Too simple.
“Ah,” he said. “Ilkea will join you. As a form of insurance. Surely you can make an excuse for having her with you. A captive or some such thing.”
He meant to kill one or both of them, she knew it now. She could not be sure when, but as there were three documents, the contents were likely real enough. Aile understood Shahuor’s hatred of the faun somewhat better.
Aile held up the pouch of gold. “This. What unit of measure is it to you?”
“The… weight of the gold?”
She narrowed her eyes at him and said nothing.
“Of course, how stupid of me. A half-skull.”
“Six of them.”
“What?”
“That is the price of the job. Six.”
Salaar flushed and his face screwed up trying to hold back annoyance. His response would tell her how desperate he was. Failing a positive response, he may just call for guards to kill her now.
“I… Cursebringer, your terms are harsh. But we are where we are. Fine. Acceptable.”
He knew that meant he would have to pay her half up front. Aile wondered whether the papers were more important or if it would be her death. Or maybe an expensive scapegoat in the death of a noble satyr.
Salaar stood and waddled to the back of his tent, through a flap and into what must have been the bedroom. She heard the opening of a chest and the shifting of metal on metal. She found herself hoping the camp was at least semi-permanent. Tracking the faun would be an annoyance.
Her gold was ready and Salaar handed it grudgingly to Ilkea. He must have come to covet it. A sign the faun were at least capable of higher thought. The three pouches dropped were near enough in weight to the first. Aile opened them. The gold was mostly the newer mint, though she spied a few rosy cubes inside. The complaint would be wasted time, though she felt she could get away with it if she wanted. She did not.
“Ilkea knows the way?”
Salaar was drinking deep of the clear liquid in his tiny cup now. “She does.”
“Then we will take our leave.”
Aile stood.
“Very good, Cursebringer. I hope that you find the work worth the cost.”
She left the tent before Ilkea had managed to catch up and eyes immediately drew to her. A few satyr even took a step or two in her direction, stopping when Ilkea appeared behind her and returning to their business.
“Have you not been unfair?”
“I’ll cut your tongue from between your teeth, goatchild, if you speak that word to me again.”
Ilkea clapped her mouth closed. The girl’s familiarity was pushing her patience and the reminder of stations was needed.
“Take me to food.”
It would be disgusting, Aile knew, but she lacked enough stored food to last the trip in its entirety and horsefolk rations would be worse than whatever they made fresh. Ilkea took the lead, moving through the camp toward a series of three cookfires in a rough triangle. There were at least twenty sat in the clearing eating from what could be called bowls if standards were low enough.
Aile stood herself as far away from the eating satyr as she could manage. Ilkea moved to one of the kettles, pulling plates from a sack hung from a pike near the fire, and filling them. It was a stew, grey and filled with foraged greens and a curious amount of meat. Aile tipped the bowl, pouring some of the soup into her mouth. It was bitter. No salt or sweet to speak of. Their stores of spices seemed to have run dry as well. The meat was stringy and tough and the greens would likely spend more time in her stomach than they spent growing. The meat was familiar but she was not entirely sure of it. Elf meat, she guessed. She let the bowl drop when she’d finished it, rueful of not having burdened her horse with more.
A satyr stood suddenly when her bowl clattered in the dirt. He walked to her in a huff. A dusty creature with an axe at each hip and scars across his shoulder and chest. He croaked at her before laughing, looking around to rile the others. Aile looked to Ilkea for an explanation.
“He asks if you know what you have eaten.”
“Ask how he can be so stupid as to be unaware that a Drow is not an elf.”
Ilkea fumbled for a moment, trying to work the translation in her mind. Aile turned to leave. The one who had challenged her barked while Ilkea gave him Aile’s reply. His taunts turned angry, first directed at Ilkea then at Aile from the sound of things. She could hear hoof beats in the dirt behind her. She put a hand to her long blade and kept pace. The enraged satyr was three strides away when she saw movement from the corner of her eye and turned to watch it. Shahuor slid smoothly in front of the charging goat and lifted him by his chin. A cloud of dust burst from under the younger of the combatants as he struck the ground. Shahuor barked what may have been words at him and it was done.
Aile turned and continued away, Ilkea joining her more quickly than she’d expected.
“Chariots. Make them ready.”
Ilkea trotted on ahead and Aile kept her pace. She could not bring herself to find a redeeming feature in the satyr as much as she tried. She looked over the papers, studying them in the hopes that some piece of it might be familiar, but there was nothing she understood. It mattered little in the end.
The chariots were waiting when she came upon Ilkea again. Aile untied the pouches of gold from her belt and placed them in the pack attached to her fresh horse. She put the papers in with them as well. Her goods had been transferred over and if anything was missing she did not notice. Then, there was little of value that she left unattended.
They set out and rode south for a while. Ilkea informed her that they would need to pass around to the other side of the mountains and make for the foothills north into the dry plains. It was easy enough to tell that Ilkea’s mind was wandering. The girl glanced over at her from time to time and then returned to looking ahead silently. The sun was creeping low in the sky when Ilkea finally spoke.
“Cursebringer…”
Aile did not look. It was rare that such apathy could stop the questions, but she would never fail to hope.
“Do you know the centaur script? Can you read it?”
An interesting question. Very interesting. Aile turned her head and locked eyes with Ilkea, waiting silently to see if she would continue. The girl could not bear it. She looked down and away and said nothing else.
“I have no need to,” Aile said flatly.
There was no more talk. Aile wondered if Ilkea intended to warn her. She almost wanted to laugh. She would get to see soon enough the value of satyr honor.
Part Seven
p
Z
Socair
Casúr was something of a stiff ride and Socair was glad to be freed of the confines of the carriage again. She had been told time and again that she would come to enjoy it. Even she had thought that she would find some manner of utility in it, but it was quite the opposite. In spite of herself, she could only see the rolling box as a death trap that either slowed travel or made it uncomfortable when it need not be. Nearly every moment of the ride for Casúr was marked in her mind by concern that an ambush would flood from the trees— though they were generally well away from the road— or by some bump that she had neither been able to see coming nor avoid. Had she been ahorse none of these items could be marked as a shortcoming.
The thought of ambush was the more grievous of the two. It would take nothing more than a few moments to have the gaudy wood and lacquer monstrosity flaming from top to bottom. Were that not enough, she’d not met a horse who dealt well with fire. Even the most well-trained of them would buck and run if a blaze was at their backside. And this was what was used to transport nobles and Treorai and Binsemen and the like. Socair had scoffed when considering it so often that Práta had begun giving her strange looks. There could not be a more noble idea in practice, Socair decided. An inescapable, readily-burned b
ox of wood to hold the most precious pieces of elven civilization. All for vanity. She scoffed again and Práta gave her another confused glance. Socair put on a resigned face and motioned toward the carriage.
At least for the moment, they were done with it and it was being loaded into the Regent’s stables outside the walls. Casúr, it relieved her to find, boasted open gates and, refreshingly, seemed incredibly happy to have visitors from another province, important ones especially.
“Always busy these first weeks of Bais. And on into it, truth be told.” The stablemaster was an older woman with a wrinkled face and sandy blonde hair that ran streaks of grey. “Our stores are the largest in the south. Keeps trade from dropping off so bad in the cold.”
Socair knew only a bit about the town. The Regent’s family had been dock owners before and came to a sort of de facto rule. They had continued to own the docks when the previous Treorai had granted them official titles. It was only under Rianaire that they had been forced to divest their interests and operate the docks as a public service, taxing it appropriately and remitting a sum of that to the Bastion. The histories she’d read failed to mention how the change was taken, but as the gates bustled with life, she was willing to hope that there was no real enmity remaining. Her treatment at the walls seemed to bear out the notion.
“Regent ought to have time to meet with you. And best way to find the Treorai, Sisters bless her. Heard word she’s been in town only a day or so. Lucky you arriving when you did. Rare she’d visit this time of year. Don’t reckon she’ll be here long.”
Socair turned her head to look at Rionn, he motioned her away and so away she went. The trip from the stables to the city gate was short and the streets were wide enough that there was room to walk even with everyone about. The keep was visible from some of the wider streets. It was simple and unadorned except for an abundance of flags flying orange and blue. Socair assumed they must have been the Regent’s colors.
A tug came at Socair’s shirt as they passed a vendor selling tarts. Nath was eying them with a curious expression on her face, leaning toward them unwittingly.
“Would you like one?”
Nath nodded enthusiastically. The girl had been more compliant in recent days, sticking to Socair but being wary of the showy grabbing that had been the first week of their time together. Socair approached the tarts and looked them over. There were a few varieties among the lot, some with preserved fruits which would have been out of season in the north so far from summer. The fruits had likely never been on offer in Fásachbaile, at least not with any regularity.
The slim vendor smiled brightly at them as they approached. “Welcome, welcome! Baked just this mornin’. Any flavor you like, ladies.”
“Only one,” Socair said gently, nudging Nath forward.
She looked them over and pointed to one.
“Ah, glazed peaches and mint.” He pulled it out and leaned close to Nath to hand it to her. “My favorite. Well-chosen, young miss.” He stood and looked at Socair. “Something for you?”
“No. Sweets at midday.” She made a face.
“Haha, remind me of my wife. Two coppers then, for just the one.”
Socair paid the man and thanked him. Nath had greedily bitten into the tart before they had even turned to leave.
Socair looked at Práta. “Do you know anything of the Regent of this place?”
“Mm, I fear I do not. I have seen no requests for assistance in trade manners come to the Bastion, so I would guess that our port cities have little problem moving goods.”
“At least our business with him will be brief, whatever his nature.”
They approached the keep from the side, not knowing the layout of the city, and found a postern gate guarded by a sturdy-looking pair of elves. Socair decided she would rather not wait for harsh questions.
“Good morrow, I have business with the Regent.”
“Socair of Abhainnbaile?”
“I… yes, I am.”
The guards said nothing else, but turned and opened the gate, letting her pass into the courtyard. One of the guards followed her in and closed the gate behind himself.
“Regent’s been expecting you. Doubt I’m the first, but welcome to Casúr. It’s truly a pleasure to have such a notable face among us.”
“Ah, well. My thanks… for your kind words.”
“Think nothin’ of it.”
He took the three through another series of doors and they came to what seemed to be the main hall. A half-bald man, well-dressed and silver-haired, approached them with quick precise steps.
“That will be all. Back to your post.” His voice was sharp and just a bit high.
The guard did as he was bid and when the well-dressed elf came close, he bowed deeply. “Binseman Socair of Abhainnbaile, on behalf of the Regent of Casúr and all of Spéirbaile, I welcome you and insist that you call upon any of our city’s humble citizenry should you need anything at all.”
Any words Socair might have had to respond to such a proclamation flew off the moment the man had bowed deeply in front of her. His head was down even now. “I am…” She looked to Práta, finding only a half-smirk. “Honored?”
“Very good.” He stood. “Now, our esteemed Regent Glae, I fear, is currently indisposed with some business. Unexpected changes in management, though I assure you it will cause no delay in the processing of goods, especially not from our wonderful allies to the south.” He bowed again. “Glae has expected that your business here is not likely with him, in any case.”
“He is correct.” Socair was slow with the words, half-defending herself against being off-put by sudden bows or other prostrations. She had been keen to avoid being seen to, even in the Bastion at Abhainnbaile. “We have urgent business with your Treorai.”
“Of course. I do apologize, though we cannot be sure exactly where she is. We know she has been to the docks this morning and the last we were informed, she was making for the southeast portion of the city.”
“I see.” So it would be a search. A Treorai ought to be spotted easily enough. Deifir was never without at least six guards, including Meirge, and the crowds roamed along with them. “Then we will make for there as soon as we’ve found lodging.”
“If I might, our fine Regent has seen to lodging for you at the city’s finest inn. It is, if one leaves by the front gate, merely two streets directly south. The Red Lark.”
“Oh, well… please relay my gratitude to your Regent when he has the time. Our treatment here has been beyond expectation.”
The old man bowed again. “We live for service in Casúr, Binseman. Is there anything else which can be seen to?”
“I should speak with the Treorai as quickly as possible. If someone could take our things and Nath to—”
Nath made a nervous noise and edged closer to her.
Socair let out a patient sigh. “Well, I suppose nevermind. We will see ourselves to the inn.”
“Very good. Then I shall have a guard see that you have no trouble on your way out.”
The old man clapped twice sharply and a guard came jogging from her post at the wall. The way out from the keep was simple enough that they’d have had a hard time losing themselves, but Socair knew the guard was there for more than that. At the very least the girl was polite, as was everyone. It seemed earnest enough and made sense for a trade town.
The square just outside the keep was filled with stalls but they were all ignored. The Red Lark was where he had described it and showed its opulence even in the signage and entry way. Stained glass and gold trim in more places than made good sense to Socair. A doorman greeted them and no sooner had Socair said her name than he grabbed their bags and welcomed them.
Socair stopped the man before he entered the inn. “Are we needed for anything further? To see our papers?”
“Not at all, Binseman. We were informed y
ou would be coming and the size of your party.”
“Then we will take our leave here.” Socair looked down at Nath. “Nath, you will stay here. It will be comfortable for you.”
Nath frowned, but she nodded. “Okay. I will wait for you.”
Socair looked to the doorman. “Please see that she is well looked after.”
“Nothing less would do, you have my guarantee.”
He smiled and pulled the door open, looking down at Nath. She entered slowly, looking around and then back at Socair. She gave a small wave before turning and walking into the lobby.
When the door had closed, Socair turned to Práta.
“Then, southeast?”
“Southeast.”
Práta was quiet for the first pair of blocks. “It’s a lovely city,” she said finally breaking a nervous silence.
“I hadn’t noticed.” Socair sounded restless. She’d have tried to hide it from anyone else. “It’s a wonder I’ve not pissed myself, all this… this…”
“Perhaps you ought to. It might level the field somewhat. Put the nobility off their guard.”
Socair laughed. “It could work, you know? They might agree to my demands for worry over the state of their furniture.”
Práta laughed, putting a hand over her mouth. “A new facet to the legendary warrior of Abhainnbaile.”
“I could take to wearing pants with two shades of fabric to keep my enemies guessing.”
Práta stopped in the street, doubled over laughing. She placed a hand on Socair’s hip for balance.
She poked at Práta’s ribs. “Come now. You began this ridiculous jest, and now you’re making such a scene. You’ll ruin our newfound reputation.” Socair chuckled.
Práta pulled in a deep breath and slapped her cheeks a few times. She stood upright and let out the air. “There. Okay. Yes. We’re here on serious business. No more smiling.”
Socair put her hand on Práta’s head and smiled. “Thank you, Práta.”
One's Own Shadow (The Siúil Book 2) Page 20
