Furies of Calderon (32 page)

“We so seldom have visitors to Bernard-holt, sir,” the girl said. She looked up, her eyes direct. “I’m ever so interested in new, exciting people.”

Who are wealthy gem merchants
, Fidelias thought wryly. “Completely understandable. Though honestly, from the things I’ve heard…” He leaned closer to her, looking left and right. “Was the Stead-holder really hurt yesterday?”

The girl knelt down beside the chair, leaning toward him just enough to let him see the curve of her bosom should he look down. “Yes, and it was terrible. He was so pale that when Fade—Fade’s our idiot, sir, the poor man— first dragged him in here, I thought the Stead-holder was dead. And then Kord and his sons went mad, and the Stead-holders all set to fighting one another with their furies.” Her eyes gleamed. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Perhaps later, after dinner, you’d like to hear more about it.”

“Oh… I suppose you mean Tavi, then, but he’s no one. And even though he’s the Stead-holder’s nephew, we don’t really like to talk about him very much, sir. He and simple Fade.”

“The boy’s an idiot as well?”

“Oh, he’s clever enough, I suppose—just as Fade is handy enough with a smith’s hammer. But he’s never going to be much more than Fade is.” She leaned closer to him, so that her breasts pressed against his arm, and whispered importantly, “He’s fury-less, sir.”

“Entirely?” Fidelias tilted his head, holding his cup where he could be sure his voice would strike the drink within it squarely. “I’ve never heard of such a thing. Do you think I could meet him?”

Beritte shrugged. “If you really want to. He went up to his room, when the Stead-holder brought him and that slave home. I suppose he’ll be down for dinner.”

Fidelias nodded toward the stairs the Stead-holder had glanced at. “Upstairs there? Do you know if the slave is up there as well?”

Beritte frowned at him. “I suppose. They’ll be down for dinner, I expect. I’m cooking tonight, and I’m a very good cook, sir. I’d love to hear what you think of—”

A new voice interrupted the girl, confident and smooth. “Beritte, that will be quite enough from you. You’ve chores in the kitchen. Attend to them.”

The girl flushed an angry and embarrassed pink, rose to give Fidelias a swift curtsey, and then fled the hall, back toward the kitchens.

Fidelias lifted his eyes to see a tall, girlish figure wearing a dressing gown. Long, dark hair spilled over her shoulders, down to her waist. Her face was youthful, with a pleasingly full mouth. She carried herself with quiet confidence, and he noted the threads of silver in her hair. This would be the water-crafter, then.

At once, Fidelias drew in his emotions, carefully controlling them, veiling them from her perceptions, even as he rose to bow to her. “Lady Stead-holder?”

She regarded him with a cool expression, her own features every bit as masked as he knew his own were. “I am the Stead-holder’s sister, Isana. Welcome to Bernard-holt, sir.”

The question was innocuous enough, but Fidelias sensed the trap in it. He kept tight rein on his feelings and said, blithely, “We seek shelter from the coming storm, lady, and are passing through on our way to Garrison.”

“I see.” She glanced after the girl and said, “I hope you have no plans to make away with any of our young people, sir.”

Fidelias let out a low laugh. “Naturally not, lady.”

Her eyes moved back to his and remained there, steady, for several long beats. He regarded her in reply with a blank, pleasant smile.

“But where are my manners?” the woman said. “A moment, sir.” She crossed to the fire and took from a shelf near it a pan, some clean cloths. She filled the pan from the pipe that passed through the rear of the fireplace, the water steaming, and moved back to him. She knelt in front of him, setting the pan aside, and began unlacing his boots.

Fidelias frowned. Though the gesture would have been common enough in a city, it was rarely observed in the stead-holts, particularly those this far from civilization. “Really, lady, this isn’t necessary.”

She looked up at him, and he thought he caught a glimmer of triumph in her eyes. “Oh, but it is. I insist, sir. It is to our very great honor that we treat our guests with courtesy and hospitality.”

“You’re already doing enough,” he said.

She tugged his boot off and tossed it to one side. The other soon joined it. “Nonsense. My brother would be horrified if I did not treat you with all the honor you deserve.”

Fidelias settled back with his tea, frowning, but unable to voice any particular protest against the ritual. As she washed his feet, people began to trickle into the hall by threes and fours and fives; families, mostly, he noted. The stead-holt was a prosperous one. Though the seats around the fire were given a respectful space, the rest of the large hall was soon filled with motion and sound and quietly festive talk—the mark of a folk who knew that they were safe, while outside the thunder rolled, the wind was rising, and the storm chimes were clanging away in steady rhythm.

Isana finished and said, “I’ll just have these brushed clean, sir, and send them right back to you.” She rose, taking his boots in hand. “I’m afraid we can offer only clean blankets and a place beside the fire this night. We’ll have our dinner together and then turn in for the night.”

Fidelias glanced at the stairs and then back to the water-crafter. Simple enough, then. Once everyone was sleeping, even the suspicious water-crafter, it would be an easy enough matter to slit three throats in the darkness and slip away before morning light. “Everyone together at dinner.” He smiled at her and said, “That sounds per—”

The doors to the hall abruptly slammed open, and Aldrick stormed in, letting in the howling wind. Rain and sleet pounded down around his broad shoulders and across the threshold with him. Odiana clung to his side. Both looked disheveled, straw littering their hair and clothing. Aldrick cut through the crowded hall and came straight to Fidelias, the holders scattering out of his way, like sheep before a running horse.

“Fidelias,” Aldrick breathed, keeping his voice low. “Someone has let our horses out. They know.”

Fidelias let out a curse and looked toward the water-crafter—only to see her holding her skirts with one hand while she dashed up the far staircase, his boots in her other.

“Bloody crows,” he breathed, rising, feet cold upon the floor. “I’ll get the horses and the Stead-holder. The boy and Amara are up those stairs.” He turned to Aldrick, feeling for the knife hidden in his tunic, and said, “Kill them.”

Chapter 18

Tavi eventually came to the conclusion that he was sulking.

It wasn’t easily reached, of course. It took nearly ten minutes of staring at the wall in smoldering anger after his aunt’s departure before it occurred to Tavi that she did not look at all well. That, in turn, led to worrying about her, and after that it became impossible to sustain a good, sullen rage. The anger slowly faded and left him feeling tired, sore, and hungry.

Tavi sat up on his bed and swung his legs over the side. He kicked his feet, frowning, while he thought about the events of the past day, and what they meant to him.

He had neglected his responsibilities and told a lie. And now he suffered for it—and so did the people who cared about him. His uncle had been wounded badly in his defense, and now Aunt Isana looked as though the efforts of healing his uncle’s leg had damaged her health. Such things were not unheard of. And even though Bernard tried to hide it, his uncle walked with a very slight limp. It was just possible that he would keep it, that the injury had done permanent damage to his leg.

Tavi rested his chin in his hands and closed his eyes, feeling foolish, selfish, childish. He had been so focused on getting the sheep—his sheep— back, on keeping his uncle’s respect, that he had forgotten to behave in a manner that was worthy of it. He had exposed himself and others to great risk, all for the sake of his dream—the Academy.

If he had gotten to the Academy as a result of his ill-considered choices, would it have been worth it? Could he really have made a better life for himself, knowing what he had traded away to get it?

“You are an idiot, Tavi,” he mumbled to himself. “A true, shining example of idiocy.”

Matters could be much worse for him—much worse for his family, as well. He shuddered at the thought of his uncle, dead on the ground, or his aunt laying beside a healing tub with her eyes empty, her body still breathing but already dead. Though things had not played out the way he had wished them to, they could have been more disastrous.

Though he ached in every muscle and his head felt light and feverish, he went to the door. He would find his aunt and uncle, apologize to them, and offer to make amends. He had no idea what he would do, but he knew that he had to at least try. They deserved that much.

He had to earn the respect he wanted, not through daring or cleverness, but simply through hard work and reliability, just as his uncle and aunt had.

Tavi was about to open the door when there came a swift, soft rapping at his window.

He blinked, looking back across the dimness of his room. Outside, the wind was rising, and he had already put up the storm shutters. Perhaps one of the more mischievous wind furies had rattled the shutters.

The knock came again. Three quick knocks, two slow, three quick, two slow.

Tavi went to the window and unfastened the latch to the storm shutters.

They sprang open, all but knocking him down, and let in a torrent of cold, misty wind. Tavi drew back several steps, as someone slipped into the room, lithe and nearly silent.

Amara made a soft, quiet sound and slipped entirely into the room, then turned and shut the window and the shutters behind her. She was wearing what looked like a pair of his uncle’s trousers, belted about her slender waist with a heavy leather cord. His tunic and shirt billowed on her, as did the heavily padded jacket and cloak, but she had secured them with more strips of leather, so that she was quite evidently functional in them. She wore pale slippers on her feet and what looked like several layers of socks over them. In one hand, she held a bundle that included an old leather pack of Bernard’s, his hunting bow, a handful of arrows, and the sword they’d recovered from the Princeps’ Memorium.