The Jackal of Nar (14 page)

“Plaey guin min!”

Richius shook his head, regarding the man’s grimy, outstretched arm. Even through the heavy dialect the entreaty was plain.

“No,” said Richius. “Move away.”

The Triin fell to his knees. He clasped his bony hands together and, as if praying to them, repeated his plea more earnestly.

“Guin min, plaey guin min!”

Richius groaned. He wasn’t without sympathy, but he had almost no coinage on him, and he knew from past experiences that they would be overrun by the other beggars if he gave to this one.

“Please,” said Richius. “We have nothing for you. I’m sorry.”

Dinadin unsheathed his sword. “Are you deaf?” he shouted, brandishing the blade above his head. “Out of the way, or I’ll cut your ugly white head off!”

The Triin fell back, startled, and in a moment scampered away more quickly than Richius would have thought possible. Other eyes were regarding them now, all Triin, and all from the dirty piles of people.

“Stupid gogs,” spat Dinadin, returning his weapon to its sheath. “I come here to find a woman and I have to be pestered by this filth.”

Richius looked at Dinadin in disbelief. “What was that about? For God’s sake, Dinadin, he’s only a beggar. Why threaten him like that?”

Dinadin didn’t respond, but Richius could read his drawn expression. A bitterness etched his face, all the terror and anger of life in the trenches. They sat there, unmoving, until at last Dinadin spoke.

“Damn it all, look at all these bloody gogs. You know what this means, don’t you?”

Richius said nothing. He knew well what the sight of so many refugees meant, but he couldn’t force himself to voice the revelation. Unlike Dinadin, Richius had hoped that the tales of Triin beggars in Ackle-Nye had been exaggerated. Now, seeing so many, all the words Dinadin had ever spoken were washing back over him. He felt trapped, frozen like a mouse seeing the falling shadow of a hawk.

“Well?” Dinadin urged. “Say something.”

Richius lowered his head. “What do you want me to say? That you were right? Fine, you’re right. Happy?”

Dinadin brought his horse alongside Richius’. “Is that it? Don’t you see, Richius? The war’s lost. All these people know it. Why don’t you?”

“But there are no troops here, Dinadin. Do you see any?”

“Richius …”

“No troops! No one’s retreating. It was all a lie, a rumor. Would it make any difference if there were a million Triin here? No, it wouldn’t. Not to the emperor.” Richius put his hands to his pounding head, as if to keep it from exploding. He had ridden miles for an answer, and there was none. All he had now was the long ride back.

“I want to rest,” he said weakly. “Let’s go into one of these taverns. We’ll get a bed for the night. In the morning we will head back to Dring.”

He turned from his comrade and snapped the reins, guiding his horse farther down the dirty road. He wanted to say something more to Dinadin, to convince the man that they had no choice but to remain in Lucel-Lor and fight. Yet now, seeing so many devastated Triin, it was hard to convince even himself to continue. Again the sensation of imprisonment seized him, leaving him speechless as he passed the clusters of white-haired beggars.

They rode past several boarded-up inns before coming to one still open for business. This one, on the corner of a particularly well-lit avenue, was big and brass-leafed, and the huge oak door had been left open to accommodate the trickle of patrons.

“We’ll try this one,” he said to Dinadin. Then, with an almost imperceptible movement, he slipped off his ring and dropped it into the pocket of his tunic. Dinadin shot his companion a troubled look.

“What are you doing?”

“I don’t want anyone to know who we are,” said Richius. “If anyone asks, make up something. Tell them we’re merchants from Aramoor or Talistan.” He knew their clothes would do a good job of concealing them, and he could only hope that he had enough of a beard to hide his well-known face.

Quickly agreeing to keep their identities secret, Dinadin dismounted along with Richius. There were horses outside the inn, most of them gaunt from lack of feed, and Richius noticed a small Triin boy tending them. He dug back into his pocket and fished out a coin.

“Do you speak the tongue of Nar?” Richius asked, crouching to face the boy. The boy looked at him in puzzlement, then uttered something unintelligible. Richius turned to Dinadin. “Do you know what he said?”

“No, but it doesn’t matter,” explained Dinadin. “Give him the coin. He’ll look after the horses.”

Richius turned back to the boy. “You’ll take care of our horses, right?”

The boy nodded eagerly. Certain the boy didn’t know what he was agreeing to, Richius placed the coin in the small outstretched hand.

“Don’t worry,” insisted Dinadin, bobbing his head to peer into the tavern. “The horses will be safe. Let’s go inside.”

Richius agreed, tying the reins of the horses to a post on the curb. When he was done securing the reins he straightened to find Dinadin. His companion was in the doorway of the inn, beckoning him forward. Richius followed Dinadin through the giant oak portal and into the almost-empty tavern. As they entered, a pudgy man greeted them.

“Welcome, welcome!” he cried, forcing his hand into Richius’ and giving a vigorous shake. “Come in and warm yourselves.”

Richius pulled his hand from the sweaty grip. “Are you the proprietor here?” he asked.

“Yes, I am,” the man replied. “My name is Tendrik and I am at your service. What can I do for you? We have wines from all over the Empire and good beer from Aramoor.…”

Already weary of the merchant’s pitch, Richius stared down at him coldly. “Look, we only want to have a drink and, if you have one, a room to rent for the night. All right?”

“Whatever you want,” said Tendrik congenially. “I have some nice clean rooms upstairs. Cheap, too.” He paused, then laughed and winked at Richius. “But if you want to share them with one of my ladies that’ll be extra.”

Richius made to speak, then felt Dinadin nudge him gently from behind. He groaned, then said, “Get us two good beds, separate rooms. We’ll take care of the rest ourselves.”

“If that’s what you want,” said the man. “But I have some fine women. Young, too. You might want to think about it.”

“Just the rooms,” said Richius tersely. “Get them ready. We’ll wait for you down here.”

He brushed past the innkeeper and headed for the bar. There was a brick hearth beside it, ablaze with a roaring fire. Richius welcomed the heat, letting it work itself into his joints. The comfortable odor of burning cedar filled the room. He looked around at the other patrons, a uniformly seedy lot. Down-at-their-luck merchants sat around one table, noisily playing cards. Several other men caroused in a corner, poking at the prostitutes that passed them by. Dinadin spied the girls and growled. They weren’t young as the innkeeper had promised, but they certainly looked experienced.

“Barman!” shouted Dinadin. Another man, not unlike Tendrik in size, looked at him from behind the bar. Dinadin tossed him some coins and ordered, “Get us two beers. And from Aramoor, not that Talistanian swill.”

Richius put his lips near Dinadin’s ear. “Damn it, Dinadin,” he whispered. “What are you thinking? I told you, I don’t want to attract attention. Now just shut up and listen to what you can hear.”

“Sorry,” said Dinadin. The barman was placing two long glasses of beer before them. Dinadin reached for his glass thirstily and began to drink it down. But before Richius could taste his own beer, a gasp from Dinadin stopped him. “Oh, God, look at that, Richius!”

Alarmed, Richius lowered his glass onto the bar. He followed Dinadin’s gaze, but saw nothing. His pulse slowed to normal again and he shrugged.

“What?”

Dinadin stretched out a finger. “There, by the minstrel. Don’t you see her?”

Richius let his eyes rest for a moment on the man playing the lute. Then, as if a curtain had parted, he saw her. Her skin, bone-white and brilliant, was set off by a green silk dress. Milk-colored hair framed a porcelain face painted with ruby lips. Eyes the shape of almonds shone an ocean-gray. Thin and fragile arms tapered into thin and fragile fingers, and her legs were long and exquisite. She sat on the lap of a card-playing merchant, letting the brute toy with her as if she were a doll. The smile on her face was the frightened, forced grin of a prostitute.

“She’s beautiful,” crooned Dinadin, his big voice softer than Richius had ever heard—softer even than the minstrel’s.

“And Triin,” Richius added in amazement.

Dinadin nodded. “I told you they were selling here.” He bit his lip and a low growl rumbled out of his throat. “Oh, that’s the one for me.”

“Easy,” said Richius sharply. “We’ve got business here first. And I don’t like the idea of you taking a Triin wench. I told you, we’re here to help these people.”

“Sorry,” said Dinadin. “She’s the one I want.”

Richius too was captivated by the woman, by the curve of her hips and the frightened way her eyes darted about the room. She seemed so out of place. The man laughed, nuzzling her neck, and Richius watched in a sort of embarrassed agony as the woman closed her eyes against the unwanted touch of his lips. And then he noticed something more. The porcelain face that had captivated
him was blemished, for around one of her eyes was a purplish bruise. He considered this, at first dismissing the injury as the rough treatment of one of the louts she was forced to sleep with. But then he remembered Gayle, and how he had pulled the baron off a girl not a week before. And then he remembered her.

“What do you think, Richius?” asked Dinadin. “Should I go for the whole night or just an hour?”

“Not her, Dinadin,” said Richius firmly.

Dinadin slapped Richius on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. I brought my brother’s silver dagger with me. That should be enough to buy a girl for both of us.”

“That’s not what I mean. I don’t want you taking her to your bed, not even for an hour. She’s a Triin, and she should be treated with some respect. My God, what are we here for? To see how many Triin whores we can bed?”

“What difference does it make?” asked Dinadin angrily. “Look at her, Richius. If it’s not me it’s just going to be somebody else.”

“Then let it be somebody else. Let it be one of these drunks. Or better still one of Gayle’s cowards. Maybe the damage is already done, but I don’t want one of my men adding to the misery of these people.” He paused, then added, “Please, Dinadin.”

Dinadin grunted and lowered his glass. “If you wish it.”

“I do. Just find yourself a girl from the Empire. I’m sure that little underwit who greeted us has a whole gaggle of Talistanian whores.”

“All right,” conceded Dinadin. “But if Lucyler asks, I’m going to tell him that I had ten of his breed!”

Richius tasted his beer, letting the cool liquid slosh over his tongue and into his belly. It had been more than six months since he had tasted the heady brew of his homeland, and the delicious sting of the beer on his lips made him moan like a rutting dog.

“Oh, that’s good,” he sighed. “I had almost forgotten how good our beer is back home.”

The word “home” made Dinadin wince. Richius took a good look at his friend in the firelight and smiled. He loved Dinadin. They had grown up together, had become Guardsmen together, and had even endured the hell of Dring together. Side by side is where they had always been, from the time they were toddlers. For Richius, his friend’s pain was unbearable.

“Dinadin,” said Richius carefully. “I want to talk to you.”

Dinadin turned evasively to stare at the Triin girl. “She’s really something, huh?”

“Forget the girl. Listen to me.”

“What is it?”

Richius grinned. “You’re not going to make this easy for me, are you?”

“No.”

“Fine. Then I’ll give it to you straight. I know you want to go home. But look around. There’s no one else here. No troops, not from Aramoor or Talistan. Just a bunch of Triin beggars.”

“Not beggars,” Dinadin corrected. “Refugees. And they’re here for a reason. They already know the war’s over. Don’t blame them if they’re smarter than you.”

“The war isn’t over until Arkus says it is,” argued Richius. “And I don’t like it, but there’s nothing I can do about it. You have to understand that. None of us can go home, not if we want Aramoor to survive. The emperor—”

“Oh, burn the emperor!” rumbled Dinadin. “Sure, it’s easy for him. He’s not here. He’s not sleeping in filth every goddamn night with bugs crawling over him. You know what I think of the emperor, Richius? I think he’s an old bastard that’s gotten what he’s wanted for too long. I think Aramoor should stand up to him. Let him roll in his legions! Better that than to live as slaves.”

Richius reached out to touch his friend’s arm. “Dinadin, listen to yourself.”

“No,” flared Dinadin, shaking off the grasp. “Stop talking to me like I’m an idiot. God, I’m sick of it. And I’m sick of your reasoning, Richius. First your father abandons us, and then you tell me we still can’t leave? Well, why not? The hell with your father. The hell with the emperor, too. I want to go home!”

The few patrons in the bar were staring at them now. Even the lovely Triin prostitute was watching them. Richius turned away, embarrassed, putting his elbows on the bar and dropping his head.

“Thanks for not making a scene,” he said sourly, and closed his eyes against the anger welling up inside him. “It’s getting late. Why don’t you find yourself a whore and go to bed?”

“Richius …”

“Stop,” Richius said. “We’re not retreating, and that’s the end of it. I won’t discuss it with you anymore.”

Dinadin said nothing for a long moment. Richius could almost see the waspish frown on his companion’s face.

“All right,” said Dinadin at last. “Are you coming, too?”

“No. I want to stay here a little while longer, see what I can find out.”

He waited until he heard Dinadin’s gruff good-night before opening his eyes again. It was late, well past midnight, he supposed. His vision was a little misted, and he fought back a yawn. The thought of a soft straw mattress popped into his head, making him smile. It would be warm upstairs, and dry. If there was any to be had, he would bribe the innkeeper out of some good bread and honey in the morning. Then, after they had breakfasted, they would set out again for the valley.