Angus Wells - The God Wars 01 (2 page)

 
          
"But
it was the truth?"

 
          
Gomus
nodded.

 
          
"As
you heard—the dead have no choice save truth."

 
          
"Then
I am confirmed." Bylath rose; anxious to be gone now. "Tobias shall
inherit and Calandryll shall be a priest. My thanks, Gomus."

 
          
"I
exist only to serve," murmured the necromancer, smiling obsequiously as
Bylath hurried from his red-lit chamber.

 
          
Though
spring had barely touched the coast of
Lysse
and waves still winter-strong beat
irritably against the harbor walls a warm breeze pervaded the streets of Secca,
rendering Calandryll acutely conscious of the disguising cloak he affected. It
was the least obtrusive he could find among the many displayed in the extensive
wardrobes of the Domm's palace, but still more opulent than those few he had
seen as he made his furtive way from his father's halls, and made the more
noticeable by the general absence of such garb in the narrow alleyways of the
Seers Gate. 
_i

 
          
Several
times he had become aware of eyes upon him and wondered if he was recognized,
or noted for the richness of his dress, hunching in on himself, the deep blue
folds of the cloak drawn close across his chest as he hurried past the observers,
tempted to cover his thick blond hair but aware that a raised hood on so warm a
morning must only call down additional attention. Bylath or Tobias would have
been instantly recognized, though it was unlikely either the Domm or his elder
son would have ventured to this part of the city unless on some official
errand, and unthinkable that they would come alone, unaccompanied by armed
guard or servants. The younger son, however, was less known and, he felt,
considerably less conspicuous. The Domm had told him often enough that save for
the yellow hair inherited from his mother, and a general similarity of feature,
he lacked those characteristics that set the den Karynth apart from the
populace of the city they governed, and certainly he lacked his father's regal
air of massive confidence or his brother's stature; so perhaps he might succeed
in reaching his objective without word returning to the Domm.

 
          
He
hoped so, for Bylath would undoubtedly take it amiss that his younger son
should seek out a spaewife among the common folk; and take it worse should he
learn the reason.

 
          
Calandryll
grinned uneasily at the thought, tom between fear of the Domm's anger and the
spice of defiance.

 
          
There
were seers enough resident within the palace.

 
          
Diviners
of the future in sundry arcane manners: the interpretation of entrails, the
casting of rune-writ bones, the reading of cards,- an astrologer, a
necromancer, a chiromancer; and the Domm consulted them all. Calandryll might
have gone to any of them to obtain a prediction of his future, but then,
without doubt, word of that small rebellion would have been given to Bylath,
and he did not want that. Nor was he by any means sure that such a prediction
would be honest: he suspected the palace soothsayers tailored their auguries to
the desires of the Domm. He wanted honesty, unbiased, not hindered by fear of
his father's displeasure.

 
          
So
he had awaited an opportune moment, disguised himself as best he was able, and
slipped from the palace to make his way through Secca to the Seers Gate.

 
          
Now
he reached the maze of passages that wound below the city walls, close by the
harbor, and paused, studying the buildings confronting him. Like all the
structures contained within the ramparts, they stood two stories high at most,
flat-roofed, with winter-stripped vines and budding shrubbery visible above the
retaining terrace walls, window shutters thrown open to permit entry to the
promise of spring carried on the warm breeze. This close to the harbor the
promise was accompanied by the smell of fish, and tar, and the odor of garbage
was not entirely concealed by the sewers Calandryll's greatgrandfather had
ordered built.

 
          
Those
smells, however, only added to the excitement he felt, and he savored them as
eagerly as the bouquet of some prized
Aldan
vintage. The sons of the Domm had little truck with the ordinary life of their
city, their own being confined largely to the palace, to the endless
preparation for future duties, and the mansions of Secca's aristocracy. Tobias,
Calandryll was sure, would have found such smells offensive, would be horrified
that his brother could take pleasure in them. Calandryll smiled at the thought
and strode determinedly beneath the quarter marker hung on slightly rusted
chains across the street.

 
          
A
few passersby glanced at him, but he was too eager now to worry about
recognition, and most of the folk he saw were sufficiently engrossed in their
own business that they paid him scant attention. He moved down the narrow
street, studying the frontages for the sign of Reba.

 
          
She,
according to those servants he had—discretely, he hoped!—questioned, was the
most reliable spaewife to be found beyond the confines of the palace, and her
mark was a crescent moon encircled by stars. He set a hand on the purse at his
belt, his fingers brushing the unfamiliar hilt of the shortsword he wore, the
touch renewing his nervousness, reminding him that the poorer quarters of Secca
were, even under his father's stem rule, not entirely safe. That, he thought,
his smile growing rueful, was something Tobias would not have worried about:
for all his arrogance and pride, the Domm's elder son was an excellent
swordsman,- which Calandryll was most definitely not.

 
          
He
shook the doubt away and continued past the stuccoed fronts. He had come too far
to let such weak-spined concerns stay him now, and surely footpads and thieves
preferred the darker hours, when they might more easily evade the watchmen. He
would find Reba and have her read his future. Then he would have choices to
make, based on firmer footing than his own emotions.

 
          
He
pressed on, ignoring the blandishments of those diviners not busy with clients,
seeking the star-circled crescent.

 
          
He
found it where an alley bisected the street, suspended from a pole of dark
iron, its wood ancient, the silver of the moon yellowed by age, three stars
hidden beneath the white smears of birds' droppings. It was an unimpressive
sign, though no less so than the building itself. That was narrow, one story
high, with weary vines trailing from the roof, a single window blank beside a
closed door of stained wood, the hinges pitted with rust. The wall that faced
the alley was devoid of openings and inscribed with graffiti of obscene
imagination, the frontage pale blue stucco, pocked like a diseased face, revealing
patches of bare, sand-colored stone.

 
          
Calandryll
swallowed the doubt he felt and tapped on the door.

 
          
"Enter."                                                                      
.              
,

 
          
The
voice was faint, coming from deep inside the house, and somehow younger than he
had expected, softer, almost musical: he pushed the door open and went

 
          
Darkness
veiled his eyes and he fumbled warily for his sword, hearing the door thud shut
behind him, his nostrils pinching at the cloying scent of incense. He blinked,
trying hard to see into the gloom and finding it impossible. He reached out
with his left hand, his right still on the sword's hilt, and felt rough plaster
beneath his fingers.

 
          
"You
seek to know your future?"

 
          
The
voice was louder without the intervention of the door and he moved toward it
through the darkness, cautiously, hand still brushing the wall.

 
          
"I
do," he said in answer.

 
          
"Then
come here."

 
          
The
house was deeper than he had thought, standing outside,- there were interior rooms,
passages, that distorted her voice; he asked, "Where is
her el
I
cannot see you."

 
          
A
laugh answered him and she said, "I am sorry—I forget."

 
          
He
frowned, hearing the scrape of flint on metal, seeing a tiny spark of light
glitter ahead. Then a glow as a lamp of scented oil was lit, revealing a curve
in the passage, dark rooms to his right.

 
          
"I
am here. Can you see now?"

 
          
"Yes."
He moved toward the light, ducking beneath an arched doorway, entering a small
room filled with shadows, the single lamp illuminating only the center, the low
table on which it stood, and the face of the woman beyond it.

 
          
"Is
that sufficient? Would you prefer more light?"

 
          
He
nodded, and when she offered no response said, "I would. Unless your art
requires darkness."

 
          
"Light
or dark, it matters not."

 
          
She
rose, lifting the lamp, and he saw that she was not the crone he had
anticipated but a woman barely in her middle years, who might have been
beautiful were her face not marked by plague scars.
Hence the gloom, he
thought, spaewives are as prone to vanity as any woman.
Then bit off the
thought as he watched her move to the wall, one hand touching the lamp set
there in a gentle caress as she ignited the wick. She moved on, slowly, her
free hand trailing along the wall just as he had sought that reassurance in ihe
darkness, lighting sufficient lamps the room grew bright and he could see the
blankness of her eyes and knew that she was blind. The servants had not
mentioned that and he felt his cheeks flush, embarrassed.

 
          
He
smiled apologetically and said, “Forgive me, I did not know."

 
          
“You
are courteous, but why should you? I see in other ways."

 
          
She
returned to the table and set the lamp aside, dropping smoothly to the cushions
piled there. A motion seated Calandryll opposite her. He found the blind gaze
of her eyes disconcerting, more so than the ugly pitting of her skin—plague was
not unknown in a city occasionally subjected to siege—and sought to regain his
composure by studying the room, her dress. Reba remained silent, as though
accustomed to such pauses, and he saw that her hair was long and red, glossy as
burnished copper, her gown green, fastened at throat and waist with vermilion
cords. The room was empty of those artifacts he associated with divination.
There was no crystal ball, nor caged bird or cabalistic charts, no cards spread
before her, no polished skulls. Rather, it was a simple, undecorated chamber,
the walls white, the floor plain wood, a reddish hue not unlike her hair, the
only furniture the table and the piled cushions, those simple, their colors
primary.

 
          
"Are
you disappointed?" Her tone hinted amusement. "Am I not grand enough
for the son of the Domm?"

 
          
"I...
No." He shook his head, then gasped: "How did you know that?"

 
          
She
laughed aloud and the sound hid her disfigurement.

           
“I am a spaewife, Calandryll. I saw
your coming yesterday.”

           
“I was not sure yesterday,” he said
slowly.

           
“But still I saw it. I should be a
poor seeress did I not. Would you not agree?”

           
He nodded and chuckled, her calm and
her amusement reassuring. "I would," he said. "Do others know?

 
          
Reba
snrugged. "That I cannot tell, though I would doubt it. A seer can usually
forecast only specific events— those things of direct import, or those for
which prediction is requested. Does it worry you?"

 
          
Now
he shrugged.

           
"I should prefer my father
did-not know."