Fireblood (Whispers from Mirrowen) (13 page)

Annon glanced at Hettie and then looked back at him. “I have asked for your trust, and so I will trust you in return. It is something we were born with,” he replied. “We may look like Aeduan, but there is something in our blood that gives us this power. It is called the fireblood. I have never used it like that before, and I normally would not have chosen to, but I have no Druidecht power in a place like this. In some kingdoms our race is persecuted. I will only use it as a final resort.”

Paedrin looked at Hettie narrowly and then back at Annon. “It seems your sister went a little too far with it today. You had to strike her to get her to stop. I volunteer next time.” He started back on the road at a brisk walk, never looking back at them.

Annon glanced at Hettie, trying to understand her. She stared at Paedrin with a look of defiance, her mouth twisted unpleasantly downward. Then she whispered, “Thank you, Annon. I nearly lost myself in the flames. The men hiding in the rubbish were not Preachán. They were Romani.”

As she said the final word, her eyes burned with hatred.

“How many times have you used it?” Annon asked her, pulling her after him. “I was worried about you. The look in your eyes frightened me.”

She nodded, casting her gaze down. “Me as well. I don’t like to use it. It makes you want to use it again and again. There are stories of those who go mad.”

“I know,” Annon said, gripping her arm so that they could keep pace with each other. “I think you have used it more than I have. If we face danger like that again, let me act alone at first. Resist it, Hettie. Unless I need you.”

Without arguing, she gazed into his eyes, a haunted expression in hers.

To call Havenrook a town implied that there were borders and streets and houses. That was a better description of Kenatos. Instead, Havenrook was a stockyard adjacent to a slaughterhouse—all pens and sheds and braying animals, smoke, and reeking fumes. There were wagons loaded with various cargo; wiry Preachán men stood atop, shouting bids for each wagonload there. The words mixed with flashing hands, tapped noses, until a bell tolled signaling the end of the trade. A cart of lettuces was sold. A wagon loaded with apple barrels lumbered by. Pens of pigs and black-and-white cows filled every available space. The crowds were endless. By the cups of beer sloshing in nearly every available hand, Annon realized that the trades were probably turned over three or four times before dawn when the Romani caravans would start off on a new day.

As Hettie, Annon, and Paedrin entered the fray, looking for anything even remotely resembling an inn, a constant shove and jostle tensed Annon’s patience into a thin wire again. Paedrin was the only Vaettir amidst the crowd of Aeduan and Preachán. Some looked at him in surprise, leered at him, and continued haggling over a cask of salted fish.

The smell of Havenrook was six degrees of dying. Goods were exchanged. Heavy chests loaded with ducats exchanged hands as well. The jarring noise of the callers, the snapping and whistling and goading of horseflesh had made him physically ill.

Paedrin slapped his palm down against a man’s hand that was groping at his robes, then he quickly torqued one of his
fingers and snapped it, making the man howl in pain. With a shove, he sent him sprawling away.

Annon looked at him in surprise.

“He touched me,” Paedrin said with disgust. “Keep going. Any thoughts on where we will find your friend?”

Annon shook his head, but looked at the largest building that he could find. It was possibly an inn, but it seemed about ready to collapse under the weight of its beams. Miraculously, the crowd thinned around them after Paedrin had broken the man’s finger. Pain was a teacher, indeed.

Hettie lifted her hood and covered her hair, keeping close to Annon. Her face was impassive, but he thought he could sense fear and loathing in her eyes. There was a steady stream of men and women coming from the doors of the enormous, misshapen building. Most emerged with tankards or mugs. As they drew nearer to the doors, Annon noticed a hulking Cruithne standing outside, soot-skinned and muscles bulging. With the thickening shadows, they had not seen him before.

“I thought the Cruithne hated the Preachán,” Annon muttered to himself.

“Everyone has a price,” Hettie answered. “And in Havenrook, everything is for sale.”

The Cruithne scanned those coming and going, his eyes blue and dark like jewels. He noticed them and scowled.

Annon approached him directly. “Erasmus?”

He studied them a moment and then nodded toward the doors, letting them enter.

Inside was a huge gallery filled almost entirely with tables. Gathered around each one hung crowds of Preachán, most of them gesticulating wildly, shouting at men with small silver tokens who sat at the heads of the tables. At one table, they seemed to be trading a cargo of pears. At another table, they were
trading for a girl with one Romani earring. Annon’s stomach lurched when he saw the men bidding for her. At another table, they were betting on whether a caravan would arrive safely at its destination. At another, they were betting on the outcome of dice. The noise was deafening.

Hettie squeezed Annon’s arm, and he turned to look at her. Her upper lip had a sheen of sweat. “He’s looking at me.”

Annon followed her gaze. Across the room, there was a cluster of chairs and a crowd of Romani men and women lounging amidst the chaos. In the center of the hive sat a tall man, darkly handsome, with Vaettir-like eyes and long jet-black hair. He was adorned with a bejeweled doublet and a gaudy black ring on his hand. Not just any ring, a ring of a Rike of Kenatos. There was something undeniably lazy about his slouch, but his slanted eyes belied the laziness—they were alert, probing everything happening in the room. He had taken notice of their entrance immediately.

He raised his hand to a gold hoop in his ear and massaged it.

Hettie gasped.

“What is it?” Annon asked.

“He summons me,” Hettie whispered with dread. “I must obey.”

Annon tugged at her arm as she started away from them, stopping her. “You do not have to go,” he murmured.

“You don’t understand, Annon. That is Kiranrao. No one defies him. He has more ducats than the Arch-Rike. He can buy anyone or anything he wants. Believe me, I must go.” She gave him a desperate look. “Find Erasmus. Quickly.”

“Why is it that the Cruithne dwell in the mountain passes and the Preachán live amidst dying trees? Why do those in Stonehollow dwell amidst massive stones and Waylanders the open plains? Why an island kingdom? People are where they are because that is exactly where they really want to be—whether they will admit that or not.”

– Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos

T
he din and howling commotion in that horrible room made Paedrin’s thoughts seize up with icy blackness. The unmistakably raw demonstration of greed made his fists clench, his eyes narrow, and his breath seep from his body. As soon as they had entered, he had absorbed the scene in its fullness, every tinkling coin, every grunt of a bid, every gulp of ale or sour wine, and every horrid stinking breath from a hundred stinking Preachán. There in the periphery, like a king in court, sat the king of greed himself—a wretch known as Kiranrao. He had Vaettir blood. The fury congealing in Paedrin’s chest made him forget every person in the room except for two.

He watched Hettie submit, drops of nervous sweat forming on her brow. Whether she knew him or not, she knew of him. Still wearing her mask of aloofness, she maneuvered through the crowd to him. Paedrin followed like her shadow.

As they threaded the knot of men and mugs and things for sale, Paedrin studied the Romani more closely. His doublet was fine, no doubt, but the rest of his garb was casual and ordinary.
The pants, for example, could have been any tradesman’s. The shirt beneath the doublet, also black, was open at the throat though he wore a silken collar that would have made an excellent handle to choke him with. His boots were nicked and scuffed, not the polished black of the gentry. His hands were brown and large, fingernails immaculately trimmed. The black hair was combed back, part of it tethered in a braid and fashioned with a pin, and his teeth were white, barely visible past a wry smile as he studied Hettie.

The way he sat in his chair reminded Paedrin of a lounging alley cat. His arm draped around the back of another chair, lazily displaying the huge black beetle of a ring, flaunting for all to see what he had obtained from a Rike of Kenatos. No one could lie to Kiranrao, that much was certain. The ring detected any falsehood.

Hettie reached the cluster of Preachán and Romani thronging him. She stood at the outer edge, chin high, eyes haughty as she had always proven to be. It was then, when they were close, that Paedrin noticed the sword belted to Kiranrao’s hip. He almost started when he looked directly at it and it wasn’t there. A trick of the light? He looked away and noticed it again, hidden in the shadows of his dusky blue rider’s cloak. It seemed to fade in and out of view, and Paedrin found himself blinking furiously, his mind starting to haze from staring at it too long, as happens to a child when gazing at the sun.

“What is it?” Hettie asked, arms folded, looking more put-out than defiant.

“I knew every Romani in Havenrook,” Kiranrao said, his voice tinged with a Preachán accent. “Until today.”

“Well, your reputation precedes you, Kiranrao,” Hettie replied. “What is it?” she repeated. “What do you want?”

“A Finder,” he replied, taking a sip from the cup near him. He swallowed slowly. “Are you for hire?”

“I’m on a job,” Hettie answered evasively.

Paedrin watched an immaculate fingertip stroke the lip of the cup, causing a subtle squeal that could only be heard through the din because Paedrin was trying to hear it.

“How much will you earn?”

Hettie looked at him coldly. “Still being negotiated. I don’t need another job yet.”

“Whatever you are offered, I can offer more,” he said. “I need a good Finder. Are you any good?” He fished inside his doublet pocket and withdrew an earring.

Hettie paled immediately. “I am not free to take on a new engagement right now,” she muttered. “Maybe later.”