With a nod from Brin, Lander knocked on the rough wood of the door. There was no response. He knocked again then tried the handle. The door pushed open less than a hair's width before jamming. "Bolted," he grunted at Brin.
The halfling shrugged. "Veseene!" he yelled. "Veseene, let us in or you'll need a new door!"
For a moment there was silence, but then Lander heard a soft shuffling from the other side of the door. It was followed, however, not by the door opening, but only by the sharp grate of an iron bolt being drawn. The shuffling returned, moving away from the door this time. Lander tried the door again. This time it swung open easily.
Veseene was doddering across the floor to a worn, blanket-covered couch. "I'm not going to give you an invitation if that's what you're waiting for," she said without turning around. She lowered herself onto the couch slowly. "What do you want from me, Brin?"
"Want? I'm just paying a call." Brin strutted through the doorway. Lander followed a little more cautiously. There were stories about Veseene. He had heard them when she had come to Spandeliyon for the first time, almost ten years ago-no archmage, but still a potent spellcaster who could wrap chains around a man's heart and mind with her songs and split the air itself with her shouts. Veseene the Lark. Over time, he had begun to wonder if the tales were nothing more than that, stories perhaps even spread by the bard herself. Certainly the greatest bit of magic he had seen her perform back then was prying Tycho away from the Spandeliyon dockside! And since the two of them had been back… well, there were new stories. Stories that said Veseene's powers had deserted her, stolen away by a wizened body that had betrayed her.
All the old woman had to do, however, was fix him with those faded blue eyes and suddenly he was a nothing but a youth with a cheap sword and scraggly whiskers again. "Close the door behind yourself, Lander," she said.
Kander swung it shut without even thinking, shooting closed the heavy bolt that was probably the sturdiest thing in the place. He looked around Tycho and Veseene's rooms. He had the distinct impression that if Brin hadn't forcefully prevented Black Scratch from following them up the stairs, the boar's weight would have collapsed the entire building. Veseene's couch looked hardly sturdy enough to support her birdlike frame. A cupboard against one wall seemed ready to fall apart; a rough chunk of wood supported one corner of it in place of a proper leg.
The fireplace was tiny, the walls crisscrossed with fine cracks, the shutters on the window as frail as Veseene herself. Light in the room came in wisps from the fireplace and from greasy yellow tallow candles. The legendary Lark and her smart-mouthed apprentice, Lander realized sharply, lived like desperate shadows, no better than any of Spandeliyon's docksiders and worse than some. Would anyone with power live like that?
A sneer pulled on Lander's lips as fear and awe fell away before disdain. He crossed the room in three strides and threw open an interior door. The room beyond was cold, dark, and smelled vaguely of mold. All it contained was a chest, a sagging bed, and some stacked firewood. "They're not here, Brin."
Veseene's breath caught. Brin rolled his eyes. "Thank you, Lander. I wouldn't have guessed." There was a short stool close to the flickering fire. Brin sat himself on it and looked at Veseene intently. "You have a dagger hidden in your cushions," he said. "But your first instinct is right- you wouldn't have a chance of sticking me with it."
Veseene didn't move, didn't even blink.
"Lander," said Brin over his shoulder, "it's freezing cold in here. Stoke up the fire nice and hot. Give us some comfort."
Lander nodded and reached into the other room, scooping up sticks and split logs. Half the stored wood was barely an armful. He piled it on the fire, poking at the glowing coals to stir them up. As the flames began to mount, Veseene finally flinched. "That's enough," she said. "You'll use up our supply."
"A little more, Lander. My nose is still cold." Brin rubbed his fingers together and grinned at Veseene. "We'll have it nice and warm for you shortly. Old bones shouldn't be cold, you know!"
"I'm warm enough." Lander felt Veseene's eyes follow him as he stacked on more wood. The fire was pouring out heat now-an absolute waste. He stood to go back to the other room for more wood. Panic flickered in Veseene's eyes. "That's enough, Lander!"
Her voice cracked and bubbled on his name. Her hands-and arms and legs-were trembling. She reached down and tried to tug a blanket over herself. Brin's small hand snapped forward and ripped it away from her. Ve-seene gasped, her shaking limbs jerking together like the tentacles of a squid poked with a stick. Brin glared at her. "I want Tycho and the Shou man, Kuang Li Chien," he snarled. "Where are they?"
Veseene was silent for a moment then she asked stubbornly, "Why?"
"Why? Why?" Brin jumped up on top of the stool and whirled the blanket around himself. "You shouldn't be asking, Veseene! You should be answering!" He hunched his body up and hobbled in a little circle. "Can't sing anymore, can you? Can't play, can't cast a spell. The lark's in a cage, but for some reason she still thinks she's flying free."
There was a tea box sitting on top of a low table. Brin unfurled the blanket from his body and snapped it sharply, like a whip. The end of it cracked against the tea box and sent it flying off the table. It smashed into the fireplace. Sparks flew. The dry wood charred and burst into flame almost instantly. A sweet-sharp smell drifted out into the room. Brin turned back to Veseene.
"Where are they?" His voice was tight and grating, like steel on a whetstone.
"I don't know!" The trembling in Veseene's limbs was severe now. Her fingers were knotted around themselves, her hands clutched up tight against her chest. Her voice was quavering. "I haven't seen either of them since this morning."
"Lander saw them together at twilight. Do you know what they're up to?"
Veseene shook her head, a barely controlled motion that could almost have been just another twitch. There was fear in her eyes, though. Lander snorted. "She doesn't know, Brin. Look at her."
The halfling's eye narrowed. He squatted down on the stool and stared at Veseene. The old bard stared back, a bird hypnotized by a snake. They stayed like that for a long moment before Brin flicked the blanket back at her and stepped down from the stool. He strode across the room, pulled open the door and walked out without another word.
Lander spared a last look at Veseene. She had the blanket clutched to her. "We'll find them," he told her. "If we don't, we'll be back."
He put his back to her and strode confidently after Brin. He didn't bother to close the door after himself.
Veseene waited until she heard the door at the bottom of the stairs open and close before she scrambled up-as hastily as she could manage-and pushed the door of their rooms closed. Can't sing, can't play, can't cast a spell. "Ah," she sighed to herself, "but I can still give a performance, Brin."
It wasn't just the palsy that made her hand shake as she slid home the bolt on the door, though. She leaned against the door for a moment before making her way back to the couch with slow, careful steps. She sat down and watched the wood in the fireplace burn.
A tenday's carefully hoarded supply, she thought, gone in minutes. Damn Lander! Damn Brin!
Blessed Lliira, it is warm, though!
The traitorous thought brought a knot to her throat, and for a moment she thought she might cry. She rubbed her eyes. There was so much she could have done once and so little now. She could feel her hands tremble against her cheeks and lowered them to stare at her shaking fingers.
It had started with a twitch in her left wrist. She had thought little enough of it, but it had spread. Slowly. Over years. By the time she had sought to do anything, there was nothing that could be done-if there had ever been anything at all. She had sought out priests of three faiths known for their skills at healing. None had given her any hope beyond words of comfort. "It is the way of years. It is nature's course. Have faith that your suffering will be eased in the afterlife." She had carried on when the trembling had robbed her first of her grace then of the precise coordination that so much magic demanded. She was a bard-she learned to make magic with her voice alone.