by Dale Lucas
“Oh, and pickles!” Osma said. “Pickled herring, pickled cucumbers, and those pickled eggs you like, Torval. Those are all in jars—though they’re well wrapped—so you’ll have to be careful with them.”
Aarna indicated the bags. “So who gets these?”
“I do,” Torval said. Rem saw a big, broad smile on the dwarf’s face. He strode forward, gave his sister a big, hearty hug, then turned to Aarna and opened his arms. Before he even knew what she intended, the taverner leaned forward, drew him close to her comfortable, middle-aged body, and squeezed him ferociously. Torval, being two-thirds Aarna’s height, had his face pressed comfortably against the lady’s ample bosom. The dwarf’s eyes were closed—a sign of contentment, Rem thought—peace, even. Finally Aarna dipped her head, gave Torval a soft kiss on his bald pate, then let go of him. When they separated, Torval was left with the look of a love-struck puppy and the big bag of food.
“Safe travels,” Aarna said, giving each of them a wave and one of her always-warm, always-wide smiles. “I shall count the days ’til the two of you are back at my bar, making nuisances of yourselves.”
Rem nodded. “You and us both,” he said. Having already gotten a hug and a kiss from Aarna, Rem now moved to Osma and swept her into an embrace. “Thank you, Auntie,” he said, using his most frequently employed pet name for her. “Torval can have the eggs, but I plan on eating all the rest.”
As they pulled away from one another, Osma’s eyes met Rem’s. There was the glint of tears in them, despite the fact that the dwarf woman was still wearing a well-intentioned smile. “Bring him home safe,” she said quietly, so that only Rem could hear. “Those children need him far more than I do.”
Rem nodded. “On my life,” he said solemnly.
Osma nodded, blinked away those promised tears, then looked to the children. “Everyone’s said their farewells?”
They all agreed they had. With a few last well-wishes and blown kisses, Osma and the children turned and marched away, leaving only Indilen alone with Rem and Torval. At their backs the soldiers had all fanned out to their individual horses and were deep in final preparations to mount up and depart.
Rem looked to Indilen, eager to have his last quiet moments alone with her. Unfortunately, his lover was distracted by something. She was staring toward the great fountain.
Rem followed the line of her gaze. Indilen was watching a woman perched upon the broad, water-beaded lip of the fountain. She wore a sturdy but finely sewn traveling dress with a matching embroidered cloak, and as she sat, a stout servant woman—probably her full-time nurse and chaperone—was bent at her feet. The servant woman was adjusting the laces of the lady’s riding boots, making sure they were tight. Rem was reminded of how he’d just been lacing up Indilen’s shoes like that, the day before yesterday.
But he was reasonably sure Indilen wasn’t remembering the sweetness of what had passed between them—so common, so prosaic. No, she was clearly staring at the lady herself: young, poised, raven haired, slender, and impossibly beautiful. Rem took in the lady’s face and figure with a glance, knowing that a longer perusal could get him brained with a heavy object, but that glance was enough. He noted the long, rolling ebony tresses, how they framed her beautifully sculpted face and accentuated her dark-olive skin and pale, flashing green eyes. A picky man might suggest that her nose was too long, or that her eyebrows were too heavy, but Rem wagered that would have to be a very picky man indeed. By his hasty reckoning, everything about her was perfection . . .
Clearly Indilen had come to the same conclusion.
“Who in the sundry hells is that?” she asked pointedly.
Rem’s mouth worked soundlessly before any words tumbled out. “That must be the Lady Tzimena Baya. Did I not mention she’s one of our traveling companions?”
Indilen’s silence answered his question. Clearly he had forgotten to mention that.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Rem knew what was required. He stepped toward Indilen and swept her into his arms.
“She’s the daughter of the Countess of Toriel, from Estavar,” he said quietly, as though the young lady might be embarrassed should anyone be overheard speaking of her.
Indilen stared back at him, mouth set, one eyebrow cocked curiously.
“I believe the lord marshal said she was betrothed to the Duke of Erald.”
Indilen blinked but still said nothing.
“The Red Raven tricked his way into her chambers the night that we caught him,” he said.
“I’m sure she was terrified,” Indilen said drolly. “I don’t remember you including a countess’s daughter on the list of travelers in this little caravan.”
“Well,” Rem said, “I guess . . . I suppose . . . It probably just didn’t—”
Torval was beside them. “You know,” the dwarf began, “tall-folk women don’t generally do much for me—”
Rem thought of Aarna. He wanted to blurt, That’s a lie!
“—but that one,” Torval continued, indicating Tzimena Baya, “could be the prettiest longshanked lassie I’ve ever seen.”
“Torval!” Rem hissed. He stole a glance at Indilen. She still stared, that single eyebrow raised, as if waiting for words that Rem had yet to summon.
“Worry not, love,” Torval said to Indilen in a hoarse mock whisper, “if this fool betrothed of yours so much as offers that broodmare a refill from the hogshead, I’ll box his ears ’til they swell like cauliflowers.”
“You do that,” Indilen said with the first hint of a smile. “I knew I could count on you, Torval.”
Torval nodded, thoroughly proud of himself, and continued to linger beside them. Rem stared at his partner, silently willing him off. The dwarf remained—stubborn, oblivious—studying the swirling activity about them, the dutiful soldiers, the shuffling animals, the Lady Tzimena . . .
“Torval,” Rem finally said, “why don’t you go get those foodstuffs stored in our saddlebags?”
“What, on the horses?” Torval asked.
“Yes,” Rem said. “On the horses. Make sure they’re balanced. Put what you can on your mount and I’ll take the rest on mine when I get there.”
“I can wait for you,” Torval said. He was certainly capable of lingering just to vex Rem intentionally, but he seemed honestly clueless at this moment regarding Rem’s deep, desperate need for some privacy.
“Go away,” Rem said flatly. “Please. Just let us . . .” He didn’t finish his thought, but hoped that his beseeching tone and needy expression made his requirements clear.
Torval rolled his eyes and sighed. “Fine, fine . . . Let me go make myself scarce so you can whisper a flock of sweet nothings into this poor deluded girl’s ear . . .”
He threw a knowing wink at Indilen as if the two of them were sharing the most hysterical of jokes, ribbing Rem as they were. Indilen managed a smile for Torval, but the moment he’d left them, Rem saw a sadness in her eyes that the smile had clearly been meant to mask.
Rem swept her into his arms and tried to kiss her. Indilen turned her face away.
“Are you serious?” he asked, becoming impatient. “You’re jealous of a complete stranger?”
Indilen shook her head impatiently. “It’s not her, honestly . . . I just know the time’s almost here. And, of course, I don’t really relish you being on the road with”—she jerked her head toward the Lady Tzimena—“that.”
“She’s a pretty girl,” Rem said. “So what? The world’s full of them. And I’ve got the prettiest, right here in my arms.”
Indilen sighed. “Pretty girls don’t frighten me. The road through the Ethkeraldi Wood does.”
Rem lifted her face in his hands and kissed her, long and slow. He had things to do, true. Presently, though, his only duty was to assure his lover with his kisses, with his eyes, and with his enfolding arms that he was unafraid of this inconvenient little journey and eager for only one thing: to return to her.
The kiss broke. Indilen withdrew a little. She
was smiling now—a sad smile, but a smile nonetheless.
“Don’t mind me,” she said, her brown eyes meeting Rem’s and melting the center of him. “I’m sad you’re leaving. Sad and frightened. Angry, even.”
“I’ll be back before you know it, with gold in my purse,” Rem said with all seriousness and a reassuring smile. “I’m not wasting all this time away from you and putting my hide on the line just so I can see the countryside.”
“Just remember,” Indilen said slowly, “your only job is to come home to me. That prisoner doesn’t matter. The gold doesn’t matter. That irritatingly beautiful young lady by the fountain doesn’t matter”—she smiled when she said that. “Only one thing matters. And that is . . . ?”
Without even thinking about it, Rem fell to one knee on the flagstones, drew Indilen’s hand up to his mouth, and kissed it long and slow. “I swear, as all the gods of the Panoply and ruined ages past are my witnesses, I shall come home to you, my beautiful girl, with all speed.” When he raised his eyes to Indilen’s, he saw the glint of tears in them. He stared at her—steady, even, true—holding her hand in both of his.
Indilen wiped the first bloom of a tear from one eye, then gently yanked on his hands. “Stand up,” she said. “If you make me cry here, I shan’t forgive you.”
Rem shot to his feet again and drew her into his arms for what he promised himself would be the last time. She held him tightly. He drew in the scent of her hair, the feeling of her warmth and softness against him.
“I love you,” she said.
“And I you,” Rem answered, fighting the urge to say something more, something that would ruin the bittersweet simplicity of the moment they were sharing.
Indilen then stood on her tiptoes and kissed him, holding his face in her hands this time. When the kiss was done, she stepped away. It was a definitive gesture—sudden, jarring, but clear in the message it carried: Time to get this over with. She still held his hand, and she held it tightly.
Then Indilen looked past Rem and scanned the onlookers. “Torval?” she called.
Torval appeared from behind a horse nearby. “Oi?”
“Bring him back in one piece,” Indilen called, dead serious, “or it’s your hide, do you understand me?”
Torval made a fist and held it over his heart. Rem had seen him make that gesture only a few times, usually with his children; it was a dwarven sign indicating that a solemn promise had been made. “Upon my children,” the dwarf said.
Rem remembered his quiet promise to Osma and smiled.
Indilen looked to Rem. She was smiling now, though there was still sadness in it. “There,” she said. “I feel better.”
“I need to get at it,” Rem said.
“Go on,” Indilen said. “You’re on duty now, and not off again until you’re back in my arms. I’ll go.”
“There’s no need,” he began.
“There is,” she said, then kissed him one last time, turned, and marched away. Rem watched her go, wondering if she might turn back before joining the traffic on Eastgate Street and disappearing into the crowd. She did not.
Rem turned toward the line of horses. As he did, he caught sight of the Lady Tzimena, now inspecting what Rem assumed to be her own mount. It was a fine chestnut mare with a long flaxen mane, a brilliant, buttery ivory against its rusty brown coat. The lady was looking right at him, smiling brightly. Clearly she’d seen what had passed between him and Indilen, and it seemed to have given her pleasure. Rem, not sure what to do, simply gave a curt nod and trudged on toward his waiting horse.
When he arrived, Torval eyed him suspiciously. “I’m watching you,” the dwarf said.
“Shut up,” Rem spat back. “Let’s get to work.”
Torval said that Wallenbrand, the lord marshal’s second, had identified the mounts intended for the two of them: a shaggy pony for Torval, twelve or thirteen hands high, with a stocky frame and good strong limbs, and for Rem a dappled gray gelding, sixteen hands high, compact but elegant, with a long, thick mane and tail. He knew he’d have to give the animal a closer inspection, but something in him loved the beast instantly.
First, though, he’d have to get Torval situated on that pony. The dwarf had packed his saddlebags but hadn’t yet attempted to mount.
“Now, listen,” Rem lectured as he double-checked the pony’s harness and tack, “I’m going to warn you that it may take some time for this little fellow to become accustomed to you. Try not to take his reluctance personally—he’s just trying to figure out who you are and what he can expect from you.”
“Sounds reasonable,” Torval said, patting the buckskincolored flanks of the pony. “I myself tend to warm up slowly.”
“If ever,” Rem muttered.
“What was that?” Torval asked.
“Nothing,” Rem said. “Come on, into the saddle.”
That took some doing, since Torval had, he admitted, not ridden more than two or three times in his whole life. Rem tried his best to give Torval some proper grounding in technique—mounting from the left, using the pommel as leverage and swinging his right leg up and over. After two or three false starts, Torval finally managed to mount and settle himself, but the shortened stirrups were still too long for his stocky little legs. Rem immediately set to adjusting them, knowing that the long ride they were about to embark on would be miserable indeed for both pony and rider if Torval couldn’t comfortably rest his big feet in those stirrups. Rem also noted—and was most impressed by—the fact that even though the pony was small and its stirrup straps equally so, whoever had chartered the animal had made sure to have a set of large stirrups attached to the short straps, knowing that a dwarf, though short of leg, would be large of shoe.
So, Rem thought as he struggled with the straps, the lord marshal and his men are cunning indeed. No detail escapes them, no contingency is unforeseen.
He wasn’t sure if that made him feel better or worse.
“There,” Rem said at last, straightening. “You’re all set.”
“Good,” Torval said, “now get me down from here.”
“Oh no,” Rem said. “You’re all set, and it was hard enough getting you up there. Take him for a few circles around the square. Get to know him. Let’s not have your very first ride be out of that city gate.”
Torval looked troubled by that thought, but Rem knew he’d be fine if left to his own devices. He anticipated a great deal of swearing and grumbling on the dwarf’s part, but he reckoned that soon enough pony and rider would reach an accord. Satisfied, Rem turned to his own mount and began his inspection. The shoes on the gelding looked fairly new, and his hooves were smooth and unblemished, showing only the most superficial cracks. Rem led the animal forward and back, then in circles, to check his gait for irregularities, and finally counted himself satisfied. The gray wasn’t eager to bite him, nor did he shy away when Rem stroked his muzzle. All in all, he was a fine, solid animal, and Rem thought he’d prove a splendid companion for their journey.
“I picked that one myself,” someone said.
Rem turned. It was one of the younger soldiers in Lord Marshal Kroenen’s squad—the one who Rem had noted bore some resemblance to the lord marshal. The young man had the same patrician features—a long proud nose, pronounced cheekbones, a square jaw, and a direct gaze—but both his hair and eyes were lighter than Kroenen’s own. He also exuded a different energy: enthusiasm and friendliness in place of the lord marshal’s unbending authoritarianism.
Rem offered a hand. “He’s lovely,” he said. “Truly.”
The young guard was attending to his own mount, a handsome bay. The horse’s tack and saddle were far finer than those on the horses tagged for Rem and Torval, which struck Rem as odd. If they’d hired the horses from a local vendor, shouldn’t all their saddles and harness be roughly equal in terms of functionality and ornament?
The young guard took Rem’s hand and shook it. “Brekkon,” he said. “Good to meet you . . . ?”
Rem broke t
he handshake. “Rem,” he said, then indicated the gray gelding. “I’ll take good care of him. You have my word.”
“I should hope so,” Brekkon said. “I bought him. Once we’re back in Erald, he’ll be all mine. I must say, I’m impressed. I saw you inspecting your friend’s mount and your own, and you seemed to know what you were looking for. Not a skill I’d attribute to a lad from this city.”
Rem felt a twinge of inward fear. Was this young man truly intimating something? Suggesting something? Or was he simply curious? His friendly eyes and easy expression suggested no ill intent, but most people could lie well enough if they were deeply interested in doing so.
And he’s a royal guard, Rem thought. Spent his whole life in service to a nobleman, probably seen plenty more come and go through the Eraldic court . . .
“I was a horse groom,” Rem said, “when younger. Changed my line of work, but I still love them, you know? Get far too few opportunities to mount up and go for a ride in this job.”
“But you’re not from here?” Brekkon pressed, still looking perfectly friendly and casual, not eager or doubtful in the least. “You sound like you’re from up north—”
“Lycos,” Rem said shortly, “near Great Lake. That’s where I did my, er, grooming. In the house of a lord. Eventually tired of it and wandered down here.”
Brekkon nodded agreeably, then took in their surroundings: the milling crowd, the big marble fountain, the enormous, looming Dragon’s Roost Inn on the far side of the street. “Long way from Lycos,” he said amiably.
Rem decided agreement was all that would snuff the boy’s infernal curiosity. “Aye, that, sir. Aye, that.” He forced a laugh, then turned back to his horse and busied himself with rearranging the provisions and spare clothes in his saddlebags. He prayed Brekkon wouldn’t keep speaking or press the issue. To his great relief, he didn’t.
Rem raised his eyes, looking over the rump of his horse toward the rest of the lord marshal’s train as they secured the supplies on their four-wheeled ox wain in preparation for departure. Wallenbrand and a smaller, more wiry man were lifting a shallow, heavy wooden chest with a stout iron lock into the hands of the biggest man of the company—a tall, broad fellow with thinning hair on his head but a thick growth of black whiskers on his face. As the big man took the heavy chest from the two men below and moved to stow it in the cart bed, Rem suddenly realized there was something rather strange about the big wain. Though it was of average dimensions—about six feet wide by ten or eleven long—the forward and side walls of the wagon bed were extremely high. A man standing in that cart bed would be able to peer over them if he stood on his tiptoes. Torval would have no hope of seeing over the wagon walls at all. Moreover, though there were a great many supplies arranged in the bed, they came nowhere near filling the cart entirely. It seemed a rather strange vehicle to have chosen, considering very little of its bed space was actually used. Rem half wondered why the Red Raven hadn’t simply been chained therein, instead of the lord marshal’s spending the extra money required to rent or purchase that separate cage cart for him.
