The three of them were damp, sandy and tingling, dressed only in their britches and undershirts, their water-chilled bodies soaking the heat from the sun-warmed stones. The sky was a scarlet blaze above them, the river a crumpled copper ribbon, edged in purple shadows. Razi had done incredible things with half a dozen fish, a hat-full of lingin berries and a pocket of wild garlics. They were full and warm, and serene.
Earlier in the day, Christopher had padded his way from the river, smiling and easy. He had sneaked up behind Razi who had been hunched over, preparing the fish, and had shoved his freezing hand down the back of his tunic. Razi had roared with shock and Christopher had skittered away, cackling wickedly and shaking drops of water from his hair like a dog.
Razi had flung a stick at him and called him a bloody menace. Then had watched in tolerant forbearance as Christopher grabbed Wynter, treated her to a lingering, icy kiss, and threw her into the river.
It had been easy, after that, to pretend that everything was all right.
Now they lay together around the fire and looked up at the purple twilight as it blotted the sunset from the sky. One after another the stars began to shine, and little black bats appeared, flittering about in the branches above their heads.
Razi lay back against his saddle, his hands behind his head, his dark eyes roaming the sky. Wynter watched him through the dancing flames and thought about the Wolves and what they might be doing here. It made no sense. Why would they travel through Jonathon’s kingdom, when they could simply hop across the Spanish Rock and trot up through the Castilian provinces? The lawlessness and banditry there would be of no consequence to them. Unlike the merchants and diplomats that courted the use of Jonathon’s Port Road, Wolves had no need for an orderly, well policed route to and from the Moroccos.
Why did you let them go? she thought. After what they did to him? What possible reason caused you to let them go? As she watched him, Razi frowned in puzzlement as though something had just occurred to him.
“Wynter,” he murmured in amazement, still looking at the stars.
“Aye?”
“What date is it?”
“Summer,” answered Christopher sleepily, as if that were as accurate as anyone need ever be.
Razi chuckled, and Wynter twisted her mind around the puzzle. “Let me see,” she mused. “ ’Twas Angel’s Sunday when father and I came down through Lindenston. That was two days before …” she bit her lip and counted backwards and forwards for a moment, her forehead creased. Then her face cleared and she leapt a little at the realisation of what day it was. “Oh, Razi!” she said and he turned his head to grin at her through the flames. “Happy birthday!”
“Thank you! I am twenty years old today!”
Christopher huffed in amusement. “I can just hear your mother now!” Suddenly his voice was very soft and very proper, an uncanny imitation of Hadil’s unswervingly quiet, unrelentingly disapproving tone. “One would think now, that al-Sayyid Razi ibn-Jon Malik al-fadl would take it in his mind to acquire himself a wife. It’s not for me, his humble mother, to suggest that al-Sayyid does not know his own mind …” (here Wynter pictured the usual raising of the graceful hands, the meek tipping of the darkly elegant head) “but it does seem a little undignified that Omar ibn-Omar, seventeen years old and just a lowly spice merchant, would already have two wives and a son and two daughters to honour the family’s name.” Across the flames Razi’s handsome face creased into a wide grin, his teeth gleaming white in the dancing light. “After all, my precious son,” Christopher’s voice perfectly took on that sly cutting edge that Hadil always managed to make sound so utterly feminine, “You are getting soooooo old. So very, veeeerrrrrrryyy old.”
“Shut up, mother,” grinned Razi.
Christopher tutted. “Ungrateful viper-child,” he sighed.
Wynter tipped her head back to look up at his face. His eyes were closed and he was half asleep. She stretched her arm comfortably over her head and laid the backs of her fingers against his cheek. He put his hand lightly on her collarbone. The flames blurred and softened and filled her mind as she slipped into a doze.
Something woke Wynter, some strange rhythmic sound, and she opened her eyes in bleary confusion. She still lay facing the fire, but she had slid down to lie on her belly, one hand under her cheek, her other arm thrown loosely across Christopher’s chest. The flames had died down to hotly glowing coals, and across the fire she saw Razi staring fixedly at her, his face unhappy and tense.
There seemed to be a big dog prowling the camp. Wynter could hear it panting, its breath coming hard and fast, as if it had run a long way or was very hot. It was hard to listen to because the poor animal was in such obvious distress. It’s such a warm night, she thought absently. Someone should give that poor creature a bowl of water.
Razi’s face came into focus as Wynter woke completely, and his misery increased as she lifted her head to look at him. “Razi?” she asked softly.
His eyes lifted to look behind her and Wynter turned to see.
“Do not wake him,” Razi whispered and Wynter got to her knees, carefully lifting her arm from Christopher’s heaving chest. He was the source of the ragged, animal panting that had woken her.
“It’s so much worse if you wake him,” said Razi.
“Oh, Razi,” she said. “We must! It’s too cruel!”
Anyone who looked at him would want to wake him. Christopher lay on his back, his hands clenched at his waist, his chest rising and falling in rapid, terrified breaths. His eyes were wide open, staring blindly at God knew what.
Wynter moved to touch him.
“Sis!” She looked around at Razi’s insistent face. “Believe me!” he hissed. “It’s better to leave him. It will be over in a few minutes, then he will sleep peacefully. If you try to wake him, the dream will cling, he won’t be able to wake up and he won’t be able to fall back asleep. It will be very bad. He will end up frightened and embarrassed.” Razi blinked at her, his eyes bright. “Just leave him, Wyn,” he begged. “Please.”
Christopher’s eyes were moving slightly from side to side, but apart from that and the rapid, shallow movement of his chest, he was perfectly still. He looked like a fox caught in a snare. Wynter gently placed her hand over his heart. It was beating wildly, dangerous and fevered, frightening. She turned horrified eyes to Razi and he pleaded with her silently not to do anything more.
But it wasn’t in her to let Christopher suffer. She had no doubt that Razi’s experience of these nightmares was as awful as he implied, but Wynter just couldn’t stand by and wait for this to pass. “Christopher?” she murmured, leaning over him, her hand still on his chest. “Will you wake up?”
Christopher’s breathing sped up and his eyes began to roll.
“Sweetheart?” she said, hovering over him.
His heart hammered frantically beneath her palm and he bared his teeth. Wynter brought her face close to his. A long tendril of her hair fell down between them, flaring red in the firelight. She looked into his eyes.
“Christopher,” she said firmly. “It is over! Wake up!”
His breathing hitched. His hand flew to hers. He looked into her face.
Wynter smiled. “How do,” she said.
Christopher held her gaze intently for a moment, then he relaxed and his eyes slid to the side. He lifted his hand to touch her hair and sighed. “Polished chestnut,” he said.
“Aye.” She pushed her fingers through the fine black locks at his temple. “Go to sleep.” His eyes drifted shut and his hand floated down to lie against his chest.
His breathing evened out and he slid under into peaceful sleep.
Wynter turned glittering eyes to Razi and they looked at each other, Razi shaken and dazed, Wynter drained. Then she lay back down, her arm thrown protectively across Christopher’s calmly breathing chest, her eyes fixed on the dying embers of the fire. She curled her fist under her cheek and fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.
On the Wolves
’ Tail
Razi unsheathed his falchion sword and held the long blade down by his left thigh. The shadows of the forest dappled his dark clothes and swaddled face, blending him into the background of the trees. Behind him, Christopher, his right hand encased in the ornate metal cup of his belt-knife, gazed intently through the foliage. He was calm and sharp, despite the incessant tinkling of little silver bells that floated across the evening air. He glanced back at Wynter. She nodded gravely and adjusted her grip on her knife.
The Loups-Garous were just to their right, very close. They were mostly hidden by the undergrowth, but Wynter caught random details through the shifting foliage: a portion of one rider here, a section of another there. She saw scarlet leather gauntlets and a moss green tunic. She saw an emerald green sleeve and strong black hands, ornate with rings. Further back in the trees, the sun flashed on a head of gleaming yellow curls as a huge man ducked under an overhanging branch. There were four men, all exceptionally well armed. They made no attempt at silence or stealth, and the sounds of their progress through the heavy undergrowth was underscored by the continuous and melodic tinkling of slave bells.
Suddenly, a horse crashed into the bushes by Wynter’s side, sending Ozkar shying to the left. Wynter sat down hard in the saddle and tightened her legs to keep him in place. The Wolf’s horse wheeled about, stamping and snorting. Much too close. Wynter saw gold fringes on a red leather saddle, a tall, dark-clad rider, glossy black boots. Then the Loup-Garou hauled on the reins and kicked his mount back into line. Before he passed from sight, Wynter got a good look at the grey wolf’s-skin that covered his horse’s back. Its head snarled at her from just above the horse’s tail, its onyx and amber eyes glinting, its gold-tipped teeth bared.
Three heavy-laden pack mules trailed clumsily after the Wolves, their packsaddles piled high with camping equipment. Behind them, two horsemen brought up the rear. At the sight of these men, Wynter’s hands clenched on the pommel of her saddle, her fear turning to anger in the blink of an eye.
They were dressed in tunics and britches of a simple cut but excellent fabric, and their horses’ tack was plain but very well made. From what Wynter could make out, they were Christopher’s age, eighteen or so, both with his kind of lithe, close-muscled strength. They were both Arabs.
One of them ducked and lifted his arm to get past an overhanging branch, and just for a moment, Wynter saw his face. A brand had been burnt into the flesh just below his left eye. It was about the size of a gold coin and depicted a wolf’s head enclosed in a curling G. The young man kicked his horse on, hurrying to catch up with his masters, and his companion did the same. At the increase in pace, the silver bells that decorated their riding boots added a gentle, tinkling melody to the circlets of bells at their wrists.
Razi, Christopher and Wynter stared at the slaves’ retreating backs, their eyes hard and glittering through the gaps in their scarves.
When all sound of the travellers had gone, Razi jerked the scarf from his face and turned to speak, but Christopher held up his hand and put a finger to his lips. The hairs rose on the back of Wynter’s neck and she immediately unsheathed her knife again. Christopher raised two fingers to his eyes and then swept his hand out to indicate that they should continue to be on guard. With his mutilated hand it looked as though he had just made the sign of the devil, and Wynter impatiently quelled the urge to bless herself against evil, a relic of Marni’s superstition that she’d never been quite able to shake off.
Christopher went back to scanning their surroundings, and Razi and Wynter followed suit. A long moment passed and Wynter was just starting to wonder what Christopher was up to, when a discreet movement to their right drew her attention. She lifted her hand slightly, not certain. The two men snapped their attention to her and she pointed to the suspect area. They all squinted into the trees and… yes! There.
This time the riders were completely silent, slipping through the forest with low, dark skill. Again Wynter only got a fleeting impression of each, but again they were big, finely dressed men, well armed and in excellent command of their mounts. There were four of them, and they passed by like dappled shadows, obviously on the hunt for anyone who was inexperienced enough to think that the Wolves had already gone by.
Wynter and Razi straightened and moved to sheath their weapons. But Christopher raised his hand again and shook his head, and the two of them sank back into wary vigilance. One or two minutes passed in buzzing silence, then four more riders went past, slipping quietly along behind the others, the eyes of their wolf’s heads gleaming, the shifting light winking on the dull silver of their sword hilts and the fine engraving on their matchlocks.
It was only when these four were safely out of earshot that Christopher relaxed. He sheathed his knife and pulled back his scarf, gasping at the heat, and wiped his sweating face. Wynter did likewise, greedily accepting Razi’s offered waterskin.
As they sat, silently quenching their thirst, Wynter couldn’t help but glance sideways at Christopher. In the three days since they’d first encountered the Wolves, he seemed to have completely regained his equilibrium, but Wynter was not certain how fragile this self control might be. She looked away, not wanting to make him self-conscious, then glanced back again, worry eating her. Christopher was staring straight at her, his eyes grave, his mouth tight.
“I’m fine, lass,” he said. “Stop burning holes in the back of my bonnet.”
Wynter blushed and dropped her eyes.
“We must find out where they are going,” said Razi. “I’m tired of running into them by chance. I want to follow them for a while. Just to see what way they are heading.”
“I still think they’re making for the ferry,” said Christopher evenly.
“That’s on our route,” said Wynter. “We could easily follow them that far without losing time, and then, if they do not cross the river and remove themselves from our path, we can decide what it is we want to do about them.”
Razi stared at Christopher until the young man met his eye.
“What?” growled Christopher, his voice hard and challenging.
Razi dipped his head, exasperated. “Nothing,” he said. “Not a thing.” He turned in the saddle and kicked his horse on. “Come on then,” he said. “And, for God’s sake, be quiet.”
* * *
Hours later, when the light was sliding to dusty twilight, a sharp whistle up ahead brought them to a wary halt. Razi lifted his fist and sank low in his saddle, peering ahead. There was nothing to be seen. He lowered his fist, still glaring into the trees. Then he pushed slowly onwards.
Moments later he raised his fist again and sat, peering intently ahead once more. Then he slid from his saddle, secured his horse to a tree and took off at a low, fast run. Wynter and Christopher exchanged a look and followed suit. Razi sprinted forward for several minutes and then flung himself into the cover of a thicket and wriggled forward on his belly. Wynter and Christopher dived after him. The three of them lay flat, peering from their hiding place and trying to catch their breath.
They seemed to be close to the edge of a bluff. From their current position it was impossible to tell how high it was or what lay below it, but they had an excellent view of the Loups-Garous, who were, just that moment, trotting their horses to the edge. The sun was low, blazing its dying light through the storm clouds that were piled on the horizon and the riders were sharply defined against the vivid sky as they brought their mounts to a stop and looked down at the view.
As soon as the four Wolves came to a halt, the slaves slid from their horses and ran forward to stand beside what Wynter assumed to be the Wolf leaders. One ran quickly to the horse of the big blond and the other dashed to the side of a broad-shouldered dark-skinned man. Neither Wolf seemed to pay any heed to the young men at their sides, but, as one, the two slaves lifted their right arms and put their hands on the neck of their master’s horse. It was the automatic and expected action of a dog that has been trained to run forwards and lie at
his master’s feet.
A movement to Wynter’s right drew her attention. It was the next set of Wolves emerging from the trees. They hung back until the blond signalled them forward, then they ranged themselves behind the others, seemingly content not to see down the bluff. The blond murmured something and the young man at his side ran to fetch a waterskin. He offered it first to his master, and then passed amongst the others with it, waiting patiently as each rider drank their fill. When all the Wolves were satisfied, the slave stowed the skin and resumed his position at his master’s side, his hand on the horse’s neck once more.
The two leaders turned to converse with each other, murmuring low in Hadrish. As they spoke, the blond reached absently to stroke his slave’s head, running his fingers through the young man’s silky curls the way one would pet a dog. The slave accepted his caress without any apparent reaction. The leaders traded a few sentences and gave each other a significant look. Then the dark-skinned man turned to speak to the others behind him.
“They are below us,” he said in Hadrish, “moving through the trees. We will let them be for now. They will no doubt be joining others at the ferry house, but I think we can let it go and move on.”
“We’re bored,” growled one of the men behind him. The dark-skinned leader turned to glare at him. “Don’t look at me like that, Gerard!” snapped the man. “We’ve been on the trail for months. I’m sick of lying low.”
Another of the shadow riders spoke up. “It is wearing thin. “T’ain’t natural to be so restrained on the trail. We should be free here, to be Wolves. It’s galling to pass the sheep and leave ’em quiet.”
Gérard shook his head, but there was a touch of amusement in the look he gave his blond companion, and the two of them turned back to their men with brotherly forbearance. “This ain’t a Wolf trip we’re on, brother, you know that. This is business.”
The Crowded Shadows Page 11