“I think you found it useful enough yesterday.” Usara’s words were clipped and haughty.
“Fair comment.” I sweetened my tone. “It’s just that it’s important you get on with them. You have to understand how Sorgrad and Sorgren think. It’s very straightforward; the world is divided into people they are for and the rest. If they decide to call you friend, they’ll take a dagger in the ribs before they’ll let you come to harm. If you don’t measure up, they won’t piss on you if you’re on fire in the street. Can you understand?”
Usara opened his mouth, changed his mind about what he was going to say and turned to look down along the high road. I continued my meal and wondered about a few things. Hopefully Vadim hadn’t been stupid enough to catch up with ’Gren this morning. I’d yet to see anyone get the better of ’Gren and wasn’t about to wager a Lescar cut-piece that I ever would. Countless men had thought they could take on some scrawny son of a fatherless goat and ended up mixing blood with their wine. I wiped my fingers on my napkin. If there had been any trouble, Sorgrad had the wit to keep out of it and send word to me. If worst had come to worst, Reza knew where we were lodging; he was a bright lad.
A maid knocked and opened the door of our private parlor, bobbing a curtsey. “Beg pardon, but there are two gentlemen to see you.” She covered her breath of hesitation over the word gentlemen with creditable aplomb.
“Fair festival to you.” ’Gren breezed cheerily in while Sorgrad swept the maidservant a courteous bow and sent her on her way with a silver penny to tuck into her bodice.
He was dressed in willow green today, another expensively tailored display of understated elegance.
“Good morning.” Usara’s nod mixed welcome with a nicely calculated hint of his rank in relation to theirs.
“It will be when I’ve eaten,” ’Gren took a seat and reached for the last soft roll. “My throat’s full of cobwebs.” Doubtless wakeful until nigh on the last chime of the night, he looked remarkably lively, washed and brushed in clean linen and plain leather.
Sorgrad settled himself on the window seat, speaking without preamble. “So, who’s this, Livak?”
“Usara?” I spread an inviting hand.
“I’m here to represent the Archmage’s interests.” The wizard drank small beer with an expressionless face. “I am a mage with a principal talent over the earth beneath us and skills with the other elements supporting it. I have the honor to be pupil to Planir the Black.”
“Pupil? Cloak carrier, bag man, something like that?” Sorgrad’s skepticism was a shade the polite side of insulting.
“I have been privy to the Archmage’s councils for some years.” Usara looked down his nose with an air of condescension.
“Not much experience of the world beyond your halls and courts then?” Sorgrad tilted his head on one side.
“If you lot were hounds, I’d expect to wait around while you all sniffed around and cocked a leg on the fence posts,” I commented idly. “Since you’re not, could we just get on?”
Sorgrad and ’Gren laughed and after a moment Usara’s severe countenance lightened with a rather sheepish grin.
“You always give peasants something to look at while you’re busy with your other hand, don’t you?” I pulled my gaudy ring out and waved it at Sorgrad. “Planir keeps everyone trying to follow his fancy footwork while Usara here does the business, no one any the wiser.”
The brothers looked at the mage with the first faint stirring of respect.
“That’s probably about right,” Usara nodded, neck less stiff.
“So now we can all be friends. Are you two going to help out or not?” I demanded briskly.
’Gren looked at Sorgrad, who swung his highly polished boots up into the window seat. “I think we might come along if you’re going to the Great Forest for a while. Even Niello had heard talk about the Draximal pay-chest and he barely listens to anything beyond people admiring his wonderful performances.”
“And if your retainer that keeps you in this kind of style, we could just about suffer it along with you.” ’Gren reached for a plump bottled cherry, dripping juice staining the snowy cloth.
“Good.” I saw a degree of relief on Usara’s face that reminded me the wizard wasn’t stupid. Good, indeed; if he knew his own limitations, he’d be less likely to drop us all in some privy pit.
A clangor of bells outside was echoed within by an elegant silver timepiece on the mantel. The narrow pointer halted on its progress down the engraved scale, newly turned for the longer days after Equinox. A costly piece, I noted absently, separate faces for every season, not just different scales on the same one.
“Third chime of the morning?” ’Gren looked up from the cherries with dismay.
“Is there some problem?” Caught unawares, Usara betrayed some consternation.
“Second day of a fair is always the horse races.”
’Gren grabbed his cloak. “If I’m going to turn some coin, I need to see the beasts showing their paces.”
Usara frowned. “Isn’t that a waste of time? Surely we should—”
“Horse racing is never a waste of time, as far as ’Gren’s concerned.” I caught Usara’s attention with a stern look. “I don’t know how you wizards do things, but when we work together, we all make time for each other’s priorities.”
“You go on,” Sorgrad spoke up from the window seat. “Me and Livak need to talk.”
I dismissed Usara with a gesture. “Go with him. We’ll catch you up.”
’Gren was waiting impatiently by the stairs, so after a last, faintly suspicious look at me, the wizard found his fur-trimmed cloak and followed.
“Do you think they can keep out of trouble, the pair of them?” I wondered aloud.
“If we don’t give them too long.” Sorgrad came to join me at the table. “So, where’s this book of yours?”
I went to my bedchamber and took the closely wrapped bundle from the bottom of my traveling bag. Laying it on the table, careful to avoid any spills, I untied the silken cord securing the layers of linen. Sorgrad ran a delicate finger over the embossed leather covering the boards of the cover, the original creamy hide yellowed by time. I opened the book carefully, using fingertips to turn the pages, their edges dark with use and age. The neat script was faded and brown but the illustrations down each margin and bordering top and bottom were bright and vibrant with color, even hints of gold leaf defying nigh on twenty-five generations. Animal heads peered from precise leaves and hedgerows, birds soared above delicate vistas and small figures worked diligently at their trades in little oval panels.
“It’s a beautiful thing,” remarked Sorgrad absently. He peered at the sweeping script and frowned. “Cursed hard to read though, even if it wasn’t so faded. You want Charoleia for this; she’s the best I know for the Old High Tormalin.”
I slid a sheet of parchment over the tablecloth, which bore Charoleia’s distinctive Lescari hand in new, black ink. “That’s why we came by way of Relshaz. I wanted a second opinion, given the scholars were apt to bicker over who had the right of it.”
Sorgrad laughed. “What about these wizards? They’re supposed to have powers over all the elements. Couldn’t they do anything to bring up the writing more clearly?”
“According to Casuel, he had far more important things to do, beyond telling me the ink had faded because it was made with oak gall and iron, that is.”
Sorgrad looked up at the sarcasm in my tone. “He sounds like a real prize.”
I didn’t want to discuss Casuel. “Can you read any of this?” I turned the pages carefully to a leaf decorated with a mountain peak, the angular script below a harsh contrast to the smooth regularity of the Tormalin.
Sorgrad bent over it. “I can’t read it all but I can make out enough to recognize the tale. It’s the saga of Misaen and the wyrms. I can tell you the version I know.”