The Black Raven - Katharine Kerr [6]
Past taverns, past craftsmen’s shops he jogged, looking at each door, peering into shadows while cold sweat ran down his back and his chest ached—nowhere did he find it. He ran again, then slowed to a stumbling walk. Around him the city lay dark and silent. The night hung over the river, an oily rush of dark water against a darker sky. Salamander stopped, listening. Water slapped against wooden docks. Footsteps rustled on stone. With a roar to the Lords of Fire, he spun around and flung up both hands. A gust of silver flame towered up and lit the alley in a cold glare. Black shadows outlined every stone on wall and street and seemed to carve some incomprehensible meaning into them. Thieves shrieked and ran, dashing away down the alley—two small men, carrying knives. In the dying light from the silver flare he watched them till they skittered around a corner and disappeared. Salamander laughed, then headed to the riverbank. He could follow it upstream to the caravanserai.
He arrived to find the troupe clustering around a fire and talking. Marka paced back and forth at the edge of the pool of light, and every now and then she dropped her face to her hands as if she wept.
“Here!” Salamander called out. “What’s so wrong?”
The troupe froze, then burst out laughing and cheering all at once. Marka ran to him and flung her arms around him.
“My thanks to every god!” Her voice quavered on the edge of sobs. “I was so worried.”
Salamander slipped his arms around her waist and held her while he murmured small soothing noises. At last her trembling quieted.
“Have I been gone so long?” he said.
“Well past the midnight bells, yes.” She looked up at him. “Why did you run like that?”
“I don’t remember.” He felt himself yawn and shook his head. “I’m exhausted, my love. I’ve got to go lie down.”
That morning Marka gave up on sleep early. When the sun was rising in a pink blaze of distant fog, and the sea wind was making the tents flap and rustle, she put on a short dress and went outside, yawning and stretching in the cool air. As she glanced around, she saw a stranger, dressed in Bardekian tunic and sandals, leading his horse through the camp. He saw her, waved, and strolled over. His skin was as pale as Ebañy’s, and his eyes a strange turquoise color, as vivid as the stones, but since he wore a leather riding hat pulled down over his ears, she could see nothing of his hair.
“Good morning,” Marka said. “Are you looking for someone?”
“Yes, actually. The magician who performed in the marketplace last night.”
“Indeed? Well, I happen to be his wife.”
“Ah. How do you do?” The stranger swept off his hat and bowed to her. “I’m a friend of his father’s.”
Marka stared like a rude child, then pulled her gaze away. His ears were impossibly long, impossibly furled, and pointed.
“Well, then, good sir.” She found her voice with a little gulp. “You’re certainly welcome in our humble camp.”
“Thank you. My name is Evandar.”
“My husband’s still asleep.” Marka glanced back at the tent and saw the flap moving. “Or no, here he is.”
Salamander stepped outside, saw Evandar, and screamed aloud.
“No, no, no!” Evandar said. “I’m here to help you, truly I am. What’s so wrong?”
“There’s nothing to you,” Salamander said, and he was shaking so badly his hands knocked together. “You’re not really here.”
“Well, I’m here as much I can be anywhere.” Evandar looked down at himself and frowned. “Everyone else always thinks I look solid enough. Your charming wife, for instance, didn’t shriek at the sight of me.”
“Indeed?” Ebañy turned to her. “What do you see, when you look at him?”
“Just a man like any other, as pale as you are, and so I guess he must be from your homeland. But I don’t understand what you’re saying. His ears are—well, forgive me, sir—but they’re awfully strange, but otherwise,