They left him there, sipping this last ale far more slowly than he had the previous ones and looking around for his next patron.
Tavis and the gleaner didn’t speak as they wound their way through the crowded tavern to the door. Once they were in the street, however, Grinsa smiled, looking pleased with himself.
“I told you it would work.”
“If you were half as clever as you think you are, you would have thought of this while we were still in Aneira, asking questions of barkeeps who refused to speak with us.”
“I’m not certain it would have worked as well in Aneira. We didn’t know what city he’d be in, and I wouldn’t have wanted to listen to tales of every tavern singer in the realm.”
Tavis nodded, conceding the point.
It was a warm night, the air heavy with a light mist and the faint scent of the sea. They were already in the dukedom of Helke, though they still had another two leagues to travel before they reached the ducal city. The sky flickered briefly-lightning from a distant storm-but they heard no answering rumble of thunder. It had been like this for several nights now, the pale glimmering of the sky holding out the promise of rain, but as of yet none had fallen.
“So now we know where to find him,” the young lord said.
“Yes, I suppose we do.”
Something in the gleaner’s voice made Tavis falter briefly in midstride. It almost seemed that he didn’t believe what the peddler had told them. Or perhaps he hoped that they wouldn’t find the singer, fearing-knowing? — that Tavis wouldn’t survive their encounter.
Tavis regretted having said anything.
They had hardly spoken since leaving Duvenry, though not because of any conflict between them. Tavis simply didn’t feel like talking, and the gleaner seemed to understand this. The young lord could think of nothing but his coming confrontation with the assassin and what Grinsa had told him of his vision of their battle. He had bested the man once, in Mertesse, when Grinsa forced him to let the singer go, and he should have been able to draw some confidence from that memory. But if anything, it merely served to make him more afraid of their next meeting. Tavis had no illusions as to his skills as a fighter. He had brought along Xaver’s short sword, hoping that it might improve his chances somewhat. Thanks in large part to his training under the keen eyes of Hagan MarCullet, he had always been good with a sword, far better than he was with daggers. But even so armed, against a man like Cadel Tavis could expect to prevail once in a hundred fights. And he had already claimed his one victory, hollow though it was. Chances were the assassin would prevail the next time they fought.
It’s not too late to turn back. Grinsa had spoken the words so many times that Tavis now heard them in his dreams. And sometimes, late at night, when Grinsa was asleep and Tavis should have been as well, he considered returning to Eibithar without facing Brienne’s killer. He wanted to avenge her. Ean knew he did. But he also wanted to live, to reclaim his place in the court of his forefathers and pass his years as a noble, as he once had thought to do. Certainly Grinsa would have leaped at the chance to leave Wethyrn. Even traveling in silence, Tavis sensed how much Grinsa longed to be with Cresenne and their daughter. He was equally certain that if he returned to Curgh without facing the assassin, his parents would welcome him back without question, as would Xaver and Hagan MarCullet and anyone else whose opinion mattered to him.
A few days before, Grinsa had said that Tavis pursued the man out of vengeance and nothing more. But in the days since the young lord had come to realize that he wasn’t doing this for revenge, or for pride, or even for love of his lost queen. He did it for himself, because he knew that if he turned away now, and never faced the assassin, he would curse himself as a coward for the rest of his days. Was it better to die a fool’s death than to live a long life hating oneself? The question had kept him up the last four nights running, and probably would again tonight.
“It shouldn’t be hard to find the Grey Seal,” Grinsa said after some time. “Chances are Cadel will be staying there-musicians often take a free room as part of their compensation. Perhaps we can find some way to gain access to his chamber-”
“You know that’s not going to happen,” Tavis said in a low voice. “We fight on the seashore. You’ve already seen it.”
“I’ve told you before, Tavis. When I have a vision of someone’s fate, be it in a dream or during a gleaning, I’m merely seeing one possible future among many.”
“Then why tell me all that you did about my fight with the singer?”
Grinsa gave a small shrug, his mouth twisting. “Because if what I saw turns out to be real, I want you to know what to expect.” He started to say more, then appeared to stop himself.
“You don’t want that vision to be real, do you? You’ve said all along that you never saw the end of our battle, but you don’t like what you did see, isn’t that right?”
“When it comes right down to it, I don’t like the whole idea of you fighting this man. But yes, given the choice, I’d rather you fought him elsewhere, somewhere a bit less-”
He halted abruptly, falling silent and turning his head slightly, as if listening for something behind them.
“Did you hear that?” he whispered.
“Hear what?”
“Footsteps.”
Tavis looked back down the lane they had been following. They were near the inn at which they had taken a room and the street seemed to be empty. Actually the entire town, the name of which he had already forgotten, struck him as rather desolate.
“I didn’t hear anything.”
“This isn’t the first time I’ve had this feeling.”
“What feeling?”
“That we’re being followed, watched. I even had it in the tavern just now, while we were sitting with the peddler. It seemed that someone else was listening to our conversation.”
Had it been any other man, Tavis wouldn’t have been alarmed. Even coming from the gleaner, it sounded like little more than irrational fear born of too many days worrying about assassins and conspiracies. But he had never known Grinsa to speak of such things without cause, and though he wasn’t certain that a Weaver’s powers of perception were any stronger than those of other Qirsi, he felt certain that they were more finely honed than his own.
“What do you want to do?” he asked.
Grinsa continued to stare down the street. Finally he shook his head. “I don’t think there’s anything we can do. If we were being followed, whoever it was will have seen us stop and will be ever more cautious.” He started walking again, a bit more quickly than before, and the young lord hurried to follow him. “I should have been more careful,” he murmured, more to himself than to Tavis. “Next time I won’t turn until I’m certain that I can catch him.”
Tihod watched them from a shadowy alleyway between a smithy and a wheelwright’s shop, cursing his own foolishness and fearing that at any moment the gleaner might start back up the lane toward where he was hiding. He had already determined to his own satisfaction that Grinsa and the Curgh boy were returning to their inn. After their conversation with the drunken peddler, he was certain that they would be eager to retire for the night, so as to begin the final leg of their journey to Helke with first light. Once he realized the direction in which they were walking from the pub, he should have stopped following and gone back to his own room. Instead, he had continued after them, ignoring the risk.
It had been no more than the scuff of his boot on the dirt lane that made Grinsa stop, a slight misstep that other men would have missed. Certainly Tavis hadn’t noticed it. Dusaan would have, but the Weaver was not like other men-it seemed he and Grinsa had more in common than just the extent of their powers.
Perhaps wielding such magic-knowing that if the extent of their power were discovered by the Eandi they would be executed-made men like Dusaan and Grinsa more cautious than others, and thus more aware of their surroundings. Or maybe possessing so many magics that were linked to the land and the elements-fire, mists and winds, language of beasts-also served to heighten a Weaver’s perceptions of the world in which he lived. Whatever the explanation, Tihod knew that he would have to be more careful if he were to make an attempt on Grinsa’s life without getting killed himself.