He opened his arms. "With that sort of history, I'd never even begin to consider repeating their folly were the situation not so dire. For years and years the two families have worked against each other, but only in very open and appropriate ways for merchants. Predatory pricing, yes, preying on each other's caravans or ships, no. It was a war, but one fought with coin, not sword.
"This changed four years ago, and I am forced to act."
Gena set her goblet down on the small table at her right hand. "What has transpired that could make you risk your life against a ghost?"
"The Riverens started trading with the Haladina. They claim they have done this to civilize the outlanders and earn protection for their own caravans. They neglect to mention that the riches with which they secured their alliance have led the Haladina again to raid through what was once the empire. As my family does virtually all of its trading here in the south, we fall prey to these raiders. We have protested to the Riverens that the Haladina they harbor in Aurdon here act as spies for the bandits in the countryside, but they ignore us."
Rik rested his hands on Gena's shoulders and gently kneaded her muscles. Her quiet groan as his strong fingers eroded the tightness half hid his comment to Berengar. "A strike at Riveren allies, you think, would run afoul of Neal's curse?"
"Especially if the Haladina were being housed on a Riveren estate, for example, yes." Berengar tossed off the last of his wine, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "I think, though, I have a way to bring the curse to an end. Neal said the union will remain until Wasp and Cleaveheart sever it. I have it in mind to mount an expedition to recover those two blades, then do the job as prescribed by Neal himself."
"Clever plan, that." Rik returned to the sideboard, then refilled Berengar's cup from an earthenware pitcher. He turned to Gena, but she deflected him by laying her hand over the mouth of her goblet.
Berengar drank, then leaned forward again, holding his silver goblet in both hands between his knees. "I have tried to learn as much as I can about Neal, but his legend is not well remembered here. I must have a dozen different versions of his actions here in Aurdon, but barely a whisper about him before or after. Tragedies do not play well here, and the Dun Wolf is mostly remembered as a comical character in the Red Tiger's cycle of folktales and songs. For this reason I need your expertise, Lady Genevera, and like as not will need your skills, Master Durriken."
He looked up at her, his blue eyes wary. "Do the blades still exist? Is my plan viable?"
Gena closed her eyes for a moment and wished Rik had returned to massaging her muscles. "You have asked two questions, and I have no favorable reply to either at the moment. It does seem logical that the blades could be used to sever the knot and break the oath, but only if the words have come down true and if Neal's intent is represented in them. I do believe most stories agree on his oath, so that is a beneficent omen. As to the other . . ." She shrugged helplessly. "The ending of Neal's life is overshadowed by his heroism and the tragedy. I will need time to remember details, but I recall at least one of the blades survived his last battle."
"The sword, Cleaveheart?"
She nodded to the Count. "That is my belief."
He nodded solemnly, drained his cup, and stood. "That is something, then, and easily enough for now. I will leave you. Servants will come to prepare for your baths and address other needs you have. This evening, in celebration of your victory, my father has prepared a formal banquet."
Gena's breath caught in her throat. "My lord, traveling on horseback does not permit me to bring much in the way of appropriate clothing with me."
"Of course not, no, it would not." He smiled easily, and Gena knew her protest had been anticipated long before she could voice it. "As best I could, from my memory, I found a woman here who closely resembles you. My family's seamstresses have prepared a gown or two that can be fitted to you in an instant. They will come after you have rested and made your ablutions."
Fists planted on his hips, he looked over at Durriken. "As for you, my friend, I think you are nearly the size of my late brother. I will have someone select suitable items from his wardrobe, provided you do not mind wearing a dead man's clothing?"
"As long as the boots do not pinch and his shade is not as lively as Neal's, I would not refuse your generous offer." Durriken bowed toward his host.
"Ah, another idea occurs to me." Berengar smiled, then worked a silver and star sapphire ring off the smallest finger of his right hand. "The business with Waldo and your flashdrakes has been gnawing at the back of my brain. I would not doubt the story has been widely distributed, even this quickly, for Waldo is a notorious gossip when wounded. My brother Nilus held my title before his death, as well as many others. His love was a small holding that encompassed Lake Orvir. For your time here I will make you Lord Orvir, so no tongues will wag over your flashdrakes or your escorting Lady Genevera."
Rik smiled as Berengar presented him the ring. The small man fitted it on the middle finger of his left hand, then ran the cuff of his right sleeve over the star sapphire set in it. "I am in your debt."
"No, I am in yours." Berengar nodded curtly to Durriken. "If this venture is successful, perhaps I will make the appointment permanent. If you will excuse me." He bowed again, then retreated from the room.
Durriken closed the door behind the count, then turned to Gena. "I'm with you in this little task, though I'm not looking forward to bearding a ghost."
"Neal was clean shaven." Gena flicked her eyes up, then she smiled. "You could be ennobled by this."
Irritation and distaste flashed through Rik's brown eyes, then he shrugged. "From a slave to slavemaster? I don't think I will weather the transition well. Perhaps tonight will tell. At least tonight no one will be offended that one of the Fair Race is escorted by a base barrow bandit."
Gena rose from her chair and stroked her right hand softly against Rik's cheek. "There are nobles of the blood, then nobles of the heart. You are the latter, and it is my honor to appear anywhere on your arm."
The seamstresses Count Berengar had engaged to alter clothing to fit Gena worked quickly and well, clucking and cooing as they tucked the pale-blue satin gown at the waist, ribs, and bosom. Cut with a low neckline and a ribbon-laced front to draw it tight, the gown fit her like a second skin through the bodice. She noticed that the gown, aside from mildly restricting her ability to breathe, actually made her breasts seem somewhat larger, which was no mean feat, as Elven women tended away from the endowment of their human counterparts.
"That will assuredly please Rik," she muttered to herself. She smoothed the cool fabric down to the top of her hips with her hands, then let them brush against the satin as the full skirts flared out and down to the floor. She took a step forward, then turned quickly, pivoting around to nod at the seamstresses as the dress molded itself to her long legs. "It is magnificent. I just require one service more of you."
The older, dumpling-cheeked woman smiled nervously. "Yes, m'lady?"
"If you would be so kind, let the sleeves out?" Gena tightened her muscles, and the fabric pulled taut over her arms. "I fear my peregrinations have fostered more in the way of hard than soft."
"The model for your gown, M'Lady Martina Fisher—a distant cousin of the count's you see—rises at noon and bathes in mare's milk!" The seamstress's apprentice—Gena thought them enough alike to believe them mother and daughter—spoke of this Martina with a hushed reverence.
The seamstress did not share her daughter's view of the woman. "Softness comes from never having done a lick of work in her life. Better she spent her time milking mares than sitting in the milk of mares." She smiled up at Gena.
"I will have this gown ready before m'lady has finished her bath."
Once Gena had slipped out of the gown, the seamstress left her daughter, Phaelis, to draw a bath for her. That process ended up with Phaelis giving orders to other servants to roll a cask into the suite, then haul buckets of water in to fill it. The addition of hot wate
r made the bath tepid, but after two weeks on the road it felt quite welcome. Had the water been any hotter, Gena knew, she might have slipped off to sleep.
Phaelis apparently saw it as her sacred duty to make sure that did not happen. At first she looked wounded when Gena told her that she was fully capable of washing herself, but she relented and allowed Phaelis to wash her back and hair. In return the young woman regaled Gena with stories about Lady Martina and the various swains she set off against each other, most recently Lord Waldo and Captain Floris.
"Which do you think she will ensnare?"
"Neither, m'lady, though the two of them won't know that for a long time. She's cousin to them all, but like tends to marry like in Aurdon, as long as they're not too close-blooded." Phaelis sighed as she lathered a washing cloth and applied it to Gena's shoulders. "I think she has herself set on winning the count's heart, though he barely knows she's alive."
Gena could understand how any woman would find Count Berengar desirable. Tall and handsome, even with the scar on his face, he had grace and intelligence in abundance. A ferocious warrior, he commanded the respect of other men, and that immediately set him apart from the rest of the male population. Combined with his title and fortune, it made him an attractive candidate for husband or lover, and the competition among women to win him made him yet that much more alluring.
She had seen it when they met five years before. They had been introduced at a reception, and Gena had immediately sensed the hostility of the other women when the count had asked her to join him in a dance. While she had found him handsome and witty, she had taken no steps to advance their relationship. A liaison between an Elven woman and a Human noble was almost expected, both by Humans and the Elven oracles who had warned her of the dangers of the world of Men. Because so many predicted their relationship deepening, Gena rejected the possibility out of hand, and Count Berengar had pressed no suit upon her.
It occurred to her, as Phaelis doused her with a bucket of water to rinse her hair, that her steadfast determination to avoid falling into the most common of traps had left her vulnerable to Durriken's charms. He had taken her off guard by giving her the jewelry—which she knew had to have been priceless—then asking for nothing in return. She had pursued him to learn where he had obtained the pieces, and his offer to help trace them back seemed natural given his avocation.
The sylvanestii who had tried to educate her about the outside world had been correct in pointing out that many would be attracted to her if for no other reason than her difference and exotic nature. Gena had discovered it was quite easy to tell, almost at the instant of meeting, whether or not she would ever allow a man into her bed. Few were the men who made the list of potential lovers, and fewer still were those she actually bedded. Berengar had made the former list, but not the latter.
Durriken had made yet another list altogether. She came to realize, as they traveled together, that he refrained from intruding upon her because he wanted to preserve the shell within which he lurked. Though she did not learn the details until later, she knew his initial distance had been born during the time he had spent as a mine slave in Ysk, a time in which even his own body had not belonged to him. That he was attracted to her cried out from every little kindness he performed for her and the harsh way in which he dealt with those who did not treat her with proper deference.
After two months as traveling companions, Gena found herself wanting to be his lover. They became lovers and had grown even closer through that experience. Rik opened up to her, sharing some of his life's experiences. She knew he kept many of the darker moments locked up inside himself, and even the bittersweet things he presented to her he softened with a laugh or an ironic comment. Despite his reluctance to let her in all the way, she knew she loved him, and that realization opened a whole other debate that she consciously ignored.
The seamstress returned with the gown just after Phaelis had toweled Gena dry and had begun to comb out her hair. After donning the various petticoats and underskirts that would help the gown retain its shape, Gena slipped into the gown itself and found the alterations perfect. She commented on the same to the delight of the seamstress.
Another servant, a woman of Phaelis's age yet more graceful and forceful of bearing, arrived and ushered the other two women out of the room. She brought with her a wooden case, which, when opened on a small table to the south side of the bedroom, was revealed to have a mirror on the underside of the lid and a wide range of cosmetics in the triple tier of trays contained below.
"Upon hearing of the foresight her son displayed in arranging for your gown. Duchess Beatrix thought you might require some additional aid in supplying yourself with cosmetics for this evening's festival. I am Noreen and have been serving the duchess for six years now." Slender and small, with long brown hair and quick brown eyes, the woman looked at Gena, then at the box, and back again. "Normally I do for her with my paints what nature itself has done for you. Pity we are still in the winter season, for the colors are too cold and severe for one as beautiful as you."
Noreen lifted the three trays out of the box and from the bottom drew a sheet. She draped it over Gena and the gown, then gently tucked it in, leaving her long neck and the upper half of her bosom exposed. Noreen selected a powder puff from the case, dusted it with white powder, then gently applied it to Gena's bare flesh. Once Noreen had moved it from the vicinity of her eyes, Gena looked at her reflection in the mirror and shivered as the golden color of her skin succumbed to the white powder.
"M'lady has lovely large eyes." Noreen carefully painted a black line around them, letting the curved lines from the lower lids arc up toward Gena's temples. She then applied a light blue powder to the lower half of Gena's cheekbones and brushed it back up to blend with her hairline. More blue dusted the hollow of her throat and her eyelids, then Noreen rouged her lips.
As the woman produced a brush from the bottom of the case and began to work on her hair, Gena smiled at her own reflection in the mirror. The cosmetics had sharpened her features, accentuating a natural difference between Men and Elves, and enough of her skin tone made it through the white to prevent her being taken for a walking corpse. She secretly wondered if the women of Aurdon chose to make themselves look Elven out of some hidden desire to be more than they were, or if changing styles had simply come around to the point where vulpine decoration just happened to be appropriate when she came to visit.
Noreen pulled Gena's hair back into a thick braid, then folded that up onto itself and secured it with two silver needles. "There you are, m'lady. I do not think my ministrations have dulled your beauty."
Gena smiled. "They have enhanced it."
"You are most kind." Noreen replaced her brush and the trays and shut the case. She carefully pulled the sheet free, then looked up behind Gena. "Evening, m'lord."
Gena turned, half expecting to see Count Berengar, and saw Durriken entering the room on the other side of the bed. He wore a long gray woolen tunic, edged with silver, that came down to his knees. Beneath that he wore a navy-blue hose and dark-grey slippers that had elaborately curled toes and a small bell set at each heel. On his head perched a blue beret with a silver feather in it that matched the silver belt tied around his waist.
She started to smile, then covered her mouth with her hand to stifle a laugh as Durriken glared at her. He looked miserable, and she knew he would have jumped at the suggestion of riding away from Aurdon or at least slipping out of their clothes and avoiding the festival entirely.
Noreen nodded. "My lord won't mind my saying he wears those clothes better than Count Nilus ever did. Quite handsome a figure you are, sir."
Rik smiled momentarily. "You are most kind, ma'am."
Noreen curtsied. "Evening, m'lady, m'lord."
When the door closed behind her, Rik scowled heavily. "Bells on the shoes?"
"I believe they are meant to remind people of the happy time when the winter will be no more." Gena shook her head. The bells on the sho
es had to be especially galling to Rik, because his profession so relied on stealth for its successful practice. Given Waldo's animosity toward him, Rik had to be feeling persecuted by circumstance.
His scowl dissolved into a feral expression of forbidden delight. "If Waldo had these bells put on my shoes on purpose, what he owns, I will own."
"I do not think that is a very good idea, my Lord Orvir."
His head came up at the use of the title. "True, I would have to do something more befitting my station. Of course, that could be almost anything." He pulled off his ring and crossed the room to where she stood. "I don't know if Berengar knows about this, but it is an interesting trick. This is a genuine slapdeath ring."
"What is that?"
"Watch." Holding the ring between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand, he twisted the thin cylinder of scrollwork around the base of the sapphire to the left. Smiling, he flicked the gem up, exposing a small compartment in the ring. "Barely large enough to hold a pinch of gold dust, yes?"
Gena nodded. "Hardly useful for a hiding place, as a highway man would likely take the ring as well as a purse."
"Agreed. Now watch." He flipped the gem back into place and turned the cylinder back to the right. He continued twisting it after it had locked the gemstone down, and stopped when he apparently met resistance. "There."
"I don't see anything."
Rik winked. "You're not supposed to see anything—slapdeath." He rotated the ring so she could see the section that would lie hidden toward the palm of his hand. Extending upward at a shallow angle toward his thumb was the tip of a hollow needle barely an eighth of an inch long.
"That ring, if it held poison . . ."
"A pat on the back, a gentle caress, a slap across the face, and someone dies." Rik retracted the needle with a twist on the scrollwork. "It looks as if Nilus had a reason to expect trouble. As this is a weapon well suited for use on one's familiars, he expected that trouble from someone close to him."
Once A Hero Page 10
