"Oh, they notice him, all right. But Saviar's always too caught up in swordwork to pay them any attention. I suppose some young woman will turn his head someday, but it hasn't happened yet." Subikahn smiled kindly. "You're free to try."
Chymmerlee lowered her head demurely, but Subikahn could tell just by her forehead that she wore an enormous grin.
Gradually, a morose feeling stole over Subikahn, for reasons he could not explain. Jealousy seemed impossible; he felt no attraction to Chymmerlee. For a moment, he wondered if he worried over losing Saviar's attention, but his heart told him otherwise. It was Talamir he missed, the courting dance, the heady days when a young man feels those first stirrings of affection but does not yet know where to take them and worries that the object of his interest will not return his love.
Chymmerlee's voice disrupted Subikahn's thoughts. "I'm eighteen."
The words seemed so out of place, Subikahn had to wonder. Did I ask her? I don't remember asking her.
"Well, I said we outlive other humans, which is true. I didn't want you to think that I only look young because I'm magical. And I'm really thirty or something."
Subikahn had never considered the possibility. "We're nineteen." Suspicions aroused, he asked, "And just how long do mages live?"
"True mages, the original mages, they went five hundred or so years."
Subikahn jerked his gaze from the window to stare at Chymmerlee. "Five hundred?"
"Sometimes seven or eight hundred. But we mixes may not live so long. Jeremilan is over two hundred, I believe-"
"Jeremilan is still alive-"
"-but we've had others who lived normal mortal spans or only slightly longer. In general, it seems like the more mage blood, the longer the life; but a lot of the purer bloods actually die in infancy or childhood."
Inbreeding. Subikahn nodded. The mages had a definite problem.
"I'm sorry. I'm boring you with all this information."
It should have been tiresome, yet Subikahn found himself intrigued. In the back of his mind, he realized he held a serious stake in knowing these details. The Myrcidians helped us because they think we're mages.They need new blood. A sharp lump filled his throat. Could it be they want us for breeding stock? The idea sent a shiver of dread through Subikahn. He had already suffered all the loveless sex he could stand, and he had no intention of attaching himself to these mages for the remainder of his life. For now, however, he had no choice but to play along. "Boring me? No, I'm fascinated." Subikahn finally sat. Placing his hands on his chin, and his elbows on his left thigh, he leaned toward Chymmerlee. "Please, tell me more."
As Treysind had predicted, they reached a town the following day. Surrounded by farm fields lush with summer crops, the buildings clustered at the center. Treysind stopped to fill the waterskins at a well, while Calistin glanced around the streets seeking some logical gathering point, such as a tavern. Finding none, he turned his attention to the people, all of whom stared at the strangers as they passed but none of whom paused to talk.
Treysind seemed to take forever. Besides carrying at least six waterskins by Calistin's count, he also kept careful track of his companion's location at all times. Apparently, he worried that Calistin would take advantage of an inattentive moment to disappear again. It was not an unreasonable fear.
As Calistin waited for Treysind to finish, he noticed a placard posted atop the welclass="underline"
Sheaton Laws:
1. No killing 2. No stealing 3. No brawling 4. Do not display weapons of any kind 5. Only the bucket may enter this well
Calistin smiled, rearranging his sword belt to assure his swords showed prominently. Only a competent warrior would dare confront a man violating any of the first four rules, especially one so obviously well-equipped. While Treysind continued filling waterskins, Calistin leaned casually against the well, in flagrant violation of the law, and waited for the repercussions.
Now, Calistin noticed that the citizens whispered to one another as they passed, and a small crowd began to gather along the closest buildings, a safe distance from where he stood.
As they did so, Treysind grew visibly nervous. He paused frequently to glance at the growing chaos of spectators.
Finally, a man approached. Tall, broad-shouldered, and clean-shaven, he appeared to be about thirty. He wore a clean pair of brown britches, a tan woolen shirt, and a tunic belted at the waist. A cloak covered his outfit, but Calistin could make out a hilt buried beneath it. Though not openly, the man clearly carried a sword.
Calistin's opinion of the stranger plummeted. No Renshai would hamper his sword arm by pinning his weapon beneath fabric. He turned the newcomer a look of bored nonchalance.
Treysind stopped his task, set aside the last of his waterskins, and drew up beside Calistin.
The man extended a hand in greeting. "Welcome to Sheaton." He used the Common Trading tongue.
Calistin only nodded.
"Thank ya's!" Treysind said exuberantly.
Calistin frowned but said nothing, leaving the next move to the stranger.
The man let his hand drop to his side. "My name's Howall. I keep the peace here in Sheaton."
Calistin met his gaze.
Treysind looked at Calistin. Taking his cues from his hero, he also went silent.
The crowd seemed to lean forward collectively, listening for an answer that never came.
Locked into a one-sided conversation, Howall continued, "Just wondering if you read, young man."
Not wanting Treysind to answer and make them both look stupid, Calistin finally spoke, "I read."
Howall's brows inched upward. Clearly, he had assumed illiteracy accounted for Calistin's flagrant violation. "Did you happen to notice the laws of our town?" He tipped his head toward the placard.
Calistin did not bother to turn. "I noticed."
Treysind whirled, staring at the sign, though it seemed unlikely he could make anything out of it.
"Then, you know we don't allow the open display of weapons here."
Having already decided to answer only direct questions, Calistin said nothing.
Treysind looked from Calistin to Howall and back. "We ain't meanin' ta vi'late no laws…"
Calistin frowned, wishing the boy would just shut up, and not for the first time. "Yes I am. I'm meaning to violate the law."
Treysind's jaw clamped suddenly closed.
Howall's nostrils flared. "You mean to…"
"Yes."
"Why?"
Calistin also meant to irritate. "Why not?"
Treysind reached for Calistin's hand, but he jerked it away. The boy whispered, "What's ya doin', Hero?"
Howall kept his attention on Calistin. He peeled aside his cloak just far enough to grant access to his own weapon. "Then I'll have to ask you to leave."
Calistin never moved from his cavalier position against the well. "Ask, then."
Howall's brow furrowed. "What?"
"You said you would have to ask me to leave."
"Yes."
"So ask."
Howall's hands balled to fists. He had clearly lost patience, which pleased Calistin. "Young man, you're not funny. Will you either put away your weapons or leave Sheaton forever?"
"No."
"No, you will not pack up your weapons? Or, no, you will not leave?"
The conversation had grown tedious to Calistin, who was ready for his battle. "No, I will not 'either put away my weapons or leave Sheaton.' "
Again, Treysind reached for Calistin's hand, this time managing to brush it before Calistin knocked Treysind away.
"Neither?"
Treysind hissed, "Let's jus' go, Hero."
Now, Calistin recalled why he wanted to ditch his devoted companion. "I believe I made myself clear."
The crowd had shuffled closer. Howall seemed to take no notice. "Then you leave me no choice, stranger. I'll have to remove you from Sheaton."