Winter Witch (10 page)

The study was a tidy room, the opposite of those in which Declan’s teachers had made their lairs. While the wizards and astronomer were masters of clutter, their desks surrounded by pinnacles of stacked books and ruins of knick-knacks and half-eaten lunches, Nagashar’s chamber was both clean and spare. On his desk lay only an accounts ledger and an inkpot upon a blotter. The room’s sole lamp hung unlit above the desk, but sunlight poured in from a high window to reveal that every corner of the room was free of dust and cobwebs. Against the wall stood a closed sideboard where Nagashar kept the inn’s records and his personal papers.

The only nod to decoration was a pair of exquisite papercraft landscapes, each framed and mounted under glass upon a field of dark silk. Each was composed of hundreds of hand-torn paper scraps that Declan’s mother had made by boiling discarded ledgers, contracts, and letters. Every piece was a different shade of white, often with a fine thread or speck of slivered glass mingled with the reconstituted paper. The art was in the selection and shape of each hand-shredded strip, pasted and layered upon a background of pure white vellum. Both landscapes depicted snow-swept hills that grew more ethereal in the distance. Declan felt a shiver each time he looked at them. They were the finest things in the inn.

“I’ll be leaving the city for a while,” Declan told his father without preamble.

Nagashar settled back in his chair. “Oh?”

“I’ve been offered employment that requires travel.”

His father’s brows rose. “Drawing maps?”

“Yes.”

“How so? You don’t have a guild license, or any real experience, for that matter. You haven’t even finished your apprenticeship with the astronomer!”

“Basha doesn’t seem to care.”

“Yes, I’ve heard about Basha’s Maps,” the senior Avari said darkly. “Working for that scoundrel will do nothing to build your reputation.”

“This is a legitimate map and a good opportunity. I intend to take it.” Declan folded his arms. “You’ve been telling me for years to be practical. One would think you’d be pleased.”

“I’m not displeased, exactly.” His father’s face took on a familiar, wistful expression. “Still, it was your mother’s wish that her sons undertake the study of magic. You promised to do so.”

“Asmonde made the promise for both of us,” Declan reminded him. “I was ten years old at the time. Anyway, I wasted several years in the Theumanexus.”

“The Theumanexus,” Avari said with distaste. “Asmonde went to the Acadamae.”

“And died there,” Declan shot back. “One of many who become corpses rather than wizards.”

“Young soldiers die in battle, young wizards burn in magic’s flame. It is a tragic fact of the ambitious life.”

“If you ask me, the true tragedy is that so many survive the training.”

Nagashar rose from behind the table, trembling with rage. “That is a despicable thing to say.”

“Is it? Name one wizard whom you admire. And not because of his power or wealth or fame.”

“All of those things are admirable.”

“Very well then, name one arcanist of any sort whom you could trust. Just one.”

“Your mother!” Nagashar roared.

The argument broke. For many moments, neither man could gather enough shards to fashion them into thoughts, let alone words.

The older man sank slowly down into his seat. Declan felt none too steady himself. This revelation did not accord with his memories of his mother, and he’d had too many props kicked out from under his boyhood assumptions of late to welcome another. More importantly, he understood that in Korvosa, one did not hide magical ability without good cause.

“Is it true?”

“Yes,” Nagashar said slowly. “But it should have remained unsaid.”

“Why?”

His father simply shook his head. As he often did in times of high emotion, he reached for a delicate porcelain vial that hung from a chain around his neck. The vial contained his wife’s bone dust—a ghoulish keepsake, in Declan’s opinion, which by unspoken agreement remained a family secret.

“Your mother wanted you to learn to use and understand magic,” said Nagashar. “She had her reasons.”

“I’m sure she did. No doubt they are similar to the usual ones: power, wealth, respect.”

“Do you blame her for wanting these things for her sons?”

“Not at all. Mother knew better than most how difficult is it for artists to earn a living in Korvosa. She, who could create that”—Declan gestured toward one of the framed paper landscapes—“was known as a cake decorator.”

“And you would be known as a mapmaker.”

“Korvosans might not be generous patrons of any art but the theater, but they value maps and pastry. Like my mother before me, I’ll do what I must to make my way in the world and spend the hours remaining to create art that pleases me.”

“And that is the sum of your ambitions?”

For a moment, Declan was tempted to tell his father about Silvana and his determination to rescue her. Nagashar would call it a fleeting madness. Declan knew all too well where that conversation was likely to go. So he merely shrugged.

“What more can I tell you? I am, after all, Pernilla Avari’s son.”

Nagashar brandished the little vial. “That’s precisely what I’m afraid of.”

Declan considered his father for a long moment. “What are you not telling me?”

The older man made a visible effort to collect himself. “The bane and blessing of reaching my years,” he began, “is coming to know that most of life’s regrets focus not upon the things that one did, but the things one failed to do. This is something I would spare you if I could. Your mother believed it was important for her sons to gain mastery of magic. I agreed with her. I still do.”

Declan sighed. “With respect, Father, you need to let it go. I am not my brother. I loved Asmonde, but I despised what he became. And that is my last word on the matter.”

He turned and strode toward the door.

“Exactly where do you think you’re going?” his father demanded.

“Whitethrone.” Declan tossed the answer back over his shoulder and shut the door firmly behind him.

Chapter Seven

The Imp’s Revenge

Sunset tinted the sky as Ellasif returned to the Varisian camp. Men and women finished the last of their suppertime chores before darkness confined them to the borders of their campfires, where they took turns standing watch at the edge of the darkness. The smell of bubbling stew spread out over the company, and an old Varisian man with a curling mustache stood ready with a mallet, watching Balev for the nod that would signal permission to remove the bung and tap the ale keg.

Ellasif saw no sign of Declan Avari, nor of the tall gray stallion she had seen him ride to and from the mapmaker’s shop. Before her encounter with Declan’s necromantic rival, she’d spent several days following the Korvosan mapmaker, learning his habits and taking his measure. When Silvana was snatched away, Ellasif assumed that Declan would want to rescue the girl, and she’d made sure he had the means to do so. But these careful preparations could not dismiss Ellasif’s sense of foreboding. There was always the chance that Declan would find other uses for the small fortune that had come his way. If he did, Ellasif would drag him to Whitethrone herself, but for now it was far easier if he went willingly.

As Ellasif dismounted from her new steed, several of the Varisians hid their smirks behind their hands. The pony was a shaggy little beast, her thick coat a white-dappled gray that looked almost blue. A thick white mane hung over her eyes, disguising the evil-tempered gleam that had caught Ellasif’s attention, and the ribbons someone had braided into her tail lent an air of harmless innocence.

A young man, shorter and slimmer than his companions, nodded amiably to Ellasif and came over to take the pony’s reins. He jolted back with a curse as the beast snapped at his hand.

He flashed a wide, white smile at Ellasif. “I see you have found a kindred spirit.”

His jibe surprised an answering smile from her. “I like northern ponies. They’re sturdy and strong, and there’s nothing like them in battle. They’ll carry you willingly into the worst of it and fight like cornered badgers.”

“And you don’t need a stepladder to get into the saddle.”

“There’s that,” she agreed, since his jest sounded more friendly than challenging.

The youth touched his forehead and sketched an elaborate bow. “I am Camillor Vamoni, delighted to make your acquaintance.”

“Ellasif,” she said. “Before you waste your time and obvious charms, I’m here to fight, not to flirt.”

His brows peaked. “I see. You would not be the first to look upon us Varisians as vagrants and thieves, unworthy of the attentions of a mighty shield maiden.”

“That’s not it,” Ellasif said absently. She scanned the road. Still no sign of that blasted Korvosan. If he didn’t show up, all her hard work would be for nothing.

“Have I offended you? Tell me and let me make it up to you.”

She turned her attention back to the young man. He gazed at her with an earnest expression. He seemed pleasant enough, and her task would be easier if someone in the caravan was kindly disposed to her.

“You’ve done nothing wrong,” she assured him. “But like this pony here, I often give people the wrong impression.”

“Small, cute,” he said, “but with sharp teeth.”

“Exactly,” she said, pleased that he could grasp the salient point so quickly.

The clatter of hooves drew her gaze to the road. A tall gray stallion drew up to the camp, and Declan Avari swung lightly down from the saddle.

He was not a big man, no more than average in height and frame. His skin was as fair as Ellasif’s, but unlike most dark-haired Korvosans, his slightly shaggy hair was a light brown. His eyes were like none Ellasif had seen before. His irises were a peculiar shade of slate blue that in some lights held hints of purple. His features were pleasant enough, and unlike the men of her village, he kept his face clean-shaven.

Camillor followed the line of her gaze. “Ah,” he said, as if he’d solved a mystery, and not altogether to his satisfaction.

Ellasif shrugged and handed him the reins. To his credit, Camillor could take a hint. He led the pony toward the deep grass where the other animals were tethered.

Ellasif wandered over to the cooking fire and accepted a piece of flatbread from a woman of middle years and unfriendly demeanor who was sitting with her daughter.

“Ellasif,” she said by way of introduction.

The older woman’s eyes narrowed. “Gisanto’s mother,” she said. She inclined her head toward the younger woman. “His sister.”

“Nadej,” the young woman said with a smile. She ignored her mother’s scowl and handed Ellasif a plate heaped with fried fish and herb-scented potatoes. “I never laughed so hard as yesterday. Gisanto gets too big for his own boots. He should be reminded from time to time that a man also fights with what lies between his ears. You are welcome here.”

Ellasif doubted that everyone shared Nadej’s opinion, but she thanked her with a nod and wandered closer to Avari. He was speaking with Timoteo. The bard pointed Avari toward the captain.

Declan approached the caravan leader. “Viland Balev?” he inquired.

Balev turned toward him. “You are free with my name.”

“And mine as well,” said the mapmaker. He held out one hand. “I’m Declan Avari. I’m looking to travel north, and I hear you might be willing, for a fee, to let me ride along.”

After a moment’s hesitation, the Varisian took the offered hand. “You are Korvosan. Old blood Korvosan, if those eyes speak truth.”

Ellasif noted the flash of irritation on Avari’s face. That, she could understand, having had her own coloring remarked upon for her whole life. Most Ulfen had hair that was fair or red. Hers was neither. It was not brown, exactly, but a color that found the exact point where brown and red and blonde intersected. Jadrek used to say that it was the only indecisive thing about her.

Not that she cared about anything Jadrek had to say. Not anymore. She turned her attention back to the discussion of Declan Avari’s supposedly ancient heritage.

“Only half Korvosan, I suppose. My mother came from northern folk.”

Balev’s gaze swept Avari. “Shoanti?”

He shrugged. “I never met my mother’s people.”

“So, being of barbarian stock and open mind, you are not afraid that we will rob you and throw you to the carrion birds?”

Declan blinked. “Well, I’d certainly prefer you didn’t.”

For some reason, Avari’s tone amused the merchant captain. His bearded face relaxed into a genuine smile. Ellasif listened as Declan repeated the story the map merchant had suggested to him. As he spoke, he pulled a small book and a charcoal pencil from his pocket and made a few deft markings. He showed it to Balev, who roared with laughter and clouted him companionably on the shoulder, albeit with enough force to make the young man wince.

When the men concluded their bargain, Balev pointed to the cooking fire and strode off. Ellasif went over to the captain and exchanged a few words to establish the next step of her pretense.

She walked over to Declan and gave him a curt nod of greeting. “I am Ellasif, a shield maiden of the Lands of the Linnorm Kings. I’m to be your guard for the trip. The captain thinks that you will not trust a Varisian.”

Surprise flitted over Avari’s face, followed by a rueful smile. Apparently he thought he’d made a better impression on the Varisian captain.

“So I’m to believe that no Ulfen ever takes anything that didn’t rightfully belong to her.”

“Not by theft,” Ellasif said. “Perhaps at the point of a sword.”

Avari’s smile broadened into genuine amusement. He looked her over, his eyes lingering on the long winter wolf tail that hung from her hip. It was her oldest and most treasured trophy, and it pleased her when others noticed it.

“I’m picturing you on the deck of a longship,” he said.

“And you find that amusing?”

He was saved from answering by the swift approach of a rider. The man wore a servant’s livery, but his horse was a fine red mare with white stockings and blaze. Avari sighed, his shoulders slumped.

He excused himself and walked over to meet the servant. They spoke quietly, but Ellasif caught the gist of it. The servant carried an urgent message from Avari’s father, demanding that he return. He must not go to Irrisen, the servant stressed. It was far too dangerous.

The message appeared to prick the young man’s pride, and he curtly dismissed the messenger, who reluctantly returned without a reply.

Ellasif wandered over. “Your father is right to be concerned. The northlands are dangerous.”

“I’m not worried.”

“You really aren’t, are you?” she said. “You must be either a fool or a mighty wizard.”

He raised a suspicious eyebrow, and she silently cursed her clumsy ploy. Fortunately, rather than ask why she made that assumption, he said, “Is there any difference?”

“Do you know how to use a sword?”

After a moment’s hesitation he replied, “In theory.”

It was her turn to raise an eyebrow.

“I had a sword master in my youth. In Korvosa, that’s typical for most young men and many women. But I’ve never been in a real fight. I suspect that’s rather different.”

“You’re unlikely to find out unless you carry a sword. We’re stopping in Baslwief. You can buy one there.”

Camillor walked past in time to catch the last comment. “You lack a sword, Master Avari?” he said. “Permit me to lend you one of mine.”

The two men fell into conversation like old friends, discussing blades and fighting preferences. From what Ellasif overheard, Avari knew more about technique than she had expected, but his lack of experience would be a problem if he ended up facing so much as a lone goblin. It would do her no good if he died on the way to Whitethrone.

As Ellasif walked away from the men, she heard Camillor ask Declan whether he had any prior claim on the affections of a certain petite northern woman. Declan assured him he did not.

Ellasif rolled her eyes and kept walking.

The caravan left at dawn the following morning. The captain set a brisk pace, and Ellasif soon found herself uncomfortable in the saddle of her rough little pony. Avari rode well, with an ease that spoke of training and practice.

The morning’s travel passed with no incident more exciting than the occasional wave of a farmer driving his produce toward the city markets. Now and then Timoteo sang a riding song, and most of the company joined in. After the third time, Ellasif realized he was marking the hours, and after the sixth the caravan paused for a midday break. The afternoon passed the same way, with the addition of a much shorter break for water and a stretch of the legs.

When they stopped for the night, Avari removed the horse’s bridle and brushed it down, drawing nods of approval from some of the Varisians and puzzled frowns from others. Ellasif was certain that everyone in the caravan knew to the copper what fee he’d paid and how much his horse and gear would fetch in market, but he was not acting like a snooty Korvosan student indulging himself with a trip to northern parts. She had seen him pause now and then, surveying the territory and sketching in his little book. He was taking his own ruse seriously, unaware that it was all part of Ellasif’s design.

Despite her triumph over Gisanto, or perhaps because of it, the Varisians seemed far less impressed with Ellasif. She returned a couple of friendly nods from Nadej and Camillor, and even the bard Timoteo tipped her a wink as he helped erect a tent, but the rest of the company turned away when she tried to make eye contact, or else found something more interesting just past her shoulder. Her offers to help set camp gained her curt requests for water or firewood. The Varisians had hired her, but still they did not welcome her. Once more she worried whether she’d gone too far in demonstrating her “cunning” against the big warrior. She wished he’d take his revenge sooner than later, preferably in some harmless prank. Perhaps then she would be more welcome in the caravan.

Avari was experiencing the opposite problem, Ellasif saw as she returned with a double armful of deadfall for kindling. He sat between a pair of teenage Varisian girls, peeling and dicing vegetables for the stew pot while the girls took turns asking him flirtatious questions about his life in Korvosa. A third was dancing a Varisian welcoming dance that Ellasif herself had not been offered, not that she cared. Avari enjoyed the attention but accepted it with a casual attitude, as though he were used to receiving it. Still, despite his smile and open face, he was holding something back from the Varisian girls. It wasn’t that they were homely or graceless. Rather, it appeared that Declan’s mind was half reserved for some other matter.

It had to be Silvana. Good, thought Ellasif. The more dedicated he is to rescuing her, the easier it will be to get him to Whitethrone. Yet as soon as the thought formed in her mind, there was something unsatisfying about it. Ellasif was cunning in more than battle, but for the first time since she began to devise her rescue plan, something about it gnawed at her stomach. So much depended on the cooperation of others who had no idea of her true intention. So much depended on later improvisation. So much could still go wrong.

After the sun set, Ellasif munched on a sweet apple and paced a perimeter just outside the campfire’s light. Balev had assigned pickets at four points, but Ellasif’s watch did not begin until the small hours. She knew she should catch her sleep soon, but she felt restless, and walking helped her digest the thick venison stew the Varisians had shared in generous helpings. Unless the caravan saw some action soon, this job threatened to give her a merchant’s paunch.

Before she’d stretched her legs enough to settle onto her bedroll, Ellasif noticed one of the girls who’d been flirting with Avari kneeling beside his packs and bedroll. She remembered hearing Timoteo call the girl Vira earlier. Avari remained near the fire, now flanked by another pair of chatty women. Despite all of his city education, Avari had fallen for one of the world’s oldest ruses. The proof of his fallibility in such matters brought a smile to Ellasif’s lips. As she moved quietly toward the girl opening one of Declan’s packs, her smile turned grim.