Mickey Zucker Reichert - Shadows Realm (8 page)

Silme explained with composed practicality. “She tapped her life energy harder than she should have. She’ll be all right.” She added, her tone harsh with rebuke, “And she’ll learn.”

Taziar caught Astryd to him, relieving Silme of the burden. He knew the spell that weakened Astryd was the one that had frozen Faldrenk, preventing an attack that might otherwise have taken Taziar’s life. Sick with guilt and concern, it did not occur to him to wonder why Silme had not aided in the battle.

Beware lest you lose the substance by grasping at the shadow.

—Aesop
The Dog and the Shadow

Sleep eluded Taziar, leaving him awash in pain. He lay on his stomach to avoid aggravating the jabs and scratches in his back. He tucked his arrow-slashed arm against his side; the other rested across Astryd’s abdomen, attuned to the exhaustion-deep rise and fall of her every breath. His ear throbbed, and he kept his head turned to the opposite side. But the ache of superficial wounds dulled beneath the anguish and confusion inspired by Faldrenk’s betrayal.
He called me traitor. Why? I’ve not set foot near Cullinsberg in months.
Taziar considered, seeking answers he lacked the knowledge to deduce.
Maybe that’s it. Perhaps Shylar needed me, and I wasn’t here.
He drummed his fingers in the dirt, ignoring the flaring sting of his burns.
That makes no sense. My friends know I fled with Cullinsberg’s army at my heels; how could they hold such a thing against me?

Aware that Faldrenk would not deem ignorance nor inactivity a crime punishable by death, Taziar abandoned this line of thought.
It wasn’t mistaken identity either. Faldrenk called me by name. Something strange is happening, a break in loyalties that touched Faldrenk and Richmund.
Taziar felt his taxed sinews cramp. Having already taken long, careful moments to find a posture that did not incite the pain of his injuries, he resisted the impulse to roll.
But Shylar knows I still care about the underground. Otherwise, she would never have expected me to answer her summons.
Taziar worked tension from his muscles in groups.
She knows me too well to suspect I would act against friends. And she’ll have explanations. I have to see her. Until then, I can do nothing.

Mind eased, Taziar surrendered to the urge to reposition his body. Pain flared, then died to a baseline chorus. Gradually, Taziar found sleep.

Dawn light washed, copper-pink, across the battlements of Cullinsberg. Huddled within the overlarge folds of Larson’s spare cloak, Taziar felt a shiver of excitement traverse him. After months in the cold, barbaric lands north of the Kattegat, returning to the city of his childhood seemed like stepping into another world. He tried to map the cobbled streets from memory but found gaps that would require visual cues. The lapses reminded him of an ancient beggar who knew every street and alleyway in the city, but, unable to give verbal directions, would walk an inquirer to his destination.

“What about me?”

Larson’s question startled Taziar. Lost in his past, he had nearly forgotten his companions. “What about you?”

As they neared the gateway and the uniformed guards before it, Larson kept his voice soft. “I hate to bring up the subject. I still find it hard to believe myself, but people tell me I’m an elf. In the North, no one seemed to care much for elves. Am I going to get attacked every time I step into a crowd?”

“Attacked?” Taziar chuckled. “You’re approaching civilization. Draw steel in the streets and you’ll get arrested.” Recalling the report of the Sverigehavn dockhand in Kveldemar’s tavern, Taziar hoped his description was still accurate. “Besides, no one in Cullinsberg will know what an elf is. They’ll just assume you’re human. Ugly, but human all the same.”

“Gee, thanks.” Larson caught Silme’s arm and steered her beyond Taziar’s reach. “You little creep.”

“Cre-ep?” Astryd repeated, her light singsong adding a syllable to the English word. “Is that the same as ‘jerk’?”

“Exactly,” Larson said.

“And its meaning?” Silme showed an expression of genuine interest, but she still fought back a smile.

Larson shot a wicked glance at Taziar. “It’s a term of endearment.”

“Sure.” Taziar worked sarcasm into the word. “Which explains why you’re madly in love with that woman ...” He gestured at Silme. “... but you’ve only used the term to refer to me.” Adopting a wide-eyed, femininely seductive expression, he grasped Larson’s free hand and raised his voice to falsetto. “Sorry, hero, I’m already taken.”

Astryd slapped Taziar’s back playfully, which, because of the scratches, turned out to be more painful than she had intended. Taziar winced, released Larson, and resumed his normal walk toward the gateway with a final whispered warning. “Avoid my name. If the dockhand told the truth, the baron may have dropped my bounty to concentrate on closer, more formidable enemies. But no need to take a chance.”

The four fell silent as they reached the opened, wrought iron gates and a pair of guards dressed in the barony’s red-trimmed black linen. Taziar lowered his head, hiding his features beneath the supple creases of his hood. But the guardsmen seemed more interested in his blond companions and the women’s oddly-crafted staves. They stared without questioning as Taziar and his companions entered the town.

Despite the early hour, men and women whisked through the main street, rushing to open shops, tend to jobs, or run errands. Merchants pulled night tarps from roadside stands, piling fruit in bins or setting merchandise in neat rows. They worked with the mechanical efficiency of routine. Yet, to Taziar, their manner seemed anything but normal. Mumbled conversations blended to indecipherable din, devoid of the shouted greetings between neighboring sellers who had known one another for years. Stands and merchants older than Taziar had disappeared, replaced by either strangers or glaring stretches of empty space. Others remained. But where women once tended their wares alone, now they shared stalls, hoping to find safety in being part of a group, or else they hired men to guard them. Despite laws against it, swords and daggers were boldly displayed. Many of the blades were crusted with dried blood, as if to warn predators that their owners had killed and would do so again if pressed.

Astryd gawked at the bustling crowds and towering buildings. The Dragonrank school required its students to remain on its grounds eleven months of every year, and Astryd had never found time to visit the more civilized lands south of the Kattegat. “So this is Cullinsberg.”

Larson watched Astryd’s rural antics with wry amusement. “This is the great city you keep bragging about?”

“Sort of,” Taziar admitted uncomfortably as he led his companions along the main thoroughfare. Concern leaked into his tone, and his friends went quiet as they followed. Though most of the passersby remained unarmed, they gave one another a wide berth, and Taziar was unable to make eye contact with any of Cullinsberg’s citizens. The buildings, at least, seemed unchanged. Rows of stone dwellings and shops lined the streets behind the merchants. Still, something as yet unrecognized bothered Taziar; a piece of city life seemed awry. And, since it was missing rather than out of place, Taziar wandered three blocks before he realized what disturbed him.
Where are the beggars?

Taziar turned a half-circle in the roadway, gazing across the sewage troughs in search of the ancient crones and lunatics who took sustenance from the discarded peels and cores that usually littered the roadside ditches. The maneuver uncovered neither vagrants nor scraps, but he did notice a scrawny boy dressed only in tattered britches who was huddled on the opposite street corner. The child sat with his head drooped into his lap, his hand outstretched as if from long habit.

Taziar’s companions watched him with curiosity. “Shad—” Silme spoke softly, shortening his alias beyond recognition. “What’s the problem? Maybe we can help.”

“Is it the child?” Astryd asked, touching Taziar’s hand. “We have more than enough money to feed him.”

“No!” Taziar answered forcefully. “Something’s not quite right. It’s subtle, and I don’t understand it yet.” He spoke low and in Scandinavian, though his companions understood the barony’s tongue. Astryd and Silme had learned several languages at the Dragonrank school, and Larson spoke it with the same unnatural ease and accent as he did Old Norse. “I was born and raised here. I’ve learned the laws of the barony and its streets. This is my river, and I know how to stay afloat.” Taziar paused, trying to phrase his request without sounding demanding or insulting. “Please. Until I figure out what’s bothering me, let me do the swimming. Just follow my lead.” Taziar studied the boy. “Wait here.” He crossed to the corner, relieved when his friends did not argue or follow.

The boy raised hollow, sunken eyes as Taziar approached. He climbed to skeletal legs and hesitated, as if uncertain whether to run or beg. At length, he stretched scarred ringers toward Taziar. “Please, sir?”

The sight cut pity through Taziar. Impressed by the child’s fear, he fixed an unthreatening expression on his face and leaned forward. Unobtrusively, he reached into his pocket, emerging with a fistful of mixed northern coins. “I’m sorry.” Taziar edged between the child and the next alleyway, surreptitiously pressing money into the beggar’s tiny hand as he shielded the exchange from onlookers. “I have nothing for you today,” he lied, gesturing toward Astryd in a matter-of-fact manner. “But my woman insisted I come over and tell you we feel for you, and we’ll try to save something for you tomorrow.”

The child accepted Taziar’s offering into a sweating palm. A sparkle momentarily graced his dull, yellow eyes. Playing along like a seasoned actor, he spoke in a practiced monotone. “Aga’arin bless you, sir.” Slowly, he wobbled toward the market square. His gaze fluttered along streets and windows, as if he expected someone to seize his new-found wealth before he could buy a decent meal.

Taziar returned to his companions. Incensed by the beggar’s paranoia, he did not take time to properly phrase his question. “Have you ever seen anything like that?”

“No.” Anger tinged Astryd’s reply. “When did you become stingy? You could have at least given him food.”

Taziar laughed, realizing the trick intended to divert thieves had also confused his companions. “I gave him more money than he’s seen in his life.” A pair of uniformed guards walked by, eyeing the armed and huddled group with suspicion. Taziar waited until they’d passed before elaborating. “I meant the fear. Have you ever met a beggar too scared to beg? Worse, a starving beggar afraid to take money? Who in Karana’s darkest hell would rob a beggar?”

“Easy target.” Larson shrugged, his expression suddenly hard. “In New York City, the hoods’ll rob their own mothers for dope money. There’s too many to count how many Vietnamese kids look like that one, and they’ll take anything from anyone.”

Little of Larson’s speech made sense to Taziar. Finding the same perplexed look echoed on Silme’s and Astryd’s faces, Taziar pressed. “Interesting, Allerum. Now, could you repeat it in some known, human language?”

Larson gathered breath, then clamped his mouth shut and dismissed his own explanation. “Yes, I’ve seen it before. Leave it at that.” He addressed Taziar. “Now, swimmer, what river do we take from here?”