Sentinelspire (11 page)

“Another one of those questions to which you already know the answer?”

Val’s grin didn’t falter, but the good humor left his eyes. He shrugged and said, “People talk.”

Berun knew that was enough on this subject. Kheil and Talieth … to say they had a history together would be only the beginning of a long tale, and it was not a happy one. And this was obviously a sensitive point for Val. That intrigued Berun.

“How long have you been at the Mountain?” said Berun.

“A few years.”

“Where before that?”

“Why are you so interested in talking all of a sudden? Couldn’t get a damned word out of you all day.”

Berun shrugged. “When I walk, I walk. But fireside is good for talk.”

The glint of mischief lit Val’s eyes again. “And there’s one thing you don’t like to talk about. Am I right?”

“That’s true of everyone,” said Berun. “You don’t want to tell me where you’re from, then?”

“Not much to tell,” said Val as he inspected the insides of two tin cups. Apparently satisfied, he took the kettle from the coals and poured the tea. He looked at Berun through the steam rising from the cup as he handed it to him. “I was a thief in Darromar. A moderately successful one. Enough that I began to get a bit of a reputation. I had an … incident with the local guild and had to ply my skills elsewhere. Went to Tethyr, where I took in with a fellow who started teaching me a bit of the Art.”

“Magic?”

“Nothing special. Just a few spells here and there that help in my line of work. But that line of work proved a bit too successful again. I was hiding from a local noble’s hired men when worse trouble came knocking at the noble’s door. Turns out he’d angered some of the wrong people, and the Old Man was hired to take care of the problem. One thing led to another, and I ended up impressing Merzan, who offered me … what you might call an audition.”

“One thing led to another?” said Berun. “What’s that mean?”

“It means things got ugly with the nobleman, and Merzan was impressed with how I handled the situation.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“Care to talk about Talieth?” said Val as he took a careful sip of the tea.

Berun sipped the tea and scowled.

Valmir chuckled, but Berun didn’t hear much humor in it.

The dregs of Berun’s thin soup were just beginning to cool when Sauk and the scouts returned. One glance at the eagerness in the half-orc’s gaze and the confidence in his gait told Berun that something was happening.

“Any problems?” Sauk asked Merzan.

“None,” said Merzan, still displaying no emotion.

The steppe tiger emerged from the shadows, skirting the scouts to stand beside her master. She fixed her gaze on Berun. She didn’t growl, but Berun could feel the weight of her stare. Taaki had never liked Kheil, and she seemed to like Berun even less.

“Good,” said Sauk, “ ’cause we’ve got news. Good news.”

“What is it?” said the man sitting across from Lewan. The boy looked tired, but the fear and shock were largely gone from his eyes.

“Yaqubi,”
said Sauk, “bedded down in the next valley. Most likely headed back into the mountains after trading on the steppe.”

“Which means they’re likely fat with gold,” said Merzan.

“How many?” asked the man near Lewan.

“Seven.”

“Easy pickings,” said Kerlis.

“Yeah, your favorite kind,” said one of the men who had gone scouting with Sauk.

Kerlis spat and scowled at the man, but he held his tongue.

Sauk looked to Kerlis and said, “If you think
yaqubi
are easy pickings, you’ve never fought them. They know these woods better’n your finger knows your nose. They may seem small and shy, but they’re the best hunters around the Khopet-Dag. In the mountain valleys where some of the spiders are big as horses, the
yaqubi
thrive.” He swept his gaze over the rest of his men. “We’ll take them. Don’t doubt it. But this will be a good hunt. We’ll earn their blood.”

Laughter and a quiet cheer went up throughout the camp. All except for Kerlis. Watching him, Berun was reminded of
the wolf packs that roamed the Amber Steppes. Every pack had its leaders, the mated male and female, and a precise order down from there. In every pack was the lowest wolf, always the last to eat, the last to drink, and the recipient of the leader’s bad temper. If this band had been wolves, Kerlis definitely would have been the lowest wolf in the pack, and Lewan’s recent escape and Kerlis’s mishandling of it seemed to have roused Sauk’s anger toward the man. Berun felt a small twang of pity for Kerlis, but mostly he knew he’d have to watch the man. Kerlis would know better than to take out his anger on Sauk or any of his men. If he felt that the boy was the source of his recent woes—and Berun knew he did—then he would be the focus of Kerlis’s ire.

“Kerlis,” said Sauk, “you and Dren will stay here with the boy. Berun”—the half-orc’s lips twisted around the name —“care to join the hunt? A good fight. Just like old times, eh?”

“No,” said Berun. “I won’t murder innocents.”

Sauk snorted. “In that case, you better stay here, too, lover boy.”

A few of the men laughed. Berun looked around to see who was “lover boy,” and was surprised to see Valmir blushing. The blond man’s interest in discussing Talieth suddenly became clear.

T
he raiding party had been gone a while. The wind had picked up, though their camp was deep enough in the valley that the surrounding hills and trees kept off the worst of it. The occasional thunder off the mountains was getting closer. Still no rain, but it was only a matter of time.

Valmir had washed the iron kettle, refilled it, and it was just now beginning to bubble over the fire. For washing and shaving, he’d explained.

“Something wrong?” Valmir asked Berun.

“No,” Berun replied.

“You been quiet since Sauk and the others left.”

Berun rubbed his temples to clear his head. One bit of good news, at least. Perch was back. While Val washed the kettle and cups, Berun had taken the opportunity to reach out to his friend. The little lizard was up in the trees, watching them. The approaching storm had made him skittish, and he was worrying over the absence of his tail. But he’d found a comfortable place in the canopy to watch. His feelings came through, touching the edge of Berun’s consciousness—
Come down? Warm sleep?

Berun sent out a call—not words, but the intent was clear:
Not yet. Fight coming. Be ready
.

The wind had the trees swaying in a chorus racket, but Berun’s sharp ears picked up something rattling in the branches overhead.

Not yet
, he told the lizard.
Sit-sit-sit. Be ready
.

—ready-ready-ready. Fight-fight-fight! Tooth-and-claw-and-fight!

Berun concentrated, sending forth one image, one thought wrapped in a question
—Tiger …?

Gone-gone. Over hill with the big-big one. Big one grab-grabbed my tail. My-tail-my-tail-my-tail!

New tail soon, Perch. Be ready. Fight coming
.

Fight-fight-fight!

Berun smiled and called out to Valmir. “The soup all you have to eat?”

The blond man had just finished stowing the cleaned cups in his pack. “Still hungry? I warned you not to expect too much from my cooking.”

“It isn’t that.”

“Then what?”

Berun shrugged and said, “Just … Sauk’s mention of ‘old times’ reminded me of something.”

“And what’s that have to do with my soup?” asked Val.

Berun poked at the fire with a stick, sending a torrent of sparks into the air and stirring the flames to new life. “Back when I used to live at the Fortress,” he said, “I did more than work for the Old Man. Besides … doing what I did, I was also the best cook between Teylan Shan and Yal Tengri.”

“That’s not saying much,” said Val, “considering that half the tribes out here drink rotten horse milk.”

“Ah, have a little faith,” said Berun. “Let me prove it to you.”

“You want to cook for us?”

“I do.”

Val tilted his head and looked at Berun through narrowed eyes. “Why?”

“Why not? I’m not tired, but I am still hungry, and if all we have are supplies for soup, I could show you some spices
that you might not have tried before. You have anything better to do?”

Val’s gaze did not soften. “Spices?”

“In my pack.”

“And there wouldn’t be anything else in your pack that we should worry about?”

Berun sighed. “If you don’t trust me, you could keep the pack and hand me what I need.”

Valmir looked to Kerlis, who was sitting, morose, by his own fire, and Dren, who was sitting beside Lewan and honing his dagger over a whetstone. “You two have any objections?”

Dren just shrugged. Kerlis scowled and spat into the fire.

“You sit still,” Valmir told Berun, and he walked over to where most of the camp’s supplies were piled. He found Berun’s large leather satchel and returned to the fire. He sat, opened the flap, and turned the open satchel into the firelight. “Let’s see if we can get this over with before the rain hits.”

“See the roll of felt wrapped in twine?” said Berun.

“Yeah.”

“Those are needles and spare arrowheads,” said Berun. “Quite sharp, so don’t unwrap them. On the other side of the spare clothes is an inner pocket. See it?”

“Yes.”

“In that pocket is a small leather bag stitched with a red thread. Make sure it’s the pocket on the opposite side from the needles. The other pocket is poisons.”

“Poisons?”

“I live most of the year in the wild. I sometimes have to hunt things larger than me, and it takes a bit more than an arrow to bring them down.”

Val removed a leather bag slightly larger than his hand. “This it?”

“The very one.” Berun reached for it.

But Val drew it back, untied the drawstring, and looked inside. “How about you tell me what you want and I’ll pass it over?”

“You have salt already, so try to find a white doeskin bag. It should have a brass hinge on top rather than a drawstring.”

Val rummaged a moment, then produced the bag. “What is it?”

“Just sage.”

Valmir opened the little hinge and sniffed at it. Satisfied, he closed the latch and tossed it to Berun.

“Now, a larger oilskin pouch with black stitching.”

Val found it, sniffed the contents, and his brows rose appreciatively. “What’s this?”

“It’s called lingale,” said Berun. “It will help to bring out more flavor in the meat, and if we let it simmer, it will thicken the broth nicely.”

“Nice,” said Val. “What next?”

“This one is my little secret,” said Berun. “The
yaqubi
call it yellow safre. Quite good. You’ll find it in a similar oilskin pouch, only this one has lighter stitching.”

“Not much of a secret anymore.” Valmir grinned as he looked for the pouch.

“This is just cooking,” said Berun. “I don’t guard these secrets that closely.”

Valmir tossed him the pouch.

“One more, I think,” said Berun. “It’s probably near the bottom. Been a while since I used it. This one is a bottle made from bone. Should have a thick wad of felt stuffed in the top for a cap.”

“Why bone?” asked Val as he rummaged through the satchel.

“Clay or glass might break, and leather tends to soak up the flavor of this particular spice.”

Valmir produced the bottle and tossed it to Berun. “What is this one?”

Berun twisted the felt out of the bottle and gave the contents a careful sniff. “This one is most special. I trade for it with Shou merchants in Almorel.” He shook a generous pile into the palm of one hand.

“What’s it called?”

“They call it
tep yen
,” said Berun. “I suspect it’s some sort of fruit, but these are the seeds, dried and crushed.” He leaned over the fire and extended his hand. “Here. Smell. It’s quite good.”

Careful of the fire between them, Valmir leaned toward Berun’s open palm. He inhaled through his nose, and his brows rose in appreciation. “Good,” he said. “Smells hot.”

“It is,” said Berun—and blew the
tep yen
into Valmir’s eyes.