They reached Kite Makers Street by mid-afternoon. Immediately Bashae forgot his sore feet and Jessan forgot his hatred of cities, for this street was a wonder.
The air was filled with kites of all shapes and descriptions: kites that were fish, kites that were birds, kites that were fantastical shapes made in every color of the rainbow and more, colors the gods themselves had not even thought of. The kite makers had been quite clever when it came to choosing a site for the location of their shops, for the narrow street acted as a wind tunnel for the almost continual breeze that flowed down out of the mountains to the west.
Apprentice kite makers posted out in front of every shop flew their wares, making the kites dip and dance and perform tricks in the air. At the very end of the street, one of the huge, man-bearing kites was on display for a potential buyer. The kite was in truth as big as a two story building and Jessan made a silent apology to the two Trevenici for doubting them.
“What is the name of the man you seek?” Sharp Sword asked.
While he and Jessan departed to ask one of the apprentices where they might find one called Arim, the pecwae remained standing in the street with Eyes-Like-Dawn. The Grandmother had been staring at the kites with gleeful wonder when suddenly she pointed a finger.
“What is that?” she demanded.
“An elf,” said Eyes-Like-Dawn. “And his entourage.”
The Grandmother drew in a deep breath and before the Trevenici could stop her, she walked over and planted herself directly in the lead elf’s path.
A high-born noble of House Wyval, the elven lord was considering purchasing several of the man-bearing kites for his army. He was on his way to watch one being demonstrated, when he came to a startled halt, staring down at the small person blocking his way. His entourage of his military leaders and bodyguards clattered to a stop behind him. He raised his hand in warding as his guards instinctively drew their swords.
The Grandmother stood too close to him. She had unwittingly entered into the circle of the elf’s aura, but the noble was too well bred to insult her by retreating. Seeing that she was elderly, the elven noble bowed politely to her, for the elves have a great reverence for any who have lived long in the world.
The Grandmother stared up at the elf with unabashed curiosity, taking in everything about him, from his long, thin nose to his almond-shaped eyes, his sleek black hair and his elegant robes. The noble elf was embarrassed at this scrutiny, which would have been considered extremely rude among his people. He did not know how to deal with the situation, for he could not thrust such an aged person out of his way, nor could he circle around her without appearing rude himself.
“Now I can die,” said the Grandmother in Twithil, speaking with finality and thumping her stick on the ground.
“What does she say?” asked the bewildered elf of Eyes-Like-Dawn, who had come running up.
“She is a pecwae and she has never seen an elf before, Lord,” Eyes-Like-Dawn replied, speaking Elderspeak, generally acknowledged to be a common language. “She says that now she can die for she has lived long enough to fulfill a dream.”
“Ah, I see,” said the elf, smiling faintly. He paused, thinking of a suitable rejoinder. “Tell her that I have never before beheld one of the pecwae race and that I have also fulfilled a life’s dream.”
Eyes-Like-Dawn translated the elf’s words to the Grandmother, who laughed loudly, causing the elf to look askance, for laughing at another was even more rude. He beckoned to his aide. Drawing out a large purse, the aide fished out a silver coin and handed it with cold, stiff dignity to the Grandmother, who stared at it in wonderment, then licked it.
She opened one of the bags she wore on the belt around her waist, began to rummage around in it.
“She wants to give you something in return,” said Eyes-Like-Dawn.
“Tell her that is not necessary—” the noble elf began, but the words halted on his lips as the Grandmother brought out a turquoise carved in the shape of a turtle.
The Grandmother held out the turquoise to him, made a bobbing bow in imitation of his. The elf at first declared he could not accept such a valuable gift, but the Grandmother insisted with a chuckle and peremptory wave of her hand. The elf argued only as long as politeness dictated and then accepted the turquoise with another, much deeper bow.
Eyes-Like-Dawn seized hold of the Grandmother, who was bowing again and seemed likely to go on bowing all day; dragged her out of the way, so that the elf and his retinue could continue down the street.
“So that is an elf,” said the Grandmother.
Slightly dizzy from all that bowing, she seated herself comfortably on a doorstoop of a kite shop, completely blocking the entryway. The irate owner came out from behind his counter, bearing down on the Grandmother. Seeing the Trevenici warrior, he went back behind the counter, where he sat on a stool, emitting loud and doleful sighs.
“What did you think of them?” Eyes-Like-Dawn asked.
The Grandmother stared after the elves in their lacquered armor and elaborately embroidered silken robes. She pursed her lips in thought, thrust out her jaw.
“Liars,” she stated. “But they mean well.”
* * *
Sharp Sword, Jessan and Bashae had no difficulty at all locating Arim. Each merchant in the street was well-informed about his competitor’s business and the very first apprentice they questioned immediately pointed out the shop where they could find Arim the Kite Maker.
They entered the shop that seemed dark after the bright sunlight and stood a moment in the doorway until their eyes adjusted. The owner had started to come forward with his best smile, but halted when he saw in the doorway two Trevenici and a small figure he mistook for a child. Rolling his eyes in exasperation, he jerked his thumb at the trio and one of his apprentices, a very large Nimorean, stepped forward to deal with the invasion.
“My master thanks you for honoring his shop but we are very busy right now as you gentlemen can undoubtedly see and he believes that you would find the shops of our competitors far more interesting…”
All the while he was talking, the apprentice used his arms and his body in an attempt to maneuver the trio back out the door, nearly trampling Bashae. Jessan flushed in anger. Catching hold of his friend, he steadied him and seemed about to say something to the apprentice that would almost certainly lead to a fight. Sharp Sword gave the young man a sidelong glance and a very slight shake of the head.
“A moment, friend,” said Sharp Sword. Planting his feet firmly, he placed his hand on the chest of the Nimorean, brought the bigger man to a halt. “Tell your master that while it is true we have not come to buy his wares, we are not here out of idle curiosity. We seek someone.”
The apprentice looked to his master for instructions. The master raised his hands in exasperation and said in Nimorean, “Anything to get them out of here. Barbarians. They will drive off my customers.”
Sharp Sword, who understood Nimorean, grinned. Jessan, who didn’t, frowned and looked at Sharp Sword. The warrior nodded, indicating that it was for Jessan to speak.
“We seek one Arim,” said Jessan in Elderspeak. “Arim the Kite Maker.”
The owner looked at them more closely, his gaze sharp, inquisitive. “Tell Arim he has visitors.”
The apprentice left on his errand. The two Trevenici and the pecwae stood in the door, Bashae staring open-mouthed at the wondrous array of kites that hung from the ceiling like some brightly colored species of bat. Jessan was doing the same, then realized that while curiosity could be excused in a pecwae, it was beneath the dignity of a warrior. He emulated Sharp Sword, who stood with his arms folded across his chest, looking calmly at nothing and seeing everything.
The apprentice returned, accompanied by another Nimorean. He was tall, of slender build, with skin that was like soft black cloth dipped in blue dye. His eyes were brown and warm and gentle, as was his smile. His hands were delicate, their fingers long and supple and stained with paint. He held a small
brush in his hand, wiped it with a cloth as he approached. He appeared mildly astonished to see the nature of those who wanted him and cast a brief interrogative glance at the owner, who shook his head and then jerked his thumb toward the door, as if to say, “I don’t care why they’re here, just get rid of them.”
Arim smiled slightly in apology, then said in Elderspeak, looking uncertainly from one warrior to the other, “How may I assist you, gentlemen?”
Jessan stepped forward, spoke with characteristic Trevenici forthrightness. “A knight of Vinnengael, one Lord Gustav—”
Arim began to cough. The spasm was so severe that it doubled him over. He gasped for air, choking and wheezing. The apprentice looked alarmed. The owner asked if he needed water. Arim, looking embarrassed, gestured at this throat, finally gasped that it was the dust and whispered, between spasms, that he would feel better for some fresh air. He stumbled out the door.
“I have a poultice I can make for coughs,” Bashae said, looking anxiously from Sharp Sword to Jessan. “It’s made out of mustard seeds. I rub it on his chest. I could make it here, if I had some water and something to crush the seeds. Would you tell him that?”
“What do we do?” Jessan asked uncertainly.
Sharp Sword shrugged. “If he’s the man you were sent to speak to, you must speak to him,” he stated with irrefutable Trevenici logic.
Bashae began rummaging through his pack. The owner gestured hurriedly to the apprentice, who slammed shut the door, an indication to passersby that the establishment was closed for the day. The sun was starting to dip behind the mountains, casting long shadows in the street.
The day’s customers made their final purchases. The apprentices began reeling in their kites, placing shutters over the windows and taking down the colorful awnings that shaded them from the sun. In an instant, a street of color and wonder was transformed into a street of the plain, the ordinary.
Arim stood in the street, gasping for breath and wiping his sweat-beaded forehead with the same rag he had been using to clean his brush.
“Forgive me, sirs,” he said when he could speak. His voice still sounded raspy. “It is the rock dust. Some of the paints we use…” He could say no more, but raised his hand, begging their indulgence.
The Trevenici warriors looked helpless and embarrassed for the Nimorean’s show of weakness. The street slowly emptied. Owners and their apprentices retreated behind closed shutters and closed doors.
The Grandmother came now, accompanied by Eyes-Like-Dawn.
“He needs a poultice,” said Bashae, bringing out a small vial of yellow seeds.
Arim shook his head. “No,” he croaked. “Please do not trouble—”
“I heard the commotion. What’s the trouble?” Eyes-Like-Dawn asked. “We should be returning to camp,” she added to Sharp Sword. “The commander will be wondering what happened to us. Will our friends be all right?”
“We will be fine,” said Jessan immediately. “Thank you for your help, Sharp Sword, Eyes-Like-Dawn.”
Sharp Sword cast a narrow-eyed glance at the Nimorean, then he and Eyes-Like-Dawn drew Jessan off to one side.
“I do not trust this one,” said Sharp Sword. “Come back to camp with us. You can return in the morning, if you must.”
Jessan hesitated. He wanted very much to leave this city with its noise and confusion and bad smells. He would have liked nothing better than to be with his people and spend a pleasant night listening to stories of courage and bravery and daring in battle. But he was duty bound, he had given his word to the dying Dominion Lord. He could almost feel his Uncle Raven at his shoulder, frowning at him with disapproval for even thinking of abandoning his mission.
“I thank you, Sharp Sword and you, Eyes-Like-Dawn,” said Jessan. “But I made a promise and I must see it through. We will be all right.”
The two Trevenici exchanged glances. Both of them were well aware of the dangers that hid in the city in night’s shadows and they were starting to argue when the Nimorean came up to them.
“You are the one who needs to speak to me?” Arim asked, clearing his throat and looking at Jessan. “You and your pecwae friends?”
Jessan nodded.
Arim’s gaze shifted to the two older warriors. “And you have been his guides and now must return to your duties. You are fearful of leaving your comrade in my care. Is that correct?”
He smiled. “Please have no concern for the young man. He and the pecwae will be honored guests in my house this night. I will guide them to your encampment on the morrow, if that is their desire.”
“See to it that you do, Nimorean,” said Eyes-Like-Dawn. “The Trevenici make very good friends, very bad enemies.”
“Yes, I know,” said Arim gravely. “You have my word that they will be safe. I swear it on the shining eyes of my Queen. May their blessed light avert from me forever if I fail in my trust.”
Sharp Sword was impressed. He knew Nimoreans well enough to understand that this was a most solemn oath, for the Queen of Nimorea was not only the political ruler but the spiritual leader for her people. Arim the Kite Maker had essentially made of himself an outcast from both his people and his religion if he broke his vow.
A simple and honorable people, who judge others by their own standards, the two Trevenici considered this oath quite sufficient, never stopping to consider that if Arim was a man with evil intent, he was probably damned already and had nothing to fear. The two warriors took their leave, breaking into a jogging run that would take them swiftly back to their encampment.
Jessan watched them depart and tried to keep his courage from departing with them. He was once more alone in this strange place with this strange man, responsible for those under his care. Jessan folded his arms, planted his feet, and got back down to business.
“Now, as I was about to say—”
“Please, sir,” said Arim mildly. “What are you called, by the way?”
“I have not yet chosen my name,” said Jessan, flushing, “but I am called Jessan. This is my friend Bashae and this is the Grandmother.”
The Nimorean bowed gracefully to each of them in turn.
“I am Arim,” he said. He made a graceful gesture. “My dwelling place is not far. If you would do me the honor to accompany me, we will find food and drink there and a place where we can speak without disturbing those around us.”
The Grandmother gazed at the Nimorean steadily. He met her gaze, held it.
“I don’t know about you, Jessan,” she stated suddenly, “but I would like a place where I can soak my feet.”
Reaching out, the Grandmother rubbed her finger on the Nimorean’s arm. “Does that color come off, black sir?” she asked, peering at her finger in the fading twilight. “No, it doesn’t.” She sounded awed. “How do you people get the dye to stick?”
“My skin is not dyed, nor is it painted. Black is the color I was born with. All of the people of the Nimorean race have black skin.”
“Now I can die,” said the Grandmother with finality. “I have seen an elf and people with skin the color of midnight. Now I can die.”
“I hope you will not die for a long time yet,” said Arim politely.
“Ha!” The Grandmother chortled and poked at him again with her finger. “You and me both.”
Arim’s street consisted entirely of dwellings—stone and wood houses that fit snugly together with nothing but the walls separating one house from another. They were built in this manner not only to conserve space—always a premium in a walled city—but to provide warmth in the winters that were harsh and chill this far north. Few of the dwellings had windows, for that would allow the cold to enter. All the houses looked alike, their stone walls chalk white in the darkness. Bashae asked sleepily how Arim knew which one was his, but his jaw-cracking yawn prevented him from hearing the answer.
Arim used a key to unlock his door, explaining that thieves were a sad fact of life, even in Myanmin. Jessan grimaced at the strange ways of city dwellers, wond
ered again why any person possessed of two feet would consent to stay in such a terrible place. He said proudly that Trevenici need no locks on their doors. Arim smiled and said that Jessan must be pleased to come from such a noble race.
Jessan always felt uneasy in houses, but more so in this one, that had no windows. The dwelling was small with only two rooms, a front room for living and the back room for sleeping. The rooms were beautifully decorated. Kites hung from the walls. Their rich colors sparkled in the light of a fire Arim built in a raised, conical fireplace that stood in the center of the room and was open on all sides. The floor was covered with beautiful, soft, thick rugs. Arim spread additional rugs down on the floor and bade his guests rest while he fixed dinner.
Bashae and the Grandmother lay down near the fire and were soon fast asleep. Jessan did not lie down but sat propped up against the door, as close to outside as he could possibly manage. He was fully determined not to sleep. He planned to keep an eye on this Nimorean. But the rigors of the day proved too much. The house was quiet, the thick stone walls shut out all noise from the city outside, the carpets helped muffle sounds inside.
Arim moved about the dwelling, murmuring that he would fix something for them to eat if they would honor him by being his guests and sharing his poor repast. He spoke softly, walked softly, his movements so graceful that he seemed to flow over the floor rather than place his feet upon it. Jessan found himself nodding off. His head slumped forward onto his chest and he slept.
He woke with a start, to Bashae’s shrill voice and Arim’s mellifluous tones. Bashae sat on a high stool made of rich, dark wood, polished to a gleaming gloss. The stool’s legs were heavily carved with all sorts of fanciful designs. Arim stood at a counter, cooking fish, by the smell. The Grandmother slept; her snoring a backdrop to their conversation.
Angry at himself for having fallen asleep on watch, Jessan bounded to his feet and somewhat grumpily demanded to know what they were talking about.
Guardians of the Lost Page 32
