Masques (10 page)

“What is the main focus?” she asked.

“Where is magic at its strongest? Where do many of the common villagers have the ability to work charms? Where has magic flourished, protected by strong rulers from the persecution that magic-users were subject to after the great wars?”

“Reth,” she answered.

“Reth,” he agreed.

“Crud,” she said with feeling.

THREE

The inn lay about halfway between the small village of Torin and the smaller village of Kestral. It had been built snugly to keep out the bitter cold of the northern winters. When the snow lay thick on the ground, the inn would have been picturesque, nestled cozily in a small valley between the impressive mountains of northern Reth. Without the masking snow, the building showed the onset of neglect.

The inn had had many prosperous years because the trappers of the Northlands were bringing down the thick pelts of the various animals that inhabited the northern mountain wilds. For many years, merchants from all over flocked to Kestral each summer because it was as far south as the reclusive trappers would travel. However, over the last several years, the trappers had gradually grown fewer, and what furs they now brought to trade were hardly worth owning—and the inn, like the villages, suffered.

The Northlands had always been uncanny: the kind of place that a sensible person stayed away from. The trappers who came to stay at the inn had always brought with them stories of the Howlaas that screamed unseen in front of the winter winds to drive men mad. They told of the Old Man of the Mountain, a being who was not a man, no matter what he was called, who could make a man rich or turn him into a beast with no more than a whisper.

But now there were new stories, though the storytellers were fewer. One man’s partner disappeared one night, leaving his bedding and clothes behind although the snow lay thick and trackless on the ground. A giant bird hovered over a campsite where four frozen bodies sat in front of a blazing fire. One trapper swore that he’d seen a dragon, though everyone knew that the dragons had been gone since the last of the Wizard Wars.

Without the trappers or the merchants who came to buy the furs, the inn depended more heavily on the local farmers’ night out and less on overnight guests. The once-tidy yard was overgrown and covered with muck from horses and other beasts, some of them two-legged.

Inside, greasy tallow candles sputtered fitfully, illuminating rough-hewn walls that would have lent a soiled air to a far-more-presentable crowd than the one that occupied the inn. The chipped, wooden pitchers adorning the tables were filled with some unidentifiable but highly alcoholic brew. The tabletops themselves were black with grease and other less savory substances.

Rushing here and there amid the customers, a woman trotted blithely between tables refilling pitchers and obviously enjoying the fondles that were part of any good barmaid’s job. She wasn’t as clean as she could have been, but then neither was anyone else. She also wasn’t as young as she claimed to be, but the dim light was kind to her graying hair, and much was forgiven because of her wholehearted approval of the male species.

The only other woman in the room was wielding a mop across the uneven floor. It might have done more good if both the water and the rag mop she used weren’t dirtier than the floor. The wet bottom of her skirt did as much to remove the accumulated muck as the mop.

As she passed close to the tables, she deftly avoided the casual hands that came her way. Not that many did. Most of the customers were regulars and were aware that if someone got too pushy, he was liable to end up with the bucket over his head for his troubles.

Dishwater blond hair was pulled into an irregular bun at the back of her neck. Her plain face was not improved by the discontented expression that held sway on her thin lips as she swung the mop. “Discontented” was a mild word for how Aralorn was feeling.

A month after she’d returned from the ae’Magi’s castle, Ren had called her into his office and told her that he was sending her to the middle of nowhere to keep an eye on the local inhabitants. The only reason that she’d been able to think of for her demotion to this kind of assignment was that Ren no longer trusted her; something that he had in common with most of the rest of Sianim. The story of what she had said to Talor had somehow become common knowledge, and even her closest friends avoided her as if she had a case of the pox. Ren hadn’t been interested in discussing it one way or the other.

She had spent almost a full month cleaning floors, scrubbing tables, and serving poor man’s ale. Profits might be down, but business at the inn was still fairly brisk because of a high rate of alcoholism and infidelity among the people of both villages. If the tavern had been located in the middle of a busy town, she might have picked up some useful bits of information for Ren. However, the inn was mostly frequented by tinkers, drunken “family men,” and occasionally by one very impoverished highwayman—the more skilled and ruthless of his kind having left for richer pastures.

The most monumental thing that had happened since Aralorn started there was when the daughter of the Head-man of Kestral ran off with somebody named Harold the Rat. When the highwayman came in next time looking more miserable than usual, accompanied by a female who was taller than he by a good six inches and harangued him from the time they sat down until they left, Aralorn concluded that he was the mysterious Harold and offered him her silent condolences.

Normally, she’d have been relatively content with the assignment, especially since she’d added a few new tales to her collection of stories—courtesy of the few trappers she’d seen. But she had the doubtful privilege of knowing that the ae’Magi was striving to re-create the power the wizards had held before the Wizard Wars—and hold that power all by himself.

She
should
be doing something, but for the life of her she couldn’t think what. If she left without orders or extreme necessity, being banished from Sianim was the very least of the punishments she was likely to suffer. It was more likely she’d be hung if they caught her.

Tonight, her restlessness was particularly bad. It might have had something to do with the innkeeper’s wife being sick, leaving the innkeeper doing all of the cooking—rendering the food even less edible than it usually was. That led to more than the average number of customers getting sick on the floor—because the only thing left to do at the inn was drink, and the alcohol that they served was none of the best and quite probably mildly poisonous judging by the state of the poor fools who drank it.

As the newest barmaid, the task of cleaning up fell to Aralorn. With the tools she’d been handed, this consisted mostly of moving the mess around until it blended with the rest of the grime on the floor. The lye in the water ate at the skin on her hands almost as badly as the smell of the inn ate at her nose.

She dipped the foul-smelling mop into the fouler-smelling water in her bucket and occupied herself with the thought of what she would do to Ren the next time she saw him. As she was scrubbing—humming a merry accompaniment to her thoughts, a sudden hush fell into the room.

Aralorn looked up to see the cause of the unusual quiet. Against the grime and darkness of the inn, the brilliant clothing of the two men in court attire was more than a little incongruous.

Not nobles surely, but pages or messengers from the royal court. They were usually used to run messages from the court to a noble’s estate. What they were doing at this little pedestrian inn was anyone’s guess. Unobtrusively, Aralorn worked her way to a better observation post and watched the proceedings carefully.

One of the messengers stayed near the door. The other walked to the center of the room. He spoke slowly so that his strange court accent wouldn’t keep the northerners from understanding his memorized message.

“Greetings, people. We bring you tragic news. Two weeks ago—Myr, your king, overset by the deaths of his parents, attacked and killed several of his own palace guard. Overwrought by what he had done, His Majesty seized a horse and left the royal castle. Geoffrey ae’Magi has consented to the Assembly’s request to accept the Regency of Reth until such time as King Myr is found and restored to his senses. The ae’Magi has asked that the people of Reth look for their king so that a cure may be effected. As he is not right in his mind, it may, regrettably, be necessary to restrain the king by force. As this is a crime punishable by death, the Regent has issued a pardon. If the king can be brought to the ae’Magi, there is every possibility that he can be cured. As loyal subjects, it is your duty to find Myr.

“It is understood that a journey to the royal castle will be a financial hardship, thus you will have just recompense for your service to your king. A thousand marks will be paid to the party that brings King Myr to the capital or restrains him and sends a message to the court. I have been authorized to repeat this message to the citizens of Reth by the Regent, Geoffrey ae’Magi.” He repeated his message twice, word for word each time, then he bowed and left the inn with his companion.

A thousand marks was more than a farmer or innkeeper would make in a lifetime of hard work.
Recompense, my aching rump,
thought Aralorn, it was merely a legal way to put a bounty on Myr’s head.

Wandering between tables, she caught bits and pieces of conversation and found that most people seemed to feel the ae’Magi had done them a great service by taking the throne. They didn’t all agree on what ought to be done for the king. She heard an old farmer announce that everything should be done to see that Myr was captured and taken to be cured, poor lad. He was answered by agreeable muttering from his table.

Olin, the tanner from Torin (and more than slightly drunk), spoke up loudly. “Anyone who cares about Reth should kill Myr and ask for Geoffrey ae’Magi to take the kingship of us. Who needs a king what is going to attack his own folk out of the blue like that? Just think what’d be like havin’ the Archmage for a king. We’d not worry ’bout those Darranians, who’re claiming our mines over in the west borderlands.” He paused to belch. “’N with the most powerful magician in the world, we could even drive those Uriah spooks outta the wilds. We could claim the Northlands altogether. Then we could be rich again.”

The patrons of the inn shifted uncomfortably and chose another topic to speak on; but they didn’t disagree with what he’d said.

Proof, if she’d needed it, that what Wolf had warned her of was actually taking place. The whole of Reth had adored their handsome prince, who was promising both as a warrior and a statesman—and it didn’t hurt that he was the spitting image of his grandfather, who had been a great king by any reckoning. Two years ago, the last time Aralorn had worked a job in Reth, Olin’s words would have gotten him into a rough argument or even a beating.

Moving unobtrusively, Aralorn took the slop bucket outside to dump it. That done, she strolled to the stables, where Sheen was.

She received a lot of harassment from Ren when she took the warhorse with her on assignments, because he was too valuable to go unremarked. Talor carried an old coin for luck when he went into battle: It must be much more convenient than a horse.

She did what she could to disguise his worth. He’d long ago learned to limp on command, which helped somewhat. She also left him ungroomed, but anyone with an eye for horses could see that he was no farmer’s plug.

At the inn, she’d let it be known that he was the only legacy left to her when her elderly protector died. The innkeeper didn’t ask her too many questions—just retained the better part of her weekly salary in payment and half the stud fees Sheen had been earning.

Aralorn scuffed her foot lightly in the dirt as she leaned against the stall door. Sheen moved over to her and shoved his head against her shoulder. Obligingly, she rubbed his jaw.

“The last time I saw Myr, he was hardly distraught enough to go berserk,” she confided. “Convenient that the Assembly decided to place the ae’Magi as Regent. I wonder how he managed that—only in Reth would a mage of any sort be welcome to help himself to the throne. But there are some really strong mages in the Assembly. Hard to believe he could use his magic on them, and no one even noticed.”

The stallion whickered softly, and Aralorn fed him the carrot she’d taken before it would have gone to its death in some greasy pot of stew. She tangled her hand in Sheen’s coarse gray-black mane as he munched. “I could go to Ren with this, but given his present attitude toward the ae’Magi, I don’t know what he would do—and doubtless he knows about it anyway. Probably supports it the same way those fools in the inn do—and for the same reason.” She tightened her hands in the horsehair, and whispered, “I think we should go looking for Myr, don’t you? Myr is immune to magic—he’s the ideal hero to stand against the ae’Magi. An outcast spy from Sianim isn’t enough to make a difference, but maybe I can help with strategy. At the very least, I can tell Myr why everyone is suddenly against him.”