Flamecaster (Shattered Realms #1)(52)

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.

“Well done!” the woman said, smiling. “Garren and I have come all the way from Havensgate this morning.” She seemed terribly excited to find out something she already knew.

I could do that well, Destin thought, noting the dust layered on the hem of the lady’s skirt, the mud splattered on the gentleman’s boots. Garren apparently agreed, because he made a skeptical face and touched his companion’s elbow. “Let’s go upstairs, Catherine. We need to make an early start in the morning.”

“Just a few more minutes, darling,” Catherine said. “I want to hear what else he has to say.”

The boy picked up another card. This time he looked directly at Garren. “You will lose a great deal of money.”

The young man rolled his eyes. “Oh, really,” he said. “How horrifying! When exactly will this happen?”

Lyle Truthteller smiled mysteriously. “Soon. Very soon.”

“Will I be robbed? Will I have bad luck betting on the horses?” The young man gulped down his drink and signaled for another.

Truthteller turned another card, ran his finger over its surface, and looked up at Catherine. “You are being deceived by someone close to you,” he said.

“Really.” Catherine glanced at Garren. “Can you tell me who it is?”

“The cards tell us what they will tell us, but not always everything we need to know.”

Another easy guess, Destin thought. In his experience, family and friends are always the first to stick a knife in your back. Garren seemed a little rattled, though. He shifted in his seat and looked toward the stairs again.

Truthteller fixed Garren with a penetrating gaze. “I see a letter, addressed to you, from Angelique.”

Garren turned white as the snow that was falling outside. “I . . . what do you mean? I don’t know any Angelique.”

Catherine stared at him in surprise. “Why, Garren, of course you know Angelique, the clerk in my shop in Whitehall?”

Garren planted both hands on the table and pushed to his feet. “Let’s go. This is a waste of time.”

“It says . . .” The seer frowned, as if trying to make out a hazy script. “It says, ‘I’m not going to sleep with you anymore, you faithless bastard.’”

The young man shook his head, his mouth forming a “no” though no sound came out. Catherine was looking alert and interested now. “Excuse me? What’s that again?”

“‘I think I’ve caught something from you, Garren,’” the boy went on, eyes half-closed. “‘I’m itching where I never itched before. If you’re looking for that silk dressing gown, the one with the dragons—’”

“Dragons?” Catherine looked from Garren to Truthteller, startled recognition on her face.

“‘—you left it here, but don’t come looking for it, because I threw it in the dustbun . . .’” Truthteller squinted. “I guess that’s ‘dustbin.’ ‘If you think you can come back here any time you please and wrap your legs around my—’”

“Enough!” Garren roared, as if trying to drown out the truthteller. “Don’t listen to this scummer-tongued devil.” He stumbled a bit over “scummer-tongued.” “Come, Catherine.” He stalked toward the stairs, looking back over his shoulder once to see if the lady was following. She wasn’t. She sat staring thoughtfully at Truthteller, who sat relaxed, expressionless, his arms circling the cards on the table, as if protecting them.

Catherine stirred then, seeming to shake off a bit of disappointment. She reached into her handbag, drew out a small pouch, and tossed it onto the table without counting the contents. It clanked as it landed, heavily. She didn’t look happy, but rather like someone who has had a narrow escape.

“Thank you, Truthteller,” she said slowly. “I think you have saved me a great deal of grief.” She rose from her chair with great dignity and walked away, back straight, toward the stairs.