Shadowdance

by Robin W Bailey

  His heart thundered inside his chest as the man moved his hand slowly, surreptitiously along the wall toward Innowen's shoulder. It would happen any moment now.

  Innowen turned his head and smiled at the man. A puzzled expression turned up the corner of the would-be thief's mouth as he moved his hand casually back to his lap. Innowen waited an instant, then crooked a finger, beckoning the man closer. A furrow appeared between the thief's eyebrows. He looked both ways around the square, which was not too crowded at the moment, then smiled with sudden amiableness and bent down over Innowen.

  Quick as he could, Innowen caught the man's collar and jerked with all his strength. Off-balance, he flipped heels over head into the road beside Innowen, grunting in pain as his back struck the hard paving stones. Innowen's right hand tangled in the dirty mop of black hair, lifted the thief's head, and cracked it smartly on the ground to get his attention again. With his other hand he waved the sharp pottery shard in front of the man's eyes before he set it at his throat.

  "Next time you plan to rob a cripple," he said as lightly as he could, despite the trembling that coursed through his body, "remember, they may not be as helpless as you think. Now get out of here!"

  Innowen let him go, and the man jumped up, shaken and angry. He looked as if he might try to kick Innowen. His fists clenched at his side, and his lips curled back over his teeth. But then his eyes flickered to the shard and to Innowen's own gaze. It was in that moment when their eyes locked that Innowen knew he'd won.

  With as much dignity as he could gather, the thief hurried away.

  Innowen let go a long breath as he returned the shard to its place in his knee wrapping. The street life of Parendur went on around him, oblivious to what had happened. What was it to any of them if a thief robbed a worthless beggar?

  He looked around the square, sure that if there was a well, close by he would find an inn. He was not disappointed. On the farthest eastern side of the square, still in a narrow band of shadow, he spied a sign and started his slow journey toward it.

  Before he reached that door, he was twice stepped on by women, whose averted gazes prevented them from seeing him until it was too late. He hesitated there, nursing the fingers of his left hand in his mouth. Finally, he rose up as high as he could and knocked on the rough wooden surface.

  A large fat man in a dirty apron answered. His head was bald, and a bright scar ran down from the crown of his brow past his left eye all the way to the lobe of his ear. He looked out, then down at Innowen on the ground and scowled. "Get away from here! No hand-outs!" He started to slam the door.

  "I can pay!" Innowen called back as loudly as he dared in the crowded street. "I want a room, not a hand-out!"

  The door opened a little wider, and the proprietor poked his head out. "How would a beggar like you come by money to pay?" he sneered. He pushed the door completely open as he leaned against the jamb, filling the entrance with his imposing bulk. He pulled a rag from the waistband of his apron and began to wipe his hands.

  "I'm a veteran," Innowen lied, eyeing the man's scar. "It's my discharge pay. I've kept part of it." He glanced back over his shoulder as he dragged his body against the wall and propped himself up.

  The proprietor sneered again, still wiping his hands. "Veteran of what?" His eyes narrowed suddenly. "You part of this bunch of animals that's moved in on us?" His bulk took on menacing proportions as he drew himself erect. "I'll kick the guts out of you! Get away from my wall!"

  Innowen cringed back, bringing his hands up to protect himself as best he could. "No! I fought to keep them out!" he lied again.

  The fat man relented. "You're one of Taelyn's men?"

  Innowen nodded. That long night outside Parendur's gate had made Taelyn a hero, and by extension, the men who fought with him. Maybe he could play on that. He didn't like lying, but a crippled beggar had few enough cards to play.

  "Get in here then."

  To Innowen's surprise, the man bent down and lifted him in massive arms and carried him inside.

  The interior was dimly lit by a few oil lamps that dangled on chains from the low beamed ceiling. The smoke from their burning lingered like a wispy fog in the air. A confusing assortment of stale odors assailed the senses. Some tables and chairs lay scattered about. A couple of stools were overturned in a corner. One of the tables had a broken leg and stood at a crazy angle.

  "We had a little excitement last night," the proprietor said gruffly, placing Innowen in one of the safe chairs. "Excuse the mess."

  He went behind the bar that stood at one end of the room and returned with two mugs of foaming barley beer. Innowen lifted one and peered at the dirty rim, grateful, after all, for the poor lighting. When his host wasn't looking, he used the ball of his thumb to rub at the place where he intended to put his lips.

  "Taelyn," his host said by way of a toast.

  Innowen hoisted his mug and drank deeply. Even if the mug was filthy, the beer was cool and washed the street dust from his throat. When he set it back again, half the contents were gone.

  "You're a veteran, all right," the proprietor commented. "You one of the wounded that got left behind?"

  Again, Innowen nodded. Another lie.

  "Can't blame him for leaving," his host went on. "Too few soldiers and too many invaders, and that chicken-shit Kyrin to look after. Actually did us a favor going, the way I see it now. If the fighting had come into the city, it would have been a lot harder on all of us. As it is, that big black bastard that commands them is trying to win us over by being nice to us." He tossed off the rest of his beer, grabbed Innowen's mug, and refilled them both. "Not that it stopped one of his Nimrut mercenaries from raping and killing my youngest daughter a couple nights ago." He came back and sat down heavily in his chair and stared at Innowen.

  "What's that I see in your eyes?" Innowen said suddenly. He looked at the broken furniture again and turned back. "What did you do?"

  A nasty grin crossed his host's lips. "The bastard that did it had the nerve to come back last night. He had a room here, 'cause we were forced to put some of them up. Still, I didn't think he'd have the nerve to show his face here again. I gave him all the free beer he wanted, and everything else, too. Got him good and drunk." He hesitated, lifting his mug, watching Innowen over the rim. When he set it down again, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "They might find his body in a day or two at the bottom of that empty well out there. Or maybe they won't."

  Innowen raised his own mug again in a toast to the proprietor.

  "What's your name?" the other man said, changing the subject. "You say you got money?"

  "Petroklos," he answered. He pulled his purse from inside his tunic and let it fall on the table. It made a heavy thunk on the coarse wood.

  The proprietor eyed the leather pouch. "I'm Baktus. How long do you plan to stay, Petroklos?"

  Innowen studied his host and the red scar that trailed down one side of his face, wondering just how much to trust him. Slowly, he opened the purse and took out the gold cymoren. He slid the triangular coin across the table and left it beside Baktus' mug.

  "Just overnight," he said.

  Baktus touched the coin with the tip of one finger, but he didn't pick it up. "That's too much money," he said slowly. "More than a veteran's discharge pay."

  Innowen ignored that. "I'd like you, or someone you trust, to pick up a few things for me." He opened the purse again and pulled out the bird-shaped ring which was the sign and seal of Lord Minarik. He placed it on his finger and laid his hand flat on the table. The light from the oil lamps seemed to seek out the ring and dance on its stylized wings.

  Baktus' eyes widened with surprise, then narrowed cautiously. He took another drink of his beer, never looking away from Innowen. "You're no cripple," he said at last.

  Innowen thought about that. "Maybe you're right," he answered. He leaned forward on the table and peered intently into Baktus' eyes. "Maybe you are right."

  He grinned, and settled
back in the chair with his beer. Baktus grinned suddenly, also, and the two men drained their mugs.

  Chapter 15

  In his small room behind the bar, Innowen stripped off his rags and washed himself from a basin of precious water, which Baktus had graciously offered. He had slept most of the afternoon away. Now, a tension gripped him—a taut sense of expectation. A single oil lamp filled the room with a soft, warm glow. His shadow made exaggerated movements on the wall before him, as if to tease and mock him,

  He stood with his back to the door, laving himself with a soft wet cloth, wiping away the thick dust and grime from his skin. When he wrung the cloth and rinsed it, the water turned brown.

  "That was some act," Baktus said from the doorway. Innowen glanced at him over his shoulder. The fat man stood leaning against the jamb with his arms folded over his massive chest. He shook his head as he stared at Innowen's naked legs. "Not many men would've crawled around the street like you did to keep up a disguise."

  Innowen dropped the dirty cloth back in the water, causing a few drops to spill over onto the table's rough surface. As Baktus watched him from the entrance, he wrapped his loins with a length of linen fabric.

  "Sorry I couldn't offer you a bath," Baktus continued. He leaned against the jamb with his arms folded casually over his thick, hairy chest. "There's just not enough water for that, though. This drought's killing us. I had to take that from our drinking supply."

  Innowen finished his winding. "I'm grateful," he acknowledged. "As I am, also, for these garments you obtained for me." He picked up another length of black cloth and wound it into a short kilt about his middle and pinned it with a small copper clasp. Over this, he fastened an unadorned belt of plain leather, which he laced over his navel. "Tell me," he said as he dressed, "do you have any other guests in your inn?"

  Baktus frowned. "There's only one other room besides this one. When the invaders first came, they forced their way in on all of us. Inns, private homes, barns—it didn't matter. Had two of them here, too, and no mention of rent, let me tell you."

  "What happened to them?" Innowen asked as he sat down on the side of his bed and laced on a pair of sandals. The soles were not leather, but made from pounded water reed fibers. Not Isporan. He wondered silently how Baktus had come by them.

  "One soldier found better quarters the next day." He hesitated, looked down, and rubbed his chin with one hand. "The other I mentioned before, the one at the bottom of the well outside."

  Innowen finished lacing the sandals and stood up. "Tell me," he said slowly. "Did that one by any chance look like he came from Samyrabis?"

  Sheepishly, Baktus shook his head. "I told you," he said, looking askance. "He came from Nimrut."

  Innowen suddenly knew where the sandals had come from, and, he assumed, the rest of his new garments. Nimrut and Samyrabis were neighboring kingdoms.

  "They're not dead man's shoes," Baktus said defensively, realizing the reason behind Innowen's question. "I mean, he wasn't actually wearing them when I did him. I wouldn't do that to the son of Minarik." He moved away from the door jamb and pulled himself erect, looking as if he'd done something wrong for which he feared punishment. "That would be terrible luck. I just took them from his room. I mean, why not use them, get some good out of them?" Slowly, he hung his head as he muttered, "The other things came from his room, too." He looked up again, shame-faced and apologetic. "I'll give you back your coin,"

  "Keep it," Innowen told him, moving close enough to set his hand briefly on the innkeeper's shoulder. "I gave it to you to obtain clothes, and that's what you did." He patted the lacings over his belt and brushed one hand over his bare chest. "Are there any weapons in his room?"

  "Everything he brought with him remains," Baktus answered. "If his body is ever found, my story is simply that he never returned here. See, I kept his room and his possessions as he left them. Brigands, rebels maybe, must have dumped him in the well as he came home one night. Or maybe he got drunk and fell in and broke his fool neck."

  Baktus disappeared from the doorway only to return a moment later. He carried a short blade in a scabbard of bull's hide. He exposed half of the copper blade before he passed it to Innowen.

  Innowen examined the blade more closely. It was an unornamented weapon. Both its edges were keen, though it showed signs where nicks and notches had recently been whetted away. He sheathed it with an approving nod. The scabbard had a stout strap, which he passed under his belt and fastened to a buckle on the bull's hide.

  "I owe you much, friend," Innowen said. Going to his bed again, he picked up the black cloak that lay draped across it, another of the dead soldier's possessions. Next, he reached under his pillow and drew out his leather purse. The drawstrings slid open with a gentle tug, and he dipped two fingers within, extracting two gold cymorens, which he pushed deep inside his belt so that they rested cool against his flesh. Turning again to Baktus, he set the purse and the rest of its contents down on the table beside the wash basin and stepped away.

  "If I return tonight, I may need some of this again. If not, it's yours."

  Baktus' eyebrows arched with surprise. Then his brow furrowed. "Petroklos has already paid his rent and more," the innkeeper reminded him. "Times are hard, yes, but I do not take charity."

  Innowen shrugged. "You have done me favors, Baktus, important favors. You've earned this. And as I said, I may be back."

  Baktus folded his arms across his chest stubbornly. "Take it with you. I don't need charity."

  Innowen frowned and shrugged again, but he picked up the purse, hefted it on his palm, then tucked its drawstrings down into the side of his belt. "As you wish," he said with a conciliatory gesture. "Now, if you would leave me, I require a few moments of privacy."

  Baktus bowed and retreated to the threshold. "I'll have a taste of beer waiting for you," he said as he prepared to draw the door closed. "It's dark outside, but it's still warm."

  Innowen called after him. "Do you have any customers who might see me depart?"

  Baktus made a face that was a mixture of amusement and irritation. "Most of the locals are still afraid of your Witch's soldiers. They stay behind their doors and shuttered windows after the sun goes down. And the soldiers, well, you'll find plenty of them about, but mostly at taverns closer to the garrison or the palace. That's all right by me. I don't much want their business."

  Innowen waited until he was alone, then set the purse of coins back on the table. Sometimes peasants could be too stubborn for their own good. No customers meant hard times. He understood pride, but Baktus had daughters to think of, too. There were coins enough in the purse to send them to someplace safe until Parendur settled down.

  He drew a deep breath as one hand slid along the sword he wore at his side. His palm glided over the coarse bull's hide. It had an almost sensual feel against his fingers and where it brushed his bare thigh.

  Beyond the wall of his small room, he heard the wind. He rolled back his head and closed his eyes and listened to see if it bore a whisper from the Witch. It had been so long since he had heard her voice in the wind.

  No matter. One way or another, she would speak to him tonight.

  He cast his cloak back down on the bed, then checked the door and threw the bolt on his side. Pressing the tips of his fingers anxiously together just below his chin, he glanced once more around his quarters. The room was cramped. He could not move too wildly.

  He listened again for the wind. It was there. It was always there, even when others could not feel it or hear it, still it was there.

  Dance, it said to him, dance away the world.

  * * *

  The streets were black as pitch. Here and there, the barest light from a lamp or candle drew a narrow line under a closed door or down the crack between a pair of shutters. Overhead, a peppering of stars shone palely between the rooftops in the utter dark of the heavens. None of it penetrated the stygian gloom of the outer city.

  Innowen paused and leaned against a
rough stone wall. Unconsciously, he rubbed the fingers of one hand over his chest near his throat in a useless attempt to ease the odd tightening he felt there. He loved the night, yet there was a queer quality to this darkness that gnawed at him. The air felt too thick, too close, and the buildings seemed to press in on him. The streets were so narrow, and the alleys sometimes no more than passages that forced him to inch along sideways with mud bricks at both his shoulders and his nose, never knowing quite when or where he would emerge in the darkness.

  It was, he thought, like making his way through a maze blindfolded.

  He almost wished he'd taken the lamp that Baktus had offered him. But that would have made him too conspicuous. Soldiers might see him, or thieves, long before he saw them. He didn't want to risk any kind of confrontation. Indeed, despite the heat of the night, he kept his hood up and his cloak pulled about his shoulders. No one would see him unless he wished it.

  He moved down the street again, his steps soundless in the soft dust of the road. He made his way carefully, navigating by the narrow strip of stars above him and by occasionally dragging one hand along the walls on either side, choosing any path that took him southward toward the palace.

  Once, he nearly fell over an empty rain barrel, but he recovered his balance and caught the barrel before it could make a clatter. Another time, a stool left outside a door by some craftsman caught him in the shin. He bit back a curse at both the pain and the racket, and quickly melted into the darkness before anyone came to investigate, though he doubted that anyone would.

  He turned a corner and found himself before a stone stepway that served several upper room apartments. He hesitated, then mounted them quietly.

  At the first door, he paused. A thin light oozed under the thick, planked door. Muffled voices whispered on the other side, and soft footsteps pattered back and forth, as if whoever lived within were pacing.