Kellanved's Reach

Now Wen curled her lip. ‘Thugs. Dullards. Brutes. They can handle the usual riff-raff. No, in this establishment I specialize in sophisticated and exotic … wares. And, my dear, that description fits you so very beautifully.’

‘And if I refuse?’

Wen’s painted lips drew down round the tortoiseshell mouthpiece. ‘There is still the matter of all that coin, because I own the inn you nearly wrecked.’

Iko nodded, finished the tea. This roof garden was atop a relatively tall building, and she saw it afforded a view of the royal palace compound’s curving rooftops, less than a handful of leagues distant across the city centre. She nodded once again. ‘I have two conditions.’

A raised brow, plucked and painted. ‘Oh?’

‘That I be allowed access here in my free time. And that I wear a veil – or a mask.’

The old madam exhaled a lungful of smoke. She studied Iko, her narrowed eyes taking on the dreamy sleepiness of the d’bayang stupor. ‘A mask, I think, my dear. Very exotic.’

*

Iko was given a mask; a small one, which covered half her face. Wen also dressed her in a rather plain costume of a simple tunic and trousers and insisted she go barefoot when on duty. Why this particular get-up she had no idea, but Mistress Wen seemed to think it a very funny joke. Iko merely shrugged and played along; it certainly helped her anonymity, for no one would ever recognize the former Sword-Dancer in this costume. And nothing ever came of it except when members of a foreign trade delegation from some distant land visited. These people nearly jumped out of their skin when they saw her.

And her instincts concerning her anonymity were correct: twice already she’d come face to face with high officials from the palace who she was certain could have identified her. As for the vices and habits of off-duty bureaucrats and officers of the capital – she was quite shocked.

By day she walked the streets of Itko Kan, sans mask, of course. She had used to esteem her native nation as the most civilized people on the continent of Quon Tali, but now, seeing the poor being kicked aside in the streets, the contempt of the privileged for the oppressed, and the constant naked pursuit of the god of greasy gold, she wondered. Her compatriots were beginning to strike her as a rather hard-hearted and cruel lot.

As for the ‘exotics’ who populated Wen’s establishment, she’d treated them with her own contempt at first. But now she was beginning to pity them. Some were foolish, shallow creatures, to be sure. And indeed some were as truly venal and selfish as venal selfish people everywhere. To her mind, however, most were simply victims. Victims of a callous human marketplace. A marketplace that had set her value, as well.

It was, as they say, a job.

Her solace was climbing the narrow staircase at dawn, at the end of her duties, to spend her free hours gazing at the tiled rooftops of the palace compound and wondering what a young lad was up to, how he was doing … and who, if anyone, truly had his best interests at heart.

*   *   *

When Heboric set out for the Valley of Hermits east of Heng, famed as a place of quiet retreat and meditation, he’d assumed it would be relatively uninhabited and, well, serene. Instead, he came upon the noise and crowds of some sort of religious festival.

Campfires and makeshift lean-tos and yurts crowded the valley floor. Celebrants of Burn chanted in a large circle round one bonfire, while crowds sat at others listening to multiple speakers exhort and preach. Banners and flags hung in the weak wind. It reminded him of the fete of Gedderone’s Return, but without the public orgies.

‘Brother!’ a celebrant welcomed him. ‘You are come in propitious times! A miracle! A Kynie has come to us! Witnessed by many.’

Heboric frowned. A Kynie was a legendary messenger of the gods, usually one of fury and fire. And usually not a welcome omen. His informant, in filthy robes, with wild dirty hair and rather wild-eyed, took him by the arm and pulled him along. ‘Brothers and sisters!’ he called to the crowd. ‘Look! Fener is with us!’

Heads turned and a great cheer went up. The crowd closed round him, men and women reaching out to touch the tattoos – this, at least, was familiar to Heboric. During the holy days of Fener it was quite common for strangers to reach out to the Gift of the Boar.

He was drawn along towards the front of the main press, cries of ‘Fener!’ rising all about. At the head of the crowd, in front of one particular cave opening crowded with candles, garlands and offerings, sat four aged men, all alike in dirty loincloths and tangled ropy hair. One of these straightened, waving him forward. ‘Come!’ he invited. ‘Grace us with the Boar’s wisdom.’

Quite bemused, Heboric found himself urged along to sit with the four. He nodded a greeting. ‘I understand you have been blessed with a visitation …’