The picture faded when she blinked. She knew there was no sense in worrying about it. Sooner or later she would find out what it meant—she’d had the vision before. In the meantime, her bath was getting cold.
Coram knocked as she combed her hair. “I’ve eaten,” he called through the door. “I’ll find out where your scholar lives, then have a bit of enjoyment. Do us both a favor and stay out of trouble.”
“I can take care of myself,” she reminded him.
“That’s what worries me.”
“Have fun,” Alanna called as his footsteps retreated, thinking, Why is he worried? She rarely sought trouble. Tonight she planned to avoid it entirely.
Downstairs, Faithful abandoned her for the kitchen. Alanna found a corner where she would have a good view of the rest of the common room. While the Wandering Bard seemed respectable, she’d been traveling long enough to know she could never be too prepared. Adjusting her sword—so she’d have room to draw it if necessary—she settled back to enjoy the meal.
Windfeld came over after she finished. “If there’s anything you want, anything at all, you’ve only to ask,” he assured her, taking a chair at her invitation. “No service is too great for Myles of Olau’s heir, not in a house of mine. He pays us well as his agents—a generous man, your father.”
Alanna smiled. “He’s generous with everything.” Remembering what Windfeld had said earlier, she asked, “What’s going on in Sarain?”
The innkeeper looked away. “She rips herself apart. The K’miri tribes hunt lowlanders through the mountains, sometimes on the Southern Plain itself. The mountain-born come west in flocks, runnin’ from the fightin’. The lowlanders are so busy slayin’ the K’mir that they let all else go, even the harvest. Only when their belts could be tightened no more did the Warlord bring in paid soldiers and send the lowlanders back to their farms. The refugees talk of little but hunger and killin’. My wife’s Saren—it breaks her heart, and no end in sight.” He forced a smile and added, “Enough of such doom-talk. What brings you here, my lady—if I can be so bold as to ask?”
“We’re looking for a scholar,” Alanna explained. “Nahom Jendrai.”
“Another friend of your father’s. He’s well thought of, is Master Jendrai.”
“I need him to translate something.” Alanna reached inside her tunic to draw out a leather envelope. Carefully she opened it and unfolded its contents: a map of the Eastern Lands and the Inland Sea, charred at the left and top edges. Only natural landmarks—rivers and mountain ranges—were shown. A tiny star marked a spot in the Roof of the World, the great mountain range that cuts off the Eastern Lands from the rest of the world. Silvery runes—the writing that brought her to Maren for a translation—formed a column on the right side. “This looks like the Old Ones’ writing,” she explained. “Myles says the best translator is Nahom Jendrai of Berat.”
Windfeld touched the charred edges. “How did this happen, my lady? Do you know?”
Alanna ran her fingers over the map. “You know Coram and I’ve been living with the Bazhir?” Windfeld nodded. “Our headman, Halef Seif, was worried about a friend of his, a shaman living near Lake Tirragen. Coram and I went to see her.” She drew a breath. “Her village was having a bad winter, what with famine and cold. A wandering priest had convinced the people that if they ‘purified’ themselves—if they killed their sorceress—his god would put food in their storehouses.”
“I’ve seen things like it. Folk aren’t sensible when they’re hungry.”
“Coram and I got there as they started to burn her. We stopped it and got her away, but … She was hurt too badly for me to fix it.” In answer to his questioning look, she explained, “I know some healing magic. Anyway, she died. The map was all she had. She asked us to take it back to Halef Seif.”
“And he sent it to Master Jendrai for readin’?” Windfeld asked.
Alanna shook her head. “He didn’t want it. He gave it to me—said it was for me, not him.” She smiled wryly. “Halef Seif can be determined when he likes. He says he’s happy with the Bloody Hawk—that’s our tribe. Some of it didn’t make sense, what he said, about destiny and quests. So here I am.”
Windfeld rose in answer to a yell for service. “You’ve come a long way for curiosity, my lady.”
Alanna grinned at him. “I didn’t have anything more important to do.”
There was another yell; with a voice that shook the rafters, Windfeld bellowed, “Just hold on, Joss, you’ll be served afore you go home!” He bowed to Alanna and went to help the barkeep.
A maid placed a glass of wine in front of Alanna. “He sent it t’you, my lady,” the girl explained, pointing to a man by the hearth. “He said I was t’tell you redheads must sit together for safety’s sake, and he wonders if you might join him when this glass is done.” Leaning down, she whispered, “Not meanin’ any disrespect, but if you don’t want ’im, I do!”
Alanna looked at the man; he was toasting her. His eyes were blue-green in a tan, pockmarked face. His hair was as copper as hers, clipped short. His nose had met several hard objects. A mustache framed his sensual mouth; his jaw was heavy. He was in excellent fighting condition: broad shoulders, powerful chest, hard waist, heavily muscled limbs. He dressed as she did, in shirt and breeches. She also saw he carried no weapons, not even a dagger. To a knight this was important: the only men who went weaponless were sorcerers, priests, fools—or those who didn’t need them. In a violent world, few did not need to carry some kind of weapon.
He shouldn’t be attractive, not with a broken nose and his face all scarred. From what, I wonder? Bad skin as a boy, perhaps. But he is attractive! she thought nervously. Why is he interested in me? I’m not as pretty as some of the other women here.
She raised her glass and drank, her eyes not leaving his.
From her arrival at court until she’d won her shield, few had known she was a female. Although Prince Jonathan had been her lover, he was also her friend and her knight-master; they hadn’t needed the courting rituals Jon used with noble ladies. George Cooper, who also loved her, had flirted with Alanna sometimes; when he did it to the point of flustering her, she’d simply ordered him to stop. Of the other men she knew, most couldn’t forget her knighthood enough to indicate a romantic interest in her. Since the revelation of her real identity and sex, the young knight had lived among the Bazhir. To them she was the Woman Who Rides Like a Man, and sexless.
So, although she wanted to join this man, or to indicate she was interested, Alanna didn’t know how. How did a lady flirt with a total stranger? Noblewomen showed interest with fluttered fan or dropped handkerchief. Bazhir women used their eyes over their veils. She had no fan or veil. Her handkerchief wouldn’t be noticed if she dropped it here. And she didn’t have the courage to walk over to his table and sit down.
She didn’t know pleading filled her eyes. He grinned—a slow, white-toothed smile that made her insides turn over—and came to her.
“Liam,” he introduced himself, holding out a massive hand. “And you’re Alanna the Lioness, from Tortall.” She returned his firm grip; Liam’s palm was warm and callused, like her own. “May I join you?” he asked, his eyes dancing. Alanna nodded, and Liam sat. “In Berat long?” he wanted to know, as the maid brought more wine and fruit.
Alanna shook her head. “Not for longer than I can help.” She filled his glass. “I’d forgotten how noisy cities are. I’ve been with the Bazhir.”
“So I heard. It took some asking to find out what happened after you killed the Conté Duke.” He spoke with a peasant’s broad vowels and nearly skipped r’s.