So he had expected.
They were still in the outskirts of the city; Gallord-Smit could see familiar sharp hills rising like islands in the most heavily congested parts of the city in the distance, the air above the flat cityscape that surrounded them saturated with a heavy, brown haze. Beyond, he could just barely make out the masts of a number of great sailing ships in the harbour, their sails furled at dock.
He was as fully taken in by the sights, sounds, and smells of the great city as he had been the first time arriving there, however, to his chagrin he had completely overlooked the expected perils of encountering warders on the streets. He realized his error belatedly, when he and Rena were pushing their way through the crowds and abruptly found themselves presented with a group of no less than twenty Somrian footmen coming in the opposite direction.
Gallord-Smit had been so caught off guard that he didn’t react at all; he didn’t even reign in his horse. Rena, to his great surprise, continued to ride forward without pause, and his horse followed right along. For a terrifying moment he thought they would plod right into the ranks of the warders, knocking them to the ground, and drawing all the attention they could possible imagine upon themselves. However, the guards split smoothly down the centre of their ranks, allowing both him and Rena to pass through. When the lady came alongside each of the warders, they bowed to her; lightly, but in traditional Somrian fashion.
Gallord-Smit, they didn’t acknowledge at all; in fact, they didn’t even seem to see him.
Once they had left the warders behind (and after he closed his mouth, checking first to be certain no flies had taken up residence), Gallord-Smit turned to Rena and asked her with absolutely no tact whatsoever what in all the name of the eternal grand Spiral in the sky had just happened.
Any other time he would have expected her response, but in his dumbfounded state she managed to shock him further by bursting out with as profound a laughter as he had yet incited in her.
“Ma poor weary man, have ya na looked at yaself of late?” she asked him, when she finally regained control of her faculties.
He only frowned, uncertain of what she meant.
Shaking her head, Rena inquired of the next man she encountered on the street as to the nearest tailor of worthy talents, and was directed down a sidestreet overhung with rich tapestries and laden with plush, deeply coloured rugs. She came to a stop where dozens of fabric rolls were leaning adjacent to the opening of a narrow alleyway. Dismounting, down it they went, where more brightly-coloured textiles overhead blotted out the mid-afternoon sun, until she finally strode up to a tall, thin man with an equally tall and pointed hat of the brightest yellow, and demanded (with little manners shown) a full-length silvered glass to look into.
Gallord-Smit was rather shocked by her lack of decency in addressing the man, failing to even gift him with a casual greeting. The tailor, however, showed no concern at all with her tone, and promptly pulled aside a tapestry near him and uncovered a tall mirror of such quality and clarity as Gallord-Smit had never before seen.
More the shock, however, was what he saw within it. The man before him was his height and possessed the same squarish, bald head, but was otherwise unrecognizable. Rena had taken over his shaving since before he woke, and she had removed his elegantly shaped moustache, leaving a perfectly smooth and naked face to match his clean scalp. But this was not the greatest change. He was wearing the clothes of a Somrian; the expensive, sheer fabrics Rena had bought him, and he had gradually become accustomed to the brighter colours—mostly at her request. Continuous travel on the dusty provincial roads had muted the flamboyant reds and yellows, and tinted them with a subtle, permanent, orange-brown. Added to that was his skin colour which had, over the course of the two moons he had spent under the harsh Somrian sun, darkened to a deep brown. Gallord-Smit had never spent much time exposed to the bright summer sun, and when he did so he often turned a bright pink, so he had never imagined that his colour could develop so.
With the deep, rich skin tone—not perfectly Somrian, as it lacked Rena’s yellow-bronze and had a slightly more reddish hue, but close enough—combined with the clothes, he looked completely local. He would not have looked twice if he had met himself when he first stepped off the boat from Benn’s Harbour.
As if to further drive the point home, the tailor presented him with a deep, formal Somrian bow, and inquired what sort of outfit the patrician might find worthy of him in his poor shop—addressing him fully with the local accent, of which Gallord-Smit understood every word.
He shook his head and mumbled a polite decline to the shopkeeper’s offer. Disappointment was evident on the man’s face until Rena produced her purse and slipped several coins into his hand, promising that they would return another day to continue their browsing.
Back on his horse as they weaved their way through the city crowds, Gallord-Smit wasn’t sure if he was relieved to no longer be a beacon for the enemy’s attention, or disconcerted by the image of a man who seemed more Somrian lord than Lordsguard.
・ ・
Rena did not, to his great relief, intend to march directly up to the Overlord’s palace and demand palliate. In a rare show of discretion, she suggested taking a room at an inn in the northern quarter of the city, away from the waterfront and the palace. She did not, of course, select the modest traveler’s inn that Gallord-Smit would have chosen but, somewhat predictably, located the most expensive accommodation in the city’s quarter and swept in like visiting royalty. On further consideration he concluded that she had chosen wisely, since their goal was to affiliate with precisely the clientele that would frequent the establishment. He could only hope they would quickly locate those who would have the influence—and with luck, the desire—to stop Sherzi’s War (Gallord-Smit had come to call it that; in his mind it was condemning, but he bitterly imagined Sherzi would be pleased if he came to hear it).
In any case he had come to appreciate Rena’s taste for the finer pleasures in life. Their suite was spacious and beautifully decorated, with what he had come to recognize as touches from the Somrian classical era several centuries past; intricately carved wooden dividing walls, lush tapestries, and billowing curtains stretched across the ceiling. And the sleeping platform—well, Gallord-Smit had intended to focus his energies fully on the ominous task at hand. On seeing Rena stretch out contentedly on the veritable sea of padding, however, her raven-black hair dashed about her head as if thrown by undersea currents, and her small clothes rising to expose a firm, tanned belly, he could not help but remind himself that in the late evenings, at least, there would be no socializing or intrigue to be engaged in. An absolute indulgence, the platform would have filled an entire room in any other inn, and it would be a waste not to utilize it fully.
Rena asserted that she would be of no use if not at her best. With his grudging approval on that point, she ordered a luxurious spread laid out for the evening meal, and a large vessel brought in for her to bathe. Gallord-Smit sat on the edge of the sleeping platform and discussed his ideas for the days ahead while trying not to be distracted as she bathed. He should have known better of it, though; the bathing vessel was large enough for two, and Rena did not wait for the serving girls to finish laying out their meal before she crawled out of the tub and began trying to strip him. When he suggested a truce until the girls completed their duties, she once again further shocked him with her licentiousness by ordering one of the girls to stay and disrobe. The youth, a girl of perhaps seventeen summers, voluminous eyes and voluptuous form, stripped nude, after which Rena asked her to assist her in removing Gallord-Smit’s “restraints”. She only stopped from ordering the girl into the bathtub with both of them when he pointed out that there simply wasn’t enough room.
At that, Rena openly debated having the girl wait on them under the sheets, but he managed to dissuade her with protestations that he wished to discuss business regardless of what other activities they might concurrently engage in, and she sent the girl away.
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Once the night’s festivities were over with Rena went straight to sleep, but Gallord-Smit remained awake. Tanned skin and expensive clothes aside, he was not a patrician. His accent was Lords’ Lands, and his aims were a Lordsguard’s. He agreed with Rena’s intent to frequent establishments that catered to the elite, seeking connections with others of her faction that were opposed to the war. Then, after perhaps a tenday (with luck, less), they would be ready to approach the Overlord. Her plan, in principle, he supported; the problem was, he would be of little or no use in those dealings. At best, he would be able to play the role of the sad, displaced soldier of a victimized land, a solemn example of the wrongs being committed in the name of Sherzi’s ambition.
At worst, he would be left to sit in the room, catered to by the servant girls and entertained at the whim of his lady, who would be doing all the work and taking all the responsibility of the endeavour’s success or failure.
Gallord-Smit was a soldier; an officer. He was accustomed to making hard decisions, tackling weighty tasks, and overcoming obstacles. Sitting and waiting in luxury while the woman who loved him—and barely more than a girl, at that—performed his duty for him was, well, unbearable.
Surely there was some more substantial role he could play.
He lay there on the smooth sheets, listening to Rena’s rhythmic breaths and the muted buzz of nighttime city activity beyond the thick walls of the inn, and ran scenario after scenario through his head searching, as any proper military man ever should, for one that would allow him to use his expertise to some advantage.
・ ・・
Rena allowed the hall companion to open the door for her and entered the room gracefully, as she always did. In the tenday since their arrival at the inn, Gallord-Smit had taken to sitting on the third-floor balcony in the afternoon. He would quietly ponder while watching the autumn sun creep across an azure sky, to eventually land amongst ghostly peninsulas that stretched out into the sea west of the city. There were islands out there, as well; he sometimes wondered if they held wealthy, luxurious estates like Rena’s, or if they were desolate and bereft of civilization.
He stood and walked over to embrace her; she was always out socializing in the afternoons and evenings of late, and he liked to make her welcome on her return, showing his appreciation for the work she did on his behalf. As usual, she sighed and melted into his arms, emotionally if not physically tired from dancing her merry game with the city’s elite. On the rare occasions he had joined her—very rare, since they had quickly discovered that his presence made the patricians uncomfortable, and became a detriment to their goals—he had witnessed the subtle jousts and manipulations that went on at every meeting between the lords and ladies who determined Somria’s affairs. It was irritating and exhausting, and he understood why she preferred to remain on her estate for the most part, only visiting closer acquaintances or those she was indebted to, and the latter only when honour required.
He was further saddened by her failure to locate any real support at all for their cause thus far. Rena had succeeded in meeting with some important and powerful members of the Somrian elite in the city—some after considerable harrying—but the dialogues had always come to naught. Rena had assured him that there were patricians out there who were angry with Sherzi’s actions, and even willing to speak out against him, but it would take more time to determine who they were, and encourage them in their activism. He worried that with Sherzi holding considerable power and influence already, it could easily be much more time.
They had, at least, learned a few important pieces of information. The Somrian forces had seized the Southern Island (their uncreative name for the largest), but had not eliminated all resistance. The Somrian navy was threatening naval vessels from the Lords’ Lands, but no ship-to-ship battles had been fought. Neither nation had launched an assault against the other, at least not directly. With the right influence applied here or there, it was possible that Rena could still avert a full scale war. The gauntlet had been thrown, but as yet it could be picked up.
Most importantly, and to his absolute shock, she had discovered the day before that Lord Perrile was no longer in the palace prisons; he had been sent home. Gallord-Smit was not surprised to hear this, and was pleased, but it made turning the elite class against Sherzi more difficult. Continuing to detain the lord would have been a provocative act, and one that could be used to label Sherzi an irrational warmonger in the eyes of the Somrian elite (this was precisely the platform from which Rena had been approaching her fellows). Sending him home, regardless of guilt, adhered to generally accepted codes of honour between nations; it made Sherzi, and thereby the Overlord, appear reasonable, and lent credence to other, more questionable actions.
Of course it meant that Gallord-Smit could leave, if he held precisely to his responsibilities as an officer. No dishonour would be heaped upon him if he sailed home, a soldier felled in protecting his lord and fortunate enough to survive to tell of it. He considered it, but decided not to speak to Rena of the possibility, since he had concluded that he had no intention of going home.
As he held her, Gallord-Smit listened carefully to the day’s enlightenments. This evening he knew would be different, but for the moment he just held her.
Finished conveying what Rena had affectionately come to call her “report”, she sniffed at the blue smock he wore, nuzzling his chest. “Ya smell good,” she observed with a smile.
“I exercise in the afternoon, and bathe so as not to shock you with a stench of sweat upon your return,” he replied, raising his hands to rub her shoulders.
“I like ya sweat,” she murmured, her eyes closing as he worked, and laying her forehead on his chest.
“It isn’t fair, what I ask of you,” he said, forlorn. “How ever can I repay you, my poor darling?”
“Bathe me,” she requested. “Then bed me, so I sleep afores ma next. A formal dinner.” She grimaced tiredly.
Gallord-Smit chuckled. “I shall be pleased to bathe and bed you, young lady. But first,” he said, more solemnly, “we need to talk.”
Her eyes turned up to his, sad and innocent under a deceptively stern brow line. “So serious?” she asked.
He shrugged apologetically, drawing several strands of long, dark hair from before her eyes, and placing it back behind her ear. “I have much time to think, and thoughts inevitably turn serious, given chance.”
“Then I take ya time, na ya thoughts,” she teased, a hand slipping under his smock. He didn’t attempt to stop her, but she saw his expression, and drew the hand back.
“What, ma Pilaeos?” she asked plaintively.
“Rena,” he began, but words escaped him. He released her, turned and paced slowly to the window, taking a deep breath. When he turned back, her face was despairing. Did she know? Or perhaps she had simply assumed the worst, from his countenance.
“Say,” she told him sadly.
“I have to go,” he said.
She nodded slowly. “Ya come back?”
Gallord-Smit shook his head. “I can’t know, Rena. How will this end?”
She stood there for a long time, studying his face. Finally, she went over to him, placing her hands on his chest, and held his eyes. He felt as if she was crawling inside him, finding a place to hide, so he couldn’t escape her.
When she spoke, her voice was tranquil, as if the despair had sunk deep inside her and left only a calm surface behind. “If ya na can come back to me, ya send word, na I come to ya in Lords’ Land. Or elsewhere ya are, Pilaeos,” she said, her words a command.
Orders to an officer from his lady, he mused. And yet, he had no intention of disobeying them. “Yes,” he replied simply, but with charge. Then, he added, “If I live, I will return to you, or call you to me, Rena.”
She frowned. “Ya will live,” she proclaimed.
Gallord-Smit smiled sadly. He took her waist with his hands. “You aren’t going to ask where I’m going?” he asked.
“I know w
here ya go, Pilaeos,” she answered, and he knew she did.
At dawn he would find the docks, and seek out passage on a merchant ship. He would go south, but not directly to the southern islands. He could not allow the Somrian commander warning that he was coming. Once on the island, he would find the resistance, eventually. As a veteran battlefield commander, they needed him, desperately. With luck, and with his help, they would hold out until Rena could work her magic, and end the war.
He had transformed her from a socialite to a peacemaker, and all in the name of love. As he bent and kissed her forehead, he was nearly brought to tears with the guilt of what hardships he had inflicted upon this kind, innocent girl, and yet equally overwhelmed with pride in witness to the woman she had transformed into. Finally, he was filled with sadness at the thought of leaving her.
That, however, would be tomorrow. “Forget the dinner,” he said, using his palms to slide the lacy, formal shift from her shoulders. “Tonight we love enough to carry us through the empty times.”
“Yes, ma Pilaeos,” she cooed as the shift fell away.
As he kissed her and her hands pulled at his smock, he wondered if he would have the strength to make it back to her.
He was certain that if he did not, whatever his fate, she would have the strength to find him. He had never felt so vulnerable, but Rena, he knew now, was unstoppable.
30 WELGRAY
Llory had a flair for the dramatic. Where Welgray might have met his man in the back room of a tavern over a warm cup of kaf, she chose a dark alley away from the docks well after dusk, where the only activity was a driver loading his wagon with bushels of farine, presumably readying for an early morning’s departure. As the driver finished his task, Welgray reflected on the poignant irony of seeing grain loaded on to a wagon, rather than off of, in Benn’s Harbour; grain departing the city for the east had been a common sight on their ride into the city, with the farmers there so brutalized by the harsh winter that at harvest time they were in need of food, instead of selling it.
Sayri's Whisper: The Great Link Book 1 Page 34