog that slept on the floor near the stone hearth.

“What would you like?” The young man still smiled benignly.

“For breakfast?”

He nodded.

“An ostrich egg,” I said, “lightly poached. Two slices of toasted black bread, basted with butter and garlic. Baked potatoes with mushrooms and onions, covered with melted goat’s cheese. A large glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, a small glass of cold cow’s milk, and a mug of coffee or Dragon’s Breath tea.”

“Excellent!” said the cook. “I am Dovriex, sometimes called the Tanager. I’m within a year of completing my time as journeyman with the Master Chefs of F’az Borlinash.” He bowed.

I smiled, nodding to him. The Master Chefs were famed throughout the Ladizhar Alliance, though it had been close to a century since one had visited the Sea Queen’s realm. Perhaps my stay at Castle Gromandiel would have other rewards besides the pleasure of pleasing Naiji.

Dovriex indicated a stool by a wooden table. “Sit. I’ll bring your breakfast in an instant, good Rifkin.”

I sat. “So. You know of me.”

“We’re a small group.” Dovriex picked up a wooden bowl and went to the stove. “By now everyone knows about Naiji’s find.” He scooped something from a copper pot into the bowl, then returned and set it before me.

“What’s this?” I stared at a tiny quantity of strange grey gruel.

“Your breakfast.”

“But I said—”

“I know. For a moment I forgot my own hunger, thinking what joy I’d find in fixing such a meal. And in eating it too. I thank you.” He grinned and bowed to me.

“Oh. Right. It was nothing.” I tasted a spoonful of the gruel.

“You don’t like it?”

“It’s amazing,” I said, “what a student of the Master Chefs can do with water and grain. Rather old and slightly moldy grain. And no spices at all.”

“Actually, I boiled an old sandal, to give it that salty tang.”

I hesitated. “A salty tang.” I took another bite. “Exactly how I would describe it.”

“You like it?”

“It reminds me of the meals my mother prepared, so many years ago.”

Dovriex nodded. “As if one of your mother’s meals had been buried for all these years, dug up, and presented to you?”

“Uh...”

He laughed. “I do my best with what we’ve got. Maybe you’ll like dinner.”

“What is it?”

“Bear.”

I thought of Avo. Dovriex saw something in my face and nodded sympathetically.

“Avarineo fetched it. I understand—” he began.

“Lady Naiji’s still asleep?” I asked.

He accepted the change of subject without difficulty. “Probably. She sleeps late most mornings. She says her magic is tied to the moon.”

“Is it?”

“That’s just Naiji’s way of saying she likes to stay in bed. Magic’s only tied to ability.”

I nodded. “You people are very free in confiding in me.”

He glanced at me, then laughed. “Why not? You’ll live or die with us, Rifkin. You might as well know what you can.”

“I expected a certain reluctance.”

“Because we’re witchfolk and you’re not? Hardly. If it’s any consolation, the witch blood flows so thinly in me that I’ve yet to manifest any power at all.”

“Lady Kivakali called you a seer.”

Dovriex shrugged. “Sometimes my dreams seem to mean something. Who can say?”

“Not me,” I said. I pushed my bowl away. “Thanks for breakfast.”

“If that means you’re ready to teach, wait up. I’m joining you.”

“Teach?”

Dovriex nodded. “We met last night after you’d gone to bed. Talivane decided on two classes, each attended by half our folk. The rest guard the walls while you instruct us.”

“I would’ve liked to have been consulted.”

“Wouldn’t we all. That’s not Talivane’s way.”

“You said you met—”

“To discuss. Talivane decides.”

“Hmm. Well, if I’m to teach, I’m glad I ate lightly.”

“Really? Given the state of the larder, you’ll be in ecstasy for days, then.”

“Huh. Where’s class to be?”

“In the courtyard. Follow me.” He folded his apron and left it on a stool. He wore a plain blue tunic and pants of the same hue, and the removal of the apron revealed a belt of reddish leather which matched his ankle-high boots. Lucky him. Four different knives with ivory hilts were held in separate sheaths in a holster on his left hip. The fifth sheath, where the black-hilted knife of the Master Chef would go, was empty. On Dovriex’s right was a ceremonial cleaver.

Some said the Master Chefs were a bastard line of the Warrior-Saint’s Art. I believed all the schools, whether of killing or calligraphy or meditation or cooking, were the true Art’s illegitimate offspring, and none should be thought lower than any other. Still, I wouldn’t give Dovriex too much respect until he had prepared a better breakfast for me.