Wings of Omen

"Very well," Lalo said at last, "but don't blame me if it's more than you bargained for." He turned to move on, then stopped again. "And for Shalpa's sake, take that grin off your face before we go inside!"

Lalo tipped back his tankard, let the last sour wine flow smoothly down his throat, then banged it on the table to call for more. It had been a long time since he had come to get drunk here at the Vulgar Unicorn-a long time since he had gotten drunk anywhere, he realized. Maybe the wine would taste better if he had some more.

Wedemir raised one eyebrow briefly and took another rationed sip of ale, then set his own tankard back down. "Well, I haven't seen anything to shock me so far...."

Lalo swallowed a surge of resentment at the boy's self-discipline. He's probably despising me... .As the oldest, Wedemir must have known what was happening in the days when Lalo was trying to drink his troubles away and Gilla took in washing to keep the family alive. And during the recent years of prosperity the boy had been away with the caravans. Small wonder if he thought his father was a sot!

He doesn't understand- Lalo held out his tankard to the ski

He let the cool, tart liquor ease the ache in his throat and sat back with a sigh. Wedemir was right about the Unicorn, anyway. Lalo had never known such a quiet evening here. The age-polished wooden slats of the booth creaked to his weight as he relaxed against them, looking around the big room, trying to understand the altered atmosphere.

The familiar reek of sweat and sour ale brought back memories; oil lamps set shadows scurrying among the sooty beams overhead and beneath the sturdy tables. Empty tables, mostly, even now, when night had fallen and the place should have been as thick with patrons as a Bazaar cur is with fleas. Not that it was entirely deserted. He recognized the pale, scarred boy they called Zip in one of the booths on the other side of the room, sitting with three others, a little younger and darker than he was, without his protective veil of cynicism to shield their eyes.

As Lalo watched. Zip pounded the table with his fist, then began to draw some kind of diagram in spilled beer. The artist let his gaze unfocus, saw through the masks of flesh a mix of fear and fanaticism that made him recoil. No, he thought, perhaps I had better not use that particular talent here. There were some souls whose truth he did not want to see.

He forced himself to keep sca

He took a deep breath and coughed convulsively. That was it; his new senses were at work despitr his will, and his nostrils flared with the smell of death and the stink of sorcery. He remembered a rumor he had heard-the tavern-master One Thumb was somehow mixed up with the Ni-sibisi witch, Roxane. Perhaps he should gather up Wedemir and get out of here....

But as he started to stand up, his head spun dizzily and he knew that he was in no condition to survive the streets of Sanctuary at this hour. Wedemir would laugh at him, and besides, he had nowhere else to go! Lalo sat back, sighed, and began to drink again.

It was two, or perhaps three tankards later that Lalo's blurring gaze fixed on a familiar dark head and the angular shape of a harpcase humping up the bright cloak its owner wore. He blinked, adjusted his focus, and gri

"Cappen Varra!" He gestured broadly toward the bench across from him. "I thought you'd left town!"

"So did I-" the harper answered wryly. "The weather's been too chancy for sailing, so I hooked up with a caravan to Ranke. I was hoping to find someone going from there to Carro

"To Ranke!" the boy exclaimed. "You're lucky to be alive!"

"My son Wedemir-" Lalo gestured. "He's been working Ran Alleyn's string."

Cappen looked at him with new respect, then went on, "I suppose I am lucky-I got there just after they did the old Emperor in. There's a new man-Theron, they call him-in charge there now, and they say your life's not worth a whore's promise if you're in the Imperial line. So I thought, 'There's Prince Kittycat sitting safe in Sanctuary-things might just be picking up down there!'"

Lalo started to laugh,-choked on his wine, and coughed until Wedemir thumped him on the back and he could breathe again.

"You don't have to tell me-" said Cappen Varra ruefully. "But surely there's something to be made from the situation here. Those Beysin women now-do you suppose there's some way I..."

"Don't even think about it, Cappen." Lalo shook his head. "At least not the way you usually do! They might like your music, but it's worth your life to even look as if you were offering anything more!"

The harper gave him a speculative look. "I've heard that, but really..."

"Really-" Wedemir said seriously. "My sister works for one of their royal ladies, and she says it's all true."

"Oh well!" Cappen saluted them with his tankard. "There's nothing wrong with their gold!" He drank, then glanced at Lalo with a smile. "When I left, you were the toast of the court. I hardly expected to see you here...."

Lalo grimaced, wondering if his vision were going or it was just that the lamps were burning down. "It's the Beysa's court now, and there's no work for me." He saw Cappen's face stiffening into a polite, sympathetic smile, and shook his head. "But it doesn't matter-I can do other things now... things even Enas Yorl would like to know." He reached for his tankard.

Cappen Varra looked at Wedemir. "What's he talking about?"

The boy shook his head. "I don't know. Mother said he'd stopped drinking, but they had a fight and he started talking strange and stormed out. I thought I'd better follow and make sure-" He shrugged in embarrassment.

Lalo raised his eyes from the hypnotically swirling reflections in his tankard and fixed his son with a bitter gaze. "And make sure the old man didn't drown himself? I thought so. But you're wrong, both of you, if you think this is drunken wandering. Even your mother doesn't know-" Lalo stopped. He had come here determined to prove his power, but the wine was sapping his will. Did it really matter? Did anything really matter now?

His wavering gaze fixed on a figure that seemed to have precipitated from the shadows near the door, lean, sullen-browed, with a dark cloak hiding whatever else he wore. Lalo recognized the face he had seen on Shalpa at the table of the gods and thought. That Hanse, he's another one the gods have played with, and look at the sour face he's wearing now. For all the good it's done either of us, to hell with the gods!

"Look here. Papa," said Wedemir, "I'm getting tired of all these dark hints and frowns. Either explain what you're talking about or shut up."

Stung, Lalo straightened and managed to focus his gaze long enough to hold his son's eyes. "That time I was ill-" He tried to stop himself but the words flooded out like an undammed stream. "I was with the gods. I can breathe life into what I draw, now."