A Tapestry of Lions Page 4

  Feeling small, Kellin nodded, then essayed a final attempt at explanation. “I watched his eyes. Tuqhoc’s. I knew when he would throw, and how, and what the knife would do. I had only to put out my hand, and the knife was there.” He shrugged self-consciously, seeing the arrested expression in Rogan’s eyes. “I just knew. I saw.” Dismayed, he observed his congealing sausage as Rogan fixed him with a more penetrating assessment. Kellin extended the stick with its weight of greasy suhoqla. “Do you want this?”

  The Homanan grimaced. “I cannot abide the foul taste of those things. You wanted it—eat it.”

  But Kellin’s appetite was banished by aftermath. “It’s cold.” He glanced around, spied a likely looking dog, and approached to offer the sausage. The mongrel investigated the meat, wrinkled its nose and sneezed, then departed speedily.

  “That says something for your taste,” Rogan remarked dryly. He drew his own knife, cut a strip of fabric from the hem of his tunic, motioned a passing water-seller over and bought a cup. He dipped the cloth into the water and began to wipe the cut clean. “By the gods, the Queen will have my hide for this…you are covered with grease and blood.”

  Rogan’s ministrations hurt. No longer hungry, Kellin discarded the suhoqla. He bit into his lip as the watchdogs came up and resumed their places, though the distance between their charge and their persons was much smaller now.

  Humiliation scorched his face; warriors did not, he believed, submit so easily to public nursing. “I want to see the market.”

  Rogan looped the fabric around the fingers and palm to make a bandage, then tied it off. “We are in the market; look around, and you will see it.” He tightened the knot. “There. It will do until we return to the palace.”

  Kellin’s mind was no longer on the stinging cut or its makeshift bandage. He frowned as a young boy passed by, calling out in singsong Homanan. “A fortune-teller!”

  “No,” Rogan said promptly.

  “But Rogan—”

  “Such things are a waste of good coin.” Rogan shrugged. “You are Cheysuli. You already know your tahlmorra.”

  “But you don’t yet know yours.” Grinning anticipation, Kellin locked his bandaged hand over Rogan’s wrist. “Don’t you want to find out if you’ll share your bed with Melora or Belinda?”

  Rogan coughed a laugh, glancing sidelong at the guards. “No mere fortune-teller can predict that. Women do what they choose to do; they do not depend on fate.”

  Kellin tugged his tutor in the direction the passing boy had indicated. “Let us go, Rogan. That boy says the fortune-teller can predict what becomes of me.”

  “That boy is a shill. He says what he’s told to say, and the fortune-teller says what he’s paid to say.”

  “Ro-gan!”

  Rogan sighed. “If you desire it so much—”

  “Aye!” Kellin tugged him on until they stood before a tent slumped halfheartedly against a wall. A black cat, small version of the Mujhar’s lir, Sleeta, lay stretched out on a faded rug before the entrance, idly licking one paw; beside him curled a half-grown fawn-hued dog who barely lifted an eyelid. The tent itself was small, its once-glorious stripes faded gold against pale brown, so that it merged into the wall. “My grandsire gave you coin for such things,” Kellin reminded his tutor. “Surely he could not count it ill-spent if we enjoyed it!”

  Graying eyebrows arched. “A sound point. That much you have mastered, if not your history.” Rogan gestured for the guardsmen to precede them into the tent.

  “No!” Kellin cried.

  “They must, Kellin. The Mujhar has given orders. And after what you provoked in the Steppes warrior, I should take you home immediately.”

  Kellin compromised immediately. “They may come wait here.” His gesture encompassed the rug and entrance. “But not inside the tent. A fortune is a private thing.”

  “I cannot allow the Prince of—”

  “Say nothing of titles!” Kellin cried. “How will the fortune-teller give me the truth otherwise? If he knows what I am, it cheats the game.”

  “At least you admit it is a game, for which I thank the gods; you are not entirely gullible. But rules are rules; the Mujhar is my lord, not you.” Rogan ordered one of the guardsmen into the tent. “He will see that it is safe.”

  Kellin waited impatiently until the guardsman came out again. When the man nodded his head, Rogan had him and his companions assume posts just outside the tent.

  “Now?” Kellin asked, and as Rogan nodded he slipped through the doorflap.

  Inside the tent, Kellin found the shadows stuffy and redolent of an acrid, spice-laden smoke that set his eyes to watering. He wiped at them hastily, wrinkling his nose at the smell very much as the street dog did to the suhoqla, and squinted to peer through the thready haze. A gauzy dark curtain merged with shadow to hide a portion of the tent; he and Rogan stood in what a castle-raised boy would call an antechamber, though the walls were fabric in place of stone.

  Rogan bent slightly, resting a hand on Kellin’s shoulder as he spoke in a low tone. “You must recall that he works for coin, Kellin. Put no faith in his words.”

  Kellin frowned. “Don’t spoil it.”

  “I merely forewarn that what he says—”

  “Don’t spoil it!”

  The gauzy curtain was parted. The fortune-teller was a nondescript, colorless foreign man of indeterminate features, wearing baggy saffron pantaloons and three silk vests over a plain tunic: one dyed blue, the next red, the third bright green. “Forgive an old man his vice: I smoke husath, which is not suitable for guests unless they also share the vice.” He moved out of the shadowed curtain, bringing the sweet-sour aroma with him. “I do not believe either of you would care for it.”

  “What is it?” Kellin was fascinated.

  Rogan stirred slightly. “Indeed, a vice. It puts dreams in a man’s head.”

  Kellin shrugged. “Dreams are not so bad. I dream every night.”

  “Husath dreams are different. They can be dangerous when they make a man forget to eat or drink.” Rogan stared hard at the man. “The boy wants his fortune told, nothing more. You need not initiate him into a curiosity that may prove dangerous.”

  “Of course.” The man smiled faintly and gestured to a rug spread across the floor. “Be in comfort, and I will share with you your future, and a little of your past.”

  “He is all of ten; his past is short,” Rogan said dryly. “This shouldn’t take long.”

  “It will take as long as it must.” The fortuneteller gestured again. “I promise you no tricks, no husath, no nonsense, only the truth.”

  Kellin turned and gazed up at Rogan. “You first.”

  The brows arched again. “We came for you.”

  “You first.”

  Rogan considered it, then surrendered gracefully, folding long legs to seat himself upon the rug just opposite the fortune-teller. “For the boy’s sake, then.”

  “And nothing for yourself?” The fortune-teller’s teeth were stained pale yellow. “Give me your hands.”

  Kellin dropped to his knees and waited eagerly. “Go on, Rogan. Give him your hands.”

  With a small, ironic smile, Rogan acquiesced. The fortune-teller merely looked at the tutor’s hands for a long moment, examining the minute whorls and scars in his flesh, the length of fingers, the fit of nails, the color of the skin. Then he linked his fingers with Rogan’s, held them lightly, and began to murmur steadily as if invoking the gods.

  “No tricks,” Rogan reminded.

  “Shhh,” Kellin said. “Don’t spoil the magic.”

  “This isn’t magic, Kellin…this is merely entertainment.”

  But the fortune-teller’s tone altered, interrupting the debate. His voice dropped low into a singsong cadence that made the hair rise up on the back of Kellin’s neck: “Alone in the midst of many, even those whom you love…apart and separate, consumed by grief. She lives within you when she is dead, and you live through her, seeing her face when you sleep and
wake, longing for the love she cannot offer. You live in the pasts of kings and queens and those who have gone before you, but you thrive upon your own. Your past is your present and will be your future, until you summon the strength to give her life again. Offered and spurned, it is offered again; spurned and offered a third time until, accepting, you free yourself from the misery of what is lost to you, and then live in the misery of what you have done. You will die knowing what you have done, and why, and the price of your reward. You will use and be used in turn, discarded at last when your use is passed.”

  Rogan jerked his hands away with a choked, inarticulate protest. Kellin, astonished, stared at his tutor; what he saw made him afraid. The man’s face was ashen, devoid of life, and his eyes swam with tears.

  “Rogan?” Apprehension seized his bones and washed his flesh ice-cold. “Rogan!”

  But Rogan offered no answer. He sat upon the rug and stared at nothingness as tears ran down his face.

  “A harsh truth,” the fortune-teller said quietly, exhaling husath fumes. “I promise no happiness.”

  “Rogan—” Kellin began, and then the fortuneteller reached out and caught at his hands, trapped the fingers in his own, and Kellin’s speech was banished.

  This time there were no gods to invoke. The words spilled free of the stranger’s mouth as if he could not stop them. “He is the sword,” the hissing voice whispered. “The sword and the bow and the knife. He is the weapon of every man who uses him for ill, and the strength of every man who uses him for good. Child of darkness, child of light; of like breeding with like, until the blood is one again. He is Cynric, he is Cynric: the sword and the bow and the knife, and all men shall name him evil until Man is made whole again.”

  The voice stopped. Kellin stared, struggling to make an answer, any sort of answer, but the sound began again.

  “The lion shall lie down with the witch; out of darkness shall come light; out of death: life; out of the old: the new. The lion shall lie down with the witch, and the witch-child born to rule what the lion must swallow. The lion shall devour the House of Homana and all of her children, so the newborn child shall sit upon the throne and know himself lord of all.”

  A shudder wracked Kellin from head to toe, and then he cried out and snatched his hands away. “The Lion!” he cried. “The Lion will eat me!”

  He scrambled to his feet even as the guardsmen shredded canvas with steel to enter the tent. He saw their faces, saw their intent; he saw Rogan’s tear-streaked face turning to him. Rogan’s mouth moved, but Kellin heard nothing. One of the guards put his hand upon his prince’s rigid shoulder, but Kellin did not feel it.

  The Lion. The LION.

  He knew in that instant they were unprepared, just as the Steppes warrior had been unprepared. None of them understood. No one at all knew him for what he was. They saw only the boy, the deserted son, and judged him worthless.

  Aren’t I worthless?

  But the Lion wanted him.

  Kellin caught his breath. Would the Lion want to eat a worthless boy?

  Perhaps he was worthless, and that fact alone was why the Lion might want to eat him.

  To save Homana from a worthless Mujhar.

  With an inarticulate cry, Kellin tore free of the guardsman’s hand and ran headlong from the tent. He ignored the shouts of the Mujharan guard and the blurted outcry of his tutor. He tore free of them all, even of the tent, and clawed his way out of pale shadow into the brilliance of the day.

  “Lion—” Kellin blurted, then darted into the crowd even as the man came after him.

  * * *

  Run—

  He ran.

  Where—?

  He did not know.

  Away from the Lion—

  Away.

  —won’t let the Lion eat me— He tripped and fell, facedown, banging his chin into a cobble hard enough to make himself bite his lip. Blood filled his mouth; Kellin spat, lurched up to hands and knees, then pressed the back of one hand against his lower lip to stanch the bleeding. The hand bled, too; Rogan’s bandage had come off. The cut palm and his cut mouth stung.

  It smells— It did. He had landed full-force in a puddle of horse urine. His jerkin was soaked with it; the knees of his leggings, ground into cobbles as well, displayed the telltale color and damp texture of compressed horse droppings.

  Aghast, Kellin scrambled to his feet. He was filthy. In addition to urine and droppings weighting his leathers, there was mud, grease, and blood; and he had lost his belt entirely somewhere in his mad rush to escape the Lion. No one, seeing him now, would predict his heritage or House.

  “Rogan?” He turned, thinking of his tutor instead of the Lion; recalled the fortune-teller’s words, and how Rogan had reacted. And the watchdogs; where were they? Had he left everyone behind? Where am—

  Someone laughed. “Poor boy,” said a woman’s voice, “have you spoiled all your Summerfair finery?”

  Startled, he gaped at her. She was blonde and pretty, in a coarse sort of way, overblown and overpainted. Blue eyes sparkled with laughter; a smile displayed crooked teeth.

  Humiliated, Kellin stared hard at the ground and tried to uncurl his toes. I don’t want to be here. I want to go HOME.

  “What a pretty blush; as well as I could do, once.” Skirts rustled faintly. “Come here.”

  Reluctantly Kellin glanced up slantwise, marking the garish colors of her multiple skirts. One hand beckoned. He ignored it, thinking to turn his back on her, to leave the woman behind, but the laughter now was muted, replaced with a gentler facade.

  “Come,” she said. “Has happened to others, too.”

  She wasn’t his granddame, who welcomed him into her arms when he needed a woman’s comfort, but she was a woman, and she spoke kindly enough now. This time when she beckoned, he answered. She slipped a hand beneath his bloodied chin, forcing him to look up into her own face. At closer range her age increased, yet her eyes seemed kind enough in an assessive sort of way. Her hair was not really blonde, he discovered by staring at exposed roots, and the faintest hint of dark fuzz smudged her upper lip.

  The woman laughed. “Don’t blush quite so much, boy. You’ll have me thinking you’ve never seen a whore before.”

  He gaped. “You are a light woman?”

  “A light—” She broke off, brows lifting. “Is that the genuine accent of aristrocracy?” She leaned closer, enveloping him in a powerful, musky scent. “Or are you like me: a very good mimic?”

  She is NOT like granddame after all. Kellin tugged at his ruined jerkin, than blotted again at his split lip. She watched him do it, her smile less barbed, and at last she took her hand from his chin, which relieved him immeasurably. “Lady—”

  “No, not that. Never that.” Her hand strayed into his hair, lingered in languorous familiarity. Her touch did not now in the least remind him of his grandmother’s. “Why is it,” the woman began, “that boys and men have thicker hair and longer lashes? The gods have truly blessed you, my greeneyed little man.” The other hand touched his leggings. “And how little are we in things that really matter?”

  Kellin nearly squirmed. “I—I must go.”

  “Not so soon, I pray you.” She mocked the elaborate speech of highborn Homanans. “We hardly know one another.”

  That much Kellin knew; he’d heard the horseboys speaking of whores. “I have no money.” Rogan had plenty, but he doubted the Mujhar would approve of it being spent on women.

  The whore laughed. “Well, then, what have you? Youth. Spirit. Pretty eyes, and a prettier face—you’ll have women killing over you, when you’re grown.” Her eyes lost their laughter. “Men would kill for you now.” The smile fell off her face. “And innocence, which is something everyone in the Midden has lost. If I could get some back, steal it back, somehow—”

  Kellin took a single step backward. Her hand latched itself into his filthy jerkin; she did not seem to notice her hand now was also soiled. “I must go,” he tried again.

  �
�No,” she said intently. “No. Stay a while. Share with me youth and innocence—”

  Kellin wrenched away from her. As he ran, he heard her curse.

  * * *

  This time when he fell, Kellin managed to avoid urine and droppings, landing instead against hard stone cobbles after his collision with a woman carrying a basket. He feared at first she might also be a whore, but she had none of the ways or coarse speech. She was angry, aye, because he had upset her basket; and then she was screaming something about a thief—

  “No!” Kellin cried, thinking he could explain and set everything to rights—the Prince of Homana, a thief?—but the woman kept on shrieking, ignoring his denials, and he saw the men, big men all, hastening toward him.

  He ran again, and was caught. The man grabbed him by one arm and hoisted him into the air so that one boot toe barely scraped the cobblestones. “Give over, boy. No more kicking and biting.”

  Kellin, who had not thought to bite, squirmed in the tight grasp. He intensely disliked being hung by one wrist like a side of venison. “I am not a boy, I’m a prince—”

  “And I’m the Mujhar of Homana.” The man waited until Kellin’s struggles subsided. “Done, are we?”

  “Let me go!”

  “Not until I have the ropes on you.”

  Kellin stiffened. “Ropes!”

  “I and others like me are sworn to keep the rabble off the streets during Summerfair,” the big man explained. “That includes catching all the little thieves who prey on innocent people.”

  “I’m not a thief, you ku’reshtin—”

  The big hand closed more tightly. “Round speech for a boy, by your tone.”

  “I am the Prince of Homana!”

  The man sighed. He was very large, and redhaired; he was also patently unimpressed by Kellin’s protests. “Save your breath, boy. It only means a night under a decent roof, instead of some alley or doorway. And you’ll be fed, so don’t be complaining so much when you’re better off now than you were.”

  “But I’m—” Kellin broke off in astonishment as the men looped a rope around one wrist, then the other. Prince or no, he was snugged tight as a gamebird. “Wait!”