Cooper, Louise - Time Master 02 - The Outcast

VIP免费

2024-12-07 0 0 499KB 248 页 5.9玖币

侵权投诉

The Outcast

Book 2 of the Time Master Trilogy

by Louise Cooper

Version 1.0

Chapter 1

'I'm telling you, you won't find better foodstuffs any-

where 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 inel-

egantly 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 veg-

etables 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 uncomfort-

able. 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 cook-

ing 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 move-

ment; 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 prox-

imity 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 imagin-

able could be found here; wealthy merchants, crafts-

men, 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 pan-

oply, 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 celebra-

tions. 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 stall-

holder 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 appeared in the most unlikely guises,

and courteously nodded for her to continue. Encour-

aged, 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 won-

dered 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 birth-

anniversary 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 edi-

bility, more like! Or for her uncle to find and sell, and

pocket the proceeds . . .

Her heart was still thumping painfully with the igno-

miny of the experience, and she had an illogical convic-

tion 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 out-

side 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 home-

land, 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 develop-

ing 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 afternoon'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 meaning-

less 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 dramati-

cally, 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 resplen-

dent 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 predic-

tions 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.

The fortune-teller had done, and the young man was

getting up to leave. Coins changed hands, thanks were

given and obsequious bows received in exchange; then

the boothman dodged behind his curtain and out of sight.

The young man was about to pass by Cyllan's bench,

and she knew suddenly that she couldn't keep silent.

Little good it might do her, but her sense of justice

rebelled at the thought of letting such chicanery go

unremarked. As the young man reached her she stood

up.

'Excuse me, sir . . . '

He started, turned, then frowned, clearly unused to

being so directly addressed by a low-class stranger.

Anxious that he shouldn't think she was importuning

him, Cyllan spoke quickly and softly.

'The fortune-teller is a charlatan, sir. I thought you

should know.'

He was surprised. A fresh, smooth face, she thought;

he'd never known hardship, never wanted for anything -

and probably that explained his naivety in the face of the

seer's blandishments. Now, collecting himself, he

strolled closer to where she sat.

'A charlatan?' His smile was faintly patronising.

'What makes you so sure?'

Obviously he suspected her of harbouring some personal

motive for attempting to discredit the man. Cyllan met

his gaze steadily. 'I was born and brought up in the Great

Eastern Flatlands. Reading the stones is an ancient skill

there . . . and therefore I know a faker when I see one.'

The young man clasped his hands together and stared

thoughtfully at an expensive ring on one finger. 'He is a

stranger to Shu-Nhadek - as, it seems, are you - and yet

he divined a good deal about my position. Doesn't that

speak in his favour?'

Cyllan decided to gamble that her flash of clair-

voyance had been accurate, and smiled. 'It takes small

seer's skills, sir, to recognise and acknowledge the son

and heir to the Margrave of Shu Province.'

She had been right ... he raised his eyebrows and

stared at her with a newly dawning interest. 'You are a

seer?'

'A stone-reader, and of small talent,' Cyllan said,

ignoring the insult - no doubt unintentional - that his

surprise implied. 'I don't ply my skill, nor do I seek to

profit from it; I'm not trying to steal the boothman's

trade. But it offends me to see tricksters preying on

innocent victims.'

The idea that he was one such innocent victim clearly

didn't appeal to the Margrave's son and for a moment

she wondered if she had been too blunt, and affronted

him. But after a brief hesitation he nodded curtly.

'Then I'm indebted to you. I'll have the charlatan run

out of the province before the day's over!' His eyes

narrowed suddenly and he studied her face more

closely. 'And if you are what you say you are, I shall be

interested to see if you can succeed where the charlatan

failed!'

He wanted her to read the stones for him, and Cyllan

was alarmed. Her uncle, who like most of his peers was

deeply superstitious and regarded psychic talents as the

rightful province only of the privileged - and officially

sanctioned - few, would kill her if he ever found out that

she had been using her skills. And to read for the son of

the Province Margrave . . . she couldn't do it - she

didn't dare.

'I'm sorry,' she said indistinctly, 'I can't.'

'Can't?' He was suddenly angry. 'What d'you mean,

can't? You say you're a seer - I ask you to prove

it!'

'I mean, sir, that I daren't.' She could do nothing

other than be honest. 'I'm apprenticed to my uncle, and

he disapproves strongly of such things. If he were ever to

find out - '

'What is your uncle's name?'

'He is - ' She looked at the young man's face, swal-

lowed. 'Kand Brialen. A drover.'

'A drover who doesn't exploit a profitable enterprise

right under his nose? I find that hard to believe!'

'Please!' Cyllan entreated him anxiously. 'If he were

ever to know -'

'Oh, by the gods I've got better things to do with my

time than run tattling tales to peasants!' the young man

retorted petulantly. 'And if you won't read for me, you

won't But I'll remember the name. Kand Brialen - I'll

remember it!' And before Cyllan could say anything

more, he turned on his heel and walked away.

Slowly, she sat down again. Her heart was thumping

and she wished that she hadn't been so foolhardy as to

interfere. Now, if the whim took him, the Margrave's

son might find some excuse to seek out her uncle and, if

he was sufficiently offended by her refusal, let slip

enough about their encounter to ensure that she'd suffer

for it. He wasn't used to having his wishes thwarted; he

was obviously spoilt and might choose to be spiteful.

And if-

She checked the train of thought suddenly, and

sighed. Whatever the Margrave's son did or did not do,

she couldn't change matters. She had survived Kand

Brialen's rage before now, and could survive it again.

Best to finish her beer, return and face whatever had to

be faced.

The tavern potboy emerged to take her mug and ask if

she'd like more. Cyllan shook her head and reluctantly

rose from the bench, heading away towards the side of

the market place where the crowds began to thin out.

Here, stalls and booths gave way to the thatch-roofed

livestock pens, where herds of dull-eyed animals milled

and complained and awaited their fate. Kand Brialen

and his drovers had pitched their tents to one side of the

largest pen, and throughout the day trade had been

brisk; they had a hundred cattle, driven in from Han, to

sell, together with four good work-horses which Kand

had bought for a disgracefully low sum after a good deal

of barter in Prospect. And with Spring and the breeding

season almost m sight they were fetching good prices.

Cyllan had long ago learned not to think too often

about her own future with Kand Brialen and his drovers.

Four years ago, when her mother - Kand's sister - and

father had been lost with their fishing boat in the treach-

erous Whiteshoals Sound, her uncle had taken on

responsibility for her, but from the beginning he'd made

no effort to disguise his resentment of the duty. As far as

he was concerned Cyllan was an unwanted liability; he

had no use for women other than the occasional whore

文档加载中……请稍候！
如果长时间未打开，您也可以点击刷新试试。

下载文档到电脑，查找使用更方便

5.9 玖币 0人已下载

立即下载 VIP免费下载

摘要：

TheOutcastBook2oftheTimeMasterTrilogybyLouiseCooperVersion1.0Chapter1'I'mtellingyou,youwon'tfindbetterfoodstuffsany-whereinShu,orProspectorHanforthatmatter!'Themarkettraderthrustahandfulofdarkpinkish-purplerootsunderhiscustomer'snoseandbrandishedthemalmostthreateningly.'AndI'vebetterthingstodoonamar...

展开>> 收起<<

Cooper, Louise - Time Master 02 - The Outcast.pdf

共248页,预览10页

还剩页未读，继续阅读

声明：本站为文档C2C交易模式，即用户上传的文档直接被用户下载，本站只是中间服务平台，本站所有文档下载所得的收益归上传人(含作者)所有。玖贝云文库仅提供信息存储空间，仅对用户上传内容的表现方式做保护处理，对上载内容本身不做任何修改或编辑。若文档所含内容侵犯了您的版权或隐私，请立即通知玖贝云文库，我们立即给予删除！

Cooper, Louise - Time Master 02 - The Outcast

相关推荐

开通VIP享超值会员特权

作者详情

相关内容

热门标签

举报选择: