All That Glitters

by Auston Habershaw

  Tyvian bowed to Dame Margess and took a deep breath, “Well, now that you mention it, do you have any good courtly enchanters you could recommend?”

  CHAPTER 5

  SHROUDS

  Artus peered through the curtains of the Gentleman Bastard’s second-­floor window. It was a good inn and a good room—­the windows were lead-­paned glass and relatively new, the curtains thick and clean, and the three beds had freshly stuffed straw mattresses with thick linen sheets. A small iron stove squatted in the corner of the room, more than sufficient for cold nights.

  Even after living in the West for several years now, Artus still found himself bug-­eyed at its wealth. A room like this was fit for your average Benethoran knight, and all Tyvian did was slap a pair of silver crowns on the owner’s desk downstairs and it had been theirs, no questions asked. Artus was fairly certain they didn’t even have inns like this back home.

  The streets of Derby were quiet, finally. The celebration of the earl’s victory had breathed its last, with the remaining drunken stragglers of the day’s merrymaking slowly weaving their way home in pairs of twos and threes. Artus found himself scowling at them all. What in Hann’s name did they think they were celebrating, anyway?

  “Come away from the window,” Hool barked. Artus glanced behind him to see the big gnoll’s eyes gleaming in the candlelight. “You will be seen!”

  Artus shrugged. “Who cares if I’m seen? Nobody knows who I am anyway.”

  Hool’s coppery gaze remained fixed on him. “I know who you are. You are Artus and you are mad at Tyvian for a stupid reason and so you’re doing a stupid thing.”

  “I’m not mad at anybody.”

  Hool snorted. “If someone sees you from the street and tries to kill you, I will not help. I do not help stupid ­people.”

  Artus let the curtain fall closed and laid back on his bed. Hool and Brana never used beds, so he had one all to himself. This beat some of the roadside inns in Galaspin where he and Tyvian had one bed to share between them, which naturally meant he had to sleep on the floor. “Nobody’s after us, Hool. We ain’t seen an assassin, a bounty hunter, or a Defender in the better part of a year. Reldamar’s just paranoid, is all.”

  “Just because you don’t see something, that doesn’t mean something isn’t after you.” Hool settled herself into a ball on the floor right next to Brana, who was currently snoring away. It sounded as if somebody were sawing boards. “When I hunt, do you think my prey sees me before I kill it?”

  Artus scowled—­he hated it when Hool used hunting analogies, and she used them all the time. “That’s different.”

  “It is not.”

  Artus threw up his hands. “Look, even if you’re right and everybody in the world is after Tyvian, that don’t mean they’re after me! Nobody even notices I’m here when Tyvian’s in the room. You didn’t see it, but them fancy folk we watched the battle with didn’t even know I was alive, but they looked at him like he was . . . I dunno . . . something pretty fancy anyway. It’s like that everywhere! Saints, I’ll bet that Kalsaari princess or whatever—­the one whose hair I pulled?—­I bet she don’t even remember what color my hair is. I’m a nobody, so what’s it matter if I look out the stupid window?”

  “Not being noticed is good,” Hool said, yawning. “If nobody sees you, you can do whatever you want.”

  Artus grunted and thought, You’d think that, wouldn’t you? He didn’t say it, though. Arguing with Hool was a waste of time. She had no conception of what it was like being human, let along being him. She just thought everything she said was right and that was it, no arguing allowed. Even Tyvian had to give in to her eventually.

  Artus tried not to think of just how similar that made Hool to his own, real mother. The very idea was sobering. What would his real mother say? He thought about it for a number of minutes before giving up. Every time he tried to imagine it, he discovered that she was speaking with Hool’s voice. He tried not to think about that too hard.

  “What are we doing here anyway?” Artus asked. Hool didn’t immediately answer, “Hool?”

  “We are trying to sleep. You are making noise.” Hool made a hissing noise that was the gnoll version of Shhhh.

  Artus crossed his arms and stared up at the ceiling, which was barely illuminated by the flickering candles. Tyvian never told him what was going on, and it was starting to grate. In the beginning there was some novelty to it all—­him, a farmboy from the middle of nowhere, hobnobbing around with the suave, educated, capable Reldamar—­why wouldn’t he be impressed? That had faded, though. Now he just felt like manual labor—­a manservant, a page, a boot-­black (though, in fairness, Tyvian never made him polish his boots. That he never made him because he claimed Artus would “ruin perfectly good leather with his farmer’s hands” was beside the point). Just once he wanted to be let in on the plan. He wanted to offer up his own ideas and not look stupid. Just once. Instead it was always like this: left minding the gnolls (or the gnolls minding him) for hours and hours and hours while Tyvian did gods-­knew-­what.

  There was a knock at the door—­three times, then four times. It was Tyvian. When the smuggler came in, he was whistling to himself. “Ah, Artus—­you’re awake. Excellent.”

  Artus stood up. “I’ve been up all night! Where did you get off to?”

  Tyvian lit a few more candles and a lantern hanging from the crossbeam. “My, my, Artus, if I’d known you were so worried about me, I might have had my companions walk me upstairs and offer their apologies.”

  “What companions?”

  Tyvian rolled his eyes. “Gods, Artus—­you’re like a jealous fishwife. Look, the business I had to attend to involved a lot of time and needed to be done after dark. Did you smuggle Hool and Brana in here all right?”

  “Nobody saw us,” Hool announced, standing up to stretch. Her body and arms were so long they temporarily blotted out most of the candlelight. “Most of the humans in this place were sick with poison. Brana and I could have stolen their shoes and they would not notice.”

  Brana, stretching to mirror his mother, yipped. “Shoes! Ha!”

  Tyvian nodded. “Excellent—­good work everybody. Now, for the reason we’re here.” The smuggler pulled a small box from under his cape and upended it on one of the beds. Out fell a pair of belts—­wide leather things with simple brass studs, but etched all over with an intricate array of minute, blocky runes. “Courtesy of Dame Margess’s favorite enchanter.”

  “Those things are magic,” Hool said, her ears going back.

  “It won’t hurt, Hool—­I promise.” Tyvian held one out to Hool. “Here, try this on.”

  “No.” Hool folded her arms.

  “Don’t be a baby—­just try it on.”

  “What if it sticks like your magic ring?” Hool was eyeing the belt in Tyvian’s hand like it was a snake.

  “Then we’ll cut it off. Belts are easier to cut off than rings.”

  Brana was already fishing his belt off the bed. “I try!”

  Hool slapped the belt out of Brana’s hand and pushed him on the floor. “No! Me first!”

  Brana stayed on his back and whined twice, to which Hool responded with a single guttural “Huruff.” Artus was fairly certain it meant “for your safety,” but he had an imperfect ear for the gnoll language, as Hool was fond of telling him.

  Tyvian sighed. “Go on, Hool. I just spent about five hundred marks and the better part of all day getting this damned thing for you, the least you can do is try it on.”

  Artus’s mouth popped open. “Five hundred? Where the hell did you get—­”

  “Not now, Artus,” Tyvian snapped, his eyes fixed on Hool as he held the belt out to her.

  Hool ran her nose along its length, sniffing rapidly. She concluded the investigation with a snort and then snatched the belt from Tyvian’s hand. She wrapped it around her waist, clippe
d the buckle . . .

  . . . and disappeared. Standing in her place was a tall, svelte woman wearing a finely made bodice of green silk with black embroidery and a voluminous dark green skirt that ballooned out to a full four feet across. Her sun-­streaked, auburn hair was piled atop her head with a series of golden pins and barrettes; her face powdered to be pale in contrast with her red, red lips. Only Hool’s copper eyes were still there, except of a more human shape and size—­the effect made her a singular, heart-­stopping beauty. Artus was struck dumb. “What . . . what . . .”

  The woman spoke, but it was Hool’s voice. “What are you looking at? Why do the two of you look crazy?”

  Tyvian laughed. “Hann’s boots, I figured an Eretherian enchanter would be good at this, but I had no idea. Hool! You look positively stunning!”

  “What does that mean? Why do you—­” Hool held up her hands and then froze, staring open-­mouthed at the delicate, manicured things in front of her. She then howled something in the gnollish language, which was a sight to behold issuing from the elegant throat of the tall, curvaceous woman. Artus was in the process of laughing himself silly when Hool stepped forward and grabbed Tyvian by the shirt. She hoisted him in the air like he was made of straw, but while Artus had seen Hool manhandle Tyvian hundreds of times, the image of a thin red-­haired woman in a fancy dress yanking Tyvian off his feet with one hand was nothing short of ridiculous. Artus went from simply laughing to openly guffawing.

  Tyvian tried to pry Hool’s hand from his shirt. “Hool! Hool, if you please! This is conduct unbecoming a lady!”

  Hool threw Tyvian on the bed. “WHAT DID YOU DO TO ME?”

  Tyvian held up his hands. “It’s an illusion, Hool! A trick! Just take off the belt and you’ll see!”

  Scowling, Hool reached down and fumbled with something Artus couldn’t quite see. An instant later Hool was standing right where she had been, her usual golden-­furred self. She held the belt out like it was on fire and dropped it on the floor. “That was disgusting!”

  “Me try! Me try, too!” Brana barked, bouncing over to the bed and picking his up.

  Hool moved to intercept, but Tyvian interposed himself. “It’s harmless, Hool—­don’t worry.”

  The mother gnoll hesitated, which was just enough time for Brana to hook his belt on and vanish. Standing in his place was . . . Artus himself. “What?” Artus blinked. Looking more closely, he could see certain differences—­a broader chin, flatter cheekbones, darker hair. Brana’s illusory self was an inch or so taller than Artus and broader, too, with thickly muscled shoulders that Artus himself wasn’t even close to acquiring. He wore a similarly fine set of clothing as Hool, except with more maroons than greens. “You look like my brother Balter, a little.”

  Brana held out his human-­looking hands and then stuck out his tongue. “Ha! Brothers, yes!”

  Tyvian pursed his lips, “Yes, perhaps it’s best if you didn’t talk much while wearing your shroud, Brana.”

  Artus recognized the word. “Is this like that time you disguised me and all those Defenders to look like you?”

  “It is indeed, though a bit more elaborate and less prone to failure. We’ll need our gnoll friends to wear these shrouds pretty consistently from now until we get to Saldor. This will let us move more easily and blend into society.”

  Artus blinked. “Wait a second—­did you say ‘Saldor’?”

  Tyvian grimaced as though he knew this was coming. “Yes, we’re going to Saldor. All of us.”

  Artus couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “That’s crazy! We can’t go there! That’s . . . that’s where all the damned mirror men come from! That’s like, like their home!”

  Tyvian nodded. “Indeed, which is why they would never expect to find us there.”

  Hool was frowning. “This is a bad plan. Very stupid.”

  “After Draketower, the majority of my Eretherian contacts are now spent. My only friends close enough to get to with our current funds are somewhere in the domain of Saldor.” Tyvian winced. “We don’t really have a choice.”

  Artus knew that wince. “You’re lying! You’re lying to us right now!”

  Tyvian scowled, rubbing his ring hand. “This stupid trinket . . . okay, fine—­I’m lying. We’re still going to Saldor.”

  “I don’t like it,” Hool said.

  “I realize that, Hool, but there are no acceptable alternatives. I have a lot of old friends in Saldor. They can help us.”

  Artus shook his head. “It’s suicide! I won’t go! Why do this?”

  Tyvian had his eyes fixed on his ring hand, which lay in his lap. He looked as though he wanted to jump out the window rather than have this conversation, but he stayed where he was. “I already told you.”

  “No!” Artus yelled. “Not good enough! Why would we walk into the place where you’re the most noticeable, with the most Defenders of anywhere in the West? I’m tired of just following you around everywhere!”

  Tyvian’s upper lip curled back in a snarl. “Nobody’s making you stay, boy! Feel free to leave if you hate my leadership that much!”

  “That isn’t what I said!” Artus punched his own palm. “I’m just saying that everywhere we go, you come up with the plan, you tell us all what to do, and we never have any idea what’s coming next, and . . .”

  “And what? You’re saying you should get a vote or something?”

  “I’m saying that you keep almost getting us killed!”

  Silence.

  Tyvian froze, staring at Artus with an expression that he was certain had never come up during their nonverbal communication lessons. The smuggler said nothing, so Artus found himself talking. He didn’t yell. “First there was Freegate, then Galaspin last year, then Haldasburg after that, then the crypts, then Draketower . . .”

  “Draketower.” Tyvian nodded. “That’s what this is about, eh? You can’t let that one go, can you?”

  “We coulda walked out the bloody door, Tyvian! We coulda been gone.”

  “What makes you think Draketower was my bloody idea?” Tyvian waved his ring hand in Artus’s face. “This! This Kroth-­spawned anchor of a ring made me do it! I had no goddamned choice!”

  Artus got in Tyvian’s face. He was tall enough now that they were nose-­to-­nose. “No! That’s not it! We coulda just rescued those girls—­we coulda just lit out with Saley, but no! You had to be goddamned clever, didn’t you? You thought we needed to nick the family jewels, too! And you know what happened?”

  Tyvian turned away. “She died. Is that what you want to hear? She died, and it’s my fault?” He walked to the woodstove and stared at it. “Does that make you feel better?” He nodded. “I get it. Fine. Point taken. I have a tendency to get . . . get ­people killed.”

  Artus did not feel better. Not one bit. His stomach was wrestling with itself. He felt angry and sick and tired and miserable all at the same time. “Why are we going to Saldor?”

  Tyvian stiffened. “I don’t have to justify myself to you! I’ve got a plan—­I’ve always got a plan—­and if you don’t like it, you can run off and do whatever you want. You’re a fifteen-­year-­old boy, Artus.” He jabbed a thumb at his chest. “Me—­my plans­—­have fed you, clothed you, and passed more silver through your hands than you’ve ever had in your life. Are you trying to tell me that the danger is too much for you? Well then, fine—­go off and be a farmer. Marry some rosy-­cheeked Eretherian farmgirl, settle down, and till soil for the rest of your damned life.”

  Artus clenched his fists. “That’s not what I meant!”

  “No? Then what? Maybe you want to suggest running away, up into the North, and meeting your lovely ‘Ma’? A grand plan, except going north means crossing the Dragonspine and that means passing through Freegate, which is even more dangerous than Saldor right now. Maybe you think we should stay here, living like feral cats in the bl
oody woods?”

  “We should go west, to the Taqar,” Hool announced. “There are almost no humans there to bother you.”

  Tyvian rolled his eyes. “I can see how that might be a selling point for you, Hool, but as humans, I’m not certain we’d be well-­adapted to life among the gnolls.”

  Hool snorted. “I did not say you would live with gnolls. Brana and I would live with gnolls; you would live by yourselves.” After a moment, she added, “Probably in a hut.”

  Tyvian closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Hool, I will never, ever live in a hut. Not so long as I breathe. Saldor is where we’re going. That’s final. Take it or leave it.”

  Nobody said anything.

  Tyvian let out a long, slow breath. “None of you understand the danger we are about to encounter—­none of you. Nowhere are the Defenders more powerful than in Saldor, and you have only the barest notion of how powerful they are. Everything we do—­everything we think we want to do—­from now until the moment we cross the Vedo­, could be the difference between being caught and going unnoticed. Even my explaining this to you changes things. I don’t expect you to understand, and I’m not going to bother teaching you. Suffice to say we are playing a game now—­a very dangerous game against very dangerous players. We don’t get to not play, and I’m the only person who knows the rules. You’re going to have to trust me, understood?”

  Artus said nothing. He could only mutter dark complaints beneath his breath.

  Tyvian went to the door. “Now, as I have adequately explained myself for the evening, I’m going downstairs to have a drink. In the morning, be ready to go. Hool and Brana, wear your shrouds when you leave this room and in public from now on. As Artus is fond of mentioning, I have a tendency to put us in danger, so let’s not draw any more attention to ourselves than needed.”