That was when his flow of ideas stalled for lack of information. He would have done something positive, anyway. First, he would see the Vreijek sorcerer…
*
Night crawled to its end at last, a cold, wet, miserable dawn that would never have a sunrise, and Aldric reached down to gently shake Gueynor out of sleep. She was confused at first, stiff and sore from her uncomfortable posture, and her eyes were still red-rimmed from too many tears.
“It’s morning,” he said. “Like any other day.” Gueynor glanced at the wan grey light beyond the shutters and closed her eyes again.
“Like any other day. Except that on this day we lay my uncle in the earth.” Aldric’s face didn’t change. It wore the same hooded, inward-looking, thoughtful expression as when she awoke, except now it was more like a shield to hide behind. “The Beast is dead. I thought I would feel different.”
“Nothing changes in a night. Not love, not grief, not hate.” He went to wash, shave and then put on the only formal garment in his saddlebags, a blue and silver elyu-dlas crest coat marked with the Talvalin eagles and worn over full black battle armour. The people of Valden could take from that whatever they pleased.
Evthan Wolfsbane was in his old hunting leathers, with the Beast’s pelt for a pillow. There was no coffin, shroud or winding-sheet; instead new-sawn wood floored and lined his grave, and a faint scent of resin hung in the damp air. It was raining slightly, a weeping drizzle from a dull, lead-coloured sky. Gueynor and her aunt, also weeping, stood together at the graveside with the rest of Aline’s family.
Aldric kept a tactful distance away as many hands helped lower Evthan’s body into the ground. The sight made him uncomfortable. Albans were used to the swift, bright closure of fire and burial was an alien concept. When two of the villagers lifted spades and walked to a heap of loose earth, he bent his head forward a little. It looked like a gesture of respect, but it also meant the drip-rimmed peak of his helmet hid what they were doing, while he tried not to think of damp, dark earth and the creatures in it that would…
“Avert,” he muttered and was ashamed. From somewhere in the woods beyond the village palisade came the howling of a wolf, small, ordinary and of no account. That mournful sound slid down the scale to silence, punctuated by the rustle and thud of shovelled soil. He raised one mailed arm, half in salute and half in farewell, and turned his back on the funeral.
Darath the headman stood between him and the houses. Aldric didn’t want to be disturbed – the gloomy day and its grim events had struck a sympathetic chord within him – but the Jouvaine’s courteous bow obliged him to at least give the man a hearing.
“Honoured sir,” Darath said, the apprehension in his tone suggesting he had misread the glint in Aldric’s shadowed eyes, “we would give you money if we had it, but you know how poor the folk of Valden are. We can only offer food and a warm place to sleep for as long as you need it.” He no longer sounded like a village leader, just an old man afraid his offer was inadequate. “And… And this, as a keepsake. To remind you of a man who would have been your friend, had he lived. He would have wished it so.”
The thing in his arms was swaddled like an infant, and though Aldric anticipated what it might be even before the wrappings came off, the sight of it sent a little shiver along his steel-sheathed limbs. Evthan’s wolfskin coyac had been washed clean of blood, then dried and brushed to restore the lustrous sheen of its dark fur. Like all else exposed to the fine drift of rain, the long guard hairs of its pelt swiftly frosted with silver, but that did little to ease Aldric’s mind when the headman offered him the garment. He stared at it, then at Darath.
“What made you think I would want this?”
“It is black, honoured sir.” The headman bowed again, nervous in case he gave offence to a known manslayer. “Like your armour and your horse. We hoped it would please you.”
Aldric wasn’t offended, well aware of how nervous gossip could enhance a reputation, and took the gift with a small bow of his own and a few meaningless words of thanks. After all, along with his board and lodging it was no different to any other payment-in-kind for services rendered, and it wasn’t Darath’s place to know how reluctantly that service had been given.
*
Whatever reservations he might have had about it, Aldric’s acceptance of the coyac brought far fewer complications than Gueynor’s reaction to his plan for she refused it outright.
“I won’t be sent away, and I won’t be treated as a child!” If her voice had been as shrill and petulant as a child’s he might have known better how to deal with her, but she was quiet and controlled, firm and decisive. He could well believe her father had been Overlord in Seghar.
“Not even for your own safety’s sake?”
“My safety’s not at risk.”
“What about the village?”
“Valden’s in no danger. You gave Keeyul what he deserved the night before last and yet, no soldiers. The Geruaths would have sent men here at once if they knew. If. Therefore…?” She glanced at him and raised her eyebrows to cue a response.
“It seems they don’t know.”
From the sound of things Gueynor had matched his own thoughts of last night, despite having so much else to concern her. That made her someone worth watching as much if not more as she was clearly watching him. There was a single-mindedness about her, because he recognised it in himself. All the weeping for her uncle had already happened. Evthan was in his grave, no tears would change that, so there would be no tears. Now the focus of her attention had shifted to another matter: revenge on the Geruaths. Aldric wondered if he had shown similar intensity when his thoughts turned to Duergar Vathach and Kalarr cu Ruruc. What plans had she already made? And where, inevitably, did he and his sword fit into them?
“What do you intend?” An unfamiliar listener like Gueynor heard only idle curiosity, but anyone who knew him well enough would have become most suspicious. His genuine disinterest was never so obvious.
“To come with you.”
It didn’t surprise him, and he adjusted part of his armour-lacing before bothering to react. The last thing he wanted was company. There would be enough risks in protecting himself without looking after a young woman who, regardless of where she was born, had spent the past ten years as a peasant in a peasant village. At least Tehal Kyrin carried a sword and a sling, and could look after herself with both.
“Oh? And where had you in mind?”
“Seghar. That’s the next place you’ll be going, Kourgath. You have an interest in the Geruaths.”
“I concede the point. But what if someone there knows your face?”
“I doubt it. I haven’t been within the walls in years, and I’m just Evthan the hunter’s niece. A peasant, not worth noticing.” The bitterness in her voice was a raw, ugly sound Aldric didn’t like. Such a festering preoccupation with rank could prove dangerous.
“You insult yourself. You insult me. And you insult the eyesight of every male old enough to appreciate what he’s looking at!” The irritable snap of each word negated any flattery. “I don’t care about what you are, or what you think you should be. You’ll be noticed.”
“Don’t patronise me, Alban—”
“Patronise? It’s just the truth. You can’t change that.” If you do come with me, he thought, I’ll expect you to be of use. Someone I can rely on. Not someone who attracts attention by the way they behave. You already do it enough by the way you look. “How well do you know the place?”
“Well enough, unless it’s been torn down and rebuilt.” She stared at him, into his eyes and through them as if reading the workings of the mind beyond. “I’ll be of use, don’t worry.” Aldric blinked, then smiled the wry wincing smile of any man whose secret thoughts don’t seem as secret as he hopes.
“Even so,” he touched her pale blonde hair in a gesture that fell well short of affection, “it would be better if you were someone else. The sight of Evthan’s niece in the company of an armed stra
nger might raise too many questions. We’ve both guessed at what that soldier did when he ran away from me.” Aldric shrugged, a click and rasp of armour adding metallic emphasis. “But it’s only a guess. What I know is that he’s still alive somewhere. If that somewhere is Seghar, and he identifies me, it’ll implicate you and this whole village as well. I told Darath I made them all a present of Evthan’s name. How many Evthans are there in the Jevaiden? Is it a common name?”
“Not common enough.”
“You see? And you’re his niece. After other details fade, this,” he ran his fingers against her hair again, and this time it was much closer to a caress, “is how people will remember you. I said you can’t change the truth. You can. So change this distinctive colour to something less memorable.”
“Dye my hair?” Gueynor jerked away from his touch as if each finger glowed red-hot. “Are you seriously considering disguises?”
“Yes. People have already tried to kill me. The first time they killed my travelling companion instead, the second time… You already know about the second time. I don’t intend to offer anyone a third chance, and that’s justification enough to become serious. Besides, a mercenary should look the part—” The flippant words left his mouth just before Aldric’s teeth closed with an audible click, not fast enough to catch them.
“But you aren’t…” Gueynor began in surprise. Then she stopped because the tensed muscles at the corners of his jaw and the anger in his eyes told their own tale. “You’re no sellsword, Aldric Talvalin, and you never have been.”
He might have said ‘Who?’ and tried to brazen it out, but oddly enough he was glad she knew. Aldric had felt increasingly deceitful, an uncomfortable sensation between bedmates, even casual ones, but after telling one person in Valden that was enough. There was an old Elthanek saying: share often with one, share seldom with two, share never with three or share with the world. This was a dangerous part of the world to share secrets in, yet Evthan must have told his niece, maybe in the knowledge of his own impending death, or because he and Aldric might kill each other. Whatever the reason, it no longer mattered.
“Gueynor-an,” he said, giving her name its courtesy form whether she understood it or not, “I’m only who and what I say I am. For both our sakes I trust you’ll make the proper replies.”
“Aldric-ain,” she evidently knew enough Alban for a less-mannered but warmer reply, “you trusted my uncle. You can trust me too.” Aldric wasn’t sure how to take what she had said or the way she said it, so dismissed the several hidden meanings with a faint, unfinished smile.
“Disguises needn’t be elaborate, just enough to deceive, and the first element of disguise is to change what’s most obvious. My scarred face, your fair hair. I’ll go a little darker too. We might as well match.”
“What do you plan to do about the scar?”
“An eyepatch. Mercenaries collect things like that almost as often as their wages, and it’s a convenient hook to catch inconvenient memories. They’ll remember a one-eyed man and his buxom brown-haired lady—”
“Buxom?”
“Padding here, here and—”
“Keep your hands to yourself!”
“You weren’t so shy before. That should give casual watchers something else to notice and remember, and when we remove the padding, patch and dye, we’ll be two different people.”
“You’re mad!”
“I told you before, I’m not. But if I am, it’s an entertaining madness.”
“It could see us both dead.”
“So could walking barefaced into Seghar citadel, and much faster.”
There was no arguing with that, and Gueynor didn’t even try.
*
Aldric studied his reflection in the disc of polished bronze which had served Evthan as a mirror. The eyepatched face staring back at him was familiar, yet not the one he knew. Its skin – all his skin except the scar on his cheek, which looked more dramatic than ever – was swarthy now thanks to yet another mixture of oils and nut-juice from Gueynor’s aunt Aline, a woman whose eccentric knowledge of herb-lore made him glad they were leaving Valden. Nobody in this damned village was quite what they seemed, and he had become one of them.
He hadn’t tried to look foreign, just different to whatever description might be circulating. The deep umber skin of an Elherran like Hervits Barrankal, the cheerful big shipmaster who had accidentally broken his ribs, would need both a knowledge of the language and the rounded features of its people. Aldric didn’t speak more than a word or two of Elherran and his own features, never rounded at the best of times, had become leaner than usual from anxiety and lack of regular food. So instead he had the weatherbeaten look of someone who didn’t care what others thought, who spent a lot of time in the open air, and who didn’t wash often enough. For a fastidious Alban that part was another layer of disguise all by itself.
After a rinse, if that was the right word, with Aunt Aline’s dye-stuff his hair was dark and greasy, and the fair streaks which were a legacy from his father’s side of the family had gone. His late brother Baiart would have been sarcastic about that, as he had been sarcastic about most things until he learned better. Aldric reached out and shifted the mirror, his uncovered eye narrowing at what he saw. All the accumulated alterations, each small by itself, together produced an image he disliked even though it was what he had hoped for. He looked ruthless, and perhaps cruel. Nobody would ask someone with that face too many searching questions. And nobody would trust him at all…
Other than those few details he had changed nothing, not even his claimed nationality. Anyone hearing of an Alban mercenary within the walls of Seghar would try to see this newcomer at once and, having seen him, not recognise the man they sought and leave him alone. Or so he hoped.
At least they would be unsure. Or so he hoped…
Aldric grinned without humour. If his mind worked on that track for long enough he would finish by avoiding the citadel entirely. At least there was no need for a different voice. Feigned accents were all very well in their proper place, but that place wasn’t the fortress of a suspicious Overlord.
Gueynor’s transformation to a mercenary’s lady took her almost two hours, and even then it was quicker than he had expected. She still regarded his scheme with scorn, an elaborate children’s game of dressing-up enhanced by adult reasoning, yet had done her best. She wore wide-legged, baggy trousers tucked into short boots, a high-necked tunic, and a knee-length hooded riding coat. There might once have been an embellishment of crests at the shoulders, but now they were safely anonymous leaf-patterns worked in contrasting colours although there was little enough to contrast with. Everything was fawn, green and brown, humble self-effacing shades not meant to attract notice.
Her blonde hair had become rich dark russet, like a freshly fallen chestnut, and was braided close around her head instead of hanging loose as customary for unmarried Jouvaine women. Shadowed with a dark paste on upper lids and lashes, the girl’s blue eyes were startling in their sapphire brilliance as they stared at Aldric, daring him to utter any comment about her lack of the suggested padding. Wisely he said not a word.
“You look well,” he said and bowed. It wasn’t the slight inclination of his upper body she had seen once or twice before. Instead he made a sweeping bend low over one extended leg, accompanied by extravagant flourishes of his left hand. Gueynor might have laughed at such a theatrical gesture, but that dark, one-eyed face and the right hand poised at the hilt of his longsword took the humour from it.
“You look sinister.”
“Good.” Aldric straightened and hitched Isileth Widowmaker up across his back as he walked once around Gueynor, looking thoughtfully at her and the long coat. It would have been too big for an eight-year-old girl, so Evthan must have worn it when he took her away from Seghar. Now she was wearing it for her return, no longer a child, not even the young woman he had met just two days ago. She was no longer the same either outside or in.
“
You’re wearing a riding-coat, so can you ride a horse?” There was an awkward little pause that answered the question. Or almost answered it.
“Not well. I haven’t been on a horse since… Since the last time.”
“You’ll remember.” With no intention of riding very far or fast he let the matter drop, except for a private hope that events wouldn’t alter his intention.
*
There was no rain when they rode out of Valden. It was still a little before noon, something which surprised him until he recalled that this was midsummer day, an Haf Golowan, the longest day of the year. Last night, though it had seemed years long, was the shortest night. He had been awake before dawn, Evthan had been buried at sun-up if any sun had been visible through the featureless overcast, and now he was leaving. The speed of it all seemed wrong. What had happened here should have taken longer than two days, with a little more dignity about it. Then he shrugged, because there was nothing more to do. Nothing in Valden, anyway. What might happen in Seghar was another matter.
Gueynor sat astride his pack-pony’s back better than expected, though giving her a mount needed the redistribution of saddlebags and Lyard resented his enforced used as a baggage horse. Any stallion’s resentment was hard to ignore, and with this one a trained war-courser his irritation made for a lively few minutes. The big Andarran had settled now, expressing disapproval only with resigned snorts and grunts, but Aldric still kept a wary eye on him. Riding a high-spirited horse meant the horse often had its own notions of when to display them.
Except for Darath the headman, none of the villagers watched them go. It was as if Valden wanted to forget them both – or Aldric at least – as fast as possible. Only Evthan had ever made him welcome, and now he was dead. Aldric couldn’t blame the rest. Even the most wooden-headed peasant could see how he and Gueynor had changed their appearance, and the less known about why, the better. So be it, then. Aldric didn’t care; not so anyone could see, at least.
The Demon Lord Page 15
