The Crowded Shadows

by Celine Kiernan

  There was general grumbling and shifting about from the others. A tall, Arab-looking man mumbled, “We get enough of business in Algiers!”

  Gérard held up his hand. “Hold on, hold on,” he laughed. He raised his head and released a low whistle. Within moments the last four riders slunk silently from the trees and the circle of horsemen expanded to include them. Gérard kicked his slave gently between the shoulder blades, and the young man ran forward with a waterskin. Everyone waited while the newcomers quenched their thirst and the slave resumed his position.

  “We’ll set camp,” said the blond. He pulled his horse around, and the slave moved expertly beside him, barely losing his place by the horse’s shoulder. “And we’ll draw lots for four, all right? Just four.”

  There were mingled noises of excitement and discontent amongst the Wolves.

  “Take it or leave it, you ungrateful curs!” snapped Gérard. “We’re being damned generous! We’ll all answer to Father if your unruly nature pulls this down around our ears.” His irritability seemed to cow them, and the objections died.

  The blond gestured in dismissal and the eight shadow-riders bowed their heads and slipped back into the trees.

  “Are we included in the draw?” asked one of the other lead Wolves. It was the man with the red saddle and black riding boots, a broad, square-shaped fellow, with narrow, cruel eyes.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Jean,” said the fourth man. He had a soft voice and long brown hair, and had, until now, been sitting silently looking out at the sunset, his back turned to the others. Wynter noted that this was the man with the scarlet leather gauntlets. “You ain’t a cub no more,” he said. “You need to remember that.”

  The other man grimaced but ducked his head in obeisance.

  “Sorry, David,” he said.

  David! thought Wynter.

  David half-turned his head and said quietly, “You may drink.” The two slaves leapt for the waterskins and drank as if they had just crossed a desert. Wynter was surprised by how thirsty they seemed to be, and how frantic their movements were in contrast with their previous calm. “Enough,” murmured David. They ceased at once, gasping and reluctant, and Wynter realised that they had been trying to drink as much as possible before he spoke again. They obediently corked the skins and replaced them. “Mount up,” he ordered, and the two young men returned immediately to their horses.

  Wynter stared as the Wolf pulled his horse around. So this was David, the leader of this particular pack of André’s Wolves. The pack that Razi had referred to with gritted teeth as “that pack.”

  David Le Garou was lithe and tall and had a weary set to his shoulders. As he turned towards her, his face was blotted into shadow by the sunset. He kicked his horse on and the others fell into place around him. Wynter watched as he ducked beneath the trees and led his men into the forest. The pack mules followed closely behind. Silently, the two slaves sat waiting their turn, then they too trotted forward and were swallowed by the darkness beneath the trees.

  There was a long moment of silence. Then Christopher began to slither forward from their hiding place, and Razi and Wynter followed suit.

  They stood at the edge of the cliff and looked down. Below them, there was more forest and the slow, wide river gleaming in the stormy light of the sunset. Wynter scanned the trees, but there were no signs of life. Whoever it was that the Wolves had seen, they had now disappeared. Christopher turned away from the view and stared after the departed Wolves.

  “I’m starving,” he said softly, still staring out into the trees.

  Wynter squeezed his arm. “So am I,” she whispered.

  “It’s about twenty minutes’ ride to the river,” murmured Razi. “Can you last that long?”

  They nodded. “All right,” he said, already heading for the horses. “We’ll set up camp there. Settle for the night.” He turned back at the tree line. “I’d like to stop off in the Wherry Tavern tomorrow. See who’s there.”

  Christopher sighed and Wynter blinked at Razi with burning eyes.

  “All right,” she said numbly.

  Christopher said nothing, just waited patiently for Razi to get going and then fell into step behind. Wynter put her hand on his back as she followed on. She kept it there for as long as she could, but eventually the dense foliage broke them apart.

  Hunger

  They set up camp in grim silence, sticking close together and anxiously scanning their surroundings. Dinner was rye-bread, hard cheese and dried sausage, and they consumed it without the comfort of a fire.

  “It’s madness to have promoted Jean to Second,” whispered Christopher.

  His soft voice looped a thread out into the night that bound the three of them together, breaking the silence that Wynter had begun to think would consume them. She sat, the last of her dinner in her hand, and gazed thankfully at him in the gloom.

  Razi peered at his friend, his face uncertain, then sighed as if giving in to an unwanted conversation. “He will make a poor leader,” he agreed softly. “I doubt that he was David’s first choice. I suspect that André foist the decision upon him.”

  “Jean is a mindless, unruly whoreson cur,” said Christopher without much emotion. “David will have him dead within a nine-month, if he knows what’s good for him. He’ll kill him as soon as he can.

  “I hope they kill each other,” spat Razi suddenly. “Every one of them. I hope they all poison each other, and die screaming in a pool of their own shit.”

  Jesu, thought Wynter, shocked.

  Razi blinked and his eyes widened as though he had surprised even himself. Christopher had drawn the collar of his cloak up around his face and was peering at Razi over the top of it. He did not seem shocked in the least.

  “Wh… why are they drawing lots, Christopher?” asked Wynter uncertainly, her voice low.

  Christopher briefly met her eye and then laid his head back and looked up at the stars. “Don’t know,” he said.

  “But why might they do that? From what you know of them?” She was wondering if it had anything to do with the business they claimed to be on. Razi shifted beside her, but did not try to silence her. Christopher didn’t reply.

  “Christopher?” she persisted. “Have they—?”

  “I don’t know,” hissed Christopher. “I ain’t one of them. How would I know why they do what—?” his angry voice cracked, and he shut his mouth tight for a moment. “It could be any of a dozen dreadful things,” he said.

  Wynter shuddered and drew her knees up; she no longer wanted to know. The silence threatened to envelope them again. Wynter spoke quickly, just to stop it in its tracks. “How come the slaves don’t run to David?” she asked. “Surely as their leader, he should—”

  Christopher laughed, a dull, unpleasant croak, and he put his hand over his face. “David don’t need no bloody slaves, lass. David owns the pack. He owns everyone. They’re all his, to command as he will.”

  “I would have thought,” said Razi, “that André would have allowed David to settle by now. It’s over four years since they enslaved your troupe, Chris, and I had thought that would be David’s last trip. I expected André to have made him a Father by now, to grant him an estate in the Russias, or in Fez. But he persists in sending him out year after year, like any other son. It puzzles me.”

  “I think André fears David,” murmured Christopher. “He needs him, but he fears him. I think he resists giving him his freedom, for fear it will split the packs.”

  Wynter watched her friend as he watched the stars, and the question she had chewed upon for days just slipped from her without warning. “Are these the men who hurt your hands?” she whispered.

  “I don’t remember,” said Christopher immediately, his voice flat.

  Wynter frowned, “How—?”

  “He doesn’t remember, Wynter!” snapped Razi. “Leave him be!”

  Wynter bowed her head, but Christopher sighed softly and relented.

  “Razi thinks they probably
paid someone to do it for them, lass,” he said. “The Wolves don’t get their hands dirty in Algiers, you see.” Wynter saw his teeth flash in a sneer. “In Algiers they just do business.”

  This last sentence came out hard, with a bitter emphasis on the final word, and Razi shifted uncomfortably. “Chris …” he whispered. There was a long silence.

  “I could have won that race,” murmured Christopher inexplicably, his eyes still on the sky.

  “I know you could,” Razi said, “I never once beat you in a race.” He stared steadily into the gathering dark, his face blank. “That is how I knew,” he said. “That is how we got back to you so soon. When you were not at the house, I turned around straight away and we went looking for you. God help us, Chris! What were we thinking? Leaving my knights behind like that? God help me! Such idiots!”

  “Ah,” Christopher gestured soothingly. “We were just wee lads,” he said. “We needed to kick loose.”

  “I should have known better!” cried Razi. “People like me aren’t lads, people like me don’t kick loose …” he clamped down hard on his bitterness, and finished softly, “we should never kick loose.”

  “Aye, well,” murmured Christopher. “I’m a bad influence, ain’t I?”

  “How did you find him?” asked Wynter quietly. “When you turned back? How did you find him?”

  Razi just shook his head, and looked away without answering.

  “I was screaming.” Christopher rolled slightly to face her, his cloak bundled around him as if for protection. “Marcello tells me I was still screaming. That’s how they found me. Razi thinks they saw him coming, he thinks that’s why …” he gestured stiffly with his left hand, “why they were so very brutal at the end. He thinks they were trying to finish quickly before they ran.”

  “You were right in the middle of the road,” whispered Razi. “They didn’t even try to hide you.”

  “Aye, well. They wanted you to find me, didn’t they? I was their little present to al-Sayyid. No doubt they had a grand old chuckle over how you’d get your money’s worth from a fingerless musician.”

  There was a long, awkward silence. Razi was lost to his memories, and Wynter found herself staring at Christopher, her mind filled with terrible pictures. She did not know what expression was on her face, but, whatever it was, Christopher’s eyes slid from hers and he swallowed. It was obvious that he didn’t want this to go any further; that he wanted to break this downward slide, but had no idea how to change it. He glanced at Razi, then back again, his face pleading, but Wynter didn’t know how to rescue him. She could not free her mind of the terrible image of Razi and Christopher, screaming and frantic, and covered in blood beneath the African sun.

  “You know what?” Christopher said suddenly.

  She shook her head.

  “I’m hungry …”

  Razi snorted. Wynter laughed harshly. And the spell was broken.

  “You can’t be hungry,” she croaked. “You just ate a horse-weight of bread and cheese.”

  “You’re like a God-cursed tape-worm,” grated Razi.

  Christopher put his hand to his eyes and coughed dryly. “Well,” he said, “T’aint so much as how I’m hungry. I just fancy a taste, you know?” He rolled onto his back, dropping his hand to his chest and gazed up at the sky.

  Wynter looked at his pale, narrow face, all bundled around with his cloak and she realised that, yes, she did know. She knew exactly. She looked at Christopher and she became aware of a hollowness inside her, a longing that she had never noticed before. An empty, scooped-out space beside her heart.

  “You know what I’d fancy?” he said.

  “No, love,” she said, “what would you fancy?”

  “An orange.” He lifted his hand and made a gesture, as if he were plucking an orange from the tree. “I’d quite like an orange, just for the taste.”

  It felt like she spent the next few hours curled beneath the canvas peering out at Christopher, but she must actually have dozed off because she couldn’t remember him coming over to shake Razi awake. The first thing she knew of it was his voice, hissing low in the darkness.

  “Razi… Raz… Good Frith, man! Come on, you sluggard, wake up. It’s your watch.”

  Razi startled and banged his head off Wynter’s feet. He cursed blearily and fumbled free of his covers, rolling out from under the bivouac. He left the bedroll in a terrible disorder and Wynter kicked at it in irritation. She was instantly filled with the itchy, sand-eyed restlessness that had plagued her all night. Her body was exhausted, almost painfully worn out, but at the same time she could not seem to settle. Every time she shut her eyes she saw the same thing. She saw blood, she imagined screams, and she felt the proximity of Wolves. She moaned in exasperation and shoved her covers down to her feet. It was too damned hot.

  “Aren’t you going to bed, Chris?” asked Razi softly.

  Wynter stared up at the canvas and tensed, listening for Christopher’s reply. She was suddenly aware of the fact that she had been waiting for Christopher. She had been longing for him to come in and lay down beside her. She could just about see his boots, loitering hesitantly by the tent. There was a moment’s silence, then he turned away.

  “I’m too restless,” he said. “I’m going to have a swim.”

  “Be careful. Stay close.”

  Christopher tutted in exasperation and walked away.

  Wynter took a deep breath, pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes and told herself to go to sleep.

  Moments later she rolled from beneath the canvas and got stiffly to her feet. The night was much brighter now, the clouds having clotted along the horizon, leaving room for stars and the naked half-moon above them.

  Razi peered at her in concern. “Wyn,” he said. “Are you all right?” She glanced furtively at the river. Razi’s eyes widened, then he looked away, his face tight with embarrassment. “It’s a warm night,” he said.

  “Aye.”

  “Much cooler by the river,” he said.

  Wynter nodded. Razi kept looking fixedly into the trees and eventually she turned and made her way down to the water. She thought fleetingly how lonely he might be and glanced back once, but she didn’t stop walking.

  At the water’s edge, Christopher’s boots and socks and tunic were lying in a tidy pile at his feet. He was just reaching back to loosen the tie on his undershirt when Wynter rounded the bushes. His hair was unbound and it swung heavily around his shoulders as he turned to look at her. He left his shirt tied and pushed his hair behind his ears in a gesture Wynter hadn’t seen for a long while.

  “How do, girly,” he whispered. “I was just going for a swim.”

  Wynter nodded.

  He stood with his arms hanging loose by his sides and tilted his head questioningly. The moon gleamed off his cheekbones and outlined his lips in pale light. “Can’t you sleep?” he asked softly.

  She shook her head.

  “Me neither,” he said.

  Christopher looked at her with that familiar gentle intensity, and Wynter knew with absolute certainty that she’d never love anyone as much as she loved this man.

  She took the last few steps and stood very close to him, gazing up into his face.

  He hesitated for a moment and then he lifted his hand and stroked her cheek. “Girly,” he whispered, and Wynter pressed herself against him and stopped his words with her mouth on his.

  His reaction was powerful and immediate. He pulled her close and bent himself to her kiss with a hunger that should have been frightening. But instead of fear, Wynter felt her own hunger rise up, so she wrapped her arms around him and responded with an intensity that made him groan. Christopher pulled her closer and she ran her hands up his back, feeling all the strong, flat planes of his slim body. He opened his mouth against hers. She pushed her fingers into his hair. He tasted wonderful, he smelled so incredibly good, and Wynter felt a powerful desire blaze to life between them.

  For a moment Christopher pressed tightl
y against her, and Wynter abandoned herself to the need to get closer and closer. But then she felt him bare his teeth and he brought his hands to her waist, pushing her away until she had to loosen her grip, and they were separated.

  They stood for a moment, panting, their foreheads pressed together, their hands resting lightly on each other’s hips.

  “Christopher …” she moaned, her body aching to be near him.

  He gasped and held her firmly away. “You’re a sore trial to my self-control at the best of times, lass. Please… I ain’t too certain of restraint at the moment. You need to give me a bit of space.”

  Wynter opened her eyes and looked up at him, her forehead still pressed to his. He did the same so that they were watching each other within the swinging black curtain of his hair.

  “I feel very strongly for you, Christopher,” she whispered.

  “You ain’t sport to me, lass. I couldn’t make sport with you.”

  She frowned, not understanding.

  “I couldn’t… If we lay down. I couldn’t just …” Christopher paused. The moonlit river sent dappled currents of light across his face as he searched miserably for the right words. “You’d be forever to me, lass,” he said. “If I lay down with you, it wouldn’t be sport. It would be forever with me.”

  Wynter smiled. He looked terrified. “Forever would be just fine by me, Christopher.”

  He shook his head uncertainly. “Now, you think what you’re saying, Protector Lady. You think careful about who you’re saying this to—a fingerless musician, a foul-mouthed tape-worm… and a dubious Merron at that.” There was a smile in his voice when he finished this and they grinned at each other in the rippling light.

  “I know what I’m saying, Christopher Garron. Do not be wheedling out of things by implying that I don’t know my own mind.”

  She slowly ran her hand up his ribs and across his chest, and Christopher closed his eyes for a moment, his heart thudding beneath her palm.

  “Aren’t you… provisioned?” she asked shyly.

  Christopher chuckled and his grin got a lopsided wickedness to it that weakened Wynter’s knees. “Sweetheart,” he whispered. “I’m always provisioned.” He opened his eyes suddenly, grave and sincere. “But I will not have your first time a heated fumble against a tree, with the two of us looking over our shoulders for fear of Wolves.” He brought his hand to the side of her face and stepped away from her. “I’d like to wait till we can put some joy in it, girly. If that’s all right?”