Kate Elliott - Cold Magic

Brennan lugged the two carpetbags into the room and set them against the wall. A moment later, Chartji walked in, claws stained with ink and carrying a bowl of water in one hand.

"Catherine!" she said. "And your clutch sibling Beatrice! And did I hear this one called brother? I thought you might come."

"We have a proposition to make you," I said without preamble. "Our services, in exchange for yours. We believe that if anyone can help us get out from under the power of magisters and princes, you can."

"Drink first," said Chartji. "That's the proper way. Then we'll talk."

As we passed around the bowl, a knocking came again at the door. Caith's footfalls pattered down; chains rattled softly. The hinges creaked slightly as the door was opened.

After a pause, he called in his uncannily pure voice, "Brennan! There's a rat here who says you're expecting a messenger. He says a rising light marks the dawn of a new world."

Brennan said sharply, "Get him in fast and shut the door." Then he stepped out into the hallway. With a frown, Kehinde pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose and followed. Bee, who had been drinking, handed the bowl to Rory. She grabbed my wrist and tugged me after them. We all spilled into the hallway to see Caith stepping back from the door as a pair of men surged in. I knew them! Hard to forget those faces: They were the two foreigners I had seen in the inn in Lemanis. They carried themselves very differently now. No longer diffident, they prowled like scouts, gazes ranging over our laces and up the stairs. The young man clearly did not recognize me, although he stared too long and too admiringly at Bee. The older man looked twice at me with obvious recognition, then frowned as Rory strolled with a threatening grace out of the back room, followed a moment later by a limping Godwik. OrPthe stoop was the woman dressed as a man, the third foreigner I'd seen in Lemanis, but after glancing inside, she jumped back down to the street.

A man walked up the steps and into the entry hall. He caught Caith's gaze and gestured. Obeying this wordless order, the young troll closed and chained the door. The door's lintel framed the newcomer: He was a tall, broad-shouldered, black-haired man about Uncle's age, and he wore a shabby wool greatcoat and a faded tricornered hat rather the worse for the wear. The clothes did not make the man. He might have worn rags, or he might have worn robes of gold, and either way, he would be the first person in any chamber you would notice, no matter how large the crowd.

I had seen him before. Only not like this. Before, he had hidden the true crackling strength of his gaze and the coiled power of his presence.

The man and Kehinde were eyeing each other with the look of dogs who aren't sure whether they will become friends or attack.

"I expected a courier," she said. "An ambassador, to open talks between your people and mine."

"I am my own ambassador," he said with a lift of his chin that had more power than a grand flourish. "As I must be, in these troubled times."

"Truly," said Brennan, a little curtly, "I would have expected you to arrive with more of a retinue."

"Numbers breed attention," said the man. "You understand why I must avoid attention, here in the enemy's country. However, be assured I have many agents already in the city."

I knew him.

He looked at Bee and nodded, as if they had already met, although that was impossible. "You must be the eldest Hassi Barahal daughter, just as Helene told me. Black curls, she said, very young, quite beautiful, and with as much subtlety as an ax."

Mouth agape, Bee pulled her sketchbook from the knit bag and opened it to the page with a sketch that matched his person, and the door's frame, exactly. He'd rendered her mute.

But his gaze had already moved on. To me.

"And you must be Tara Bell's daughter. It was so strange to see you that day when you climbed into the wagon in Lemanis. I thought you must be hers, for you look just like her, except for the hair and the color of your eyes. The youth's presence with you confused me, you calling him your elder brother. And it was too early to meet you. Helene was never wrong about such things."

I blinked. "You're Big Leon. The carter's cousin. We last saw you at Crane Marsh Works in the middle of Anderida. And these two, and the woman outside… a party of five and their mules and wool. What? Were you the one who was sick and about to die?"

"The authorities became suspicious. We split up, and I came ahead, carried by the wings of those who have remained loyal all these years to the cause."

"You walked into Adurnam alone?" demanded Brennan. "With all the mage Houses and every prince in northwestern Europa hunting for you? That seems rash."

"And irrational," said Kehinde thoughtfully. "We could turn you over to the Prince of Tarrant for a significant reward."

"But you won't. For you see, I am never alone. The hopes and ambitions of too many people are carried on my back."

"You're Camjiata," I said.

He had a way of tilting his head that made it seem he was about to laugh but had decided not to. That made you want to have a chance to laugh with him, if only you could find a way to surprise that laugh out of him and earn the praise of having amused him. "Of course I am Camjiata. Who else would I be? At last, after the patient work of many years and many hands, I am free."

Chartji stepped forward, offering the traditional bowl of water.

He doffed his hat politely, drank it all in one thirsty gulp, and wiped his lips with a sleeve. "And now we have business to do, and no time to wait."

"Did you come looking for me?" said Bee breathlessly. I could not tell if she was terrified, or exhilarated, or making ready to punch him in the face. "Did she tell you how to find me? Your wife, I mean? The one who walked the dreams of dragons?"

"Yes. It was the final thing Helene said to me before they killed her. She told me that the eldest daughter of the Hassi Barahal clan would learn to walk the dreams of dragons. Find her, she said, because you will need her, as you have needed me." He lifted his right hand in the orator's classic gesture, and we all stared, waiting for his next words, because a person could not help but stare at him. He commanded our stares. "That's what puzzled me on the road, you see. Because Helene said that the eldest Hassi Barahal daughter would lead me to Tara Bell's child."

"B-but I'm Tara Bell's child," I said, and everyone looked at me.

"Of course you are," said Camjiata. "You could be no one else but who are you. So must we all be, even Helene, who knew that the gift of dreaming would be the curse that brought death to her. Yet even then, even at the end, the gift compelled her to speak. I'm those were Helene's very last words, the very last words I ever heard her say."

He paused. And I waited. We all waited. A log shifted on an unseen fire somewhere in the house. Beyond the closed door, the rising light brought the city of Adurnam to life with a new day.

"She said, 'Where the hand of fortune branches, Tara Bell's child must choose, and the road of war will be washed by the tide.'"

"A fanciful turn of phrase," said Kehinde, "but as I have a pragmatical turn of mind, can you tell me what you think it means?"

He smiled as if, having meant to catch our interest, he had nevertheless not lost his ability to enjoy the pleasure of knowing he had done so. "Why, the depths of the words are easily sounded. She meant that Tara Bell's child will choose a path that will change the course of the war."

He looked at me. They all looked at me.

"Which means you, Catherine Bell Barahal. Because that child is you."