Courage of falcons Read online

  He looked down at his hands again the strong young hands whose youth belonged not to him, but to Alarista, who had loved so deeply that she had given him her years for the merest chance to save the life of her beloved Hasmal. "The dead are dead, Kait, and the living can be blind and stupid and heedless and if you give up the best and most perfect thing in your life for either the dead or the living, you're mad... and undeserving of the blessing the gods gave you."

  "And yet you say I should not go after him."

  "I do."

  "Because I'm likely to make things worse. To ruin everything."

  "Yes."

  "Then what do I do?"

  He sat up straight and took a deep breath. "You go wash your face. You remove that ridiculous outfit. You come back here and eat a good meal, and when you've finished, we'll figure out what we must do next for I'm guessing that Ry did not wish to become a Falcon, and that does change our plans." He stood and crossed to her and rested a hand on her shoulder. "And then you and I will sit down and figure out how you might apply the arts of diplomacy, which you know, to the art of love, which you obviously do not. And we'll find a way for you to win back your love."

  Kait rose and wiped off her tears with the back of her hand, streaking her face further. She nodded. "I'll be back quickly."

  He gave her a hug and said, "Don't waste any more of your iliam on the living. Real corpses never cry and wash your artistry away."

  She managed a small smile before she turned and hurried from the room.

  Chapter 23

  Ye'er the hardest whoreson t' kill I ever did see," the stranger said, and Crispin opened his eyes. His skull screamed with pain white lights sparkled in front of his eyes, the only images in a sea of darkness. His bones, his skin, his muscles, his gut... his very hair felt like it was on fire.

  "I know ye'er awake again. If y' don't start talkin' t' me soon, I'm gonna smash all those pretty teeth of yours in."

  Where was he? The stink that surrounded him was unbearable: rotting fish and filth and decay, the sounds of lapping water and seabirds, the babble of a thousand shouting people off at a little distance, the rattle of cart wheels, the clop of hooves....

  And how had he come to be where he was?

  "I'm getting m' stick now."

  He managed to say, "What do you want to know?" He vaguely recalled images of a cudgel smashing into him again and again, and darkness falling, and Shifting, but it doing him no good. No good at all.

  He heard a coarse laugh. "Thought you could talk. Tell me who you are, y' bastard. When I found you in the alley, you weren't talking. If you hadn't been such an interestin' catch, I'd a left you there for the bodywagon."

  Alley, he thought. And he remembered a knife.

  "Someone stabbed me."

  "I know that well enough. And robbed you, too. Lying there naked as a babe, you were, but a damn sight uglier. Hands all twisted into claws, and a bit of a tail growing from yer backside, and yer face all stretched long like a wolf's. Or a lion's. Blood everywhere, and holes in yer hide would have killed a dozen men, and you still breathin'. Weirdest thing I ever saw... so I brought you here t' tend you for a while. See what use you might be, so t' speak."

  What use might he be?

  He had his own purpose, didn't he?

  He recalled pursuing someone. Being angry. Wanting to kill and then his memories cascaded over him, and he recalled his cousin Ry kidnapping his daughter, and he realized that he was running out of time. Ry might be anywhere with Ulwe if he hadn't killed her already, he might soon. Crispin had to get away. He had to save his daughter. He tried to leap at the man, to kill him to get him out of the way.

  Something held him back. Cut into his throat, his wrists, his legs, his chest, his thighs. He fought against the unseen restraints, howling with pain and wordless rage, and heard his captor say, "Damnall, you do this every time. No sense my tryin' to get you back t' health you'll never be of use t' me."

  The words stopped him. He remembered again that cudgel falling, and bringing darkness with it, and he lay still, and this time the blows did not fall.

  "Ye'er learnin', anyway. 'Bout damn time." He heard shuffling; the man had been very close to him, but now moved away.

  "I need water," he said. "And food."

  "And I need answers."

  The man wanted to know who he was. Which would serve him better: a lie, or the truth? The truth had its own power, but was in its way more unbelievable than lies.

  "My name is Crispin Sabir," he said after a moment.

  The man was silent for so long that Crispin thought perhaps he had spoken too softly. In a louder voice, he said, "My name is Crispin Sabir."

  "Yah... yah. I heard you the first time."

  Crispin's vision was beginning to clear a bit. He could make out light, and fuzzy shapes. He could tell enough to figure out that he lay in a darkened room with two small windows high on the walls, filled with boxes and crates and oddly shaped equipment. A warehouse of some sort, surely. He couldn't see anything but the vaguest shape of his captor. From that, though, he could tell that the man was immense broad of shoulder and thick of neck.

  "I figured it was something like that," the man said softly. "Who but Family or someone with Family connections could get a monster-child past Gaerwanday, what with the parnissas poking and prodding and sticking their pins into squalling brats and killing the weird ones."

  Crispin saw an opportunity and took it. "I could be of tremendous advantage to you," he said. "Can put my Family and my connections at your disposal I can give you a secure position with the Sabirs. You saved my life that's worth wealth, and power "

  The man's laughter cut him off. "It's worth shit in a sewer, laddie. Just proves you ain't been around lately. The Sabirs ain't what they was the day you was stabbed, y'hear? We've had done with Families in Calimekka done with parnissas, too. The riots have sent your kind runnin' for cover what Sabirs there is, is hidin' t' save their skins, or left fer friendlier cities. If you've got nothin' more t' offer me than your name, I'll kill you now and sell your meat t' the knacker."

  "You said I was hard to kill."

  "Hard ain't impossible. I'm thinking I take yer head off and you won't be coming back to hurt me."

  And that was true enough. Crispin stayed silent. He wondered at the changes his captor described Families overthrown, the parnissery gone, the survivors fleeing the city and he wondered what he might offer the man that he would save his life and set him free.

  "I can give you gold."

  "Gold's worth about the same as any other rock these days. You can't plant it, you can't eat it, and you can't wear it and with the troubles in the city, shipping's dried up like grass in a drought. If you know where I could get my hands on a large supply of food, now... ?"

  Crispin did, actually. The Sabirs had siege stores put by in Sabir House, and hidden in other places within easy reach. Crispin had several such stores for himself places he alone knew of. He figured with his hidden stores, he could live in Calimekka for years.

  "I have siege stores," he said.

  "Tell me how to get to one, and when I get the food, I'll come back and release you."

  Crispin smiled. "Ah, no. I'm afraid once you have the food, you might forget how to find your way back here. I must insist that you release me before I tell you where it is."

  "An' let you change into a beast and try to rip my throat out again.... No. That ain't going to work, either."

  They stared at each other across the room. "We need to come to some accommodation. You want the food, I want my freedom."

  "And I don't want t' get my throat torn out." The man watched Crispin thoughtfully, thumbs tucked into the rope belt that wound twice around his thick middle. He was silent a long time Crispin doubted that concentrated thought was familiar to him, so he kept silent while the stranger struggled his way through the unaccustomed terrain. Finally the man smiled and said, "Yah. That'll work."

  Crispin would have asked him
what would work, but he didn't have the time. The man leaped at him and slammed him in the head with the cudgel, and all was darkness and pain.

  * * *

  "Sorry I couldn't warn you 'bout that. Figgered it'd be easier on you if you didn't know it was comin'."

  Crispin's head was bouncing up and down on rough boards, and the rattling of wooden wheels over cobblestones jarred through his bones. He'd been tightly bound in an awkward position everything hurt, and he couldn't move anything but his eyes. He could see nothing but filthy straw and the boards beneath him.

  "How thoughtful of you," Crispin said.

  The stranger laughed. "Oh, I'm a darlin', I am. Ask any of the whores in the Red Dish."

  Crispin chuckled and said, "I'll be sure to do that," but he made a note of the name. Red Dish. A tavern with whores, or an inn with whores, or simply a whorehouse. Somewhere in the waterfront district, perhaps that would help him narrow it down. He might not be able to kill the stranger immediately, but he would certainly keep that offhand remark in mind. Finding him later and killing him slowly might be even more pleasant than finishing the job right then.

  "We're on our way t' the Sabir District," the man said. "You're goin' to tell me where your stores are. I'll go there, and load t' food in with you, and we'll go someplace else. When I've finished gettin' all the food, I'll drive this wagon out away from where I live, and tie the horses out o' sight o' the night traffic. Come day, someone will come along an' find you, and if you're lucky they'll cut you loose 'stead of cuttin' yer throat."

  "Doesn't seem like such a good deal for me," Crispin observed.

  "Y' ain't dead, are you? I ain't gonna kill you, am I? I could have you take me to yer stores, then kill you anyway, but I'll honor my word if you honor yours. You'll have yer chance, even if it ain't a comfy one, and even if it ain't guaranteed. We don't none of us get guarantees."

  Crispin said, "No. We don't. With that in mind, then, I'll thank you, and tell you that you need to go to Manutas Street near the Durgeon Tree, and just beyond that, take Firth's Lane back to the potters'.... You know the Sabir District?"

  "I'll find the place," the man said calmly. "Never you worry about that."

  Chapter 24

  Ian worked in one of Galweigh House's ruined gardens, salvaging the plants that could be salvaged and clearing out those that were dead or ruined. It was pointless work no crowds wandered through the gardens anymore seeking solace, and in fact he thought he might be the only one who had even rediscovered this out-of-the-way spot. Beyond carrying food from the siege storage rooms to the kitchen, he had nothing useful to contribute to those inside. But he found comfort in work, and with tensions between Dùghall and Kait and Alcie so high, he preferred to work alone and away from everyone else. The earth was warm and welcoming, and responded to his touch. It invited contemplation. It offered peace.

  Ry was gone, Kait despaired in her room, and though Ian tried to find hope for his own cause with Kait in Ry's leaving, he could not. Kait did not love him and never would, though he believed she cared about him. Caring, though that wouldn't be enough. Even if Ry never came back to her, even if she decided to accept Ian as a substitute, that wouldn't be enough. He could love her forever, but if she didn't return his love with the passion and the hunger he felt for her, he would always be a starving man at a banquet table able to see the great feast he desired and needed, and perhaps even able to touch it, but never permitted to eat.

  He'd done everything he could to help her, but he could no longer help. Here in the House, he was useless. He stayed out of loyalty, or out of some futile hope that circumstances or magic would suddenly transform him into the man she desired. Or because he got some masochistic pleasure from seeing her every day, even knowing that he could never have her.

  He pulled at an entrenched weed, working it free down to the tip of the root, and tossed it into the pile with the other plants to be burned later. He needed to leave. He contributed nothing of value here, and he needed to get on with his life. Perhaps find another ship, hunt down the mutineers who'd stolen the Peregrine from him and left him to die on the other side of the world. He had no business among wizards and skinshifters and secret societies and pacts with old gods.

  Ulwe came out into the garden and crouched down next to Ian. She didn't say anything she simply began pulling out weeds with him.

  He glanced over at her and saw that her skin was pale as bone, her lips compressed, and her eyes bright with unshed tears. He didn't say anything to her; he simply pointed out additional weeds that were within her reach. And he waited.

  The child stayed quiet for a long time while they worked together. At last, though, she looked up at Ian and said, "He just killed someone. Someone who helped him, though the man did it for gain. He didn't kill him in self-defense, he didn't kill him out of fear he killed him because he thought it was fun, and because he likes to kill, and because he could. He broke his own oath."

  Ian nibbled his lower lip and looked at the girl out of the corner of his eye. "Your father."

  "Yes."

  He sighed, thinking of his own father, who had kept his mother as a mistress but who had loved her deeply, who had cared about him at least a little, yet who had been, from everything he'd ever been able to find out, an evil man, hungry for power and willing to do anything to keep it. "You wanted him to be a good man," Ian said at last. "Because he's your father, you wanted him to be someone worthy of your love and your admiration."

  "He loves me. I know he does. I thought that meant there was good inside him. That he could become good."

  "You hoped if you loved him enough, he would change."

  She nodded.

  Ian said, "He won't change, Ulwe. He likes himself as he is. I know him I've known him since we were both children, though he's older than me."

  "Everything I feel from him is terrible except for what he feels when he thinks of me. I touch the road and I can feel his love. It's real. I can feel it." She rested a hand on his arm and looked directly into his eyes. "How can that one bit of goodness survive in the midst of so much evil?"

  Ian brushed the dirt from his hands and turned to face Ulwe. He held both her hands and said, "I'm going to tell you something that will be hard for you to hear. But you have to understand. Will you listen and let me finish?"

  She looked at him with wide eyes. "Yes."

  "Very well. The daughter that Crispin loves is a tiny, helpless, perfect baby he sent away a long time ago. He holds that picture in a place in his mind that is never touched by the rest of his life. It's like... like a beautiful place that you only saw once, for just a moment, and never forgot. Do you know a place like that?"

  She nodded.

  "Good. You keep that place safe in your memory and cherish it, and for you it is always perfect. The day is always clear and lovely, the temperature always just right and when you look at that memory, it never disappoints you. So you can love it." Ian sighed. "If you were to go back to that place right now, it would be different. And the longer you stayed, the more different it would become. Sooner or later the weather would grow cold. Flowers would die, rain would fall, storms would blow down the branches of the trees. A fire might rush through and change everything. The place would be the same, but it wouldn't mean the same thing to you anymore. Your cherished memory would be erased. What you had in its place would depend on you. You are a good person, so you would probably find a way to love the real place as much as you loved the memory."

  Ulwe was watching his face with the intensity of a hawk watching a mouse. "But my father is not a good person."

  "No. He isn't."

  "And I'm not a tiny baby anymore."

  "No. You aren't."

  "I've already done things that will disappoint him."