Jeldavan would no doubt have given little heed to Nathelion’s name if not for the way that it was exceedingly odd. Now the shopkeeper had time for an amused twitch of the lips before addressing Molgrimin again. “We make the very finest outfits, m’lord, for any size.” He rubbed his hands together when the moinguir touched a purple satin coat with embroidered hummingbirds. “Perhaps you have seen the Lions’ cloaks? The fiery ones, yes, very intricate work, very fine detail. We make those cloaks right here. The Order is one of our biggest customers. Of course, we also have the pleasure of serving noble ladies and gentlemen, and if you ask, you’ll hear that we are quite esteemed for our work. Where did you say that you came from, Lord Molgrimin?”
“I didn’t...” Molgrimin answered, looking at a pair of slim boots.
“We have shoes as well,” the merchant put in quickly. “Lovely shoes.”
“I come from Kast-Harnax,” the moinguir finished. The merchant seemed to become flustered by the mention of the place.
“Oh, Kast-Harnax, lovely, lovely city...”
“Eh, ye’ve been there?”
“Well, no, but...lovely craft, I’ve seen lovely craft.” The man bobbed his head up and down. “Wonderful craft. Perhaps you’d be interested in a fine doublet, m’lord? We could have it embroidered with golden anvils to do even your home justice. Or hammers if you prefer. Hammers and anvils. Perhaps your family sigil?”
Molgrimin froze at that as if he’d been slapped. “Nay,” he said to the hovering shopkeeper. “Nay. In truth, it is my friend here who is looking for a new outfit. Now, mayhap ye’ll assist him?”
“Ah, yes, I...” The merchant’s enthusiasm was clearly diminished when he turned to Nathelion. He almost seemed annoyed. “Yes, Nathelion, it was. What are you looking for, m’lord?” The honorary address sounded painfully insincere. Nathelion tried to disregard it, though, maintaining a polite tone.
“We’ll be leaving the city soon, and I need something warm and tidy,” he said. “Not overtly fancy but...” Nathelion ventured to kid a bit: “Perhaps a tad more formal than what I’m wearing.”
Jeldavan’s smile was very enduring. “Of course, m’lord. Unfortunately, we rarely do quick jobs. We tailor for...” He stopped in the middle of his excuse, frowning as if he’d just realized something. Then he took a step back to look oddly at Nathelion from head to toe. “Although...” he said, suddenly very thoughtful, “we do actually have an outfit that might be something like your size. Did you say that your name was Nathelion Nightshadow...? Please, will you wait here, m’lord?”
Nathelion frowned uncertainly, wondering what had brought about the change of tone. “Of course.”
The merchant nodded at once. “I will fetch it. It will be just a moment.”
Nathelion exchanged a puzzled look with Molgrimin while the shopkeeper scurried into another room and rummaged around in some lockers, muttering to himself in an astonished tone. When he came back, he was carrying a pile of folded black silk with a pair of matching boots on top. It proved to be a rather exquisite outfit when the man spread it all out on a table.
The coat was black as night, with a matching smoky undershirt, and it was embroidered very richly in silver and gold that formed...small foxes, by Nathelion’s judgment. A skulk of foxes climbed around the sleeves and the chest. They seemed to be dancing. The buttons looked to be of dull bronze, each imprinted with a fox head. The way the lines of the eyes were drawn gave the impression of them smiling. The trousers were of a kind with the coat, decorated by the same festive creatures that climbed up the outer seams and danced upon the pockets. Even the boots were decorated with foxes. The dark, shining leather was covered with dusky shadows that would reflect no light, all in the shape of those dancing silhouettes.
Nathelion frowned at the odd garments, wondering what kind of eccentric person would want to wear them. It was very fine work, though, and many of the details, designed with minute artistry, brought a smile to his face, a fact that the shopkeeper observed.
“I am in a bit of a predicament, see,” Jeldavan explained. “We usually don’t sell off the rack, but...well, a few weeks past, some pompous fool came in here requesting that we sew up a splendid new outfit for him. He asked for strange things, but he looked respectable, and he did pay a tidy sum in advance to have it made, so I figured that he was good for it. He gave us a note with measures — too large for him, by my estimate — and was very careful with making sure that we got it right, as if we don’t always. Then he described just how he wanted the embroidery done, and I thought that now he must be jesting. Dancing foxes, he wanted, everywhere, and he ranted a whole long while about how he wished it done, nearly having my best embroiderers dozing off from all the instructions. Foxes! Who wants to be dressed in clothes covered with foxes? I offered fox fur instead, if he would prefer that, but he looked at me as if I’d slapped him. Regardless, after he had come here, making a huge fuss with all his particular wishes, he paid half the coin of the price — a high price, mind, with all this rigorous detailing — and then insisted we be done with it soon, as if he were in a hurry.” The man snorted. “He never showed up again even though we were done in only a week’s time. I have had people asking for him all over the city, but the joker has completely vanished. None in the guild ever saw him either. He didn’t give me his full name, but here is how you made me think of it.” Jeldavan pointed to the embroidery on the chest. “He insisted upon these initials.”
Nathelion blinked as he looked at what the man was indicating: the two N’s that were held aloft by foxes.
”Here’s the predicament,” Jeldavan continued, his voice now much more serious, cutting to the chase. “To salvage the materials with all this embroidery would be impossible, yet the buyer only paid half the price. You no doubt realize yourself the difficulty in selling such an eccentric outfit — to anyone. And that even without the initials. To be honest, most of my customers would be insulted at the mere proposition. Yet you are not like my ordinary customers, and frankly, you do not look like one who often enjoys fine clothes. This here is very fine work, regardless of how particular its expression. So, I ask you this, what would you say to the chance of being dressed like a lord?”
Nathelion nodded slowly, still looking at the two letters on the chest. “I’m interested.”
“Good. I shall give you a fair price.” The merchant sighed. “Now, do you have any coin?”
Nathelion loosened his pouch and poured out coppers on the table.
“Well, I guess you do.” Jeldavan grimaced at having to count coppers, but when he was done, Nathelion’s pouch was a whole lot lighter. “These clothes should make you look regal,” said the man, handing them over to him folded. “We can make some adjustments to make it fit.”
“Is there anywhere I can get changed?”
The man pointed to a dark door by one of the walls. “In there. But” — Jeldavan made a face — “just don’t leave your old clothes here.”
Nathelion stepped into the small dressing room and shut the door. There was a stool in one of the corners, some large mirrors, and a lamp that illuminated the room. He didn’t need more light. He untied the rope around his waist, laid down his sword, and heaped his old rags upon the floor. Then he tried on the trousers and found to his surprise that they fit perfectly. He didn’t even need a belt for them. Moreover, they were the most comfortable pair of pants that he’d ever worn, and they allowed for great mobility without being too loose. He turned to the task of buttoning the dusky shirt, which had some sparse embroidery at the sleeves and collar, both of which would be visible from under the coat. It was very soft and subtle, feeling wondrously cool on his skin. And the coat fit as well. Remarkably well. It seemed to be precisely made to his height and shoulders. Satisfied, he sat down on the stool to replace his old, tattered shoes with the new, knee-high boots. He didn’t have to struggle to pull them on; they slid onto his feet like they were tailored for him. And gods, if they weren’t comfortable! He had never h
ad real boots before. These were light and subtle, and they were still warm — a combination of luxuries he hadn’t even imagined before. He walked a few steps in them, enjoying how they hugged his feet and ankles tenderly. Then he caught sight of the mirror.
He found himself staring at a very surprised-looking young man. The man was lean as a blade yet stately and full of authority. The clothes gave posture and definition, and they created the image of someone with ability bred into the very bones. He could hardly believe that he was looking at himself. He was... Well, he was quite strapping, really.
Nathelion walked up to the mirror almost as if approaching a stranger. Then he turned and saw that the reflection did indeed imitate him. He looked at himself from all different angles, disbelieving. Am I really that...well shaped? He had always been dressed in his baggy rags and hardly ever cared to look at his own reflection. When did I...? How...? He didn’t finish the questions, and he didn’t care for the answers either. All he knew was that this was much better than his old self.
He gathered his things, not bothering with putting on the rope again, and cast one last disbelieving look at the mirror before walking out of the room. Molgrimin and Jeldavan both seemed to take as much impression as he himself had.
“Bloody—” began the moinguir, and he grinned. “Well, that’s a whole different one.”
The merchant nodded with approval. “Indeed, it does seem to fit you very well, m’lord. It is not too large, too small?”
“It fits quite perfectly,” Nathelion confessed. “I’ve never had such comfortable clothes before.” He only had one complaint. “They are not as warm as I’d liked, though... Maybe some cotton would...”
Jeldavan was rubbing his cheeks, as if for a moment torn by indecision.
“What is it?”
The merchant grimaced, but he seemed to lose his doubt. “There was another thing that the man ordered along with the outfit.” He stooped down below the counter to pick something off a shelf. “I thought I could still sell this one, at least.” When he rose, he pulled up a heavy, swirling cloak in gold and black that settled over the counter. Nathelion found himself gaping at once at that magnificent piece of clothing.
It was the most intricate cloak that he had ever seen, even finer than those of the Lions of the Pass, embroidered with a multitude of golden blades that became like scales over its back, so thickly detailed that it gave the cloak weight. The clasp beneath its high collar appeared to be a fox wielding a sword, of all things, and where the cloak would fall over the chest, golden text was embroidered, surrounded by blooming roses.
“Don’t ask me what it means,” the shopkeeper begged. “It’s after his instructions. The motto of some house, I guessed, though I’ve never heard the words before.”
“How...how much?” Nathelion asked, his throat almost gone dry.
The man looked at him for a moment, but then he just shook his head. “Take it.” He gestured at the cloak as if it were a burden. “Just take it. I’d be loath to part it from its outfit. Take it and...well, tell them where you got it — all who will stop and stare, tell them that the Golden Needle does magic with clothes!”
Nathelion snatched the cloak up and threw it around his shoulders. It came to rest there as if he should have been born with it, the heavy, smooth fabric settling around his form like shadows and gold. “I will tell them,” he promised, and now Jeldavan’s smile was sincere.
He felt a king when he strode out from that shop, his steps confident and direct as if he had been given a crown. Molgrimin limped along beside him, but now it seemed Nathelion was the one drawing the most glances, with people giving him long, lingering looks. Some children stared wide-eyed at him, and he smiled when he heard them whisper of foxes, dogs, or wolves as he passed. The women smiled at him.
“Ye make for quite a sight now,” Molgrimin said with a chuckle, looking back. “I think half of those children think ye a wizard.”
Nathelion grinned. “I’ll just have to throw away these old rags.” He had bundled together his roughspuns and tied them with the rope, tucking in the sword. He’d need a scabbard for the weapon and a proper belt to hold it. He drew the sword out and threw the rest of the bundle into an alley. “I believe I saw a sign saying ‘Ladoth’s Armory’ on the next street. Do you think they have the accessories? Or is it, like, only weapons? They should have the accessories...”
Nathelion had walked perhaps a dozen steps before he realized that he was only talking to himself. He frowned and then turned to see Molgrimin still standing outside the alley, looking at something in his hands. A note. He gasped when he realized what it was the dwarf had found.
But it was too late.
“Nathan,” Molgrimin said, and he looked up at him. “Ye must tell Alwarul this!”
“Tell him what? What are you talking about?”
Molgrimin waved the letter. “About the vision! This beautiful golden woman who came in a ray of light and told ye how to defeat the Queen Beyond! Gods, and ye slew demons that jumped out at ye from the closet? And ye played chess with death? By the powers, Nathan, why haven’t ye said anything?”
“Are you sure that’s my note?” Nathelion asked. “It sounds like someone else’s note.”
Molgrimin gestured to the bundle in the alley. “But it fell out of yer old clothes, aye, when ye threw them away.”
Nathelion shrugged. “Still, someone could have put it there...”
“But it has yer name on it, ‘Nathelion Nightshadow...’”
“Could be another Nathelion Nightshadow.”
“...chosen by Hyahiera,’” the dwarf finished.
“Well, I guess that would lessen the odds.”
Molgrimin continued reading. “Gods, Nathelion! I didn’t know ye had so many titles! ‘Shadow-binder’? ‘Wanderer of the dark planes’? ‘Escapee from the Astral Prison’!?”
“Give me that!” Nathelion snatched the paper out of Molgrimin’s hand and crumpled it. “It’s just musings, really. Very symbolic.”
“Symbolic?” Molgrimin asked uncertainly.
“Yes, it doesn’t mean what it says; it means something other than what it says, or what it says if you read the words differently from how they are written.”
The moinguir frowned. “So, ye...ye haven’t found a way to defeat the Queen Beyond?”
“No, no, as I said, symbolism. It means something completely different.”
“Eh...like what?” Molgrimin asked.
Of course, he asks. “Well...” Nathelion said, thinking very rapidly. “It means...” He gestured with his hand, and Molgrimin’s eyes followed its movements. “This particular bit of symbolism means, I would say...that I haven’t found a way. But I would like to.”
Molgrimin stroked his beard, his brow creased in thought. “But why would ye... Eh, I don’t understand why ye would write...”
“Oh, it’s just something humans do, Molgrimin,” Nathelion assured him. “Yes, we communicate very well through symbolism like this. I’m sure it’s strange to the moinguir. You are all so rational!”
Molgrimin nodded slowly. “Aye, aye, strange... So, ye...can say the opposite of what ye mean?”
“Exactly!” Nathelion confirmed. “So, you can easily see that this note was not very important at all.” He tossed it away into the gutter.
“Aye, but ye still have to explain what the other things mean. What does it mean that ye flew to the stars and saw the world be born, for example?”
Oh, gods. Nathelion prayed, but of course, he had to continue convincing the moinguir. “Well, you see, Molgrimin,” he began as they resumed their walk, “you know when people say that they feel light as a feather...”
He did not know how much madness had sprouted from his lips by the time they reached Ladoth’s Armory, but Molgrimin then had a strangely enlightened look on his face, and his silences seemed full of reflection. Nathelion took the opportunity to look at all the countless weapons and pieces of armor that hung on every wall of the store
; swords, axes, spears, and ringmail, as well as helmets that looked back from their shelves. It was quite an overwhelming array.
“Ah, sir, is there anything I can help you with? Sir?” The deep voice drew Nathelion out of his thoughts, though it took him awhile to realize that he was the one being addressed so respectfully. The heavyset armorer looked at him from behind a broad table laden with tools, and he seemed uncertain at Nathelion’s long silence. He thinks I’m a knight. Who would’ve believed it?
“Yes, I am looking for a scabbard, actually, and a sword belt,” Nathelion told the man. “Do you have such items?”
“Aye, I do.” The armorer pointed to a section of the wall behind Nathelion, where belts already hung holding their matching scabbards. “Those are mostly to show what can be made, though. If you have something particular in mind, I can have my boys begin work on it today.”
“That should not be necessary,” Nathelion said, walking over to look at the belts. “I don’t really have much...” His words trailed off as he came to frown at a black belt with a gilded buckle. A buckle depicting a dancing fox. He took it down from its peg immediately and looked at the matching scabbard. It was black as well, with gold and silver and a leash of foxes running up its length. Hesitantly, he tried sheathing his blade, and he found that it fit just right.
“That one, eh?” the armorer said, looking up from his job of repairing a shirt of ringmail. “Took a great deal of time to make that one. Can you imagine that the bastard who ordered it didn’t show up?”
Nathelion brought it over to the table. “For whom was it made?”
“Some rich fool, I thought.” The armorer shrugged. “Now he seems to have been more insane. He came here a few weeks ago and had all these precise instructions about what he wanted. Paid half in advance and left after telling us to work quickly. But not poorly, mind.” The man nodded to another place on the wall. “He had those made too, at the same time.”
Nathelion turned to gaze upon two pieces of armor that stood out from the rest.
The Unchosen: Book One of The Queen Beyond Page 25
