Second Kiss (9 page)

Unexpected Meetings

A
n
early cross-spell had left the roads and other surfaces of the borough of Shissillil without friction. Anything thrown through the various gateways into the borough simply slid away and disappeared. This made the portal on Castle Road halfway along Phaer Point perfect for waste disposal. On evenings like this when the dark was coming in off the sea like a damp, dead sky spirit, this aspect of the portal could also be a kind of blessing to some of the more criminally inclined youth of Ulde, for instance those drink or herb Thralls, who sometimes had to dispose of their forbidden potions and liqueurs at very short notice. During the fifty years since the spell fire, other things had been disposed of here, too: weapons, poisons, even bodies, some said — living and dead. But of all the terrible deeds done here, there were surely very few that were more cowardly than the one about to be committed.

The triplicant terrier, Jackinjo, whose three eyes were currently peering out of the net bag he was captive in, trembled as he awaited his turn. The squeals of the most recent victim still vibrated in his mind, echoing up under the cruel laughter of his captors.

“All right. Next!” a large, half-hidden figure in the shadow of the portal shouted. He wiped his lips and nodded at a fellow with a black tooth, who grabbed the mouth of the bag. Jackinjo began to whimper and whine in terror as the big man took up a thick black bat. Jackinjo's terror increased as the bag was raised.

“Are you ready?” one of the men asked. A ring of leering, laughing youths looked on, gathered about the portal, bottles hanging from their fists or tilted to their lips.

“Ready,” the large one said with a strange drunken leer. “Go!”

The black-toothed fellow flung the yelping dog into the air, and as the bag came down the large man swung his thick black bat at it full force, connecting squarely with it and sending poor broken Jackinjo, with one last truncated yelp, soaring through the portal and away after his fellows, lost forever.

The one with the bat shouted “Yes!” and gleefully took a swig from his bottle. His colleagues likewise broke into fits of laughter and began to jump up and down and suck away at their many bottles and pipes.

Xemion did not at first notice the group as he made his way back to the underdome with the locket. He was distracted by the light of the setting sun, which shone brightly off the dark surface of a pond that stretched along the side of the road. He had to hold his hand up to his eyes to shade them from the brilliant flares of red that reflected off the water. It wasn't until he was nearly upon them that he noticed the group, and he was shocked when he realized that the hated Montither was among them. What was he doing back in Ulde? This jolt of fear and hatred was for a second mixed with a shred of hope. If Montither had come from the camp, he would surely know whether Saheli was there or not. He doubted that Montither would supply him with an easy answer to this question though, so, because he was on his way there anyways, and would find out for himself soon enough, he decided to give the group a wide berth.

He had almost slipped past unnoticed, when Gnasher, the black-toothed fellow who always accompanied Montither, suddenly looked up. He caught Xemion's eye and grinned menacingly. “Why, look. It's the great swordsman.” He laughed, causing his jaw to vibrate up and down as though it were quickly gnashing at something.

Xemion nodded in greeting.

“And how are you today, my friend?” Gnasher asked with mock politeness as the others began to close in around him. Gnasher clapped Xemion forcefully on the back. Montither was standing back a bit, leaning against the portal, his eyes spilling sheer static black hatred.

“I'm in a hurry,” Xemion replied angrily, yanking his shoulder away.

“Oh, no you're not.” Gnasher had a hint of evil mischief in his eyes.

“Oh, yes I am,” Xemion replied, trying to brush his way through them.

Suddenly, Montither let loose an insane-sounding growl and dashed straight at Xemion, launching his fist into his right cheek, knocking him to the ground. Xemion leapt back to his feet as quickly as he could, but he was reeling and off-balance. Before he could raise his fists to defend himself, Montither struck again. Xemion hit the ground a second time and Montither began kicking him. He caught him on the hip where the painted sword hung. If he had been enraged before, the sight of the object that had so humiliated him was like oil on the fire. Montither flew into a frenzy of kicks and then he ripped the sword away from Xemion and tried to break it over his knee. But the sword was not the least bit brittle. It bent and easily absorbed the force.

“What of your oath?” Xemion managed to scream from the ground, where he was doubled over into a protective ball. Shrill laughter rose from the crowd.

“Who are you calling an Oath?” Gnasher mocked. He turned to the others, snickering. He went to kick Xemion in the head, but Montither stopped him.

“No, he's right.” he growled suddenly withdrawing, holding his fists at his side, still clenched. There was complete silence. “I swore an oath of alliance.” There was a sinister undertone in Montither's finely accented though somewhat slurred words. The thugs, knowing that look, knowing the changeability of his moods, looked on with anticipation. “Now get up!”

Xemion rose painfully to his feet, wary in case he had to defend against another flurry of kicks or punches.

“Hold out your hand and I will return your sword to you,” Montither ordered with only the slightest suggestion of a sadistic smile. When Xemion refused, Montither nodded and someone grabbed Xemion from behind. He struggled with all the strength of his rage and indignation, but they were many more than he and all his strength could not tear him free. He jerked his face around toward Montither and sneered. “I'm not afraid of you.”

“Hold out your hand,” Montither demanded. Xemion could smell the stench of vomit and wine on Montither's breath. He tried to resist. He gritted his teeth and clenched his fist tight, but other fingers pried at it and opened it against his will and held it there, bare beneath Montither's vengeful glare.

“Now let me return your sword to you.” Montither raised the painted sword and brought it down as hard as he could across Xemion's palm. Xemion's whole body bucked with the impact of the blow, but somehow he absorbed it silently and managed to glare back impassively into Montither's cruel eyes. Again Montither struck and again Xemion took the pain without a cry.

“Coward,” he uttered, looking straight into Montither's eyes. He braced himself for a third onslaught, but Montither stopped and the painted sword hung for a moment at his side. The slight smile that twitched at the edges of his mouth could not hide the anger that was rising in him.

With a casual motion Montither threw Xemion's painted sword back over his head. It spun through the air high above the dark swampy water and then plummeted into the blackness with a gulping liquid sound and disappeared. Slowly, Montither drew his long iron sword from its scabbard, keeping his gaze focused almost hypnotically on its fine edge as he slid it in front of Xemion's eyes.

“I'm going to cut off his hand,” he announced in a strange, overly controlled voice. Montither's gang laughed out loud at this and several of them began to applaud and whoop and jump up and down.

“Hold his hand over the stone,” Montither ordered. His voice had become clipped and even more haughtily nasal than usual.

“No!” Xemion struggled but his captors were many and they once again had him in position, open-palmed, with his wrist on top of the large rock that Montither had indicated. Montither took the hilt of his sword in both hands and raised it over Xemion's wrist.

“Hold it tight,” Montither instructed.

“No!” Xemion screamed again as he struggled against his captors.

“Ah, so you
can
scream,” Montither sneered. “I thought so.” His smile was pure bloodlust.

“No, Montither. Don't. It's my sword hand!” Xemion let loose a scream of terror so loud it echoed all along the roadway, causing the Nains and Thralls who were still at work busily renovating the castle, hundreds of yards away, to look up with concern.

Montither paused sadistically and adopted his most aristocratic tone. “Oh, don't worry, I won't kill you. I wouldn't want that. I'd much prefer you to be alive to see what I do to that she-dog of yours in the Phaer Tourney on the equinox.”

The little mob cheered loudly, urging Montither on.

“He's going to cut her heart out,” chortled Gnasher.

Montither looked into Xemion's eyes, raised his sword up over his head, and surely would have cut off Xemion's hand then and there but for the sudden blast of a whistle, a shout, and the sound of fast-approaching footsteps.

“Hey!” a man's voice yelled angrily. “Stop that!”

“The law!” Gnasher hissed.

Before he ran off, Montither caught Xemion off-guard with another punch to the face that sent him reeling back to the ground. Within seconds, they had all disappeared. Xemion looked up at the person who had rescued him. The man wore a tricorne admiral's hat and a long black cloak over a red uniform with gold brocade. His face was tanned as though he'd just returned from the tropics, but the hand that he reached out to Xemion was a deep red colour.

Vallaine!

Little Locket Library

“X
emion!”
Vallaine grabbed the young man's hand to help him to his feet, but Xemion let out such a howl of pain he immediately let go. Standing up on his own, Xemion gazed at his open palm and winced. Where Montither had struck him there were now two raised welts in the shape of an
X
.

“That looks rather painful,” Vallaine sympathized.

“I can't hear you very well,” Xemion answered quite loudly. “My ears are ringing. He struck me in the head.”

“What … with the whole mob of them holding you down like that?”

“Yes. They were going to cut my hand off,” Xemion said with barely suppressed rage.

Vallaine shook his head in disgust. “Well, lucky for you the winds chose this day of all days to allow my return.”

“The cowards,” Xemion seethed, his eyes narrowed to slits.

“Who were they? Did you know them?”

“Yes, I know them,” Xemion growled.

“And?”

“You've heard of Norud Montither?”

“Not that damaged monster-child of his.”

Xemion nodded, taking some satisfaction from the virulence of Vallaine's description. “His name is Brothlem Montither.”

“Oh, I know his name, believe me. And worse than that, I know his reputation. In fact, I spoke out against him being here at all, but I was overruled.”

“Well, I humiliated him on the first day we arrived here in Ulde, and ever since then he has hated me.”

“He hates a lot of people — or at least their achievements. So I hardly need warn you, Xemion. Be wary. He is reputed to have killed a young man in Phaeros.”

“He was really going to cut my hand off,” Xemion repeated, as astonished as he was outraged. Vallaine laughed that big rich laugh of his.

“Well, let me tell you something that I learned the hard way. When thugs grab you like that, they do not deserve to be fought like gentlemen. The very best thing to do when someone grabs you from behind is to stamp your heel down as hard as you can on their foot.”

Xemion nodded.

“I know it is not gallant. But, when necessary, it is quite effective.”

Xemion tried to smile, but he was still too full of rage and that other, colder feeling: Fear.

“We've all been awaiting your arrival,” he said at last.

“I'm sure you have. We've only just sailed into the harbour this past hour,” Vallaine said. “We have a cargo of fruits and vegetables from the southern islands, so I know the hungry, at least, will be very happy to see us.”

“People feared you were lost,” Xemion said, not meeting Vallaine's eyes.

“Not lost, but becalmed. On a heavenly isle, no less.”

“And you delivered the one called Tharfen back to her village?”

Vallaine laughed. “Not before she made a thorough bother and nuisance of herself.”

“Talk of stones and slings?”

“Constant.”

“She was beaten by an examiner quite badly before we left. We didn't know it, but the man followed us and he almost caught up with us. He would have gotten away from the Vale of Two Wells, but just as he was going to drink the water that would have opened the gateway, Tharfen shot a stone at him with her sling and smashed the bottle right out of his hands.”

“She does have amazing accuracy. I remember it from our day in Ilde.”

“I don't know if she still does. I think what happened to the examiner after that might have done something to her aim. The ghouls there at the wells all had their heads twisted round backward, and when they caught him they did that same thing to him.”

Vallaine grimaced and smiled at the same time. “It sounds like he got what he deserved. Is it true that her father is a pirate?”

“That is the story. Other than the red hair, which she got from her mother, she looks nothing like her seven brothers.” Xemion shrugged. “Of course, none of them look like one another. Torgee says it's because they all had different fathers.”

“I saw her mother when I delivered her brat back to her. She is a great beauty and a powerful woman.”

“Did Tharfen give you any message for me?”

“No. Not one.” Then he looked lightly at Xemion. “Why? What message do you await? Might it perhaps be about your betrothed?”

Xemion looked away. “We were side-by-side in the Panthemium when the Pathan Prince burst in, and in all the chaos we got separated. They promised me I would see her the day after we arrived, but something happened.”

By now they had come to the crossroads leading up to the castle and the underdome. “Which way are you going, Xemion?”

Xemion pointed in the direction of the castle.

“At this time of night?” Vallaine asked. “Well, I'm going that way too. Why don't I join you?” He paused before continuing. “And why don't you tell me exactly what's been going on.”

Something in Xemion wanted to hold back the truth, but as they proceeded he blurted it out anyway, the whole story about what had happened since he'd last seen Vallaine: the first kiss, the separation, the scribing, the riddle in the locket, and, finally, the missing classic. When he had finished, he saw that Vallaine was looking at him doubtfully.

“You are a noble fellow, Xemion,” he said with a mixture of sympathy and merriment. “But I did tell you to destroy that painted sword of yours, did I not? If Montither has done one good thing in his life, it is in finally ridding you of it.”

Xemion shrugged as Vallaine continued. “Still, I thank you on behalf of the Phaer Literature. I'm sure the one you saw at the front
was
Saheli, but I know nothing will settle it for you until you have seen her face with your own eyes. And that chance, fortunately, will come soon enough by the sound of it. But in the meantime, I am wondering how anything as small as a locket could possibly contain as many books as you have described.”

“They are as small as fish scales.”

“But even if it were conceivable for someone to have scribed such tiny texts, how could you possibly have read them?”

“We had a device called a sunscope in the observatory where I lived, and at the right time of evening it could catch the setting sunlight and use it to project the texts onto the walls. I have read them with my own eyes.”

“Yes, I am well aware of sunscopes. Marvellous devices. But they were invented for the examination and study of the microcosm. I don't imagine their inventors expected them to be used for such a purpose as reading tiny little books. Very clever of you,” Vallaine said. Then he added, somewhat skeptically, “Perhaps you could show me this locket.” Again Xemion had an urge to resist, but he couldn't. He pulled the locket out into the light, holding it in his uninjured palm so Vallaine could see it. Vallaine let his red hand hover over the locket.

“Xemion, have you ever wondered whether there might be some spellcraft involved with this locket?”

“Certainly
not
. It was crafted by tiny Numian Thralls.”

Now Vallaine looked truly amused. “Xemion, surely you are jesting with me.”

“I'm not.” Xemion said indignantly closing his fist about the locket and quickly stuffing it back into his pocket.

Vallaine shook his head to clear away his mirth and then responded in as solemn a voice as possible. “Xemion, you have never seen a tiny Numian Thrall, have you?”

“Of course not. But—”

“That's because there is no such thing as a tiny Numian Thrall.”

Xemion's jaw dropped a little and he turned red. “How do you know that?”

“Xemion, they are just the stuff of children's stories.”

There was a long, silent pause. At last, in a much quieter voice, Xemion acknowledged “Anya Kuzelnika did often make up stories to teach me things.”

“It's not uncommon,” Vallaine said with a nod. “So, concerning how your locket came to be—”

A cold feeling crept into Xemion's skin as he remembered how close to her heart Saheli who was so terrified of magic had worn it. “You think it was spellcrafted?”

“Class C, I suspect. That means it wasn't created by a spell but it has been altered by a spell, or even two spells. I doubt the books themselves are spellworked. They've probably only been shrunk by a spell to protect them. That would have to have been at least fifty years ago. After the spell fire, the last of the mages, before the Pathans caught them and hung them, used their final energies to shrink as many things as they could to make them easier to hide. They might even revert to normal size one day. But you're going to have some explaining to do to Glittervein tomorrow.”

Now Xemion was truly alarmed. “Tomorrow? But I'm leaving here early in the morning.”

Vallaine's brow creased and his lips pursed. He pulled on one side of his long moustache. “But this is a real problem. If you give this to Sarabin he will be honour-bound to bring it to Glittervein and tell him where he got it. Glittervein, I assure you, will not be at all pleased. He will destroy it immediately and then he will definitely want to talk to you.”

“I have been told to leave tomorrow by direct order of Veneetha Azucena,” Xemion asserted angrily.

Vallaine continued to puzzle it over. “See now, I know there was no intention on your part to smuggle the locket in. You have acted honourably. It would be a shame to have your trip delayed over such a technicality. Why don't I take your locket. I will submit it to Mr. Glittervein and tell him I found it in my travels, and you will say nothing to anyone about it.”

Xemion considered this for a moment. “I would have to tell Saheli when I see her,” he said at last. “She will notice it's gone.”

“Tell her, then, but only if she asks and not before. The less said the better. It's safest that way.”

Xemion nodded uncertainly.

“That's the spirit, Xemion,” Vallaine said. “Put it there.” His red hand reached out to shake Xemion's, but noticing Xemion flinch, he switched in mid-course and shook the young man's left hand instead. Xemion felt the familiar jolt of energy as their palms met.

“But what will happen to the books when you turn the locket in?” Xemion asked.

“If he has even the slightest suspicion that a spell mage was involved in its creation, Glittervein will have no choice but to incinerate them.”

“But what of the missing classic?” Xemion protested. “There must be a way to take it out and copy it? Captain Sarabin said it is a very significant book.”

“Well,” Vallaine let loose with that sonorous laugh of his, “Captain Sarabin thinks all books are very significant. And so do we all, but that would be up to Glittervein. He would probably burn it in his smithy.”

“But it is a shame for us to destroy our own literature.”

“You have a point. Here then, Xemion. This is what I'll do. I will take the locket first to my tower and quarantine it. I have a sunscope of my own — more powerful even than that ancient one you described. Let me tinker with the locket a while and see if I can extract the book in question, and if I can, I'll hold onto it until I can get it copied.”

Xemion thought about it, then nodded. “Please.”

“But you mustn't say a word. You mustn't acknowledge it in any way. I could get in a lot of trouble, not only with Glittervein, but with my lady Veneetha Azucena.”

Xemion nodded.

“Do we swear then?” Vallaine asked.

“I swear,” Xemion said, though he sounded a bit unsure. Vallaine shook Xemion's left hand for quite a long time, nodding his head and smiling as he did so. Xemion smiled back and held up his end of the shaking and nodding.

“So then …” Vallaine let the hand go at last.

“So … what?” asked Xemion, his heart beating fast.

“So … are you going to give me the locket?”

Again, something in Xemion made him hesitate before reaching into his pocket and handing the locket over. Vallaine stashed the tiny library inside his chameleon cloak. “Well, Xemion, I've got a full cargo to get unloaded and a fair maid to see. You're a good man and you've done the right thing here. I've saved you from harm twice now, but I may not be around to save you a third time. Be wary of those cowards and don't be ashamed to do them harm if they would harm you.” He reached out and once more shook Xemion's left hand exhaustively. “And one more little piece of advice. If I were you, I would hide that voice of yours. It has deepened since you and I first met and even here in Ulde it is likely to get you in trouble.”

Xemion nodded woefully. Vallaine smiled, and in his most monotone manner said, “And so I bid you adieu.” With that he tipped his tricorne hat, tossed a strand of his long black hair over his shoulder, wrapped the camouflage cloak about his body, and rapidly walked off into the gathering fog.