by James Silke
He moved gingerly around the blood dripping from Sharatz’s stumps, parked himself on a rock and spoke with a semblance of confidence. “How may I call you?”
“By my name.”
“Of course. Then let me tell you, Gath of Baal, why I have involved myself, my family and the Grillards in your business.” He paused, wet his fingers, slicked his hair away from his eyes. “I have created the totems and sold them for a more serious reason than even you, with your keen sense of observation, might suspect.”
Gath’s eyes hardened in warning, and he scratched his kneecap with the flat of his axe blade.
“Ah yes, forgive me, the words of flattery come habitually. But allow me to continue, please. The silver I have collected is to be used to employ a war master, a champion, to defend Rag Camp… to keep my people from having to sing their songs and tell their jokes from behind the bars of Kitzakk cages. To put it as plainly as I can, I am offering you a job.”
Not waiting for a response, Brown John untied a heavy pouch from his belt and tossed it to Gath. The Barbarian did not bother to catch it; it dropped in the tall grass at his feet, breaking open to spill silver on the bloody ground.
Taken aback, Brown John, not daring yet to meet Gath’s gaze, peered at the coins saying, “I intend, of course, to hire other mercenaries from the Soldier’s Market in Coin to serve under you. The best in the forest.”
Gath said in his low thick tone, “We in The Shades do not use silver… or mercenaries.”
Brown John looked up, smiled lightly, then said just as lightly, “That, then, will change. With the Kitzakks riding this way, you will need better weapons, stronger armor, and the strongest men fighting beside you.”
“I have what I need.”
“Yes,” said the Grillard quickly, “I can see you seriously believe that.” He hesitated, then stood facing Gath. “But there must be something I can offer you? More wine? Women?” Gath did not reply. Brown John edged forward hopefully. “If it is women, I dare say, I can supply the most beautiful and eager girls ever to lie on a blanket.”
Gath eyed him with disgust and slung his axe on his back.
Defeat washed across Brown John’s flushed face, but he forced a warm smile. “Then… then all I can do is ask you to help us… my people… out of friendship.”
“Friendship!” Gath grunted with a harsh thick growl. “I have no friends who stand on two legs.” He moved across the glade, stopped and picked up the strip of violet cloth then looked back. “But I will still buy your wine.”
Brown John smiled lamely.
Gath studied the Grillard a moment, then marched into the forest, Sharn at his side.
Brown John started to follow, but gave up. He mumbled unpleasantly, then shouted recklessly, “Barbarian, if you think your pride and arrogance will protect you from the Kitzakks, you are sadly mistaken.” Defying the humiliation which had turned his bumptuous cheeks apple red, Brown John advanced to the edge of the clearing, propped a fist on his hip, raised the other over his head and shook it with the bravado of a commander standing at the head of forty regiments of foot and ten of horse. “Do you hear me? Your pride is not enough. You, the tribes, none of you can survive alone.”
The sounds of undergrowth being crushed by booted feet were the only response he got.
Brown John had an answer for it. He shook a scolding finger and shouted louder, “And do not think I will quit! Not for a moment. Just because I have been beaten, peed upon and rudely rejected, do not think I am unable to see past these trifling humiliations to the greater truth. I may not have your animal power, Gath of Baal, but I have a different gift. I see things coming. Yes! And I can assure you I have not failed to measure the import of the fact that today, for the first time, the Kaven, the Cytherian and the Barhacha rode together. Don’t for a minute think that I am blind to that miracle, or that I fail to recognize it for what it truly is, a portentious omen of an even greater unity to come! Perhaps even a triumphant one!”
Brown John stared at the forest shadows. Only silence answered him now. He muttered to himself, then the bravado went out of him. It shortened him by half a foot. He glanced about at the scene of slaughter, moved to the spilled silver, got down on his knees and began to pick up the coins.
A short time later, when he rejoined his waiting sons, he was leading his horse and deep in thought. When the bastards started to inquire as to what had happened, he silenced them with a lifted hand and thought some more.
After a long while he looked up, said, “You will find some bodies, six to be exact, in a clearing about fifty yards up ahead.” He pointed it out. “Bury them, so that no man or animal will find them. Ever. Bury their armor with them, and make sure you find all their parts. There are, I think, twelve or fourteen, perhaps more. I do not remember clearly.”
Bone and Dirken gave each other a sober glance, then mounted and rode off leaving their father alone.
Brown John stood silently, thinking again. As he did, he smoothed his hair with a hand and tucked it back over an ear with a thumbnail, but this failed to groom his troubled mind. The furrow of wrinkles creasing his forehead dug so deep they grew dark. His brow drooped so low that his bushy white eyebrows tickled his cheeks. Feeling their touch his scowl grew even deeper. Then the words came to him.
It was a line of dialogue from A Fig for the Ice Queen, a line he had delivered on countless occasions on countless stages. But now, as he said them aloud to no one, there was no trace of fiction in the words, no trace of the actor in his tone or in his suddenly boyish smile.
He said, “I’ve got it. I’ll get the girl.”
Twelve
ROBIN LAKEHAIR
The Dragon Lizard sprawled lazily on a flat grey boulder in a manner that made hard rock look warm and comfortable. The boulder rested atop a stack of boulders which formed the bend in the river.
He looked contentedly at blue-green water flowing around a rocky bend some fifteen feet below. It rippled over half-submerged rocks, formed ponds at the edges of a pebbled beach until it widened into a large pool. Cascading on, the stream churned itself to white water on a scatter of small boulders and flowed on.
The lizard obviously liked the view.
His sun-drenched body lay just out of dappled shadows cast by a scrub oak. He was the length of a child’s forearm, the color of the stone except for shiny gills reflecting greens of the forest trees and the gold of the morning sun. His eyes flickered closed, then one suddenly popped back open.
The girl, carrying her sandals in one hand and a walking stick in the other, was coming fast, leaping barefoot from rock to rock as she moved along the shaded side of the river. She wore a belted tunic, her pouch slung by a strap over a shoulder. A sheathed knife dangled from the belt.
The lizard dashed down a narrow crack. A moment later it reappeared in the company of three little things a third its length. They scurried to the lip of the rock, lay down, eyes wide.
The girl waded through the water just below, then climbed onto a large rock rising about three feet out of the water. The top of the rock descended in gently rolling swells to the water’s edge. Here and there puddles the size of footbaths glistened in its smooth natural recessions. The girl, splashing through each puddle, moved to the water’s edge, set down her sandals and walking stick, and stretched luxuriously, letting the morning sun bathe her face.
It was a small, triangular face framed by a cascade of red-gold hair that parted at the center and fell sideways in natural waves to the tops of smooth tan shoulders. It had gently arched eyebrows, a small straight nose. The upper lip was as straight as a delicately sculpted knife cut, and appeared even straighter over a voluptuous lower lip the color of a budding rose. There was a hint of the same color in the tan cheeks. The delicate clarity of her features heightened the contrasting lushness of her firm flesh. Her hazel-green eyes were big and active, with brilliant whites surrounded by long dark feathery lashes.
Her name was Robin Lakehair. She was a Cyth
erian from the village of Weaver, a Sacred Maiden who, like all virgin Cytherian girls, worked spinning the sacred cloth for which Weaver’s temples were renowned. She was an orphan. Since her parents had died of the black death that passed through the forest when she was three, she had been raised by temple priestesses until she was fifteen when, being of adult age, she took a room by herself. She was seventeen.
Robin lifted her leather satchel and emptied its contents on the warm rock: a collection of corked vials carved from colored stones, a bone comb, a crust of bread, a tangle of colorful ribbons and her sacred wooden whorl. After carefully arranging her precious collection, she stood, unbuckled her leather belt and dropped it beside her satchel. Taking hold of the hem of her plain grey square-necked tunic, she lifted it over her head. She folded her tunic neatly, set it beside her things and again stretched, giving her nude body to the luxurious, warm embrace of the sunshine.
The great ball of fire in the sky painted her a golden nutmeg with loving strokes, as if the great orb of endless fire knew well that rarely was there a human animal created to wear only garments made of light.
Robin was no taller than a full-grown deer. Her breasts stood high on her little barrel chest, as smooth and firm and plump as river-washed pebbles. Her arms were short, her hands small, her waist tiny, and her legs long muscular arrows ending in sturdy feet. As young and vibrant as a new blade of grass, as strong as a bowstring.
She looked up and down the river, into the forest, then up at the top of the outcropping of rock topped by the scrub oak. Spotting the lizards, she smiled and made a soft clicking sound. She opened a pouch, scrambled up the rocks and sprinkled a spoonful of dried insects on a shelf of rock. As the lizards scurried down to the meal, she hopped back down to the edge of the water and watched them feed. Robin laughed with delight, then strode into the water and with a joyous shiver sank into the cold blue-green current.
She floated on her back letting it carry her out into the middle of the pond, then rolled over on her flat tummy so that only her head and round firm bottom protruded from the rippling blue water. She arched up, dove, vanished under the water. A long moment later she surfaced some way down river. She turned and swam back with strong strokes, climbed out.
She shook herself like a frisky colt, and beads of water shot with sunlight flew in all directions, like a riot of wet jewels. Kneeling on her tunic, she uncorked a vial and poured its contents on her hair. She scrubbed until a thick lather formed, spread the lather over her body, rubbing vigorously, then plunged back into the water.
The lizards stayed and watched, and a shadow crossed over them. They promptly bolted in all directions and disappeared.
Brown John, who had been concealed behind the scrub oak, had edged forward. The look on his face was bawdy, flushed, and profound. He also liked the view.
Robin floated back downriver, playfully flopping about and diving, then swam back to her rock and climbed out. This time she wore not only a slick coat of water, but a handful of soap bubbles.
It was the kind of wardrobe Brown John admired.
Robin shook and wiped herself dry, then kneeled on her tunic. Using a rose ointment, she economically anointed her face and body, then rubbed her lips with rose vermilion. She selected a bright yellow ribbon, set it aside, put everything but her comb back in her satchel, then sat down cross-legged on her tunic. With her hair to the sun and her back to the scrub oak, she began to comb her hair.
Brown John’s fingertips drummed the air in time with the stroke of Robin’s brush. His head bobbed to the same tune.
When Robin finished with her comb, she picked up the ribbon and, laying it flat across the top of her head and joining the ends at the base of her neck, bent her head forward and tied her hair back. As she did, Brown John moved down and across the rock to stand behind her.
Suddenly, seeing his shadow, she gasped and rolled upright in one movement, drawing her knife. She waved the blade at the stranger using one hand while the other tried to cover her nudity. It was a beautiful and energetic effort, but futile.
Brown John smiled and said, “Robin Lakehair.” It sounded like a title rather than a name.
Robin hardly heard him. She was gasping and tugging at her tunic with her free hand.
Brown John said politely, “Perhaps, child, if you lifted your foot.”
She looked down, groaned, and jumped aside, snapping up her clothing. Turning her back, she slipped into her tunic with three wiggles and a yank, while watching him over a shoulder. Then she turned back, deliberately smoothing her tunic with one hand, while the other held her knife aimed at Brown John’s belly. Her straight brow was lowering over angry eyes. She seemed to be frowning but it was difficult to tell. Her firm smooth forehead was barely cooperating, and her cheeks were too busy blushing. But her tone helped.
“You snake! Were you watching?”
Brown John sat down on a flat rock, said, “To my great good fortune, yes.”
Groaning, she glanced away, then looked back at him sharply. Her eyes were large beautiful wet wounds. “That was awful of you. Mean.”
“Not mean, child, simply lucky. Extraordinarily lucky to have chanced to pass this way. The sun, the lizards and I will not only carry your lovely image to our graves, but far, far beyond.”
She hesitated, then asked, “Do I know you?”
“I believe so,” he said with a slight tone of mystery. “I, at least, have seen you many times.”
“Really? Where?”
“Well, once I saw you standing on top of a barrel and laughing in the village of Coin. And last summer you were watching the performers on the stage in Rag Camp.”
Robin, unconsciously lowering her knife, gasped, “But… but no one knew I was there!”
“I thought as much,” he said. “Then, of course, you are always in the front row when we perform in your village.”
“Oh!” Robin blurted. “You’re the bukko! The wizard-master!”
He bowed extravagantly. “I am called Brown John.”
“I know! Everyone knows!” Robin exclaimed. She picked up her belt, sat down cross-legged on the rock facing him, and buckled it on. “But you remember me? You know my name?”
Brown John studied her smile as it performed about her face, as varied as the song of the robin after which she was named. He said quietly, “Indeed I do.”
She stiffened slightly, and suspicion returned to her eyes.
“You… you came here to find me… didn’t you?”
“Yes. And you are right to be angry with me. When confronted by a scene more dazzling than any that could be created on a stage, the manners of performers are inevitably rude and inadequate.”
“Oh.”
“Nevertheless,” he continued, “my spying on you was not intentional. The fact that you selected this extraordinarily beautiful pond, and were bathing in a wardrobe made of sunshine and bubbles, was all quite by chance. But to look away would have denied my nature, and I would be lying if I said I regretted it.”
She blushed, and shook her hair vigorously to hide it. Beads of water flew about sparkling. She eyed him warily. “You’re too clever. You make me forget what I’m saying.” She hesitated, collecting her thoughts. “Why did you come to see me?”
He considered her thoughtfully. “Because your virtues are well-known, and because I have seen in you a brave heart. And an appetite for chance, adventure.”
Her big feathery eyes scolded him more gently now. “You’re trying to confuse me again… not really answering my question.”
He chuckled. “You are right, Robin Lakehair. Let me put it this way. I have a role which I believe you, and only you, can play.”
“Me?”
“You.”
“But I… I’m not an actress.”
“Indeed not. In fact it is well known that you are incapable of anything false or artificial… and can hear all that is false in others.”
“But then why…”
“Because the rol
e is real,” Brown John said interrupting her.
She cocked her head boyishly, her eyes glistening with sudden curiosity.
“If I am right, the spirit of the open road already makes your feet itch.” He leaned forward, lifted her chin slightly with a finger. “In fact you remind me of a former traveling companion, a girl who joined us when she was just about your age. I can’t recall her real name. We called her Ansaria, after the wild root which enchants children. She was the embodiment of beauty and adventure. They loved her everywhere we went. Even named their children after her.” He sighed nostalgically. “Oh, we were respected then. Invited to carnivals and castles to perform for kings and queens.”
She looked at him from under her straight brows. “You’re playing with me.”
He shook his head. “I do not play, it only sounds that way because you are not accustomed to hearing someone speak seriously of dancing girls. And because the nature of your, and Ansaria’s, attraction is difficult to explain. Elusive. Like trying to cage a shooting star. But then, it is not required that you understand.” He looked directly into her eyes intently. “Tell me, which of our acts do you like the best?”-“Oh, I loved them all,” she said enthusiastically.
“Of course.” His eyes twinkled. “But think now. I am certain you have a favorite!”
“Well, last summer, there was a dancing bear and a clown… and a beautiful dancing girl. She was small and dark, and wore red scarves and all kinds of baubles and beads. They were wonderful.”
“Ahhh,” murmured Brown John. “Nose, the rubber man, and Lale.”
“That’s it! But what was the bear’s name?”
“They called him Sir William.”
Robin chuckled, “Sir William. How wonderful.” She became dreamy. “The girl was so beautiful.”
“Yes… she was,” he said with a touch of nostalgia. “In a way she was also like yourself. She could not hide. There was no distance between her and her audience. No matter how she cluttered herself with jewels and gaudy cloth, her deepest feelings were always on display. One night she would be so brazen and frenzied in her dancing that she would drive Nose wild with jealousy. The next night she would jump into the audience and try to plunge her dagger into a girl for winking at him.”
