The White Mists of Power (7 page)
Read The White Mists of Power Online
Authors: Kristine Kathryn Rusch
Seymour’s eyes adjusted. Stairs on his left ran up into more darkness. He was standing near the first row of benches. The tavern was crowded. Men huddled around tables, and women in low-cut blouses and skirts ripped just below the knees carried trays covered with mugs. A fire burned in the hearth on the far side. A portly man wearing a grease-stained apron watched everything from a door across the room. Another man sat alone at a small table near the hearth. The only empty chair in the place was beside him.
Seymour pushed his way though the chairs and drinkers, narrowly missing one of the serving girls. She grinned and pressed her breasts against him as she moved forward. Seymour ducked aside and stopped beside the man sitting alone. “Do you mind if I join you?”
The man grunted his approval. Scars covered his face, and one of his eyes bulged out. Seymour wondered if the man had been in an accident or a lot of fights.
“I was wondering if you could help me,” Seymour said. His heart pounded. This man wouldn’t put him in a whirlpool for lying, but the man might add a scar or two to his face.
“Depends,” the man said. He still didn’t look up.
The man’s tone made Seymour shiver. “I’m searching for someone.”
“What do I look like, the city guards? Ask the barkeep.”
“You look like a much more observant man than the barkeep.” A true lie, and an automatic one. Seymour flushed. The man finally looked up. Another, newer cut ran just under his hairline, making him seem as if he were perpetually frowning.
“Do I now?” The man took a swig of his ale and wiped his arm across his mouth. “Who are you looking for?”
“Tall man, slender, very well dressed. I was told he was staying here.” Seymour scanned the room. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness. He saw several men that fit his description.
“You know his name?”
“I know one of his names. He uses many.”
“Hmmm.” The sound was noncommittal, but the man seemed interested. He leaned forward.
Seymour bit his lower lip. He forced himself to continue. “He travels from place to place under different names. He dresses like a merchant and sometimes like a lord.”
“I might know who you mean,” the man said, shoving his mug aside. “Why are you looking for him?”
“He steals things.” Seymour wondered at the ease of the lies. They slipped out of him as if he had done it all his life.
“And you want to get something back?”
Seymour nodded. “Do you know him?”
“Know him? He’s standing right over there.” The man nodded his head toward the far side of the room. A tall lord wearing a satin broad coat and leather pants leaned over a table, holding a coin in his hand. Seymour squinted. The lord seemed shorter than Byron, but just as thin. Seymour hoped that Byron wasn’t planning to do anything illegal to this man.
“Where’s he staying?” Seymour asked.
“You mean you aren’t going to fight him here?”
Fight? Seymour’s stomach turned. Of course the man would make that assumption. “My men are outside. They do that work for me.”
“Count me in for a bit of the take,” the man said. “I haven’t been in a brawl in a long time.”
“Certainly,” Seymour said. He had no intention of seeing this man again, but if Byron was really going to fight the lord, Seymour wanted to have outside help.
“You just yell if you need me.”
“I will.”
The man smiled. The scars disappeared into his face, making his skin seem pockmarked. “He’s staying first door, top of the stairs.”
“Thank you.” Seymour stood up. His knees felt weak. He gripped the chair for a moment, then pushed on. He had done it. He had gotten the information they needed.
He gave the lord in the corner a wide berth, then slipped out the front door. The noise hit him like a wall. The brightness of the sunlight made him squint, and he sneezed twice at the manure-scented road. Byron was squatting beside the building. Three or four beggars sat near him. Despite his ripped clothing, he didn’t look a part of them. His bearing was too confident, his skin too clean. Seymour stopped in front of him, and he rose stiffly.
“Well?”
“First door, top of the stairs.”
Byron’s dark eyes sparkled. “Good work, Seymour. Now, go back inside and keep him busy until I come down the stairs.”
“I can’t,” Seymour said.
“Why not?”
“I told some guy that I was going to get my men to fight.”
Byron laughed. “So pick a fight with him if he tries to go upstairs.”
“I can’t fight him.”
“I’ll be done quickly. You won’t have to fight him.” Byron glanced around them. Two of the beggars slept, their heads lolling back against the building. People streamed past: a merchant pulling a steaming cart, a man followed by four children. Byron slipped into the crowd and headed around the row of buildings to the back of the inn. He darted along the roadway and disappeared.
Seymour’s hands were shaking. He wanted to be someone else. Or somewhere else. He sighed and went back to the inn. The door seemed heavier that it had before. Inside, the darkness was thick. When Seymour’s eyes adjusted, he noticed that the table near the hearth was empty. Some of the tension left his shoulders. The man had disappeared. For a moment Seymour hoped that the lord had disappeared too. Then Seymour saw the tall man sitting in the center of the room, talking with a group of men. The men at the table looked rougher than Lord Dakin’s retainers. The men had large, muscular bodies. One man stood out from the others. He was wiry, his arms corded and strong. A long scar ran down the side of his face. They seemed to be discussing something.
After a moment the lord stood up, threw a coin on the table, and headed for the door. Some of the men followed.
Seymour forgot to breathe. He had no plan, no way of stopping the lord. Seymour shot a quick, nervous look at the stairs, but he didn’t see Byron. When Seymour turned back toward the tables, the lord was almost beside him.
“…get my cloak,” the lord was saying. Seymour had to act fast. There was no time to think of a plan.
He blocked the lord’s path. The man seemed taller up close. “Excuse me, sir,” Seymour said, “but I have a message for you.”
The lord looked down at him. Seymour felt himself grow cold. The lord’s eyes seemed colorless in the dim light. “What?”
Seymour swallowed. He remembered the road, the only other gentry he had seen that day. “Uh, a woman–in a white carriage–she asked me to tell you to meet her. She said–”
“Her name, lad, or you’re wasting my time.”
Seymour rubbed his hands together. “I don’t know, sir, but she said it was urgent. She said she’d meet you near her carriage, about a mile south of here.”
The lord hesitated. He turned to the man with the scar running down his face. The scar’s ridged edges puckered the man’s mouth. “A white carriage, you said?”
Seymour glanced at the stairs. No Byron. “Yes, sir. It had four white banners with blue stars in the center.”
“And she asked for me? Why did she send you? Why not one of her retainers?”
Seymour shrugged. “She said it was important.”
“How did you know where to find me?”
Seymour almost closed his eyes. Lords. What did he know about lords? Nothing except lords thought of no one but themselves. “Everyone knows you, sir. We all know where you’re staying.”
The lord frowned. “How convenient for you. This sounds rather odd, lad. Are you sure you’re not up to something else?”
“Sir, she said it was urgent.” Seymour held himself still, forcing himself not to glance at the stairs again. Had Byron left him? “Please, sir. She’s not a lady to keep waiting.”
“That she is not, Lord Kensington,” the other man said. His voice was deep and raspy. “The Lady Jelwra is a real bitch if something doesn’t go her way.”
“Are you sure her carriage displayed white banners with a blue star?” the lord asked.
“Yes, sir. She said you’d know who she was.”
“How did you know who I was and didn’t know who she was?”
“I’d only heard people talk about the lady, sir, but I had never seen her before.”
“And you had seen me?”
“Yes, sir. I have often wondered if you needed a magician in your entourage.”
The lord smiled. “You seem a bit too ragged for my entourage. I take it she is waiting in her carriage?”
Seymour nodded.
The lord tossed him a coin. Seymour caught it, just barely. The lord pushed his way out the front door, the other man trailing behind him. Seymour waited until the door closed before he leaned against the wall. He was going to pass out, he knew it. Deep breaths, deep breaths. Then he would be all right.
Several patrons on their way out glanced at him. The wall was cool but made of rough wood. A sliver stuck into his finger as he pushed against the wall to stand. He pocketed the coin and backed away from the door. He climbed a few stairs, but saw nothing in the darkness. If Byron didn’t show up soon, Seymour would sit down. After this tension he might never stand again.
At least he had some money in his pocket. The coin wasn’t much, but it would help.
At loud crash at the top of the stairs made Seymour start. He moved out of the way as a tall nobleman bounded down the stairs, a black cape billowing behind him. The man grabbed Seymour’s sleeve and tugged fiercely, almost ripping the garment in his haste. “Come on,” he hissed.
Seymour pulled away. He didn’t have the time or energy for more foolishness.
“There you are!” someone shouted from the darkness above. “I found him for you. Caught him coming out of his room. If you hurry, we can take him on together.”
The man Seymour had talked with earlier ran down the stairs. As he passed Seymour, he said, “Let’s get him.”
The nobleman at the foot of the stairs adjusted the lace on his sleeve, then ran a hand through his thick black hair. He kept his head down.
Seymour frowned. Where was Byron? Something had gone wrong. “No, wait–”
“You’re afraid.” The man spoke loudly in his disgust.
The nobleman glanced up. Seymour’s heart seemed to stop. The nobleman looked just like Byron. “Are you coming or not?” he asked, using his rich voice with authority.
“Ah–yes, milord.” Seymour walked slowly down the stairs. The nobleman had to be Byron. He couldn’t be anyone else. Still, he looked comfortable in those clothes, as if they had been tailored for him.
When Seymour reached the bottom of the stairs, Byron handed him a small valise. “We’ll be on our way, then.”
“Hey!” The man leaped down the stairs and blocked their path. His breath whistled in and out between his rotten teeth. “What’s going on here?”
Seymour turned. His entire body was trembling. “We are going outside. We have people waiting for us. I’ll call you if I need you.”
“Oh.” The man stepped out of their way. “Right.”
Byron grabbed Seymour by the arm and led him out of the inn. The light stabbed Seymour’s eyes, and the noise seemed to have grown, throbbing, throbbing, throbbing inside his head.
Beggars surrounded them, crying for money. Seymour tripped as someone jostled him. “What did you do?” he asked.
“What does it look like I did?” Byron walked faster. He walked along the side of the road, pushing people as he went. “Let’s find a place to stay–far from here.”
“But how–?”
“Seymour.” Byron stopped. People did not touch him as they passed. Horses avoided him. He seemed to have gained a foot-wide invisible body shield along with the clothes. Seymour couldn’t detect any magic, however. “I stole these, along with an extra change of clothes and quite a bit of money. And I don’t want to discuss it. If it bothers you, remember this: you refused to cast that spell.”
Seymour shoved his hands in the pocket of his robe and felt the coin the lord had given him. He had never expected Byron to steal to get them a place to stay. If Seymour had known, he might have tried harder to gather his luck web. It probably wouldn’t have worked, but at least he would have had the satisfaction of a failed attempt. He glanced behind them. It seemed as if no one had followed them. “You look like a lord in those clothes,” he said.
Byron smiled. The tension seemed to flow out of him. “Do I really?”
“I didn’t recognize you.”
“Not at all?”
Seymour shook his head.
“Good.” Byron looked ahead, into the crowd. “Because that retainer up there is wearing Lord Dakin’s colors.”
Chapter 4
Adric walked toward the spires. They looked cold and distant, yet at the same time too large, like the fingers of a giant. His legs ached and he smelled, but no one seemed to notice. The crowd surged forward, and when he thought to look, his traveling companions were always different.
Beside him now, a merchant hurried, his chin up, glancing over the heads to something Adric couldn’t see. On Adric’s left, a thread of troubadours pushed the wrong way. One hit Adric, jostling him. Their gazes met, then the troubadour looked away. Here on the street, voices milled and rumbled. Occasionally a horse rode through, and Adric dodged as the others did, watching for hooves out of the corner of his eye. When a carriage passed, he stopped and gazed, hoping to see the unmarked black carriage or at least one with an insignia he recognized. But most of the carriages were small and unfamiliar, pulled by two horses and steered by men in simple leather.
