The First Binding, page 29
He gives her a lecherous smile. “If you have some coin left after your dickering, consider coming back and perhaps spending it on some of the other pleasures within the Black Tap.” His look flits to the women on the second story. “For a dickering of another sort.”
She gives him a smile then that would turn the face of any man a shade of red better found in blood. “For that, I daresay you would be paying me, mostly for what you, and every other man here would walk away having learned. Which”—she breaks off to cast a lazy look around the room—“I wager would be a great deal. Do you have enough coin in your purse for that?” She doesn’t wait for an answer as a series of low chuckles break through the room.
Eloine reaches the door and pushes it open.
The room stands in a darkness not helped by the few waning candle lights—all failing to bring a better brightness to the place. Her eyes strain to adjust as she steps inside and lets the door fall closed behind her. One of her hands runs along her thighs and the other balls tight before loosening again.
The light dies in the room.
Something sharp presses against the small of her back.
TWENTY-THREE
THE PRICE OF THINGS
“And what do we have here?” The man’s voice holds all the dry edge in it of smoke over broken glass.
Eloine doesn’t stiffen despite the threat of the blade. “We must be of the same mind. I was wondering the exact thing as I felt something small press against me. Is that a knife or are you mistaking me for one of Dantonyio’s women?”
The tip of the knife twists, just enough to drive a pinpoint of pain through her, but nothing to break her clothes or flesh. “You don’t seem to grasp the situation well enough to be properly afraid.”
“Of a little prick? Hardly something any woman is ever afraid of. Disappointed, surely.” Eloine moves her left hand to return the favor to the man. “And I fear it’s you who doesn’t understand the situation fully.”
The knife’s point trembles against her back but doesn’t pull away. “I never saw you draw your weapon, lady.”
“It would have rather ruined my point if you had. Right now, my knife is resting just above the meat of your thigh. A place where your blood runs thick and deep. I’m not sure if you’ve ever seen what a wound there can do to a person. Let me save you the trouble of thinking. It’s the sort of cut that cannot be stitched clean. It bleeds much too strongly to stay shut. Once the deed is done, you’re left watching the life leave you before you can take the time to recount your regrets.”
The knife pulls away from Eloine. “Excellently done. What other games do you play?”
Eloine keeps her smile to herself as she turns, never once letting her own blade fall from the man’s thigh. “All sorts. What did you have in mind?”
He gestures past her to the darkened center of the room. “First, we sit. Preferably in a manner that has our knives sheathed and not pressed against each other. Then, you answer a question.”
She arches a brow. “Then let’s start a smaller game now, shall we? We begin with the question and, if I like the shape of it, I’ll join you at the table for your other game?”
He purses his lips, then breaks into a knowing grin. “I can concede that much, though I’ll say that you came to me, and people do not come to me unless they have questions that need answering, or favors done.”
“And what kind of favors can you get done?”
He raises a hand and waggles a single finger as a silent statement. “That, sengera, is not the question I had intended to ask. Let’s not take this little game too far, sieta? My question is this: Do you play Talluv?”
The knife falters in her grip and she takes it as a sign to finally sheathe it. She keeps the surprise from showing on her face. “I may have taken time and turn with the traveler’s game, why?”
He steps away from her and stays to the shadows, making his way to the table. One of his hands reaches into a pocket and pulls free a slender stick she cannot make out properly. A snap of his wrist sends the tip of the thin rod striking against the table’s surface. There is a hiss and spark that quickly kindles to a bulb of bright flame. He begins the slow and measured process of touching it to the head of every candle in the room. The man blows out the black powder match and gestures for Eloine to take a seat.
She does, lowering herself into a wooden chair opposite him at the round table, and better takes in the shape of him.
He reminds her of a grizzled hound gone too long without a trim. His hair hangs long at the sides of his face and has now gone the gray of old ash. It contrasts the deep bronze of his skin and brings out the duller shades in the soft green of his eyes. His face is sharp and pointed with a nose too large to do him any favors. He wears the clothes of a man not fit for the Black Tap and its ilk, but to better move among the gentry.
The suit holds tight to him in all the right places, betraying a lean build that promises to be quicker in form than a man of his age should manage. And she guesses him to be nearing his fiftieth.
A rectangular box rests between them. Its surface is made of polished shells in varying shades of white from driven snow to the luster of pearls. A mosaic of green glass and blue gems lines the edge of the box and black paint splits the top of the shells into segmented squares.
“This is the part where you tell me why you’ve come to me? What need have you? Favors, answers, a mix of both? Or are you here to buy or sell?”
“I’m looking for something—information. Dantonyio said you are the one to speak to on those matters. Though, I must confess to curiosity in what favors you can grant? What is it you buy and sell?” Eloine reaches out, her fingers wrapping around the brass knob fitted to one side of the box. She pulls, opening a compartment and revealing the stored game within: a mix of polished black-stone spires no longer than her littlest finger, some small humped discs of white stone almost smooth as marble, and others that she always struggles to name the shapes of.
The man bows his head as if accepting her earlier statement. “I am that man and more. For favors? Well, I can get you anything short of entry into a princeps’ arms, or Del Soliel. Need goods, above the water or a bit below, illicit and ill-gotten? I can do that. I can get some of the clergos to sweep your floors and keep their tongues between their teeth while they do it. Or have any of the clergy right under the pontifex dance to your tune while wearing your dress, sengera. Little is off-limits to me. But, all for a price, of course.”
Eloine grits her teeth. Of course. “And how do you manage all that?”
He gestures back to the door she came from. “With what I buy and sell. All the pattena here are mine … in a way at least.” He doesn’t wait for Eloine to ask the question now on her mind. “Ah, I see your surprise. You think this place is only Dantonyio’s. No, he is the face, the muscle, the man at the door to do the work I feel better left to him. He’s made for that sort of thing and enjoys the simple pleasure of it. But no, I’m the purse and the mind behind it all.
“To the question at the heart of what you mean, it’s simple. The lives of all men and women under this roof dangle from the lines of string in my hands. And very little of what they do is left a secret from me. So, when they chat, or sleep with someone of influence, consider it a known thing to me. Those people’s secrets become mine as well, and my women have a far reach and sate the appetite of many lords and ladies and, yes, even the clergy. For as close to God as they claim to be, I assure you that they are as far from him as possible.” He says nothing else and gestures to the board.
She takes the quiet hint and arranges her first four pieces along each of the beginning squares. “And this?” Eloine nods down to the game.
“The only thing I require while we consider what you have to ask of me. Beat me”—he gives her a knowing look that says it is not so common a thing to best him—“and you may find yourself in even better circumstances for me to grant you your wishes.”
“That sounds like the response of a man with a great deal in his life and yet not much at all besides boredom.”
He spreads his arms in open acceptance of her comment, inclining his head as further acknowledgment. The man pulls free a die and sets it on the board between them. “Would you care to roll for who goes first or…?”
She rolls her wrist, deferring to him.
He bows his head and sets his pieces. “Do you have a preference for rules? Mutri? Zibrathi? Or how we play in western marches? I’ll admit, I do not much care for the rules out in Laxina.”
“Zibrathi, with all the tales intact,” says Eloine, keeping a smile buried inside her.
He arches a brow but says nothing. The man rolls. A four. He takes a spire and moves it across the squares, then motions to her.
Her toss yields her a six. She takes one of the humped discs and moves it accordingly through an irregular set of steps.
The game continues as the candlelight flickers and the man brings his spire to the other side of the board. “Over the course of my life, I’ve seen many things. One, a woman with three teats. Two, a man with twice as many balls as he had in brains.” He rolls the die and cups a hand to shield the result from her. “And, three, a beast with the head of a serpent, the wings of a bat, and the feet of a lion. Five.”
Eloine stares at the man, her gaze falling to the hand hiding the die. “Liar.”
He removes his hand and reveals the carved and polished stone to read the number two.
“The little story was a nice trick to throw me off reading you.” Eloine reaches out and takes the die, then moves his spire back three paces from the end.
The candles burn lower and, in the end, the game is won.
“I confess, sengera, you have a better mind for the game than I’d thought. I almost feel you have lied to me.” He puts a hand over his heart in mock agony.
Eloine gives him a placating smile. “Oh, I’m sure you’ll heal from it. But now, to business?” She pulls the purse from before and places it on the table. “I need answers and I have the coin to pay for them.” May it be enough.
He folds his hands and leans forward. “And what do you wish to know?”
“A song. I’m looking for a song. Something old—older than Etaynia. Older than most tongues still spoken today.”
He leans back and steeples his fingers, resting his chin on their tips. “That’s not much to go on. Does this song have a name?”
She shakes her head. “If it does, I don’t know it. But it would be a tongue most couldn’t speak, much less recognize. I’ve searched everywhere for it and found nothing. I haven’t looked far into Etaynia, however.”
He nods. “I can certainly try to put some ears to the task, but Etaynia is not known for its love for foreign things, be they affairs, dress”—he stops and eyes Eloine’s clothing—“people, or their songs. We do, for better or worse, keep to ourselves save for the sorts of trade that bring us gold. But the royal library would be the best place to find what you’re looking for. One of the princeps is an avid collector, and it is no secret he’s accrued books from across the world. Even the sorts the clergy and pontifex would frown on. He’s been known to pay large sums to buy such things from other nobles, not to mention the fact no one would refuse the desires of a princeps should they wish to keep their rank … and head.
“If that’s where your book is, then I admit I cannot help. Like I said, getting you into the arms of a princeps is beyond my measure, sengera. All the same for getting you into the library.”
But it may not be beyond mine. Eloine keeps the thought to herself.
“If there’s anything else? I would hate to have lost the game and a chance to ply my trade and earn good money.”
She bites her lip and thinks, then pushes the purse toward him. “Yes. I have drawn the troublesome attention of a few people who could make my continued residence in this country a problem. And I have no love for being hounded.”
He opens his mouth in a silent O. “And how did you manage that, if I may ask?”
“By the trouble of being myself, it seems.”
He says nothing and motions for her to continue.
“I’d like to be free of it, and you mentioned something about having the clergos sweep my floors?” She opens the purse and tumbles its contents to the table. Gold catches the candlelight and it is dim compared to the sparkle in the man’s eyes. “I need you to handle a problem for me … and inquire as to the price of one of your pattena. Their full price.”
His eyes gleam brighter and the gold is no longer on the table.
TWENTY-FOUR
DEMONS
I woke the next morning—alone. My head ached and my skin remembered the faint lines where tears had fallen. And Eloine’s touch along my face. I groaned and rolled over, grabbing my staff. It served as decent support as I got to my feet and headed toward the door. Sleeping in my clothes didn’t bother me as much as it would have anyone else.
The one benefit of the bindings, I suppose.
I could have straightened out the rumples with another effort of will, but decided it was best saved for later. Another performance would be asked of me and I could afford to be a bit disheveled until then.
I made my way downstairs, staff tapping rhythmically against the steps. Pale bands of morning light washed through the tavern and bathed the place in a cold glow. A few sections of the Three Tales’ taproom remained in shadow.
And three men occupied the most intense corner of the darkness.
The trio who’d been there when I’d first arrived.
One of the men, a reedy thing carved from knotted wood, adjusted the cotton cap on his head. He worked it side to side, trying to screw it in place to keep what little wispy gray hair he had in place. His face reminded me of old mountain roads, worn low and deep with lines and fissures. Nothing welcoming in it, and the sun had hardened what remained into tough leather. His eyes had gone watery, which muddled the likely once-bright browns to rum spilled in a puddle of rain.
The man worked the same foot as before against the tavern floorboards as if trying to carve a furrow into the wood. At first glance, it appeared he hadn’t changed his clothing since I’d first seen him. A second told me he simply had more of the same outfit.
We locked eyes.
He shied away first, turning his gaze to the leg he continued to bounce in place.
I feigned turning my head to regard Dannil’s bar.
Movement. The man shifted again to watch me under the impression I no longer paid him any mind.
My performance had done as I’d hoped. The locals now viewed me as something more than entertainment. I had enraptured them, and my reputation carried.
I only hoped it spread far enough to the right people. The ones who would offer me an invitation no sane man would ignore, and the kind that would protect me.
If the clergos didn’t get me first. My run-in with them wouldn’t have made them fans of mine, especially not the justice. She seemed the kind of person to remember a face, doubly so if the man behind it did her a wrong.
Whispers. The kind old men tell, and the sort they fail to keep to themselves, carried over from the far corner of the taproom.
I recalled the candle and the flame, slipping into the old clarity it offered.
Murmurs slowly turned to crisper mutterings whose shape I could get the grasp of.
“Man called something unnatural here. No-no, Tiago, don’t tell me otherwise.” The voice held notes of dry smoke and a strained wetness that came with age and a nasty cough. His lungs must have struggled to both hold breath and let him talk at the same time.
“I saw, same as you did. And I saw him work magic, but don’t go thinking it’s something special. All them peddlers and storytellers on the roads can do that sort of thing. You’ve heard the tales.” The second speaker’s voice was that of a man who’d heard the same argument many times before and had little energy left to have it again. He was too far gone to even pretend the faintest interest in the subject. He sounded like a man who wanted to spend the morning without having to hear another noise.
And no words came from the third man.
“Mark my words, Tiago, he’ll bring something fouler here before soon. All them folks from far down along the Trader’s Road do. They bring the demons of their lands up here to our home. We’re good God-fearing people. Tell me I’m not and I’ll knock you back to when you had less brains between your ears and ran by what was between your legs.” The first man let out a wet cough that sounded like half of his lungs would follow in leaving his mouth.
The man called Tiago rapped his knuckles along the table. “No such things as demons, Doniyo. And who says I’ve stopped thinking with what Solus gave me down here?” A pair of loud slaps, like a hand on soft flesh, echoed through the taproom.
Silence filled the air in the seconds after. Then two men burst into laughter while the third held space for the quiet and stillness to return, almost bringing it in himself.
I watched him out of the corners of my eyes as he cradled his clay mug, looking deep into it as if the contents were the only thing worth his attention. His two friends were of no interest, or maybe they’d already said all that could be as far as he was concerned.
Heavy footsteps pulled me back to the bar to find Dannil striding toward me from the back room.
The barkeep inclined his head at me in what could have been a weary morning greeting.
I returned it in equal measure, figuring it best not to tax the man too early, especially if he had to deal with the three men at my back. Dannil had already gone to enough lengths in welcoming me into his home and business without even a single dented pewter bit in his purse for the trouble.
And I’d certainly brought him trouble by way of the clergos. Yet, he hadn’t thrown me out. That spoke well for the man, at least in my mind. But every man has his limits for how much unrest they can bear.
Dannil faced me from the other side of the counter, one of his hands trailing idly over the spot I’d polished back to its original condition. “Didn’t sleep well.”
