Darkburn Book 3: The Gates of Kelvha by Tayin Machrie - HTML preview

Chapter 24

“A place? What place?” asked Veron, addressing the empty air. “It must be in the castle or I’d know about it.”

Parthenal shook his bowed head. He felt himself trammelled not only by the lowness of the ceiling but by the lowness of the story he had just listened to. By the falsehoods of Adon.

He didn’t care about the imposture of Leor. But for such a creature to pretend to be Huldarion was unforgivable; a kind of blasphemy.

His skin still tingled where Huldarion had laid a hand upon his shoulder. For others it is the huntress, he thought in a moment of mute anguish. For me it is Huldarion. His after-image is always there, imprinted on my mind, upon my body, on my soul. I do not want to be rid of it but I could not even if I tried.

“Your spies cannot be everywhere,” said Yaret to Veron, with a wary smile.

“But somebody’s will be,” said Veron. “I hope he’s careful.”

“Huldarion is always careful,” murmured Parthenal.

“Careful about what? I’m not following all this,” said Rothir.

Veron studied him. “Still not quite back to normal, are you?” he remarked. “Sit down and let me look at you.” He pushed Rothir gently but firmly onto the polished settle and moved his hand to and fro before his face.

“Is it concussion?” asked Yaret.

Veron made a sudden movement towards Rothir with his fist. It was a swift stroke: but Rothir’s hand moved faster, and had gripped the hunter’s arm before the fist could reach him. Veron laughed.

“Nothing wrong with your reactions,” he said. “Good. We’re going to need ’em.”

“But his brain is still confused,” said Yaret, with obvious concern.

“That’ll pass.” Veron ruffled Rothir’s hair as if he were a schoolboy: an unusually affectionate gesture for the hunter to make, and something that no-one except Parthenal would normally dare to do to Rothir. And then only when his friend was in a particularly good mood.

But no, he was wrong: for as Veron turned aside, Yaret put her hand to Rothir’s head, very lightly, to smooth down his ruffled hair, and he did not pull away.

“Try not to worry about it,” she suggested.

“I can’t help it,” said Rothir.

“He’s a worrier by nature,” put in Parthenal.

“Not exactly,” said Rothir. “Things just weigh on me.”

This was something Parthenal had never understood. “Then you need to learn to put things down.”

“That is easier said than done,” said Leor, who was standing by the hearth. He held out his hands to the cold fireplace and sighed before withdrawing them again. The last glow of the embers had long faded and there was no more firewood. We need a darkburn, thought Parthenal, before castigating himself for the idea.

“Not the most comfortable of places you have here,” he commented to Leor.

“It serves,” said Leor a touch gloomily.

“The publican doesn’t know who you are?”

“Of course not. He doesn’t know who you are either,” said Leor. “I used a little charm as you came in. He thinks that you’re a bunch of horse traders.”

“All of us?” said Shebel, the only woman dressed in a gown rather than dun breeches.

“Not you,” said Leor. “You’re a hanger-on of dubious morals.”

“Well, thank you.”

“And that’s just a little charm?” enquired Yaret.

Leor spread his hands before wrapping them in his sleeves. “It’s insignificant.”

“I would have thought any charm is significant to those it’s used on,” Yaret replied, with some indignation. Parthenal could not tell if it was assumed or not. “How about asking our permission first?”

Leor looked taken aback. “Well, how about not abandoning me on a park bench when I’m feeling weak and sick?” he countered.

“I left you with Maeneb,” she said.

“Exactly. And Maeneb abandoned me as well, a minute afterwards, as you could easily have predicted. Did you and Durba find what you were looking for?”

Now it was Yaret’s turn to look taken aback. “What were we looking for?” she said cautiously.

“Strings for your lutine.”

“Oh! I found some of those. So are you feeling all right now?”

“Yes and no,” said Leor. He gazed at Yaret with plaintive eyes, Parthenal thought, as if hoping she might lay her hand upon his hair next. But she did nothing of the sort.

“Good,” she said briskly. “Because I have to abandon you again. Prior appointment: dinner.” She saluted them in the archer’s fashion, and departed.

“Dinner? Who with?” said Rothir. “That fellow Zan?”

“Not him. She’s up to something,” said Veron.

“Everybody’s up to something,” said Leor, and he sighed the heavy sigh of an invalid wanting sympathy. When no-one offered any, he said, “Well, I’m up to my bed.” Shambling out of the parlour, he failed to duck in the doorway and they heard his pained exclamations rumbling up the stairs.

“I didn’t quite follow some of that. Who abandoned who?” said Rothir.

Veron scrutinized him. “You really aren’t entirely with us, are you?”

“I think I’m here,” said Rothir. “I’m just not sure what’s going on.”

“Well, that’s Kelvha for you,” said Parthenal with a shrug. “Come on, Rothir, let’s find somewhere in the city that will serve a decent meal. I can guarantee we won’t get one in this tavern. Will anybody join us? Delgeb? Shebel?”

“Glad to.” Both women picked up their cloaks.

“Veron?”

The hunter shook his head. “No, I’m waiting here for somebody.”

Rothir stood up but got no further. Parthenal had to steer him out into the lobby. Food, that was what Rothir needed.

Before they could leave the tavern, the outer door burst open before them, and a strange man walked into the hall. A young man, Kelvhan; with a pleasant enough face, but a deformed ear.

“Is Veron around?” he asked.

“I know you,” said Rothir, stopping to stare at him. “Don’t I?”

“Through here,” said Veron, appearing from the parlour.

“I’ve got them,” said the man to him. Veron merely nodded, ushering him in.

“You’re the smith,” said Rothir to the man’s back: too late, for the pair had already disappeared. He turned to the others. “That was the arrowhead man. Martun. They were good arrowheads. She liked them.”

“She?” asked Delgeb.

Rothir frowned. He put a hand to his head, feeling for the latest scar. “The huntress,” he said. “Is she still in the air?”

“Not here,” said Parthenal. Although he felt almost as confused as his friend by now, he had no intention of admitting it. “You need to eat,” he added, patting Rothir’s arm. “Come on, this way. Sashel recommended a little place underneath the west wall of the castle.”

The four of them left the gloom of the tavern to walk through lamplit streets. They passed numerous food stalls, but few beggars: for soon they entered the wealthy side of Kelvha City. Any pedestrians wandering the streets around them here were clad in brightly decorated, fur-trimmed cloaks – quite different to the hunters’ furs, and much less functional, thought Parthenal. He nodded to one or two noblemen who looked vaguely familiar, congratulating himself on having had the foresight to ask the women along. At this rate he might acquire a reputation as a ladies’ man amongst the Kelvhans.

“Sashel’s making the most of his stay inside the castle,” commented Delgeb as they walked the well-swept pavements. “He seems quite taken with it. Talks about it a lot, anyway.”

“He’s enjoying the lap of luxury,” said Shebel.

“He certainly likes the tournaments and the hunting. He and Aretor get on well with the Prince,” said Parthenal. “Shared interests.”

“And you don’t?” asked Shebel.

He shrugged. “Faldron’s a bit immature. Not much go in him.”

“But Faldron had plenty of go up north,” said Rothir, looking puzzled. “Too much, if anything. Didn’t he?”

“He did. Perhaps he didn’t drink so much up there,” said Parthenal drily. “He likes his wine, for sure.”

“Ssh,” said Shebel. “Better not talk about Prince Faldron here. Certainly not once we’re inside the eatery. Is this the place? I hope it’s not all pastry.”

The eating-house was a drab, quiet establishment wedged against the castle wall; on its other side a much larger hostelry appeared to want to squeeze it out of existence.

“It doesn’t look much,” said Delgeb, who preferred flashier places.

“No, but apparently the food is good,” said Parthenal. “Lots of the senior castle officials eat here. Not the high lords, though. Not fashionable enough for them. Will it do for you?”

Delgeb sighed. “I suppose so.”

They entered the badly lit building – again he had to duck to avoid the lintel – and sat down at a table to study the menu chalked up on the wall. There was a great deal of pastry, which seemed to be universal in Kelvha for both rich and poor alike. But no equality there, thought Parthenal: it’s plain stodge for the poor, and delicate layers of artistry and spices for the wealthy.

This place seemed to be somewhere in between. He had just ordered the venison pasty when he noticed the couple at the table in the far corner, where the lamplight barely extended.

“Hallo,” he said, “that’s Yaret. So this is where her appointment was.”

“Who’s she with?” Rothir craned his head. “That’s the... what’s-his-name. In the library.”

“Tamu,” said Parthenal, and laughed. He was not sure why. The archivist had to eat somewhere, after all. He found that he felt quite protective of the little man who had warned him against Jaul. Since that evening he had treated Jaul with lofty coolness, although admittedly he had almost forgotten about Tamu until Thoronal had spoken so unfavourably of him earlier that evening.

“Is he someone you know? Should we go over and say hallo?” asked Shebel.

“No, no. We’ll terrify him. He doesn’t look too comfortable as it is,” Parthenal observed. “I wonder what business Yaret has with him? I think Veron’s right – she’s up to something.”

Yaret was in earnest conversation with Tamu. During his swift curious glances in their direction Parthenal saw the archivist unroll a small sheaf of papers on the table. The two scanned them together, Yaret taking notes on her own scrap of paper.

So it was certainly business, not a social meal. Parthenal wondered if Tamu ever partook of a purely social meal. He looked like a man used to dining on his own, tucked unobtrusively in his dark corner.

But even in this gloomy place he and Yaret could hardly fail to notice the group of Riders. When Yaret did see them, she gave a casual wave. Tamu, as he had predicted, looked, if not exactly terrified, at least alarmed. Parthenal smiled kindly at him and then attended to his pasty. He wondered if Tamu knew that Yaret was a woman; and which would scare him more, male or female company?

They had almost finished eating – Delgeb and Shebel talkative, and Rothir grave and silent – when Yaret stood up and pushed back her stool. After bowing to Tamu she came over to their table, holding the remnants of her pie. Egg from the look of it. She took a bite and said,

“Tamu sends you his regards. Even the tiger-killer.”

“Don’t,” said Rothir, wincing.

“Sorry. He didn’t actually call you that, not in so many words anyway.”

“You had a lot of other words together,” Delgeb remarked.

“Yes. I saw Tamu in here the other evening, when I came in with Sashel; he pointed Tamu out and introduced us. So I thought I’d ask for his expertise on a couple of matters,” said Yaret.

“Huldarion has already asked him about darkburns. What other matters do you think that he might know about?” enquired Parthenal.

“For one, if there is anything in his records about Athelid and its components. It would be useful to know exactly what the stonemen dose themselves with.”

“I gave a sample to the herb-mistress in the castle, to see if she can analyse it,” explained Shebel to the others round the table, “but she didn’t seem too confident. She said it would be difficult.”

“So I thought there was no harm in asking Tamu too – just in case he has any medical documents in his library.”

“And has he?”

“Some,” said Yaret. “Those scrolls he showed me: they didn’t mean much to me, because I use different names for herbs, but I copied down a few things. Here you are, Shebel.” She handed Shebel her scrap of paper.

“How could knowing about Athelid be useful?” asked Rothir.

“Knowledge is always useful,” said Shebel.

“There might be an antidote to Athelid,” added Delgeb. “To stop it working. That would send the stonemen mad.” She spoke with a certain amount of glee.

“That’s not what I had in mind at all!” objected Yaret.

Delgeb shrugged. “It would be useful, though. So what was the other matter you discussed with him?”

“Ah, well, that’s just a private interest. Folk-lore, really,” said Yaret lightly. “I wondered if his records held anything about lins. They call them bunnos here, apparently.”

“Not so useful,” Delgeb commented. “Poor little man. He’s just knocked over his water in his effort not to look at us.”

Parthenal glanced over and saw Tamu desperately mopping the table with a napkin. “Did you tell him you’re a female?” he asked Yaret.

“Of course I did.”

“Ah, no wonder he’s looking so abashed. You’ve probably filled his head with unspoken longings,” he commented.

“I doubt that.” She studied Rothir. “How are you feeling now you’ve eaten?” she asked him.

“Full,” said Rothir.

“Still dazed?”

“I don’t know.” Though his friend still looked dazed, in Parthenal’s opinion. Or bemused, at least.

“Hmm.” Yaret raised an eyebrow, and put out one hand as if she wanted to do a little more hair-ruffling. But instead she raised it to her forehead in salute, and then limped out.

“Sashel? What was she doing here with Sashel?” said Rothir.

“Eating pie?” suggested Delgeb.

He looked confused. “Did I just say that aloud?”

“You did.”

“I really have no idea at all what’s going on,” said Rothir, staring at his plate.

“Finish your dinner,” Parthenal advised him. He took his own last mouthful, and glanced over again at Tamu, in pity mingled with amusement. Tamu did not know what to do with his soggy napkin and was trying unsuccessfully to gain the waiter’s attention without making any noise. Poor little man, indeed.