The Exile and the Sorcerer (20 page)

Tevi was not sure how much more she could stand. It would not be so bad if the old warrior did not expect audience participation. “No. What did he say?”

Ricard rested his hands on his knees importantly. “He clapped me on my shoulder, and he said, ‘Ric,’ he said, ‘the honour of the guild rests on your shoulders.’ That’s what he said.”

A month had passed since Tevi had arrived at the Treviston guildhall and it was the third time that Ricard had told of his part in the Troll Wars, three decades before. The story was not improving with retelling. Tevi’s eyes wandered around the dining room, but no escape was in sight.

The guildhall was a modest building, busiest during the summer months, when the town was the stopping point for people crossing the Langhope Pass. The harsh winter had blocked not only the pass, but also all other access to the town. Only three mercenaries other than herself were lodging in the guildhall. They were elderly officials, retired from armed service, who managed the guild affairs. Ricard was running out of people he could recount his life story to.

The tale rambled on. “I could see the rabbits everywhere. We called them ‘rabbits’ because they were always popping out of holes. I remember old Chalky, the cook. Do you know what he said? He said, ‘If ever I catch one, we’ll have rabbit stew all month.’” Ricard’s face broke into a smile, which grew to chuckles, his shoulders shaking. Tevi assumed that the joke had lost something with the passage of time.

The tedium was plumbing new, mind-numbing depths when a door opened and Nevin, the Treviston guild master, limped in. A mace had shattered her knee several years before, making a mockery of Nevin’s otherwise athletic body. She was younger than the other residents and marginally more entertaining to be with. Tevi suspected that Nevin would have been good company, except that the constant pain made her short-tempered and cynical. Sandy hair hung in a fringe over shadowed eyes. Her lips were permanently turned down at the corners.

Ricard halted his story. “I was telling young Tevi here about the old wars, up north.”

“You can give it a rest. I’ve heard it all before,” Nevin said bluntly.

Tevi leapt at the excuse to flee. “Ricard can finish the story some other time.” Then she smiled at the old man. He meant well.

“We could go to the kitchen,” Ricard offered.

“Well, actually, I’d planned to go into town tonight.” It was not strictly true, and Tevi could feel herself blushing.

Fortunately, Nevin spoke up. “Ric, get the chessboard out, and give me a game. That should keep you quiet.”

“Oh yes...yes, of course.” Ricard’s confusion showed as he adjusted to the change in plans. He shuffled across the room to collect the board and pieces.

Seizing her chance, Tevi slipped from her seat. At the door, she paused and glanced back. Ricard was fussing over the playing pieces, swapping them back and forth as he tried to remember their positions. Nevin was slumped, her head sagging, as she rubbed her maimed leg with the heel of one hand. It was the same gesture Tevi remembered her mother making—the easing of tendons in a wounded knee. Yet the setting was so very different from the family hall on Storenseg.

Instead of drystone, the wood-panelled walls were hung with tapestries. A log fire blazed in the chimney. Rather than bare earth, there were flagstones, scrubbed clean. Suddenly, it all seemed very alien to Tevi. Swamped by homesickness, she closed the door and retreated to her room.

*

The private quarters did not have fires, and the air was freezing. Tevi’s breath formed white steam. Her room was austere, clearly intended to be functional rather than homelike. The bed was piled high with blankets and furs, though it was too early for sleep. Tevi’s few possessions were neatly arranged. Nothing needed cleaning or mending; the previous month had taken care of that. Tevi sat on the edge of her bed and stared at the four bare walls. They seemed to close in around her with the weight of the deserted guild house.

A door below slammed. The sound reverberated through empty corridors. Listening to the fading echoes, Tevi became aware of voices through the thick green glass of the window. Drawn by the sound, she wandered over and stared out on the town. A panorama of snow-covered roofs filled the skyline. On the narrow street below, well-wrapped figures made what haste they could on the slippery pavements. The scene reminded Tevi of her fabricated excuse to escape Ricard. On impulse, she decided to make good her words.

She grabbed her thick woollen cloak from the rack in the entrance hall and changed into the boots she had bought with money from Sarryle’s contract. One-quarter had gone to Nevin as the guild’s share, but that still left plenty. Coins filled the purse at Tevi’s belt. Fleece-lined gloves and hat completed her attire.

Dusk was settling as Tevi walked down the steps of the guildhall. It was a crisp, clear evening; the first stars already showing overhead. The street was filled with snow, brilliant white close to the walls, turning to brown slush in the ruts where traffic passed. The snow lay on every horizontal surface and clung to details in the brickwork. The road was busy with people going home after a day’s work.

With no clear destination in mind, Tevi wandered from street to street until she reached Treviston’s market square. The stalls and peddlers were gone. Tevi stopped in the middle and inspected each side in turn. The buildings were timber framed, with cream-coloured plaster and steep slate roofs. Tevi finally halted, facing east. Mountains loomed above the chimneys, vertical rock faces stark against the darkening blue sky. The last rays from the sun glinted off the icy peaks and washed them with pink. With each passing minute, more stars appeared.

Tevi watched until the white snow on the mountains was lost in darkness. She lowered her gaze and continued her restless wandering. By now, most townsfolk were home. Doors and window shutters were closed. Yellow light gleamed through joins in the wood.

Tevi passed a group of children indulging in one last snowball fight and ignoring the calls to come in for as long as they dared, until a more emphatic parental shout ended the game. A knot of townsfolk caught her attention, laughing boisterously with one another as they trudged home. Tevi’s eyes followed them enviously until they were out of sight. She knew that she was desperately lonely. Pools of lamplight glittered off the white ground and sparkled on the plumes of powdery snow her boots kicked up. Her thoughts drifted aimlessly, like the dancing flakes.

She was caught completely unaware when a figure cannoned into her, careering wildly out of a steep side street. The collision knocked Tevi skidding sideways on the icy paving. Her arms flailed but caught only on the new arrival, who was even less steady than herself. The two of them crashed to the ground.

Once her shock had passed, Tevi was able to squirm from under her involuntary assailant. “I’m very sorry,” Tevi apologised on reflex, offering a hand to assist the other person to rise.

“Oh, no. It was my fault. I was going too fast, and these shoes are useless. Can’t get a decent grip on the snow.”

“You haven’t hurt yourself, have you?” Sir? Ma’am? Tevi could not tell. The accent was local, but the speaker was so muffled that it was impossible to guess the gender. The person was shorter than Tevi by several inches, yet the voice seemed low for a woman. Not for the first time, Tevi wished mainland men would grow beards. One of these days, she was going to make an embarrassing mistake. It was just as well that gender was of so little consequence in the Protectorate.

“I’m fine, apart from my dignity. Are you all right?” the stranger asked.

“Yes. The snow’s soft to land on.”

“Though I guess I wasn’t quite so soft, landing on top of you.”

Tevi grinned. “It was a bit like being hit by a sack of potatoes...meaning no offence.”

The other person let out a peal of laughter. “None taken. If someone tells me I look like a sack of potatoes, then I’m offended.”

“I’m sure that isn’t likely to happen.”

“I don’t know. I’m a greengrocer. They say traders end up looking like their wares.”

Tevi joined the laughter. The pair exchanged pleasantries while brushing the powdery snow from their clothing. Before long, all traces of the accident had been erased.

“I must be off. Good evening to you, and once again, my apologies.” The greengrocer headed off with cautious steps, one hand braced against the wall.

“Excuse me! Before you go. I’m a stranger in town. I wonder if you could recommend a good tavern.” Tevi spoke, hoping her new acquaintance would offer to join her for a drink.

The face inside the fur-lined hood turned back, smiling broadly. “The ale in the Bees and Bonnet on Mickle Street is very good. My new lover’s one of the bar staff. He won’t be there tonight, but it’s always friendly.”

With arms held out for balance, the unsteady figure tottered away. Tevi stared at the empty street. In disappointment, she continued her aimless roaming.

She would have willingly bought as much ale as the greengrocer could drink, just to have someone to talk to. Tevi was wondering if even Ricard’s stories would be better than nothing when she noticed a painted sign above a tavern door. Several garish yellow and black bees swarmed around a frilly object that was, just conceivably, an item of headgear. This must be the Bees and Bonnet.

The greengrocer had said it was friendly. While Tevi watched, three townsfolk approached, pushed the door open, and went inside. She caught a glimpse of busy tables and scrubbed floor, the sound of people talking, even the faint smell of beer and wood smoke. Without making a conscious decision, Tevi found herself following the three townsfolk into the tavern.

Sweat prickled at her sides as the heat and noise of the alehouse swept over her. The sensation was like wading into treacle. All around, benches were filled with animated customers, though a scattering of empty seats remained. Tables lined the walls, with more arranged in the middle. A huge stone fireplace dominated one end of the room. The flickering light played over the low rafters and added to the cheerful glow from a dozen lanterns. An L-shaped counter was squeezed into the corner facing the door, with a row of barrels stacked behind.

Tevi tugged off her gloves, hat, and cloak. The bar was busy, but she was able to find a spot to rest her elbows and wait her turn to be served. It did not take long. A barman rushed to attend to her, ignoring other customers. From the uneasy glance at her hands, Tevi realised it was the tattoos that gained her prompt service. Tevi recognised the three townsfolk she had followed in. She gestured to the waiting group. “They were here before me.”

“Oh, no. You first,” one spoke quickly and then looked away.

Most ordinary citizens treated mercenaries with caution. Remembering Big Bron, Tevi could understand why. There was no point explaining that she was happy to wait her turn. It would only waste time and fail to reassure anyone.

“I’ll have a pint of ale, please.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The other customers did not act overly nervous, yet Tevi got the impression that they wished she were not there. Hope of finding companionship faded.

During her journey with Sarryle, she had become aware that the red and gold tattoos served to distance her from the general population. Young children would gape at her with hero worship, but their older relatives gave her a wide berth. Traders and others used to employing her guild comrades were less apprehensive, but mercenaries were generally left to their own company.

She fared no better once she got her drink and took a seat close to the fire. As soon as they noticed the tattoos, people sitting either side shifted ever so slightly away and buried themselves in conversation, mainly about the weather, from what Tevi overheard,

Farther away, some stared in her direction, although they looked away sharply if she caught their eye. Tevi’s lips tightened in annoyance, and then a thought struck her.
Am I being too sensitive? On the islands, we would always stare at strangers
. But on Storenseg, you could go from one year to the next without seeing an unfamiliar face. She remembered how odd outsiders looked to her then.
And I’ve changed, to sit here surrounded by dozens of strange faces and find them no more noteworthy than the bricks in the walls
. It was a sudden, unsettling realisation. Somewhere on her travels, the islander’s mentality had slipped its hold on her.

The mellow ale washed the tightness from her throat. In the hearth, flames leapt over the burning logs. Looking at them, you could see demons and castles, swords and flowers, if you chose. The fire was a glowing well of fantasies that drew her thoughts in. A wry smile touched Tevi’s lips as she remembered the family hearth of her childhood and sitting by it, playing games of make-believe. She had dreamed of growing up to be a warrior queen who would conquer all the known world—or at least the nearest couple of islands.
Things never work out the way you expect
.

But what next? Precise plans were hard, although a job would not be a problem. In spring, the pass would reopen, and traffic would flow through the town again. Traders would be heading off to the wildlands beyond the Protectorate, in need of guards. The world was wide and diverse, beyond the dreams of her childhood, beyond the imagination of the island women. Visions of the sights she had seen with Verron and Marith danced among the flames.