“Mr. Skurlek,” Abramm said. “We meet again.”
Skurlek puffed out his chest, drawing Abramm’s eyes to the little tongue of flame stitched to the breast of his cloak. His hand patted the leatherwrapped hilt of sword he now wore belted to his hip. “Except this time we’re evenly matched.”
Abramm looked the man up and down. Skurlek was stout with muscle but carried more fat on him than Abramm did. He showed no sign of the injury he’d received earlier, though Abramm had stabbed his left shoulder, and it appeared Skurlek was right-handed. No matter. The greater injury by far was his wounded pride, for the man was clearly consumed by his need to avenge it. And convinced of his ability to do so. It was a combination that could be easily goaded into the mindless fury that bred mistakes.
Abramm smiled. “I’m afraid it will take a good deal more than that pigsticker at your side to make us evenly matched, sir.”
He watched the pocked face redden as the other patrons, divining what was to happen, scrambled up and out of range, tables and chairs screeching and chattering as they were shoved aside and a ring cleared for the combatants. As the sound of murmured wagers hissed around him, Abramm felt the mood of the place shift from fear to flickering hope.
“We’ll see what Eidon has to say about that, Shadow lover,” Skurlek grated, yanking his sword from its scabbard and lunging for Abramm’s heart. Abramm’s own blade sprang to hand in the same moment, sweeping the other’s blade aside in a looping stroke that let him come in left-handed with the dagger. Skurlek barely dodged it, the short blade slicing his leather tunic and grating along his ribs.
A susurration of surprised approval arose from the onlookers, and the combatants began to circle one another. Then Skurlek flung the end of his cloak at him, the heavy folds entangling Abramm’s rapier as the fabric flapped up into his face. He dodged to the left, out of the line of attack, let the cloak fall as he blocked another strike with the dagger, then lunged with the rapier before his opponent could recover, slicing the tendon at the base of the man’s thumb and loosing his grip on the blade. Skurlek watched it clatter to the floor in disbelief, his hand bleeding freely, dangling at his side, thumb no longer useful for holding anything.
There were times Abramm felt regret at dealing an opponent a blow that could cripple him for life. This wasn’t one of them. He was starting to relax and straighten from his crouch when the Gadrielite sprang at him, a hidden blade flashing in his hand. Abramm’s sword flicked back, driving through his assailant’s throat and into his brain almost before he realized what had happened. Skurlek stiffened and stepped back, his face slack with disbelief. Then he crumpled lifeless to the floor.
The inn was so quiet Abramm could hear the hiss of the oil lamps and the jingle of his harness as he wiped his sword clean on his cloak and sheathed it. The gazes of the others were like a burning on his skin. He felt cold now, and mildly nauseated, for though he hadn’t hesitated to cripple, he also hadn’t intended to kill. Which surprised him, considering how many times he had killed in Esurhite arenas. But this was one of his own subjects.
Skurlek’s companions stood over the body, staring down at it. It had been at the back of Abramm’s mind that cutting off the head might paralyze the body, and that seemed to be what had happened. With Skurlek dead, his followers seemed lost.
“I guess Eidon has spoken,” Abramm said as drew even with them.
Only two of them even looked up at him. “Keep following us,” Abramm continued, “and you may end up following him.” He gestured at Skurlek’s body. “Harm this place or anyone here out of retribution and I’ll seek retribution of my own.”
He looked each man square in the face and marked the others, as well, seeing in them the first flickerings of fear, confusion, and outrage. He pressed by them, and they stepped back as if wary of touching him. Whispers of conversation started as the crowd opened before him. From this he surmised that Skurlek had been regarded as a man of some skill with the blade.
The innkeeper met him at the door, sober faced and grateful. “The man needed killing, sir. More than you know. He’s caused a world of hurt around here. But being a favorite of Lord Prittleman himself, there was nothing anyone could do.”
“They could take their grievances to the king,” Abramm said quietly, at the same time thinking, Prittleman! That’s where I’ve seen Shurlek before. He was at the picnic!
“The king would do nothing,” said the innkeeper.
“Certainly that will be the case if he doesn’t know about them.” Abramm paused. “I regret to say we’ll not be needing your room tonight after all.”
“Sir, it would be an honor to put you up. At no charge.”
“We have other arrangements. But you may keep the sovereign for your trouble.”
As they left the crowd outside the Golden Loaf’s door and continued down the street toward the river, Abramm gave thought for the first time to the bigger picture. The whole room had been watching. “What in Hur’s Hollows was I thinking?” he muttered. “I should have at least drawn them outside into the night. What if someone recognized me?”
“I wouldn’t worry about that,” Trap said wryly. “Our king, after all, is not yet known for his skill with a blade. And no one would expect to find him in Southdock, rubbing elbows with the rabble.”
That was true, but it only reminded him of the reason he was down here—and how this most recent incident would only widen the gulf between him and the skittish Terstans he sought. He had no illusions that his warning to Skurlek’s Gadrielite friends would restrain them longer than an hour or two, after which “Alaric” would be a marked man. He’d have to figure out another way to meet with Kesrin. And summoning him to private audience was not an option.
As they reached the inn’s far end, a figure emerged from a narrow passage and stepped into their paths, receiving for his audacity a sudden and very close look at the business ends of their rapiers. But the stranger, who stood as tall as Abramm, was already holding out both hands, palms up. “Peace, gentlemen. I wish merely to talk.” He had an odd accent. Thilosian, maybe?
“Who are you?” Abramm demanded, his sword still unsheathed.
“I am Yacopan. I understand you have an interest in the Westland Shipping Company.”
“How would you know that?”
“I watched you stand before the office door some time earlier. My employer—owner of that company—wishes to speak with you. If you have the time.”
A thousand thoughts flew through Abramm’s brain. Was this a trap? Some clever dissembling on the part of the bereaved Gadrielites? But no, those men had been genuinely cowed—and far too shocked to put together something this quickly. In light of Abramm’s desire—his need—to speak with Everitt Kesrin, this seemed like an opportunity made by Eidon himself. He could not let it pass.
“I would like that,” Abramm said.
The man led them back into the passage from which he had emerged and into a side door of the Golden Loaf. They walked past a stairwell and down a narrow corridor, sounds of the Great Room at its far end echoing around them. Yacopan stopped three rooms down, knocked, and the door swung open.
They entered a rectangular room with a stone fireplace and overstuffed chairs at one end, a good-sized table at the other. Plain woolen rugs covered the floor, and dark drapes hid windows along the wall opposite the door. The only light came from the fire on the hearth, but Abramm recognized Everitt Kesrin at once. He sat at the table alone, finishing up a meal that looked like it came from the roast out on the main hearth, with a crust of white bread and boiled greens. He had not started his meal alone—four mostly empty plates scattered the table around him. Whoever his guests had been, they were here no longer, only Yacopan and one other man, who was smaller and fairer in coloring but no less intimidating.
Now Yacopan conjured a kelistar and held it near the newcomers so Kesrin could study his guests as they entered, his hands resting against the table edge, knife in one, fork in the other. For a few moment
s after the door closed he regarded them, his eyes traveling up and down their forms. Then finally he snorted and went back to his mutton. “Alaric, is it?” he said, content to let them stand as he sliced off another bite.
“Yes, sir,” said Abramm as Yacopan extinguished the orblight.
“And I hear your mother was Kiriathan.”
“Yes.”
“That accounts for the blue eyes, I guess.” Kesrin poked the meat into his mouth, chewed, swallowed, then took several more bites before he finally leaned back in the chair to look up at him. “You seem determined to draw down the fires of torments upon me, Alaric. I’m curious as to why.”
“What do you mean?”
“It will hardly escape the Gadrielites’ notice that one of their own was first humiliated by an attendee of the Terstmeet I was conducting, then killed by him the very same night in the Great Room of the Golden Loaf, an establishment I am well known to frequent.”
“He came looking for me!”
“And you didn’t know he was following you?” Kesrin demanded. “Didn’t know what he intended?”
“I knew what he intended,” Abramm admitted. “But everyone present saw how it came about.”
“Yet the story will not be told that way. The Gadrielites will connect you with us, regardless of whether you are one of us or not. Then we, I fear, will pay the price.”
“Only because you keep backing down from them.”
Kesrin frowned and went back to his meal. For a time the only sounds were the clink of his utensils on the pewter plate, the hiss and crackle of the fire, and muffled laughter from the crowd in the Great Room down the hall.
The meat and greens were gone by the time he spoke again. “Seth told you to leave us alone. That you were no longer welcome among us. Why did you not heed him?”
“Because I need to talk to you.”
“And here I thought this conversation was my idea.” He picked up the last of the bread and broke it in two.
“In truth, I believe it was Eidon’s,” Abramm said.
Kesrin looked up at him sharply, brows drawn together. “You are an odd man, Alaric.” He ate one of the pieces of bread, then said, “What is it you need to talk to me about?”
This, too, was not going as Abramm had intended. For now that the question was before him, he found himself blank headed and wordless, terrified to blurt out the barren truth, yet seeing no other way before him. He was more certain than ever that Kesrin would not believe him. Memories of Carissa’s rejection plagued him. As did the endless arguments that burst out among the Dorsaddi, first over the need to take the Star at all, and then, among those who did, about everything else imaginable.
One thing he had learned in all of it was how very difficult it was for men—or women!—to admit they were wrong. Once an opinion was formed, it was as easily turned as the current in a flooded wadi. Especially if the opinion had been made public, and even more especially if it had been lauded and embraced.
But perhaps this was just the Shadow again, blinding him to the possibilities and power of the Light, seeing only the negative, the obstacles, the potential for disaster. At the moment that seemed all he could see.
He glanced at Yacopan, standing by the door, then at the other man, a silent sentinel near the hearth, and finally at Trap, who clearly understood his dilemma and just as clearly had no solutions.
“Whatever you have to say to me,” Kesrin prodded, “can be said in front of Yacopan and Parsival.”
“It is my secret to share, sir, not yours.”
Kesrin laughed outright. “You’ve already aligned yourself with Terstan heretics, man. What other secret could you possibly need to guard after that one?”
When Abramm had no answer for him but still refused to relent, the man sighed again and shook his head, finishing off his meal and pushing the plate away.
Before he could speak, though, the door opened and a serving girl slipped in—the same girl who had served them back in the Great Room. Now, seeing her with Kesrin, Abramm realized she’d been with the merchant on the dock the day he’d arrived, the fawn-haired girl who’d stared at him as if he were some kind of god. Now as then, her gaze kept coming back to him, making him glad for the poor lighting. As she gathered up the plates she asked Kesrin if she should bring his tea, and he said that she should.
“The wellberry blend tonight, I think, if you please.”
“Yes, sir.” She paused, balancing the plates, and leaned closer to him. “Are they really from Esurh?”
“You are here to serve tables, lass,” he told her firmly. “And table servers don’t ask inn patrons personal questions about their guests.”
Her disappointment was palpable. Half pouting, she flicked another glance at Abramm and hurried out.
As the door snicked shut, Kesrin returned to their conversation, letting Abramm off the hook for the moment as he pursued another line of inquiry. “Your victim this night wore a shield, as well. Did you know that?”
“No,” Abramm said, surprised. “Was he one of yours?”
“Years ago.”
“I’m sorry, then.”
“So am I, though in truth he brought it on himself.”
Abramm allowed himself a small smile. “I expect his gray-cloaked friends will have a bit of a shock when they find that.”
“Oh, he covered it up years ago. I doubt he even remembers that he wears it.”
Abramm frowned at him. “If he wears the shield covered, where was the sarotis?”
Kesrin arched his brows. “The sarotis is not always manifested outwardly, son. It depends on the individual, and of course, the powers of the rhu’ema— or even certain spawn spore—can be used to mask it.” He smiled wryly. “Terstans are not the only ones who get it, merely the ones who have been chosen to bear its stigma.”
“Covered shields, false ones, hidden sarotis—how can you ever tell who’s genuine?”
“You can’t always. It takes wisdom. Sometimes a good deal of it.” A staffid folded itself over the edge of the table and skittered toward Kesrin. “That’s why we’re told to be careful who we choose to walk with,” he said as if it weren’t there. “And why we aren’t to judge by appearance. Although I think there wasn’t much question as to where Skurlek’s loyalties lay.” The spawn was only inches from his hand when the Light flickered out of it, impaling the creature and frying it on the spot. “And do not think,” he went on as if nothing had happened, “that you are free of his friends simply because you have bested him with such finality—or even because you have threatened them. They will come after you. Seth’s advice was as much for your good as ours.”
As Yacopan picked up the dead spawn and carried it to the fire, the serving girl returned with a tray bearing cup, water pot, and infuser filled with tea, going around to the left side of the table this time, passing by Abramm close enough for her skirt to brush his cloak. She set the tray on the table and unloaded it, then placed the infuser into the cup and poured the steaming water over it. When that was done she took the tray and stepped back, standing just behind the kohal’s elbow, her eyes flicking from Abramm to Trap and back again, so piercing Abramm felt as if she had somehow stripped away all his disguise and now knew exactly who he was.
“You may leave us now, lass,” Kesrin said.
“But—”
“Now.”
She argued no further, but took her opportunity to peer even more intently into Abramm’s face as she passed him, though he deliberately kept his gaze on Kesrin and hoped the room’s dim light hid the flush that had crept into his face.
As the door shut, Kesrin swirled the infuser around in his cup and said, as if there had been no interruption, “I don’t think you understand the situation here, Alaric.”
“I understand that evil has power only because the righteous fail to stand up to it.”
“Or are too few in number to do so. Especially when the law of the land is not on their side.”
Abramm felt his own b
rows rise. “It is against the law in Kiriath to protect oneself and one’s property from criminals?”
“Technically no, but when the magistrates look the other way, and the testimony of a Terstan no longer holds equal weight with that of other men, and those others are either too afraid to come to our defense or else agree with the Gadrielites, well, it may as well be.”
“And what about your new king?” Abramm asked, his heart suddenly pounding. Kesrin had already noticed his eyes. If Abramm mentioned the king, it was possible the kohal might make the connection, though he still wasn’t sure that would be a good thing. Nevertheless he plunged on. “You’re all so sure he won’t support you—why don’t you go to him and find out for sure?”
“How do you know we haven’t?”
“Have you?”
“I doubt he’d see me.”
“Surely with your social position, you’d have no problem gaining an audience. You attended the palace celebration of the kraggin’s death, after all.”
“Yes,” Kesrin retorted sourly. “And was there to see Abramm agree with Lord Prittleman, who is leader of the Gadrielites, that a purge of Terstans is needed.”
Abramm grimaced. “You heard him say that?”
“He didn’t say anything. But he was standing right there when Prittleman said it, heard him clearly and offered not one word of reproof.”
“Maybe he was distracted,” Abramm suggested.
Kesrin shook his head, setting the tea infuser aside and lifting the cup to blow on the hot liquid. “No, I fear he is possessed, quite frankly, and that if I went to him he would merely use the situation as an excuse to station more men down there, in order to decrease our freedoms further.” He leaned forward to gingerly sip his tea.
Abramm frowned at him. “Yet you said in your message tonight that Abramm is the one Eidon has placed over you as ruler. Are you not charged, then, with the duty of taking your grievances to him if the lower authorities will not give you justice? You urged us to trust Eidon in this, yet it seems to me you have need of listening to your own advice.”