“someone’s asking for Corson,” Trask reported to Annin, in the kitchen. “Take a look. The little one in the corner.”
Annin peered through the knothole in the kitchen door, which was convenient for spying on the taproom. “Looks harmless enough,” she observed. “What did you tell her?”
“Nothing,” said Trask, drawing a mug of foaming cider from the cask. “Do you think Corson’s in trouble again?”
“Probably. Get rid of her, and we’ll lock up for the night-it’s almost time.
I’ll start chasing the others out.” There were only a few customers left in the tavern, and the kitchen had already been set to rights for the morrow. Walden had gone home not long before, and Steifann was in his own quarters, scowling over his accounts and downing a large tankard of ale.
Trask set the cider before Nyctasia and asked curtly. “Will there be anything else, mistress? We’ll be closing our doors soon.”
Nyctasia had told too many lies in her life to be misled by the likes of Trask.
She had not for a moment believed that he could give her no news of Corson, but she knew that further questions would only make him more suspicious. She sipped at her cider and said only, “I shan’t keep you, then. I’ll come back another time for a meal. Corson always says you have the best cook on the coast here.
Tell her Nyc’s looking for her, if you happen to see her, will you?”
“You’re Nick? Oh, well then-Corson’s told us all about you. She talks about you all the time.”
For someone who denied having seen Corson for months, he seemed remarkably well informed about her habits, Nyctasia thought. She saw that she would soon find out whatever she wanted to know from Trask. “Does she indeed?” she murmured encouragingly. “And what does she find to say about me?” It was gratifying, in a way, to hear that Corson had spoken about her, but exactly what had she said?
Surely she knew better than to tell her friends too much…?
“Corson claims that you’re a great lady.” Trask eyed Nyctasia’s worn garments dubiously. “Not that we believed her.”
“Oh, but I am,” said Nyctasia, in a tone which could only invite disbelief.
“And I’m High Lord of Torstaine,” said Trask, with a grin. “As if a great lady would take up with Corson! But she always has some fool story to tell when she comes back here.”
Nyctasia smiled. “She’s told me about all of you, too. You must be Trask. And that-” She broke off and stared as Steifann came out of his room to fetch himself more ale, slamming the door behind him. He was simply the largest person she had ever seen. “That must be Corson’s he-bear, Steifann.”
“Does she call him that?” Trask asked eagerly.
“Well, only when she’s been drinking.”
Trask was delighted. “Steifann!” he called. “Look here, this is Corson’s friend Nick we’ve heard so much about.”
It should be said in Steifann’s defense that he was rather drunk. It took a great deal of ale to affect Steifann’s judgment, but he’d been worrying about Corson, and when he worried he drank even more ale than usual. Corson should have been back days ago. She’d only been escorting a shipment of merchandise to Ochram, and that couldn’t have taken more than a fortnight. Unless she’d tangled with robbers on the way…? The roads were most dangerous in the spring, Steifann brooded. Bandits were desperate and reckless after the scanty pickings of the winter, when travelers were few-and the coast road led through deep woodland at more than one point. He pictured Corson lying dead in the forest, hewn by swords, impaled by arrows, maybe devoured by wolves… Or it might be that she was just tarrying in Ochram, spending her pay with some newfound friend, and letting him worry. By the Hlann, he’d kill her himself when she came traipsing back-!
All in all, he was in no fit frame of mind to meet Nyctasia.
So this was the one Corson had spent half the year with-the scholar, the enchantress, the high-born lady. He might have known she’d be just some vagabond in a patched cloak. All the same, she had a knowing look about her that Steifann didn’t care for in the least. Corson was too rutting easily impressed by folk with a little learning, like that blasted student ’Malkin she sometimes talked about. Frowning, he strode over to Nyctasia’s table and glowered down at her fiercely. “Do you sleep with Corson?” he demanded.
Nyctasia nearly choked on her cider. What had she let herself in for now! A man whose fist looked larger than her head was looming over her like a ferocious giant in a fable-a hungry giant who’d caught the hapless human hero trespassing on his property and meant to dispose of the intruder in a few bites. Nyctasia didn’t know whether to laugh or flee for her life.
But an Edonaris ought always to maintain her dignity in the face of threats or insults. Turning to Trask, she asked coolly, “Tell me, is that the way he greets everyone?”
“Not always,” said Trask. “Sometimes he’s downright rude.” At a look from Steifann, he scurried off back to the kitchen, where he lost no time in informing the others of the situation. They soon gathered in the doorway to watch.
“Why don’t you ask Corson that?” Nyctasia was suggesting to Steifann, with a sneer in her voice.
“I’m asking you!” Steifann bellowed, hitting the table with his fist, and spilling Nyctasia’s cider.
Had he been of her own station, or at least a nobleman, Nyctasia would have flung the rest of the drink in his face and challenged him to a duel. As it was, however, she struck at him instead in the way such low-bred insolence deserved.
“Who is there that Corson doesn’t sleep with?” she said, and saw with satisfaction that her blow had hit home. With a shrug, she added, “And for my part I think it no wonder that she should prefer my company to yours.” It is not easy to look up at someone contemptuously, but Nyctasia was one of those who know how to do it.
Steifann had reddened like a victim of the Surge. “Look here, you little slut, you may be someone important where you come from, but this is my place, and-”
Nyctasia had heard enough. She stood, and tossed down some money for her drink.
“I’m a Rhaicime where I come from,” she said evenly, “but if I were a fishmonger I’d not waste words with an ill-mannered boor like you.”
“On your way!” shouted Steifann, throwing out one arm to point to the door.
It was this threatening gesture which brought Greymantle out from under the table, snarling and baring his fangs. He’d seen no harm in Steifann’s shouting-the Edonaris were always shouting at one another-but to a dog a hand raised in anger means only one thing. His mistress was in danger. Greymantle advanced on Steifann slowly, with the obvious intention of tearing out his throat as soon as he made the slightest move in Nyctasia’s direction. His fur bristled, and his every muscle was tensed to spring.
Nyctasia grabbed his collar and held him back, as Steifann slowly lowered his outflung arm.
“You heard me, take yourself off,” Steifann said, though not in quite as menacing a tone as he’d used before.
Ignoring him, Nyctasia turned to Trask. “Tell Corson that she can find me where she found me before,” she ordered, and took her leave without so much as a glance at the furious Steifann.
She missed Corson by only a matter of hours.
“Oh, well done,” said Annin drily. “Idiot! What if that woman’s really a Rhaicime? She’ll have your head for talking to her like that.”
Steifann knew he’d made a fool of himself, and the knowledge did not improve his ill humor. “Plague take her, brazen little bitch! She’d no call to-”
“Sit there drinking cider and minding her own business? Certainly not.
Villainous of her.”
“I’ll go after her and offer your apologies,” Trask announced, taking one of the lamps from its bracket. “If she has you thrown in a dungeon, who’ll chop the wood?”
“You get back here-”
“Go!” said Annin. “Hurry up or you’ll lose her.” She turned on Steifann with real anger. “Don’t you see, she might have done something for Destiver, and now you’ve set her against us!”
Steifann hadn’t thought of that. And Annin was right, he realized. If this was the same woman who’d fled Chiastelm with Corson last year, as he suspected, then she did have reason to be grateful to Destiver. Fool that he was, had he not only made trouble for himself, but helped put Destiver’s neck in a noose as well? “Curse Corson, this is all her doing!”
“And how do you make that out?”
“If she’d been here, it wouldn’t have happened in the first place. And where is she, for that matter-answer me that. Probably dead in a ditch.”
Annin shook her head, and turned back to the kitchen. Steifann followed, drew a pitcher of ale and sat down to resume his interrupted brooding. Now there was twice as much to worry about.
Nyctasia heard someone running behind her in the dark street, and she thanked the vahn for the second time that night that she hadn’t come out after dusk without Greymantle. By the time Trask caught up to her, she had turned to face her pursuer and was waiting for him, sword in hand.
Trask halted abruptly and fell back a step. “Er-Your Ladyship-pardon me-” He had no idea how to make a formal bow, but he did his best.
“Well, what is it, boy?” Nyctasia said imperiously. “I left payment for my drink.”
Her manner and bearing, even her voice, were so different from what they had been at the tavern, that Trask wondered for a moment if he’d followed the wrong person in the dark. “You really are a Rhaicime,” he said stupidly.
Nyctasia sheathed her sword. “And did you chase after me to tell me that?”
“No, I-that is, Steifann-he didn’t mean to offend you, lady…”
“Indeed?” She sounded amused, now.
Encouraged, Trask grinned winningly, assuming his most deferential demeanor.
“Well, he didn’t mean any harm, I promise you. He’s always in a temper when Corson’s late corning back. He growls at everyone, but he wouldn’t hurt a flea.
You’ll like him when you come to know him better.”
“I do not mean to know him better.”
“No, of course not,” said Trask hastily, “but, you wouldn’t complain of him to the City Governors, would you, m’lady?” His tone was wheedling, but Nyctasia saw that he was genuinely worried.
She had in fact dismissed Steifann from her mind almost as soon as she’d left the Hare. She had been angry, but as much with herself as with him, and it would never have occurred to her to seek to punish his loutish behavior. Nyctasia had been taught that one could not expect a commoner to behave like a gentleman. If one mixed with base-born folk, one had only oneself to blame if one encountered unpleasantness.
“A lady,” she said to Trask, “does not stoop to resent the ill-advised scurrility of an inferior.”
Trask would have found this more reassuring if he’d understood what it meant.
“As you say, my lady,” he said glumly. “But really, I swear-”
Nyctasia couldn’t help laughing. “Never mind, lad, you may tell the host of the Hare that he’s forgiven. I wouldn’t dare to make trouble for him, you see-Corson would kill me.”