Web of wind s-2 Read online

  Web of wind

  ( Silverglass - 2 )

  J F Rivkin

  Web of wind

  J. F. Rivkin

  1

  Corson brenn torisk looked irritably at her companion. Nyctasia was toying with her dinner in gloomy silence, lost in thought, and Corson had had enough of her brooding.

  “Are you going to eat that or aren’t you?”

  “I haven’t much appetite, I’m afraid,” Nyctasia said listlessly.

  Corson shrugged and scraped the rabbit pie from Nyctasia’s plate onto her own.

  “Since we got to Osela you’ve done nothing but mope about,” she complained.

  “You’ve hardly left the inn. We came here to see the fair!”

  “And after I’ve seen it, what then? On the way here I had at least a destination. Now we’re here, I’ve lost even that.”

  Corson had long been accustomed to the life of a wandering mercenary, but the Lady Nyctasia ar’n Edonaris had never known what it was to be homeless. She had passed all her life in the city-state of Rhostshyl, and she could not resign herself to exile.

  Corson sighed. She was losing all patience with Nyctasia’s melancholy. “I thought you planned to go south to the Valleylands, to visit the Edonaris who own vineyards at Vale.”

  “Even if they should prove to be of my blood, I’ll only be a stranger to them.

  I’ve no place or purpose among them. Why should they welcome me?”

  “It’s true you’re useless,” Corson agreed, “but do you have to be boring as well? You know I’m dangerous when I’m bored.”

  “Nothing keeps you with me, Corson. I no longer need a bodyguard-I’ve no enemies this far from Rhostshyl.”

  Corson smiled her dangerous smile. “Well then, it’s time I gave you those lessons in swordfighting you wanted. If you mean to travel without an escort you’d best be able to defend yourself. There’s more than thieves and cutthroats in these parts-you’d make a pretty prize for a pack of slavers.”

  “You needn’t worry about me. I can fend for myself.”

  “Come along,” Corson ordered. She mopped up the last of the gravy with a piece of bread and gulped it down. “We may as well begin at once, since time’s so heavy on your hands.” Ignoring Nyctasia’s protests, she all but dragged her out to the courtyard of the inn.

  “Stand ready!” Corson commanded. “That’s a sword, not a pen-hold fast to it!

  Watch this-” She made a move, and Nyctasia’s sword landed several feet away, out of her reach.

  “Impressive,” admitted Nyctasia, “but I think you broke my wrist.”

  “No I didn’t. If I’d wanted to break your wrist I’d have done it differently.

  And I will, the next time I see you with such a lax grip. Pick it up.”

  Nyctasia obeyed, and instinctively took up a fencing stance, which Corson regarded with scorn. “Forget those fool fencing rules. There aren’t any rules in a fight.” She came at Nyctasia swiftly.

  Nyctasia parried successfully at first, but Corson seemed to be everywhere, and within minutes Nyctasia was ready to surrender.

  Corson brought the flat of her blade down hard on Nyctasia’s shoulder. “That’s cut off your arm.”

  By the end of the lesson Nyctasia was bruised and aching all over, and bleeding from numerous pricks and scratches. Corson was an effective teacher. Her pupils had to learn quickly, purely in self-defense.

  “You might make a fair fighter for someone your size.” Corson said with a grin.

  “You’ve a good eye, and you’re light on your feet. But you need plenty of practice. Tomorrow we’ll work on the attack.”

  “No we won’t,” said a faint voice from the depths of a tub of steaming water.

  “I’m not leaving this tub for a week, and when I do I have every intention of poisoning your ale. I should have let you die back in Lhestreq, you great overgrown ox.”

  Corson laughed, “In a real fight you can’t choose the size of your enemy.”

  “No one’s as big as you are!”

  “At least I gave you something to think of besides your woes.”

  Nyctasia looked at her sharply. “Corson, sometimes I suspect you might be clever-for a simpleminded barbarian.”

  “I must have learned my crafty ways from you then. You weave schemes like a spider spins webs. A poisonous spider.”

  “Not anymore,” Nyctasia said gravely. She only wanted to forget the measures she’d taken in the past to outwit her enemies. That life was behind her now,

  “Such webs are only snares for one’s own spirit.”

  Corson yawned. “Your philosophy’s too lofty for a simple-minded barbarian like me. You can stay here and rack your wits with riddles-I’m for the fair.”

  “Oh, very well,” said Nyctasia. “Wait for me.”

  Osela was famous for its harvest fair, the largest of its kind in the Midlands.

  Farmers came from far and wide, bringing their crops and livestock to market.

  Merchants and traders hawked their wares, gossip was exchanged, performers vied for the crowd’s attention, and thieves and beggars were kept busy. The city guard had all they could do to keep the peace, and summary justice was the order of the day.

  In spite of herself, Nyctasia was fascinated by the chaos of revelry that overflowed the market square and spilled into the streets. The markets of the coastal towns she’d seen seemed tame in comparison. If she lingered too long to watch the dancing bear, she missed the performance of the swordswallower. All about her, storytellers chanted, mummers danced, and fortunetellers offered to reveal the secrets of destiny for a fee.

  As usual, Corson was drawn irresistibly to the rows of merchants’ stalls. She was greedy as a magpie for glittering trinkets, and she would not be satisfied till she’d squandered money on something impractical and garish. She tried on gloves embroidered with silk and stitched with tiny pearls, but their price was too dear even for a spendthrift like Corson. Flinging them down carelessly, she strolled off to find something that was more within her means.

  But Nyctasia went her own way. The swordplay with Corson and the excitement of the fair had shaken her from her despondency, and she had quite recovered her appetite. It was the hawkers of fruits, sweetmeats, buns and savories who tempted her.

  “Pork pies, threepence! Hot pork pies!”

  “Fine, ripe pears! Sweet pears!”

  “Roast potatoes! Who’ll buy?”

  It all looked inviting to Nyctasia, and she wanted to sample everything. A smell of frying meat and spices lured her toward a crowded stall where a young boy was spooning a mixture of meat and vegetables onto thin pieces of dough. A heavyset woman deftly roiled the pasties and set them to sizzle in a greasy pan. A girl was selling them, two for a penny, as fast as the pair could make them. Nyctasia gave her a copper, and received her meat-cakes wrapped in a waxy green leaf. She devoured one of them in a single bite. With the other halfway to her mouth, she suddenly gasped and started to choke.

  “I’ve been poisoned! My throat’s afire!” she said hoarsely, as Corson came up to her, chewing one of the spicy delicacies.

  “Poisoned! What-who-?” Then Corson saw the uneaten pasty that Nyctasia was still clutching. She started to laugh, and thumped Nyctasia cheerfully on the back.

  “Haven’t you ever eaten zhetaris before?”

  Nyctasia wiped tears from her eyes. “Asye’s blood! You don’t mean to say they’re supposed to burn like this?”

  “If they don’t, they’re no good. These are good,” Corson said with satisfaction, eating Nyctasia’s other zhetari. “They’re festival-food, for harvest time.”

  “Barbaric custom!” Nyctasia muttered, hastily drinking down a stoup of goat’s milk offered by a shrewd milkma
id. In her gratitude, she paid the girl three times its worth.

  2

  “Make way, make way there!” A troupe of tumblers dressed in gaudy tatters shouldered their way through the crowd, and succeeded in clearing a space.

  To the beat of a painted tabor, they formed a ring and began to juggle brightly colored wooden balls, tossing them back and forth across the circle, while keeping several aloft at once.

  The crowd shouted and clapped to the drumbeat as the dark-skinned jugglers performed an intricate dance, weaving in and out of the circle, never dropping even a single ball. Nyctasia strained her neck to watch them over the shoulders of the onlookers. The drummer bowed, sweeping off his ribboned cap which he proffered to the audience for coins. Meanwhile, the two tallest of the tumblers stretched out a rope between them and a small, nimble woman hoisted herself up onto it.

  The drummer took up a pair of charred wooden clubs, their tops smeared with tallow, and dramatically set them alight. He threw both to the rope-dancer, who caught one in each hand and began to juggle them. Soon she was juggling five flaming brands, while the other acrobats scrambled for coins on the ground before the beggar-children could snatch them up.

  With a final flourish, the woman tossed the clubs, one by one into a tub of water, and leapt to the ground, rolling into a somersault. Delighted. Nyctasia squeezed her way to the front and slipped some silver into the drummer’s cap.

  The crowd quickly dispersed, and Nyctasia looked around for Corson. She was not surprised to find her haggling with yet another merchant. This time an ivory hair-clasp had taken her fancy. Corson was vain of her waist-length, chestnut hair, though she wore it sensibly bound up in a braid.

  “Did you see them?” Nyctasia asked eagerly. “It was inspiring-a perfect manifestation of the Principle of Balance!”

  Corson concluded her purchase of the costly ornament. “What are you blathering about now?” she asked Nyctasia.

  “The jugglers-their skill and grace-like outward signs of discipline and harmony of the spirit! If only-”

  Corson was used to her friend’s everlasting explanations of the mystical philosophy of the Vahnite faith. According to Nyctasia’s beliefs, the vahn, the Indwelling Spirit, was the true source of a magician’s powers. Nyctasia herself had invoked its Influences, and she was always willing to discourse at length upon the workings of her spells. Usually Corson paid no heed, or cut Nyctasia off with a curt jibe, but this time, to her astonishment, Nyctasia suddenly fell silent.

  Corson turned to her in surprise, and saw her staring, speechless, as a line of people straggled past, chained together at the wrists and ankles.

  Nyctasia’s own ancestors had been responsible for the elimination of slavery in Rhostshyl, and she thought of it as an ancient and uncivilized custom. The sight of people being sold like livestock in the market square sickened her. “I knew such things went on, but-to see it-it’s shameful,” Nyctasia said in horror. “It shouldn’t be allowed!”

  Corson spat. She’d seen slave-traders before, in her travels, and she considered them lower than vermin. Having spent time in the army, Corson valued nothing above her freedom.

  “It’s a disgrace how little I know of the world outside Rhostshyl,” said Nyctasia seriously.

  “I never thought I’d hear you admit that there’s something you don’t know. I told you the countryside’s crawling with slavers, and they’re none too fussy about how they get their wares.”

  “Surely only criminals can be sold-or captives of war?”

  “Oh, so says the law. But half the folk who are sold were waylaid on the road and smuggled to foreign markets. I could sell you here and now if I’d a mind to.”

  “Nonsense!”

  A gleam of deviltry lit Corson’s blue eyes. Seizing Nyctasia by the collar, she called out lustily, “Who’ll buy a beautiful foreign princess, stolen from the courts of the coast?”

  “Corson! You fool! Hold your tongue!” Nyctasia sputtered indignantly. She tried to kick Corson on the shins but Corson held her at arm’s length, still describing her attractions to the crowd.

  “Take note of her pale skin and delicate features…”

  “Let go of me, you stinking-”

  “… and grey eyes! You’ll not see her like in the Midlands!”

  “Bitch! You’ll regret this!”

  “She can read and write, too, and sing to the harp-a prize at two hundred crescents! Who’ll buy?”

  Nyctasia bit her, hard, and Corson hastily released her. “You venomous little snake!” she exclaimed, waving her wounded hand about. “You’re poisonous as a viper! My hand’ll turn black! I’ll die…” She was laughing too hard to go on.

  Nyctasia regarded her coldly. “Corson, you go too far.”

  “I daresay you’re right,” said Corson, still gasping with laughter. “No one would pay two hundred crescents for a vicious little creature like you.”

  Nyctasia meant to say a great deal in reply, but she had barely begun to hold forth on the subject of Corson’s behavior, when Corson interrupted her tirade.

  “Nyc, look! That fellow over there-don’t you remember him?”

  “Where?” Nyctasia asked anxiously. Which of her enemies would pursue her so far?

  Without answering, Corson suddenly darted across the square, shoving people out of her way. She seized an unsuspecting young man by the arm, shouting, “Where are my earrings, you thieving bastard?”

  He tried to squirm away, protesting, but Corson threw him against a fruit barrow, sending apples flying. The crowd watched curiously as Corson continued to pummel the man with both fists, as though she meant to murder him. She could easily have done so, since he was only of average build and clearly not a fighter.

  “Corson, stop-what are you doing? You’ll kill him!” Nyctasia tried to pull her away, but was knocked roughly aside. She grabbed Corson by the belt, but someone dragged her back and held her fast.

  The furious fruit vendor had summoned the city watch. It took three of them to deal with Corson.

  3

  of the many indignities Nyctasia had suffered in exile, this was the crowning outrage. It was past believing that she, a lady of the rank of Rhaicime, could be thrown into a prison cell with the riffraff of the city. She was only thankful that it was too dark to see her filthy surroundings. Fastidious by nature, she hardly dared breathe the foul air.

  Corson would have enjoyed Nyctasia’s discomfiture if she had not been so wretched herself. She’d been in prison many times, during her frequently lawless career, but she could never resign herself to confinement. She paced back and forth, cursing, as the other prisoners scrambled to get out of her way.

  Helplessness always frightened Corson more than danger, and her fear took the form of unfocused rage.

  The man she’d attacked had simply been thrown into the cell with them; no one had troubled to discover who was to blame for the brawl. He lay huddled in the dirty straw, and Nyctasia knelt over him, tending to his injuries. Fearing that his collarbone was broken, she unlaced his shirt and removed the leather pouch he wore around his neck, then felt gently along his shoulder. He groaned faintly without opening his eyes.

  Looking at him, Corson remembered the time he’d robbed her and Nyctasia just after their escape from Rhostshyl. He and his fellow thieves had not only taken Corson’s prized golden earrings, but had taunted her with her helplessness as well. Corson had felt shamed at her defeat, though she knew she was hopelessly outnumbered, She did not have a forgiving nature, and she never forgot an injury. She would gladly have taken out her panic on the thief now, but he was plainly not fair game for a fight. She stood over him, glowering, and stifled a desire to kick him.

  “Stay away from him, you stupid savage!” Nyctasia hissed. “I don’t mean to be hanged for murder to satisfy your bloodlust. Let him be!”

  “But-but that’s the rutting whoreson who robbed us-he was the ringleader, you remember! They should hang him.”

  Nyctasia stared at he
r. “That is why you tried to beat him to death-for the loss of a few coins and some trumpery jewelry? That is why I am in this reeking dunghole?”

  There was some whistling and jeering from the drunks and pickpockets who shared the cell with them.

  “Make way for Her Ladyship-”

  “Clean linen for Her Majesty here!”

  Nyctasia clenched her teeth, her fine features hard with rage, but in a moment she had mastered her anger. It was not like her to give herself away. She stood and faced her fellow prisoners, suddenly seeming to become a completely different person. Corson had seen these masquerades of Nyctasia’s before, but they always caught her unawares.

  “Now I leave it to you!” Nyctasia cried. “This great lummox is supposed to perform feats of strength to draw a crowd, so I can pick their pockets-and what does she do but start a fight in the middle of the marketplace! And here we are!

  What’s to be done with a dunce like that?” She ended her performance with a remarkably ill-bred laugh, which the others echoed.

  “Cut her throat,” someone offered.

  “Get rid of the dolt-I’ll go partners with you.”

  There were other suggestions of a coarser sort, but Corson was in no mood to bandy words, “I’ll serve the next who laughs just as I served that one,” she threatened, pointing at the hapless thief. No one took up her challenge.

  She turned back to Nyctasia, who was once again kneeling beside the thief. “It may have been a few coins to a wealthy lady,” Corson muttered, “but it was a rutting fortune for the likes of me.”

  “However much it was, it’s not worth hanging for!”

  Corson looked uneasy. “He’s not really like to die, is he?”

  “No thanks to you if he doesn’t. He has broken ribs.”

  “Well, why don’t you use your witchery to heal him then?” said Corson, lowering her voice. “You always say that healing-spells are simple to do.”

  “They are simple, but they’re not easy. To heal, you must first be whole yourself-”