The Sleeping God Page 4

  When he’d found the shadow of his past would not let him rest, he’d persuaded Dhulyn, without telling her why, to come back with him to Imrion. More than ten years had passed, adding some height, and more than a little muscle to the boy he had been. Time enough, and change enough, he was sure, to make him unrecognizable to any who might remember him.

  Dhulyn pushed an arm out from under the blankets and began to hum. Parno cocked his head to listen more carefully. It was the tune the children had been singing on the pier. He found himself smiling. When his eye fell on the small arsenal of weapons he’d managed to take off her before she’d tumbled into the bed, his smile broadened.

  “You’ll be safe enough, my wolf,” he said. Isn’t that what she’d said? Wasn’t that all any of them could say? They were Mercenaries, for Caids’ sake, not dancing masters. “The path of the Mercenary is the sword.” So went the Common Rule, and it was all any of them hoped or expected. There was a Mercenary House in Gotterang, he could find out what he wanted to know about his family there. And then they could be off, to where Dhulyn’s Mark would make no difference, no matter who knew of it. What’s the worst that could happen? They could die. Well, that was part of the Common Rule as well.

  “I swear to you. Jaldeans or no, New Believers or Old. I swear by the Caids, if they still watch over us. You are my Partner and my life. Together. ‘In Battle or in Death.’ ”

  The Brotherhood’s oath on his lips, he touched his fingertips to his forehead in salute, and turned to go back downstairs. He must see if Linkon had anything else to tell him.

  A CIRCLE OF RED-HAIRED CHILDREN DANCE, HAND IN HAND, REVOLVING AROUND A BLINDFOLDED GIRL. SHE FEELS THE HANDS OF THE CHILDREN NEXT TO HER IN HER OWN. BUT SHE IS ALSO THE BLINDFOLDED CHILD. THIS MUST BE JUST A DREAM, SHE THINKS, AS SHE HUMS THE TUNE. BUT THEN…

  A TALL, THIN MAN WITH CLOSE-CROPPED HAIR THE COLOR OF WHEAT STRAW, EYES THE BLUE OF OLD ICE, DEEP ICE, SITS READING A BOUND BOOK LARGER THAN ANY SHE HAS EVER SEEN. HIS CHEEKBONES SEEM CHISELED FROM GRANITE, YET THERE IS HUMOR IN THE SET OF HIS LIPS, AND LAUGHTER IN THE FAINT LINES AROUND HIS EYES. DHULYN FEELS SHE WOULD LIKE THE MAN IF SHE MET HIM, AND THAT SHE HAS SEEN HIM BEFORE, THOUGH THERE IS NO BEFORE, NO AFTER, IN THE PLACE SHE IS NOW.

  THE MAN TRACES A LINE ON THE PAGE WITH HIS FINGER, HIS LIPS MOVING AS HE CONFIRMS THE WORDS. HE NODS, AND, STANDING, TAKES UP A HIGHLY POLISHED TWO-HANDED SWORD. DHULYN OWNS ONE LIKE IT, THOUGH SHE DOES NOT USE IT OFTEN. IT IS NOT THE SWORD OF A HORSEMAN. SHE CAN SEE NOW THAT HIS CLOTHES ARE BRIGHTLY COLORED, AND FIT HIM CLOSELY EXCEPT FOR THE SLEEVES WHICH FALL FROM HIS SHOULDERS LIKE INVERTED

  LILIES.

  HE TURNS AWAY FROM THE STRANGELY TIDY WORKTABLE AND TOWARD A CIRCULAR MIRROR, AS TALL AS HE IS HIMSELF. THE MIRROR DOES NOT REFLECT THE ROOM, HOWEVER, BUT SHOWS A NIGHT SKY FULL OF STARS. HIS LIPS MOVE, AND DHULYN KNOWS HE IS SAYING THE WORDS FROM THE BOOK. HE MAKES A MOVE LIKE ONE OF THE CRANE SHORA, AND SLASHES DOWNWARD THROUGH THE MIRROR, AS IF SPLITTING IT IN HALF. BUT NOW SHE SEES IT IS NOT A MIRROR, BUT A WINDOW, AND IT IS THE SKY ITSELF AND NOT A REFLECTION THAT THE MAN SPLITS WITH HIS CHARMED SWORD AND THROUGH THE OPENING COMES

  SPILLING LIKE FOG A GREEN-TINTED SHADOW, SHIVERING AND JERKY, AS THOUGH IT IS AFRAID. THE MAN STEPS BACK, HOLDING THE SWORD UP BEFORE HIM BUT IT IS NO DEFENSE, AND THE FOG SUCKS INTO HIS EYES, HIS NOSTRILS, HIS MOUTH, HIS EARS…

  A YOUNG MAN WITH DARK BLOND HAIR AND A SCAR ON HIS LEFT CHEEK SITS AT A SCARRED TABLETOP AND WRITES ON LOOSE SHEETS OF PARCHMENT BY THE

  LIGHT OF A CANDLE. HIS EYES ARE GRAY, AND HE IS SMILING…

  Dhulyn woke to the sound of steel on stone and forced her eyes open. A cot had been brought up and squeezed into the only empty corner of their small whitewashed room. A shaft of late afternoon sunlight slanted across it, and in that spear of light Parno sat cross-legged, the sun picking up the golden hair on his forearms and the backs of his hands. He held his sword in his right hand, his left rhythmically stroking the blade with a honing stone. Her honing stone. Dhulyn grimaced. Only the certainty that Parno would have sharpened her sword first prevented her from objecting to his taking things from her pack. He would never learn. To a person who had owned nothing-not even her own person-even the smallest possessions had value.

  She cleared her throat. “How long have I slept?”

  “You missed the midday meal,” he said, without pausing or looking up. “Though they’ve kept a plate for you by the kitchen fire. Are the stones still warm?”

  She wiggled her hand down until she could touch the padded stone against her belly, and the one at the small of her back. The weight of her coverings-both their winter cloaks if she was any judge-made her nest warm enough that she had to rest her hand directly on the cloth-wrapped stones for a moment before she could detect a faint warmth. “Well, they’re not cold.”

  “Not so bad then. You talked a bit at first, but you dropped off as soon as the stones began to warm you.” He stopped honing, but still avoided her eyes, testing the edge of the blade against the back of his thumbnail. “What do you remember of this morning?”

  She shrugged. A most unsatisfactory movement when lying down. She shut her eyes again.

  “Do you recall the man who said he was from the House of Sogenso?” Parno prompted. “The man you threw out the door?”

  Dhulyn shut her eyes, wrinkling her nose. “Was it open?”

  “As luck would have it.” The rhythmic sound stopped. “He said he was setting up a pilgrimage to the Mesticha Stone.”

  “To steal it,” she murmured.

  “So you told him.”

  Dhulyn could hear his smile. “What else did I tell him?”

  “You told him we were Mercenaries, not thieves.” Parno paused. Dhulyn waited. “He thought you were trying to raise the price, so he went on talking. You broke his wine cup. Over his head.”

  She winced again, squeezing open one eye. “One of the clay cups?” She seemed to remember a glass goblet on the table, and almost made the luck sign with the fingers of her left hand.

  Parno shook his head, grinning. “Don’t worry, Linkon took the damages from the Sogenso boy.”

  She opened her eyes. Parno sat relaxed, ankle over one knee, sword across his lap, his face in shadow. He had put the honing stone down on the floor next to his feet. She would have to make sure he did not leave it there.

  “Did I… tell him anything else?”

  “I was afraid you might, seeing how it was with you. There’s something to tell, then.”

  “He shouldn’t have touched me,” she said, halfway to an apology. “He’ll go to the Stone anyway, and he’ll die there. It will be quick,” she added. “And relatively painless.”

  Parno swung his head slowly from side to side, lips pressed to a thin line. “Even if you’d said so, people would have taken it for a threat, not a Vision. As I might have done, once.” He released a deep breath and slid his blade into its sheath. “I got you upstairs, and Linkon had the kitchen heat stones for your pains, when they came.”

  “And gave me valerian-don’t deny it, I can taste it in the back of my throat. You know it always makes me sick to my stomach.” Dhulyn rolled over on her back, pulled her knees up tight against her chest then released them, resting her feet flat against the mattress. “When did all this happen?”

  “An hour or so after breakfast.” He rose and stretched, coming full into the shaft of sunlight. A golden man, tall, with warm eyes the color of amber. He had let his beard grow the last few weeks, and it had come in a shade darker than his sunbleached hair. His summer tan had faded over the long moons it had taken them to come from the Great King’s court, but he was still much browner than she would ever be.

  Dhulyn rubbed at her temples and her eyes with the heels of her hands. Parno had taken off her shoes, her sword belts and sashes, but left her otherwise clothed. Long familiarity-they Partnered shortly after meeting on the battlefield of Arcosa-had taught him to touch her as little as possible during her time. In the beginning, coming as he di
d from the decadent north, he had seen nothing wrong with love-making during her woman’s time. A single experience had taught him that her people did not refrain merely from Outlander fastidiousness. It was then she had Seen the manner of his dying.

  “Who else knows?” Parno said, tapping the side of his face next to his eyes when she looked at him with raised brows.

  “You’re the only one I’ve told.” Dhulyn answered the question he’d really asked. She’d only told Parno himself when they talked of Partnering-not fair to him otherwise. And she’d only been able to tell him because she had Seen the manner of his death. Knowing the one thing that she must never tell him had left her free to tell him everything else.

  At first he’d been delighted, thinking they’d soon be the richest Mercenaries in the Brotherhood. They’d know which jobs would be successful, and which would end in disaster, who would pay up promptly and honestly, and who try to cheat. He’d soon learned that she couldn’t use her Mark to answer specific questions, and when it did work, it wasn’t reliable and steady like the Finders or Menders he’d known, but so chancy and sporadic as to be more liability than asset.

  “ ’Course it wasn’t dangerous then, for others to know.”

  “No,” she said. “Just no one’s business. I tell you I’m safe enough.” She thought for a moment. “Dorian knows, I believe. Though he’s said nothing.”

  “You’ll be safe with any of the Brotherhood, I should think, let alone the man who Schooled you.”

  Dhulyn nodded. For Mercenaries, the Brotherhood was their religion.

  Parno leaned back on his cot and stretched out his legs in front of him, as far as the limited floor space would allow. “Linkon says the last rumors out of Gotterang before the Snow Moon closed the passes fit what the Finders told us. The New Believers are pressing the Tarkin for measures against the Marked, and he’ll either have to give in, or refuse outright and take the consequences.” Parno looked up from beneath his golden brows. “And, apparently, there will be consequences.”

  Dhulyn turned over on her side again, this time propping herself on one elbow. The slanted ceiling-their room was under the eaves of the inn-prevented her from sitting up. “I’ve read of such things in the past, but if I hadn’t seen and heard it for myself, I’d find it hard to believe that people could be turned against the Marked.”

  Parno nodded. “People can be persuaded to hate and fear what they don’t understand-even something useful and homey like a Mender or a Finder.” He shrugged. “Healers, though, that would take some persuasion.”

  “There’s not so many Healers, however, even the books mention that. Though more than Seers, that’s certain.”

  “I can remember talk of such things when I was a child,” Parno said. “The Market Dance at the Harvest Fair, they’d get someone to stand in the center to be the Seer, usually whichever young maid had been chosen Lady Harvest.”

  “One of your sisters?” Dhulyn asked with a smile.

  “When they could bully enough people into it,” Parno admitted, laughing. “Certainly no one ever expected a real Seer to show up.”

  Dhulyn rolled over onto her back again. There had been a fair amount written over the years about the Marked, but what she had never yet found in any book or scroll was mention of her tribe. Her height and coloring marked her for an Outlander, but she’d met only one man who had seen her and instantly known which Outlander tribe she came from. How Dorian the Black Traveler knew of the Espadryn, Dhulyn never learned. All she knew was that he had taken her from the hold of the slave ship, put salve on her cut face, spoken to her in her own tongue, saying “come with me, and learn to kill whoever hurts you.” And she had gone with him, and learned. And somehow she had never asked whether Dorian also knew about the women of her people.

  “If you’ll be all right,” Parno said, getting to his feet. “I have an… appointment.” Dhulyn saw for the first time that he was wearing his finest clothes, which at this moment meant his cleanest.

  “And what are you using for money?” She looked up, and their eyes met.

  “I need none,” he said. Now she could see his smile as well as hear it in his voice. “This one loves me.” He gave her a courtly bow.

  “Your wenching will kill you one day,” she muttered.

  Parno’s face drained of color and he clamped his jaw tight.

  “Just an expression,” she said quickly, hauling herself up on her elbow again. Still pale, he continued to look at her, eyes narrowed, likely calculating whether she might be annoyed enough about the valerian to tell him the one thing she had promised never to tell. She held out her hand to him.

  “Never, my soul,” she said.

  He touched the tips of her fingers with his own, brushed the back of her scarred knuckles lightly with his lips. “In Battle,” he said. He gave her a more pronounced bow, and was gone before she could answer.

  “Or in Death,” she said to the empty room.

  Ah well, she thought, settling back into the warmth of the bed. He’d believed her; all to the good since she’d told him the truth. If only she could keep her temper. Her thoughts began to float with her return to sleep.

  Never wanted to have the blooded Visions, she thought sleepily, and less so now. Unless perhaps something was going to show her why Parno so badly wanted to return to the land of his birth.

  “Are you the one they call Dhulyn the Scholar?” A plump, compact, no-nonsense woman of middle years stood at their table, prosperously but not fashionably dressed in a good wool overtunic with expensively dyed yellow trim. This matron was accompanied by a young girl, dressed not quite so well. Even this early in the evening both women managed to look out of place in the public taproom of an inn. Though it was likely the men of their household would not.

  “I am.” Dhulyn looked up from the loose pages in her hands and smiled her wolf’s smile, the scar, normally too small to be seen in itself, pulling her lip up into a snarl. Parno did not trouble to hide his own grin as he watched the woman, already starting to seat herself on the stool across the table, unconsciously check her movement for a long minute before slowly setting herself down. She then looked Dhulyn Wolfshead sharply up and down, to show she had not been frightened.

  Parno knew what the townswoman saw-knew what he had seen when he first noticed Dhulyn across a field of armored forms fighting and limp bodies fallen. A woman much taller than the average, hawk-faced, pale skin lightly damaged by the northern sun, beaded thongs tying back long hair the dark color of old blood. The hair had been permanently removed over each ear and the skin tattooed blue and green in her Mercenary badge. Tonight she was not in battle leathers, but dressed in loose wool trousers dyed a dark blue and gathered at the ankle above leather slippers. A tight vest made from scraps of silks and wool, and bits of leather, quilted together with ribbon and laces, left her arms bare as if she did not feel the cold. Armed, but not obviously, and not for war.

  The woman would see an Outlander Mercenary. Nothing more.

  “Hmph,” the townswoman nodded. “The landlord here has put out that you’re looking for work.” She looked pointedly around the tavern room. The place was almost empty. Linkon Grey was preparing for his late night by taking a nap, leaving his daughter Nikola in charge. It was early yet for drinking, though the supper hour was not so far off. The place smelled faintly of spilled ale, and not so faintly of the fish oil they used in the lamps. The townswoman’s eye rested longest on a table of young persons near the staircase, too friendly to be anything but professionals waiting for trade.

  “Strange place to find a scholar,” she finally said.

  “I’m a Mercenary, townswoman. Not a shopgirl.”

  “And that’s well.” The woman placed her hands flat on the scarred tabletop. “For it’s a Brother I need. My name is Guillor Weaver.” That explained the quality of her clothes, thought Parno. “This is my fosterling Mar.” A gesture took in the girl who stood close at her elbow. “I need a bodyguard and guide to take Mar no
rth, to Gotterang.”

  “Gotterang?” Dhulyn drew down her brows and shook her head minutely from side to side. “It would mean crossing through the country of the Cloud People, and according to the treaty, caravan season doesn’t begin for almost another moon. Why not wait and send her then?”

  Weaver shook her head. “We cannot wait, and we haven’t the coin ourselves, so early in the season, to send her round by boat. We’d take her overland ourselves, but we’ve no one to spare.”

  “We’re not a caravan, the Clouds would likely let us pass unhindered. Still,” Dhulyn lifted her shoulders ever so slightly and wrinkled her nose. “Gotterang?”

  Parno leaned back on his stool, pressing his shoulders against the wall behind him. He kept his face impassive, content to watch as his Partner did the haggling. Most people found debate with the Wolfshead’s cold southern eyes disconcerting enough that they were anxious to come to terms. That he and Dhulyn were looking for an opportunity that would take them southeast to the capital would, of course, go unsaid. Parno rubbed the left side of his nose with his right thumb, and Dhulyn blinked twice.

  “What will you pay?” she was saying in a disinterested tone, fingers toying with the edges of her papers.

  “I have enough for the expenses of the journey, but not enough to pay you, if you see what I mean. The people you take her to will give you your fee.”

  Dhulyn lifted her brows and bared her teeth again.

  “Slavers?” she said.

  Without being aware that she was doing so, Weaver leaned away from the table. Parno touched Dhulyn lightly on the wrist with a finger. He knew that she had been a slave herself, though she rarely spoke of it. Knew, too, what kind of people buy children and youngsters, and to what use they put them.

  Knowing nothing of this, the townswoman puffed indignantly, like all those who’ve had no personal contact with the trade.