“Hola, Elora!” she heard from a short ways to the rear as Duguay rejoined them.
“What about him?” was Rool’s final question before lapsing into silence.
She had no answer. Duguay spared the board hardly a passing glance but she knew that meant nothing. His sight often proved more keen than hers and he had the infernal knack of seeing things while appearing not to.
“I don’t know about you, apprentice, but I am tired of the road,” he announced as he promenaded to the main gate of the fort in full view of the sentries and their officer of the watch, who had the power to admit them or turn them both away. “A few days’ rest and relaxation, to replenish the body and the purse, should set us both to rights.”
He shot Elora a sudden, sideways glance that was so quick, that caught her so by surprise, that for the merest split instant her eyes met his. In that flash she felt as though she’d just stared into the heart of the sun. She couldn’t remember any details, the inrush of sensation was too intense. The moment passed so quickly, in a space of time so small, she didn’t have a word for it, she was left only with its residual aftertaste. She felt a vague mix of exhilaration and danger, a desire so pure she ached to possess it even though that would mean oblivion.
The only outward sign of this was a faint gasp from her, nothing from Duguay, which immediately made her wonder if it was all her own imagination. His words, however, told her he’d seen the sign and made all the right connections. They were meant to reassure. They didn’t.
“Trust me,” was what he said. And strode right up to the gatekeepers.
“Don’t,” was Rool’s warning.
Duguay met the guards’ challenge with a smile and a wave and in short order, to the accompaniment of glib words, irresistible charm, and finally the clink of coins changing hands, and they were admitted.
Of a sudden there was a riot of sound from within the stockade, beginning with a single shout in the distance that doubled and redoubled, crashing toward the gate like an aural wave as voices mingled with the crash of steel and the falling of heavy objects. Heads turned out along the road, none of the patrons of the bazaar quite sure what was happening, their interest manifesting itself more as curiosity than alarm. The gatekeepers knew better, they’d been galvanized into action right from the start. Elora saw pikes tossed to waiting hands while others leaped with trained precision to close the gates.
Elora barely had time to register the sound of hoofbeats before a cavalry charger bulled its way past her through the crowd from the opposite end of the bazaar, its bulk and the harsh cries of its rider acting in concert to clear a path. As it reached the gate a figure launched itself from the interior shadows. The rider bellowed, the horse screamed in startlement, rearing up onto its hind legs. Too much happened too fast as the rider tried to maintain control of his mount and defend himself. The poor man simply didn’t have enough arms. At the same time the horse had lost all memory of its training, reverting to a natural state of panic. It overbalanced, lost its balance, tumbled to earth with a palpable crash. As it fell the rider’s assailant launched itself from the saddle with a fearsome roar.
Unfortunately Elora was right in its way.
She felt like she’d been thumped by a thunderstone. It really didn’t matter much that Duguay’s pack caught the full brunt of the impact as the pair of them hit the ground, the collision still hurt.
She struck out reflexively, not a conscious thought behind any of her blows beyond a primal desire to protect herself. Each one, though, brought her an increasing sense of recognition. This was no stranger atop her, and no enemy.
At least so she assumed until Ryn Taksemanyin bared fangs and uttered a snarl that set babies immediately to shrieking and sent onlookers scrambling desperately for cover or weapons. Elora couldn’t help flinching as wicked claws flashed across her body, the look on his features was so fierce she was sure he’d cut her. Then he scooped her out of the severed pack straps and heaved her from his path.
Again reflexes superseded intellect. She twisted in midair, managing to salvage a decent landing. Ryn cast about for an escape route through the crowd, but a burly armsman took him down with a chest-high tackle. An elbow to the solar plexus took the Daikini out of the fight, but two of his mates slammed into Ryn as the Wyr scrambled to regain his feet.
A cudgel rose and fell, and Elora hissed as the blow drew blood. For each opponent Ryn cast aside, easily two or three more piled on to take their place, and the Wyr was quickly buried beneath a mass of pile-driving punches and savage kicks. There was no elegance or finesse to this encounter. It was a brawl, and these men were masters at the art.
The crowd kept a respectful distance. The authorities appeared to have the situation under control but no one wanted to find out the hard way that they were wrong. A couple of horsemen were waved back by one of the troopers on the ground. This was a foe better handled on foot. Shackles were quickly and roughly fastened into place about ankles, wrists, and throat. A thick hobble chain prevented Ryn from walking with anything better than quick little stagger steps and his arms were wrenched painfully high on his back in a pair of hammerlocks, to be hooked onto the back of his collar, making it a struggle for him even to breathe. A restraint gag had been applied as well to keep his fangs at bay. Elora’s hand itched toward her traveling pouch, and the weapons within, as she heard a chorus of loud comments that the prisoner, this beast, would be better off hamstrung.
Duguay’s hand covered hers and Elora felt a madcap flash of agitation at how easily he’d caught her unawares. She knew that this was no time for a rescue, but it was agony to stand by and do nothing while her friend was dragged away.
Manacled as he was, Ryn still stood taller than many of his captors, tall even for his own ocean-dwelling race. He was broad in the shoulders, long and lean along the body, built better for swimming and scampering than for walking upright. His fur had suffered from the scuffle, and whatever imprisonment had come before. Usually immaculate, with a glossy sheen that made it look polished, it was now scored with dirt and mud, matted in places, and stained with what Elora hoped was water but suspected was blood. His face was usually expressive as any Daikini’s, though while their fangs were vestigial, his were not. Ryn’s intelligence should have been a match for the best among the jeering crowd of onlookers and his sense of honor put more than most to shame. But now, snarling through his gag, foam flecking his muzzle, a mad glare in his eye, Ryn appeared more beast than human.
The Wyrrn spanned the gap between land and sea. While they made their settlements along remote and wild shorelines, they were equally at home far out upon the Deep Blue, as they called the Mother Ocean. They breathed air but could swim underwater for periods that would leave the hardiest Daikini drowned and dead, as well as plumb depths that surface dwellers could only reach in their imagination. They were as ubiquitous and far-ranging at sea as Daikini were on land, and in the main a far more collegial species. Their partnership with the Cascani was legend, so much so that stories labeled them as related offshoots of the same parents. When challenged on that point, the response of either race was generally a broad and knowing grin, and the offer of another glass of something good to drink to make the encounter pass more enjoyably. The main difference between them, aside from the physically obvious, was that Cascani lived for the deal and had their fun on the side. Wyrrn apparently were born laughing, the better the game, the happier they were.
Damn, she thought as she watched Ryn dragged away, and then gave the feelings voice, “damn damn damn!”
“You were hanging back before,” Duguay noted, the sound of his voice yanking her from her reverie. “Of two minds about staying?”
“Nope.”
“Nasty business, that.”
“Yup.”
He got the message and mentioned no more of it as he led her beneath the portal of the main gate. Passing within on his heels, Elora was imp
ressed to note that the redoubt was twice her height in thickness and that the tree trunks which formed the wall above were themselves doubled.
“These folks take their security seriously,” she said quietly, as much to Rool on her shoulder as to Duguay by her side. The troubadour had taken charge of his pack, keeping hold of it with one hand and her with the other.
“Then we’ve every expectation of a sound, safe sleep this night,” Duguay responded.
The promise of a performance gained them a cubby for the night, and supper. The closet had a feather bed that might comfortably fit a Nelwyn, provided he was modestly sized and didn’t move much in his sleep, and there were peg hooks on the wall to hold their gear, plus a single shelf. No candles, and when Elora inquired about them she was greeted with an explosion of derisive mirth from the serving lass who had showed them the way. No door, either, only a curtain to afford them a marginally threadbare modicum of privacy. Common washroom and privy out back. Light, such as it was, came from a line of sconces in the hallway. There were quality rooms of course, for the quality folk with means to pay for them. Still, the mattress was clean, as was the floor and the staff, and the room had a minimal sense of bugs. Duguay commented that he’d seen worse.
He sat Elora in the corner farthest from their “door,” plucking off her greatcloak to hang on the frame and shroud the pair of them in near-absolute darkness. MageSight allowed Elora to see perfectly and she wondered if the same held true for him until he folded back one corner of the cloak to spill a wedge of light over his pack. From there he drew a small metal container, pulled off the tight-fitting top to expose the wick. He handed her the lamp, struck flint to steel, and within seconds the room had illumination. At his direction she set the lamp on the shelf, while he refastened the cloak to enclose them completely once more.
“This could get us into trouble,” she told him.
“Only if they notice, which they won’t, and only if we set the place on fire, which we won’t.”
“You’re sure on both counts?”
“Trust me.”
“You keep saying that.”
“I haven’t betrayed you, Elora, and I won’t.”
She said nothing but cocked an eyebrow.
“Please,” he said, “don’t dissemble. I saw that warrant out front same as you and I have to ask, how many silver-skinned people are there in the world?”
“I haven’t met the whole world, have you?”
“Suit yourself, but you can’t wander about this fort dressed like that.”
“Highlanders do.”
“And when you eat or drink, what then?”
“I can stay here.”
“Won’t be doing your friend much good in that case, am I right?”
He was, and she sighed to show she knew it.
“How could you tell?”
“I watch people. I observe the way they react to things. From yours, that Wyr was known to you and on a more than casual basis.”
“He’s my friend, Duguay. I have to help him.”
“Best then you begin by helping yourself. There are two ways to hide when you’re on the run.” It sounded like firsthand knowledge. “Play the titmouse and stay so deep within yourself you’re never noticed. Or grab center stage so flagrantly no one’ll dare think of you as a fugitive.”
“Speaking from experience?”
“Not every engagement ends happily. Some audiences carry a grudge.”
“And your preference?”
“People don’t like surprises, Elora. It’s always better to play to their preconceptions and prejudices, to be precisely what they expect. You’re apprentice to a bard. When was the last time one of that breed was ever shy and unassuming? Besides, if you make sure to direct everybody’s attention one way, all manner of schemes can be hatched behind their collective backs.”
“I should warn you, Duguay, if you mean to cast any sort of glamour, magic doesn’t hold on me.”
“A glamour, this isn’t. That sort’a nonsense doesn’t hold much for me, either.” His mouth quirked, an expression too wry and rueful to be a proper smile. “Besides, you’ve seen and touched parts of me no one else has. A good heart, I’ll own to, albeit reluctantly, since I prefer the role of a rogue and roué. But magic”—and Elora heard a definite sense of sorrow to his tone—“not at all.”
He turned his gaze toward her, and try as she might she still couldn’t meet it. “I owe you my life, Elora with the silver skin. This is small and scant repayment.” He took a big and deliberate breath to break the mood and returned to his original discourse. “Anyroad, magic is too easy, first thing any truly suspicious mind looks for. In a stronghold this big, probably three or four household spooks on retainer, just to sniff out the slightest whiff of any renegade spell casting. Me, I’m an old-fashioned player. I work with my hands, with whatever comes to hand, and with my wits, and so should you.”
“What about the reward?”
“Am I a liar or a fool to tell you no way? I’ve the wanderlust in my soul, Elora, same as you. That’s more money than a man like me will ever see in his whole life, but what’ll I do with it? Carry it on my back, I’m branding myself a target for every robber worth the name. Even if it was possible to spend so much, I’m not sure I’d want to try. That much money has a way of twisting a body’s spirit, spin its thoughts around a practical, sensible turn. Some are born to be men of property, but I’ve yet to see one of those I truly liked, and I’ve certainly no desire to see one staring back at me each morning from my mirror. So, in the balance, I am tempted. I’m only human. But not so much as to act on it.”
“Fair enough.”
“You’re not convinced.”
“It’s a good speech, Duguay, but these are times that cast shadows across the best men’s souls. Maybe you’re right, and that means it’s better to throw in with scoundrels born. In my case, I sure hope so. But under the circumstances, it isn’t as if I have a whole lot of choice. So…?”
He had her strip to the borderside of decency, shorts and a singlet that didn’t quite cover her midriff, and at the sight of her even he had to sit back on his heels and simply stare. She dropped her eyes and hunched her shoulders forward, struck by an unaccustomed fit of modesty she’d never felt around the brownies. She locked her fingers together in her lap, to keep from little helpless gestures meant to cover her body, apologize for her shorn head.
“That poster doesn’t do you justice.”
She didn’t trust herself to speak. She wanted to shriek at him, This isn’t me, this isn’t who I really am! Yet at the same time she wanted to face him with pride. She’d never felt this way, so wholly and fundamentally unsure of herself. Everyone loved her when she was a baby because everyone loves babies. Growing up in Angwyn, the Vizards who were her guards and constant companions were no more real to her as people than she was to them. Her own opinion of herself was so flawed that theirs didn’t matter. Afterward, when she was reunited with Thorn and came to have an appreciation of her own worth and potential, she deliberately refused to think of herself in terms of physical beauty. That wasn’t the standard she wanted to be judged by. She set out to learn skills and shape her body to accommodate them. She always knew the day would come when she would want to be seen as a woman, but she never had anyone to prepare her for the moment.
“May I touch you?” Duguay asked, and was answered by the shallowest dip of her head. The mere thought of it gave her another attack of goose bumps and she pursed her lips in agitation as she tried to understand how she could feel as though streams of ice-cold and near-boiling liquid were intertwining themselves throughout her body.
It’s not as though he’s doing anything, she thought in frantic confusion. Rool wouldn’t allow it if he tried. She blessed Rool for his presence and hated him, all in the same moment.
“Your skin’s warm,” he said, marvel
ing, as he took her forearm in hand. Then, as if realizing how absurd he sounded, he broke out in a low chuckle.
“Forgive me, Elora,” he apologized, gathering himself to his knees and dropping head and shoulders slightly forward in a proper bow. “I must appear one great and thumping lummox.”
“It’s all right.”
“You really do appear a statue come to life.”
“The one spell I’ve encountered that hasn’t washed off. Unless, of course, this is how I was supposed to look all along. The question is”—and here she hardened her voice, holding fast to the original subject of their conversation as though it was a lifeline—“how do I hide it? As you said, in plain sight.”
“Clothes are one way, that you know. But for our purposes…”
Duguay rummaged in his pack, came up with a smaller box that opened to reveal a cornucopia of jars and pots, ointments and pastes.
“The trick,” he considered thoughtfully, picking and choosing among its contents, “is not to cover the silver, but make it appear as though the silver is covering something else.”
“Suppose I sweat, and what about when I bathe, won’t your paint wash off?”
“Some will, others not, that’s the key. Apply the makeup in layers, you see….”
He left her hair spiky, but washed it with an unguent that turned it a black so dark she could have been dipped in an inkwell. He used a pencil to shape her brows so that they rose up and away from her eyes in a dramatic sweep, and then took a razor to her scalp to deepen and extend the arc formed by her natural widow’s peak.
Paint came next, swashes of vibrant color, primaries all, highlighting and accentuating the shapes and planes of her face in ways that both added years to her appearance and, paradoxically, made it increasingly difficult to tell precisely what she looked like. The overall design was wonderful, Elora never imagined she could ever look so beautiful, yet even she found she couldn’t fix any coherent image of herself in memory.
Over the rest of her, every part that would be visible, went a subtle base coat that didn’t so much submerge her argent skin tone as cast it in a wholly different light. With paint, Duguay somehow replicated the same effect that occurred whenever Elora blushed, giving her body a faint but discernible roseate accent, the end result being a woman with exceedingly pale but otherwise normal skin.
Shadow Dawn Page 19