Tek did his best to nod naturally even while his throat closed and his stomach dropped abruptly. This was coincidence with a vengeance-and altogether too pat for comfort.
“And who ordered this treat for me?”
“The Tarkina, my lord. At least, that’s what the cook told me. I was to say, with the compliments of the Tarkina.”
“Excellent, Larissa, thank you.”
“A pleasure, sir. Enjoy.” With the confidence of familiarity the young woman left the room.
Enjoy. Well that was going to be difficult. Tek almost wished young Kysh had taken a taste of it. Then at least he’d know…
He shook his head and sat down at the table. He already knew. Of course he did. There was nothing wrong with these kidneys and he didn’t need a taster. Tek broke off a piece of bread and picked up his fork in his right hand, speared a particularly juicy looking bit of kidney, and, using the piece of bread to stop the sauce from dripping on his clothes, lifted the tasty morsel to his mouth.
The Tarkin of Imrion let the fork clatter down on the plate. The old dog raised its head.
Larissa said the Tarkina had ordered the dish. Any other day Tek would have believed it-but not today. Just this morning, long before the request for an audience had come from Alkoryn Pantherclaw the Charter, Zelianora had talked to him about how tight his clothes were getting, and how little exercise he’d managed to get over the winter. A nice dish of steamed carrots, flavored with cumin. Apples spiced with cinnamon-even a hot soup. Those he would have expected Zella to send him. But kidneys in jeresh sauce? Not likely.
That didn’t mean the dish was poisoned. And it didn’t mean that it wasn’t.
Old Berlan got up with difficulty from his spot by the fire and walked his old dog’s walk to nudge his master’s hand. Tek absently stroked the bony old head, pulling the long silky ears through his fingers. The dog laid his head on Tek’s thigh and snuffled. Tek looked at the dish of kidneys, at his dog, and back to the dish. Berlan was too old to hunt, too old even to go outside, almost too old to eat. His pain was not yet great, but that day, too, would come.
Tek took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. He thrust one finger into the center of the ceramic dish to test for heat before placing the dish on the floor. He watched as Berlan, tail wagging, began to eat. No great harm, perhaps even a kindness, if the dish was poisoned.
And if the dish wasn’t poisoned? No great harm there either.
Tek-aKet, Tarkin of Imrion, Consage of the Lost Isles, Darklin of Pendamar, and Culebroso, sat back in his chair to watch his dog eat.
Fourteen
“MY INSTRUCTIONS WERE very clear, Mistress. I’m to escort you and the children to Mercenary House.” Hernyn hovered in the doorway to the Mender’s inner room, frustration and impatience making his skin crawl. The family were living in the two back rooms of what had been a decent tradesman’s dwelling-before the furniture had been sold and the family tapestries and ornaments taken from the walls, leaving pale marks behind to show where they had been. There were two tick mattresses on the uncarpeted stone floor that had obviously seen their bedsteads sold out from under them, and the outer room held only three mismatched chairs, an unpainted wooden table, and a carefully arranged stack of pottery plates and mugs.
Three children, a boy of about eleven, and two younger girls, perhaps seven and four, sat close-mouthed and wide-eyed on the edge of the larger mattress.
“I must wait for my man.” Korwina Mender fastened the ties on a small leather pack and handed it to the older boy. “He’s been out same as I have, looking for a place to hide the children. I can’t let him come back to an empty house. Please,” she turned to Hernyn, showing him a face that wouldn’t accept a “no.” “I’ll wait and bring him with me. But please, Hernyn Greystone, take the children now.”
Korwina Mender looked at him, mouth set, the words she wouldn’t say in front of her children shining from her eyes. That her man would come back too late, if he came back at all. That, having seen her children safe, she would wait to share whatever ending fate brought her husband.
Hernyn looked from the children to the door and back again. Time was wasting. “Say your good-byes,” he told Korwina.
The older boy stood and went to his mother, the pack clutched in his hands, his face solemn. He was almost as tall as she, with the same soft brown hair and hazel eyes. Korwina brushed the hair back off his forehead with a steady hand.
“I’ll not be long,” she said. “But you are the head of the family until your father and I come. Watch out for your sisters.” She turned to the two younger children. “Mind your brother, and the good Mercenaries, until…” her voice faltered and she looked back at her son.
“Don’t wait too long, Mama,” the boy said.
“I won’t, my heart.” But the look they exchanged showed that both knew the truth. There was not luck enough left in the air tonight to bring the husband and father home in time, and this was good-bye. The boy swallowed and blinked rapidly, as if he knew that tears would frighten the younger children. But his lips were trembling too much for him to say anything more.
Korwina Mender took her son’s face once more between her hands and shut her own eyes. After a moment she opened them again, and her son’s face was calm, peaceful. He pressed his lips together and nodded, touching his mother’s face lightly. Hernyn looked from one to the other, knowing that something had happened, but unsure what it could be. The boy looked more solid somehow, more whole. She’s Mended him, Hernyn thought, licking suddenly dry lips. By the Caids, she’s Mended him.
“Hernyn Greystone,” the woman said, lifting her hands slightly as the boy led his sisters from the room. “I should tell you, my boy shows signs of Mending, like me. We’ve told no one else.”
“I don’t care if he shows signs of being a vulture plant,” Hernyn said. “Good luck to you, Korwina.”
“And to you, Greystone.”
As soon as they were out on the street, Hernyn picked up the older girl and set off as quickly as the boy, carrying his younger sister, could manage.
“What’s your name, boy?”
“Jerrick.”
“Come along, then, Jerrick.”
Close to an hour later, Mender’s children safely stowed in Mercenary House and managing to eat the food Fanryn had set before them with a surprising appetite, Hernyn Greystone was on his way to the Carnelian Dome through back alleys washed clean by the rain. As he sprinted toward the main avenue, he became aware of the sounds of a crowd ahead of him. He slowed, drew the longer of his two swords, and shifted over to the right-hand side of the alley as three men, two carrying long butcher knives, the third with a rusty short sword, ran past him on the left. The last man looked over with a hard eye, but Hernyn’s Mercenary badge showed well in the moonlight that had followed the rain, and he had to stifle the laughter that bubbled up in his throat when he saw how quickly the man’s belligerent look became polite. Instead of saying whatever he had intended to say, the man ducked his head and hurried after his friends.
As he neared Tarkin’s Square in front of the Carnelian Dome, the rumbling he’d heard in the distance grew louder, becoming murmuring, with individual voices raised in shouts Hernyn couldn’t quite make out. It seemed like every corner he passed had grown a knot of three or four men. This was no ordinary crowd, Hernyn thought, his stomach muscles tightening, but a mob in the making.
He slowed his pace still further and sheathed his sword, but kept his hand resting lightly on the grip. Trying to appear nothing more than curious, he sauntered up to the nearest group of men. “Hey, friend,” he said. “What’s caused all this buzz? Are we invaded?”