Elveblood hc-2

by Andre Norton

  He left the half-finished pitcher of wine on the table, and went up to the third floor, bypassing the second altogether. Here was where the tavern-keeper had his own quarters, and where the offices were. And here the tavern-keeper had made a small apartment, which Lorryn lived in with his sister and with Mero.

  He paused outside the door, and sent a delicate thought-touch to the occupant. Mero opened the door for him, and he slipped inside.

  Convenient, this wizard-power, when you're building a conspiracy, he remarked, as Mero returned to the task he had left, of carefully wrapping silver-clad iron in swaths of silk, then slipping the resulting packet into a pouch like the one Lorryn had just given the young er-Lord below.

  That's precisely why the elven lords have been trying to destroy the power for so long, Mero replied, but he looked more troubled than the simple remark called for.

  What's the matter? Lorryn asked, answering Mero's frown of anger and worry with a frown of concern.

  Shana—has her hands full, came the slow reply. Keman and Dora went off on some quest of their own just after we left, and as soon as they could manage it, Caellach Gwain and a good half of the wizards called a wizards' Council against her, the alliance with the Iron People, and anything else they could think of. They don't believe that the elven lords are going to come after them—and even if they did, Caellach has the old whiners all convinced that all they have to do is give Shana up to the elves and the danger will be over!

  Lorryn did not shout his anger—but his hands clenched into fists, and a hot rage burned up in him. They have a flexible notion of honor, he drawled. Almost as flexible as that of the elven lords.

  Mero stared at him for a moment, then his mouth twitched involuntarily. Can I quote you on that when I talk to her? he asked. That's too good a line of argument to waste.

  Lorryn relaxed, just the tiniest trifle. If Mero was able to see the humor in something, the situation couldn't be a total disaster—at least, not yet.

  She has her allies, and she's very powerful in her own right. The other dragons will support her. If she has to, she can escape before they can make her a prisoner. Of course, he said, and while you're at it—remind her to tell them that if the elven lords are treacherous enough to break the treaty in the first place, they are certainly treacherous enough to accept Shana, then attack anyway.

  A good point, Mero agreed. Oh, I'm worried, but right now it's only at the talking point, and all the dragons are backing Shana, so the very worst that would happen would be that Alara would have to fly off with Shana and the rest of her followers, and take them all down to the Iron People.

  Since that was precisely what Lorryn had just been thinking, he relaxed a little more. It was just the thought of Shana being in any danger at all that put his stomach in a knot…

  We're had so little time to get to know each other—but did them and Rena have more? And yet—I wish I knew what she was thinking, what she thought of me. What Rena and them had that we had none of was time alone. She and I have to keep thinking of things besides ourselves…

  But taking her to the Iron People would lead the elves to Diric's clan, Lorryn pointed out. And we pledged to avoid that. Is our honor no better than theirs?

  Mero grimaced. Maybe—I don't know. Shana is worried, but not in a panic, so I can't worry too much. But that means that we are going to be pretty much on our own here.

  There was another tap on the door, Lorryn sent an arrow of thought out, and relaxed when he recognized Rena. He nodded at Mero, who leapt out of his seat and made a dash for the door, opening it and seizing Rena to pull her inside with something that was as much embrace as it was anything else. He shut the door, and Lorryn politely averted his eyes as Mero made it into a real and wholehearted embrace.

  I'm glad they found each other, he thought, wistfully. I just wish—

  He didn't complete the wish. He had no idea if it would even be possible. Shana was an infuriating combination of everything he had ever hoped for in a woman—and everything he found maddening in any person. She was stubborn—strong-willed, his conscience reminded him—opinionated—a leader—too quick to speak her own mind—intelligent—impatient—a fast thinker—self-centered—self-sufficient—

  Well, the list and litany could go on for hours. He could not get her out of his mind, though. Even when he should have been thinking of other things, he often dreamed about her at night, and found thoughts about her intruding during the day. He had made the excuse to Mero that his own mental powers were too feeble to reach her from elven lands, but the real reason he did not want to speak mind to mind with her was that he was afraid he would reveal his own decidedly mixed feelings about her. She could not afford the distraction, especially not now. And he—

  I can't afford the distraction either. I'm walking a knife-edge here. And—I don't want to know how she feels. Not now. Maybe not for a long time. I—I just don't want to know if she does think of me as no more than another wizard. I'd rather cherish a few illusions for a while.

  Besides, it wasn't as if he didn't have other things to think about!

  Rena coughed politely, and he turned back to face them. They stood discreetly enough, side by side, but their hands kept creeping toward one another. He kept his eyes above the level of their hands.

  How did it go? he asked.

  Her face shone with pleasure at her own accomplishments. Perfectly, she replied. I showed my jewelry—they'd already been seeing it, of course, at fetes, and I told them where they could find it. I told Lunalia and Merynis the truth about it—their fathers are horrid people—and I slipped them pouches then and there. It's really dreadful; this was supposed to be a prebetrothal party for poor Lunalia. Her father's pledged her to some arrogant er-Lord who seems to think she should act like his concubine, and not even having vapors at the mention of anything indelicate or pretending to faint when he took off his shirt made him— She stopped as Lorryn choked on laughter, and doubled up, gasping. What are you laughing at?

  He told her about his last customer, and had to hold on to a table when she started to giggle too.

  She was not the gentle little ineffectual Sheyrena she had been—the Sheyrena who would have reacted to his laughter with indignation, and who probably would have burst into tears at the notion that he could have found Lunalia's plight funny. She'd found that spine he had wished she would grow, and he had a notion that she'd found it somewhere back in the alicorn-hills.

  She wasn't his little Rena anymore, though. In a way, that made him a bit sad. She didn't look to him for a partner in jokes or a source of company—she looked to Mero.

  Oh, it was natural and inevitable, but it also meant that little Rena had grown up…

  As if to underscore that point, she sobered. The only thing is—Lunalia was the last, she said. We agreed that I couldn't risk the private estates, because it would be too easy for me to be trapped there. That means there is only one more place on our list for me to go.

  Mero froze, and Lorryn nodded. Their own work here was well started, the last of the five cities to plant their gardens of discontent in. All of the rest had a flourishing network of tiny shops, human slave-craftsmen silver-plating the Iron People's work and manufacturing the simpler versions, all overseen by a shape-changed dragon sent to them by Keman.

  I wonder—could that have been the mysterious quest that Keman has gone off on? Mero didn't seem to know any of them, but they were dragons, no doubt about it. After Shana showed us how to spot a dragon-shadow, there is no way that we could be fooled on that score. Could Keman be recruiting more dragons somewhere?

  Well, it didn't much matter, not unless Keman managed to recruit most of the dragons from most of the Lairs, before the revolt took place, and that wasn't too likely.

  The point was, it was time for Rena to go home.

  You don't have to go, he reminded her, although anxiety cramped his insides every time he even thought about his mother. She was alive, at least; that much he knew, for he had
it confirmed from several sources. Her pretense that her real son had been born dead, and a changeling substituted by the midwife, had been accepted. Her feigned madness had been accepted as well, and had freed her from further questioning. It was a terrible scandal, but no worse than that.

  And she had been confined to a single building in the garden, rather than facing the full wrath of her lord and husband—and the wrath of the law, which would permit—no, order—him to execute her for knowingly giving birth to a halfblood.

  As yet, there were no rumors to the effect that Rena had escaped with him. In fact, the only rumors he had heard were that her mother's collapse into madness and Lorryn's own betrayal had sent her into a decline. She was said to have taken to her bed and refused to wed Lord Gildor until the honor of her family was redeemed. That was as pretty piece of fiction, probably spread about by Lord Tylar himself.

  I have to go, she told him earnestly. We both know that. I won't pretend that I'm not afraid, but at least he can't read my thoughts—and I will have my own jewelry to protect me if he strikes at me in a rage.

  But not if he lulls you into thinking that everything is all right, then orders his men to haul you off to some more powerful lord for— He couldn't say it.

  She tightened her lips, and tightened her grip on Mero's hand, but only said, That's the risk I have to take. But I'm a much better actress than I was before. I think that I can make this work.

  He sighed, and stepped forward to hug her, freeing one hand to pat Mero's shoulder as the young halfblood showed him the face of pure agony that he would not turn to his beloved. If you say you can, I will believe it, sweeting. You are not the silly little girl who used to read romances in the garden, let her birds perch on her shoulders, and then have to hide the soiled gowns from her father in terror.

  Oh, I'm not so far removed from that as you might think, she whispered bravely into his ear. Just now I have to hide a soiled past, rather than a soiled gown. Rather easier, actually.

  He had to shake his head over that, as he let her go. All right, he replied. We'll proceed as we planned in the morning. Right now—I've got to go meet with a few people, then I'm going to go to bed. The transportation spell is going to take a lot out of me.

  He turned and went back out into the hallway without a single backward glance, leaving the two of them alone to make their good-byes however they chose.

  And he actually managed to repress his envy enough to wish them both, sincerely, well.

  He hadn't told Mero about this meeting; he'd intended to, because he would much rather have had someone to watch his back, but he couldn't bear to steal a single moment of Mero's time from Rena.

  This time he was going out into the streets, with the reverse of his guise of a young elven lord. He was out there, after dark, as a human slave.

  He kept his eyes on the ground ahead of him and his back hunched, but his neck prickled every time someone looked at him, or seemed to look at him, for more than a heartbeat. He didn't think anyone would be looking for halfbloods among the human slaves, but how could he be sure? He wished that slaves were allowed something like a hood to cover his ears, but he would have to trust to darkness for that.

  His nerves didn't stop jumping until he finally reached his goal: a plain storefront with a sign of a green leaf above the door. The place looked closed up for the night, but when he tapped in a prearranged signal, the door opened for him.

  He slipped inside and his contact closed the door behind him, quickly, leaving him standing in the darkness, shivering. Come into the dispensary, came a low whisper. I can strike a light there that won't be seen from the street.

  He followed the sound of footsteps ahead of him, barking his shin on a bench and holding in a curse. A hand touched his arm, guiding him forward, and then he heard the sound of a second door closing.

  A moment later, a lantern flared into life, revealing the man he had been asked to meet, as well as the contents of the room in which they found themselves.

  His nose would have told him the contents of the room: herbs, more herbs than he could identify by odor, a mingled aroma of bitter and sweet, fragrant and pungent, and just plain odd. The room was lined with shelves covered with bottles, jars, and little boxes, carefully labeled. There was a waist-high table in the middle, covered with an immaculately white cloth.

  His contact was a middle-aged man, balding, with a fringe of beard, and very fit-looking. What hair the man still had was curly and brown, like the beard. The only trouble was, he was fully human.

  I was told you have something, the man said abruptly. Something that—something that blocks elven magic.

  The back of Lorryn's neck prickled afresh. Who told you that? he asked cautiously. And—why are you asking? He'd assumed his contact would be another minor elven lord—and this man's thoughts, like those of many humans, were murky and chaotic with fear. Lorryn couldn't precisely read what his intentions were through the emotions.

  But the human surprised him again; taking a deep breath, and steadying his own nerves to the point that his thoughts came clear again. Lorryn almost choked; where had this man acquired that kind of discipline?

  I heard—from your good host, the man replied carefully, and nothing in his mind contradicted that. And as for why I want what you have—do you know what a 'physiker' is?

  Lorryn shook his head, dumbly.

  Elves don't sicken, but humans do, and of course, our mighty masters couldn't be bothered with tending, to a sick slave, the man said bitterly. Nor are they prepared to deal with the sick or the injured in their own dwellings. That is when they call for me—or more often, send the poor sufferer to me. Not that I can do much, but it's better than nothing, and nothing is what they'd get without me. I take care of your host's young ladies, when one of the young lords gets too careless with his toys.

  Lorryn winced at the tone of the man's voice; the suppressed anger and hate alone spoke volumes—he knew, all in that moment, that this physiker had seen things that he simply did not want to know about. Hearing more tales of horror was not going to get his job done any faster—but he would end up with nightmares, and he couldn't afford that right now.

  So—you want protection, because some of the lords—** he began.

  The physiker interrupted him with a snarl. Not only have they punished me because I couldn't force someone to heal faster than nature would allow so they could get on with their amusements, they've tried to force me to do—things— He choked, and Lorryn held up his hand in entreaty and resolutely shut his mind against the thoughts that beat against it

  Please, he begged. I'd rather not know; I can see that your need is genuine. Here— He emptied out his pockets of every pouch he'd brought with him, a total of three. 'Take these; you may know of others who could use them. If—

  He was about to say more, but was interrupted by someone pounding on the street door.

  The physiker froze, and so did Lorryn. The pounding stopped, then began again.

  Bryce! bellowed an angry voice. Open up!

  The physiker leapt into action, and shoved at Lorryn, pushing him toward a waist-high basket with a few bloodstained towels in the bottom of it Get in there! he hissed, pulling the towels out and forcing Lorryn to crouch down below the level of the rim, with the three pouches dropped in after. Don't move if you value your life!

  He covered Lorryn with the towels, draped (so Lorryn hoped) to cover him completely, then hurried to answer the pounding.

  I'm coming, I'm coming! he shouted, as the light moved out of the room—Lorryn guessed that he was taking the lantern with him.

  The door slammed against the wall as soon as Bryce opened it, and whoever it was stormed into the outer room. Who'd you let in, just now? the harsh voice demanded. Somebody with a wound, maybe? Or something else he doesn't want the Master to know about? The man's tone turned raspy and dangerous. You remember what happened the last time you played that little game, Bryce. This time they might not let you keep that hand—
>
  If you must know, the physiker replied testily, I wasn't letting anyone in, I was letting—her—out. One of the wine-girls from the Silver Rose. She has—ah—a slight infection of a personal nature. Lorryn had to admire the way the man coughed and flustered, as if he were embarrassed. I was—ah—treating her—ah—as a favor, you might say.

  The other man remained silent for a moment, then broke into a gale of laughter. She, huh? A personal problem? You sly old dog, I didn't think you had it in you! Or have you got somethin' in those leaves of yours to get it in you?

  Bryce coughed again, and the man laughed even harder. Next time, you ask the Master before you go treating personal problems. Otherwise I just might bust in here before you've let her out so I can get some of mat fun for myself.

  The door slammed again, and the heavy boot-steps retreated.

  The light returned, and Bryce pulled the towels off him. You'll have to go out the rooftop now, the man said, his face white in the dim light of the lamp that trembled in his hand. He'll be watching the front. I hope you can climb—come, I'll get you out and you'll have to take care of yourself from there—

  He was babbling with fear, a fear that made him literally sick, and the images in his mind told Lorryn why he was so afraid. Lorryn swallowed his own nausea and kept his mouth shut.

  He couldn't get out of there quickly enough—even if it meant a harrowing climb across the roofs. Anything was better than being in the same room with a man with those memories in his mind…

  Sheyrena dressed carefully in a purposefully soiled and torn gown, one she had prepared herself for this ruse. It had to look as if she had trekked across the wilderness in it. and not willingly, either. Instead of shoes, though, she wore a pair of worn-out old boots that could have belonged to Lorryn, with rags stuffed into the toes to make them fit. No shoes she owned would have survived the trip she was going to de scribe to Lord Tylar, and she would claim to have stolen the boots from Lorryn.

  She and Mero had worked out every detail of her story, from the point where Lorryn talked her into coming for a morning walk with him to the point where she escaped from him, stealing his boots both to protect her own feet and prevent him from following her, and traveled alone, back along the route he had taken. Inside her gown, sewn into the body of her petticoat, she had two sets of the iron jewelry, one for herself, and one for her mother.