The God-Touched Man Read online

  “Thank you, Mr. Hodestis, but I think neither of us is trusting enough to allow you to work magic upon us.” Piercy brushed the shoulders of his coat, trying to remove the thin layer of moisture that had settled on him, but only succeeded in making the rain soak through to his shirt. “We will simply have to proceed as if your presence here is nothing out of the ordinary, my lady. You are a traveler, we are your native guides, as it were, and we will answer no questions unless we cannot avoid it.”

  “I still think a spell—”

  “No,” Piercy and Lady Sethemba said in unison.

  “Well, it won’t be necessary,” Hodestis said. “I have money.” He dug into his trousers pocket and came out with a small purse. He reached into it and came out with a handful of gold coins that made Piercy’s mouth fall open. “There are more sewn into the hem of my coat,” he said. “It took me almost a year to amass the right kind of coin.”

  “I see,” Piercy said faintly. “Then I suppose we have no need to pretend Lady Sethemba is royalty.”

  “We might not have a choice. She stands out.”

  “Do not refer to me as if I were not standing behind you,” Lady Sethemba said.

  “My apologies, my lady. I meant only that your appearance is striking, and people will either revere you or fear you.”

  “Fear me?”

  “Ah,” said Piercy, “well, I did say that people in this era believed all Santerrans to be noble…but they also believe some of them are evil sorcerers. We may have to defend ourselves against such.”

  Lady Sethemba said something in Santerran Piercy guessed was a profanity. “We must push on, then,” she said. “We cannot stay long in Rainoth.”

  “You might wait for us outside the city,” Hodestis said. Lady Sethemba’s lip curled disdainfully. “Or not,” he added.

  “In any case, we should move on, and hope the rain loses interest in soaking us and travels elsewhere,” Piercy said.

  Four very wet hours later, they came upon a prosperous-looking farm, and Piercy, having relieved Hodestis of some of his coin, bartered for supper and shelter for the night. The tight-lipped farmer’s wife agreed to let Lady Sethemba sleep in their spare room and offered Piercy and Hodestis the hayloft, which Piercy grudgingly accepted. It wouldn’t be the worst place he’d ever slept, though it was five years since he’d had to sleep rough on the ground, following Evon in his pursuit of the Fearsome Firemage. At least it would be out of the rain.

  Piercy nestled into his bed of hay and let his mind drift. Rainoth tomorrow, and then on eastward. Beside him, Hodestis gave a little snort and rolled over. He’d been perfectly cooperative, hadn’t even made noises about leaving them behind, had recruited them for his mad scheme—he wanted them to trust him, which naturally meant Piercy couldn’t trust him at all, except to do what suited his plans. Keep an eye on him, he told himself, in fact, keep both eyes on him, and eventually he’ll reveal himself.

  Chapter Eight

  The Rainoth of two hundred and fifty years in the past—Piercy couldn’t keep track of how Hodestis referred to all the different times, so he stuck with what made sense to him—was so small. He knew the city well—it was his birthplace, after all—but so much of what made it the great city it was in his time hadn’t been built yet. No coaching plaza surrounded by inns, no clock tower, no cathedral to the Twins that brought people from all over Dalanine to worship and admire.

  On the other hand, he was surprised at how many buildings he recognized, places that were still standing two hundred and fifty years later, though it didn’t look like many of them were being used for the purposes he remembered. The school where he’d learned reading and writing was in this era an inn doing very good business, for example. He tried not to gawk, but it was hard not to feel as if he’d come upon his mother dressed in a tavern bawd’s skimpy gown.

  The crowds were the same, though, and he had to lead Lady Sethemba’s horse and hang on to Hodestis’s wrist to keep them from becoming separated by the midday throng. Voices speaking in heavy accents mingled together to produce a pleasant, unintelligible murmur Piercy didn’t bother trying to untangle. He was too busy watching for anyone who might be inclined to pay too much attention to Lady Sethemba, who rode with her hood pulled well forward. It wasn’t enough to conceal her face entirely, and she was getting any number of curious glances, but no one seemed inclined to accost them.

  A couple of inquiries led to the unhappy discovery that in this era, no one built wagons for general purchase, only on an as-needed basis. Hodestis became nearly frantic at this delay until Piercy assured him they would not wait for a wagon to be built for them. He asked a few more questions, extracted more money from Hodestis, and left him purchasing supplies with Lady Sethemba while he found the warehouse district.

  It was exactly where it was—would be—in his time, though with fewer and smaller warehouses. Dozens of wagons were loading and unloading; he examined them closely and finally approached one, a very elderly wagon that nevertheless showed signs of good maintenance. “Good morning,” he said to the woman who was just unloading the last sack of grain from the wagon bed.

  “Morning,” she said, eyeing him suspiciously. She had a lined face that looked as old as her wagon and much less well cared for, though Piercy guessed it was simply the result of working out of doors in all seasons and not because she was slovenly. Her clothes were neatly mended, but worn, and her boots needed to be replaced.

  “Good harvest?” he said, trying to match her accent. It was easier to understand the more he heard it. Master Killiter will be stunned to learn his linguistic theory is wrong.

  “Why do you care?”

  “Because I think we can help each other. That was your last load, wasn’t it?”

  “Get the hell out of my way, plusher.” She made as if to brush past him.

  “My point is, you don’t need that wagon anymore, and I do,” Piercy said, and made a coin appear between his index and middle fingers. She stopped, her eyes fixed on the coin.

  “My family is heading east to settle near the mountains,” he said. “We want to establish ourselves well before the snows come, so we don’t want to wait for a wagon to be built. You, on the other hand, have all winter, if you wish. I’m willing to pay you the cost of a new wagon, plus something extra for your inconvenience, in exchange for that one.”

  Now she looked at him. “How much?”

  “Twenty crowns,” Piercy said, hoping his information and keen bargaining skills were in top shape.

  “Thirty,” she shot back. “Wagons are expensive.”

  “Twenty-two,” Piercy said. “They’re not that expensive.”

  She thought about it. “Twenty-seven.”

  Piercy made a show of examining the wagon, and said, “Twenty-five, and you throw in the horse.”

  “Done,” she said, spitting into her palm and holding out her hand. Piercy repeated the gesture with only the smallest inward quiver of disgust.

  He climbed up onto the high seat, worn smooth by the backsides of a score of drivers, and drove back to where he’d left the other two. They’d moved a few stores down, but Lady Sethemba was striking despite having changed out of her dress into sturdy boots, rough trousers, and a linen shirt and felted wool coat in a style popular in that era. It was easy to find them.

  “Are we supplied?” he said.

  “Where did you get that?” Hodestis said. He, too, had changed his clothes and looked a good deal warmer than he had, though he carried his frock coat over his arm as if afraid someone might steal it. Given the contents of its hem, it was probably not a bad impulse.

  “Yes, did someone pay you to take it away?” Lady Sethemba said.

  “I had to use my considerable skills as a haggler to acquire this at a price we could afford,” Piercy said, “and you should both stand in awe of my prowess. Now, let us load the wagon and be on our way.”

  Piercy could see Lady Sethemba’s hand in selecting the goods they’d bought: plenty of lon
g-lasting staples, a small supply of cookware, a couple of hardy tents that would be easy to erect, and, to his surprise, a set of workman’s clothes in his size. He cajoled a merchant into letting him use her back room to change and came out feeling considerably warmer than he had since arriving in this time. “I am impressed you were able to choose so well,” he said to Lady Sethemba. “The trousers are a trifle large, but nothing of consequence.”

  “My observation skills are excellent,” she said. “It is from tracking the pales through the jungles for five years.” She went around the front of the wagon to mount the piebald mare, which now had a normal saddle.

  “Is that how you see us? As pales? Because I imagine it would be difficult not to associate our Dalanese folk with the Despot’s men, given how similar we look.”

  Sitting on the horse’s back, she was almost level with Piercy on the wagon seat. “I did once,” she said quietly. “But you are different.” She nudged the horse into a walk, and Piercy, after a moment of confusion, followed her. Did she mean the Dalanese were different—or had she meant him?

  “We’re ready to leave, then?” Hodestis said from where he rode in the wagon’s bed. They’d discussed getting a horse for him, but he admitted he wasn’t a very good rider. Ultimately Piercy had decided they wouldn’t travel any faster for having a third horse, and it would only mean more mouths to feed.

  “We are on our way to the eastern gate as we speak,” Piercy said, steering the wagon through the crowds after Lady Sethemba. She was definitely more comfortable without the skirts hampering her movement. Piercy tried to get the horse, a bay gelding with considerably more spirit than the animal had earlier displayed, to move faster, but it was as if they were swimming against the tide of people filling the street. “Please stay close,” he called out. “I think we should not be separated here.”

  Lady Sethemba turned in the saddle and nodded at him. A rider passed them going the opposite direction and nodded at Lady Sethemba with a very admiring look. She ignored him.

  “There are more horses approaching,” she said, “and they don’t look like they’re going to move out of the way.”

  The little group of horses not only wasn’t giving way to anyone, it was pushing the crowd to either side like a harrow, leaving clear space before and behind it. Piercy tugged on the horse’s reins and moved the wagon to one side as best he could. “Who are they?” Hodestis said. “Someone important?”

  “They certainly believe they are,” Piercy said. He could see them more clearly now, five matched chestnut horses saddled and bridled with vivid colors and bells whose chiming he could barely hear over the crowd, and that only because those nearest the riders had gone quiet. The riders, by contrast, wore close-fitting dark clothes that made them look like sneak thieves and hats shaped like upside-down bird’s nests of black felt. One of them looked in their direction as the group passed. Piercy had just enough time to register that what he’d thought was a veil over the man’s face was actually his face, which was dark, though not nearly as dark as Lady Sethemba’s, before the man shouted in heavily accented Santerran and pointed directly at them.

  Lady Sethemba looked at Piercy, then back at the riders, who were shoving their way toward them. “I think we should go,” she said.

  “I agree,” said Piercy. He dragged at the bay’s reins, using the wagon’s mass to push people aside, or try to, because they were still pressing toward the riders to get a look at the spectacle. “Out of the way!” he shouted, then turned to look back at the riders and found himself face to face with one of them.

  The man grabbed him and tried to wrench him off the seat. Piercy fought back, but the man outweighed him by at least fifty pounds. Piercy was pulled toward him, then off the wagon and to the ground, landing painfully hard on his hands and knees. The man slid off his horse and grabbed Piercy by the shoulders, forcing him back against the wagon bed.

  Lady Sethemba shouted, in anger, not in pain or fear, but he was too busy struggling with his attacker to help her. He grabbed hold of the man’s arms and used them as support as he brought both feet off the ground and kicked the man solidly in the stomach, making him stumble backward and let Piercy go.

  Piercy caught himself on the side of the wagon and regained his balance. “What’s happening?” Hodestis shouted. Another man came at him and he had no attention to spare for a response. This one was at least six inches taller than Piercy and twice as big around. If he got his hands on Piercy, it would be all over.

  Piercy dodged, ducked under the man’s arm away from the trap the wagon had become, and punched him hard in the kidneys. The giant barely winced, instead aiming a punch at Piercy’s head he had to step backward to avoid. Then someone grabbed him from behind. Piercy flung his head backward to smash his captor’s nose, but struck nothing.

  He twisted, saw Lady Sethemba thrashing at the horse’s reins to fight through the crowd toward him, but could not break free. “Let go!” he shouted. He thrashed again as his captor passed him off to the man-mountain, who held him immobile while someone wrenched his hands behind his back and bound them tightly.

  He twisted again, this time managing to break the giant’s grip. Something cold and sharp touched the back of his neck and he went very still. “Yes,” someone said in his ear. The voice was raspy and Piercy could barely understand that the man was speaking Santerran, let alone his meaning. Hands shoved him to the ground, and rope went around his ankles to bind them. “Do not fight, pale, or be killed now. Though if the princess is harmed, your life will be forfeit regardless.”

  It took Piercy a moment to parse his words. “What princess?” said, though he could barely talk because they were grinding his face into the rough stone of the road. “What are you talking about?”

  “The Princess Fahari Kuniwazi,” the raspy voice said. “Do not behave as if you do not know. The noble lady you kidnapped.”

  “What?” Piercy exclaimed. “You are entirely mistaken. She is not a princess and I have kidnapped no one—ow!”

  The man-mountain picked him up and slung him over his shoulder. His accent was even less intelligible than that of the raspy-voiced man, and all Piercy understood of the stream of bubbling syllables was “Silence.”

  Piercy bucked and thrashed, but the man threw him over a horse’s haunches and he had to stop for fear of falling off. “Attend,” the raspy-voiced man said, and the horses moved off at a faster clip than before. Piercy could see the watching crowds only as a colorful blur, and one which made no move to stop his abductors. Not that he could blame them, given the speed and forcefulness with which he’d been attacked. His head ached, his face felt raw from being ground into the paving stones, and his hands tingled with the beginnings of numbness. He tried to lift his head, slipped on the horse’s back, and went back to lying still. This was just a huge misunderstanding. Lady Sethemba would tell them who she was, they would release him, and—

  He felt suddenly sicker than the horse’s motion could account for. Hodestis. Where had he gone? Had he been captured as well? Or had he escaped? This was the perfect opportunity for him to slip away from his captors, and Piercy had no doubt he’d take it. Now they were trapped in the past permanently.

  He let his head rest on the jouncing hindquarters of the horse. It was surprisingly soothing. No point in fretting about Hodestis until they were free of the Santerrans. Piercy wasn’t exactly helpless—all right, he was helpless at the moment, but he was skilled at tracking people down, and Lady Sethemba was the sort of woman who would stick to her prey like a particularly ferocious bloodhound. They didn’t have to give up yet.

  The faces of the crowds gave way to a much paler blur of walls striped with dark beams, too close to Piercy’s face for comfort, then the path widened out and he could see fat gray bricks paving what was probably the courtyard of an inn. He twisted his head just enough to see another of those dark-beamed buildings, this one covered in so many diagonal patterns it was hard to see the white plaster between them, with win
dows made of palm-sized squares of glass too thick to easily see through.

  Then hands pulled him roughly from the horse and toted him as if he were a bundle of straw through the front door of the inn, down a narrow, dark hall like the inside of a coffin and through a smaller door his captor had to duck to pass through. He threw Piercy on a pile of sacks that sent up a cloud of grain dust when he landed, making Piercy sneeze so hard he thought he might go into convulsions. “Later,” the man said, shutting the door, and the key turned in the lock with a rasping clunk.

  Once he was done sneezing and his eyes had stopped watering, Piercy lay back on his pile of grain sacks and examined the room. There was a narrow, rectangular window high in the wall opposite the door, too small even for a cat to fit through. It didn’t illuminate the room very well either, so it was unclear what its purpose was. Unmarked barrels made a pyramid in one corner, teetering too precariously for Piercy’s comfort. The door was made of heavy oak that would have been more suited to guarding a treasure chamber than this unimportant storage room.

  Piercy sneezed once again and heard tiny claws skitter across the floor toward the barrels. Rats. A rat, anyway. “A companion in my confinement,” Piercy said, then closed his eyes and cursed. This was not the time for levity.

  He wormed his way down his left leg toward his boot and the small blade he kept concealed there. It wasn’t more than two inches long, but it wasn’t meant for attack, it was meant for circumstances exactly like these. Odd how Lady Sethemba hadn’t bought him boots to go with his new clothes; these weren’t well-suited to traveling, but they contained any number of surprises he would prefer not to do without. She was either even more observant than he’d guessed, or thought the way he did. Probably both.

  He stopped with his fingertips brushing the top of his boot. Without knowing what Lady Sethemba was telling those men, he couldn’t know whether he should reveal all his little secrets. If they came back and found he’d freed himself, and she hadn’t been able to convince them of the truth, they’d either kill him immediately or confine him rather more successfully. On the other hand, if Hodestis was right about how long it would take to reach the monastery, he wouldn’t waste any time in leaving, and he could be gone from Rainoth before Lady Sethemba could straighten this mess out. He didn’t have time to wait. He tugged the knife free of the boot sheath and began cutting himself free.