Ghostwalker (9 page)

Thus, they were the most likely to have heard word of the missing couriers.

Arya stepped into the smoky bar, stooping to avoid knocking her head against low-hanging, mildew-stained rafters. With a tiny gasp, she managed to catch herself before she stumbled down the steps into the tavern.

” ‘Ware, lass,” a gray-bearded man said at her side, reaching to steady her. He forgot to set down his mug and splashed ale over them both, but he didn’t seem to notice. “The Bear’s not what she used to be.” Arya accepted his hand with a nod and a smile and ignored the creeping wetness he had just spilled all over her wool breeches.

Taking her response as encouragement, he launched into an explanation of the rafters and the sunken floor. Local legend had it that the founder of the Red Bear had built the tavern on the finest ground available to compete with the Stag, but the curse of Silvanus on certain disloyal worshipers had caused the ground to soften and brought the tavern sinking down.

“That’ll teach us to skip ceremonies for a brew, aye, lass?” he asked with a chuckle.

Arya accepted the tale with an easy manner, though it held little interest for her. It would not hurt her cause to ingratiate herself with the townsfolk. The barkeep caught her eye, and she ordered a weak ale.

“What can you tell me about travelers who pass through the Moonwood?” Arya asked the old man. “Messengers from Silverymoon, mayhap?”

“Well, the one who’d be knowing about that’d be Lord Singer Greyt.” The name set his eyes to shining. “He meets all the outsiders and adventurers passing through. E’en wedded a few o’ them.”

Arya held up her hand. “I’m not really interested in hearing about—”

“Did I hear ye mention the Lord Singer, Elbs?” a particularly buxom serving maid asked beside their table. She was a golden-haired woman of the north with steeper curves than Arya had thought possible on a woman’s body.

Arya was about to pipe up, but a huge smile painted her dining companion’s face. “Annia… Aye, lassie,” he said. “Just telling Goodwoman—”

“Goldwine,” Arya said. She reasoned Bars and Derst wouldn’t mind if she borrowed their names. “Maid Goldwine.”

“Goodmaid Goldwine about Quickwidower’s wives,” he said.

“Quickwidower?” Arya asked, frowning at the nickname.

“Aye, Greyt can’t stay married more than a year or three,” said Annia. “Just like any man, if’n ye ask me. Charmin’ though—just look at the wives and babes. Though …” A shadow crept across her face. “They was all sickly. Poor babes, only one survived to ten.”

“Greyt has separated from many wives?” asked Arya.

“Aye, after a fashion. The lasses tended to meet with accidents,” Elbs said somberly. “Greyt’s got the rottenest luck with women. Shame, such pretty things. Died, most o’ them. Or left town—just couldn’t settle down. Hey, that sounds like one o’ the Lord Singer’s rhymes—”

The barmaid slapped him on the back of the head. “Lord Greyt certainly made that mistake,” the barmaid said. “Should’ve ne’er settled down, but Lyetha was here.”

“Lyetha?” Arya asked, wondering what the half-elf woman had to do with this.

“The woman he’s always loved,” Elbs said wistfully. “Lyetha, heartbroken after her husband and son disappeared. The most beautiful woman in Quaervarr.” The barmaid’s face turned stormy. Elbs smiled widely and patted her bottom. ” ‘Cept for me pretty Annia ‘ere.”

Apparently appeased, the voluptuous woman smiled and moved away.

Elbs turned back to Arya. “Only babe still breathing, though, be that fancy-faced Meris,” he said. “Dashing, but something about him I just don’t like, ye know?”

“What?” Arya asked.

“I don’t be knowing,” he replied. “Never talks back to his father—right respectable lad, that Meris.”

“You mean respectful,” corrected Arya. “They are not the same thing.”

“Oh aye,” Elbs replied. “Even when Lord Singer goes against Speaker Stonar…”

As he continued, Arya nodded without speaking. She had been thinking about getting up and trying her luck elsewhere, but something about this thread of conversation was appealing. She offered to buy Elbs another ale, an offer he heartily accepted. Arya smiled, thinking that she was already on the right track to the answers she sought.

Nursing his glass of heated wine, Greyt wasn’t surprised to find himself alone for dinner. Claudir had set three places with the hope that he might serve his master, mistress, and Greyt’s son, but, as usual, it was only Greyt who graced the table with his presence.

The dinner was elegant, Greyt decided, though too simple for his liking. Roast lamb, imported from warmer climes, was a delicacy Greyt could afford and so feasted upon regularly. Despite having lived all his life in the North, the Lord Singer had never developed a taste for the hard rothe meat from the herds that sometimes wandered the plains to the east. Trays of rich mustards and sauces provided pools of myriad colors among the winter flowers spread across the table in crystalline vases.

His preference for decadent dishes, coupled with his obsession for the various fruits and vegetables arranged in sunbursts and crescents around the table caused many to call him a “man of weak stomach.” Grey preferred to call himself a “creature of delicacy and culture.”

To Greyt it hardly mattered; he was, after all, Quaervarr’s hero.

Greyt was disappointed a certain half-elf woman was not there to sit with him, but he was not terribly troubled. He could appreciate silence once in a while, even in his line of work.

As though in response to his thoughts, a door swung open and Claudir stepped inside. “Lyetha Elfsdaughter, the Lady Greyt,” he announced.

His forehead suddenly itching, Greyt thought it might serve him best to forbid her entrance. He was about to reply to his steward’s announcement when Lyetha swept into the room, almost bowling over Claudir. Greyt had to remember to suck in his breath when he saw her, or he might have berated her then, and the illusion would be spoiled.

A cascade of glowing amber hair fell around Lyetha’s shoulders and her eyes blazed with sapphire light. Her face, with its distinct gold tinge, hinted clearly at her sun elf heritage. Slim and perfectly rounded, she radiated beauty in her gown of gleaming black, even as the color made Greyt wince. The frown on her full lips drew her face down, exposing soft wrinkles that hinted at her age, but she was still stunning. Lyetha had aged much more gracefully than Greyt ever would, and while they were nearly the same age, he looked at least two decades her senior.

Greyt had once thought Lyetha an incarnation of Hanali Cenali herself and pursued her with single-minded determination.

Once.

“Ah, my matchless darling,” he said grandly as she swept toward him. “Do you find this evening to your liking, Morning Star?” His tone was purposefully poetic.

Lyetha ignored the compliment. She stood a short distance from the table, crossed her arms, and shifted her weight onto her back foot. “Care to explain yourself, Dharan?” she asked, the sarcasm thick on her tongue. Even so, the tone of her voice was rich, with a hint of a melody begging for release.

“I beg your pardon?” Greyt asked. He swept his hand out, gesturing for her to sit, and sipped his wine. “Pray, try some of this vintage. Amnian, I believe—or so Claudir tells me. He’s always the one who keeps track. I just tell him which wines I like and which I don’t.”

Lyetha sat but did not follow Greyt’s advice about the wine. She served herself, taking some of the vegetables on the table. After she had filled the plate, she ignored her food. Her attention remained on the Lord Singer.

“You know exactly what I mean,” she said. “A bard with your long years of training and experience doesn’t falter on a simple lyric, particularly one in a song you wrote yourself and have sung for almost a decade and a half.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Greyt said, only half paying attention. “I would never—”

“The song about the children?” Lyetha pressed. “The missed note?”

Greyt was about to dismiss whatever she’d been about to say, but he was knocked off his guard. Of course she would ask about that. After all, it did ring with some importance to her.

“Ah yes,” he said. “A minor mishap. Must be getting on in years. Watch out, I might become Elminster before you know it.”

“Pausing on Ghar—on that monster’s name is a minor mishap?” Lyetha countered. She stumbled over the name of Greyt’s father, Gharask. “I could feel a chill, and yet—”

A retort died on his lips and he looked her in the eyes for the first time that evening.

“I’m sorry, love,” he said. “Coincidence, and that ‘twas a cold night. No man is perfect, right?”

There was silence for a long moment. Greyt, who was purposefully not looking at Lyetha once more, could feel her eyes on him. He took a long time cutting a piece of lamb into tiny pieces and raised the pink meat to his lips. Though it was too hot, he suppressed the wince. Such an expression would not do, not in the current situation.

He noticed again her black dress. Of course Lyetha would be wearing mourning colors near the end of winter. This year made even more sense, being the fifteen-year anniversary of the murders that had claimed the last thing she had loved.

“But that name—” Lyetha started.

“Yes?” Greyt asked impatiently.

She opened her mouth to ask a question.

At that moment, the door from the inner hall flew open and Meris stormed into the room, muttering something. He wore his white tunic, but there was a black robe in his hand. No sword was belted on his hip, but the fierce expression on his face was just as dangerous as any length of sharpened steel. Lyetha started, almost leaping from her chair.

Meris stopped and scowled at her.

“Don’t rise, Lyetha,” the dusky scout snapped. “I won’t be staying.”

Greyt stretched lazily. “Meris, sit—eat with us,” he offered.

“I’m not hungry.” Meris didn’t bother regarding either of them. “I’m going out.”

“At least offer a kind word to your lady mother,” Greyt said. “You’ve startled her.”

Meris stopped in his tracks. He turned his head toward them. “I am under no obligation to show any courtesy to her,” he said to the Lord Singer. “My mother was not an elf-get trollop.” With that, he looked away and strode through the double doors. They slammed shut behind him.

“No, your mother was Amnian,” Greyt mused as he sipped his wine.

After a moment, he became aware that Lyetha was staring at him. He looked over at her, met her cold blue gaze, and shrugged.

“Pay it no mind, dear,” he said. “Young men say things without thinking. I’ve oft thought he needs a cool head to temper him, but I haven’t found any worthy woman.”

Lyetha sniffed.

They sat in silence for a few moments, then she rose and silently took her leave. She stopped at the door but did not turn.

“Dharan,” Lyetha asked, without looking back. “About Gharask… and Rhyn. Is there any doubt that your father killed my son?”

“No, my dear. Of course, no,” he replied without turning his head or missing a beat. “No more than scarlet falls the snow.”

He took another sip of his wine and pretended to ignore her. It was not difficult.

Lyetha sighed and slipped out the door, seeking the refuge of her chambers.

After spending plenty of silver on drinks for potential informants and learning nothing of import, Arya gave up and climbed out of the tavern. The meaty barkeep Brohlm thanked her and swept up her coins with a flick of his thick wrist.

While the customers of the Red Bear were very knowledgeable about Quaervarr’s history and the surrounding lands, they knew nothing of Stonar’s couriers. They had told her all about Greyt and Stonar’s rivalry—the two seemed at odds over every public issue, but it was a friendly competition, by all appearances. She did not blame them—they were simple frontiersmen—but she found her search’s fruitlessness irritating.

Besides, she had heard far too much about her adored step-uncle.

In the cold once more, Arya shivered and adjusted the cloak around her shoulders. The ale stain on her breeches was freezing. Not for the first time, she wished she had sent Derst on this foray instead. He was more adept at gathering information, for pressing into the right threads of a conversation, and for discerning something useful where she found only local history and superstition. Perhaps she would have him go out the following night.

Arya set out through the streets toward the Whistling Stag, where a warm bed and a pair of drunken, invariably laughing compatriots awaited her. She knew she would enjoy the former, but she wasn’t especially looking forward to the latter.

Arya turned around a corner and caught sight of the Stag. She shivered and continued on, looking forward to the warmth.

A hand reached out from the alley between two buildings and caught her by the arm.

Arya tried to wrest out of the grasp, but her reflexes were too dulled by the cold. As it was, she inhaled the breath to scream, but a hand pressed itself over her mouth to stifle the sound. She tasted tanned deer hide.

“Wanderin’ late at night, are ye, pretty wench?” a growling voice asked in a rough accent. “Not lookin’ where ye be—Ah!” His words turned into a gasp of pain as she bit him through the leather glove. She managed to worm out of the loosened grip as he reeled, and brought her elbow back hard, catching him in the stomach. She whirled to face him, instinctively reaching for her sword—which wasn’t there.

Arya turned right into a backhand slap, a blow that left her spinning and dazed. The only weapon she carried was a long dagger in her boot, but when she stooped, a knee caught her in the chin and sent her staggering back into the wall. The impact knocked whatever breath she’d been able to recover from her lungs and she sank to her knees.

Her assailant was on her in an instant, catching her by the shoulders. Before she could punch at him, he clutched her wrists with an iron grasp. “Not going to play nice?” His voice had changed, his accent shifting into something less rustic. He sounded familiar, but she couldn’t recognize it through the gruffness and the pain.

“No’ so intimidatin’ with-outta sword, are ye, Sir Serving Wench?” The gruff, broken language was back. It might have sounded slurred, but Arya knew her attacker was not drunk. She was about to ponder the implications when another slap caught her face.