Prisoner of Haven

8

The sun lay on the edge of the horizon, signaling the approach of Sir Radulf’s curfew, yet to Usha’s surprise the Grinning Goat rang with the laughter of dark knights bristling with weapons and arrogance, and the shrill voices of girls of doubtful virtue—or at least doubtful sense, Usha thought—who flirted with them.

“Does no one worry about curfew here?”

“Not that I’ve noticed,” Madoc drawled. “And I’ve been living up the stairs for nearly a year, somewhat less than a half owner of the place—but not much less, and—” he stopped, then mugged a wide-eyed expression of shock and surprise—“why, will you look at that! I’m a respectable businessman.”

Usha laughed, the young ne’er-do-well had always been able to charm her.

“We’re quite popular with the knights,” Madoc said as he held a chair for her. “The old Goat’s doing a fine business thanks to the occupation.” He shrugged. “And knights have to go somewhere to drink, eh?”

Usha glanced at the bar. Her eyes met those of a tall, burly knight who looked at her over the head of the dark-haired woman he held in his arms. The woman clung to him, drunk or laughing, perhaps both. He winked at Usha, flashing white teeth in a vulpine grin. Usha dismissed him with a look of chill disdain.

“Oh, don’t mind him,” Madoc said. “That’s Sir Arvel of Kinsalla. We’re becoming quite used to each other here. I’ve known for a while that he’s one of Sir Radulf’s close men.”

Usha frowned, not understanding the term.

“A knight particularly close to the power in the occupation. He’s here often, drinking, listening, and playing with the girls. That last he gets to do often, as you see.” He nodded genial salute to the knight who fondled the woman in his arms and yet looked at Usha. “He’s a man with an eye for beauty, that one. Could get him into trouble one day.”

Usha thought just about anything in the Goat could get anyone in trouble. In the corners and shadows lurked men with the hoods of their cloaks pulled low to hide their faces, and damn the heat; women whose glances darted all around the tavern in looks that reminded Usha of flinching.

“Who are these?” she asked Madoc, nodding to the secretive men and the skittish women.

“My clients, some. Others soon to be. The ones who come all the way down here to the docks looking for information they’ve been unable to find. Where is the dissolute son, the runaway daughter? Where can I find the ruthless bastard who cheated my old father of all he owned? Or where can I find a man to do a shady job of work?”

A man to hand out a beating, rob a house, slip a knife between the ribs of the one who debauched an innocent daughter, a spy in the shadows ...

Madoc didn’t say these things, but Usha heard them in his silence. She thought of the dark elf who’d died in the alley between Aline’s house and her neighbor’s stable.

“You know all these things, Madoc?”

The mage shook his head. “But I can find out anything. I know the people who know—or who might know.” His voice twisted on a bitter tone. “Days were when I could know such things by looking into a man’s heart and mind.”

Usha heard the same dry, self-mockery she’d heard from Palin in those later years when gods-given magic was dying, the cynical chuckle of a man who was once strong and willful in his magic and now daily wakes to an aching impotence.

Usha pushed her chair a little away from the small wooden table as a girl in a red skirt and black bodice used a much-rinsed rag to wipe the stains left behind be the last patron. The rag did well enough for rings from over-filled mugs of ale and beer, but failed miserably at cleaning away thick stains of something brown and sticky. That didn’t seem to trouble the girl, who balled up the rag and tossed it to the bar then turned to ask their pleasure.

Madoc turned a smile on the girl that, despite the new leanness of his face and the scruffiness of his chin, held the same charming combination of wistfulness and danger Usha remembered.

“ ’Twould please me, darling Bess, if you’d sit here on my knee for a bit.” The girl giggled as he caught her around the waist. Usha did not give much weight to her squeals of protest when Madoc lifted her up and settled her on his knee. Over the serving girl’s shoulder, he asked, “Are you hungry, Usha?”

“No.”

From Madoc’s knee, Bess took his order for a pitcher of ale. “And a couple of the clean mugs, eh?”

She giggled again and slipped out of his arms to return in moments with ale and two reasonably clean mugs.

At the bar, Sir Arvel tossed a few coins onto the oak and disengaged from the dark-haired woman. The barman said, “See you again,” and the knight assured him that he would. On the way out he slowed his step, nodded to Usha with another wolfish grin, and left the tavern.

Usha’s look was chillier than the one before, but it didn’t seem to trouble him in the least.

“Ah, you’re not going to freeze that one with your iciest glare, Usha,” Madoc said, pouring a frothing mug for Usha and one for himself. “He’s too busy warming himself at the hearth of his own self-regard. But he’s gone and it’s a good time for talking. So, tell me. I don’t have but a lick and a spit of magic, and that only on rare days, but it’s at your service if you need it. How can I help you?”

Usha looked at him for a long quiet moment, remembering him as he’d been the last time she’d seen him—a reckless young man shunned by his family for abandoning knightly training and refusing to take up a knight’s vocation as his brothers and sister had.

“The woe of my father,” he’d said, in grim mockery, “and the misery of my mother.”

In those days Madoc ap Westhos had been a wayward and very promising student of Palin’s, a young man who’d had nothing to look forward to but an increasing pile of bar bills. He’d taken Aline to Haven simply on the promise that Usha would pay off those accounts. Nor had he asked for more when he’d come back, his heart irretrievably lost. Now, head high and a strange, lean smile on his lips, he bore Usha’s scrutiny well.

On the brink of asking what he knew about Qui’thonas, Usha changed her question.

“Madoc, what do you know about Sir Radulf’s second in command?”

He gave her a long look. Usha felt him weighing the implications of the question. He took a drink of ale, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and shrugged.

“What everyone else knows. She’s highborn Palanthian. And when Solamnics fall from grace, we tend to fall hard and far.” He twisted a wry smile. “But not all black sheep gather in the same fold, Usha. I didn’t know her family. My kin are from Sancrist. I don’t know Lady Mearah, either, just her reputation. Whatever you hear about her isn’t much of an exaggeration. She’s ruthless. Not as ruthless as Sir Radulf, though. As long as she serves his purpose, she’ll do well, but they’re a dangerous combination. Whoever is running things in Neraka these days is taking a bit of a gamble pairing those two.” Again, he shrugged, as though to say, Who can figure out what they’re thinking in Neraka, anyway? “Together, they’ll run this city so it brings in nice profits for the green dragon. If Beryl is happy, everyone in Neraka will be happy. But if things get dicey, milady had better watch her back. And Sir Radulf had better watch his.”

Satisfied, Usha said, “Do you know about Qui’thonas?”

Madoc nodded, but very carefully, as though feeling to see if an old wound still hurt. “I know it got paid for with a wedding. And that no one had gone out from Qui’thonas for some time before the old man died.”

“Do you know that the path that came in is going to lead out soon?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Who told you that? Old faithful Dunbrae?” He snorted. “That one never lets anything go. Qui’thonas is finished.”

“No.” She noted every detail of his expression, as though he were a subject to be captured on canvas. He betrayed no surprise, and nothing of hope. “Aline’s not giving up. Dezra has joined her. Others will be called upon again.”

He shrugged. “And how does this involve me?”

Usha mirrored the gesture. “My friend, to some degree it involves me. To greater degree, Dez and ‘old faithful Dunbrae.’ It only involves you if you want it to.”

She’d left out one name, and Usha saw him speak it to himself, just a movement of his lips, before asking, “What does she say?”

Usha was careful to restrain a smile. “Aline needs every willing hand.” Carefully, she said, “And every willing heart. Madoc, can you work with her?”

He was a long time silent, and because she knew him of old, because she’d known for a long time what it felt like to be in the company of a mage working magic, she knew Madoc Diviner was trying to look into her mind or her heart. She relaxed, she let him, and she felt the faintest touch, a stray breeze slipping through her thoughts. As soon as she was able to name the feeling, it vanished.

“It still works,” he said. “Sometimes. All right, Usha. If she says so, I’m with you.” He laughed, but the laugher had a hitter note. “And old faithful Dunbrae and I will have to manage somehow.”

Old faithful Dunbrae. Usha wondered what was between the two that Madoc spoke of him in such ironic tones. She didn’t ask. There would be time enough to learn.

“Now,” he said, “we’ve been a while here talking, and it’s true Sir Radulf doesn’t trouble us much with closing times or even curfew. He’s been known to order a raid now and then. Once we’ve even been closed. By and large, he likes having a place for his men to come and listen for things he’d like to know. But that’s here. In the rest of Haven, his rule must be obeyed. I’m worried the hour of curfew will be past before you can get back to your inn.”

Outside, the narrow street had grown dusky. The patrons of the Grinning Goat didn’t seem in any great hurry to leave, but few others had come in.

“Let me walk you back to the Ivy.”

Usha would have protested, said she could make it back in time, but he nodded toward the window fronting the cobbled street. Sir Arvel stood across the way, leaning against a wall, a man in the attitude of patience.

“I’ll walk you home, or he’ll follow you home. He’s curious about you, Usha. He has a greedy eye for a lovely woman.”

Madoc’s company didn’t stop the knight from following. Now and then, when she looked over her shoulder, she saw him walking behind. To this Madoc paid no attention, and when he saw Usha safely to the door of the Ivy, he swept her a bow and bid her good night.

Once inside, she found the common room nearly full as men and women and children gathered to eat what had, in a grim jest, become known as the Curfew Meal. Three women, the cook’s boy, and the landlord himself served the crowd. Arms laden with a full and heavy tray of pitchers and mugs, Rusty stopped for a moment to tell her she had a letter.

“Came for you this afternoon, Mistress Usha.” He jerked his head toward the bar. “Back there, just tell the gully dwarf to ... nah, nah, never mind. I’ll get it.”

He sat down the tray, took another order, and went to fetch the letter. Usha thanked him then looked out the window. In the lightless street she saw two dark figures—Madoc talking with Sir Arvel. She didn’t hear what Sir Arvel said, but Madoc’s reply was clear: “Now, you saw me walking a lady home, sir knight. Nothing more dangerous than that. Come with me, and if you don’t agree she was a good reason for breaking curfew, I’ll buy you a drink.”

The noise in the common room seemed to grow in its intensity—the shouts of servers and customers and the wails of cranky babies. Usha didn’t hear Dezra behind her so much as sense her.

“Mighty close with the knights, your friend Madoc.”

In no mood to resume the argument, Usha didn’t answer. She unfolded the note Rusty had given her and saw it was from Loren Halgard. His signature was bold enough that Dezra saw it too.

In answer to her curious expression, Usha said, “An invitation to supper.”

Dezra raised an eyebrow.

“He’s Lorelia Gance’s cousin,” Usha said, disliking the note of rationalization in her voice.

“How nice,” Dezra said. “Lorelia’s cousin to invite you to supper, a knight to follow you home, and a mage to protect you from that. You’re tripping over men everywhere you go, Usha. No doubt all these people know you’re married.”

Stung, Usha turned from the window. “All the people know who should know.”

And if Dezra heard criticism of her too-often absent brother in that cool reply, Usha didn’t mind. When she turned back to the window, she saw that Madoc and Sir Arvel were gone. The street was not deserted, however.

A rough-looking man stood where Sir Arvel had. Short and barrel-chested, he looked up the street and down. He was not a knight, but in his watchfulness, his arrogant stance, he reminded Usha of the knight she’d seen in the market square. As she thought so, the man turned his head toward the inn. He was far enough away for Usha to believe he wasn’t looking at her. Yet she didn’t believe that, not at all. Something about the way he crossed the road and paused in the light cast out from the window made her think he saw her quite well.

Blade clashed against keen-edged blade, ringing in echoes through the vast armory beneath Old Keep. The tang of steel and sweat hung in the air, and just beneath it lurked the coppery scent of blood. From the gallery above, Lady Mearah looked down upon the battle games below—four groups of men testing their wiles and weapons. The keep, so long given over to ceremony and formal feasting, had resumed its original purpose—an armory and a barracks.

Lady Mearah glanced at the dark elf standing beside her. He was a reach away from the fluted stone column that rose from the armory below, past the gallery where they stood, and into the heights of the shadow-draped ceiling. He could have leaned on the column, on the railing before them. He did not. Tavar Evenstar, a hard-eyed, fallen Silvanesti, preserved every function of formality when in her presence.

Returning her eyes to the battle games, the lady knight said, “Tell me about Usha Majere. Who did she go to see?”

Tavar looked where she did, and they could have been two people fascinated by what was going on below. “Madoc Diviner. I hear they’re old friends.”

The lady knight raised an eyebrow. “What manner of friends? Wasn’t he one of her husband’s pupils before the Academy was destroyed?”

“He was, and it doesn’t seem there’s more to it than a brief meeting to renew acquaintance. She’s been in Haven since just before the fall, and by all accounts this is the first time they’ve been in each other’s company. She’s working as a portraitist for room and board.” He paused, Lady Mearah knew he was weighing words. “If it comes to friendship and what kind, I think the smart gamble would be on the other side of Haven. Usha Majere isn’t one for infidelity, but if she were, she wouldn’t look for an opportunity on the low side of the street. She’s been spending time with Havelock Gance’s family, and Loren Halgard has been twice seen in her company.”

“Anything there?”

Tavar shook his head. “No. As I say, Usha Majere isn’t known to be unfaithful.”

“And the other one? Her husband’s sister?”

The dark elf shrugged. “I don’t know, my lady. She was at the inn when my watcher saw Majere’s wife return. No one saw her come or go, and yet she wasn’t there all day.”

Lady Mearah nodded. She didn’t waste time telling him to learn further about the whereabouts of Dezra Majere. One by blood, the other by marriage, these women were kin to a powerful mage, one whose whereabouts were not precisely known. They bore watching, and Tavar knew his business.

Lady Mearah put her finger on the center of a blood red gem set in the silver torque around the dark elf’s own neck. The ruby, a love-gift, glowed in response to her touch. There was not much magic left in the world, but this small gem still possessed something of its old nature in that it retained the ability to know a loved one’s touch and respond warmly. Tavar closed her hand in his own, a quick gesture, a secret clasping. He was Silvanesti, cast out from his homeland before the Chaos War, before the Blue Lady’s War, even before the War of the Lance. He was over one hundred years old, yet he looked like a handsome youth. As well as Lady Mearah’s confidant and the chief of her most loyal men, a shadowy band of dark elves and renegade humans, he was her lover.

It was not something either of them wanted known. They had too many enemies—some in common, and some not.

Tavar lifted her hand and brushed her fingers with his lips. Wordless, he left, moving soundlessly across the gallery, gliding down the stone steps. She watched him stand and look at the skirmishers then walk away. By the time he was out of her sight, Tavar Evenstar was out of her mind, her attention again on the men below.

At Sir Radulf’s command, Lady Mearah had ordered her knights to inspect the weapons they’d found here the first day of the occupation in preparation for taking Old Keep as their headquarters. Not much had seemed worth keeping, the weaponry of farmers and shopkeepers—in Lady Mearah’s opinion, worth no more than hayforks and wood axes. At the commander’s wish, she’d had much of it taken out and replaced by good swords and pikes, mail and lances and spiked maces. In the bowels of the place she’d ordered a forge set up. To feed the fires she’d commandeered workers from Haven’s citizenry to harvest the forest. Under close guard, young men from the city went out in the morning and came back with carts full of wood. One or two had tried to escape. They had not gone far before archers hidden in the trees stopped them.

The bodies were left as warning. It was her mark, just as the blood red sword embroidered on the black silk tunic she wore was hers.

“My lady,” said a voice behind her. Agmar, Sir Radulf’s dark-eyed squire, stepped out of the shadows.

The door into the vast second floor chamber that served as Sir Radulf’s own quarters and wardroom stood ajar. The scent of wine and woodsmoke drifted into the gallery. From within came a clipped, “At once, Sir Radulf,” followed by the sound of another door closing.

The squire seemed to have heard neither. He sketched a perfunctory bow. “Sir Radulf sent me to find you. He’s ready for the nightly report.”

“I’m at his disposal.”

She said so, but Lady Mearah didn’t immediately move, instead leaving the squire to bow and withdraw. She was Palanthian, and though subordinate in rank to Sir Radulf Eigerson, her lineage was subordinate to that of very few people, and certainly not to any tally of Sir Radulf Eigerson’s forebears. Rank must be respected, but Lady Mearah was of the kind of folk who knew about nuance, and just how much of a nuanced delay a man like Sir Radulf would understand or tolerate.

She looked once more upon the games below. A smear of blood marred the scrubbed slates of the floor, and one of the combatants went limping off the field. His fellows got back to the business of testing themselves and training. Lady Mearah was pleased. They were like her armory—hard and cold and very strong.

Someone cried out, a harsh curse, and steel belled on steel. She watched the two fighters, men from her own talon. They had been hers from the day she joined Sir Radulf’s command, months before. Loyal, fierce, and devoted to their lady, these men and others formed the nucleus of a group of knights she could count on, steady as stone and willing to do whatever she asked.

Lady Mearah nodded, well content, and went to answer her commander’s summons. As she closed the door to Sir Radulf’s quarters, she framed the nightly report, the tally of men on the walls, the state of the food supply and the readiness the caravans and escorts ready to keep the city provisioned. In her mind, she organized rumors and facts, and she considered the reports from her personal spies, men like Tavar Evenstar. Some she would keep to herself, but she decided to include Tavar’s speculations about the woman Usha Majere.

“I’ve heard, my lord, that you’ve had some contact with her.”

Sir Radulf looked up, eyes narrowed. “I have. Your point?”

One of the torches on the wall hissed and snapped, and the flame flared. In the changing light, his face seemed sharply sculpted, his eyes cold gleams in deep sockets. That look could rock a knight back on her heels, but Lady Mearah smiled right into it.

“No great point, though it is interesting that the wife of a mage once so powerful is abroad in the city.” She shrugged. “I’m sure she’s quite harmless.”

“Utterly,” Sir Radulf said. “A saucy tongue, as I recall, but no more.”

Lady Mearah waited for dismissal, straight and tall and holding back a bit of Tavar’s news. She would not mention anything about Dezra Majere. Lady Mearah didn’t like to raise questions until she had some idea how she might find the answers.