Sharina hugged Tenoctris. “I’ve met powerful wizards,” she said. “They’re all dead, thank the Lady. And thanks to you, the kingdom still stands.”
King Carus balanced at the peak of a tripod made by lashing small trees together. From there he could survey both the shore behind him and the hostile countryside beyond the ditched wall his troops were already digging. An aide ran from Carus toward the damaged vessel. The king watched with his hands on his hips, his look of fury visible even at this distance.
“I hope the captain has sense enough to get off the beach before Carus decides to come back personally,” Sharina said.
“Yes,” said Tenoctris. “They’ll do better to take their chance on sinking than what will happen if they disobey the king.”
Sharina had been smiling; her face went suddenly grim. “Carus might kill the captain, mightn’t he?” she said quietly. “Cut his head off, the way he did the Intercessor’s.”
Tenoctris nodded. She didn’t speak.
The aide and the captain exchanged shouts. The officers began to return to the trireme’s deck by climbing oarlooms. The danger was past—this time.
“Tenoctris, he can’t behave that way and keep the kingdom together,” Sharina said, desperation in her voice. “He knows that, but when he’s angry he lashes out at whoever’s responsible.”
“It’s always the real cause, though,” the wizard said. “Carus doesn’t kick his servant because he doesn’t like something the Earl of Sandrakkan has done.”
“In the long run it doesn’t matter” Sharina said. “It’s worse! Oh, I know justice is a wonderful thing, but he’d be better off to kick a servant than to knock down a nobleman because he was slow obeying an order. He’d be better off, and the kingdom would be better off.”
“He isn’t sleeping because of the dreams,” Tenoctris said, looking at the king who’d now resumed his survey of the landscape beyond the rising wall. “I suppose he was always hasty, but even a saint who gets no sleep…”
More ships shuttled toward the beach. A pair of triremes fouled one another, their oars interlocking as the men on deck screamed curses. It would be sorted out, though. For all the seeming chaos, the process continued toward its planned conclusion as inexorably as a storm sweeping onto the land.
“Maybe his way will work,” Sharina said softly. “Perhaps Carus will end the dreams and the rebellion with his sword edge. He did that many times in the past, after all.”
“Yes,” said Tenoctris. “I think I’ll…”
Her voice trailed off. She walked toward her shelter to resume practicing her art. The old wizard looked so worn already that Sharina almost called her back.
Almost. Because Sharina knew—as Tenoctris did—that the last place haste and reliance on his sword had brought Carus was the bottom of the sea. Without Tenoctris’ wizardry to at least warn of such threats, a similar result would occur this time.
And slight though Sharina knew Tenoctris’ powers were compared to those of their enemies, it was in those powers rather than the king’s flashing sword that the kingdom’s best hope lay.
17
Cashel set one end of his staff down, not banging it but letting the ferrule rap loudly enough to call attention to him and Tilphosa. The floor was of puncheons, logs halved and set edge to edge instead of being fully squared. The design saved labor and drained better than proper carpentry; in this wet land, the latter virtue might be important. There were rushes on the floor, but they should’ve been replaced weeks ago.
“We’d like food and a room,” Cashel said, as the eyes of the handful of men in the common room turned toward them. There was a small fire on the hearth and a billet of lightwood stuck up on a firedog for the only illumination.
“Food and a bed, you can have,” said the woman behind the bar to the left. Cashel hadn’t noticed her in the dimness as he entered. “If you can pay for it. Three Reeds for a bed for the two of you. A Reed apiece for porridge, and another Reed if you want it soaked in fish broth.”
“How much for a separate room, mistress?” Tilphosa said, her tone that of one demanding rather than begging. Her chin lifted slightly.
The landlady was a largish woman who took care of her looks even though she must be forty years old. She reminded Cashel of Sharina’s mother, Lora; though Lora was small and pretended to be “a lady,” while this woman was of a much earthier disposition. Instead of an ordinary tunic she wore a sleeved doublet with vertical stripes and the neckline scooped deeply onto her ample bosom.
“I don’t have a separate room for anybody but myself, missy,” she said, eyeing Tilphosa with disdain. “If you’ve got a problem with that, you can go back out in the street.”
“He looks like a good prospect, Leemay,” said one of the men sitting in the fireplace nook with a masar of beer. “Maybe you could find him private room, hey?”
Leemay lifted the gate in the bar and came out into the common room. She wore baggy linen trousers, gathered above the ankles; her feet and those of the men in the room were bare.
“You’ve got money?” she asked Cashel, no longer hostile. She walked to the hearth where an iron pot hung on a spider.
“Yes,” Tilphosa said. She touched Cashel’s wrist to silence him. “We’ve got silver, I mean, and I suppose copper pieces too. It’s not stamped with reeds or whatever, though.”
Leemay paused, then bent to swing the kettle out to where she could dip from it. She straightened and took one of the wooden bowls hanging from the mantel by riveted leather straps.
“You’ve got silver?” she said, speaking again to Cashel. “You don’t look it, if you don’t mind my saying.”
“We’ve been shipwrecked,” Cashel said. He moved his staff so that it stood vertically before him; the butt rapped the puncheons again, this time a little harder.
Leemay dipped porridge into the bowl, set it on the mantel, and took down a second. “You needn’t worry about being robbed here,” she said as she filled it also. “And if you didn’t have money, well, I’ve been known to help a likely young man who’s down on his luck.”
“With the broth,” Tilphosa said sharply. “And as I told you, we have money.”
The two men at the end of the bar were laughing and nudging one another. Cashel looked at them, just curious. They calmed down immediately, but they still giggled into the cups they quickly lifted to their mouths.
Leemay set the second bowl on the mantel, thrust horn spoons into both, and reached past the seated local to take a pewter cruet from the warming niche in the hearth. She poured a thin fluid into the first bowl and a more generous portion onto the second. After replacing the cruet, she held the first out to Tilphosa, and said, “Come get it, girl—or are you crippled?”
Cashel reached for the bowl. Leemay shifted so that her soft hip bumped him away. Her eyes held Tilphosa’s. Tilphosa sniffed and took the bowl.
When the landlady took the second bowl from the mantel, Cashel reached out again. Leemay touched his extended hand with her free one, and said, “Come over to the bar and eat. You’ll want ale, won’t you?”
She walked across the room, leading Cashel. He shook his hand loose.
“Yes, we’ll want ale,” Tilphosa said, raising her voice more than the quiet of the inn required. The men at the bar were chuckling among themselves again.
Leemay walked to the other side of the bar but didn’t bother to lower the gate again. She set the porridge down and started to draw beer from a tun under the counter.
“Hey, Leemay?” called one of the men warming at the hearth. “You going to do your tricks tonight?”