Hauberin glanced about in dismay, hardly hearing the guards calling out bored, good-natured comments about, “Just made it,” and, “Almost had to spend the night out there with the scum.” He couldn’t see very far in any direction; Touranne seemed to be a crowded maze of narrow, unpaved streets and one- or two-story wood houses set down wherever their owners had seen fit. It stank of too many humans and their animals, and too little sanitation. And, Powers, the cathedral doors were probably shut till the morning, which meant another night wasted, another night of dreaming . . .
Matilde was looking about almost fiercely, clearly trying to orient herself. “It’s changed,” she murmured, and Hauberin caught a touch of panic in her voice. “So many buildings . . . I don’t recognize . . .” The woman glanced his way, eyes wild. “If we can get to the palace, we can crave shelter from Duke Alain and—no, what am I saying, it’s been ten years but I haven’t changed, he’ll think I’m a witch—”
Hauberin reached out to touch her hand. “I know it’s frightening. Just remember you’re not alone.”
For a fleeting instant her fingers clasped his own. “Thank you.”
Alliar, the essence of human male swagger, came riding up to them. “It’s far too late to visit the cathedral this night, but our good guards have just given me directions to a genteel inn where, they assure me, we shall not be set upon by man or bug. Let’s be off, shall we?”
###
Hauberin glanced up at the sign swinging sedately in the mild night breeze: three swans painted an unlikely gold swimming in an improbably blue river and labelled, predictably, The Three Golden Swans.
“Here’s our inn. Matilde, you’d best do the bargaining for us; I haven’t the vaguest idea of fair prices.”
“You think I do?” she shot back. “After ten years?” Her voice was edged with fatigue. “We also have a little problem. I’d just as soon not be taken for a strumpet, if it’s all the same to you.”
“Ah . . . what?” asked the bewildered Alliar.
“The innkeep would see two men and a woman sharing a room as immoral,” Hauberin explained shortly. “But Matilde, from what you’ve told me about city life, it’s not safe for you to stay alone.”
“Oh, is that the issue?” Alliar slipped lightly to the ground. “My dear, if you’ll let me borrow one of your gowns . . . Thank you.”
The being disappeared into shadow, only to reappear as a rather fetching yellow-haired lady’s maid. As Matilde exploded into astonished laughter, Alliar curtseyed with a flourish. “Problem solved,” the being said.
XXV
A MIDNIGHT SWIM
Hauberin tossed wakefully for what seemed an eternity, straw mattress rustling beneath him, telling himself it wasn’t that he was afraid of the dream; his nerves were just too tight to let him sleep.
At least the guards had been right: The Three Golden Swans (named, it seemed, after a ballad) was a genteel inn by human standards. That meant, Hauberin thought dourly, that it had been actually washed down and swept sometime within the last ten years, there had been chunks of genuine lamb in the stew the travelers had been served, and the straw in the mattress on which he was trying to sleep was reasonably sweet-smelling and free from vermin. It also meant that the innkeeper hardly raised a brow as he accepted enough links of silver to allow his guests the unheard-of luxury of two private rooms and only one to a bed.
By now, Alliar and Matilde must already have settled down for the night; the woman, Hauberin thought enviously, was almost certainly sleeping sweetly, and Li was probably comfortably sunk into a restful trance.
Ah, enough of this. Hauberin rose, pulling on his clothes again, and unbarred the shutters, casting them open to look out into the night. If he ignored the various unclean smells and the uncomfortable feel of so many human auras crammed in together, it was pleasant enough out there. A faint sliver of moon hung over the city, and a sudden hint of breeze carried a trace of wood-smoke from someone’s cooking fire, more agreeable than most of the underlying scents.
Touranne was very nearly silent. A baby wailed once somewhere in the distance, a thin, high sound of protest, then fell still. A woman in a nearby house laughed briefly with such sensual delight Hauberin’s flesh prickled, making him suddenly remember the inn’s two serving girls, young, almost pretty in the round-faced human fashion, staring at him, wanton-eyed.
Unfortunately, they’d also been unwashed, smelly, and probably lice-ridden. Ah well.
Hauberin stretched restlessly, impatient with this one small room when the night outside was so warm and clear. He briefly considered going back down through the inn’s common room—no. If he didn’t wake the innkeeper, he’d certainly wake the innkeeper’s loud-mouthed dog.
The prince flexed his bandaged arm experimentally. Still a bit sore, and not as strong yet as it could be, for all his dutiful daily exercising . . . Still, he had one good arm and two good legs. It should be an easy climb down from the window.
It was.
###
Hauberin moved silently through the city, aware of the feel of sleeping humans on all sides but enjoying the lonely delight of being the only one awake and out on the deserted streets. But he hadn’t explored far into the maze of Touranne’s narrow streets—stepping delicately around mud and potholes, night-keen sight noting novelties such as the chains strung across alleyways (to slow down thieves, perhaps?)—before he sensed he wasn’t the only one out here at all. He was definitely being followed.
Faerie wildness roused. Well now, just what this night needed: a touch of adventure.
Mm . . . three . . . no, four louts, armed with clubs and the cold burning that meant iron. For all he knew, Hauberin thought wryly, he might have built up an immunity to the metal by now, but he was hardly about to test the point. The thieves presumably thought him some fool of a human. Let them learn their mistake!
He let them get almost within reach, then darted forward, running surefootedly through the night, not quite so quickly that they’d lose him, laughing to himself as he heard them crashing after him, their merely human vision not up to the task, their merely human feet slipping on the mud he’d avoided, staggering into the potholes he’d dodged. But his arm really wasn’t up to all this jarring. Time to end this game and shake his pursuers in darkness. Ah, this shadowed street looked promising, little more than an alley, so narrow the second stories opposite each other were propped apart by beams. He leaped the first of the thief-tripping chains, listening to hear the humans fall—
But they didn’t fall. Hauberin froze in horror as he sensed Otherness suddenly settle over them, soft as a falling veil, and knew it in that instant for the same Presence he’d known in his fever-dream: the Presence that wanted him dead.
Alliar was wrong, it wasn’t a dream.
Small satisfaction. Outnumbered, unarmed, his Power all but useless in this human Realm, Hauberin turned and ran in earnest through the tangle of streets, hunting for some way to throw these no-longer-quite-human hounds off his trail. If he had the breath to spare, he’d try shouting, and see if that didn’t attract a crowd. Unless people were so used to cries for help they didn’t even react? Powers, didn’t Touranne keep any night watch? Weren’t there any guards patrolling?
A beam protruding from a second story caught his eye. Hauberin jumped, missed, frustrated at being too short to do this easily, jumped again and just managed to close his hands around the beam. As the weight of his body pulled at it, his not-quite-healed arm protested with so sharp a stab of pain he cried out, nearly falling, flailing in vain for a foothold as the first of his pursuers reached him, snatching at his dangling legs.
“If that’s what you want,” Hauberin gasped, and obligingly let go, landing full on the man, who collapsed with a grunt, striking his head against a wall with a satisfying crack and going still.
One down, Hauberin thought and scrambled to his feet just as the remaining three came storming up. He turned to run—Oh, damn! This was a blind alley, ending in a lo
w wall, beyond and below which rushed Touranne’s river. The prince hurried back to his victim and snatched up the club the man had been carrying, hefting the heavy thing experimentally, wishing heartily it was a sword.
A sword—ha, yes. As the thieves charged him, Hauberin lunged with the club with all his strength, punching one of the men full in the stomach. The thief crumpled, curled in breathless agony, but before Hauberin could recover, the other two were on him, taller, stronger than he, knocking the club out of his grasp, bearing him, struggling savagely, to the ground, their unwashed reek choking him. Pinned beneath their weight, the prince felt a rough hand tangle in his hair, jerking his head back, exposing his neck, saw a knife glint in the second man’s hand, saw the man’s eyes glint just as coldly, and thought, To the Dark with courage, I’m going to yell like a demon, and maybe someone will—
As though the Presence had read his thoughts, a hand clamped down over his mouth. Hauberin tensed for the death-blow, feeling nothing but fury that he was going to die so absurdly.
But the blow didn’t fall. The prince felt a wave of cold, alien delight, saw the corresponding flicker in the entranced eyes and glint of iron blade turned to the flat, and realized. It wasn’t going to be a quick death. He did the only thing left to him, and bit down on the gagging hand so hard his mouth filled with blood. The thief yelled out an oath, pain breaking the Presence’s hold, and jerked his hand free, losing his grip on Hauberin. The prince, not worried about dignity, squirmed and clawed his way free, desperately dodging iron. Someone caught his ankle, and he kicked out, by pure luck connecting with a jaw. The hand fell away, and Hauberin was free, running the only way open to him, towards the river. He glanced back over his shoulder—damn! They were coming after him. To his astonished relief, though, the sense of other lifted from them as totally and suddenly as it had come, leaving them only human.
Frightened, raging humans, though, spitting out obscenities that all seemed to end with “witch,” or “damned sorcerer!” They were blaming him for their troubles! With all the fervor of true witch-burners, they charged him, iron knives forcing the prince up onto the low guarding wall, the river loud behind him. The men stabbed at him savagely, and rather than stay and be spitted, Hauberin turned and dove.
He hit the water cleanly, surfaced gasping; the air might be warm, but the water was cold. The current engulfed him, sweeping him downstream with dizzying speed. Powers, Powers, ridiculous to escape murder only to die in a river! He was a fine swimmer, but not when the cold was sapping the energy from him; not when his injured, overtaxed arm had no strength left in it. (He could only pray he hadn’t undone all Lady Kerlein’s work—not that it was going to matter if he drowned.) There were sheer walls on either side, nothing to cling to, nothing to let him pull himself to safety. Hauberin’s eyes widened as an arched bridge loomed up before him. If he grabbed at one of the supports—Ae, no! At the speed he was travelling, that would hurl him against the bridge with enough force to kill him!
Head down, arms forward, praying his aim was good, the prince arrowed through an arch. The river widened on the other side of the bridge, and—oh, Powers be praised—several boats were moored along one embankment. He struck out for them with what was left of his strength, body unresponsive with chill, caught at a rope, missed, caught a second only to be torn free when numbed fingers couldn’t grip tightly enough, spun dizzily about, slammed into the side of one of the boats, and started to drown. Dimly he heard someone say, “Now, what the hell . . .” and thought those were absurd words to die upon.
But suddenly he wasn’t drowning. Something was snagging his clothes—a fisherman’s gaff, tugging his head above water. Squirming away from the iron hook, he caught a glimpse of a bearded, weather-beaten face, then his rescuer had removed the gaff, dragging him out of the water by hand, and Hauberin recovered enough to help, struggling against the river’s pull till he tumbled helplessly up onto a wooden deck that stank of fish but felt most wonderfully solid. He could have lain there all night, but the man who’d saved him was forcing him to his feet, half-carrying him into the deckhouse, letting him crumple to a bunk.
“Here.” A coarse, heavy woolen cloak came tumbling down about him. “Wrap that about yerself. I’ll just get the fire burnin’ again. And here, take a swallow o’ that. Put some warm in ye.”
Too numb to argue, Hauberin caught the leather flask, needing both trembling hands to hold it, and swallowed something so strong and raw he nearly choked. But the rough drink—whatever it was—did send a tide of warmth rushing through him, enough so he could gasp out, “Thank you.”
The fisherman turned from the brazier he’d been tending and gave a nod. “Not a night for swimmin’,” he said laconically.
“Hardly.” Hauberin drew the cloak more tightly about himself, not caring about the fishy reek. “It was either that, though, or die.”
“Mm. Not a good idea, bein’ out alone at night.”
“So I learned. I’m . . . a stranger here.”
“Figured. Thieves get ye?”
“Almost.” Worried the prince sent his recovering senses hunting . . . hunting . . .
No. For the moment, at least, he was safe, and Alliar and Matilde as well. For whatever reason, the Presence was utterly gone.
Hauberin sneezed, receiving the fisherman’s absent blessing, and took a second swallow, then another and another, drowsy with shock.
“Hey, don’t drink it all! Don’t wanta clean up after ye puke!”
That struck Hauberin as so absurd he laughed. “Here.”
But his wounded arm had awakened from numbness, and the prince gasped as it gave way. The fisherman caught the flask with a deft hand, eyes suddenly somber. “Yer bleedin’,” he said quietly. “Hold still.”
Dizzy, Hauberin fell back against the bulkhead, eyes closing, hardly feeling the man fumbling with the soaked bandages. But then he sensed the sudden coldness of iron and opened his eyes with a sharp, “No!”
The fisherman, knife in hand, started. “Wasn’t goin’ ta hurt ye, only cut the wrappin’s.” But Hauberin was no longer in any condition to hide his fear, and the human’s rough face softened slightly. “All right. Don’t get in a fit. I’ll just use my hands. There, now . . . Ah. Someone got ye good a while back, didn’t he? Arrow wound?”
“Mm.”
“Burn on the same arm . . . Haven’t been too lucky, have ye? And ye’ve undone a surgeon’s good work, too, with all that swimmin’ and such. River’s not so clean, either.” The fisherman paused, then shrugged. “Eh well, best be careful. Ye might wanta bite down on somethin’. This is gonna hurt.”
Before Hauberin could stop him, the man had upended the flask over the wound. The prince just had time to clench his teeth—damned if he was going to scream before a human—before the tide of pain and weariness and alcohol carried him away.
###
Someone was shouting, a long way off. Hauberin stirred sleepily in protest.
“Look you, man, we’ve been searching for him for two days!”
The prince came fully awake. Alliar!
“I know he’s down there,” the irate being was continuing. “Now let us see him!”
“Maybe.” That was the fisherman’s drawl. Hauberin heard a scrap of metal on wood; the man had casually picked up the sharply hooked gaff. “Maybe not. All I know is, someone tossed him in the river to drown. Might have been ye.”
“Oh, by all the—”
“It wasn’t them,” Hauberin called up. “Li, I’m all right. Just give me a few moments.”
He sat up warily, naked except for the bandage on his arm, expecting weakness, finding, to his surprise, nothing but hunger and a sense of being most wonderfully rested. Even his abused arm no longer ached so foully. The bandage was a rag, but at least it looked clean. Hauberin warily peeked under it, then winced. He really had undone some of Kerlein’s work; added to what was left of her neat stitching were heavier, though equally neat, stitches that could only have been the fisherm
an’s work. The scar, Hauberin thought wryly, was going to be an interesting one. The alcohol wash, painful though it had been, had apparently warded off infection; the surrounding flesh looked healthier than it had in days, and the prince chuckled. Crude human treatment had, this once, been more effective than elegant Faerie magics.
As, of course, had his stretch of deep, unbroken sleep for . . . however long it had been.
And why didn’t the curse catch up with me? Or the . . . Presence, for that matter? Too much exhaustion for That to track me? Too much alcohol in my system? Hauberin paused, considering. Or . . . is it that the Presence, like any true creature of the Dark, can’t cross running water?
Ae-yi, even if that was true, he didn’t intend to spend his life in hiding on a boat. The fisherman had left Hauberin’s clothes spread out on a chest and the prince quickly dressed, the boat subtly rocking under his feet, then hurried out on deck, wincing as the first bright rays of early morning sunlight caught him in the face. Two sets of arms reached out to steady him: Alliar and Matilde, fairly radiating worry. Hauberin disentangled himself, insisting: “I’m all right, really. Thanks to this good man who plucked me from the river and gave me hospitality for . . . how long has it been?”
“A day,” Alliar said. “You’ve been missing a full day. During which,” the being added with blatant restraint, “the lady and I searched every corner of Touranne for you.”
“Ah. I’m sorry.” He enhanced that with a heartfelt mental apology, feeling Alliar’s angry, reluctant acceptance. “I . . . wasn’t in any condition to contact you.”
A Strange and Ancient Name Page 33
