The Yellow Silk - Don Bassingthwaite [18]
"I can sleep under my coat."
She snorted. "I could sleep under your coat just as well. I slept under coats and cloaks a thousand times while I was traveling!"
"You're not traveling anymore-and aren't blankets warmer than a coat?" Tycho steered Veseene over to her couch. "Besides, I need to stay awake for at least a while to tend the fire. I'll be fine."
Veseene grumbled, but finally gave up her protests. She settled down onto the couch and drew the blankets over herself. Tycho gave the fire a careful stir, heaping the coals up around the oak log, then he pulled his cot over closer to it and picked up his coat. The garment was still wet from his walk home. He grimaced and wrapped it around himself anyway before stretching out on the cot.
In the shadows, Veseene sighed. "Don't think about it, Veseene," Tycho said.
"I wish I could have done more. Once-"
"Once you could have healed him and sent him out dancing afterward." He turned his head and glanced at her. His mentor's eyes reflected the firelight. Her jaw was set and firm, but he knew that under the blankets her hands would be clasped tight, one around the other, as if that could prevent their shaking.
There were some things-some very few things-that magic couldn't heal.
There was a time, Tycho thought, when the voice of Veseene the Lark was known from coast to coast around the Sea of Fallen Stars. A time when her magic-the subtle spells of a bard rather than the pure power of a wizard or holy prayers of a priest-had enthralled taverns and festhalls and brought comfort to the common folk of towns and cities. A time, even in the fading days of her glory, when she had seen promise in the squeaking of a Spandeliyon dock rat and taken him for her apprentice, to travel with her and learn her songs and stories.
But no one, it turned out, had much use for a lark that could no longer fly.
Veseene closed her eyes and Tycho looked back to the fire. And Li Chien. The Shou's chest was rising and falling with the regular rhythm of sleep. Tycho drew a slow breath and let it out quietly. Gods bless us, I hope you appreciate my help this time, he thought, because Lander isn't going to. And if you're lucky, Brin will never even know you came looking for him.
***
"… fifty-eight, fifty-nine, sixty." Silver flashed in the candlelight as Giras counted. He looked up and blinked eyes still rheumy from having been woken in the middle of the night. "You're sure you don't want to part with that saber? I know someone who would pay very well for it."
"I'm keeping it." Lander swept a healthy pile of coins off Giras's counter and into his pouch. He picked up the Shou curved saber-back inside its sheath once more-and saluted the fence with it. "I've taken a fancy to it."
Giras shrugged. "Suit yourself. If you change your mind, though, bring it back. Just not so late next time."
"You sleep like you were an honest man, Giras."
Lander left the shop. The snow had stopped and the moon was peeking through the clouds, its light turning the fresh snow bright. Nico, Ovel, Bor, and Serg were waiting for him. They clustered around as soon as he appeared. "How much did you get?" Bor demanded.
"Fifty," lied Lander.
"Fifty?" Bor made a face. "That's only… " Lander saw his fingers move as he counted. "Ten each."
"Eight," Lander said. "Two of every ten to Brin." There were grumbles all around. Lander swept his men with 'a hard glare. "You'd rather get nothing? Or maybe you want to hold back on Brin and count your fingers when he's done with you?" He pulled coins out of his pouch and began distributing them.
"Hey!" complained Serg. "You kept the sword!"
"Is there a problem with that?"
Serg's anger faltered. "I could have used the coat," he whined.
"You can come back in the morning and buy it from Giras. I'm sure he'll give you a good price." Lander dropped the remaining coins back in his pouch and watched his men suspiciously count out their shares. "All there? Good. Go home. I'm going to see Brin. Anyone want to come with me?"
His men said