The Outcast Read online

  The Outcast

  Book 2 of the Time Master Trilogy by Louise Cooper

  Version 1.1

  Chapter 1

  ‘I’m telling you, you won’t find better foodstuffs anywhere in Shu, or Prospect or Han for that matter!’ The market trader thrust a handful of dark pinkish-purple roots under his customer’s nose and brandished them almost threateningly. ‘And I’ve better things to do on a market day than waste my time with an outland slut who probably hasn’t even got a coin to her name - so make your mind up now, before I set my dog on you!’

  The mangy cross-breed hound that was sprawled inelegantly under the rickety stall glowered jaundicedly at his master, and the girl the trader had addressed stared back coldly, unimpressed. She was too experienced a haggler these days to pay any attention to threats or insults; she had judged the quality of the fruit and vegetables on offer and made her own decision as to their worth. She thrust a dirty hand into her belt-pouch and pulled out a tarnished brass coin.

  ‘I said a quarter-gravine and I meant a quarter. Take it or leave it.’

  For a moment the man glared at her, resenting her manner, the fact that she refused to be intimidated, the ignominy of having to barter with a woman - and a low-class of woman - in the first place. But it was obvious she didn’t intend to give way, and a sale was a sale …

  Winter business was slack at the best of times.

  He snatched the money ungraciously and dumped the roots into the hemp bag she held out.

  ‘And the fruit,’ she said.

  Resentfully he threw six shrivelled pears in after the vegetables, then spat on the ground at her feet. ‘There!

  And may cats eat your carcass!’

  Quickly, reflexively, the girl made a gesture before her own face intended to ward off curses and negate the evil eye, and for a moment the look in her peculiar amber eyes made the trader feel distinctly uncomfortable. Something about her had raised his hackles; she was a coastal Easterner to judge by her accent, and they weren’t noted for feyness … but as she made that sign he’d felt as if the venom in his own words was being palpably turned back on him.

  Ah, damn the woman. Nothing but a peasant girl in handed-down men’s clothes … he had her money in his pocket, and that was what counted. Nonetheless, he watched her surreptitiously as she walked away, and the unease only left him when she had finally merged with the crowd and vanished from sight.

  Cyllan Anassan swallowed her anger as she headed back through the market square towards her uncle’s pitch on the outskirts of the clusters of stalls. She should be accustomed, by now, to the attitude of such men, especially here in the more affluent South - they expected a girl of her age and lowly status to be at best a simpleton; and when they failed to palm her off with the dregs of their produce at extortionate prices, they resorted to abuse. Admittedly Shu-Nhadek - province capital of Shu - was an improvement on many towns she had visited, but the cavalier treatment still rankled. And when all was said and done, she had come away with substandard foodstuffs that would take twice the cooking to make them palatable.

  She would have liked to linger at the better end of the market and choose from the succulent vegetables on sale there - and, she admitted to herself, have had the secret pleasure of mingling with the high-clan folk who graced those stalls with their custom - but the thought of her uncle’s rage at such profligacy had deterred her. If he was sober she’d feel the buckle of his belt across her back; if he was drunk he would probably kick her from one end of the square to the other.

  Unconsciously goaded by that thought, she quickened her steps, muttering an apology as she bumped against a group of well-dressed women who were gossiping beside a stand selling sweetmeats and wine, and tried to make haste through the crowd. But now that she had left the cheaper and less well-patronised section of the market behind, haste was impossible; the press of people had simply become too great. And the temptation to dawdle was irresistible; this was her first visit to Shu-Nhadek, and there was so much to see and take in. All around her the huge market square was filled with colour and movement; in the distance the jumbled rooftops and pastel-washed walls of the tall old buildings rose to frame the picture, and further away still, if she craned her neck to look, the slender masts of ships riding at anchor in the harbour were just visible. Shu-Nhadek was the largest and oldest sea-port in the entire land; sheltered in the South-facing Bay of Illusions and served by the kindly currents of the Summerisle Straits, it was a perfect year-round haven for traders and travellers alike. Most of the major drove-roads terminated at the town, and its proximity to the Summer Isle, home of the High Margrave himself, lent it a status no other province capital could hope to match. People from every walk of life imaginable could be found here; wealthy merchants, craftsmen, farmers, drovers like her uncle’s band, white-robed Sisters of Aeoris, even men and women from the Summer Isle taking a respite from the formalities of court life. And on the two days of the monthly market, the town’s population increased fivefold. Cyllan could have simply stood by and watched the bustle from dawn to dusk without ever growing bored.

  At last though, she was forced to stop altogether to allow a groom with several Southern blood-horses to lead his charges across her path. Waiting, Cyllan stared enviously at the tall, elegant animals - a far cry from the stocky and evil-tempered little pony she herself rode when she travelled with Kand Brialen and his drovers - and abruptly, unbidden, the colour and bustle and sheer exuberant life of the market brought back a memory that she had been trying for months to quell. A memory of another place, another festive occasion … and one beside which the grand market of Shu-Nhadek suddenly shrank to a pale echo. A spectacle that probably wouldn’t be repeated in her lifetime - the inaugural celebrations for the new High Initiate, at the Castle of the Star Peninsula on its remote stack far away in the North. It had been late Summer then, even the Northern climate kindly, and images of the ceremony and panoply, the unimaginably ancient Castle decorated with streamers and pennants, the long processions of nobility, the bonfires, the music, the dancing flashed through her inner vision as clearly as though she were seeing them again with her physical senses. She had even glimpsed the new High Initiate himself, Keridil Toln, young, assured and resplendent in his ceremonial robes, when his procession emerged through the Castle gates to give Aeoris’s blessing to the vast crowd.

  It had been an unforgettable experience … but the memory which had caused her both joy and pain over the last months stood apart from the glory of the celebrations. A man; tall, black-haired, pale-skinned, with a haunted disquiet in his green eyes; a sorcerer and high Adept of the Circle. They had met once before, by chance, and against all likelihood he had remembered her. She had been drinking some vile brew which she had bought with her last coin from a wine stall; he had tipped the cup’s contents on to the grass, given the stallholder a tongue-lashing and replaced the wine with a high quality vintage. And Cyllan, overcome by shyness and by an acute sense of her own lowliness, had made a feeble excuse and run away as soon as she prudently could. Since then she had regretted her cowardice a thousand times; yearned for another chance … but the chance hadn’t come her way. And later that same night, her psychic senses had told her that her dreams could have borne no fruit when she had conjured a vision of him in his private rooms, with a graceful, patrician girl, and had known that she was already forgotten …

  The horses had cleared the square now and the crowd moved forward again. Passing a stall that sold ornaments of fashioned metal and enamel, Cyllan paused suddenly as something, half hidden among the piled wares, caught her eye. She moved closer, peering, then looked guiltily towards the stallholder, expecting to be driven away.

  This trader, however, knew from experience that good customers often appeare
d in the most unlikely guises, and courteously nodded for her to continue. Encouraged, Cyllan took out the object which had intrigued her and held it up. It was a necklace; a finely wrought chain of copper from which depended three beaten copper discs. On the centremost and largest, a skilled craftsman had worked a filigree design in silver and blue enamel - a lightning-flash bisected by a single eye.

  The lightning-flash … symbol of an Adept …

  Cyllan bit her lip as memory surged again, and wondered how much the necklace might cost. She wouldn’t dare to haggle at a stall of this nature; and besides, she knew nothing of metal values. But she had a little money - a very little; one or two gravines she had managed to scrimp for herself over the months. And it would be so gratifying to own just one beautiful thing; one artefact to remind her …

  ‘Derret Morsyth’s one of the finest craftsmen in the province,’ the stallholder said suddenly. Cyllan started, then looked up at the man’s face. He had moved to stand opposite her, and there was no hostility in his eyes.

  ‘It’s … beautiful,’ she said.

  ‘Certainly. Mind you, he tends only to work with the lesser metals, and there’s some who’ll dismiss him because he doesn’t bedeck his pieces with gold and gems. But to my way of thinking, there can be as much beauty in a piece of copper or pewter as in any number of emeralds. It’s the hand and the eye that count, not the materials.’

  Cyllan nodded emphatically, and the man gestured to the necklace. ‘Try it on.’

  ‘No, I - I couldn’t … ‘

  He laughed. ‘You don’t know the price yet, girl!

  Derret Morsyth doesn’t overcharge, and neither do I.

  Try it - the copper almost matches your pretty eyes!’

  Cheeks reddened by the unaccustomed compliment, Cyllan hesitantly held the necklace up to her throat. The metal felt cool and heavy against her skin; it had a substantial feel to it… Half turning, she was about to let the stallholder fasten it for her when she glimpsed her own reflection in a polished bronze mirror, and what she saw destroyed her eagerness instantly.

  Pretty eyes, the stallholder had said … gods, she wasn’t pretty! Face plain, too tight and pinched, mouth too wide, and her amber eyes weren’t beautiful, merely peculiar. Her hair - so pale that it was almost white - hung in tatty strands round her shoulders; she’d made an effort this morning, for practicality’s sake, to tie it into a bunch at the nape of her neck, but now half of it had worked free and she looked like a scarecrow. Dirty old shirt, jerkin and trousers, handed on from a man in her uncle’s droving crew. And there on her breast hung the necklace she had coveted. It had been fashioned for a lady, not a down-at-heel urchin, and on her it became a grotesque parody.

  Quickly she looked away from the awful revelation, and put up a hand to stop the trader who was about to fasten the necklace’s clasp.

  ‘No. I - I’m sorry, but I can’t. Thank you, but I don’t want to buy it.’

  He was nonplussed. ‘It’s not expensive, girl. And any young woman surely deserves -’

  The attempt at kind persuasion was like a knife-thrust to Cyllan, and she shook her head violently. ‘No, please!

  I - haven’t got any money anyway. Not even a half-gravine. I’m sorry to have wasted your time … thank you.’ And before he could say another word she almost ran from the stall.

  The baffled trader stared after her until a new voice drew his attention back to his business. ‘Trader Rishak?’

  Collecting himself, Rishak looked at his customer, and recognised the eldest son of Shu’s Provincial Margrave.

  ‘Oh-forgive me, sir! I didn’t see you-I had my mind on that young woman there. An odd one if you please!’

  Drachea Rannak raised his eyebrows enquiringly. ‘Odd!’

  Rishak snorted, wryly amused. ‘First she shows great interest in one of Morsyth’s pieces - on the verge of buying it, mind you - then suddenly she’s changed her mind and bolted before I can say a word!’

  The young man smiled. They say it’s a woman’s privilege to be contrary.’

  ‘So they do … ah well, if I was a married man maybe I’d understand ‘em better. Now, sir; what can I show you today?’

  ‘I’m looking for a gift for my mother. It’s her birthanniversary in three days, and I’d like something special … and a little personal.’

  ‘For the Lady Margravine? Well, please give her my most respectful congratulations for the day! And I think I have just the thing for her good taste right here … ‘

  Only when she was well clear of the trinkets stall did Cyllan finally stop and get her breath. She was furious with herself, both for her initial vanity and for her foolish behaviour when she realised her mistake. What use would a necklace have been to her? Something to wear at her next social occasion, perhaps on her next visit to the Castle of the Star Peninsula? She almost laughed aloud. Something to get in her way when she was trying to stew her third-rate vegetables into edibility, more like! Or for her uncle to find and sell, and pocket the proceeds …

  Her heart was still thumping painfully with the ignominy of the experience, and she had an illogical conviction that everyone around her knew of her humiliation and was secretly laughing at her. She had finally halted near the door of a tavern at the square’s edge, and in a desultory attempt to cheer herself she pushed through the crowd and bought a mug of herb beer and a chunk of bread spread with milk-cheese. The tavern room was stiflingly overcrowded, so she found a quiet bench outside and watched the market shoppers go by while she slowly ate and drank.

  After a little while, a steadily droning voice from a booth next to the tavern caught her attention. The boothman was a fortune-teller, and was regaling his current customer with a long tale of great fortune and fame. Intrigued despite her mood, Cyllan edged closer until she could peer across and observe the proceedings - and her pulse quickened.

  The fortune-teller had cast six stones on to his table, and was apparently reading his client’s future from the pattern they formed. Geomancy was one of the most ancient techniques known in Cyllan’s Eastern homeland, and quickly she looked at the clairvoyant’s face, searching for the pale skin and distinctive features of a Flatlands native. But whatever else the man might be, he was no Easterner. And the stones … there should have been many of them, not merely six. And sand on which to cast them. And the pattern they formed was nothing but meaningless gibberish . , .

  Inwardly, Cyllan seethed. The fortune-teller was a charlatan, trading on superstition and on a psychic skill that was long dead but for a few secret practitioners. In the Great Eastern Flatlands, anyone with the fey touch was little better than a pariah now; she herself had learned at an early age to keep her innate and developing skills a secret from all but the old woman who had quietly tutored her in reading the stones, and even her uncle knew nothing of the precious collection of pebbles, worn smooth by the sea, which lodged in her belt-pouch. An apprentice drover, lowliest of the low, would never broadcast such a talent if she knew what was good for her … But Cyllan’s talent was real, unlike the trumpery lies of this trickster, playing on his client’s mixture of fear and gullible fascination.

  She should have been in a Sisterhood Cot. Suddenly she heard the words in her head as clearly as if the tall, dark Adept had been standing before her and speaking them aloud once more. He had recognised her skill, and he had paid her that compliment. She should have been admitted to that august body of women, servants of the gods, and her talents fostered and nurtured … But the Sisterhood had no time for the likes of a peasant drover.

  She had no money, no sponsor … and so, instead of wearing the white robe, she sat on a tavern bench and listened to a charlatan prostituting a seer’s skills, and had no authority to intervene.

  The fortune-teller’s monologue finished and his client rose to leave, flushed and thanking him profusely.

  Cyllan saw a five-gravine piece change hands, and was disgusted, but if the fake seer felt anything of her fury he didn’t show it. He was counting his aftern
oon’s takings when a slight, brown-haired young man paused by his booth. The newcomer’s gaze flicked from the fortune-teller to Cyllan and lingered a moment as though in recognition; then, glancing surreptitiously over his shoulder, he slid into the empty chair opposite the boothman.

  The charlatan made a great show of welcoming his visitor; so much so that Cyllan realised he must be the favoured son of an out-of-the-ordinary - and wealthy -local clan. But whatever his status, the young man was clearly no less gullible or superstitious than any peasant.

  His manner, the way he sat attentively forward, his whispered questions, all betrayed a naive eagerness which the fortune-teller was quick to exploit. Cyllan watched as the six stones were produced and meaningless signs and passes made over them, before the fake seer began his monologue.

  ‘I see great good fortune for you, young sir. Good fortune indeed; for within the year you will wed. A love match, if I may venture to say so - a lady whose beauty will be unequalled among her peers - and many fine children. And I see, too … ‘ Here he paused dramatically, as though waiting for divine inspiration to touch his tongue, while the young man stared fixedly at the stones, ‘ … yes! High office, young sir; great power and renown. I see you standing in a great hall, a resplendent hall, dispensing justice and judgement. A long life, sir; a good life and a happy one.’

  The young man’s eyes were alight. Breathless, and completely enamoured of the charlatan’s pronouncement, he murmured a question which Cyllan didn’t catch, and suddenly, watching him, she found herself unconsciously adjusting her vision so that the two figures at the cloth-covered table faded out of focus. On rare occasions, she had discovered, she could make predictions in a small way, or divine a stranger’s character or background, without the need for her stones. It was a sporadic talent, unpredictable at the best of times; but now she felt that her psychic touch was sure … Closing her eyes she concentrated harder and a vague mental impression began to form, growing clearer until at last, satisfied, she opened her eyes again.