Cerúlia’s body ached after her ride into the barren countryside, and she would have loved a long massage, but she didn’t allow herself to rest. Early the next morning she used her dagger to pry the rest of the gems out of the amethyst headband, arriving at the jeweler’s shop when it opened its shutters. Now she had enough knowledge of Wye currency and the stones’ value to drive a fair bargain.
She headed toward the river district. Salubriton was a large city and her destination far off. Walkers and their parasols made navigating the sidewalks tricky and tiring.
But what impeded her progress most was that her Talent now linked her with the minds of the gamels.
Yoo-hoo, Queenie! they called to her, craning their lengthy necks to stare at her. Yooo-hooo! Over here! Dost thou want to stroke one’s soft coat? Why hast thou been so quiet? Stuck up? Yooo-hooo! Thou hear one now! Come scratch one’s forehead! One wants to smell thee close.
So many gamels called to her that Cerúlia felt under assault.
Queenie! One is right here! sent a gamel waiting by the sidewalk in front of a carriage. It nipped at her shirtsleeve for attention.
“Sorry, damselle,” said the driver. He flicked his whip at the animal. “Don’t know what got into him.”
Cerúlia shrank away from the forward animal and forced herself to resist the blandishments coming at her from all directions.
I’m sorry I’ve been uncommunicative. You are all bewitching, but I can’t stop to get acquainted today. I’m in a hurry.
Most people she asked had never heard of the tavern she sought. When she finally located it, around midday, she understood why. Shipmates tavern was a dark, small establishment, on a side street, with a battered sign missing the “a” in “mates.”
The tavern looked so still that Cerúlia suspected it was closed, but when she tried the door, it swung open easily enough, leading her down three steps into the main room, a dingy place that was larger on the inside than it had appeared on the outside. The room smelled of unwashed wool and fried fish. A bald, middle-aged barkeep stood behind the counter. Several customers, each sitting alone, were already drinking their midmeals. A fiddler, playing tunes in a foreign scale, sawed away in a nearby room.
Cerúlia approached the barkeep. “I am looking for a man named ‘Ciellō,’” she said.
“What’s your business with Ciellō?” he asked without warmth, glancing at her quickly and then going back to drying bar glasses.
“My business with Ciellō is my business,” she said.
“Hmmpf. Go away, little girl, you bother me.”
“I’m not overly fond of you either, but unless you are Ciellō that hardly matters.”
“I’m not Ciellō,” he said. “You don’t even know what he looks like, do you?”
“No, I don’t. But I promised Sezirō of Zerplain I would speak with him, and I don’t care whether that pleases you or not.”
One of the customers called out in slurred speech, “How is old Sezirō?”
Cerúlia kept her eyes on the barkeep. “He’s dead. Two days ago.”
The barkeep flinched and made a gesture she had seen Sezirō make, blowing air into his hands and then setting it free.
“All right, you’ve told us. Now git out of here, little girl, afore I lose my temper.”
“For the third time, I want to speak to Ciellō,” she said, unyielding.
“I am Ciellō,” said a male voice behind her. Cerúlia turned. She saw a man of mid height; his dark brown hair, with two prominent magenta streaks at his temples, was meticulously braided. She found it hard to gauge his age; he might be in his early thirties. He held a fiddle bow. “Come.” He motioned with the bow toward the inner room where he’d been practicing. “We can talk in here.”
She followed him into the room and closed the door behind her. They sat opposite one another at a small, scarred table holding only a burned-down candlestick. For a few moments they regarded one another without speaking.
Something he saw made Ciellō address her with more respect than the barkeep. “What must I do for you, damselle?” he asked in a low tone.
“Sezirō suggested I hire you as a bodyguard. I promised Sezirō I would consider the idea.”
A sad smile played across Ciellō’s lips. “Did Sezirō braid your hair, damselle? That pattern has a name—did you know that?”
Cerúlia touched the elaborate plaits, which were starting to come unraveled since Sezirō had braided them days ago. “No, I didn’t.”
“The pattern, it says, ‘Beloved of the Zellish.’”
“Sezirō was my friend. I tried to comfort him as he lay suffering from the wound you inflicted on him.”
“Yes, I stabbed him,” said Ciellō without noticeable remorse. “Did Sezirō tell you of the fight?”
“No. Only that it was his fault, and that you were more skilled than he was.”
Ciellō nodded. With restrained exactitude, he moved the candlestick on the table just a tiny bit so that it was perfectly centered. Cerúlia noticed the grace in his movements and the ripple of muscle in his arm and his neck.
“Excuse me, damselle, but you dress like—like a boy who works with donkeys. You no look to be a woman needing protection.”
“If you don’t understand that looks can be deceiving you are of scant use to me,” Cerúlia replied. “What good is a bodyguard who is fooled by a manner of dress?”
“I no say fooled I was. At your waist you wear a dagger. So sharp that it already cuts his new sheath. You keep it sharp because you are frightened, no? And it is gold because you are no a stable boy, though you hide as one. I see that too in your eyes.”
Cerúlia just nodded, considering.
“And you carry a sack of gold coins above your left hip.”
“How did you know that?”
“The coins make the purse sag. But you are wise to put it to the left to keep your right hand free for the dagger, no?”
“How do you know I have coins and not rocks or candies?”
“When you walk they make a very small sound.”
She nodded and smoothed her hand across the empty tabletop. “I need to book passage to a destination hundreds of leagues away. I don’t want to worry at night about sailors’ lusts or greed. How would you ensure that I could sleep well?”
“I would hang my hammock in front of your stateroom door, damselle. No one would dare bother you.”
“How much do you charge for your services, Ciellō?”
“It depends. If you want me only guard the body, I charge two hundred gold pieces. If you want me as manservant and advisor too, I charge one hundred fifty.”
“You charge less for doing more jobs?”
“Aye, because on your own you make the mistakes foolish. If you take advice, it is easier to keep you alive. To keep me alive.”
Cerúlia found his cool assumption of superiority irritating. “Don’t you want to ask me how long the job would last?”
“Already included. We sail to Cascada, no?”
“How did you know that?”
“I hear your accent. Also, word has passed all over town of the generous reward for news of the young woman from Weirandale.”
Cerúlia recalled all of Healer’s warnings, and her heart sped up. “Circulated by whom and where?”
“Among the river folk and pickpockets.”
“Are you going to claim this reward?” asked Cerúlia, staring straight at the man, hoping she could read the truth.
“No,” he answered.
“Why?”
“Money matters to me little. And, I told you, the braid says ‘Beloved of the Zellish.’”
“Take your payment now,” said Cerúlia, making her decision.
“Why, damselle?”
“Sezirō would not have sent me to a man without honor. If he was mistaken, better I should know that now; better that you abscond with the money now, rather than later. Besides, as you say, the coin weighs down my purse.”
She counted out the gold pieces. She noticed he laid out his palm so that the coins didn’t clink on the table, and he separated the coins into three pockets with a sleek motion.
“Now, what do you advise, Advisor?”
“I want that you, a lone Weir woman, do not inquire about the ships; you leave such to me.” He looked her up and down. “I advise also that you purchase clothes fit for the daughter of a merchant so wealthy, or peoples will question why you employ a manservant. I think—the parasol with white fringe; that is the emblem of a trading family from north Wyeland; they have the long feud with dangerous rivals. Your parents would never permit you travel without protection.”
“A white fringe,” she assented.
“Where are you lodging?” he asked.
“The Bread and Balm Recovery House.”
He raised his eyebrows high. “Ah. Not a public house. That is why you haven’t yet been spotted. I will send you a message when passage is arranged. You must not come back here.”
“All right. Do you need money for the tickets?”
“Not now. You will pay me back and for the manservant costume when I know an exact amount.”
“Agreed,” she nodded.
“Now, you slap me hard—as if I to you make rudeness—and you leave the tavern angry, so angry. We will not want men in here to guess we make this deal.”
“Agreed.” Quickly, she concocted a story. “I came to tell you about Sezirō; you were fresh with me; and now I never want to see you again.” She placed her hands on the table edge, preparing to push her chair back. “But one more thing. When you book passage, bribe the seamaster so I can bring my dog.”
“You have the dog?” he asked, eyes opening wide. She had succeeded in surprising him.
“Not yet,” she answered, “but I will.”
Cerúlia stood up abruptly, making the chair screech against the wooden floorboards. “You murdering pig!” she shouted, in a carrying, furious tone. Then she slapped him as hard as she could across the face and strode out of the tavern.
Drought damn him! My hand stings so.
But that was very satisfying. I am tired of rude catamounts and ruder men telling me what I can and cannot do.