Godkiller, page 17
Elo sat back on his stool, surprised. ‘Your mother must be well travelled then, to have met a pirate.’
Inara quickly raised the horn back to her mouth, her eyes widening a little. She shouldn’t have let that slip, Elo suspected. He found it curious that Skedi had said her father had married into the Artemi family. They were rich merchants to be sure, but they were from the northwest; Inara’s accent was from central Middren.
The pies arrived and interrupted them, complete with bread, butter, and olives on the side. The pastry was dense and baked a golden brown. Elo gave it proper attention and broke into it with the knife on the plate. The pie crunched beautifully, breaking into crisp layers. The innards were fish, pickled cabbage, and capers. Elo took a bite first using the crust as a spoon, then buttered an edge of bread to soak up some of the filling. The butter itself was fresh made and creamy, whipped with orange peel and poppy seeds. He would have to try that when he got back to baking. It soothed the sharp, vinegary taste of the pie and the sourness of the bread.
Inara watched him, not yet eating her own meal. ‘How did you become the knight commander?’ she asked. ‘You’re very young for it. I thought they were usually old knights.’
Elo assessed the people nearby, but no one was listening. He swallowed carefully. Clearly she had decided she wanted to direct his attention away from her. He thought about it. Her god, wherever he was hiding, would tell her if he lied. ‘I feel I should be honest with you,’ he said, ‘so you know I mean you no harm. Whatever Kissen might say.’
Inara took a bite of her pie, holding its edge with both hands. ‘Why wouldn’t you be honest?’ she said innocently, but Elo saw that glint in her eye. Kissen was a bad influence on her, he could tell that after only a few days.
‘What do you remember of the beginning of the war?’ he asked.
‘Not much,’ said Inara, her mouth full, now trying to detangle her hair with her fingers. ‘I remember all the Houses took their guards to fight, including ours.’
Elo nodded. ‘It was the king’s sister, Bethine, who led us. We didn’t know what had happened to the queen and her sons, but Bethine was the queen-to-be without them and Arren the next in line, so I only went as Arren’s guard.’ He sighed. ‘Even with all the Houses, it took months to besiege Blenraden and break through the hunt the wild gods ran around the city walls. When we finally did, Bethine’s first priority was to save the people who had been trapped inside. She made a deal with Restish, and the god of safe haven, Yusef, to get them out.’
‘Gods fought on your side?’
Did people not know this? ‘Yes … for a time.’ He didn’t want to go deeper into that. Not with the stag’s head over the mantel watching them. ‘We made a path down the Godsway, to the harbour.’
Inara’s face tightened. So, she knew about this battle.
‘Most of the Houses, the commanders, were leading the evacuation,’ continued Elo, ‘filling the ships, while Arren and I guarded the palace. The wild gods were over their cliff-shrines, east of the city. Licking their wounds. We thought.’
He closed his eyes for a moment, a tremor of memory and pain flooding through him. He put his hands on the table, flat, before they could shake, imagining dough beneath them to calm himself.
‘They attacked the ships,’ Inara whispered.
‘Even the great god of safe haven couldn’t fight them all,’ said Elo. ‘The wild gods swept them all down, hull to mast. And Bethine too.’
Inara looked down at her plate. Could she even imagine? Thousands of people, drowning in storm and madness. And all he and Arren could do was watch.
‘Most of the command were killed or injured,’ said Elo. ‘Many of those who could fight ran. That’s how I made knight commander. No special talent, no real experience. We were just part of what was left.’
Inara picked at her food. ‘My mother … she was there. She was injured.’
They were edging closer to something true. Elo didn’t want to press too hard. Maybe he shouldn’t. Maybe it really wasn’t his business. But he couldn’t help being curious.
‘How did you win?’ asked Inara. She sniffed. ‘After all that. They were gods.’
‘We rebuilt the army,’ said Elo, ‘with gods and people. Volunteers, common folk.’ He glanced around them at veterans with the king’s colours on their arms. They had called for revenge. Vengeance for the queen, for the dead, for the spilled blood. Vengeance on the gods that had turned on them.
‘And then …?’
‘Then …’
Then, Arren had turned on the gods.
‘Arren did what he thought was right, what he thought would protect his people. Your father would do the same for you.’
‘My mother. I never knew my father.’
There.
‘Your father who sent you to Blenraden with a veiga?’
Inara’s head shot up, her face pale. ‘I …’ Her hand flew to her shoulder. ‘Skedi,’ she hissed.
What? You said it. Elo heard him too. Skedi was including him in the conversation. Elo smiled reassuringly as Inara calmed and tightened her other hand around the buttons on her embroidered waistcoat.
‘What is your real name?’ Elo asked.
Inara covered her face, red with shame. ‘Inara Craier.’
‘Craier?’ said Elo. Now that was a name. ‘I thought you might be. You’re the right age, and you look like your mother.’ He laughed. ‘In honesty, Inara, we have met before.’
BEFORE?
Inara dropped her hands. ‘You know about me?’ she said, forgetting that Skedi had just let her expose their own lie.
‘Of course. Your birth was announced at court a few years before the war,’ said Elo. His colours showed no surprise. He had known she was lying. ‘We heard stories about Lady Craier. She had a talent for languages and was well travelled. Wild, the Craiers called her.’ He laughed. ‘Arren liked that.’
He was so calm, so certain.
‘No father announced,’ Elo added. ‘I do remember that. But that’s no matter. When your mother visited court she let Bethine hold you. Of course, she went around showing off little baby Craier like you were a prize.’
She had been at court. A queen-to-be had held her, however briefly her regency lasted. Inara was known. Elo knew her.
See? said Skedi. He can help us. He can help us better than Kissen.
‘Why has she sent you with that woman?’ said Elo. ‘This road is dangerous, and Blenraden too.’
Tell the truth to him, Ina; it will do no harm.
‘She didn’t,’ said Inara, her voice small. ‘She’s dead.’
Elo’s face fell. ‘I am so sorry,’ he said. ‘What happened?’ He must not have been listening in the queue, wrapped up in his own problems; he hadn’t heard what the gossipers said.
Tell him. He will help us.
Inara felt more and more certain that Skedi was right. The thought bore down on all other doubts in her head, crushing them, pushing them aside. Skedi was right. Elo would help them.
‘Inara, what is it you’re hiding?’ asked Elo.
‘I … our manor, our people. They were attacked. They burned it down.’
‘Who did?’
‘I don’t know. That’s why we’re travelling in secret. Kissen thinks they might be after me too, if they find out I’m alive.’
‘The godkiller fights gods, not people. She should have brought you to King Arren.’
‘But what about Skedi?’
‘Palm reader!’
The boy from the door threw himself into the empty seat Inara had been holding for Kissen. ‘Tethis, no? You’re with the veiga.’ He clutched his throat in mock distress. ‘I almost pissed myself there, but Tip does say he knows her and let me loose.’ He put his elbows on the table. In his hand was a half-empty tankard the size of his head. ‘Finally, my shift is over. No more being scoffed at, talked down to, bribed, cajoled, and spat on, Arren be blessed.’ He delivered Inara a big smile. ‘I’m Nat. Read my palm, would you? I can pay. Tell me this isn’t my life forever.’
He thwacked a hand on their barrel. Inara stared at it. She felt dazed and confused, as if she were dreaming. A woman had begun singing by the fire on a slightly raised stage, but she was being completely ignored.
You don’t work for free, said Skedi, and Inara found herself speaking.
‘I’m not cheap,’ she said. The boy blinked at her, reached into a pocket, and flipped out a tiny silver coin with the king’s head stamped on one side and the Geralfi arms on the other. A new thing; Inara had never seen one before. It was about the size of her fourth nail. Kissen had mostly paid in heavy ingots, silver bits – illegal currency – and brass. This was more than enough for the night’s lodging. Skedi grew, she felt it. An offering.
‘Look here, lad,’ said Elo, but Inara held up a hand.
‘Fair coin for a reading,’ Skedi spoke through Inara, and she found she had lost control over her own voice. Still, she preferred it. She could sit back, watch. Skedi was in command. She reached out, took Nat’s hands, and turned them over. He beamed. Inara felt Skedi slide down her hood and back into the satchel, so he could peek up at the boy’s face without being seen as she looked at his hands.
Hungry, said Skedi. Inara could see it. The colours were there, shivering, intense, pink and vermilion. He was perhaps two years older than she, with a shock of wavy black hair that stuck out, and piercings in his ears which he had threaded through with a brass wire. His colours turned and moved, like sunlight through glass. Violet now. For Inara, purple was a serious colour; her mother wore it for special occasions. But for the boy … Fanciful, said Skedi. Not so bright.
‘You have a strong life line,’ the god said out loud, through Inara’s voice. She pointed to a random place on his left palm. ‘You will live to an old age.’ A flutter of turquoise at his brow. This confirmed a suspicion. His family had a history of long life.
All wishes have warnings, Inara felt Skedi think.
‘Be careful,’ she found her tongue forming, Skedi’s sweet lies tripping over it. Nat leaned in as Inara pointed to a line that deviated but did not break. ‘This suggests a fall, or accident, that could make you lame, dependent on others. You will be a proud man, and a fall will go hard.’
Nat frowned and sighed. ‘Well, that happens to half the people on this rickety bridge.’ Elo was carefully guarding his expression, but Inara could see his colours too. Silver sparkles of astonishment, and a coral cloud of suspicion.
‘It is not here you are most at risk,’ said Skedi. Inara pointed at a line around his third finger. ‘You may choose to stay, or you may leave.’
‘Will I be a knight?’ he asked, grinning. Almost imperceptibly, Elo sucked his teeth.
‘No,’ said Skedi. ‘You do not believe that yourself.’ He was right; as Nat had asked the question, he had glimmered with grey doubt. ‘Instead, there will be wealth. Focus on opportunity closer to home.’ Inara pointed to where the lines on his palm intersected, forming a triangle. ‘With a sharp eye and care, you will be able to build the life you want.’
Nat sat back, a rich blue of satisfaction paling to something more forlorn. He blinked at his palms. Skedi’s bag stretched at the seams as he grew.
‘Then … I should keep working here?’ Nat said.
Inara took her hands away. Skedi had never spoken through her before. At first it had felt fine, but as he took over further, she felt strange. Unlike herself, as if she were half-asleep.
‘Palm reading is not for specific questions,’ said Elo. ‘You’ve had your reading; be on your way.’
‘But how many children will I have?’ he asked. ‘What’s this opportunity I should look for? Can you give me a hint?’
Inara shut her teeth before Skedi could speak. She felt words crowd her tongue, dropping from Skedi’s excited, singsong voice in her head into her mouth.
Tell him he will have three children. To look for the golden hare with antlers and wings, and it will show him the opportunity. Tell him to leave his work, there are better jobs. Tell him to pray to the god of white lies. I could get him what he wanted.
‘That’s enough reading,’ said Inara, to Nat and to Skediceth. She put her hand on the bag and squeezed his fur, sending a thought to him. You promised you would never use your powers on me, she said.
I didn’t use them on you, he thought back.
If Kissen had been here …
She’s not, and we are glad she’s not.
Inara found that she was glad. She wasn’t sure why, but at least they hadn’t got caught telling such lies.
‘Wait,’ said Nat, interrupting. ‘You can’t just stop when you choose. I gave you a whole silver.’
‘She said no, child,’ said Elo, his voice deep and cold. ‘She said it politely. I suggest you leave or I will say it less politely.’
‘I was just asking,’ he said. ‘I paid.’ His pout lasted only a moment, then he squared his shoulders at Elo, wanting to get some power back. ‘What kind of performer threatens a paying customer?’ he said. He took the coin he had offered to Inara back off the table and pocketed it. ‘And what kind of singer carries a sword?’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘I’d suggest demonstrating your own skills, or I’ll have the keep call Geralfi’s guard.’
Elo’s colours twisted with a fire of worry, haste, and anger that turned into a glint in his eye, not unlike the one Kissen got when she felt a fight brewing. What was worse, being arrested or being potentially recognised? He smiled, coming to a decision.
‘I have never heard of a guard arresting a singer enjoying a good meal,’ he said. ‘But fair enough to you, little ratchet. You might have to tell the musician that you’re rejecting her services, and Tip and Leir.’
He purposefully chose the name Kissen had dropped, and the older runner who had introduced himself. The bard on the stage was indeed still singing valiantly, though another musical group with a whistle was chirruping up notes in the corner and nibbling away any attention she had held. The singer was going yellow with annoyance.
Nat, however, was at war with himself as he chewed his tongue, eyes narrowing at Elo. The boy’s aggression, Inara could see, was blue-grey and stormy. He wanted to humiliate Elo because he was embarrassed himself. Elo had risen to the challenge, and that only made Nat want to upset him all the more. His sense of self-preservation was fading quickly.
Skedi, what were you doing? said Ina, turning her thoughts to the god while Elo and Nat engaged in their battle of wills, Nat’s colours filtering through with prodding pinks, and Elo’s indigo at his edges.
I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you, Ina, he said, reassuring. He turned very small, and, while Nat was distracted, crept across the bag and into her palm, curling in it. Safe, comforting. She relaxed a little. He was her Skedi, her friend; he wouldn’t hurt her.
Nat realised Elo wasn’t going to back down. He threw his seat aside and marched over to the bard. He had to stand on tiptoe to whisper in her ear. She stilled the little lute she was playing, rolled her eyes, then stalked to the bar, leaving a marigold crackle of ire in her wake. Nat folded his arms, in too deep now, and flicked his chin at Elo.
‘He can’t make you,’ said Ina, pressing Elo’s arm. Through the fog of good feeling and weariness, she realised they were in danger here. She didn’t want Elo to obey the boy. She wanted Kissen to come back and throw a table over. She wanted the runner, or the musician, to scold Nat for being so rude. Where was this Tip that Kissen had spoken of? She wanted her mother.
‘Do not worry,’ said Elo, standing and massaging his throat. He took off his sword and put it down. ‘This is a veterans’ bar. But please, close your ears.’
He picked his way over to the stage, which was against the wall. No one paid him the least bit of attention over the roar of the water, the clatter of bone and pewter, and the incessant quibbling of the whistle from the other musical group. Still, Elo bowed anyway to Nat, a little mocking gesture.
Ina, of course, did not close her ears.
‘For I was a soldier at the walls of the city,’ Elo began,
‘And all of my lovers at home were far gone
‘And the gods of our loving were all gone so wrong
‘So I did not know what to do with myself
‘While marching the walls of the city.’
His voice rang out a rich and surprising tenor, and loud, like the singers that came at the winter solstice. He sang slow, catching the crowd’s attention. A couple of tired-looking drinkers blinked in his direction. The pipe stopped, and the man playing it, who had only one arm, grinned with his remaining three teeth. Elo entered into the second verse, picking up the pace now that they recognised what he was singing. The tune held the same, like a nursery rhyme.
‘For I was a soldier at the walls of the city
‘And all of my lovers at home were far gone
‘And the gods of our loving were all gone so wrong
‘So I did not know what to do with myself
‘Should I kiss all the toadies
‘While marching the walls of the city?’
The chatter of the bar had ceased. Several heads had turned, and at least three people had hummed the last line with Elo. With the next verse, three women with bows on their backs burst into singing where they sat, nearer the edge of the falls, one who had bright white scars like Kissen’s, like lightning had gone down her neck. It seemed they were more interested in the song than in who was singing it.
‘For I was a soldier at the walls of the city
‘And all of my lovers at home were far gone
‘And the gods of our loving were all gone so wrong
‘So I did not know what to do with myself
‘Should I kiss all the toadies,
‘Make love to the roadies,
‘While marching the walls of the city?’
Inara blushed. She remembered, distinctly, hearing the old guards of her mother’s estate making jokes about the war after they had escorted Lady Craier back with her injury from the battle in the harbour. The few who returned spoke of the ‘toadies’, the hangers-on at the edge of the war train, often wastrels or malcontents, looking for scraps of food or things to steal. Not what one would desire to kiss. Make love? The roadies were the merchants that followed the train, setting up camp and stall beside the captive audiences of a siege.
