Stormlands 01 - The Islander by John Maddox Roberts

Author:John Maddox Roberts [Roberts, John Maddox]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Sci Fi & Fantasy
Publisher: T. Doherty Associates
Published: 1990-01-30T00:00:00+00:00

When he awoke, only a single, low-burning candle lit the room. She was gone, and it was as if she had never been there, save that her scent, animal-sharp, rose from his body. Weakly, drained, he fumbled for his clothing and weapons, then made his unsteady way back toward his quarters. He felt as if he had been consumed from within by a spirit that fed on youth and strength, leaving him a shell. And he longed to experience it again.

EIGHT

Hael vigorously brushed the cabo, careful to keep the direction of the strokes the same as the lie of the animal’s hair. The cabo’s coat was growing longer and coarser, preparing for the winter to come. He found the work to be pleasant, more so than tending kagga. Kagga were herd animals, and it was difficult to feel anything for a single kagga. Each cabo, he had discovered, had a distinct personality.

These gentle riding beasts lacked the ferocious heart of a young purebred like Moonfire, but they were still creatures of deep spirit, and in many ways he found them more familiar and congenial than the people of this city. Only a few of the cabo handlers felt anything like his rapport with the cabos, and those were all outlanders like himself, from primitive tribal peoples.

He was glad that they were soon to be leaving, but he was torn by it as well. The lure of far lands was strong, and so was his desire to get away, for the city and the palace now seemed a perilous place, full of hidden danger and smiling enemies. Every day, strangers found excuses to speak with him, always friendly, always steering the conversation toward his host and his host’s daughter. Sometimes there were subtle hints that high rewards might be his should he find any interesting information about the pair and pass it along to his new friends. Inexperienced as he was, Hael had better sense than that. Always, he put them off with polite words. At a dockside tavern, he had spoken of this to Malk.

“By every god that is, boy, get away from that place!” the shipmaster had cried, his eyes wide with alarm.

“But who are these people?” Hael asked.

Malk held a hand before his face, fingers spread. As he made each point, he bent a finger down. “First, there are enemies of Lord Pashir, looking for any evidence of treason with which to denounce him. An intimate dinner with the Omian ambassador might have been a good opportunity for that. Second”—another finger went down— “agents of the king, keeping tabs on the Councilor on general principles. Third”—another finger— “Pashir’s own servants, checking to see if you are a spy planted on him by his enemies, or, possibly, the king. It may have occurred to Pashir that it was an amazing coincidence that an expert kagga-handler was there just when her ladyship needed one; a temple servant sticks a thorn in its rump and the handsome young stranger leaps forth to save the day.

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