Feast of Fates (Four Feasts Till Darkness Book 1) (50 page)

Across from them lay creaking grand piers with bobbing vessels of queer designs and origins: arrowhead-shaped, mastless ships that were made of metal, yet floated; the haunting white longboats of the Northmen with boldly blue sails, and other more commonplace wooden skiffs. Unsurprisingly, the
merchantry had spread to the harbor, and men shouted in various tongues—sometimes impressively cycling through several—from behind cracked-open crates, shilling their wares without even leaving port. Along the side of the road that Thackery and Caenith stood on were rows of tall houses, taverns, and other dwellings that served for trade, habitation, or a mixture of each. It was quite a rush of activity to take in, and Thackery shook his head from it and set out north toward the mountainside, shortly taking them from sun to shadow again as they delved into a street off the main road. C
ORDENZIA
B
OULEVARD
, read the signpost that Caenith passed.

“Cordenzia was a retired whore master from Menos,” commented Thackery, who must have noticed his companion’s turned eye. “One of the only women to have had that stature, and she gave it up so that she could live in freedom and no longer submit to others’ rule or cruelty. She retired to Taroch’s Arm and became a weaver, one of Geadhain’s finest, I am told.”

“You speak as if you knew her,” said Caenith.

Thackery paused and spoke behind a hand; his expression was wistful and wrinkled by a hint of pain. “I did indeed. It is Cordenzia who owes me this debt. I was another person in another life, and I helped folks like her who wanted to leave the Iron City.”
At the cost of everything I valued
. “Cordenzia was never one for adulation, which is why she never lived in the neighborhood named after her famed talents. Interesting that her family would return here. We can assume that she has passed since such a choice has been made.”

Thackery continued down the lane. Cordenzia Boulevard was sparser of traffic, with a few one-man carriages and more inns than shops. Pleasant aromas of spiced meat and fresh ale lightened the Wolf’s mood, and the people here moved at a more relaxed pace. They reached number one eighty-five in a few sands; the numbers were hammered into the facade of a tavern with a happily buzzing porch of red-cheeked patrons sipping drinks and nibbling on platters of game and vegetables that made Caenith’s mouth water with their smell. The men walked up the wooden steps, and Thackery asked a busty serving girl where the owner could be found, as they had important news to share with him—or her, as he was soon corrected.

“She’s inside,” said the serving girl. “I’ll show you.”

Following the girl, they entered the busy tavern and waded through tables in a wide-beamed room toward a bar tended by a stout muscled man who blanched at Caenith’s appearance.

The serving girl ordered them some watered mead on the house and darted off to find her superior, leaving the pair to watch the eclectic crowd that Taroch’s Arm drew. Cloaked, wrapped, silent Arhad—men only, naturally—huddled in the corner, no doubt cursing the foreigners around them while indulging in delights that their desert palates should never taste. Cosmopolitan lords and ladies in their fancy formal wear and gowns peered toward the Arhad with reciprocated contempt. Northern brutes, with their blue-tattooed faces and white-and-blond beards as furry as the animal skins that hung off their huge shoulders, guffawed, drank, and slammed their tables. One of the Northerners saw Caenith and raised his mug to him, a gesture that the Wolf returned. The tribes of the North lived near to the tribes of the East, following old customs and natural ways, and he had a certain respect for them, even if they were slow-walkers. As he lowered his mead, he felt that they were not alone and noticed the serving girl conferring with a woman over by a staircase. The woman noticed him looking, as he was not shy about it, and motioned them over.

“Thackery, I believe we are being summoned,” he said.

He left his drink on the counter and made his way to the quiet alcove, with Thackery hurrying after him. When they reached the stairs, the serving girl left them with a curtsy and a smile. The descendant of Cordenzia that they sought was a youthful but middle-aged lass in a simple cotton dress. She was wrinkled around her narrowed blue eyes from a suspicion worn over many years. Her features were thick, if pretty, and she had deep-sable hair. It was the crossing of her arms and her no-nonsense posturing that informed Thackery that she was surely a close relative of Cordenzia. They could have been sisters, though this was more likely a child or grandchild.

“Well,” said the woman. “Maggie Halm, owner of The Silk Purse. I hear you’ve been asking for me. Let’s hear what
important news
a beggar and a brawler think they can bring to me. Know this, I’ve smelled every sort of scam that one can sell in this city, so don’t think that you’ll be feeding me a shite sandwich and telling me its marmalade.”

“Amazing,” declared Thackery, touching his mouth. “You’re just like Cordenzia. Was she your mother, or—”

Maggie stepped back and tightened her stance. “Grandmother. Don’t think that throwing her name around makes me any more pliant to your tricks. As a matter of fact, it raises my hackles all the more.” She snorted. “Are you implying that you knew her somehow?”

“I am,” announced Thackery with all seriousness. “We should talk in private.”

“Private? I think I’m well and good out here where everyone can see our conversation, including a kitchen staff of big men with knives, should you say something I’m not partial to.” Maggie nodded toward a swinging door under the stairs that serving folk slipped in and out of, fanning them with the appetizing steam. “Say what you have to say, and I’ll decide if it’s worth further discussion.”

This was not how Thackery had intended for their meeting to go; however, assuming that Cordenzia was faithful to her debts, her lineage would know of the code. They would know how to recognize the one who had given them freedom. At least Cordenzia had promised as much in her letters.
A debt never to be left unpaid, for you have granted me the wings to fly. They will know you as I knew you. Not as a Thule, but as a messenger of liberty. As a selfless man who gave his own love and life for the salvation of so many. They will know you by your true name: Whitehawk. Say it once and by my children or grandchildren, you will never be forgotten
.

Thackery beckoned the woman close. She hesitantly turned her ear.

“Whitehawk,” he whispered. “I am he, and I am here to call in a debt owed to me.”

Maggie’s reaction was not materially evident. Yet the Wolf could smell the ripeness of her surprise—cinnamon and onions—and knew that she would believe the sorcerer. Her stiffness softened, too, and she wrestled with dozens of emotions. The Wolf tasted every nuance from fright to delight and was not shocked, as Thackery was, when she suddenly threw her arms around the old man and squeezed him tightly.

“Whitehawk!” she whispered to him. “That is a name that we Halms were taught as our earliest nursery tales! Tales never to tell to another child,
for this was our secret story: of a Black City and a hero who led us from misery. I have never heard another besides my mother or Nan speak it. She said we would know you. Eyes as blue as a sapphire. Jewels of pain and wonder. The eyes of a man who broke himself to save others. I am sorry that I did not recognize you. I should have known.”

Swiftly she parted, wiped her watering eyes and resumed her inflexible bearing. The busty lass was passing into the kitchen again. She had actually been loitering around, casting glances to the untidy brute meeting with Miss Halm, and spilling drinks from her neglect. She responded in a flash when Maggie flagged her down.

“These gentlemen and I shall be in my quarters, discussing matters of trade. We are not to be disturbed, but perhaps some refreshment,” instructed Maggie. “You are hungry, I assume?”

Caenith nodded eagerly. The serving maid was off in a flurry. As soon as she was gone, Maggie began climbing the staircase. She muttered to her company as she ascended.

“I’ll see what we can do about a bath, and possibly some clothes. No disrespect, but you look as if you’ve been in a fire.”

More than a bit of Cordenzia’s cunning had apparently passed into her kin, for Maggie hitched in midstep as somewhere in her mind, connections between men of great importance and blazing devastation was made. Cordenzia was a woman of poise and rarely faltered in her composure, and her granddaughter had inherited that trait as well. Thus she continued to climb without another word, and they strode down the landing and entered a chamber. However, the moment they were alone in her tidy apartment, she leaned against the door and gasped.

“By the kings…the attack in Eod…were the two of you there?”

V

After Thackery had convinced Maggie of the complicated avowal that
yes
they were present for the terrorism, and
no
they were not involved, and furthermore that they were to remain covert in their presence here, she still offered them aid. It hadn’t been on her mind to refuse it, as disaster often
followed men like Whitehawk and—she felt—the exceptionally large man introduced as Caenith, who was at once the most handsome and alarming person she had met. She had seen the sleek hunting cats of the woods of the Ebon Vale, and he reminded her of one of those, only far more dangerous. By the time the food arrived, the three were sitting in a room next to her bedchamber that was outfitted with couches, bookshelves, and a window, dazzling with bright sun. Once the serving girl had left the tray upon a table between them, Caenith gave up impatiently tapping his foot to dive into the fare. His pressing anxiety over Morigan was momentarily alleviated by the savoriness of the gristle and meat in his mouth. Messily he ate, while Thackery and Maggie sat on a couch and worked out the details of her assistance.

“Food, money, and clothing?” announced Maggie, and leaned across to catch Thackery’s hand. “I would give you more, if I could. Anything, please, say it.”

“A ship to cross the Feordhan.” Thackery sighed. “I jest. The money should be enough to buy us seats on the ferry.”

“Why would you need to cross the Feordhan?”

Thackery did not reply, and the light in Maggie’s head flicked on all by itself.

“You’re going to Menos, aren’t you?” she said, her mouth twisted in disgust. “Why?”

“To rescue someone very important to me—to us—who has been taken to the Iron City,” answered Thackery. Caenith stopped his chewing to pay respect.

“Grandmother said that you would never fly again, Whitehawk,” muttered Maggie. “Certainly not to that black nest. I don’t know if she would be happy or sad at this turn of events. Nonetheless, I shall do everything in my power to repay my family’s debt to you. Not that such an act can be measured in gifts.”

Maggie stood up and fluffed her skirt; she seemed as if she was readying to go somewhere. “You won’t be taking the ferry, either. For a man who used to smuggle folks out of the Iron City, you seem to have lost your wits. The Hands require registry of every passenger who crosses the Feordhan, as they like to have their Fingers—pun intended—in every freight to and from
Taroch’s Arm. If you wish to remain unseen, you will need a less conspicuous crossing. I can sense that you don’t have sands to spare.” As she said this, she looked to Caenith, who had eaten all on the platter that was brought but for a measly portion for his companion, and had returned to tapping his foot. “But if you give me an hourglass, I can arrange for a private, no-questions-asked voyage for the two of you. I have suppliers who would take on strange cargo for the right price.”

“Thank you, blood of Cordenzia,” Thackery said, bowing. “I shall consider the debt paid from these services.”

“I shall not,” she said, smiling. As she was leaving the room, she called back, “My lavatory is at your disposal. Towels and whatnot can be found. Don’t worry about making a mess. Each of you probably needs a good scrub.”

She was correct. Thackery had sand in places that one shouldn’t have sand in, and while a bit of musk might suit Caenith, he felt as if he would leave a rump-shaped grease stain on Maggie’s couch once he was off it. Distantly a door shut, and the companions stewed in their silences for a while, listening to the drum of the Wolf’s boot—like a wagging tail, realized Thackery.

“I think I shall take a bath,” announced Thackery, and rose. “I’ll be quick so that you have time to trim up.”

He was walking away when Caenith’s grumbling voice stopped him.

“Earlier, and…in haste…I said that I had no interest in your story. I see that I have misjudged you. You are as scarred as an old oak on your heart, and those scars have come from doing good deeds in a world that generally favors the wicked.”

A rare moment was this between them, where they were calm enough to listen to the other and not caught up in the chase.

“There is one more deed I must do,” said Thackery.

He left the Wolf with a finality that lingered in the air. If Caenith were more of a mortal, he would have called out after the old man. However, as an animal, he accepted that when a beast knew its time, it often went off into the woods to die alone. Should it come to that, he would at least see that Thackery would not rot in some nameless grave. He would find a great tree, and stones as old as the land to place beneath it, and give him the burial of a man of honor.