One's Own Shadow (The Siúil Book 2)

by Randall P. Fitzgerald

  It wasn’t more than a pair of minutes before the door at the far side of the room opened up and a naked woman, doughy and tan stumbled into the room giggling. Inney and Síocháin turned to see her, she blushed and giggled.

  “Oh, do excuse me,” she chirped before jogging lightly across the room to the double door. The sound of skin against skin was loud and obvious, though the woman seemed to enjoy the embarrassment of it.

  Mion followed behind her, making a show of wiping his mouth with a cloth before handing it back to one of the twin boys that followed him. He was dressed in a blue-black dress and wasted no time in moving to one of the chairs across from Rianaire. The twin boys hurried themselves removing the other chair and replacing it with a table which held a crystal carafe of wine and a pair of glasses.

  “Rianaire, it is always an unrivaled joy to see you.”

  Síocháin joined her on the sedan and Inney took a place directly behind Rianaire. The boys attending Mion were not the ones that had been with him only a season ago, Rianaire noticed.

  “I see you have seen fit to replace your attendants.”

  They finished their work and took places on either side of the chair. Mion frowned and ran a finger up the backside of one of the boys.

  “It is one of the cruelest tricks of nature that elves are young for so little of their lives and that fewer still are twins.”

  Rianaire laughed dismissively, “It must be a great burden to have to swap attendants so regularly.”

  “A monetary one at the very least. I pay well enough for my companions.” His eyes moved to Inney.

  “I never belonged to you, whoremonger.” Inney’s voice was sharp and the words were meant to bite.

  Mion laughed. “Oh, I do regret that you stole her away from me. She is desperately interesting, that one.” He stared at her a moment longer and then his eyes opened. “Ah! Where are my manners.”

  He slapped the ass of the boy nearest the table and the young elf set to work. “A glass of wine?”

  “Yes,” Rianaire said. “More than one.”

  The boy poured the wine into two finely crafted glasses and sat them on the small table that separated the seats. He poured a third and handed it to Mion. The elf took a sip from his own glass and ran a finger idly down the back of the boy at his other side.

  “It seems this will be a troublesome season,” he said thoughtfully, looking at the boy’s back as his fingers traced over its youthful shape. “Even my business is suffering. Well… outside the city is doing as it always does in Bais. Cold air necessitates warm bodies, of course.”

  He pulled his hand away from the boy before continuing. “And now horsefolk in the province. It’s been quite some time since they were bold enough to head this far north. No doubt you have plans for dealing with that.”

  “Hm,” Rianaire sipped the wine. “So much as I can. The lack of a Binse has hampered my efficiency more than I’d hoped.”

  “And so you need to build a new one.”

  “Exactly that. This Bais will be a cold and trying one at its best. Supplies have been short from the south. The threat of attack is not one to be ignored.” She took another sip of the wine and sat the cup down on the table in front of her. “I would have you be my Binse of Coin.”

  Mion swirled the wine in his glass and looked Rianaire over. “Binse of Coin. A hefty position for a whoremonger.” He laughed. “I don’t imagine I am well-suited to the position.”

  Rianaire crossed her legs and waited. There was nothing she could say beyond the initial offer. Mion was never a man who could be convinced by anyone’s word but his own.

  “Yes,” he said, looking off contemplatively. “I fear I am not the sort.” He turned to Rianaire and continued. “My greatest joy in life, lover, is the game. I live to play and to win. Could you imagine what would become of me if I controlled the game? There would be nothing to win. I would exist to make losers of those who wished to be the man I once was. I…”

  He stopped speaking there, and looked off past his gathered guests, absently. There was more to consider, she could see. She sat, hoping he would find something, but she was not entirely hopeful.

  “No,” he said finally. Rianaire was immediately annoyed at the waiting. “I cannot. Ignoring it going against my nature, the work would distract from my preferred manner of living.”

  “To be naked and cock-deep in small boys.”

  He raised his glass in salute. “Very emphatically yes.”

  Mion drank deep from the cup and pulled it away. “However,” he said swallowing, “I would be remiss if I allowed my most fabulous of lovers leave my company without some manner of solution. What ever would you think of me if such a thing happened?”

  Rianaire let her hopes rise just the slightest bit but kept any hint of it from Mion. She smiled wryly before she spoke. “My thoughts of you aren’t so quickly replaced as your tiny lovers.”

  “Nor are you so tiny.” He flashed a glance at her breasts for the first time since she’d arrived. “Oh, but you do flatter me so well in your subtle ways, lover.”

  “So, this offering that you would make to your benevolent Treorai?”

  “Ah, yes, yes.” He waved a hand at her as he shoved his wine glass into the boy’s hand at his right. “There is a man in the province fit to be Binse of Coin. If I were to give you the truth of it, his being installed would be beneficial to us both. Tola is his name and there is not a soul on this earth who could buy his honor.”

  Mion chuckled to himself, looking down at the table wistfully. “He’d likely give his life before he let a single discrepancy into his books.”

  Rianaire was curious. “You knew him?”

  “Long ago, yes. He controls some of your busiest docks now, in Casúr.” Mion pushed the boy at his right toward the wine and the boy obliged in refilling his cup.

  “And you would not be put out by his appointment to the Binse?”

  “Would it matter?”

  “No.”

  Mion smiled. “I said it before, in so many words. I live for the game. A game where the judge bends easily is more play than challenge. A simple victory is not a satisfying one.”

  “I fear we differ in that view,” Rianaire said as she lifted her wine from the table. “I would have a life free of effort were it within my power.” She finished her glass of wine in a single drink and stood.

  “Leaving? With the dress, I had assumed…”

  Rianaire looked down at herself and back to Mion. “It had been my intention. The city makes me stir crazy, you know. But you have given me good cause for a vacation and so I fully intend to have one.”

  Síocháin moved to get her furs and Inney came around the end of the couch.

  “That is sure to upset someone.”

  Rianaire laughed at the suggestion as Síocháin draped the furs around her. “The great joy of being the Treorai is that you do not have to pay any mind to who you upset within your own province.”

  “Though sometimes they try to kill you.” Mion added, sipping the fresh glass of wine.

  “Ha!” Rianaire walked toward the door without looking back at him. “Only a problem if they succeed, lover.”

  Síocháin opened the door and they left. On the first floor, the girl seemed surprised to see them.

  “Treorai, I was not called. Are you…”

  “We are leaving. He had arranged you for my visit?”

  The girl nodded.

  Rianaire clicked her tongue in disappointment. “Give him my thanks. I feel your company would have been most refreshing.”

  Síocháin opened the door to the brothel and a cold air rolled in. The street was cold and bright. A perfect day as they went in Spéirbaile. While she was sad to leave such supple fruit unplucked, the idea of leaving the city had sparked a dozen others in her mind. She would have to thank Mion later
for his words, though he likely hadn’t the slightest idea what it had triggered in her mind.

  “I’ve decided.”

  Síocháin sighed audibly.

  “Have the heads of the colleges called to a meeting in the Bastion and ready transport for the morning. I intend to upset someone.”

  U

  Aile

  Nearly an hour had passed since the sound of awkward fumbling around the fire pit had pulled Aile out of a reasonable sleep. The cot would not have been her first choice of bedding, but it served well enough and the satyr-hair down was comfortable and warm beyond what she had expected. It had still been dark out when Ilkea’s clumsy attempts at cooking started. The sun was above the horizon now and had begun to make the air inside the tent warmer than she felt was worth dealing with to avoid interaction with the giddy moron outside the flaps.

  “Aile.”

  The voice was as shrill and painful as it had been for the two weeks since they’d begun traveling together. The young satyr pulled the flap aside and pushed her head into the tent.

  “We should take our leave soon. I have prepared for us some breakfast.”

  She had expected to get used to the strained sound of a satyr’s speech but it was no less arresting now that she lived with it daily than she remembered it being at any point in her life. Ilkea, for what it was worth, spoke the elf tongue better than any satyr she had ever heard attempt it, but the sound still proved more annoying than anything she might have said. This might have been forgivable if the girl did not insist on speaking nearly constantly.

  Aile pulled herself up out of the cot and stretched. It was not so cold yet that she needed to sleep clothed and so she took the opportunity while it was still available.

  “I have heard you, satyr. Leave.”

  The satyr left and Aile moved to a small, foldable stand that held up her leathers. They had been something of a gift to herself as she made her way south out of Spéirbaile. They were somewhat stiff still, and not nearly tinged so red as her old leathers had been with use, but she liked the fit of them. She pulled them on and admired the curves as they fit to her body. Even her blades seemed to hold in the sheaths with a more satisfying fit than they had before.

  She exited the tent and saw an awkward mash of potatoes and peppers coated with dark spices to the point that the entire dish trended a deep red-brown. Aile had not known a single thing about hippocamp food when she had taken the work with Ilkea, but she did now. The knowledge was that all hippocamp food was disgusting. She could not imagine how anything intelligent enough to forge a blade, ever how shoddy it might be, could be so entirely awful when it came to matters of taste. It was as though their tongues barely worked the way they spiced things.

  Still, the food was all there was to eat and so Aile forced down as much of it as she thought would be needed to keep her alive until the next terrible meal. While she endured the food, Ilkea broke down her tent and packed the pieces to put onto the backs of the horses. They were packed down with supplies and attached to chariots. It was considered a great offense to ride upon the back of a horse among the hippocamps. It made sense, in a way, considering the centaur were the ones in charge of making such rules. She could not imagine the massive horsemen took kindly to being mounted in any way. She had been a bit surprised to find that Ilkea was also quite adamant that riding a horse in the traditional way— well, traditional to elves and Drow— was deeply offensive. She had said that they must all honor their ancestors and that the blood of the far ancestors of the horsefolk still pumped through the veins of modern horses. She went on to offer that she firmly believed the old horse gods would return one day to raise up the horses that still had no words of their own.

  Aile decided that she had pretended not to be disgusted by the food for long enough and she stood.

  “Is my tent the last of it?” Aile asked, though the camp was empty except for her tent and the horses were fully laden.

  “It is.”

  “Then we go when you have it loaded.”

  Aile moved for her chariot and sat on the edge in the shade of the large umbrella that sat above it. The umbrellas were stiff and thick. In the warmer seasons, they were likely a great boon to a rider in the open sands of Fásachbaile. In the colder months, the sun would be welcome, even in the wind of horseback travel. None of it bothered Aile overmuch and she’d gladly trade the extra supplies for blistering wind and improved maneuverability. The chariots moved decently enough over the various terrains she had ridden them across, but they made the horse slow to turn and threatened to tip too often for her liking.

  Ilkea finished packing the tent and was strapping it to the horse at the head of Aile’s chariot. Aile rose and looked around. They were near no discernible road. This had been a feature of her travel with the satyr that she had not bothered to question. It made enough sense. Elves used roads and elves were not fond of satyrs. To the southwest, a ridge of mountains thrust up out of the desert though they were miles and miles away. To the east there was nothing. More brown desert grass and patches of dirt the same color as the ground. The occasional hill was the most one could ask for. She knew that they were not so far from the Blackwood and that made her feel ill at ease. The elves had long since abandoned the northeast of Fásachbaile, but Drow still made their way into the desert to put an end to deals which had gone sour.

  Ilkea pulled out first, headed south. Aile snapped at the reins and the horse set out after Ilkea’s chariot. There were abandoned cities in the desert east of the mountains, Aile knew, but she had never been to them. There were still coastal towns on the large cape due east of the Bastion City. It made her wonder exactly where they were headed. She had been clear enough on the route they had taken up and the reason for it. Riding due east from where she had met the satyr would have put them in the path of any number of elf bandit groups and random trade traffic between the provinces.

  It had been too long a ride and there was still the serious question of whether it was like to pay off. On the back of rumors that the hippocamps had left Scáthloch, Aile made her way south. It had been an eternal disappointment to find that there was a fairly heavy band of satyrs still wandering around. Leaving the city, she was followed by a trio of them. There had been no reason to engage them and so Aile simply returned to her camp. She waited outside of her tent to judge what their intent might be, but after a few hours had passed it became clear there was no attack coming. More satyr gathered to the area. Aile was not entirely sure what to make of their actions. She had removed the packs from her horse when a single, young satyr among the group was sent forward on foot to speak with her.

  The satyr asked if Aile was, indeed, Aile. Apparently felling a warlord of the centaur was something that warranted being known. A shot of pride had run through her heart when she heard her name from the mouth of some unknown satyr. It was a short conversation after that. The promise of gold if she would undertake some tasks for the hippocamps.

  So here she was, sorrowfully watching as Ilkea slowed her chariot so that she might pull up for a chat. Aile sighed, knowing it would go unheard and readied herself.

  “I was quite scared when first we met.” The satyr spoke over the soft beat of hooves on the orange dirt. “I do not know if there is a satyr among the hordes who has not heard your name by now.”

  Was this some attempt at flattery?

  “The Halushek were not always a tool of the centaur.” Halushek was a word that meant the satyr. Or maybe just some subset of the satyr. She was not entirely sure. Ilkea continued. “We once lived all along the east in the Southern Lands. We call the land Hashai, though there are many names for it. It was a beautiful place, I think. I have never seen the home place, but I have heard all the stories.”

  That the girl had shut up long enough to hear a story seemed spurious at best. Aile had tried, to no avail, to tune out Ilkea’s shrieking for the whole of their journey. Th
e satyr seemed to love nothing more than to speak. Aile could not help but wonder if she was so talkative in her native tongue and if they had sent her along with Aile as some sort of cruel joke. Perhaps it was for their own sanity.

  Aile slid a pair of fingers into one of the pockets on her leg and pulled free one of the small cubes of gold that she had been given by Ilkea when she’d accepted the task. At the very least, the horsefolk understood the idea of partial payment up front. She turned the piece over in her hand. It was nearly the weight of one of the elven coins, but square with a smaller footprint and twice as thick. She had examined them many times during the trip and around half of them bore the same mark pressed into one side. Her best guess told her that this was likely the gold of the horde she traveled with and that the others had been taken in trade at some point or other. It seemed almost odd to Aile that there was a system of trade at all. The hordes were known to fight amongst themselves at the best of times. It was apparent from the small cube of gold that the currency was fairly newly minted, and somewhat poorly at that. The edges were still sharp but the gold had the slightest gold blush, suggesting that whoever had been working the forge was not so steady a hand with the copper mix. It was not an imperfection a novice goldsmith was likely to notice or worry over, not so slight as the tint was, but any merchant worth his wares would take your hand for trying to pass the stuff. It was worth maybe only a few copper less than it ought to be, so Aile had not complained about it. Not to Ilkea, anyway. The young girl had no way to make it right. Someone would, she knew. Someone at the far end of this trek through an endless brown wasteland.

  Aile finally interrupted the chatter which had moved on to the finer points of traditional satyr banquet planning for whatever reason. “Where, exactly, are we meant to arrive?”

  “Ah! We will go to one of the Dore Lai. He will give you your work and explain the price.”