Liavek 7 Page 11

  He stopped. He lifted his mug slowly, took a swallow of his beer. "That's all," he said suddenly. "That's all I wanted to tell you. That you weren't the first skinny little brat to make my life miserable."

  Kaloo didn't move. She stared at him, waiting. He stared right back. She should get up and turn her back and walk away from him. Who did he think he was, anyway, to play these rotten tricks on her? His gaze didn't waver. Hers suddenly found the tabletop. "I have to know about her."

  "There isn't a lot to tell." There was suddenly gravel in his voice, and pain such as, well, such as only she had ever given him. Or so she had thought. "She loved a man who wasn't worthy of that kind of love. He left her. She had a child, and she couldn't care for it. She tried. But she had convinced herself that her love had turned to hate, and she couldn't look at her baby without seeing his face. And I couldn't look at her baby without seeing hers. So I took the child from her. Later, she … died."

  "I was the baby," Kaloo whispered, as pieces of her life suddenly assumed new shapes. "Dashif was the man." For long moments she wondered. Suddenly she demanded, "Who was my mother?"

  T'Nar stared at her, dumb with misery. "My baby sister. My pretty little shore-bird, my Erina."

  Erina. She'd once heard Dashif utter that name. He'd been in horrible pain, pinned to a cart by a crossbow bolt through his knee. And he had called out to someone named Erina. She was suddenly shaking. "Why are you telling me this?" Kaloo felt her throat closing up. For the first time since that horrible day when she had invested her magic, the day T'Nar had fought Dashif for her, and lost, she felt close to tears. The careful layer of coldness she had wrapped around herself was thawing. It hurt.

  T'Nar was staring at the tabletop. He traced the ancient outline of a wet mug bottom. "Should have told you a long time ago." He looked up at Kaloo suddenly. "I thought it would hurt you. I guess finding out the way you did hurt you a lot more."

  "I have to know more," Kaloo began.

  "No. Any more you have to know, you have to find out from him. No, stop pouting at me. Doesn't bother me a bit, brat. You listen to me. I've been thinking. Drinking, too, yes, a lot of that. Sometimes a man has to drink to think straight. Sometimes thinking straight hurts too much to do sober. But listen to me. No, shut up and listen. You look like her, Kaloo. Like Erina. It's her he sees in you, her he buys those dresses for, her he takes to those stupid, snooty plays. You know why? Well, I do. Finally. Because he loved her. He loved her, and he knew it too late, and he loves the child they made and he's terrified that it's too late for that, too. He loved Erina and hurt her, and she loved him and hurt him. Because they were so busy pretending they hated each other, pretending that everything was all spoiled, when all they had to do was to look at each other and say, 'I love you.'"

  Kaloo sensed what was coming next and it terrified her. She rose suddenly, but T'Nar was fast, faster than any old man had a right to be. His grip was iron on her wrist, and his gaze was barbed, she couldn't tear free of it. He whispered the words that roared inside her head. "Don't be too much like her, Kaloo. Don't convince yourself you hate where you want to love. And, listen to me. I don't give a damn who it is you want to love. Even him. But don't you dare set yourself a course for the same rocks Erina foundered on. Don't you dare, girl! Don't think you're Dashif's daughter. Because you're not. You're Dashif and Erina's daughter. And love made you, not hate."

  With a cry she pulled free of him. She fell twice running up the stairs to her room, and when the door was safely slammed behind her, she sat on the bed and found she was sobbing. Because her scraped shins hurt her so very much, she thought, worse than anything she'd ever felt in her life.

  •

  The first squall struck after twilight. It came out of nowhere, a knot of clouds charging across the sea. The Pardoner was too large to be endangered by anything short of a typhoon—at least, providing the rigging was not tampered with. Doggedly, they rode out the attack of bad weather without a hitch.

  The second squall struck from behind, forming out of nothing. A hammer of wind slammed across the deck, stretching the sails until the lanyards creaked from the strain. The sailors turned to see another mass of clouds, this one shot with lightning, bearing down upon them, and driving them fiercely toward the dark cliffs and dangerous shallows.

  A rope securing the foresail snapped, and suddenly the sail was swinging wildly. Before they could react, it smashed into a sailor and threw him all the way against the gunwale. Quickly, two others snatched a new rope and ran it through the tackle, all the while dodging the sail that twisted like an eel around the mast. They hauled on the rope, other crewmen rushing in to help. Finally, they strapped the sail back into place; but one sailor was dead, victim of an unlikely storm. Sailors were superstitious by nature. Jolesha knew that well enough. She excused herself from the captain's company and went belowdecks to her cabin. She would be seen as the cause of his death, and she could not even satisfy herself that those who thought so weren't right.

  Once more she drew The Gate from its pouch, and once more she called to her friends. The conversation with Klefti and Urgelian did nothing to ease her sense of guilt, but it did reveal that Arenride was not among the dead. Whatever had happened to delay him, he had not perished. She found herself unaccountably relieved to know it.

  She huddled in her bunk and wished the voyage were over. Had the storms been natural? If the Regent knew she was aboard this ship, he had probably sent them. One who spoke with the dead presented a formidable threat to him, especially as she knew how much he had to hide. He might level Liavek if necessary to keep the artifact from reaching the girl who reigned above him. Jolesha wondered if someone aboard The Pardoner was in the Regent's pay. Many of the sailors had been watching her, even before the disasters of the storms. How would she recognize one enemy among so many?

  She decided to remain belowdecks for the rest of the voyage to Liavek.

  •

  As Dashif emerged from the Levar's Palace at precisely twelve minutes after noon, a footcab drove up. Dashif signaled for it, and two priests who had been waiting for a cab for several minutes looked at him darkly, then looked away. Dashif climbed into the cab.

  The runner said, "Yes, my Lord?"

  "The Market," said Dashif.

  "Yes, my Lord."

  The runner set off with light, even strides. After a few minutes, they were well away from any pedestrians. At this point the runner, who seemed not at all winded, turned his head and said, "I'm sorry, Count Dashif. He failed."

  "The ship survived?"

  The runner turned back to make sure the road was still clear, then said, "Yes. The storms have delayed her arrival a few hours, but she survived."

  "Very well. I hadn't expected it to work anyway. What about the other piece of information?"

  "Our wizard was able to exchange messages with your man on The Pardoner. He said there was no sign of Arenride on board, and the fortune-teller was keeping out of sight. My Lord, he isn't the sort of man we could normally ask to do such things, but—"

  "No. I'll take care of it myself when she docks. It was Arenride I was concerned with."

  Dashif nodded. One thing the less to worry about, then. There had been no other ships from Ka Zhir; Arenride would not be able to arrive in time. Who would he have sent in his place? Dashif licked his lips and pondered, forcing his mind to stay away from thoughts of Kaloo and the dual problem of training her in sorcery and raising her as his daughter.

  The runner said, "Should he try the storms again?"

  "No," said Dashif. "That would be senseless. Do you know the new arrival time?"

  "Tomorrow, before dawn."

  "Very good. That will be all, then."

  "Do you actually wish to go to the Market, Count Dashif?"

  "No. Here will be fine."

  The runner stopped and Dashif stepped out of the cab. He paid the runner, and sent him on his way. He looked around, then caught himself doing so. I'm going to have to find th
at Zhir agent with the crossbow, he said to himself. Even if she doesn't kill me, she'll have me running into things from looking over my shoulder too much. He sighed to himself and began walking toward the docks, there to determine exactly where The Pardoner would arrive, and precisely how he would greet Jolesha, who had broken the bargain that had kept her breathing for the last year.

  •

  Wrapped in a heavy purple cloak, Jolesha stood on the deck and looked out at the city she had expected never to see again. The Pardoner had ridden out a series of nasty, shifting squalls most of the night. The pockets of storm battered them from different sides, taking turns like the offspring of the sea god shoving a new toy first this way then that. At one point they were driven perilously close to the rocky promontory south of Gold Harbor. That was when the trouble had come. But now, with the dawn creeping up, the sky ahead split into two layers of violet clouds sliced by a long vertical band of golden light, one could hardly believe that more peril might lie ahead, or even that last night's had been more than imagination.

  The city dwelled in darkness; its buildings remained as shadows. Then the tips of the six towers ringing the Levar's Palace seemed to catch fire, and Jolesha remembered what a fabulous city she was approaching. She withdrew into the belly of the ship again.

  Terror gripped her now that she had actually returned. She wondered if anything was going to be as she'd been told.

  There was a jar and a thud as the ship made contact with the dock, and Jolesha felt a collective sigh go up as if everyone on board was relieved that they had landed safely. She waited patiently, studying the pre-dawn city, and tried to control the fear that threatened to turn into panic.

  At last the captain approached her. "Come," she said, "it is time for you to disembark. There are those who await you." And she saw for the first time four red-clad guards waiting at the dock.

  The captain smiled at her, as if seeing her fear and understanding it, then took her arm and gently pulled her away from the rail and escorted her down the gangplank. Then she was surrounded by the guardsmen. She heard one of them ask for a proof of who she was and felt herself showing him the Levar's seal, though she was more aware of her own fear than what was occurring around her.

  Jolesha's first indication that something was wrong came when she felt a sudden tension in the captain's hand that held her arm. Then the captain stepped in front of her, and was flung back into Jolesha, causing her to stumble backward as Jolesha heard the crack of a pistol firing and a scream. The scream was her own.

  It was no plan of hers that caused her to fall to the dock to escape danger; it was merely that her knees buckled as fear took over and her backward stumble turned into a fall. Yet it probably saved her life. She wanted to shut her eyes but couldn't, and so she saw the red-cloaked figure that emerged from the doorway of a nearby warehouse, a pair of pistols in his hands.

  For an instant she held his eye, and even saw the twin scars running below his eyes. Then there was someone standing in front of her, and she saw shock on Dashif's face. She looked up to see who it was and heard Arenride's voice. "Stay down, girl."

  The rest of the scene was confused by panic. She thought Dashif fired again, and she heard a loud blast from a blunderbuss that Arenride carried. She saw Dashif roll backward into the darkness of the warehouse doorway while an arrow or a crossbow bolt embedded itself in the wall where his head had been. Then Arenride left her—to chase after Dashif. Through the doorway and into the warehouse, he was followed by a woman dressed in green with long, reddish hair who was re-cocking a crossbow as she ran.

  Then there was silence, and it seemed that everything had ended. The guards were gathering themselves up. Jolesha looked at the captain, lying face-up on the dock, and saw that there was a large, ugly wound in her chest. Her breathing came in ragged gasps. Then, as Jolesha watched, it stopped.

  One of the guards said, "All right, girl, get up—"

  "Look out!" called another, and Jolesha sobbed with fear. With a yelp, one of the soldiers fell back, and another pistol shot echoed across the wharf. Jolesha saw Dashifk standing half out of a window on the second story of the warehouse, raised pistol smoking.

  She knew then that Arenride could never protect her—that no one could. They only wanted The Gate. Arenride wanted it, and if Dashif killed her, what would that matter, as long as he could keep Dashif from getting it?

  She had no memory of fleeing through the soldiers who were bringing blunderbusses to bear on Dashif; only dim memories of shots resounding as she reached the front ranks of the watching crowd. She recalled wriggling between the people, who drew back with repugnance from the hideous old woman they saw her as. And the one time she did dare to look back, she thought she saw, for a moment, the face of Dashif in pursuit.

  Jolesha ran, and she didn't stop running until the press of the crowd around her told her that she had left the docks and attending danger behind. At that point she had no idea where she had come.

  3 THE SCRIPT

  Arenride caught two brief glimpses of Dashif as he hurried toward the Market area. At least, he thanked the gods, Jolesha had fled into a busy area. But no matter how Arenride struggled through the frightened crowd, nothing brought him closer to his adversary.

  As the morning wore on, the crowds in the market thinned out. Arenride admitted to himself at last that he had lost both trails. He took scant satisfaction in having saved her life. It was hardly enough—he had given his word to her, and now she was alone as he had guaranteed she would not be. Whatever she was beneath that disguise, she had won a respect he paid few people for having outwitted the Count of Dashif. This morning at least, he could not say the same for himself.

  He made his way toward the palace to find one of his agents, a harmless-looking old lady who did charcoal painting in the Levar's park. He hoped that one old lady would spy out another. It occurred to him that this would be his first chance to test his forces directly against those of Dashif.

  He was committed to bringing Jolesha safely to the Levar, and he would do so if it was humanly possible. He would also, if possible, determine what she looked like under her makeup.

  •

  The Stampede—the early morning rush at the market—was over. The best of the fresh vegetables were haggled over and gone; the loudest of the customers were off cleaning, cutting, and cooking them. Jolesha sat in the shade of a large green tent. She didn't quite know what to do now that the crowds had thinned out.

  She knew she was being sought. She felt the burden of The Gate in the pouch about her neck, and was once again taken with the notion of throwing it into the nearest body of water and bolting. But she didn't. The Levar wanted it, the Levar should have it—provided Jolesha could think of a way to get it to her without Dashif or his people catching her first.

  She wondered if Arenride were still alive. He must have been aboard the entire trip, hiding, so Dashif wouldn't realize he was there. She wondered if Dashif were alive. Yes, he probably was. She suspected that The Gate would crack with the weight of his demise.

  Jolesha studied the dwindling crowd in the market and wondered if there were anyone out there who wanted to kill her.

  They spotted each other at the same moment. She froze, not knowing whether she had found an enemy or a friend. The smile on the tall, red-haired woman's face indicated friendship, but—

  On the other hand, she didn't really have anywhere to run. She waited while the woman approached.

  "I am Brajii," said the woman. It was a clear voice shaped by a strong Zhir accent. "I don't know your name, but we have a common enemy. Come with me—I've a safe place." When Jolesha hesitated, the woman said, "Don't you understand, old woman? Hurry. Give me your hand. He'll be nearby, looking for both of us. Had he found you before I did, you would be dead now."

  Jolesha wanted to curl up in a safe, dark place and withdraw from the intrigue and the threats. Instead, she stood up and followed Brajii to a small, canopied wagon harnessed to a mule. Soon, lik
e two peddlers, they were plodding through the fetid alleys and back streets of Liavek.

  •

  Kaloo looked at Dashif and wondered if his expression were the product of anger or weariness. Or something else. "Is something wrong?" she asked. Her voice was cool and level, only politely interested. Perfect.

  "Yes," snapped Dashif. "You won't call me father."

  It startled her out of her carefully-guarded reserve. She felt outrage flood her that he would dare demand this of her. Her carefully-constructed wall of artificial courtesy gave way. "I don't call you camel dung, either. We might say it's a fair trade."

  For an instant, Dashif stared at her, his dark eyes going even darker. Kaloo braced herself. Then he laughed aloud, a sound she didn't think she had ever heard before. That it was directed at her brought a deep blush to her cheeks and flame to her eyes. Damn him, he had made her show herself to him, and the bastard knew it. Knew it, and delighted in it. He shook his head and wiped his eyes. "I'm sorry, Kaloo. No, you aren't what is upsetting me. Something else went badly today."

  "What happened?" In her curiosity she forgot her embarrassment.

  He shook his head again. "It is nothing, my dear. A run-in with enemies of the city. I really shouldn't be here at all, but I wanted to see you. Never mind that now. Let us return to your lessons. Come, try to repair the bottle."

  Kaloo felt herself flushing. 'My dear,' was it? Without stopping to think, she pushed back. "Were they enemies of the city, or enemies of the Regent?"

  Dashif looked up sharply. The indulgence had left his face. "Why are you so convinced there is a difference?"

  She wanted to kick herself. "I have heard things of His Scarlet Eminence."

  Dashif leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. "What have you heard?" he asked quietly.

  To the trolls with it, then. "That he is power-hungry, that he will destroy anyone who stands in the way of his goals, that he is cruel. Should I continue?"