The Book of Kane (16 page)

“I could make it worth your while to ride out of your way.”

About to ride off, he glanced back down at her. Her smile was impish. Hidden by the cowl, his face could not be read.

She touched the ties of her embroidered bodice. “I would see that you had a most pleasant stay at Vald’s Cove Inn, reverence.” There was witchery in her voice. The bodice loosened, parted across her breasts.

“Though I can’t see your face, I can see there’s a man beneath that priest’s cassock. Would you like to enjoy a mountain flower tonight? You’ll remember her sweetness when you grow old in some musty temple.”

Her breasts were firm and well shaped. Against their whiteness the tan flesh of her nipples matched the color of the swirling oak leaves.

Whatever his interest in her, the priest carried gold beneath his robe. The girl’s eagerness to draw him onto a little-frequented trail aroused deep suspicion.

“The lure of wanton flesh is nothing to a priest of Thoem,” he intoned,

“Then bugger yourself!” she spat, and lunged with a shrill scream for his horse’s face. Sharp claws raked blood across his nose.

Already nervous, the horse screamed and reared. Caught by surprise, the priest lost his stirrups. Cassock flapping about his limbs, he scrambled for balance, then was thrown from the terrified mount. He fell heavily, somehow landing half on his feet, and cursed as his ankle turned under him.

The rearing horse bolted down the trail, took the right fork toward Rader, and disappeared. With mocking laughter, the girl ran after.

Limping badly, the priest stumbled after her, cursing with blasphemous invective. But the darkness quickly swallowed the flash of her white legs, though her laughter taunted him invisibly still.

The lights of the inn were smoky yellow through the thick, leaded panes. The night winds caught the smoke and smell of horses, drove it down the road to Rader, so that the priest came upon the inn all at once.

He noted the many horses tethered in the outlying stables. There were a number of travellers at the inn tonight, and it seemed less likely that the girl meant to lead him into a trap. Or had her confederates lain in wait along the trail, probably they were content to steal his horse and gear. The priest swore angrily, decided he had been too suspicious.

His ankle stabbed with pain, but at least it bore his weight. His boots had probably prevented worse injury. He damned the voluminous grey cassock as it flapped about his trousered legs. It was slitted front and back from ankle to midthigh , and while that enabled him to straddle a horse, he blamed the clumsy garment for his fall.

The two-storey square log structure was a welcome sight. The autumn night grew chill; mist flowed like waves across the ridges. A night spent in the open would be uncomfortable at best. Worse, he bad been warned of danger, and his sword was strapped to his saddle somewhere in the darkened hills.

A sign hung over the door: Vald’s Cove Inn. The carving seemed of recent work, the priest noted as he climbed up to the door. The latch was not out, though the hour was not late, Hearing voices within, he knocked loudly.

He was about to knock a third time, when the door was opened. Light and voices and the smell of warmth spilled out into the night.

A narrow, beardless face frowned out at him from the half-open doorway. “Who… what do you want… reverence?” His voice was thin and nervous, and he spoke in half-whisper.

“Food and lodging,” the priest tumbled impatiently. “This
is
an inn, I believe. The priest’s huge fist checked him. “Are you a fool? Where is the innkeeper?” he demanded, suspicious at the man’s show of anxious confusion.

“I’m master here,” the other snapped in annoyance. “I’m sorry, reverence. I’ve no more room, and you’ll have to—”

“Look, damn you!” The priest’s bulk shouldered onto the threshold. “My horse threw me, and I’ve hobbled for miles already to get here. Now I’ll have food and lodging if it’s no more than floor space near the fire!”

The skeletal innkeeper did not quail before the bigger man. His narrow jaw clamped in anger; he clenched his black-gloved hands.

“What is this, man?” demanded a voice from within. “Do I hear you denying lodging to a brother servant of Thoem! What manner of innkeeper are you?”

The innkeeper started, then cringed effusively. “Forgive me, eminence. I only meant that my accommodations were not sufficient for one of his reverence’s—”
“Let him in, you idiot! Turn away a priest of Thoem, would you! I see it’s true how sadly you mountain folk have fallen in your respect for the true god! Let him in, do you hear?”

The priest pushed past the suddenly solicitous innkeeper. “Thank you, eminence. The manners of these folk are pitiable.”

There were several people in the common room of the inn. Seated alone at one of several small tables was a tall, thin man whose scarlet cassock identified him as an abbot in the priesthood of Thoem. Like the priest, his face was hidden by the cowled garment. He waved to the other man with a finely groomed, blue-veined hand.

“Come join me by the fire and have some wine,” he invited. “I see you’re limping somewhat. Did I hear you say your horse threw you? That’s bad luck. Our host must send his servants out to find it. Are you badly hurt?”

“Thoem saved me from serious harm, eminence, though I’d rather not walk another mile on it tonight.”

“I’m certain. More wine, innkeeper! And hurry with that roast! Would you starve your guests? Sit down here, please. Have we met? I am Passlo, on my way in the service of Thoem to take charge of the abbey at Rader.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Eminent Passlo.” The priest touched hands as he seated himself. “I am Callistratis, journeying in the service of Thoem to Carrasahl. I’ve heard the abbey at Rader has fallen to the Dualists in these evil times.”

The abbot scowled. “Certain rumors have reached us in the South. Word that there are certain rebel priests in the northern provinces who would contend that Thoem and Vaul are but dual expressions of the same deity. No doubt these heretics consider it prudent to align themselves with the god of these northern barbarians, now that the empire drifts into civil war.”

The priest poured wine and drank hunched forward so that his lips were hidden in the shadow of his cowl. “I have heard such attempts to vindicate the Dualist heresy. It may be that our errands are the same, Eminent Passlo.”

“Well, Revered Callistratis, that doesn’t surprise me. I’d sensed immediately that there was a presence about you that argued for more than the simple priest. But I’ll not intrude further on one whose mission requires that he travel incognito. But tell me, though, how would you deal with the Dualists?”

“By the prescribed formula for any heresy. They should all suffer impalement, their bodies left for night beasts and carrion birds.”

The abbot clapped him on the shoulder. “Splendid, Revered Callistratis! We are of one accord! It pleases me to know that those who believe unswervingly in Thoem’s sacred precepts have not all passed from the priesthood! I foresee a pleasant evening of theological discussion.”

“Come, revered gentlemen, don’t judge too harshly. After all, there is precedent for Dualism in the history of your priesthood.”

A short, stocky gentleman with a fine grey beard looked gravely at the priests. He straightened from the fire where he had stooped to light his pipe. A silver medallion embossed with a university seal depended from a chain about his thick neck. “Precedent?” the abbot snapped.

The short man nodded through a puff of smoke. “Yes. I refer to the dogma formalized under the reign of King Halbros I that Thro’ellet and Tloluvin are but dual identities of the evil principle. No one in the days of the monarchy considered such doctrine heretical, although ancient beliefs plainly ascribe separate identities to these demonlords .”

The abbot paused to consider. “An interesting point,” he conceded grudgingly, “although the manifold embodiments of evil are certainly acknowledged by our doctrine. Nonetheless, your argument does not hold in this instance, for there is but one true cosmic principle of good, whom true believers worship as Thoem. May I inquire, sir…?”

The grey-bearded gentleman blew smoke in a flourish. “I am Claesna, of the Imperial University at Chrosanthe. Your proposal of theological debate caught my ear, eminence. The prospect of intelligent discussion promises salvation from what I had previously feared would be a dull evening in a back-woods tavern. May I join you?”

“Claesna?” The abbot’s tone was surprise. “Yes, I’ve beard a great deal of you, sit. Please join us! Why does a scholar of your high renown pass through these dismal mountains?”

Claesna smiled acknowledgment. “I’m headed for Rader myself, actually. I’ve heard of certain inscriptions on what are said to be prehuman ruins near there. If so, I’d like to copy them for study and comparison with others that I’ve seen.”

“So it’s true that you plan to supplement Nentali’s
Interpretation of Elder Glyphics
?” suggested the grey- cowledpriest.

Claesna lifted a bushy eyebrow. “Supplant, not supplement, Revered Callistratis. Well, I see you are an extraordinarily well-informed man yourself. This does promise to be an illuminating evening.”

“Oh, please, learned gentlemen,” mimicked a sneering voice from the corner. “Don’t bore us all to death with such learned discussions.”

“Shut up, Hef!” A gruff voice cut him off. “You’ll find a neater death than boredom when we get to Rader!”

The other made an obscene reply. An open fist slapped on flesh, then sounded the clash of chains, subdued cursing.

“Ranvyas, you son of a pox-eaten whore, you busted that tooth half out of my head. Takes guts for a pissant bounty hunter like you to bust a man all chained up.”

“You had an even chance before the chains went on, Hef,” growled Ranvyas. “And you won’t need that tooth once I get you to Rader.”

“We’ll see, Ranvyas. Oh, we’ll see, won’t we? There was other smart bastards all set to count their bounty money, but ain’t one of them lived to touch a coin of it.”

Claesna indicated the two men in the near corner. One was a tall, lantern-jawed swordsman with iron-grey hair who wore the green tunic of a ranger. The other, his prisoner, was a wiry man with pinched face and stained yellow heard, whose blue eyes seemed startlingly innocent for one weighed down with wrist and leg irons.

“That’s Mad Hef over there, whose black fame ought to be known even to you, revered sirs. Looks harmless enough, though I doubt all the prayers of your priesthood could cleanse his soul of the deeds he’s committed here in the mountains. They were talking about it before you came in. The ranger finally tracked him to the cave where he laired, and if he succeeds where so many other brave men have failed, the public executioner at Rader is due for a strenuous afternoon.”

From the rooms above came the echoing moan of a woman in agony.

The priest started from his chair, then halted half-crouched when none of the room’s other occupants seemed to pay heed.

Again the cry of pain ripped through the panelled hallway above, down the narrow log stairway. A door slammed at the foot of the stairs, muffled the outcry.

Two other travellers exchanged glances. One, grotesquely fat, shrugged and continued to devour an apple pastry. His smaller companion shuddered and buried his chinless face in his hands.

“Pray Thoem, make her stop!” he moaned.

The fat man wiped his slobbery lips and reached for another pastry. “Drink more wine, Dordron. Good for the nerves.”

Passlo’s hand pulled at the priest’s arm. “Don’t be alarmed, Revered Callistratis. The merchant’s young wife is giving birth upstairs. No one thought to mention it. As you see, the father is untroubled. Only his brother seems a bit shaken.”

“The fat blob is a half-wit!” sneered Claesna. “I judge his mind is rotten with pox. I pity his wife, poor child. If our host hadn’t sent a serving girl to stay with her, these swine would certainly have left her to labor alone.”

“The mystery of birth,” quoted the abbot, “where pain is joyful duty.”

Now the innkeeper moved among them, setting before each guest a wooden trencher and loaf of black bread. Behind him walked a swarthy, bristle-bearded dwarf, the first servant the priest had noted in the inn. His squat, powerful arms carried a great platter of roast meat, which be presented to each guest that he might serve himself as he desired. The fat merchant growled impatiently when the dwarf halted first before the abbot and his two table companions.

“Please, Jarcos!” his brother begged. “Don’t offend these revered sirs!”

Hef giggled. “Don’t eat it all now! Save a nice hefty bone for poor toothless Hef!”

From overhead the screams, distant through the thick boards, sounded now at closer intervals.

The innkeeper smiled nervously and wrung his black-gloved hands. “I’ll bring out more wine, Bodger,” he told the dwarf. “Bring out your mandolin and play for them.”
The dwarf grinned and scuttled into the back rooms. He cavorted out again in a moment, wearing a flop-brim bat with a feather and carrying a black-stained mandolin. His strangely pointed fingers struck the strings like dagger tips, and he began to caper about the room, singing comic ballads in a bullfrog voice.

The moans from upstairs continued monotonously, and soon the travellers forgot to listen to them, or to notice when they ceased.

“Then, just as the hunter spun around at the sound, the werewolf leaped down from the roof of his cabin! He clawed for the silver dagger at his belt, but the sheath was empty! Too late he remembered the old man’s warning! And as he died, he saw that the beast at his throat had the sun-colored eyes of his wife!”

Claesna leaned back against his chair and blew smoke at the listeners circled about the fire.

“Bravo!” squealed Jarcos, the fat merchant. “Oh, that was go, good! Do you mean that the werewolf was really his wife, then?”

Claesna did not deign to reply, instead nodded acceptance of the others’ applause.

The meal was a scattering of picked bones and cheese rinds. The autumn night tightened its chill around the inn, where inside the travellers shared the companionship of wine and a warm fire. The hour grew late, but no one yet sought his bed. Pulling chairs in a rough circle about the glowing hearth, they had listened to the ballads of Bodger the dwarf, and as the night wore on someone had suggested that each tell a story.