Part 4 (1/2)

”No, for any who may face him,” he said.

”I don't understand,” she said.

”When . . . when he holds a weapon, particularly one of mine, he is a graceful, silent, clean killer. When he is unarmed, he is something else altogether. Vicious, forceful. He reverts to something primal. I dare say he is even more deadly that way, but in a way that is unmistakably animal,” Desmeres said with a chill.

”What do you care?” she asked.

”If a man must die, so be it, but there is no reason to be cruel. I must finish his weapon. But first I must finish yours, and the paperwork. So much to do, and only seven days to do it,” he said, turning back to his task.

Myranda found her way back to the room with the table, where she had set up her bed roll, and retired. Try as she might, though, she could not bring herself to sleep. She was more at home on the freezing ground outside than in this place. Knowing that all that surrounded her was paid for by blood turned her stomach. She wondered how the peace of the world could be left to the whims of such twisted minds. The best she could manage was a light doze, interrupted periodically by an odd sound or smell emanating from Desmeres' workshop. Myn, lying atop her as always, slept peacefully until what must have been morning. When the dragon roused, Myranda decided she may as well end this fruitless pursuit of sleep. She wandered into Desmeres' workshop.

The half-elf, visibly weary, was admiring what he had done to the staff. He noticed her walk in and held it up proudly. Myranda took it from his hands. It felt much lighter. He had carved a good deal of the exterior down and shaped it carefully. Her fingers fit easily and comfortably around it. The color was different, streaked with darker colors that made the formerly white surface resemble the gray bark of a tree, and covering the surface were dozens of small, intricately carved symbols. She had noticed the same symbols decorating the blades and handles of nearly every other weapon in the room. Lowering its tip to the floor, she found it stood at a more appropriate height than before. His improvements were apparent, though she wondered about the reasoning for some.

”Why the darker color?” she asked.

”A side effect of the solutions I soaked it in to strengthen it. Natural wood at the thickness that is appropriate for your hand size would not be strong enough for my tastes. I could restore the color, if you like,” he said.

”I don't much care. What of the symbols?” she asked.

”Runes. Lain has put them to fine use over the years, and I see no reason why you couldn't do the same. He doesn't know a word of magic, as I've said, so he needed something that could turn the defensive skills he does have into something effective against magic. Those runes will allow you to defend against spells tossed in your direction as though they were conventional attacks. You can deflect a fireball as easily as a thrown stone, or shatter a conjured s.h.i.+eld spell as though it were gla.s.s, all without wasting an ounce of your own mystic strength. Of course, a stronger spell is more difficult to deflect, just as a larger stone is. Also, though I stand by my work, I cannot guarantee that the enhancements will work against all magics. It is an ever changing area, after all,” he said.

Myranda tested the strength of the now much thinner tool. Touching it for the first time in a day, she was struck by the clarity of mind it brought. Certainly the effect had not been so noticeable before. Seeming to notice her expression, Desmeres offered an explanation.

”Among other things, I treated the wood so that it will aid focus in absence of a crystal. With a crystal, the effect is doubled. Useful, yes?” he said.

The girl admired the work for a few more moments before a suspicion crept into her mind.

”You only did this to raise the price on my head again, didn't you?” she said.

”Heavens no. Not only that. I also needed some practice in the manufacture of mystical weapons. I almost never get the opportunity. I'm glad you thought to accuse me, though. It shows that you are developing a healthier outlook on the people around you,” he said with a grin as he searched around for some sheets of paper, some ink, and a quill.

”Healthy? I thought the worst of you!” she said.

”And you weren't completely wrong. You'll find that you seldom are when you think the worst of people,” he said, finding some high quality parchment and ink.

”That is a terrible thing to say!” she objected.

”Prove me wrong,” he said, dipping a quill and beginning to scribe in impressive calligraphy.

”What are you writing?” she asked.

”Paperwork. There is a fair amount of it involved in transferring land,” he said.

”Aren't you going to sleep?” she asked.

”I prefer to wait until my affairs are in order,” he said.

”And Lain? Does he ever sleep?” she asked.

”Not in the traditional sense. They call it 'the warrior's sleep', but the two couldn't be more dissimilar,” he said.

”You spoke of the warrior's sleep before. What is that?” she asked.

”It is . . . well . . . let us put it in mystical terms. It is like meditation, only far, far deeper, and not merely of the mind. It focuses the thoughts, and it brings the body near to death. They have been teaching it at Entwell since the beginning. I could never get the hang of it, but they say a few minutes like that will do the work of a few hours of real sleep. Back before he had someone to cook up healing potions, that is how Lain dealt with serious injury. It is not nearly as fast as a potion or a spell, but it is measurably better than simply waiting,” he explained.

”He never sleeps normally?” she asked.

”If you ever find him lying down, especially in a bed, you can be certain it was not his idea,” Desmeres answered.

As she watched him sculpt the official language of the paper with great care, she decided he had best be left alone. She found herself drawn to the room that contained the gold and the records. Myn's tapping claws followed her, and once inside, the little dragon leapt up onto one of the chests that was mostly coins, instinctively drawn to the gleaming treasure. She curled up and watched Myranda as she approached the second shelf. The books that filled the shelf were in groups of four. All told, there were a few more than seventy such sets. She reasoned that, since Desmeres had been partnered with him for roughly seventy years, the groups must be by season and year, though if there was a written indication of exactly what year each represented, it was not in a form she recognized. It was just as well. The standard method for labeling the years these days was to measure from the day that the war had begun. By that measure the year was 156. The thought depressed her.

In the days to come, days that seemed painfully long with nothing to fill them, she spent much time leafing through the books. The names of the people and places, as well as the prices, were the only things not written in some bizarre language that they had certainly learned at Entwell. As a result, she found herself scanning the pages for any places or names she knew. It seldom took long. A lifetime of journeying from town to town had taken her to most of the places in the north. Apparently Lain's business had done the same. People of much renown were frequently named in the pages as well. Wealthy landowners, merchants, and people of all walks of life had either hired his blade or fallen to it. Without understanding the language it was impossible to tell which. Much of what she saw she had heard in the form of rumors over the years. The Red Shadow. The fact that he was real, the fact that she knew him, filled her with a cold feeling.

Soon it was the seventh day. Desmeres had long since finished his preparations, the last of which was the completion of some manner of sword for Lain. He refused to unveil it to her, claiming that Lain ought to be the first. He slipped out the entrance hatch, warning her that he would arrive back at the end of the day and they would have to move quickly when the time came. Until then there was nothing to do but leaf through more books. She had worked her way backward through fifteen or so of the years, and came upon a name she had known about already. Rinthorne, the unfortunate man who had been in charge of Kenvard when the ma.s.sacre occurred. Dark memories filled her head at the glimpse of the name. She'd lost her home, her family, everything that day. Then something odd caught her eye. A line in the book was struck out. It was clearly written in a different hand than the rest. With a bit of effort the words could still be read, not that it did any good. She still hadn't worked out what they meant. Something else was odd. There was no indication for whom or to whom the job was done. There was only one word that she did recognize. Kenvard.

Her mind began to stir. How? He had told her of the job he had done for Rinthorne. It happened at the same time as the ma.s.sacre. How could a job have been done in Kenvard afterward? Afterward there was no Kenvard. Kenvard the nation had been absorbed, and its capital of the same name had been razed. Was that why it was crossed out? And why no names? And no price? Rather, not one that could be counted in gold bars. The word that always preceded the number was present, but what followed was only another word. Myranda cursed herself for not spending more time in the warrior's section of Entwell. Had she, she might have learned this language, and this would have been clear. A nagging feeling burned at her. This was important. She couldn't explain why, but she had to know what it meant. As she further pondered, her thoughts were interrupted by the creaking of the trapdoor and the whir blades through the air.

”Myranda! Quickly! I am not sure how long we can keep the oloes at bay!” called Desmeres, struggling to yell over a powerful wind that whistled in the opening.

Myranda slipped the book into her bag and hurried to the entryway. The gold needed for the purchase had been transferred into twenty or so small crates. Though each held only four or five of the ingots, they were heavy as lead. A rope was lowered for Myranda to secure to one chest at a time, and the combined strength of Desmeres and Lain, top side, hauled each up. Myn, interested in the activity on the surface, scrambled up to them, and soon the chests were moving much faster. The little dragon had quickly determined the purpose of this little game and joined in, clamping the end of the rope in her jaws and lending her deceiving strength to the effort. Soon the chests had been loaded, and Myranda clutched the rope herself and was hauled out.

On the surface, it was night. She found the ground around them covered with a thin haze that smelled strongly of burning wood. The horrid brown creatures that guarded the place were completely surrounding them, staying at the exact distance that the mist faded to nothing. Waiting for them was a four horse carriage. It was just as he had asked: elegant, but st.u.r.dy. Not a gaudy showpiece, a well crafted vehicle. There was a very large cargo compartment in the back that was filled fairly to bursting with their precious load. In the front was a comfortable place for the pa.s.sengers to sit, and just in front of that was a sheltered place for the driver. There was no one there. Desmeres approached her, he was dressed as he'd been when he left, utterly coc.o.o.ned in winter clothing in an attempt to stay warm and hide his ident.i.ty. Lain was not disguised at all, wearing a lighter gray cloak with a white lining and a plain tunic underneath. Hanging from his belt was the new sword, concealed in a sheath.

”Do I take from your presence up here that you have chosen to aid us?” Desmeres asked, opening the door of the carriage for her.

”Certainly do not want to spend the rest of my life in that hole. We shall see if I aid you or not. I want to know more about it first,” she said, stepping inside and dropping her bag and staff on the floor.

”Fine, fine. I wouldn't expect you to do it without considerable instruction anyway,” he said, starting to close the door.

”Aren't you coming inside?” she asked.

”Dawn will be here soon, and our driver is still a few hours away. Lain is the best there is, but even he couldn't drive a carriage in broad daylight without being seen. I will drive it until we meet the coachman,” he said.

”What about Myn?” she asked.

”One of the lines in every description of you mentions that you will be in the company of the dragon. She will have to tag along with Lain,” Desmeres said.

Myranda's heart sank as Myn turned to Lain in the distance, cast a goodbye glance, and trotted off to him.

”As for you, there is an outfit in the carriage, I suggest you change into it while you are alone,” Desmeres said, closing the door.

A moment later the carriage lurched into motion. Myranda looked around her. In all of her life this was the first time she had been in a covered carriage, save the rather unpleasant trip in the back of the black carriage after the cloaks attacked her. The seats were cus.h.i.+oned with deep red velvet. Doors that were better crafted than those on her childhood home kept even the slightest draft from breaking through. On the gla.s.s windows, of which there was one on each door, there was a gauze curtain to keep prying eyes out but allow light in, and a heavy drape of the same red velvet to eliminate the light. She lowered the gauze curtains and looked over the outfit. It was exquisite. Fine lace, linen and . . . silk! She had seen women pay a fortune for any one of these pieces of clothing. When she had put on the dress and petticoats, she found them to be just precisely her size, as though they had been hand altered to suit her. She wondered for a moment how Lain had managed such a feat, but her thoughts were interrupted by the gleaming white fur coat that would protect her against the freezing cold. Fur was not at all an uncommon thing to see someone wear in the north. If one had forsaken the ubiquitous gray cloak, a rough one of fur was generally in its place. In those cases, though, it was merely a skin, perhaps not even cleaned, draped about the shoulders and tied about the waist. This was, again, tailored to suit her. She slipped it on and found it to be more than warm enough. If they wanted her to go unrecognized, they had certainly chosen a fine wardrobe. Dressed in this way, Myranda didn't even feel like herself. The crumpled pile of overused clothes on the floor of the carriage more closely resembled her true self than who she might have seen in a mirror. After stuffing her former self into the bag and attempting to gather her hair into something more becoming of her wardrobe, she drew the curtain on one side of the carriage and gazed outside.

After a few minutes, a fellow traveler pa.s.sed in the opposite direction. He was an older man in a sleigh that was nearly falling apart. He wore a cloak so tattered that the hood was useless, replaced with a fur hat. He tipped it as he pa.s.sed. Myranda smiled at him. It was the first time that anyone had acknowledged her as she traveled. She leaned into the soft seat and pondered why people were so willing to ignore their own, and so eager to acknowledge those that were better off. Her thoughts were interrupted when the carriage pulled to a halt just as the traveler disappeared from view. Desmeres appeared outside the window and pulled the door open.

”Has this curtain been open all along?” he asked.

”Yes,” she said.