Color Mage (Book 1) (26 page)

Callo unbuckled his sword and handed it over. It was not unusual for a tavern keeper to insist his patrons be disarmed before entering. He was glad he had a weapon in reserve in this unknown place.

Callo saw a glow as a curtain or some other barrier parted before him. He moved toward it then into the yellow light of the tavern. As he left the darkness, the outer curtain swung closed. It was intended to make newcomers pause until the old man inside had judged them safe to enter. It worked well, he thought, limiting entry and allowing the guard to shout a warning if necessary.

He looked around at a tavern like dozens of others he had seen. Men sat at wooden tables or on benches around the fire, drinking ale or eating bread and savory stew. A veiled woman delivered mugs of ale to a group of seamen near the fire.

When Callo entered, everyone went still. He looked around for a seat at an empty table. An older man with wisps of gray hair adorning a shiny scalp approached. He had the arms of an old seaman, lean and ropy, and wore a tavern-keeper’s apron.

The keeper looked straight into Callo’s face and blanched. Callo could see the change even in the flickering yellow light.

“Ku’an!” the man whispered.

Chairs scraped against the floor as men rose. Callo turned his back to the empty section of the room and reached for his knife. His hand closed on empty air. His knife had been detached from his belt, so neatly that he had felt nothing. There was only one place it could have happened. He looked around for another weapon.

“No, no, my lord ku’an, be at peace,” the keeper said. “You men, sit down.”

“My knife,” Callo said evenly.

“Yes, yes. Gri’nel, come out!”

A gnarled man came out of the curtained entrance. His grin showed missing teeth.

“Missed something, ha’ we?”

Callo did not feel like smiling. The men at the fire had begun to sit down again, no longer on alert, but they were still watching. The tavern keeper looked at Callo’s face and said, “Gri’nel, get my lord ku’an’s knife. And his sword as well.”

“Isn’t that a choker? A ku’an, in here! Too dark t’see the cursed yellow eyes,” Gri’nel explained. “Or I wouldn’a taken it, Fal’ar.”

“I’m sure,” the keeper said. “Just get it, would you?”

Gri’nel reached back into the alcove and brought out Callo’s weapons. Callo took them and buckled both weapons back on, never looking away from the old man’s face.

“Little pissed off, ain’t ya’?” Gri’nel asked.

“I apologize, my lord,” Fal’ar said. “Sit, please. Gri’nel is employed to watch the entryway. He is supposed to warn us if he thinks someone is a risk. Sometimes he goes too far, you hear me, Gri’nel?”

The old man shrugged. “It were a nice knife, Fal’ar. Couldn’t keep my hands to my own self.”

Callo looked around the tavern. The men were still watching him, but there was no further attempt to rise, no intimation of threat. The tavern keeper seemed eager to placate him. He drew a deep breath and felt his shoulders relax.

“That’s right, my lord,” Fal’ar said. “Please be seated. Mostly we just have ale for the seamen, but I could find some wine for you.”

“Ale is fine.” Callo sat at an empty table, his back carefully to the wall. He said, “I am looking for one Ha’star.”

“He said he challenged a ku’an. Just like the wharf rat not to tell me you might show up here. Be at ease, my lord.” Fal’ar bowed.

Callo sat back and looked around the room. The other men turned and resumed their various conversations or activities. The veiled woman brought him a large cup of ale, but shook her head when he put coin on the table.

“Fal’ar says no payment is necessary, my lord ku’an.”

“Just the same, here it is,” Callo said. He left the coin on the table. The woman bent her head and retreated.

Several minutes later, he decided that Ha’star would not be at the Black Duck that evening. He rose, about to take his leave. Then he heard Gri’nel’s cackle from the security door, and the curtain blew aside to admit the warrior himself.

Two men by the fire who were much the worse for drink shouted, “Ha’star!” He waved at them and then his eyes widened as he saw Callo.

“My lord ku’an,” he said, pulling a chair out and sitting down across from Callo. “You are very quick.”

“I have questions, as I told you. I did not want to wait to have them answered.”

Ha’star lifted one eyebrow. “Well, my lord, I know ku’an want everything right away. I never swore to answer every question, though. Wouldn’t be safe. If you’re going to lose your temper over me refusing to answer now an’ then, tell me now, and we’ll go our ways.”

Callo sighed. “I apologize. It’s been an odd day. Have an ale. Of course, I will not lose my temper if you don’t answer every question. Really, I just want you to tell me what you know about the ku’an.”

The veiled woman brought ale to the table. Ha’star lifted his mug in a silent salute to her. She nodded, then turned and went away. Callo stared after her.

“I thought women could not work in a place like this in Ha’las,” he said. “Is it safe?”

Ha’star snorted. “Safer than bein’ in the public places, where any yellow-eyed bastard could see her,” he said. “Begging your pardon. Fa’lar is her uncle. It is allowed. No one here would touch her.”

“All right.”

Ha’star sipped. “I’m a damn fool to be talking to you. I don’t know why but I’ve taken a liking to you. If you go and pull some ku’an foulness, I’ll know I was wrong.”

“I will do my best not to prove you wrong,” Callo said.

“The ku’an? Demons, all of them, saving your presence. They use their foul powers to get whatever they want. They can see a woman they like on the street, and a sennight later she’s living at the Castle being a whore to some bastard. If you get a chance to take her away, she won’t go—the ku’an ‘magicked’ her to think she really loves him.” Ha’star spat on the floor. “No man is safe around a ku’an. They say they can’t put thoughts in your head, just emotions, but emotions are strong, damn them. They can put false courage into a man’s head so he’ll charge an enemy of thousands, all full of the glory of the fight, and when he’s cut to pieces, no help for the family he left behind.”

“You sound as if you have seen these things yourself.”

“Some. There was a ku’an with the army in the south. He was a right demon, he was. Jol’tan, cousin to the King.”

“How many ku’an are there, then?”

Ha’star shrugged and drank his ale.

Callo said, “I have heard of only four here, at the palace, and this Jol’tan. That’s five. That is few to have a nation in their grip.”

“I hear the King has relatives, in the north. But I’ve not seen another. Just Jol’tan. And you. I’m not sure you count.”

Callo’s mouth twitched. “I hope not, from what you say. And these few ku’an can send a Black Tide against Righar?”

“Ah, so that’s it.” Ha’star’s eyes narrowed, making his scar draw tight. “You want to find out about the Black Tide. You are a spy for Righar.”

“No. I am sure I have been exiled from Righar.”

“Ar’ok took you in at the Castle. The ku’an’an talks to you. Maybe you are right, and you are no spy. You ku’an are beyond me. You seem to despise the ku’an, yet here you are, one yourself. How do you justify that? Now I talk to you, and for all I know, I’ll be sent to prison tomorrow for it.”

“Not by me,” Callo said. He sensed Ha’star’s cooperation waning, the man’s bitterness growing. He should draw this talk to a close before Ha’star turned against him. He drained his mug and stood.

“You have my thanks,” he said. “You will not lose by talking to me. You have courage.”

“I’m a fool,” Ha’star said, but he was grinning again. “But I know you did not influence me, my lord. Mayhap you’re different.”

“I hope to be different.” Callo nodded to the warrior, tossed another coin on the table, and walked out through the curtained section.

Gri’nel was invisible in the dark. Callo stopped a moment, waiting for his eyes to adjust. “Damn if I know how you can see in here,” he said.

“It’s a gift,” Gri’nel said. “No hard feelin’s now?”

“No, I suppose not.” Callo began to walk toward the outer door, visible now as a faint gray line of light.

“Beggin’ yer pardon, ku’an,” Gri’nel said. “Ha’star seems to like ya, more fool he, so for his sake, I’ll tell ya. There’s men outside, waitin’ for someone. Could be you.”

His heart leaped. He grasped his sword, unsheathing it with a faint hiss of steel. “My thanks,” he told the old man. Then he eased open the door, just an inch, and peered out.

Chiss no longer leaned against the opposite wall. There was no one within his field of vision. The alley had grown dark, lit only by a torch at the nearby intersection. The paving stones were still wet, as if it had rained again while he was in the Black Duck; they reflected the torchlight in a wavering shine that made visibility even more difficult. The hush outside seemed odd for a dockside alley with three taverns in it.

For just a second the thought of re-entering the Black Duck occurred to him; perhaps there was another door. Then he decided it would be better to get this over with. Assuming the men were along the wall beside the door, he bent low, sword at the ready, and leaped through the door, out into the alleyway. He slammed up against the wall on the other side and braced himself.

The men were there, backed up hard against the wall next to the tavern door. His low profile and fast exit caught them by surprise. The first man leaped at Callo, swinging his sword.

Callo easily countered the wild swing. His knife hand stabbed at the other’s wrist. His attacker’s sword clattered to the ground. The man grabbed his wrist and ducked back out of Callo’s reach as Callo kicked the sword away.

“My lord! There are six of them!” It was Chiss’ voice, shouting from farther up the alley. The men must be restraining him, Callo thought—no easy task, for Chiss was ready with a weapon.

Callo balanced on the balls of his feet, centered, ready. He knew he had only a breath before the next attack.

A man with a red beard, built like a barrel, lunged from the doorway. His sword was bigger than Ha’star’s. His strike came down like a boulder as he tried to crush Callo by mass alone.

Callo barely evaded the blow, slashing for the man’s sword arm. Their swords crashed together, ringing loud in the wet alley. The other men stood back, waiting for Redbeard to subdue Callo, staying out of the way of the man’s huge sword.

Redbeard raised his sword again, then swung into a powerful downstroke. Callo barely blocked the hammer-like blow.

Callo blocked the next strike, but his back was against the wall and he had no room to fight. His sword was no match for the massive battle sword. His arms ached and he knew his time was running out. The next time Redbeard drew up for a strike, Callo stepped forward and slammed the heel of his boot into Redbeard’s knee. The man screamed as his kneecap shattered. He fell back, sword dropping from his hand.

Two more were on him before he could catch his breath. Callo backed against the wall, trading strikes. One of the men swung a heavy mace. Callo had no choice but to block the blow on his upper arm. Then he struck back hard, slashing into the man’s shoulder. Blood spurted from the wound.

The mace was gone then but Callo’s shield arm—if only he had had a shield!—would not move as it should. Pain raced up to his shoulder. He wished he could protect it, but the first man, the one he had disarmed, was back. He and two others came at Callo in a semi-circle. He tried to attack without leaving himself open but knew it was impossible.

He tried to move, to gain some advantage. His feet slipped on blood, and a sword that would have sliced open his neck flashed over his head as he stumbled. Another sword flashed in his peripheral vision as he scrambled to rise. He struggled up, dodged the strike, and cut hard to the left. He was rewarded with a spurt of blood from the other man’s arm. But he was out of breath, and this newly-wounded man kept fighting; the wound had not disabled him.

Nearby, Redbeard still screamed with the pain of his shattered knee.

Callo was struggling now. Three men still pressed around him. One stood by, ready; the other two fought. If his attackers were not impeding each other, he would be dead by now, Callo knew.

His nearest opponent, a lean man with a black raven tattoo on his cheek, still pressed him. That one moved fast and Callo felt the bite of steel into the upper part of his sword arm. The blood came, fast but not the spurt of an artery. Nevertheless, it flowed down his arm and slicked his sword hand. He felt lightheaded, and his left arm was now refusing to move at all.

“My lord!” shouted Chiss, sounding alarmed. And well he might. All at once Callo felt as if he might fall to exhaustion and the shock of his wound. Forcing himself to stand, he took one desperate action.

Still warding off blows with a weaker arm, Callo reached for the barrier in his mind that he had built to keep himself from using his ku’an ability. For the first time in his life, he consciously dropped it. Then he let his own sense of desperation fill him, gave it free rein until it loomed like a monster. He sent it like an arrow into the minds of the men around him.

When he had a breathing space to work with, he reached for the worst thing he could think of, something that would stop his attackers cold. He remembered what the fear of a child’s nightmare felt like, added it to the mix, and forced it away from him, hoping it was enough to stall the attack. Then he released the terrifying pressure.

The blows stopped. No more swords whistled about his head. He staggered back against the alley wall. Two men had fallen to their knees on the paving stones, arms clutching themselves as if they were trying to protect themselves from something. One man—Raven Tattoo—ran off down the alley, arms windmilling, moaning. He had dropped his sword. Two lay in limp postures that suggested they were dead or unconscious. The last was nowhere to be seen.

Callo slumped against the wall.

A hand gripped his shoulder. “My lord, stop now,” Chiss said. “Please stop.” His voice quavered.

“You feel it too?” Callo asked. He closed his eyes and pulled the emotion back into himself, then buried it deep. He built the wall again, stone by stone. It took a few moments but felt much longer. When he reopened his eyes, Chiss leaned against the wall beside him, pale as an egg. Callo thought he saw tear tracks on the man’s lean cheeks.