The Nightborn by Isabel Cooper (howl and other poems TXT) 📗

think well of them, as much as she could let herself think well of any living soul in Heliodar yet, particularly those in the nobility. She was also inclined to believe that her absence from the house that day was a relief for all parties.

Branwyn certainly felt more herself in the lower city. Physically, it was much less enjoyable, but it was a trip back to a world on her scale—a world where she at least felt mistress of whatever she might encounter.

The great houses gradually shrank, as did the gardens in front of them, and the iridescent coating on the roofs—the shine that had given the Star Palace its name—became small patterns or disappeared entirely. Down near the water, the large buildings were warehouses, the streets were twisted and narrow, and many of the inns, shops, and houses were patchwork, made or repaired with materials from other buildings that had been destroyed during the Great Winters. The tavern where her third conversation ran dry, for instance, had a foundation of gray rock, then became half redbrick and half smooth, gray wood.

Inside, it was a tavern much like most other half-decent examples of its type: dark, quiet during the day, and smelling strongly of cheap wine, which was one of the better options. The bartender was happy enough to talk, but all of her stories sounded fairly normal: her nephew’s apprenticeship as a smith, how much she was anticipating an upcoming festival, the rumors of war.

“But you’d know, hmm?” she asked, refilling Branwyn’s wineglass. “Criwath, by your accent. How bad is it?”

“Bad,” said Branwyn, recalling the siege of Oakford, the smell of fire and mass death. “Or it was. The twistedmen retreated, but I’m certain they’re planning their next move, and even far away from the front lines, everybody’s on edge. Uneasy. How are matters here?”

“Eh.” The bartender shrugged, her tan shoulders a striking contrast to the light green of her chemise. “Folk talk, but that’s all. Worst that’s happened here this week is a fight over cards—one of ’em got knifed in the side, but I hear his friends got him to Verengir quick enough. The Mourners didn’t even have to waste their strength.”

The name was a firework on a quiet summer night. Branwyn’s head didn’t actually jerk, she was fairly sure, but it was a near thing. “Verengir?”

“Mm-hmm. The lord’s younger son. He—and one of the waterfolk now, though gods know why they want to be messing about with humans—run a place down near the market, healing with herbs and needles and whatnot. Handsome lad,” she added. “If I weren’t married, I’d not mind having him see to a few of my problems.”

The waterfolk, Yathana put in, might have a different view of the city from most. Worth meeting. And worth finding out what your councillor is doing down here, if he’s the same man.

“A lord’s son as a healer?” Branwyn sipped her wine, which was sharp and a touch spiced. “Was he disinherited?”

“Not at all—well, he’s on the council, and he wouldn’t be there if the old man had cast him off, stands to reason. Some say he had his heart broken and does good deeds to forget, and others that he did something real wicked and this is penance.”

“What do you think?”

“I dunno. But he doesn’t act wicked. Or heartbroken.”

* * *

Getting thanked for being useless was enough to break a man’s heart.

Chessa, the missing boy’s mother, had been past the point of weeping or rage. When Zelen sent Nislar back to his brother’s servant and presented the bad news, her thin face had only shown weary numbness. “I’d not had much hope,” she said, a phrase Zelen suspected covered more than the last two days. “Thank you for trying, m’lord.”

He wished she’d slapped him.

There would be no comfort in his house, just Gedomir, who’d likely find a comment or two to make before he left for the country. Zelen couldn’t predict whether the subject would be Chessa’s child-rearing—and by extension that of nearly every family near the docks—the hope that other children would profit from this sad example of recklessness, or the better ways that Zelen himself could spend his time. He doubted he could sit through any of them with equanimity, and so he turned toward the clinic.

He was in sight of the flat-topped little yellow building when he saw another figure approaching it. The afternoon shadows were growing long, and the person was wearing dark clothing, so they blended well. It took another few feet before he could tell that the figure was an athletic woman with a sword at one hip, and he was nearly at the clinic itself before he recognized Branwyn Alanive.

“Poram’s balls, what are you doing here?” was the first thing he said.

Her cool blue gaze reminded him that he’d had manners once. “Following the path of a rumor,” said Branwyn mildly. “I’ll admit it’s fairly nosy of me, but I didn’t realize I’d be intruding.”

“It… No, you’re not… Well…” In the strictest sense, no, she wasn’t. The streets were public and the clinic welcomed all during its hours. In a slightly less-strict sense, as Branwyn had said, she was prying, and he certainly hadn’t anticipated her presence. She didn’t jar on his nerves after the surprise, though, as Gedomir had the night before. “I’m not very good company now, I’m afraid,” Zelen said, which was the core of the issue.

Branwyn gave him a long examination, one that took in his matted hair, the shallow scratch on his forehead from trying to crawl under a broken staircase, and the dirty, torn state of his plain clothing. “You certainly look more disheveled than you did when we met before,” she said, “not to mention more exhausted. Can I buy you a glass of wine, or would you rather go find a bath and a few hours of sleep?”

She spoke matter-of-factly, as though she met with filthy, tired, slightly battered people every day. It took a moment for Zelen to remember