Destin was mildly curious. When it came to entertainment, a fortuneteller was rarer than a talespinner or musician. True, most of them were frauds—experts at learning a little bit about a person so they could spit it back. Anyone who could truly predict the future wouldn’t while his time away in a tavern. Still, they could be amusing, and he had time to kill before the night shift let out at the mines.
When the server returned with Clermont’s ale, Destin put a hand on her arm. “Ask Truthteller to join us.” He nodded toward the crowd in the corner. “We wish to talk with him.”
She threw a doubtful glance toward where the fortuneteller held court, and a worried look at Destin. “I’ll see what I can do, sir,” she said.
When she returned, her face was pale, and her eyes large. “He says thank you, but he’s more comfortable where he is. Sir,” she added, as if mimicking the way the fortuneteller had tacked it on as an afterthought.
Destin straightened, surprised. Most entertainers would jump at the chance to impress someone close to the king. Or would be afraid to refuse, in any case. “Did you tell him who I am?” He turned the mug in his hands.
“I did, sir,” the server said, licking her lips. “Maybe the spell is on him. I’m not sure I was getting through, if you know what I mean. I wouldn’t take it the wrong way, sir, if I were you.”
Clermont gripped the server by the wrist so that she cried out in pain. He jerked her close, so they were eye to eye, and said, “You tell that insolent whey-faced tavern rat to—”
“Let her go, Clermont,” Destin growled, his good mood quickly dissipating. “It’s not her fault, and it’s not that important.”
Clermont’s eyes narrowed in annoyance. He released the server and she hurried away, rubbing her wrist. Then he leaned across the table. “You’re new here, Lieutenant, and you don’t know how things work. The thing is, you can’t let these Delphian curs think they can get away with—”
Slamming his tankard down, Destin reached across the table and gripped Clermont’s wrist. The captain’s eyes went wide, and he howled in pain, struggling to pull away.
All around them, the other patrons focused on their meals, pretending not to hear.
Destin leaned in close to the captain. “I’m only going to tell you this once, so I suggest that you listen. I’d like to have a drink in a tavern where the help isn’t scared to get near me. I think I’ll learn a lot more that way. I don’t need you to second-guess my decisions. Keep it up and I might forget that, technically, you outrank me.” Then he let go.
Clermont looked down at his charred and blistered wrist, then back up at Destin. “You—you—you’re—”
“Yes,” Destin said, “I am. Now shut up and stay here.” He rose, picked up his ale, and crossed the room to the fortuneteller’s table. He didn’t look back to see what Clermont did or did not do.
The fortuneteller’s clients were a polished young man wearing a fine silk surcoat with a ruffled collar, and a handsome older woman in a well-cut traveling suit. Destin might have thought they were mother and son, except that they were holding hands and smiling at each other like newlyweds or lovers. They did not notice Destin’s approach because they were facing the corner, where the truthteller sat. Destin stood just behind the pair so that he had an excellent view of the proceedings. The other spectators took one look at Destin and gradually slipped away, finding things to do in other parts of the tavern.
The seer was a young man, hardly more than a boy, medium tall, with delicate features, dressed in an odd assortment of clothing. He wore a tunic that hung loosely on his spare frame, a surcoat that must have been fine at one time, but now was threadbare and frayed at the edges. The sleeves hung to his fingertips, and bits of tired lace peeked out at the wrist and collar. On his head he wore a large, flat velvet cap of an old-fashioned style, as if he were the scion of an old-money family that had fallen on hard times.
If the truthteller saw Destin approach, he gave no sign of it. He was shuffling cards, and they flashed so quickly under his long fingers that they seemed to appear and disappear. He had the woman cut them, and cut them again. Then he pulled cards from the deck and turned them over, slapping them down on the table in rows. Destin could see that they were not regular playing cards, though they shared some of the same symbols. The boy looked them over, then lifted his gaze to the lady. His eyes were distinctive—a stunning golden color, like a cat’s or a raptor’s. Destin wondered how he did that—if he used some kind of potion or treatment to get them to look that way. However he achieved it, it certainly gave him an otherworldly look.
“I see a long journey,” the boy said. He did look tranced, and his voice had a whispery, mysterious quality, giving the impression that he drew his knowledge from some sacred well within, and not from the cards.