Master of restless shado.., p.4
Master of Restless Shadows, page 4
part #1 of Master of Restless Shadows Series
After losing that duel he’d suffered hours of agony at Hierro’s hands, but he’d also felt a kind of triumph, because his defeat had also been Hierro’s.
Ariz had seen a Haldiim youth again today—not the same man—this fellow had been much taller and his hair so dark that the marigold petals caught in his curls looked like shining embers. But of all the courtiers and couriers on the street only that one Haldiim youth had seemed to notice Ariz stalking through the shadows. The man had looked straight at him and for an instant Ariz had felt as if he gazed back at the omen of his destruction.
The idea filled Ariz with a cold dread but also a glimmer of hope. Perhaps he might end this all at last.
The sound of footsteps on the cobblestone path interrupted Ariz’s contemplation. He rolled his eyes to the left and picked out the handsome form he knew so well and hated utterly. Hierro moved quietly, particularly for a man of his stature, but his vanity undid his stealth. The gold spurs adorning the heels of his costly boots produced a distinct jingle that reverberated like an alarm bell in Ariz’s awareness. Dozens of golden embroidered swans glinted as moonlight fell across his dove-gray velvet doublet.
“The trophy you requested, Lord Fueres.” Ariz hurled the oilskin sack at Hierro, who caught it easily.
Even in through the gloom, Hierro’s close relation to the royal Sagradas as well as Fedeles Quemanor showed. All of them tended toward tall, lean builds, exceptionally pale complexions, black hair and eyes like polished jet. Hierro’s strength and grace rivaled his physical beauty, and yet the sight of him never failed to sicken Ariz to the core.
“Clara will be delighted.” Hierro stopped just short of Ariz at the edge of the fountain. “But where have your manners gone, Ariz?”
Hierro extended his hand. The instant Ariz considered slapping that hand away, the brand seared to life. To stop it, Ariz kissed Hierro’s signet ring and then knelt on the cobblestones. Hierro laughed.
“So you do remember how to greet your master. I had feared that so much time in Fedeles Quemanor’s household had made you forgetful.” Hierro ran his hand over Ariz’s hair as if he were stroking a dog, then he cuffed the side of Ariz’s head hard. Ariz rocked but didn’t fall from the blow. He’d expected it.
“It is done.” Ariz didn’t lift his face. “Am I free to go?”
“No, pet, you are not,” Hierro replied. He turned and started toward the inlayed doors of the chapel. “Come.”
Ariz rose and obeyed.
Chapter Four
Night had fallen by the time Berto unlocked the double doors that led from the overgrown garden into Narsi’s new rooms. He bestowed the key on Narsi with a little flourish.
Thankfully someone had made a fire in the small hearth and now the low flames offered just enough illumination for them to find two oil lamps to light. To Narsi’s delight he found the exam room was huge with large windows, though randomly littered with an eclectic assortment of shabby furniture. The different designs of the chairs and the mismatched quality of the three medical cabinets and two long examination tables indicated to Narsi that these rooms had been occupied and then evacuated by numerous physicians before him. From the obscene denouncements of the duke slashed into one of the cabinet panels he surmised that not all—if any—of the departures had been happy ones.
Narsi had heard rumors of Fedeles Quemanor’s immense distrust of physicians. People said that he often dismissed one from his service the moment he laid eyes upon him. Once he’d supposedly fired a man even sooner by sending a courier riding directly behind the courier that his wife had dispatched to offer the position. There were so many tales surrounding the duke that it was difficult to know which to believe, but this one sounded as if it might be valid. But Narsi would be in Father Timoteo’s service and not directly answerable to the duke. Otherwise his stay at court might be quite short.
A door, directly opposite the garden doors, opened out into a dimly lit hallway. Narsi thought he heard voices, but they sounded far away, in distant chambers.
He stepped back into the exam room to investigate the two other adjoining rooms.
“I had a maid in yesterday to air the room and dress the bed for you.” Berto frowned down at one of the two examination tables that stood a few feet from the desk. With a look of disgust he nudged the stiff body of a dead rat.
“It seems the cat you mentioned has arranged a welcome for me as well,” Narsi commented. “Does the creature have a name or an owner?”
“Neither. The thing is a vagrant sack of fleas.” Berto’s expression suddenly turned stern. “I know you have a soft spot for scoundrels, but that one is a beyond redemption, you realize.”
“You know me too well.” Narsi leaned into the chamber adjoining the exam room on the east side, hoping to find a bath. Instead he discovered a huge space—a surgery, perhaps—furnished with only one stool and the remains of another dead rat. He tried the other doorway and found an even larger room, furnished with a tidy bed, a side table and a simple wooden wardrobe. The large, round window let in enough moonlight for Narsi to pick out the corpse of a third rat.
Narsi collected the stiff rodents and took them outside and dumped them in a weedy plant bed of the neglected physic garden. Then as he closed the garden doors behind him a thought came to him. “If the rooms have been locked up all this time, how do you suppose the cat has managed to get in and out?”
“Supposedly there are secret corridors,” Berto replied. “Before Fedeles Quemanor inherited this place it belonged to the Tornesal family, and apparently they couldn’t get enough of creeping around behind the walls.”
“Really?” Narsi regarded the bare wood walls with a newfound excitement.
“Well, if you believe gossip. I’ve seen no sign of any myself,” Berto replied. “I expect that the animal has just managed to slip in and out behind the house maids.”
“You’re probably right. Still it could be fun to search the walls, on the off chance of finding something.”
Berto smiled in the indulgent manner of a man who knew better than to waste his breath arguing against a flight of fancy.
As Narsi gazed around him he couldn’t help but wonder exactly where Lord Vediya’s rooms were in this vast mansion. If they were near then perhaps the two of them might see each other in one of the many gardens? Perhaps then he might reclaim his book or rekindle their fleeting acquaintance. Narsi stopped his train of thought before it could wander any further into some besotted fantasy.
Lord Vediya had not recognized him or remembered his name, and he knew that his own imaginings were to blame for his disappointment. Indulging in new fancies would only worsen his discontent.
“I need a bath,” Narsi realized.
“I’ll see if I can’t secure you a washtub and water. It won’t be warm, but . . .”
“Better than nothing.” Narsi said. “Thank you.”
Berto left through the door that opened into the mansion. As he went Narsi glimpsed two footmen out in the hall, lighting candles in the two nearest candelabras hanging from the high ceiling. From somewhere not too far away the strains of music drifted down. Narsi had to resist the urge to wander out to introduce himself and explore. He could indulge in that after he’d bathed. In the meanwhile he ought to unpack.
He’d not been greatly weighed down by possessions, so it didn’t take long to disgorge his saddlebags, however he did take a little care in arranging his two prized sketches—presented to him by Lady Riossa Grunito herself—and his medical books. His towel and white prayer clothes he set on a chair in preparation for his bath. Last he laid out his tattered diary. He considered writing something to mark the occasion but only ended up scratching out Have arrived in the duke’s household. Don’t know what to expect as of yet.
He left the diary open on the desk to dry and took up the sealed letter that his mother had entrusted to him. He turned it over, fighting with his curiosity as he did every time he saw the thing, then at last he set it aside. Whatever last wishes his mother had needed to convey to Father Timoteo, she had not wanted them shared.
He suspected that his mother had kept the contents of this letter from him for good reason. Still he picked it up a second time and briefly held it up in front of the lamp flame. The rag paper lit up and shadows of Cadeleonian script appeared in a tangle. She’d folded the pages within. As he had a dozen times before, he sought out the small corner where he could almost convince himself that he saw the words “husband and father” written.
Her husband? His father? The mystery that he’d been warned away from as long as he could remember?
“He was the best of men murdered by the worst,” his mother had told him the one time he’d found her in the Cadeleonian chapel weeping. Beyond that, he’d learned precious little from her or from Father Timoteo. As a child he’d been persistent—and was warned more than once that curiosity killed more than cats—but as he grew older he’d become warier of learning the truth. He now understood what the word “murdered” truly meant; he’d seen bodies on autopsy tables. He also knew that the sort of men whose murders inspired relatives to go into hiding, instead of seeking justice, were most often the worst kinds of criminals. Was he prepared to learn that he was a slaver’s son? Or the child of an assassin?
All those childhood fantasies of the brave, stalwart man he’d imagined his father to be would die. Then what would he do with his desire to somehow make “the best of men” proud up there in his Cadeleonian paradise?
Narsi set the letter aside again. Only then did he notice a black cat, lounging on one of his exam tables. It regarded him for a moment, then hefted a scrawny hind leg and got to work licking its ass. Narsi laughed and felt pleased to let go of his maudlin contemplations. They didn’t suit him, really. He unpacked the last of his medical supplies.
When a loud knock sounded, the cat startled and slunk into the bedroom. Narsi answered the door. A footman carried in a wooden tub that might have been big enough to serve as a hip bath for a dainty girl. Another footman followed with a pitcher and a scrub brush that looked fit for a horse.
“Is the master physician here?” the footman asked Narsi.
“I am indeed,” Narsi replied.
A brief silence followed and, oddly, the footman holding the pitcher paled.
“The duke sends his regards.” The footman holding the wooden tub dropped it on the floor and turned around to leave; the second footman, however, paused.
“It’s not because you’re one of them Haldiim. I don’t care how unnatural you are. That’s your business.” He eyed Narsi as if he feared for his soul. He footman set the pitcher and brush down on the exam table. “The duke just hates physicians, is all. So we had to bring these to you. You aren’t gonna put a curse on us, are you?”
Narsi laughed and the footman backed away from him nervously.
“I assure you I’m not going to curse you.” Narsi quickly lifted up the pendent of his necklace, showing the footman the holy Cadeleonian star embossed in the silver. “My father was Cadeleonian and I was blessed in a chapel after my birth. I served Holy Father Timoteo before I attended my medical studies, and he has sent for me to attend him now as his physician.”
The footman’s expression changed completely at the mention of Father Timoteo. Suddenly he grinned at Narsi as if they’d been fast friends for years.
“The father was saying that he’d send for a physician for the household. We’ve been without forever . . . I just didn’t realize—he didn’t say anything about you being—I mean you’re . . . so brown . . .” The footman snatched up the scrub brush and then lowered his voice. “Don’t you worry about this. I’ll have the girls bring you a proper tub in two flicks of a tail. And I’ll get the word around. Otherwise you’ll be having potato peels and raw ox ears for your supper.”
“Truly?”
The footman glanced quickly from side to side as if he feared someone might be lurking in a corner of the room, then he whispered, “The duke truly hates physicians.”
Then the man raced off and Narsi closed the door behind him.
Only a little time later six sturdy Cadeleonian women arrived with an actual hip bath, a sable wash brush and several pails of steaming water. The youngest of the women made the Cadeleonian holy symbol at Narsi and he returned the gesture, which seemed to reassure her, though Narsi wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t as if the motion would actually ward off any form of sorcery—not if Lord Vediya’s book was to be believed.
A gray-haired and particularly plump woman looked him over as she poured the last pail of water into the tub, then commented, “You’re a quite a towering youth, aren’t you?”
“My father was a Cadeleonian,” Narsi replied.
“A Cadeleonian what? Oak tree?” The woman’s expression struck Narsi as genuinely friendly and he returned her smile. While the other women hurried out of the room, she lingered surveying what few belongings he’d brought.
“No solstice lamp?” she asked.
That took Narsi off guard. Outside of Anacleto, few if any Cadeleonians knew anything of actual Haldiim traditions. Those within Anacleto were often careful not to seem too knowledgeable to avoid accusations of secretly worshiping at the White Tree.
“I left it with my aunt. I was afraid that it would break, being carted around on horseback,” Narsi replied.
“I’ll lend you one of mine, then,” the woman said.
Narsi gaped at her and she burst into laughter.
“Don’t look so shocked, my boy. You aren’t the first soul to have made the journey from Anacleto, you know. I and my husband—bless his soul in his next life—tended the gardens for a Haldiim potter there. She gifted us with any number of pretty lamps over the years.” The woman’s expression turned slightly wistful. “I was there when the White Tree lit up the whole sky with Bahiim blessings. Even caught one in my hand.”
She held out her thick, callused right hand. Narsi resisted the urge to place his palm against hers. Wearing a symbol of the Holy Cadeleonian Church wasn’t going to get him far if he gave himself away as a heathen by pressing palms to share a blessing.
To his surprise the woman reached out and drew his palm to her own. Her fingers felt tough from hard work but also warm and strong, like his mother’s had been before she fell ill.
“That’s for good luck,” she told him, and then she whispered in flawless Haldiim, “You aren’t as alone as you might think, child.”
Narsi stared at her, at a loss, and she laughed again.
“I’m Querra—Querra Kir-Naham—mistress of the kitchen gardens.” The woman slipped back into Cadeleonian. “If you need anything to bring these medical gardens back, come to me.”
“I will, thank you.” Narsi replied, now feeling stunned.
Among Haldiim physicians, the Kir-Naham family was famous for extensively stocked pharmacies, their encyclopedic medical knowledge and their intolerance toward non-Haldiim. Never would Narsi have expected to find the name attached to anyone who appeared so Cadeleonian. Then Narsi chided himself for his closed mind. If anyone ought to know that love and marriages crossed cultures—regardless of disapproving relatives—he should. He wondered if Querra, like his own mother, had been shunned as heram and been forced to find work among Cadeleonians. Or had she gladly left Anacleto after her spouse’s death?
Curious as he was, he knew better than to ask, so instead he simply stood there looking dazed. Querra offered him a smile.
“Well, I can see that you’re tired from your long journey,” Querra said. “I’ll let you relax with your bath while the water’s still hot.” Then she slipped out the door.
Low bells rang out from far across the city, and from somewhere much closer a dog howled. Narsi washed the dust and grime from his body. To his surprise he found several marigold blossoms clinging to his hair. He plucked them out, hoping that he’d not made too strange of an impression wandering around with flowers strewn through his hair. He wrapped his towel around himself and dumped the filthy water out into one of the dry plant beds outside his window.
Still wearing only his towel wrapped around his waist, he dropped into the chair nearest the hearth. He let the low flames warm and dry him, luxuriating in both the freedom from dirt and the knowledge that he wouldn’t have to wake at dawn tomorrow and ride.
A knock sounded at his door, but having at last sat down, he didn’t want to rise.
“Come! It’s not locked,” Narsi called out.
Berto leaned in and frowned as Narsi’s sprawled figure. “What if I had been a lady and I saw you like this?”
“I would instantly have offered to marry you and thus have salvaged your maidenly honor,” Narsi replied. Then he spied the tray in Berto’s hands. He caught the scent of beef and onions and felt all at once ravenous. Oddly Berto glanced down at the tray with a guilty expression. He handed it to Narsi, who managed to thank him before tearing into the small roll of warm bread and then slurping up several mouthfuls of the beef and onion soup.
“Delfia had this made for you,” Berto commented as he pulled up a chair beside Narsi’s. “It seems the duke . . .”
“Let me guess. He arranged for my plate at the master’s table to be heaped with potato peelings and topped by a hairy ox ear?”
“How did you know?” Berto asked.
“One of my many mystical Haldiim powers—hadn’t I mentioned it before?” Narsi finished off the roll. With a rich, warm meal in front of him, Narsi could easily afford to see the humor of the situation.
“Don’t even joke about that around here.” Berto lightly cuffed the side of his head. “People in the north take the accusation of witchcraft seriously. Two women were hanged only a month ago.”
That deflated Narsi’s mood a little. He ate his soup quietly. Across from him Berto frowned at the fire.
