“Well, I’m sure that Eric has augmented the guards,” Dormael replied, and D’Jenn nodded in agreement, “It is going to take either a large bit of deception or a small bit of violence to leave here unscathed.”
“Indeed,” D’Jenn agreed, rubbing his long goatee in thought, “I would prefer that whichever way we escape we do it unseen by anyone who could give a report about it.”
“Well, can’t you two just…,” she wiggled her fingers in a gesture meant to represent magic.
“It’s not always that easy,” Dormael explained, “There is any number of things that we could do, but deciding what we should do is the important part. I could stroll out there right now and bring the whole wall down, but it would draw unnecessary attention to us, and most likely kill everyone out there. We try not to kill when we don’t have to; most of those men are just doing their jobs and are our enemy simply by circumstance. They have no idea what is really happening here and all they want is to go home to their wives or sons or daughters. I try not to rip apart families if it isn’t absolutely necessary.”
“We have to execute this so that there is no trace left by us when we go. I don’t want Eric or the Colonel discerning our whereabouts by any evidence we leave behind. If they figure it out on their own, well then we did everything we could. In the meantime, however, I’m going to try my best not to help them out,” D’Jenn added teasingly.
“So it’s the large bit of deception that we choose,” Dormael mused, squinting toward the gate in thought, “but how do we get by without arousing suspicion?” D’Jenn and Shawna both pondered the problem at hand, D’Jenn rubbing his goatee in a familiar gesture, and Shawna biting her lower lip. Dormael scratched at his scalp through his deep set cowl, pursing his lips and wondering what to do next. Slowly an idea began to take shape in his mind, and he broke the tense silence with his proposal.
“You know, the guards won’t be expecting Bethany,” he began, “and they’re expecting a red-headed woman, not a raven-head.”
“Go on,” Shawna encouraged.
“Well,” Dormael continued, “a masquerade is what is required here. D’Jenn, you could be a wealthy merchant, and Shawna, you could be his wife.” Shawna raised an eyebrow at the suggestion but offered no objections. “Bethany will be your dutiful young daughter,” Bethany only yawned in response, “and I will be your faithful servant!” Dormael quickly dismounted and earned a twinge down his bad arm for his trouble, but he was caught up in weaving his deception and didn’t let it bother him.
Dormael bent over slightly and drew his arms into his sleeves a little as he began to shuffle a bit back and forth. “What’s worse, you see,” he continued with a sweeping bow, “is that I am a leper.” D’Jenn began to chuckle quietly, holding his hand to his mouth to keep from bursting into raucous laughter. Shawna rolled her eyes and looked suddenly as if she had lost confidence in coming along on this trip with the two wizards. She sighed deeply and glanced over to Bethany, but Bethany was watching Dormael shuffle around in mock leper-step.
“It’s not going to work,” Shawna objected, but Dormael cut her off.
“Oh yes, my dear Blademaster, it will work. You see, you forget that we can…,” he wiggled his fingers at her, returning her gesture from earlier, and a light shimmering appeared in the air around his hand, as if from a heat wave. Slowly, a new hand took shape in its place, this one scabrous and rough, covered with sores and bleeding slightly. Shawna was revolted and looked away from the scaly hand, giving him a shooing gesture to get it out of her sight.
“Yes, yes, put it away,” she urged him, a pained expression on her face.
“Illusion is one of the most powerful forms of magic,” D’Jenn mused, “for those looking on; anything can appear to be real.”
“Indeed,” Dormael agreed, and with another sweep of his hand heat waves appeared around Shawna. Her hair became a complicated bun of elegance, regal and arrogant in appearance, while her riding leathers became a dress of flowing green silk. Her cloak was suddenly lined with fur.
Shawna started at the sudden change, but realized quickly that though she saw the illusion of her “noble” self, she still felt her riding leathers against her skin, and her hair still lay upon her shoulders. Only her sight was fooled by the extravagant spell. Charlotte rolled her eyes and stepped nervously, but Shawna quickly calmed her with a few comforting pats on the neck.
The same heat waves appeared around D’Jenn as the wizard cast his own illusion. His hair became oiled until it was plastered to his scalp in a high sheen, and his goatee was also oiled and pointed. His mesavai and woolen shirt were no longer there; in their place was a velvet and fur doublet of deep purple. His boots were polished and embossed with silver vines around the edges, and his cloak was lined with fur and also a deep purple. His expression changed from his normal shrewd, searching gaze to one of haughty and arrogant importance.
“Impressive,” Shawna remarked.
“Ridiculous,” Dormael corrected drolly. D’Jenn gave a deep bow from the saddle.
“Now for the grand finale,” Dormael announced. The familiar heat waves appeared around him once more, and in his place stood a stooping, dark-cloaked leper. Bandages were wrapped haphazardly around the visible parts of his body, and here and there the scabrous skin poked through. He bowed deeply to his companions, and gave a small spin with a flourish. D’Jenn and Shawna both coughed with quick laughter. The scene, though slightly disgusting, was also darkly humorous.
“I will go on ahead of you to announce your presence to the guards, for, as we all know, lepers do not ride with their lords,” he snickered, “By the way, we need names.”
“You will be…Bilious,” sniggered D’Jenn, offering up the joke that he doubted the guards would understand.
“Bilious, at your service,” Dormael assented, inclining his head.
“I will be Lord Carson, traveling north with my wife, Lady…,” D’Jenn left the last name a question.
“Myria…Lady Myria,” Shawna declared with an air of finality. The pair of “nobles” practiced haughty expressions and disparaging sniffs as the three cohorts planned the ruse to fool the guards. Dormael hadn’t expected Shawna to fall so easily into the deception, but she was playing like a champion and soon she and D’Jenn were giggling like childhood friends together at their airs and acting.
Dormael, D’Jenn and Shawna decided not to weave an illusion around Bethany, believing that the guards most likely wouldn’t look twice at her, and the young girl’s usual vocal state was silence, anyway. D’Jenn would do an expert job at keeping the guards’ attention, and Dormael would do just as well at keeping them off guard and confused. Drawing themselves up to act out the fraud, the three nodded to each other and Dormael departed for the North Gate.
Shuffling and hunching over, his gaze upon the ground and only sporadically glancing at where he was going, Dormael made his way as quickly as a sick man’s shuffle would take him to the North Gate. Taking in the scene in one quick glance, he saw four guards on the ground by the gate, and at least one in each guard tower. Two of the guards on the ground wore the surcoats of the Galanian Red Swords. Dormael prayed silently to the Gods that their little con would work. He heard one of the guards utter a curse as he shuffled up to the gate.
“Good masters, good masters, M’ Lord is coming to the gate, good masters,” Dormael vomited in a grunting, bootlicking tone.
“What is it you’re saying? Speak up, scab!” one of the City Guard replied. The Red Swords watched the scene, sniggering at each other.
“I said, good master, that M’ Lord is approaching the gate. Lord Carson, of royal blood, and cousin to the King, he is.”
“Right. Everyone is a cousin to the King these days. Well, I’ve never heard of him. Must be some lowly courtier or toady to Lord Eric. You know, I think my own pecker is cousin to the King. Come on, let’s have a look at him, then,” the guardsman replied to laughter and boasting agreement from his comrades.
“But, good masters,
you must observe the courtesies and the customs, you must!” Dormael insisted, shuffling closer to the offending guardsman and reaching out to pluck at his arm, revealing his scabbed and scaly hand. The guardsman blanched and stepped back at the sight of Dormael’s hand, spitting on the ground in Dormael’s direction.
“You’re a scab-eating leper!” he exclaimed, and as one, the rest of the guards and the two Red Swords took a step away from him.
“Poor Bilious is only sick, good masters, he means no harm or disrespect,” Dormael whined pitifully, but the guardsmen only regarded him with disgusted expressions.
“You just stay right out in the middle of the street, and tell your Lord to bugger off too, for carrying you around,” the guard spat. At that, D’Jenn and Shawna rode into the light with Bethany and the heavy pack horses in tow. The assembled guards and even the Red Swords shifted uncertainly and looked to each other for direction as D’Jenn swept them with a distasteful expression. Shawna gave a practiced, disparaging sniff, and Dormael smiled inwardly as it rang into the silence that had come over the scene.
“What is the meaning of this, Bilious? I send you ahead to announce my presence and still, the riffraff here offer no salute, no bow? You will be beaten,” he rebuked, as if to a child who was expected to misbehave. The assembled guards shot quick glances at each other, unsure of what to say. One of them mouthed “riffraff” with a questioning expression on his face to a comrade, who only shrugged to him in answer.
“Oh, but Bilious did announce his master’s approach!” Dormael cried in his own defense, “The good masters here told Bilious that their peckers were cousins to the King as well, and that you should—”
“Ah, we said no such thing, My Lord,” the guardsman that Dormael had spoke to put in quickly, knuckling his forehead and bowing slightly at the neck, “the leper is obviously sick in the mind.” The rest of the gate guards followed their spokesman’s example, saluting and bowing to D’Jenn as his eyebrows climbed to an impossible height in an expression of disbelieving indignation.
“Indeed,” D’Jenn replied, narrowing his eyes at the guardsman, “though I have never known Bilious to be a liar. Bilious knows the penalty for lying, don’t you, Bilious?” Dormael gave a whimper in reply and shuddered like an abused dog. “I hope that you consider, guardsman,” D’Jenn emphasized his title with disdain, “that if my servant were telling the truth, I would have you and your royal…pecker…sent to the stockades. It is a good thing he is lying, isn’t it?”
“Yes, My Lord,” the guardsman replied, bowing his head once more.
“I tire of this, dear. These people smell like rust and sweat,” Shawna sighed, gazing at her fingernails.
“Of course, Myria, we’re on our way now. Bilious, get going, and stay well in front of the horses, I don’t want them getting sick and I don’t want to smell you, now move!” D’Jenn commanded, clicking his reins and starting his horse forward.
Dormael squealed once and shuffled quickly through the gate onto the northern road, the guards all staying well clear of him. D’Jenn, Shawna, and Bethany rode at a walk through the gate, staring straight ahead as if the guards weren’t even there. Neither the City Guard nor the Red Swords made any move to bar his way, and the party moved into the night, away from Ferolan. Looking back, Dormael observed the guards all standing as if stupefied, confused by what had just transpired, and one of them spit at their departing backs like a child who sticks its tongue out at its mother when she’s not looking.
Being out of the city felt like suddenly being released from a cage. Out here the usual hubbub that had sounded through Ferolan was quiet, though there were no other sounds either save an occasional owl hooting or a rustle in the tall grasses to the east side of the road. This close to a large city, animals would be sparse.
The moon wasn’t particularly bright, but it did illuminate the dusty road ahead of them. It made it appear a silvery, hazy line meandering through a darkness that could only be discerned as hilltops if closely scrutinized. They could hear the Sea of Storms off to their left, roaring rhythmically as waves crashed into the cliffs below, beating against the land as if to challenge its right to be there. Slowly the sound died off, however, as the road wandered away from the coast in a northeastern direction. Soon scattered trees appeared and the northern forest gradually enveloped the road, encasing it in a shadowy embrace.
The party continued out into the night until the shadows from the slowly thickening trees obscured them. Dormael only then stopped his shuffling gait, confident now that no one could be watching, and he turned to wait on his companions to catch up. They were only about a quarter mile behind him, though, and D’Jenn closed the distance with Shawna and Bethany in tow quickly. The illusions melted away from the assembled friends as one, and Dormael once again mounted up on Horse.
“Well played, everyone, well played,” Dormael congratulated.
“I was having such a hard time keeping a straight face the way you were cowering,” Shawna laughed to Dormael, “I had to hurry things along or burst into tears. ‘Royal peckers,’ indeed!” At the mention of that, all three companions burst out laughing quietly.
“I haven’t laughed like that in a long time,” D’Jenn commented, wiping a tear from his eye and still giggling.
“Yes, well, all jesting aside, we should ride quickly away from Ferolan tonight. It may take them awhile to figure out where we went, but eventually they’ll put the pieces together. I would like to be miles and miles from this place when that happens,” Dormael said. D’Jenn and Shawna murmured agreements and they turned their horses to the north and broke into a quick canter.
Bethany cuddled up to Dormael once more, seeking the comfort of his body heat, though it was hard to stay comfortable in the bouncing saddle, so eventually she just sat back and pulled her cloak around her shoulders tightly. Dormael winked and handed her Horse’s reins. She looked excited to hold them but didn’t snap or pull on them; simply followed Dormael’s lead calmly and smiled greatly in spite of herself. The girl would make a good rider.
The cold was making his shoulder ache something fierce, and the cold night air was blowing right into his face, freezing his nose. However, for the first time in the past couple of days, Dormael felt free. At least for now, he could just relax and ride out into the night.
For now, anyway.
****
Chapter Seven
The Festival of Frost
The next morning Dormael awoke to the dull ache in his right shoulder. His hand was itching under its protective wrappings, and that meant it was healing, but it didn’t help the fact that it was irritating him to no end. Grumbling irascibly, he climbed painstakingly from his bedroll and took in his surroundings.
D’Jenn was already up, as D’Jenn always was when they traveled together, and he was stoking a small fire for a morning tea that the two wizards always drank on the road together. A Sevenlander tea, it was made from the leaves of the sweetpenny plant, and the tea boiled from them was not only pleasing and sweet on the tongue, but also contained a substance that roused the senses and kept one alert for the better part of the day. It was a morning staple for the two Sevenlanders.
He spotted Shawna’s flowing hair, now the color of a raven’s feathers, just poking from the top of her bedroll where she had hunkered deep into her blankets. Bethany was curled up in the fetal position in her own blankets, which were ridiculously large for her. The little girl had plunked down between the two wizards, tired as she could be after their ride the night before.
They had ridden past midnight, cantering and then walking the horses to rest them, until Dormael and D’Jenn were satisfied that there was enough mileage between the party and Ferolan to safely slow down. Then they had ridden farther, just to be sure.
By the time the party reached this makeshift campsite, miles north and east of the city; they had all taken only the necessary precautions with the horses and gear, and then plopped down in their blankets on the cold earth, not even
bothering with a fire. Exhausted from the tense escape from the city, sleep had come easily and they had all welcomed it. Things would only get more difficult from here, Dormael was sure of it. He performed his daily personal hygiene slightly away from the camp, and then joined his cousin by the small fire.
“We should start moving as soon as we can,” D’Jenn mused quietly to him, “I’m not so sure that Eric hasn’t figured out where we’ve gone, and chances are he’s sending out search parties as we speak.”
“Perhaps,” Dormael replied, “though he doesn’t really have many assets to send. He has the City Guard, but would he use them in such a manner? It’s the Galanians we have to worry about.”
“Agreed,” D’Jenn assented, stroking the fire with an errant stick and sending up tendrils of ash and smoke, “Those Red Swords are a troublesome lot. They’re going to be chasing us all the way to Ishamael, I believe.”
“They won’t get past Mistfall,” Dormael objected, “could you really see the clansmen back home just letting a foreign army walk unhindered onto Sevenlander soil?”
“I doubt they’ll put in at Mistfall, and even then, if they’re smart they won’t go tromping around wearing their colors and singing the Galanian Anthem, coz,” D’Jenn argued amiably, “they’ll put in at some cove along the coast, and come ashore secretly.”
“You’re probably right, but in Soirus-Gamerit it will be that much harder for them to move around. They won’t be able to buy off any Kansils or Clan Leaders; and a large group of armed men, singing anthems or not, is incredibly suspicious.”
“Indeed, though they will find a way. If Dargorin wants Shawna’s bracelet badly enough, he’ll make them find a way,” D’Jenn said darkly.
“We’ll warn every member of the Conclave we cross paths with as well, and the odds will be greatly in our favor,” Dormael declared. D’Jenn nodded to him and pulled the small boiling pot of tea from the fire. A sweet, honey-like aroma drifted enticingly from the container, and both cousins smiled as D’Jenn poured two small cups of the tea, and handed one to Dormael. They raised the cups to one another and quaffed a warm pull of the sweetpenny tea.
The Sentient Fire (The Seven Signs) Page 15