Well Met in Molos

by J. Hepburn

  She shivers abruptly. "No!" She presses her hands over her eyes, and takes quick, shuddering breaths to focus. When she drops her hands, she glares at her reflection.

  Then anger turns to horror. With face clean, preparing to become Zerris, she can see other possibilities in her eyes, and mouth, and jaw, and hair. She can see echoes of Orianna.

  For a long moment she does not breathe. Could Kalle's sharp eyes see the same thing? Was there any way of disguising Orianna? Should a meeting be necessary, could Orianna go in desert dress, keep a mantle across her face? But her eyes… And he would surely demand to see her face; he has no concept of proper behaviour, and no shame. It briefly occurs to Tiglis that Orianna could wear a marriage veil, obscuring without hiding, and pass that off to such an ignorant outsider as a common thing, but the thought lasts only just long enough to threaten hysterical laughter, and Tiglis claps her hand over her mouth to restrain it. Beyond the fact that any woman seen in a marriage veil without an escort would attract immediate attention, there is the more pressing point that Orianna is not of Molos or the desert, and, being newly arrived in Molos, would not have such clothes to wear.

  The aftermath of hysteria is often either rage or depression, and rage fills Tiglis quickly. "If we did not need him, I would cut his throat myself!"

  The shock of her fists striking her thighs brings her back to herself and she forces herself to relax, her fists to unclench. She needs Zerris. This is a matter for Zerris, and she needs to be thinking as Zerris.

  With quick, almost impulsive gestures, she gathers her hair into a man's braid while willing fresh hardness into her soul.

  If sloughing off Zerris is a relief, putting him on again is grim work. She does not hate Zerris, but she resents the necessity, and the knowledge that Zerris is key to their carefully constructed life fuels the anger that drives Zerris hard enough to maintain his independence in a city balanced between Melech and Kedar. Beyond the anger, Zerris will not be troubled by desires only Tiglis knows. Zerris's judgement will not be clouded by attraction to Kalle, and Zerris will have no compunction about using violence. He will do what needs to be done.

  Tiglis's hands seek out Zerris's beard and its adhesive gum. She prepares it with eyes that guide her fingers without really seeing. It always takes longer to settle into Zerris, and it has been becoming harder as the prospect of leaving Molos, of starting a clean life as Tiglis, away from Zerris's past and without having to rely upon the protection of being Zerris, becomes a possibility.

  Finally, Zerris's face looks out of the mirror. "Where has he been hiding himself?" he asks.

  Then he shakes his head, trying to clear the questions clogging his mind. "Curse him to the seventh circle of hell," he snarls at his reflection. "He wishes help to navigate Molos? He wishes to meet Zerris? Very well. Tonight, he will meet Zerris the shah."

  *~*~*

  As the city bells ring for the first time since they announced true dark, Zerris saunters through the doors of the Twin Oxen. He has traded desert robes for city trousers, shirt, and sleeveless jacket. He carries a single large knife at his hip, in the fashion of the free city men of Molos.

  None inside the tavern wear desert robes at all. Taverns are city places. When the sun goes down, men of the open sands retreat to coffeehouses, where potent wines are joined by music and dancers. They do not all host games of dice, and not on every night. This is the second tavern Zerris has been to.

  "Zerris," the scarred man behind the bar says, with a nod as to an equal. "Haven't seen you for a while."

  "Business has kept me away, Barakas. Are there games on?"

  "Aye, out back." Unasked, Barakas sets a flagon of ale cut with brandy on the scratched countertop. Zerris trades it for coin.

  The dice room is smaller than the tavern's main room, but contains at least twice as many men even at this early hour.

  There are three full tables, surrounded by more men standing and shouting advice than are playing.

  Zerris's attention is caught immediately by a sense of space where a space should not be in such a crowd.

  When he works his way farther in and around, he can see Kalle standing with a little more space around him than any other man there is afforded.

  Kalle is wearing the same clothes as at the market, but now holds himself more like a resting viper than a charming suitor.

  As Zerris reaches the edge of the respectful distance left by those who can tell danger when they see it, he sees that Kalle has added a hooded cloak of fine black wool, the hood thrown back and the rest kept behind his arms so it is no impediment at all to movement. The blackened silver clasp holding the cloak together below Kalle's throat surely does not grip the cloak so strongly that it will not tear away in an instant should he require it.

  Kalle's face is not closed, and as he turns his head to track the play, Zerris can see mirth in his eyes—but it is the mirth of a sadist, an expression to send a shiver up another man's spine, and his eyes are lit as if for battle as they avidly track the action on the table.

  He carries his own tankard, from which he takes regular sips without his eyes ceasing their constant moving.

  Zerris feels his face betray a flash of hatred, but it is gone before anyone there could possibly register it. He steps out of the crowd, taking advantage of the free space next to Kalle.

  Even with his eyes on the game, Zerris can feel Kalle shift position in a hundred different ways that all add up to being ready for a fight.

  Zerris glances at Kalle with the friendly nod of someone who is just there to enjoy themselves, to be met with a wide-eyed grin that almost makes him rock backwards on his heels.

  "Well met!" Kalle says. "It's good to finally meet someone who isn't too tall! I keep having to stop myself cutting them off at the knees so I can talk to them properly!"

  Zerris is grinning in return before he realises it. "You look new in town. Been here long?"

  "A week, now. I came in on a caravan that had use for a good guard who didn't take up too much room. I haven't decided whether to stay, yet. Look at that! Who bets that much on one roll?"

  Kalle's attention has snapped back to the game so quickly that Zerris, already floundering from the intensity of Kalle's gaze and greeting, misses the play in question.

  "I know him," Zerris says. "He gets rash easily. Play with cunning and you can clean him out. He's in here every day he gets paid."

  Kalle gives Zerris a sly look. "Take your chances often?"

  Zerris shakes his head. "They get angry too easily, then they think they can fight me."

  "Oho! I enjoy it when they do that."

  Yes, Zerris thinks. You do, don't you?

  Zerris is feeling a tumult of emotions he knows are a response to the unfamiliar, unpredictable, unsettling moods and mood swings Kalle has displayed even in so short a time. He wants to stand side by side with Kalle and dissect the play, but his hand is itching to gut Kalle then and there—although he is almost certain he wouldn't succeed.

  "My name is Kalle, and I am waiting to meet someone. Would you be him, by lucky happenstance?"

  Those too-bright, too-eager eyes are once more focussed on his.

  Zerris nods. "I am Zerris. Well met, Kalle."

  Kalle's hand is no larger than Zerris's, but it is harder and at least as strong. His grip is confident, brash, and warm—so warm, in fact, that Zerris's hand tingles in a way that makes Zerris fleetingly recall meeting Kalle as Tiglis that afternoon. The room is not so hot and he has barely touched his ale, so why are his cheeks feeling warm? Control yourself! Zerris snarls at himself, inside the security of his mind.

  The cheerfulness in Kalle's voice is matched by the light in his pale-blue eyes, but those eyes have not blinked once save when Zerris himself does so.

  "Yes, I can see you are Tiglis's brother," Kalle says, so casually yet certainly that Zerris almost goes rigid with shock. "You have her eyes, and nose. I wonder if you share her chin, as well? Are you twins, perhaps?"

 
Kalle takes a swig from his tankard while Zerris tamps down a sudden wave of panic at being found out that he has not felt for a score of years. "Blast it! I was sure there was more in here. How are you placed, friend Zerris?"

  "Mine is new," Zerris protests, grasping at this mundanity.

  "Well, mine isn't. Join me!"

  Kalle is gone before Zerris can respond. He weaves through the crowd as adroitly as Zerris, but seems more prepared to bump people aside if he needs to, expertly catching them at the precise moment they are closest to being off balance. Zerris rushes after him to avoid being caught in the aftermath of this rudeness, in no doubt now that although Tiglis had detected her follower, she would never have been able to escape him through a crowd should he truly have wished to catch her.

  Kalle is not better—indeed, they seem evenly matched here—but nonetheless the realisation gives Zerris a feeling that is much more than mere unease, and goes further than disquiet.

  Kalle procures a new tankard quickly, then gravitates directly to a corner where they can both have their backs to the wall, and where overhearing them will be difficult. Zerris, attuned all his life to such subtle signs, the reading of other men the greatest edge one so small can have, is finding himself once more, despite time to analyse his own responses, half-alert for a fight with Kalle and half in league with him against every other man in the room.

  "You have lived here all your life, Zerris?"

  Zerris nods as he takes a deceptively small swig of ale. "Born here, never been far beyond the walls. Where do you hail from?"

  "Ah, I come from just about everywhere, by now. But I was born on the road in the middle of a swamp, I was abandoned in a city in the mountains, and I was taken from there when I was barely old enough to remember. I've been wandering since I could swing a sword to protect myself, turning my hand to whatever can make me honest coin."

  "Only honest coin?" Zerris asks slyly, with a wink.

  "Honest coin is made—although it is sometimes dishonest before being exchanged in honest trade. The other kind is found," Kalle admits cheerfully, "sometimes with ease, and sometimes with an adventure to whet the appetite and enliven an otherwise boring week. How about you? You look like someone who knows how to get where he isn't wanted."

  Zerris contents himself with another sly wink, then feels moved to add, "I keep a low profile, though. Wouldn't do to be identified, too many know who I am and too many trust my word and deed for me to disabuse them of that."

  "Ho! You wear disguises?"

  "Something like that."

  "I wear a veil," Kalle says happily. "It's a trick I picked up. Find the right silk and you can see well enough, but they can't see you at all. If you get caught, that's a different matter, of course, but first they have to catch you."

  That, at least, explains one part of the encounter in Gabrio's bedroom. The memory rises to Zerris's mind as if he saw it from a hidden vantage point, and the physical sensations Orianna experienced do not intrude upon his discipline. Zerris takes confidence from that, his self-control—and disguise—secure.

  "And keep you," he says, tapping his knife hilt.

  "And keep you," Kalle says with a flash in his eyes that can only be described as bloodlust. "Although a good chase is often made more enjoyable by a good fight. The guards in this town seem hard, but very poor at seeing into shadows. I have barely been threatened yet."

  Zerris feels his pride stung. "We do try not to give them practice at spotting us."

  He is finding himself warming to Kalle more despite his intentions to remain alert for everything and negotiate first. He takes another swig of ale to give himself time, to remind himself why he is there.

  While he is drinking, Kalle gives him another fierce grin.

  "Molos seems used to veils," Kalle says. "So many women hide their faces. They're from the desert, aren't they?"

  "Molos has men and women of the desert, and men and women of the city," Zerris says, picking his words with care, "and sometimes they are difficult to tell apart. Those who come out of the desert are darker of skin and more proud of bearing. Those who come from the Empire are paler of soul and less noble. But in Molos, the distinctions blur."

  "The distinctions blend," Kalle says. "Alloys are often stronger, and blends," he holds up his tankard of ale cut with brandy, "are usually tastier. What about you, friend Zerris? My eyes are usually sharp, and you seem to be an alloy."

  Zerris is rarely asked that question, and never in such manner. Few in Molos ever need to ask—or dare. He has had strangers assume he is of the desert, and desert dwellers look down on him as a mongrel. But Kalle has so adroitly introduced the question, there is no way Zerris may reasonably take offence at being asked.

  "My parents met in Molos," he says, feeling unsettled and defensive, and with a strong desire to change the subject to one that does not involve himself. "And yes, women of the desert frequently cover their faces, but then so do men. Mantles and headdresses keep out sun and sand."

  "It is a pity they hide themselves away," Kalle says, as if he had not listened to Zerris's answer, "for, oh! I have seen some beauty here! I was in an establishment, what was it—oh yes, the Scented Garden—seeking merely fresh sights, and what a sight!"

  Zerris keeps his face neutral, managing merely, "Yes, I know of it."

  Kalle laughs almost uproariously, but pitched low enough to avoid attracting attention to their table. "I sought drink, and I was sent a woman as well! I tell you, Zerris, I have been in more cities than I can rightly count without time to do so, and rarely have I seen anyone the match." He sighs. "It is almost a pity she was not to my taste. A roll in bed with her would most surely have been a night to remember, for anyone so inclined."

  Zerris, his mind racing, says nothing. What, by all the Demons, does Kalle mean by "not to my taste"?

  Kalle's gaze, which grew unfocused and drifted away as his expression grew nostalgic, snaps back to Zerris. "But Tiglis, now, ah, Tiglis! She is a woman to pursue and keep, not merely play with for a night and some few coins!"

  Zerris, startled almost into a defensive movement of his tankard by Kalle's rapid change of mood, finds it the wiser course of action to say nothing until he can find something wise to say.

  Kalle sighs. "But to speak of your sister reminds me why we are both here. Did she relay to you the unfortunate situation I precipitated, and which I wish to make amends for?"

  "Tiglis relayed your story," Zerris says, managing to put into his voice a level tone that, he hopes, reflects his opinion of a man who would interrupt another professional's burglary.

  "Then you know this Orianna?"

  "I know her, and I have worked with her on a recent venture that brought her to Molos. Tiglis has not met her. But what Tiglis told me seems true to what Orianna herself told me, although the language Orianna used was considerably different, and did you no favours."

  Kalle looks shocked. "I am aghast that one so pretty should speak crudely! She was the very picture of loveliness and refinement! No, I cannot believe you speak for her."

  "I cannot believe you saw her," Zerris retorts. "It was—she says—so dark she could barely make you out, and certainly not the knife you held against her throat. How well could you see her?"

  Zerris almost shivers at the expression that crosses Kalle's face at that.

  "My eyes were better adapted to that room's gloom, and she was standing against torchlight from the courtyard. Believe me, I could tell enough." Kalle's left hand rises—the hand that had not yet before now moved far from the hilt of his knife for more than a heartbeat—to make a complicated, fluttering motion that is, despite its speed and abruptness, clearly a man outlining a woman of luscious and appealing curves.

  Zerris, feeling his cheeks flush, hides his anger at his own reaction in anger at Kalle.

  "This is what you mean by 'converse in a more civilised fashion'?" he snaps.

  Kalle laughs, almost a gleeful cackle. "Not this, friend Zerris. I would speak far diff
erently with her! Very well, I accept your legitimacy in this matter."

  "Should I tell Tiglis how highly you speak of Orianna?" Zerris knows he should not say it, but the compulsion is too strong.

  "This city seems determined to besmirch my honour!" Kalle says, looking hurt. "I remain smitten by Tiglis's beauty, but Orianna I merely admire. From afar, at the moment, since I have heard no rumour of her existence despite some—discreet, have no fear—enquiries that have returned me only puzzled looks. I swear, she has disappeared entirely from view, and that is not something I can often say about anyone whose company I seek.

  "But I will tell you, Zerris, as I told Tiglis: My interest in Orianna is purely one of honour. I wish to make up for having disturbed her evening. I know I alerted the guards—a grievous error I can only ascribe to having been distracted by Orianna's comeliness—but I also saw her leave the party unrestrained by shackles or the attentions of brutish men with swords, so I can at least rest assured she avoided capture. No, I wish merely to meet her and apologise, and to tell her to her fair and pretty face that she has my respect as a fellow professional."

  Zerris eyes him, attempting to keep a sour expression off his face and struggling even harder to hide his disquiet at wondering how far, if Kalle had stayed to watch Gabrio's guests leave, might Kalle have followed Orianna that evening? It is becoming more clear to Zerris by the second that Kalle may be the only man in Molos who can follow him undetected. Where, by the Demons, did he gain such skill?

  "I very much doubt that Orianna will wish to meet with you under any circumstances," he says, in a voice the evenness of which almost surprises him. "She took your interruption of her plans personally, and was put to some inconvenience." More than that, Zerris may not be able to risk such a meeting. If Kalle had seen so much in such a short meeting, what more might he see now, having had time to study Zerris's face at leisure? Zerris went to great lengths to alter Orianna's face as much as he was able, but he can hardly claim her as a cousin! The thought of a veil occurs to him once more, forcing him to berate himself again for forgetting the reasons he has already dismissed the idea.