The Cat's Eye, Book I, Part V

The Cat's Eye

Book I, Part V

The dining hall was full of the smells of feast: roasted birds of various breeds, still-steaming bread fresh from the brick oven, the last of the late-season blackberries baked into pies, pumpkin-spiced milk. Warmth filled the chamber, spilled forth from the four roaring fireplaces, trapped by thick tapestries covering every window and most of the floor. A band of four musicians played to one half of the hall, while a traditional farce was staged to the other. Such was Carnivale Scembrese for the wealthy.

Amiel fidgeted, though she assured herself she hid it well. On any other night, she’d be ecstatic to have bedtime deferred five hours, to sit at her father’s left hand and share fashionable talk with important guests. She knew she should have been thrilled to have the attentions of well-bred young men, with her first marriageable season fast approaching. Instead, her mind was full of lowly circus folk and warriors.

“Lady Amiel?” The youth next to her spoke gently, though from his expression she could see she had left him waiting for an answer for some time. Endless practice made a simple task of keeping a straight face while she tore through drawers of memory for the proper documents. The politely concerned face belonged to Haegeth SoFraem, heir to the Fraem Mark near . . . one of the other great cities, which was unimportant. His family outranked hers considerably, he was spending the season in Scembre with some distant cousin, her father had called in favors to get him to their party, and he had been rambling to her about--

“I think, Lord SoFraem,” she began, working her mouth through the strange sounds, “that the people of Oza should continue to govern themselves without intervention from the continent, but that diplomats must be sent to their leaders to demand their corsairs be brought in line.”

“With respect, Lady Amiel, how can we expect them to take our demands seriously if we are not willing to show we have the force to back them?” The heir looked skeptical, but at least she had guessed the subject correctly, which was a start. Her father was deeply engaged in a conversation about the Potali vineyards outside the city, boring her mother and intriguing the Minister of Public Work and wouldn’t catch a word. She leaned over ever so slightly, lowering her voice.

“With respect, my Lord, there are subtler ways to deal with contrary folk. Why not, say, employ the corsairs?” Amiel’s painted lips turned into a small smile as the young man arched a brow.

“Is that the Scembrese answer? Try to buy off one’s enemies? Somehow, I doubt the people of the continent would accept it. I would not accept it.” Amiel gave the Margrave credit for not letting anything show in his face, but she knew well enough what was going on. He fancied himself a hero, ready to strike at the heart of evil, and expected the dainty young maiden to swoon. Well, she thought, perhaps my eight-year-old sister would be impressed. Alas, time to end this.

“Pray forgive my boldness, my Lord, but it’s the people who need buying off most of all. I’ve had the luxury of speaking to some of the people who ship for my father, people who’ve been to Oza. They say first that they are a pragmatic people, and piracy is only so prevalent because their island is so poor in its own resources. They say second that Oza maps are far superior to our own, and their crews much more experienced with long-distance seafaring.”

Haegeth leaned back into his chair and closed his eyes, turning the thought over.

“Give them a way to make money off us without needing to risk their lives and ships, they can handle their own security, and they’d widen the range of available commodities,” he murmured, mind shifting from blood and glory to silver and gold. “We’d increase our wealth and the people would forget about the raids.”

“My Lord has surely hit upon an enlightened solution,” Amiel replied, looking about the room. Where were her handmaids? She had other, more important things to attend to than derailing noble egos with good sense.

“I must say, you have a fine mind. I imagine you’d be a most capable mistress of an estate.” Haegeth’s smile punctuated the point, not that it needed to be. Amiel considered him for a moment. She knew why her father had worked so hard to bring him here, the same reasons he had invited Tamiano tu Escatri and Laolo d’Gli, Ronete’s older brother: men who could improve her family’s station through marriage. That was why Laolo and Tamiano, whom she knew, were at another table, while someone she’d never met was sat next to her: a Margrave is much more than a Visconte or a Conte. All understandable, but not what she was interested in at the moment.

Just then, Etarezia, the junior of her handmaids, slipped in through the servant’s door and came to her side.

“Forgive me, Lord SoFraem, I’d sent my handmaid on an urgent errand, I need only to hear what she has to say, then we may resume.”

Etarezia blanched at the idea of preceding a noble in conversation, but seeing the Margrave turning back to his meal without protest and Amiel’s father too preoccupied to notice, she leaned in close.

“My lady, I made the inquiries you asked me to. The boy you were worried about, he was seen in the company of the Duke’s mercenaries both in the hills and in the lower city. Some vendors in the old market saw the mercenaries nearly two hours ago, but not the boy,” she whispered. Amiel kept a placid face, but felt her heart sink slightly.

“Have you any word from Genori?”

“None yet, my lady. I’m certain she’ll be back before it is time for you retire. Is there anything else I can do until then?”

“No, you’ve been running about for me in the cold most of the night. Take some rest, enjoy Carnivale.”

“My lady, with respect, from what you’ve said, I am as concerned about this Traleau as you are. If those men truly plan to turn him into one of them . . . please, let me help.” For the sake of appearances, Etarezia kept her whisper soft and even, her face benign. Still, she so rarely insisted on anything.

“Thank you, Etarezia. Then, while I wish I didn’t have to consider it. if you know any people who could check the alleys or the canals for a body . . . ”

“I understand, my lady. I’ll see to it.” She turned to leave, but Amiel stopped her short with a gentle touch to the elbow.

“I know such people must be paid. I’ll not have it coming out of your pittance.” Then, to the Margrave, raising her voice to make sure she was heard by other guests, “If you will excuse me for a moment, my Lord, my handmaid has informed me that my favorite spiced jellies are nearly gone, and they are only for the first night of Carnivale. I was hoping you would permit me to treat you to one, in gratitude for your kind attendance.”

The Margrave was surprised--pleasantly, she thought--and bowed his head.

“You do me a great honor, Lady Amiel.”

“Then I shall send her to fetch them. I must retrieve my purse, but I shall return soon.”

She briefly glanced around the room; those who’d taken notice, including her parents, permitted themselves slight smiles, and she had leave to walk away. The two moved quickly once they’d left the dining hall, the rest of the palace quiet but for a few guards. Entering her room, she shut the door and retrieved her coin purse, handing Etarezia two pieces of gold and six of silver.

“Make sure to actually buy the jellies on your way back, and try to haggle.”

“For the jellies or . . . ?”

“Both,” Amiel said. “And again, thank you.”

“Of course, my lady.”

Her maid went ahead, and she returned to the dining hall in solitude.

“Thank you for your patience, my Lord. I assure you, the jellies will be worth the wait.”

“I am certain they shall be,” Haegeth replied, suddenly with a much friendlier tone. Tamiano and Laolo both looked somewhat dejected where they sat; damage that was mendable, and acceptable. “Tell me, Lady Amiel, have you had the chance to visit . . . ”

The night’s festivities and conversations carried on deep into the night, the tired guests leaving when polite excuses presented themselves. As the tables emptied, the entertainers were paid and sent on their way, Viscontessa tu Potali retired, Tamiano and Laolo paid their respects somewhat begrudgingly to Amiel, and eventually, her father asked the few men who remained to share a last drink with him in the drawing room. Haegeth SoFraem was full of confidence as he went off with the Visconte, leaving Amiel alone at the table.

Neither Etarezia nor Genori had returned; had something happened to them? She noticed the cleaning maids gathered in a knot near the servant’s entrance, watching her nervously, flushed in embarrassment and left the dining hall. To her surprise, both of her handmaids were waiting for her when she reached her room. Etarezia set about preparing her bed, while Genori sat Amiel down by the fireplace and brushed her hair.

“My lady, I apologize for taking so long. While I was asking around the lower city, I met someone who had seen the mercenaries with a foreign-looking young man headed into a disreputable neighborhood.”

“Disreputable?”

“Thieves, drunks, swindlers and, well . . .”

“And?”

“My lady, I--”

“And prostitutes? You know I’m not that delicate, Genori.”

“Even so, my lady.”

“I see. What happened then?”

Genori was silent for a moment, and Amiel felt a gentle hand tremble slightly on her shoulder.

“I pursued the matter further. I paid a night watchman to follow me, and we found that there had been a fight between thugs in the employ of some man named Iacosi, I think, and a group of strangers. Apparently it had something to do with gambling on pit fighting. But they say there were seven strangers.”

“What happened?”

“There were several thugs dead. No sign of the mercenaries, or the circus boy,” Genori said. “I checked at the pit as well, though the men there were of no use, and the night watchman said it was dangerous to ask too many questions in ‘Iacosi’s territory,’ as he called it.”

“I have people looking for bodies that match Traleau’s description, as you asked,” Etarezia whispered, “but we’ll have to wait until morning for word from them.”

“I understand. Thank you, both of you, for this,” Amiel said, trading her place by the fire for the edge of her bed. “I know it was a great deal to ask.”

“My lady, that you are a person who cares about such things is why I happily serve you,” Genori said, curtseying.

“I feel the same,” Etarezia said. “Oh, and the spiced jellies are on your end-table, if you still need the excuse.” With that, both handmaids left her in the dark and silence of her room. She lay down and turned onto her side, staring at the shape of piled jellies wrapped in a linen cloth, waiting for sleep to come.

Tonight, it was elusive. Amiel’s mind kept casting itself back to Traleau. She could admit that however strong an impression he’d made, it was still brief; there were reasons enough to neither care nor think she knew a near-stranger’s best interests. Even so, the feeling of revulsion hit her immediately when she recalled the mercenaries talking at the circus.

The large one, Stonebreaker, spoke with an unnerving excitement about ‘instincts,’ about ‘a taste for blood.’ Their leader, the older one, encouraged him, so did the tattooed, bald one. The slim albino, as far as she could tell, hated everything, while the handsome man who’d done all the talking through the Duke’s dinner treated it all as a light joke. The most disturbing was the youngest one, who had stared, empty-faced through the whole night. Not even the other mercenaries spoke to him.

She could not imagine the simple, quiet boy with the delicate throwing knives surviving in such company. Of course, they invited him along in the Duke’s presence, making refusal impossible. But wandering into some dark corner of the lower city, gambling on pit fights, brawling in the streets? Surely he’d have realized something amiss and heeded her warning before all that. The thought refused to stick; instead she kept imagining Etarezia telling her a body had been found in the canal, face disfigured beyond all recognition.

Or what if, worse still, the mercenaries had been right about Traleau? When sleep finally came, it was mercifully dreamless.

Traleau had the choice to be elsewhere, he knew that well enough. When they’d left the pit, they’d warned him that Iacosi would send men after them to slit their throats and take their money. The Priest had offered to take him back to the circus, and he’d declined. When Wind noticed they were being tailed, he could have easily slipped down some alleyway and climbed to the rooftops, where few could give chase. There had been so many choice moments to escape during the fighting that ensued, yet he stayed. When they bound, gagged and blindfolded the one survivor among Iacosi’s goons, he’d already had some sense what would happen if he followed along.

Still, he had.

“This should work.” Stonebreaker shoved the prisoner down to his knees against the cool dirt of the smith yard. Weeds grew everywhere and most of the outbuildings looked ready to collapse from rot; the lack of lingering ashen stink was the surest sign the forge had been abandoned.

They were close enough to the city wall that Traleau could see it looming overhead, hiding the stars on the horizon behind utter blackness. Their prisoner tried vainly to struggle against the leather strap holding his wrists behind his back, made a muffled shout as he rose to his feet. Stonebreaker laughed and forced him down with a single heavy hand upon his shoulder. Kneeling down beside him, the mercenary removed his blindfold.

“He can’t be but a couple of years older than you, Traleau,” Stonebreaker said. “And yet he came after us--you--with a knife.”

It was true, the prisoner was young. When Iacosi’s men had attacked them, he had been too surprised, too afraid; he’d felt naked without a knife in his hands. A sudden rush of blood had given him his legs back long enough to slip away from one’s persistent but clumsy slashes, and then it was all over, every one of the thugs dead but this one. The unthinking aggression had been replaced with quivering and pleading.

The youth made another effort to cry out, his eyes searching for sympathy in any of the seven faces before him. Traleau wanted to reach out and pull the gag out, but Stonebreaker grabbed the boy’s face in his hand, squeezing hard.

“Hah, what, are you going to beg for your life? No, no. After all, you’ve killed before, haven’t you? Oh yes, you have.” The warrior relished in his captive’s growing fear. “I saw you go straight for Traleau, too. I know your type. You’re the sort of piss pot’s reject who only takes the weakest-looking ones.”

The youth’s body shook violently, and in what little light there was, Traleau saw sweat glistening on his face, mixing with tears.

“It is good and just to cull the weak. This pleases the spirits. But if you only ever make of yourself a scavenger, what do you expect will happen when you are face-to-face with a predator?” Stonebreaker abruptly drove his hand into the boy’s back, pinning his whole body flat to the ground. “Have you considered that?”

“Have you!?” The low snarl was unlike any sound Traleau had ever heard a human being make. His body felt heavier than it had when they’d been attacked, heavier than it ever had, even in those distant memories. The effect was not lost on Iacosi’s minion, whose sobbing had ceased.

“All right, all right. I think he gets your point, big fellow,” Kion said, walking over to the boy and crouching down in front of him. He waved a single finger in the air nonchalantly, and Traleau noticed the other mercenaries forming a loose circle, Stonebreaker joining them. “Now, here’s the unfortunate thing: some of my men want to kill you, and the others don’t care whether you live or die. I’m the chief, so I can refuse them, but only if I have a good reason to spare your life, and I can’t say I have one. Traleau, here, on the other hand . . .”

“Well, Traleau isn’t one of mine. He’s our special guest, and I owe him something for the trouble we put him through tonight, so I’m leaving the choice up to him. Who knows? Maybe he’ll let you go.”

Traleau felt a sensation starting at the base of his spine then ran up its length, stretching to enfold his heart, quickening it. Kion pulled a dagger from his belt and drove it into the ground--the same weapon that had been swung at him so awkwardly earlier that night. His fingers curled involuntarily, imagining the handle rest against his palm, that familiar weight.

“Here’s how this works. I’m going to leave this knife here, and the two of you are going to work it out between yourselves. If you try to run, we will kill you. If you try to call for help, we will kill you. You can either kill him yourself, or you can hope he chooses to let you go. Of course, Iacosi will probably kill you for failing him, he seems petty enough. At any rate, I trust you understand your situation?”

The youth nodded, and Kion untied his gag and binding. He gulped down a breath and raised his tear-clouded eyes to Traleau, crawling up onto his knees as Kion joined the circle, leaving them alone.

“Hey, listen, hey.” His voice trembled, but ignoring that sound was one of the first things Traleau had taught himself in the circus. Words came to him from the end of a past life: ‘People aren’t like beasts, they make noises for no reason.’ The knife-thrower walked towards him slowly, studying him.

“Stop, hey, just listen to me,” The youth pleaded again. “It wasn’t nothin’ personal, right? I don’t know you, if you let me go, I swear I’ll leave you alone! I swear it, I swear it! My boss won’t take me back now, so I’ve got no problem with you.”

It was just like the human target act: posturing and bravado before they’d seen a blade, before they’d seen he was ready to throw, followed by the panic. One simply set that aside and took aim. Traleau stood over the young man, saw that he wanted to take the knife but didn’t--couldn’t.

Instead, he pled with growing desperation, recoiling when Traleau pulled the knife out of the ground and considered it closely, slowly. He stumbled getting to his feet and backpedaled away, but froze, looking over his shoulder at Stonebreaker and remembering Kion’s words. He swallowed hard, trembling where he stood.

“Y-you’re not really going to . . . I’ve got no weapon! I can’t hurt anyone,” he whined.

“I didn’t have a weapon, either,” Traleau said. The color drained from the youth’s face, and he realized his words had been taken for vengeful intent. Well, it silenced him long enough to think. The knife in his hand, that felt right. There was, as Kion had said, no convincing reason to let him go; a small voice in the back of his head insisted on the preciousness of life, but that wasn’t what stayed his hand. It simply seemed like a waste.

“Just go,” Traleau said, letting the knife fall to the ground. “See?” He wasn’t sure why he’d expected a quick reaction. The youth stared at him, mute and unbelieving. The mercenaries showed no sign of approval or disappointment, but he reminded himself they’d given him the final choice. Then, a change in the demeanor of the young man: he started to move.

Traleau didn’t have time to wonder why their captive, now freed, dove for the knife. He didn’t have time to reason with him, or ask him to leave. There was certainly not time to create from thin air another excuse for letting him go. These things came to his mind all at once after the burning in his body started to fade.

The young man was struggling vainly, pinned underneath him, his strength rapidly fading. A hand--his own, Traleau realized--held the youth’s head back to expose the neck as something dark spilled forth, dripping into the dirt. The knife was gripped tight in his other hand, wet and warmth sliding down the blade, the grip, coating his hand. The kicking and flailing slowed, and soon the body was motionless under him. He was the one still shaking, teeth clenched.

Traleau pulled his hand back from the youth’s head and was met with a mask of pain, the last expression that face would ever wear. He knew it was impossible, but he thought the body was demanding some answer from him. In that shadowed place from years ago, amid the birdsong, he had seen death this close many times, yet . . .

“It’s different,” he murmured, looking at the knife as he stood. He waited for it to speak some comfort to him, but the stain on its blade rendered it silent.

“I was right about you,” Stonebreaker said. “The spirits howl around you.”

The warrior seemed even bigger, somehow, in the deep darkness of the city’s edge. Though Traleau couldn’t discern any of his features, he felt certain Stonebreaker was smiling at him. He gripped the knife tighter as the great black form approached, his instincts screaming at him to run or lash out. What he felt about having taken the young thug’s life could wait: as much as anyone he’d ever known, Stonebreaker was an enemy, a true predator.

“You do not relish death,” the warrior said, sounding disappointed. He kicked the corpse at his feet hard enough to turn it on its face “Yet you killed him so easily, so naturally. That is how it should be. The spirits love those who cull the weak, but those who build their pride on such things are soon ruined.”

“That’s enough,” The Priest hissed. “Stop harassing the boy and let’s get out of here.”

“Right now, you wish to kill me, don’t you?” Stonebreaker said, seemingly deaf to the smaller man’s words. “Your body remembers exactly what you are, even if your mind forgot. I wonder how many throats you cut before the fat man took you in.”

“Come with us, swear yourself to Tshio Kion, and he will show you the purpose the spirits have for you.”

Traleau could endure it no longer, the pressure pouring out from Stonebreaker’s shadow was suffocating him. He lashed out with a kick, his foot arcing towards the warrior’s belly; he’d expected the thick forearm that blocked it, but he hadn’t noticed the huge fist flying towards his face until he’d already committed himself to thrusting the knife. The already dark world went pitch black, and when he came to, he was falling onto his back, the knife dropped paces in front of him. The warrior did not move--was he considering the same things Traleau had only minutes before?

The knife-thrower forced himself up onto shaking legs, everything spinning around him. Pain pushed through the cloud in his consciousness, a stunning ache that dropped him back to the ground. Over the throbbing in his ears, he heard Stonebreaker laughing.

“I admire your will. In time, you will learn the strength and skill to match it.”

Another shape, The Priest, had moved through the darkness and crouched down next to Traleau, helping him back up to his feet.

“Are we quite done?” he asked.

“I am. Chief, I’m heading back to camp.”

“See you later, then. Now, let’s have a look at him.” Kion guided Traleau and The Priest over to the lantern hanging from the smithy wall, looking over the boy’s face. He prodded in a few places and soon Traleau felt the whole right side of his face was one large bruise. Kion, however, looked pleased. “The good news is, he hit you lightly. Well, lightly as he knows how to, and he didn’t break anything. You’ll look a bit rough for a few days, but the swelling should go down soon enough, and you’ll be good as new.”

“It’s time we take him back to the circus,” The Priest said.

“I agree. There are taverns still open, I’d like to wash this wasted night down as soon as possible,” Wind snapped.

“Right, then. Since you’re so keen on it, you can take him back, Priest. The rest of you go back to camp with Stonebreaker, make sure he doesn’t end up doing too much damage along the way now that his blood’s up. I’ll be along shortly” Kion waited for the others to excuse themselves, disappearing into the dark corridors of the lower city. Traleau studied the older man closely for the first time. Though he was supposedly the leader of the group, he had none of the stifling ferocity of Stonebreaker, and he’d been content just to watch the night unfold, not even joining the fray when Iacosi’s men attacked. An inscrutable half-smile seemed never to leave his face.

Still, a truly monstrous warrior spoke of him like a god, and Traleau himself had heard stories of Tshio Kion for as long as he’d been with the circus. Perhaps he could help him understand his odd desires.

“Do,” he began, wincing as movement brought the ache back to his face. “Do you really want me to join you?”

“Hah, got the taste for wet-work already? Priest, what do you think, should we take him on?”

“I think you’re a bastard for bringing him along in the first place.”

“Fair enough. Listen, Traleau: you’ve got some strength and some speed. Sure, you know how a knife works. But you still still made an awkward mess of killing one panicky, beaten kid who wasn’t any sort of fighter when he attacked us, either. I can think of some work that fits you, but you’d have to unlearn plenty and learn even more.”

“Having said all that, I think you and I both know that you can’t be part of the circus anymore. Whatever happened to you before Brogyr’s crew found you made you into something different from, well,” Kion stretched his arms wide, embracing the city, “civilized people. You’ve done a fine job keeping it under wraps, but I bet that has more to do with repaying what you owe than wanting to be one of them.”

To think of it that way had never occurred to him, but Traleau knew he spoke true. He nodded, waited.

“If you come with us, we can use those ‘different’ parts of you. It’s never boring, the work’s always different, and best of all, you’ll meet plenty of people worth testing yourself against.”

More like Stonebreaker, more who stirred his senses into a furor and drew out the violent liveliness from deep inside him. Now that he’d felt it again, he noticed its years of absence, and how much the desire had grown while he was playing at performer. He wondered if he owed Brogyr any more service for his kindness: he had done everything in his power to excel, hadn’t he?

“We’re encamped near the north wall, and we leave two dawns from now. If you want a place with us, you’ll have one. But if I might give you some parting advice,” Kion patted him on the shoulder, “stay clear of Stonebreaker if you see him before you make your decision.”

With that, he walked off into the darkness, leaving Traleau alone with The Priest.

“Let’s get you home,” the warrior whispered. Pain compounded Traleau’s exhaustion, leaving his feet to drag along as the young man carried him, but he managed to look over at him. As far as he could tell, The Priest was watching the ground, but his jaw was tight, his brow furrowed.

“I’m hoping that you’ll have enough sense not to follow us,” he said, as if noticing the knife-thrower’s attentions. “I don’t care if you leave the circus or not, but joining Kion’s band is the same as throwing away your life, if you’re lucky.”

“What if I’m not?” Traleau asked weakly.

“Your soul, then your life.”

“Oh.”

That raised questions about The Priest, but Traleau was far too tired to ask them. They walked through the lower city’s narrow streets in silence, the day’s revelries concluded or carried by the hardy few into the taverns. The blood on his hand had lost its warmth and begun to dry.