anxious as she was to depart, Nyctasia would not have considered leaving without making her formal farewell to the Lady Nocharis. Indeed, when she presented herself, the matriarch seemed to be expecting her.
“Ah, here you are, my dear.” She beckoned Nyctasia closer, and looked searchingly into her face. “And so, after all, you found the treasure you came here to seek?”
“I did not know what I was seeking when I came, but I believe I did find it here. And I shall always be grateful.”
“Already you have flown in spirit. When will you start out?”
“Tomorrow, at first light, by your leave. But you will give me your blessing.
Mother, before I go?” She knelt by Lady Nocharis’s chair.
The old woman touched Nyctasia’s hair lightly with one frail hand, murmuring a ceremonial phrase, then took Nyctasia’s hand in both her own, “We shall be sorry to lose you so soon, but you must not stay here. You’re like an arrow shivering on the string, waiting to be released. How impatient is youth. Our poor Jheine will be a lost fledgling without you.”
Nyctasia sat on the floor at her feet. “Yes, I promised to speak to you about him. I do think he should he sent to study with the scholar-physicians of the Imperial University.” She sighed. “That’s what I most longed for, myself, when I was Jheine’s age. I even cast the lots about it once.”
“And how were you answered?”
“With ambiguities, as always. ‘You shall not have your desire, yet in a manner you shall’-or something of that sort. The fates never did reveal more than that to me. Perhaps it meant that Jheine would attend the university in my place.
He’d do well there, I’m certain of it, and his heart’s not in his work here.”
“I suppose we must see to his education, now that you’ve spoiled him for lesser things,” said Lady Nocharis with a smile. “But I thought you did not trust the skills of leeches?” It seemed that nothing was said or done in the household without Lady Nocharis’s knowledge.
“So I told Lord Marrekind,” Nyctasia admitted, “And it’s true that a false physician is worse than a murderer. But Jheine has the makings of a true physician and healer-and they are rare. He has the gift of compassion, which never should be wasted.”
“It never is wasted, my dear. It cannot be. But is compassion a gift? Or is it a responsibility?”
“To be kind is a duty, to be kind-hearted is a gift,’” said Nyctasia. “Well, it loses something in the translation. To those who do good and are good, there seems to be no difference, perhaps, but to the rest of us kindness is a Discipline.”
Lady Nocharis shook her head. “Philosophy,” she said indulgently. “Don’t fret too much over the heart’s secret reasons. Such scrupulous distinctions may cloud the judgment, and mike confusion of what is simple. Jheine is a good lad, yes, but you are not less good than he-you are simply less innocent. And that is to be expected of one who has more experience. There is no great mystery to it.”
She raised Nyctasia’s head and met her serious, questioning gaze. “Only remember that you are a healer. Let nothing persuade you to forget that. Then all will be well.”
“You have the second sight, Mother ’Charis, have you not?”
“Oh, my dear, everyone has, to a greater or lesser degree.” She sighed and released Nyctasia’s hand. “And now you must be gone, child. I shall rest for a while.”
Nyctasia stood, and kissed her cheek. “I feel somehow that I’ve bid you farewell before.”
“Do you, daughter? You know that means we’ll meet again, so they say.”
“I hope so,” Nyctasia said. But she knew how very unlikely it was.
One of the most difficult lessons Nyctasia had learned in her exile was to moderate her habitual caution and suspicion. She had soon come to trust her second family as she had never trusted her first, but still it was some time before she could accustom herself to being without a weapon, or sleeping behind unbarred doors, with only Greymantle on guard. Such carelessness could have been fatal in Rhostshyl.
But now she had grown so well used to the free and open household that she was not at all alarmed-or surprised-when ’Deisha slipped into her room that night and perched on her bed, waking her. Greymantle only looked up and wagged his tail lazily, recognizing her familiar scent.
“Nyc, I know you want to make an early start in the morning, but I’ve had no chance to speak with you-it’s been so sudden, all of this. I still can’t believe that you mean to go off and leave us all heartbroken. How can you?”
Nyctasia chuckled and threw back the covers to allow ’Deisha to slip in beside her. “Lass, you are shameless.” It was not the first time ’Deisha had stolen into her room, and her bed.
’Deisha kissed her. “Shameless I may be, but not heartless,” she said reproachfully. She propped herself on one elbow and let her other hand rest gently on Nyctasia’s cheek.
Nyctasia turned her head and kissed ’Deisha’s palm, “’Deisha, my wanton dove, in a week’s time you’ll have forgotten me.”
But ’Deisha, suddenly serious, regarded her sorrowfully. “Don’t tease, Nyc. It’s you I’m worried about, in truth. I’m afraid for you. You’ve told us often enough how dangerous it is in Rhostshyl.”
“Sacrifices must be made,” said Nyctasia. “‘When a life is taken, it is lost, but when a life is given it is received.’”
“Well, it oughtn’t to be given, or bought, or bartered, whatever the philosophers say! Life’s not an outworn pair of boots.”
“Well said,” Nyctasia laughed. “But never mind-I don’t intend to be killed. I promise you. The city is changed now, love. Many of my enemies are dead or defeated, and my people are in power. I’ve nothing to fear.” Like most of Nyctasia’s lies, this one was partly true. There was less to fear, now.
’Deisha sighed. “I promised you, when you first came, that I’d never let you go back, Nyc. But how am I to stop you, when even honey-tongued Jheine can’t persuade you to stay?”
“You’ve kept your word,” Nyctasia said, after a silence. “I shan’t go back, not to the way things were when I left. I mean to go forward now, not back-to look to the future, and not repeat the past. It is not only Rhostshyl that is different now, but I too. And that is your doing. You’ve made it possible for me to return home, not because I need to be there, but because I’m needed there.”
“I? I don’t understand. What have I done?”
“You’ve set me an example-all of you, just by your way of life. Whether you’re caring for the grapes, or the animals, or the children, or one another, whatever you do is done only that life may continue and flourish. Your lives are not spent in the service of ambition or fear, but only of life itself. And that’s as it should be. You’ve taught me what peace means, and what it could mean to my city and my people. Knowing that, I could never go back to what I was.”
’Deisha found all this unintelligible, like most of Nyctasia’s explanations. But if Nyctasia was satisfied with matters as they stood, she would be content.
“Well, I insist that you take Grey-mantle with you, at least,” she said. “He’ll look after you in my place.”
Not long afterward she woke Nyctasia again, this time to rouse her from the nightmare that gripped her. ’Deisha had to shake her and call her name for a good while before she could make her awaken, and then Nyctasia only lay and stared into the darkness as if she saw her dreams anew with waking eyes.
’Deisha held her and tried to comfort her. “Nyc, it was only a nightmare. It’s over now.”
“No, no, he’s dead, but it isn’t over.”
“Dead? Who’s dead?”
“Thierran… my cousin. We were betrothed as children.” Nyctasia had begun to recover herself, and she did not tell ’Deisha that Thierran had once held her prisoner, or that it was Corson who’d killed him. “I was dreaming of a time, when we were quite young, and he was wounded in the hunt-vahn, how he bled! They all believed that he’d die, and at first they kept me away, but he called for me all that night, and finally they had to let me stay with him and tend him.”
(“’Tasia, don’t leave me,” he had whispered, and for days she had refused to move from his bedside.)
“And so you saw him die?” ’Deisha asked sympathetically.
“No-not then. He did recover, and I was exceedingly proud. I believed that I’d healed him. Perhaps I did.”
(But in her dream he was a grown man, and he whispered, “’Tasia, come back to me.”)
“It doesn’t matter,” said Nyctasia. “I’m all right now. Come, we’ll sleep a few hours more.”
’Deisha was too sleepy to question her further. They nestled together, and she soon slept like any healthy, hard-working farm girl. But Nyctasia lay awake for some time, haunted by the figure in her dream. He was Thierran, and yet she had somehow recognized in him the embodiment of her afflicted city. It was Thierran who called her, and yet it was Rhostshyl.
Her journey was uneventful until she reached Larkmere, where a great many things seemed to happen to her at once. First of all she was robbed, while watching the acrobats perform in the town square. They were the same troupe she’d seen at Osela the autumn before, and she was more impressed than ever at their mastery.
The rope-dancer had somehow stretched her rope between the two tall towers of the city hall, and her performance at that dangerous height drew all eyes irresistibly. The watchers gasped as she leaped and turned in the air, landing firmly on her feet on the quivering rope. Someone in one of the towers tossed gleaming gold-painted balls to her, and she juggled them deftly, capering back and forth along the rope.
Nyctasia was by no means the only spectator to have her pocket picked while gazing upward in rapt fascination. Indeed, she did not even discover the theft until the acrobats’ drummer came round to collect coins from the crowd. When she reached for her money-pouch, she found that the thongs had been cleanly cut from her belt.
But she had no time to consider how best to deal with this loss, for just then Greymantle gave a great tug at his leash and suddenly bounded off across the square, dragging Nyctasia after him. Nose to the ground, he galloped through the marketplace, following a chosen scent, and Nyctasia could barely keep up with him, much less stop him. But they did not have far to go.
Greymantle, followed by Nyctasia, ran into a long, open shed roughly divided into stalls. Wagging his tail wildly, he searched through these till he found Lorr and pounced on him to lick his face. Then he pranced proudly back to Nyctasia’s side, looking to her for praise.
“Lady!” said Lorr, astonished. “How did you know I was here?”
“I didn’t know,” gasped Nyctasia, still trying to catch her breath. “How do you come to be here?” She looked around uneasily. Lorr was not alone. There were perhaps a dozen people in the shed, linked together in small groups by chains fastened to the wall or the roof-posts. Lorr was joined to a one-armed man and a middle-aged woman, neither of whom would fetch a good price in the slave-market, Nyctasia realized. The more profitable merchandise would be on display outside.
“By ill luck,” Lorr was saying. “Bandits attacked our party. They let the others go, but those who were marked they sold to bounty-hunters. We were… forced
… to tell whose we were.”
Suddenly he blanched and his voice rose in fear. “Lady, you said-if I was brought back-Lord Marrekind would give me over to you! But if you’re not there-”
“Hush,” Nyctasia warned him, as one of the guards looked in through the far door. Like everyone else, he and his cohorts were neglecting their business in order to watch the daring performance of the rope-dancer. There was little danger that the chained prisoners would escape in their absence.
But seeing Nyctasia within, he came in and swaggered unhurriedly down the length of the shed toward her, swinging his heavy whip at his side. Shrewdly appraising her patched cloak and worn boots, he assumed that she couldn’t afford to buy. A minstrel, most likely, with that harp slung at her shoulder.
But plenty of folk came in just to look-or to touch-and often they were willing to part with a few coins to satisfy their curiosity. And they were most generous, he had found, when he chivvied the prisoners about for their amusement. He had to take care not to damage his employers’ property, of course, for he was supposed to protect the slaves as well as guard them. He could claim that they’d attacked him, for his keys, and that he’d had to beat them off-no one would heed their denials-but that tale would wear thin with too much use. A little extra silver now was not worth a loss of pay later.
So he merely lashed out with the whip and kicked at a few of the prisoners as he passed, snarling, “On your feet! We’ve a customer here-look sharp.” As he approached Nyctasia, he seized one of the men and thrust him to the front of the stall, ordering the rest to show themselves as well. They shuffled forward, cowed and silent, and the guard looked down at Nyctasia with a leer. “Do you see anything you like, mistress?”
She glanced around briefly and shrugged. “Not a very choice lot, are they?”
He was not deceived by her pose of indifference. “I thought this young fellow seemed to catch your fancy,” he said, taking Lorr roughly by the arm and turning him this way and that for Nyctasia’s inspection. “He may not look like much now, but clean him up and a pretty lad like this will fetch plenty in Celys.” He grabbed a fistful of Lorr’s hair and pulled his head back, the better to display his features. “If you want him, you’ll have to chaffer with the traders, though.
He belongs to some estate in the valley, they say, and his owner’d probably pay well to have him back. But I daresay they’d part with him for the right price.”
Greymantle growled, and Nyctasia hastily quieted him. The guard pushed Lorr aside carelessly, and turned back to Nyctasia. “But perhaps you haven’t that much to spend, eh?”
Nyctasia had been considering whether or not to make an offer for Lorr, and now she came to a sudden decision. She had money enough, for she carried her valuables safely hidden, and had lost only a few crescents when her pouch was stolen. But the money she had left she needed for her passage from Larkmere to Stocharnos, and if she spent it now there might be days-perhaps weeks-of delay before she could arrange for payment, She was desperate to reach Rhostshyl as soon as possible. Too much time had been lost already, and lives might depend upon haste now.
Now, as she watched the guard bully Lorr with obvious enjoyment, she made up her mind what to do, compelled as much by rash anger as by necessity.
“You’re right,” she told him, “I haven’t much money. But I do see something I like, after all, and maybe I can afford just that much.” She looked him up and down in a way that made her meaning unmistakably plain. He was tall and broad, with large hands and a muscled neck, rugged, coarsely-carved features and thick, tightly curling hair. He was probably a southerner like Corson, hired for his size and strength. But Corson, Nyctasia knew, would starve sooner than work for slave-traders.
She ran the tip of her tongue over her lips, and smiled seductively. From her shirt she drew a small leather bag and took out a shiny ring, set with a red gemstone, which she slipped on her finger and held out for the guard to see.
He grinned. Oho, so she was that sort, was she? That was common too-some folk couldn’t resist a chance to lie with a slave-handler, and they liked a bit of rough handling themselves, he had found. He pulled Nyctasia into an empty stall and dragged her down onto the straw. The trinket she offered wasn’t worth much, but then she didn’t ask much in return. And she was a pretty little thing, too, now that he had a good look at her. He wouldn’t mind satisfying her curiosity for free.
Nyctasia laughed and threw her arms around his neck, clasping her hands behind his head, as he rolled on top of her, tugging impatiently at her breeches.
Feeling completely calm, she pressed her finger firmly against the red glass jewel in the ring, to release the tiny, curved spring-blade it concealed. Then she turned her hand and just scratched his neck with the needle-sharp crescent of steel. He gave one cry as the merciless, burning poison seized him by the throat, but he was dead within the moment, Nyctasia crawled free of his lifeless weight with some difficulty, then carefully sealed the deadly ring and put it away. It ought not to be dangerous until it was dipped in manna-venom again, but she had no intention of pricking herself with it, all the same. She straightened her clothes, grimacing with distaste, and picked up her harp before she bent to pull the keys from the guard’s belt.
The slaves in the shed did not realize what she’d done until they saw her emerge from the stall alone and release Lorr and his two companions from their fetters.
“You really do have that poison!” Lorr whispered. “You said-”
“I thought you wouldn’t need it. I had Marrekind in hand, and I wasn’t planning to leave, then.”
By then the rest were clamoring to be freed as well, calling for the keys and crowding around Nyctasia as she hastened from stall to stall. Having just committed murder, she did not hesitate to augment her crime with theft, and she was able to unlock a good many manacles and leg-irons before the other guards noticed the commotion, and remembered that they weren’t paid to watch the acrobats. They ran in through the far door, whips swinging, and were set upon at once and outnumbered. In the confusion, Nyctasia tossed the keys to the last set of prisoners, grabbed Greymantle’s leash with one hand and Lorr’s arm with the other, and dashed out the way she’d come, hoping to disappear into the crowd.
No one paid much attention to them as they mingled with the throng of marketers and idlers gathered in the square to gape at the troupe of tumblers plying their trade in a space cleared before the town hall. Had she been less intent on escaping, Nyctasia too would have lingered, entranced by the spectacle. The rope-dancer had finished her act, but the performance on the ground was well worth watching.
Dressed in colorful costumes and fantastic masks, adorned with ribbons and feathers and crystal beads, the dark-skinned acrobats balanced on tall poles, juggled flaming clubs, and did astonishing leaps and flips to the dramatic rhythm of the drumbeat. A boy clambered up an unsupported ladder, launched himself into the air, flipped over, and landed gracefully on the upturned feet of a woman balanced on her hands on the shoulders of one of the men. A girl with a wooden flute stalked among them, embellishing their tricks with trills and flourishes of music.
Nyctasia and Lorr made their way to the edge of the crowd, but looking back they saw one of the guards from the slave-market pushing through the press toward them-a woman tall enough to see them over the heads of the crowd. She was pointing in their direction and shouting something over her shoulder.
During their travels together, Corson had given Nyctasia some practical-and often painful-lessons in swordfighting, and now a piece of Corson’s advice came back to her. “When your opponent is bigger than you are, keep the fight in a tight place, where the enemy will be hampered while you can move freely. You can’t help being such a little speck of a thing, but you can put your size to use.” Nyctasia hurried Lorr into a narrow, cramped alleyway that led to the back of the town hall.
When they turned the corner, Nyctasia drew her shortsword and waited. “Keep going,” she ordered Lorr. “Get away from here, find someplace to hide.” With surprise on her side, and Greymantle at her command, she felt confident that the odds were in her favor.
But Lorr’s escape was cut off. “Someone’s coming the other way,” he cried, panic-stricken.
Nyctasia thrust Greymantle’s leash into his hand. “Take the dog, he’ll defend you. Now run!”
She very rapidly revised her plans. No one could prove that she’d killed the guard, after all. There was not a mark on him to show how he’d died. Suppose she claimed that she’d run off in fright when he collapsed-who was there to contradict her? And the slaves might have stripped his body of the keys themselves. They were not likely to bear witness against her, and if they did she could deny it all. Even the word of a penniless minstrel-lass was worth more than a slave’s. Why would a harmless harper commit such a crime in the first place?
And if matters came to the worst, she could always reveal her exalted rank to the magistrates. It was true, as Jheine said, that the law often gave way before a title. Perhaps it was a slim chance, but Nyctasia had talked her way out of tight straits before this. She only hoped that she wouldn’t be delayed too long in Larkmere by the formalities. But Lorr was truly in danger-he must be given time to get away.
She had not long to wait till her pursuer rounded the corner, but by then she had sheathed her sword and merely stood with her hands on her hips, looking aggrieved and defiant. “Why are you chasing me?” she demanded. “It’s nothing to do with me! Leave me alone-”
But the guard was in no mood to be reasoned with. Several of the slaves had escaped while she was supposed to be on duty, and if she came back empty-handed she’d be blamed, perhaps accused of theft and held accountable for the loss. She could be enslaved herself for such a debt. But if this sneaking minstrel was somehow responsible, she might redeem herself by capturing the wretch. She seized Nyctasia triumphantly, ignoring her protests, and twisted her arm painfully behind her back.
Nyctasia revised her plans again.
Swinging her feet off the ground, she made herself a dead weight and pulled her captor completely off balance, breaking her grip and allowing herself a chance to draw her blade again. The guard was armed only with her whip, and there was not room enough to swing the lash in the confining space of the alleyway.
Nyctasia was able to hold her off for a time, but her skill with a sword was no match for the enemy’s longer reach and superior strength. Wielding the haft of the whip like a club, she soon drove Nyctasia back against the wall of the building that loomed over them.
“It’s not enough to defend yourself,” Corson had taught Nyctasia. “In a fight, you must always be on the attack.” Nyctasia ducked to avoid a blow, scooped up a handful of dirt and pebbles, and flung it straight into her opponent’s face with all the strength of desperation.
When the woman staggered back, Nyctasia pressed her advantage, gripping her shortsword with both hands and swinging from her shoulders, forcing the strength of her whole back into the blow. Corson would have been proud to see the result of her teaching.
Nyctasia had aimed for the knees, hoping to cripple her adversary and flee, but though she strained every muscle, the wound she inflicted had little effect. The guard suddenly crumpled to the ground in a spreading puddle of blood, but it was not Nyctasia’s sword that had felled her. It was a large chunk of masonry pushed from the parapet of the city hail.