“Bad,” said Branwyn, recalling the siege of Oakford, the smell of fire and mass death. “Or it was. The twistedmen retreated, but I’m certain they’re planning their next move, and even far away from the front lines, everybody’s on edge. Uneasy. How are matters here?”
“Eh.” The bartender shrugged, her tan shoulders a striking contrast to the light green of her chemise. “Folk talk, but that’s all. Worst that’s happened here this week is a fight over cards—one of ’em got knifed in the side, but I hear his friends got him to Verengir quick enough. The Mourners didn’t even have to waste their strength.”
The name was a firework on a quiet summer night. Branwyn’s head didn’t actually jerk, she was fairly sure, but it was a near thing. “Verengir?”
“Mm-hmm. The lord’s younger son. He—and one of the waterfolk now, though gods know why they want to be messing about with humans—run a place down near the market, healing with herbs and needles and whatnot. Handsome lad,” she added. “If I weren’t married, I’d not mind having him see to a few of my problems.”
The waterfolk, Yathana put in,might have a different view of the city from most. Worth meeting. And worth finding out what your councillor is doing down here, if he’s the same man.
“A lord’s son as a healer?” Branwyn sipped her wine, which was sharp and a touch spiced. “Was he disinherited?”
“Not at all—well, he’s on the council, and he wouldn’t be there if the old man had cast him off, stands to reason. Some say he had his heart broken and does good deeds to forget, and others that he did something real wicked and this is penance.”
“What do you think?”
“I dunno. But he doesn’t act wicked. Or heartbroken.”
* * *
Getting thanked for being useless was enough to break a man’s heart.
Chessa, the missing boy’s mother, had been past the point of weeping or rage. When Zelen sent Nislar back to his brother’s servant and presented the bad news, her thin face had only shown weary numbness. “I’d not had much hope,” she said, a phrase Zelen suspected covered more than the last two days. “Thank you for trying, m’lord.”
He wished she’d slapped him.
There would be no comfort in his house, just Gedomir, who’d likely find a comment or two to make before he left for the country. Zelen couldn’t predict whether the subject would be Chessa’s child-rearing—and by extension that of nearly every family near the docks—the hope that other children would profit from this sad example of recklessness, or the better ways that Zelen himself could spend his time. He doubted he could sit through any of them with equanimity, and so he turned toward the clinic.
He was in sight of the flat-topped little yellow building when he saw another figure approaching it. The afternoon shadows were growing long, and the person was wearing dark clothing, so they blended well. It took another few feet before he could tell that the figure was an athletic woman with a sword at one hip, and he was nearly at the clinic itself before he recognized Branwyn Alanive.
“Poram’s balls, what are you doing here?” was the first thing he said.
Her cool blue gaze reminded him that he’d had manners once. “Following the path of a rumor,” said Branwyn mildly. “I’ll admit it’s fairly nosy of me, but I didn’t realize I’d be intruding.”
“It… No, you’re not… Well…” In the strictest sense, no, she wasn’t. The streets were public and the clinic welcomed all during its hours. In a slightly less-strict sense, as Branwyn had said, she was prying, and he certainly hadn’t anticipated her presence. She didn’t jar on his nerves after the surprise, though, as Gedomir had the night before. “I’m not very good company now, I’m afraid,” Zelen said, which was the core of the issue.
Branwyn gave him a long examination, one that took in his matted hair, the shallow scratch on his forehead from trying to crawl under a broken staircase, and the dirty, torn state of his plain clothing. “You certainly look more disheveled than you did when we met before,” she said, “not to mention more exhausted. Can I buy you a glass of wine, or would you rather go find a bath and a few hours of sleep?”
She spoke matter-of-factly, as though she met with filthy, tired, slightly battered people every day. It took a moment for Zelen to remember where she came from and then realize that she probablydid, or had, and that the people in question been much worse off than he was. “I’ve a bottle and two glasses in my office,” he said, “and Altien’s still on duty for a while. Care to join me?”
“That sounds wonderful.” It was very likely that she was being kind, but she was also kind enough to give every evidence of sincerity. Had Zelen been a better man, he never would have seized the opportunity.
Had he been less exhausted, or Branwyn less kind, he might not have felt any guilt about it.
“You’re well set up here,” she said when she followed him indoors. Her eye traveled over cushions, bookshelves, and chairs. “Nicely insulated for winter, I’d imagine, with the curtains, and plenty of reading material.”
“None of it exactly sensational, I’m afraid,” he said, struck by her assessment so soon after Gedomir’s. “Give one of the chairs a try. I can almost promise they won’t collapse.”
“That does set my heart at ease.” She sat carefully.
Under the yellowish magical light of the office, Zelen saw that her tunic and breeches were a dark charcoal gray, not quite black, and her shirt was nearly the same deep red as the wine he poured. The sword at her belt, gilded and gemmed, was the most ornate thing about her that day.
“It takes courage,” he said, “to wander about carrying a weapon like that—not to mention making the trip from Criwath.”
Branwyn glanced down at her waist. “For a soldier,” she said, “obvious wealth is as much a defense as it is a lure. Some figure that I have to be good to carry it so openly.”
“And others?”
“They learn.”
