I found it increasingly hard to choke down the well-meant gifts as the day crawled sluggishly on. Apprehension was filling my belly and gnawing at my ribs. I just wanted to get things in play. I’d be able to name my own price to Messire, or Planir come to that, I reminded myself firmly. I could invite the other to match it and stand back while their rivalry made me rich. Coin gives choices the poor are denied and I wanted to explore my preferences with Ryshad. That did more to settle my stomach than any apothecary’s remedy as we worked our way back to keep watch on the gate of the fess.
“Sun’s sinking,” ’Gren observed finally.
Sorgrad nodded. “Let’s get you ready for your performance.”
“We should have brought Niello,” I joked feebly as we moved to a conveniently obscure hollow among the abandoned diggings.
Sorgrad lounged casually on the turf to keep watch and ’Gren and I started work. He opened his belt-pouch while I pulled seemingly endless folds of linen over my head, relishing the touch of the cooling air on my stifled skin. I bent and untied one garter, stuffing it in a pocket and letting my stocking droop.
“Let’s be having you.” ’Gren tipped a little water from his belt-bottle into a wooden dish. “Head back so I can make you beautiful.” He was mixing a nauseating palette from cosmetics we had begged from the Forest women.
I tilted my face obediently as he rubbed black, purple and yellow into my cheek with gentle hands. “It’s got to look a few days old,” I reminded him, “and make sure that bastard isn’t going to recognize me. If he sees me for who I am, it’s all over.” I swallowed hard to clear my throat of qualms.
“Your own mother wouldn’t recognize you.” ’Gren smeared a convincing fakery of old, dried blood around one eyebrow and temple, drawing painful cuts across the corner of my eye.
“She hasn’t seen me for ten years or more,” I pointed out. “That’s no great achievement.”
“A bit of green as well, I think.” ’Gren applied judicious pigments to his fingers and laid them carefully around my neck to leave the prints of a strangle, grinning evilly at me. I stuck my tongue out and crossed my eyes.
My spirits were rising as I rolled back the sleeves of my shirt, warming my blood, as is generally the way, once a game’s in hand. ’Gren seized my forearms, drawing me close for a moment. “We’ll be right beside you, all the time.”
“You’d better be, pal.” I blew on the pigments to dry them before letting my cuffs fall loose and unlaced. “What do you think?” I turned to Sorgrad, who was gazing out over the valley, motionless as the mountains themselves. The long twilight was nearly upon us now and the peaks behind him were gilded by the sunset. Snowfields on one hand were fringed with lace against the buttery softness of the rock. The dark peak was warmed, severity muted by shadow, a fallacy of beauty in the deceptive light.
He drew his gaze back from distant illusions to the realities of the present. “Some dirt in your hair?”
I scooped up a handful of dust. ’Gren was about to stuff the grubby smock into his pack in place of the thin blanket Sorgrad pulled out. “Wait a moment.” I took the crudely dried meat out of the pocket. “A trace of scent is always the final touch, isn’t it?” I rubbed the sticky lump against the ripped neck of my blouse, the blackened residue of blood smelling both sweet and metallic at the same time. “Let’s get this masquerade on the boards.” I wrapped myself in the blanket, the bold pattern of blue chevrons against the yellow wool unmistakable and well worth the coin it had cost us down in the foothills. I wondered if that peaceable little village was just a burned-out ruin by now.
’Gren caught me up in his arms and I lolled boneless against his narrow shoulder. He made nothing of my weight, and I felt the haste in his steps as we headed for the rekin. An insane urge to giggle swelled in my throat as I recalled playing the wilting blossom like this one year at the Selerima races. The impulse died on my next breath; we weren’t here gulling touts out of coin, busy crowds to hide us from bully boys with nailed boots and pickaxe helves.
I let my jaw slacken in despair, eyes blank and lifeless. I’d once seen a brutalized girl mercilessly used by Lescari mercenaries; I recalled her terror-filled screams, her agonized hysteria as she had clung to me and Halice, barely able to stand, once ’Gren and Sorgrad had raised a riot and fought through to rescue her. The memory helped me force a few sluggish tears, not so many as to risk runnels in the paints on my face but just enough to give my eyes a crystal sheen of grief to convince onlookers. Niello would have been proud of me. Beneath the façade of helpless victim, I steeled myself.
Sharper notes rose in the voices around us, horrified questions, hisses of outrage and pity. ’Gren’s strong arms held me close and I hid my face in his chest. The metal links dug into my cheek at every step but I was willing to add a few real scrapes to the painted deceits. Sorgrad’s forbidding presence stopped anyone getting too close, rebuffing offers of help with a curt explanation. We were going straight to the Sheltya, for healing and for justice. The cautious agreement I heard wasn’t as wholehearted as I might have expected.
“Jeirran will already have avenged the insult, like as not.” One voice sounded loud in the jumble of concerned voices. This assertion raised a full-blooded roar of approval. I pondered this as I was carried, limp as a discarded doll. Would taking the Elietimm out of the scales be enough to unbalance Mountain Men determined on war? My grimace of frustration could be one of pain for the onlookers. No, I’d worry about the fate of the uplands later, or preferably leave it to someone else. I just wanted the Elietimm enchanter.
“Let us pass!” Sorgrad’s demand was nicely pitched between challenge and supplication, a break in his voice suggesting near intolerable anguish. “We need to see Sheltya!”
“What’s your concern?” The guard’s voice trailed away as Sorgrad stepped aside to reveal my pitiable form cradled in ’Gren’s arms. I felt the beat of his heart picking up pace beneath his hauberk and smelled the sharpness of fresh sweat. My own pulse was rapid in the hollow of my throat, every sinew tense.
“I’ll get one of the women to tend to her,” said the gate ward hastily.
“We want to see Sheltya,” demanded Sorgrad. “Not some wise woman. We’ve tended to her hurts as best we can but we don’t know exactly what happened. We need Sheltya’s care for her memory, to tell us just what those misbegotten lowlanders did to her!” The air of suppressed fury in his voice was most effective. I let tears spill over my lashes, shuddering faintly like an injured animal.
“I’ll send for someone,” offered the hapless guard.
“Maewelin freeze your seed!” spat Sorgrad. “Do you keep us on the threshold like lowland beggars, every curious eye to see her shame, every eager ear to hear her misery?”
“What’s going on here?” A new voice, older, less easily swayed by his own emotion or anyone else’s.
Sorgrad modified his tone accordingly, respectful and to the point. “Our sister was attacked as we traveled. We were told there were Sheltya who could ease her memory. We can wait but not here, where everyone can stare. The fewer who know…” He let his voice trail off.
“Traw, take them to the kitchen yard,” the voice ordered briskly. “I’ll send word to Sheltya—”
“Would that be Cullam?” asked Sorgrad eagerly.
“No, it’ll be Aritane or one of her people.” The voice did not like to be interrupted. “She’ll send somebody as is convenient. There are more than your sister needing healing this day.”
“My thanks,” Sorgrad began but the voice was already turning away to deal with the new sentries.
I let my eyes wander around seemingly unfocused as we followed Traw the gate ward around to the back of the rekin. The court of the fess was thronged with people, some walking fast with an air of purpose, others slowing at the end of a long, hot day, weariness in gait and faces. Tension lay beneath the rumble of conversation, ripe with anticipation and antagonism. All seemed rapt in their own concerns.