“A long way inland,” said Nevyn, and sniffed disapprovingly. For an instant I saw Ardyon’s cadaverous features imposed over his. “Half the summer inland.”
I shrugged, not liking his tone or the way he studied me. I said, “The aeldor Yrdan of Tryrsbry was kind enough to gift me with a horse. I thought to use that advantage to wander the isolated settlements. Most had not seen a Storyman in too long.”
I had thought that mention of an aeldor’s kindness should remind them of courtesy: it did not. Chrystof grunted and motioned with his cup, which Nevyn promptly filled. He still made no move to offer me wine. He sipped his own and said, “You left Thornbar Keep weeks ago. Where have you been since then?”
“Riding,” I said. I began to grow impatient with his manner, but I hid my irritation, wondering at the reason for this unusual interrogation. “There were none of your kind where I went.”
My answer was deliberately ambiguous. Nevyn grunted, drawing a hand over the purple stain the wine had left on his upper lip. For a while he stared at me. Then: “Word has come from Durbrecht-you are to make no more such forays.”
“What?” I frowned, entirely unable to conceal my surprise. Such a command was unprecedented. “Am I to forsake my calling then?”
The sorcerer ignored my outburst. “You are to pursue your calling as you are bid,” he said. “Your duty is to proceed south down the coast, to Mhorvyn.”
I stared at him. I was struck by his pomposity; struck more by the nature of this command. He took my silence and my expression for doubt and turned to Chrystof for confirmation. The aeldor had been looking into the flames throughout this exchange, but now he swung his gaunt head in my direction. He nodded and said, “It is so, Storyman.”
I could not doubt it; I could wonder why: I asked.
Nevyn answered me obliquely. “You’re to be in Mhorvyn by Bannas Eve,” he said. “And go there by the coast road. Without deviation.”
I asked again, “Why?”
The plump commur-magus shrugged. “Perhaps your College would have report of our preparations.” He sipped more wine. “Perhaps Durbrecht feels your talent is better employed where folk live, not wandering lonely through the hills.”
“Folk live there,” I said. I forbore to add, “Folk kinder than you.” “Do they not have need of Storymen?”
Nevyn stooped to fetch the jug from the hearth; filled his cup. I grew wearied of this insulting behavior.
He asked me, “Do you question the orders of your College?”
This took me aback. “Yes” would have been the honest answer, but I was not, I admitted to myself, any longer entirely honest. Were I, I should have long since spoken of what I had seen. Consequently, I said, “No, I do not question the command; I wonder at its reason.”
I thought perhaps he would answer me with word that I was no longer trusted. That Durbrecht would have me in clear sight; at least, where sorcerers might monitor my progress and my doings. I could not, of course, voice this thought: to do so would mean revealing secrets I was not yet ready to impart. I awaited his response.
That came with a smug and careless smile. “Perhaps Durbrecht sees a wider picture.” he said, and added an insult as calculated as any Barus had given me. “Remember we gird against the Sky Lords. Storyman. Do they come, shall it be against some foresters’ hamlet or against the keeps? Which do you think?”
I thought that I had sooner dealt with him as I had dealt with Barus. I held my staff, and I thought that it should have been most satisfying to deliver him a sound crack. I gripped the pole tighter. Nevyn saw and drew himself a little upright in his chair. I thought perhaps he readied his magic to throw against me: I forced myself to calm and said, “Doubtless both our Colleges see the wider picture-I had thought to allow the plain folk of this land a glimpse. After all, these great holds-the towns-are warded by such as you, and news is easier to find. But in the lonely places-should they not know, too?”
I was rather pleased with my diplomacy. It went unnoticed by Nevyn. He waved a dismissive hand and said, “Do the Sky Lords attack, it shall be against the keeps, not the hamlets. Surely, then, better to ply your calling where folk gather, not waste it on the empty woods.”
It was an effective counter. Nevyn was pompous, insulting, but he was no fool. I saw we reached impasse in our verbal duel and allowed his point with a silent nod. He smiled and told me, “In any event, you are commanded-the coast road to Mhorvyn, without diversions.”
“I’d not,” I said carefully, “argue the wisdom of my College. So be it, then.”
“I’m glad,” he returned me, “that we reach agreement.”
I nodded again. I wondered fleetingly if he saw through me; if his talent allowed him to perceive what I hid. I decided not-I thought that were it so, he should have ordered me seized and imprisoned. I thought that this was such a man as would order a pogrom did he learn what I had seen. I stood in stolid silence.
Chrystof stirred himself then, as if he noticed for the first time that I stood dripping on his carpet. “You’re wet,” he said.
“The fog,” I replied.
He turned slowly to the window, the lines creasing his face etched deeper as he frowned. “Ah, yes. It’s foggy. Nevyn, do you see him given a room?”
The sorcerer nodded and reached to a plaited cord hanging by the hearth. He tugged it. I suppose that somewhere a bell rang. I thought that Nevyn was the power in this keep. Chrystof said, “A room, and a hot tub. Tonight you’ll entertain us, eh, Storyman?”
“As is my calling,” I agreed.
There came a soft tapping on the door then, and when Nevyn bade the caller enter, a Changed servant came in. He was of canine stock, blunt featured, with a pug nose and loose jowls. He bowed, his eyes downcast as he murmured, “Masters?”
Nevyn issued curt instructions, and the Changed nodded deferentially, not raising his eyes as he stood back to let me pass. I gathered up my saddlebags and my staff and quit the chamber. In the corridor outside, the Changed asked if he might carry my bags. I thanked him and told him no, at which he seemed disconcerted.
“I’m well used to fending for myself,” I told him, “and not much to having folk fetch and carry for me.”
At that he gave me a swift sidelong glance, and I saw his eyes for the first time. They were mournful as a hound’s, and in them I thought I discerned both surprise and curiosity. He said, “As you will, master.”
“I’m Daviot, a Storyman,” I said. “How are you called?”
“Thom, master,” he returned me.
His voice was soft and had in it the same quality of submission as his eyes. I wondered how his kind fared in this keep. I said, “Well met, Thom. Shall you listen to me tonight?”
He looked at me again, and this time I was sure I saw surprise. “Listen to you, master?” He seemed not to understand.
“Yes,” I said. “When I tell my tales in the hall.”
“I’m a body-servant, master.”
He touched the tunic he wore, which was of some coarse green cloth, edged with red. I had sometimes seen servants decked in such manner, but not often; it seemed to me an affectation. I assumed Chrystof-or perhaps Nevyn-elected to dress the servants thus. I asked him: “Do all the Changed of Trevyn wear such uniforms?”
He said, “Yes, master.”
“To mark your duties?” I asked, and he gave me back another “Yes, master.”
I smiled, seeking to put him at his ease; and failed. He was, I thought, taciturn as Bors, though whether that was a natural trait or an imposition of this keep, I could not tell. I was, however, aware that my questions made him uneasy, and so I curbed them, contenting myself with following him to the chamber assigned me.
That was small and devoid of decoration. A single window showed the fog gray outside, filling the room with wan and miserable light. There was a narrow bed and a chest, a washstand and a lantern suspended from the ceiling, nothing more. It was chill and slightly damp: I wondered if this was the usual hospitality of Trevyn Keep, or some insulting punishment dreamed up by Nevyn. I thought I should not remain here long.
“Do you wait awhile, master, and I’ll fetch a brazier,” Thom said. “Or shall I bring you to the baths?”
I was quite rank and so opted for the latter. I was surprised when I climbed into the tub to see Thom strip off his tunic. “What are you doing?” I asked him.
He said, “Master?” as if quite taken aback by my question.
I said, “Why are you undressing?” “To bathe you, master.”
This I had never encountered. Even in the most sybaritic of keeps, men bathed themselves. I waved him back, succeeding in splashing hot water over the floor. “That,” I declared, “is not my custom.”