The Soul Weaver (11 page)

“So, you're back,” I said, throwing my bundled blanket in the cart. “It's jack and ale for breakfast.”

“Hmm.” He yanked at the buckles on the wither straps and girth. He didn't look at me.

I kicked dirt over the glowing ashes of our fire, and then gathered up the rest of our belongings and tucked them under the seat, leaving the bag of dried meat and a flask of ale where Gerick could get them when he was ready. I didn't know what to say to him. Fear, shame, and frustration had me ready to shake him until his teeth rattled. And so I decided that until I was in better control of my own feelings, I'd best avoid a confrontation. I climbed into the cart.

Radele hurried into camp from the direction of the stream, his hair dripping and face clean, wishing us a good morning as he swung himself into his saddle. For Gerick's part, the Dar'Nethi might not have existed. My son jumped up beside me; I clucked to the pony, and we rolled out.

In the ensuing days, no matter how I tried to approach him, Gerick refused to speak of his actions on the night of the raid. Although concern for his well-being had quickly shouldered my personal disappointments aside, I could not avoid one simple fact. Gerick had run away, while men far less skilled at combat than he had died fighting to protect us all. He needed to acknowledge that truth someday. If he was to grow into a man of honor, he needed to think about it.

Radele's polite deference remained unchanged. I could see that it rankled Gerick far worse than the scornful glances and resentful whispers from some of our traveling companions. One evening a few nights after the raid, when Radele had gone off to stand watch, I tried again. “We need to talk about it, Gerick. You've not spoken ten words these last three days. You've not looked me in the eye.”

His face flamed, and he threw his cup to the dirt. “It's nobody's business what I do or don't do. Name me coward or devil, whatever you want. I don't care. Just leave me alone!”

He strode into the darkness, leaving a huge angry hole in the night.

After a while, Paulo spoke up softly from across the fire. “He can't fight, my lady. He just can't. I think he's afraid.”

But Paulo couldn't, and Gerick wouldn't, tell me what my son was afraid of.

Eighteen days after setting out from Prydina, we rolled up to the thick-towered city gates of Montevial, the capital city of Leire, the most powerful city in the world—in the mundane world, that is.
Mundane
. . . so those of us with no power of sorcery were called by the Dar'-Nethi living in the world of Gondai and its royal city Avonar. The word raised my hackles. These “untalented” people were my friends, acquaintances, and kin. Intelligence, wisdom, and wit flourished here along with our many faults.

Yet the number of my people that knew the truth about the world—about the Lords of Zhev'Na who nourished and fed on our troubles or about the glories of Dar'Nethi magic that held steadfast against that wickedness in a half-ruined world far away—could be counted on one hand. After everything I had learned in the past six years, it felt odd and a bit shameful that my friends, acquaintances, and kin bustled about their concerns in such appalling ignorance.

We arrived in late afternoon, approaching the bridge over the wide, sluggish Dun River beneath a thin, gray, overcast sky that did little to alleviate the sultry heat. The red dragon banners hung limp from their standards, swelling occasionally with a vile-smelling breeze off the river. Just upriver the drain channels in the walls dumped the city's sewage into the slow-moving water. Ragged hawkers, selling everything from diseased chickens to temple offering jars to remedies for gout and boils, swarmed out of the ramshackle city that had grown up outside the city walls.

The gates were always crowded at the end of the day, but I'd never seen the mess so bad as this. The roadway was mobbed for half a league west of the city, well beyond the stone bridge, the crowding made worse because as many travelers seemed to be leaving the city as entering it. Anxious travelers, shoving, pushing, and shouting at each other. Animals bawled and dragged at their traces.

Two men hurling curses at each other clogged the center of the stone span, knives drawn in some dispute over tangled wagon wheels. We dismounted and elbowed our own path through the bumping and pushing throng, leading the pony cart. Snippets of complaints and furtive, angry, or frightened whispers flew on every side:
Won't let me in; they've no record of my cousin . . . Allowing no one past the gates without references known to the magistrates . . . Our fruit will rot if we have to take it town to town; those inside the walls will starve . . . Good riddance to them . . . Afraid to piss wrong . . . Vanished, they said, not a hair left behind . . . Cripples arrested . . . Who carries proof they live in the city? We just live here. . . .

The levy wagons, of course, disappeared quickly through the gates, but all other travelers were required to join a queue and wait to explain their business to a seated clerk. Those travelers who demonstrated noble connections, royal business, or a full purse moved quickly to the front of the queues. Those the clerk approved were given a pass to admit them to the city. The heavily armed swordsmen flanking the clerk wore the king's red livery, and more soldiers stood just beyond the portcullis, armed with pikes or drawn swords.

Radele's blue eyes roamed the crowding beggars, the filthy river, and the squat gate towers and city walls that had been gouged, pitted, and scorched in the years when war touched this close to the heart of Leire. “Vasrin's hand,” he said, as he shoved away three ragged, giggling urchins who were pawing at my cloak and doing their clumsy best to rifle our pockets. He wiped his hand on his cloak. “What is this place?”

A scuffle broke out just in front of us. A guardsman dragged a portly man from his horse, shouting, “Here's one! Only one leg, and look at the size of him!”

“Lost my leg in the war is all! Let me go!” The terrified man writhed on his belly as the pikemen surrounded him and a soldier bound his hands. “My daughter lives in the Street of Cloth Merchants . . . respectable . . . I've served the king . . .” A guardsman's boot smashed into his face, drowning the rest of the man's protests in bubbling incoherence.

“We'll find out how respectable you are,” said one of the soldiers dragging him through the gates. The man's horse was led away.

A young couple was turned away when the clerk noted burn scars on the husband's face and that he was missing one ear.

Radele took my elbow firmly, keeping his eyes moving and his hand on his sword hilt, as new guards were summoned and formed up around the clerk. He spoke under his breath. “Let us withdraw, my lady. If we
must
proceed, I'll conjure a way in after dark. The danger—”

“Only if we're turned away,” I said. “Using your talents is too risky. And sneaking in would likely only cause us trouble further on.”

The pennons on the gate towers shifted in a lazy, humid gust, ripe with the stench of the riverside bogs. After a wait that stretched interminably, a guardsman motioned Radele and me to step forward, and I was soon babbling the story of my husband's death in the war and my desire to find a sponsor for my son among our acquaintances in Montevial. Gerick remained standing by the pony cart at the edge of the crowd.

“And who might you be asking to sponsor the boy?” The clerk flared his nostrils and smoothed his sweat-stained yellow satin waistcoat, as he squinted across the trampled ground at Gerick.

My references to several prominent families by their personal names lifted his eyebrows. “Viscount Magior? Not likely. He's dead these two years in Iskeran. And Sylvanus Lovatto—Baron Lovatto that would be, I suppose—is retired to the north country. Lord Faverre, now . . . Ricard Lord Faverre, you say . . . Tell me, woman, how would the likes of you find yourself on such friendly terms with the commandant of the city guard?”

Radele, standing close to my left shoulder, stiffened, his arm drawing slowly toward the sword on his hip. I stepped on his foot. Epithets for my overplayed hand and curses for the self-important little clerk were the words that came immediately to mind. “Good sir, I'm just a soldier's wi—”

“Sheriff Rowan's man of Dunfarrie, bringing horses for the royal cavalry!” A disturbance rippled the crowd behind us. “Let me through. My master's sent ten steeds for King Evard.” Paulo slipped easily from the saddle and dropped to the dirt not ten paces from us, his horses forcing both travelers and soldiers aside.

“Sheriff's man, eh?” said the clerk, inspecting Paulo's slouched hat and worn countryman's jacket. Paulo's bony wrists poked well out of the sleeves. “Where'd you come up with these beasts? Been holding back on our suppliers?”

“Brought 'em from Valleor, your honor. Sheriff sent me to round up animals from those who've no business owning them. I've fifty more on the way.” Tennice had written out a false manifest for Paulo before we left Verdillon, and now Paulo shoved the crumpled paper into the clerk's face.

The clerk jerked his head to a sleek young guard with a thin mustache. As the clerk read the manifest the soldier proceeded down the row, running his hands over the flanks and legs of the well-groomed chestnut at the head of the string and then giving a cursory examination to the rest of the beasts. “Decent stock,” he said, returning to his post at the clerk's side.

“What's your name and how many in your party?” said the clerk, pulling out a fresh sheet of paper and beginning to write.

“Just me. Name's Paulo . . .”

As Paulo took the pass and mounted his horse, the vintner's wagon rolled forward, squeezing into the tight space before the gates, the drover shouting, “We can't get left out here. A baron's waiting for our barrels. Why are the gates closing early?”

Murmurs swept through the crowd. Other travelers bulled their way to the front, waving their hands and shouting. “I just heard those not inside the gates before sunset wouldn't be allowed in at all,” cried a woman. Those in the queue behind me surged forward, yelling, panicked.

Paulo's knees nudged his horse's flank, and he led his string through the gates without looking back. The clerk, one cheek twitching and his gaze flicking nervously over my shoulder, motioned the guardsmen to draw close and hold the shouting travelers back.

“Here,” he said, scribbling a pass and shoving it at me. “Take this matter up with the master-at-arms. Secure your son a place with these noble friends of yours within two days or get yourself out of this city. We don't want strangers here nowatimes. Now move on. Next!”

“Tell me, sir,” I said, “what's going on—?” But the harried clerk waved me away and motioned the vintner's man forward.

Gerick had already drawn the cart up beside the clerk's table. We didn't take the time to climb up, but led the pony through the shadowed archway after Paulo.

 

We had arrived one day early for my meeting with Evard. The timing was perfect, for it gave us a full night to rest and a full day to get news, yet would not keep us long in the uneasy city. We were stopped three times on our way to the street where we were to meet Paulo, our pass examined by soldiers whose hands stayed close to their weapons. The men required us to show our full faces, hands, and even our legs. “Don't want no more cripples in the city,” they said, snickering at my indignant protest at lifting the hem of my riding skirt.

“Insolent vermin . . . degrading . . .” Radele handed me back into the pony cart with such vigor I thought I might spill out the other side. His disgust and annoyance had grown with every step past the walls. Perhaps he was bothered that Paulo was the one who had gotten us through the gates. I had grown up around “men of action” and their tender pride.

“None of this makes sense,” I said as Radele threw himself onto his horse. Gerick clucked to the pony, and we drove on through the winding streets. In truth I was more puzzled than upset. Such searches had never been common in Leire, nor had I ever heard such concern expressed over the number of crippled bodies. Unfortunately our turbulent history had kept us well supplied with mutilated citizens.

 

“It's the vanishings,” said the buxom, heavy-jowled woman who rented us rooms, shaking her gray braids and wheezing noisily as she hefted her bulk up a narrow stair. “Folks stolen from their beds. First it was only cripples disappearin', as if them as wished all the beggars would go away all these years had their prayers answered.” She opened a scratched door into the tight little garret room, leaned close enough that I could smell her bad teeth, and dropped her voice. “But I've heard that some as are not cripples have gone now, too, nobles even. That's put a stick up everyone's backside.”

“But if crippled beggars are the ones disappearing, then why treat such people like thieves?”

“I don't talk about it,” she said, spitting in her left palm and slapping it with her right thumb, as jonglers do to ward off evil. “I'm just telling you this city is an ill-luck place. You'd best go back where you come from.”

I wished I could do exactly that. I felt as if I were being rushed along by the strong currents of a river when I'd only expected to stick my toes in a stream.

While Radele and Gerick took care of the cart and pony and waited for Paulo, I washed my face, combed my hair, put on a fresh tunic, and set out through the dark streets for Evard's palace, intending to use my pass from the clerk at the city gates to get into the palace grounds. If I could find Racine, a friend who had once worked for Karon at the Royal Antiquities Commission, he might be able to give me reliable news. But after being sent from one of the heavily guarded palace gates to the next, waiting interminably for unhelpful clerks to be summoned, while standing in the blaze of torchlight and watch fire and begging favors from leering soldiers—all to no result—I returned to the inn.