Two red spots appeared on Linkon’s pale cheeks. “Don’t misunderstand me, Lionsmane, you did the right thing, though I wouldn’t say that to any and everyone.”
“Will this bring you trouble?”
“I was able to tell them, truthfully, that I’d not seen you-it was only your baggage was here all night. But they’ll be back. It may take a few days, most of the Watch is none too eager to jump to the Jaldeans’ orders, but like it or not, they’ll have to come around again, sooner rather than later. And then…” Linkon Grey pursed his lips and raised his brows.
“Oh, come, Link! We’re Mercenary Brothers, what can they do to us?”
Linkon shrugged, turned away to accept a cider jug from the kitchen boy, and turned back to pour out mugs for himself and Parno. He waited until the boy used a second jug to fill a tray of mugs and carry them off to distribute among the tables before leaning forward again.
“I don’t know, and I don’t want to know. It wasn’t so long ago the Marked were saying the same thing.” He frowned, brows pulled down, before meeting Parno’s eyes once more. “I like the Brotherhood. It’s always good to have some of you in the place. It brings custom and it keeps order, all at the same time. But it’s my family as well as my business I’ve got to consider.”
“I’ll get Dhulyn-”
“Nah, man, you’ve a day at least-more like two. As I said, the Watch will be in no hurry, so long as you draw no more attention to yourselves. But you’d be doing me a favor if you accept the next offer that’ll take you out of the city.”
Parno looked around, saw that there was no one close to them. “When did this business with the Marked start? The Wolfshead and I came almost without stopping from Destila,” he added, naming the city at the far end of the Midland Sea. “Only changing ships at the Isle of Cabrea. The last time we were on the Peninsula, the Jaldeans were no more than harmless old priests.”
Linkon looked into the depths of his cup. “You’ve been away to the west, you say, Lionsmane, but you’re from Imrion yourself, eh?”
“You know better than that, Linkon. We’re Mercenary Brothers, the Wolfshead and I, and that’s where we’re from.”
The innkeeper nodded, tongue flicking out to the corners of his mouth. “Still. If it were anyone else…” He shrugged.
“The trouble wasn’t started by the old priests you remember, asking for alms at the shrines of the Sleeping God. It’s the New Believers who are preaching against the Marked.”
“Any oppose them?”
“They say the Tarkin himself,” Linkon answered, “but there’s a limit to what he can do.”
“What’s he like, this new Tarkin? When Wolfshead and I fought with Imrion when they took the field against the Dureans at Arcosa, the old man was still alive.”
“They say the son’s not the warrior his father was, but he’s no fool either. The High Noble Houses acclaimed him when old Nyl-aLyn died, and that says something.” Linkon gave a sharp nod. “Still, in this new matter only a few of the Noble Houses have declared themselves one way or the other. It’s all the Tarkin can do to prevent an open breach between those as support the New Believers and those who would just as soon let be. The New Believers’re saying the Tarkin doesn’t see the danger-”
Linkon broke off as his younger daughter came out of the kitchen doorway with a tray of pies.
“Danger? From the Marked?” Parno cut in as soon as the girl was out of earshot. “How dangerous can they be? There’s not three in two hundred who are Marked.”
“How many does there need to be to awaken the Sleeping God?” Linkon had lowered his voice still further. “I’ll tell you straight, since it’s you I speak to, Lionsmane, no good can come of any persecution of the Marked. It’s madness, pure and simple. But the whole of the West country was flooded last spring, an earthquake leveled Petchera in the summer-and there’s rumors the Cloud People are looking to break their treaty. Imrion’s luck has turned bad, you mark my words.”
Parno laughed to cover the chill that had come over him, raising the hairs on his arms. “Why, Linkon, we’re Mercenary Brothers looking for work. Imrion sounds like just the place for us.”
“Well, you know your own business best, but mark my words-”
A noise from the kitchen doorway made him turn again. “Ah, here’s the warmed stones for your Partner now.”
Parno accepted the stones, heat palpable through their heavy coverings, smiling his thanks to the kitchen boy. He gave Linkon a we’ll-talk-later nod and made his way between the tables to the staircase.
Dhulyn Wolfshead suddenly gasped, curling around her belly, her eyes squeezed shut. Parno froze, one hand holding up the thin woolen blanket, the other stopped in the act of pushing one of the heated stones closer to the small of her back. Which would be safest, hold still until she quieted or finish what he was doing?
“Gotterang,” Dhulyn said, spitting out the word between gasps. “Gotterang.” Her left hand lashed out, and closed on the air where Parno’s wrist had just been.
“I know, Dhulyn, I know,” he said, using his voice to soothe where his hands could not. He shoved in the warm stone, lowered the blanket, tucked the edges under the pallet and sat back on his heels. He covered his Partner with the other blankets and both their heavy winter cloaks before raising himself to his feet, movements cautious and slow, and stepping back from the edge of the bed. He went only as far as the doorframe, where he leaned, listening. Eventually Dhulyn’s breaths came slower, took longer, as the valerian mixture he’d put into her cider took effect.
This would make twice she’d Seen Imrion’s capital. While that didn’t necessarily make her Vision more likely to come about-still it made him think.
“We go to Imrion,” he said to her, voice still pitched to quiet and soothe. “And Gotterang the capital, no less. You are Senior, and you have spoken.” It relieved him of the responsibility, he thought, but not of the knowledge that his had been the hand that placed out the tiles in this particular game. A demon, she’d said. And she was right. The demon of his life before the Brotherhood. Was his father still alive? His sisters?
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.