Fires of Aggar Page 16

  All but the oldest spectators cringed from the directness of her gaze, and Gwyn mentally reviewed her costume and gear in an effort to explain the strangeness these folks must be seeing. But the mares she led were only lightly packed with nebulous, canvassed bundles, and Cinder was behaving, her burly frame dressed in leathers as brightly polished as Gwyn’s own. Gwyn had donned her leg sheaths again, and their honeywood sheen was a striking contrast against the darker red-brown of her trousers but clearly matched both the stiff leather jerkin that she wore and Cinder’s tack. The undyed linen of her bloused shirt was the same shade of stonemoss that many favored here. The wide vambraces on her wrists seemed to be merely a variation of the styles worn by those around her. And behind her, across Cinder’s saddle packs, the thick quilt of her Marshal’s coat was prominently displayed — the ruddy bulk of its quilting, the bronze colored strings, and the glittering glass buttons were all unmistakable. Considering her coloring, her matched mares, and that coat, her identity as a Marshal surely could not be in question.

  Gwyn noted one old matron with a bag of cider slung over a shoulder and a belt of ceramic mugs tied about her girth. The stubborn thrust of the squared jaw and the unwavering stare of her challenge bespoke of courage — just what Gwyn was looking for. She guided Cinder nearer the vendor and halted. Her copper gaze held the elder’s grey eyes, noting the fear that sprang forward, but defiance blazed forth again quickly. Gwyn continued to look at her steadily, pulling a glass coin from her belt pouch and leaning forward slowly to extend it.

  “A cup if you please, Min.”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed shrewdly, weighing the respect of Gwyn’s manner against the foreign accents of the Trade Tongue. Then in a bold gesture she stepped forward, accepted the coin and wiped a cup clean announcing, “It’s spiced. My own recipe.”

  Gwyn smiled graciously and accepted the mug. She raised it in a faint toast of honor to the woman and sipped it. “It’s quite good. You’re to be commended.”

  A bright beaming smile and a proud glance or two were exchanged with those around them, and the tension broke. Murmurs rippled through the crowd, and Gwyn went to hide a grin in the mug… at which point she found herself hiding a grimace from the fuller mouthful. It really wasn’t such bad stuff — for spiced wine. Usually though, she preferred hers to be watered down; she’d nearly forgotten the bite in an unadulterated brew. But the rising hum of curiosity was reward enough to endure a bit of soured syrups.

  Pieces of the mumbled speculations reached her. But politely Gwyn pretended not to hear as she finished her drink, until suddenly, “Then how come her face is all brown?”

  Startled, Gwyn glanced back as the child’s shrill voice faded beneath a mother’s frantic hushing. At Gwyn’s attention, everyone abruptly stilled again.

  “For… forgive the girl, Min.” The old matron at Gwyn’s knee took the emptied mug back, shifting uncertainly beneath the Niachero’s concerned gaze. “She’s not old enough to know what she’s saying.”

  The ominous quiet hovered. Gwyn decided it wasn’t the girl’s age, but her honesty that was most telling. The skinny, little figure with pigtails was now firmly back in her mother’s nervous grasp, and Gwyn produced a wry, but kind smile for her. She gave the girl a nod of encouragement and asked, “What did you want to know about me, Min’l?”

  The child twisted about to look up at her mother for permission. But the woman had eyes only for Gwyn, mutely pleading for patience. Her skin color darkened with fright as she seemingly despaired of finding any tolerance in such a stranger as Gwyn.

  Getting no voiced objection from her parent, however, the youngster stepped forward. Quite matter-of-factly, she demanded of Gwyn, “Are you from the Clan folk?”

  “No,” Gwyn answered, her polite smile softening with genuine amusement at that unexpected idea. “I’m a Royal Marshal. Why would you think I’m from the Clan?”

  “’Cause…’cause your face is all brown like the Clan’s folk get, and your hair is all fire red like some Clan folk, and… and you’re a woman, but you’re so tall!”

  Gwyn chuckled softly. She was amazed at herself for overlooking such obvious details of mistrust in this district of all districts.

  “Was one of your parents from the Clan maybe?”

  “No.” Gwyn shook her head and explained gently, “I’m an Amazon, Min’l.”

  “Amazon… the Valley north….!” The shock rushed through the crowd like flames in a wind.

  “You see…,” Gwyn went on, ostensibly for the girl’s sake, “I was born in Valley Bay. And yes, like the Clan’s women an Amazon can have light hair, sun-browned skin, or be very tall. But I’m a little like you too. When I get excited, I flush dark. And when I get sick, I get bruises under my eyes just like you.”

  “You do?”

  “I do.”

  Rumbles of relief and the awkward laughter of embarrassment began to tumble about, tempering the awe of her. Gwyn felt the tension in her own stomach release as well, thankful again that her sun’s tan covered her skin’s lighter shadings of emotion. The girl grinned at her. Gwyn nodded good-bye, leaving the youngster shinning with pride that a Royal Marshal had actually answered her questions — and that her mother was hugging her happily rather than scolding.

  The atmosphere was certainly easier after that. At least it was, until she came to the City Gates.

  The Gates’ gaping hole in the wall wasn’t particularly meant to be imposing. Its bright tiles of rusty red, gold and sky blue tones glinted in the late morning sun, adding a beautiful relief to the somber beige stones of the walls. The long corridor through the wall itself was lively with torch light dancing from yet more tiles and from the festive bustle of the people moving along. But a somber-faced trio of guards in their bark-red capes dampened the welcoming auras quickly. Two of them were male with thick, short beards and bushy brows. Theirs was a scowling, unfriendly sort of demeanor. The woman beside them was no less imposing. Short and sturdy as most female sword carriers were, she still seemed to convey her deep suspicion as her arms crossed and her stance set wide. She was the only one of the three not playing with the hilt of her sword, Gwyn noted, and credited her with a slightly cooler head than the fellows she served with. The Amazon wasn’t certain that made her any kind of an ally, however.

  Cinder shied as the men approached. One of them reached out and roughly grabbed the reins under the mare’s chin. She pulled back resentfully, until Gwyn calmed her with an unobtrusive pat on the withers. The mare settled only a little, the whites of her eyes still showing.

  The other male laid an equally unwelcomed hand upon Gwyn’s ankle and growled something at her in the local tongue.

  Her copper hued eyes skirted between the three Guards. The young woman was stepping back, forcing the passersby to circle wider; she was opening room for her sword if need came. A very somber commitment to duty, Gwyn mused, and odd — considering the fact that this was supposed to be a festival.

  The City Guard jangled her foot impatiently, repeating his question. A grim steeliness rose about Gwyn; there was no reason for his impudent use of the local dialect — the Trade Tongue had been bandied about freely in the encampment behind her, hadn’t it?

  “I am Royal Marshal to the King and Crowned Rule, First Family of all Ramains and Rightful Monarchs of the Districts. I deal only in the Trade Tongue of Travelers — as decreed by the People’s Book, so that any who hear may understand and heed.” Her words came clipped and were clearly enunciated. She was suddenly very glad of the glossy leg sheath that tempered the touch of his sweaty palm.

  Cinder danced uneasily beneath her. The mount was as impatient as her rider was unhappy. Behind her, Calypso and Nia were growing edgy as well.

  “Are you Marshal or Amazon then?” He spat off into the stones in contrived disinterest, but at least he was finally extending her the courtesy of using the Trade Tongue.

  “Both.”

  His head shot around, imagining some insult to her tone
, but Gwyn quite abruptly lost her patience with his game. Her lips peeled back in a silent, pack snarl as she met his accusing stare, giving him look for look.

  The sword woman backed to the far side of the tunnel, nearly losing herself amidst the swirl of festival folk.

  The Guard’s dark gaze narrowed as he eyed Gwyn again, speculatively. A warier respect seemed to hover at the corners of his awareness, then for some reason was disregarded. He snapped his fingers, “Tags!”

  She pulled the thong over her head and dangled the glass pieces low enough for him to read. She jerked them back as he went to snatch them, lowering them again only to allow him to read them. He made no attempt to claim them this time, although the hand on her ankle had become as stiff as a hardwood shackle. Gwyn wasn’t about to risk losing those precious tags to anyone. From experience she knew that she could seldom afford to lose her proof of authority — and especially not here in this particular Court.

  “What’s your business in Khirla?” His belligerence continued as Gwyn strung the tags about her neck again — the sword woman had disappeared completely. “We haven’t seen a Marshal in nearly two generations. Why send you here now?”

  “I am a Marshal,” Gwyn repeated evenly, ignoring his exaggeration; Churv’s inattention had not been quite that extreme, she knew. “Tradition and Crowned give me leave to be where I will.”

  “And just what kind of business is that?” he sneered.

  She wondered who had tutored this moron. Marshals went where they pleased, when they pleased; none but one in dire distress had any right to question a Marshal’s priorities. Even the King acknowledged that they often rendered aid before he or the Crowned were alerted to many troubles.

  The Guard turned to his fellow with a taunting guffaw, “You ever hear such a lame answer?”

  “Not answer enough, certain to me!” Taunted the skinny soldier holding Cinder’s bridle. The burly mare shook her head at his rude noise, and roughly he snatched at her ear, twisting to bring her nose down again. “Tell Herself that and you’ll be laughed from the city.”

  And who was Herself? Gwyn wondered briefly.

  “So give us another reason for your being here, Mar-shal?” Their drawling impudence rankled.

  “Before the Wars, Marshals ran the races in Feast Days. Did they not?” She didn’t give a damn about the racing, but she was certainly not about to say the Dracoon needed her.

  “Bah!” The man to the front renewed his hold on Cinder’s ear with a wicked pull. “These bulky wagon drays? What sorry tale can you spin next?”

  Enough was enough!

  Cinder agreed, and Gwyn let her go. With a wild shriek she reared high, taking the Guard up with her. The white teeth flashed as her ebony hooves pummeled, and the man fell from her bridle. A whistle shrilled as the mare rose again on her haunches. The street crowds fled as the downed Guard cringed in a wounded ball, waiting for the death blows to fall with the weight of the mare behind them.

  Cinder screamed again. The bone bit shattered in her teeth. Shards of white and frothing lather flew, and she danced on her hind legs, pawing the air — still holding her two-hoofed arabesque.

  “Tell him to move.” Gwyn ordered icily.

  The standing Guard stared at her without comprehension. He barely registered the steadiness of her seat and the quietness of her hands upon her knees. The only thing he grasped was that she no longer held the reins!

  Behind Gwyn both Nia and Calypso snorted and stomped, pressing forward menacingly.

  “Tell him to move !”

  He scrambled, half-dragging the other to safety.

  Cinder came down with a thud, snorting hotly and shaking her head. Her mistress stroked her neck, murmuring in quieter tones, and with a final stamp, the bay let herself be calmed.

  “You arrogant, Clan-wedded witch!” And he left the shaken mass of his comrade huddled at the wall. “Fates’ Cellars will see that horse before you ride out of here! Do you hear me?”

  Cinder neighed shrilly again, tossing her head at his cry and threatened to rise once more. Gwyn’s knees brought her down swiftly.

  The City Guard reached for his sword. Gwyn’s hand crossed for hers as the bays behind her reared, shrieking their own challenges.

  “Hold!”

  From the corner of her eye, Gwyn identified the newcomers. The sword woman had returned with a sergeant.

  He was not tall for a man. His shoulders were broad and his neck thick. Age had salted his hair, and steel had marked his clean-shaven face with a scar that almost closed his left eye. But his gristly voice echoed a command that was not to be ignored, and the younger Guard’s hand flew from his sword’s hilt as if it had been burnt.

  That dark gaze swung to the Amazon.

  Gwyn hesitated, still suspicious as she took measure of this sergeant in his bark red cape and worn blue vest.

  “You’re a Royal Marshal,” that rough timbre rang out again. He spoke in Trade Tongue. “You travel with the Crowned’s immunity.”

  Slowly Gwyn straightened from her low crouch along Cinder’s neck. Her hand withdrew from her sword a little less reluctantly. At least here was someone acquainted with the Law.

  The sergeant turned, squaring his shoulders with a gruff air. He walked over to examine the quivering hulk that had once so arrogantly tried to bully Cinder. Sharp words chided the young Guard, and Gwyn suddenly realized how incredibly young all three of these City Guards were. A roughish hand helped drag the youth back to his feet, but Gwyn noticed it was more show than a damaging shove that sent him and his friend back to their posts. The sergeant waved the sword woman aside, pointing to the far corner of the tunnel where the festival crowd was staring, and the woman hurried to move everyone along again. His charges properly chastised and returned to task, the sergeant gave his attention to Gwyn. She said nothing as he stepped to Cinder’s head; he made no move to touch the bridle.

  “You trained your lady well. Didn’t even crack his ribs.” He took a moment to look over her small band of horses and baggage, feet firmly planted in the ground and arms crossed at his chest.

  Gwyn liked his open scrutiny; he didn’t need the reassurance of toying with his sword’s hilt as the others had.

  “May I ask what brings you to us, Marshal? Or rather, may I ask if you require immediate audience with the Steward?”

  The Steward? Gwyn again wondered at the structure of this Dracoon’s court. “A word with your Dracoon Llinolae would be appropriate.”

  His gaze dropped. He seemed to study his boots, weighing out his words carefully before saying, “This ain’t Churv, Min. I’ve no intent to hinder you. But—” He shrugged and then straightened. “You’ll have to judge the differences yourself. If you like, I can show you the way to the Palace. There’s no Audience holding today, those are reserved for before ’nd after the Feasts. You can present yourself to the authorities, though. I can’t say what they’re apt to do for you. Again, I mean no disrespect to yourself or your position, Marshal.”

  “None taken,” Gwyn assured him quietly. She nodded with decision, approving of his directness. “Lead on.”

  He stepped off without a backward glance, his cape flying.

  The streets were narrow and made of cobblestones with a central slant towards the gutter track. Between the press of the festival visitors and the footing underneath, Gwyn quickly found herself dismounting and opting to lead her mares. The sergeant’s stride slackened only slightly as the crowds thickened. Apparently, the colors of his blue surcoat and ruddy cape were enough to wordlessly clear their path.

  “Generally, most walk within the City Gates,” the sergeant explained after a moment. His low rumble of a voice calmly cut through the swelling laughter and chatter of the merriment around them. They turned a corner onto another small street which seemed even narrower with its shadows from all the three and four storied buildings. “Steward’s Swords and Royal Messengers have exceptions made, of course. But the stones make poor footing for fast paced bea
sts, so there’s less danger of accidents when we insist on the merchants having at least one handler at the head of each cart.”

  “Must make the Feast Races exciting,” Gwyn remarked. She was not at all certain she wanted to risk Cinder’s limbs on such a poor surface, regardless of how insulting she might seem to the traditions.

  “Ho!” The man split a broad half-grin, the scar on his cheek twisting the left side of his face into something more sour. “There’s no need to worry for your fine lady beasts, Marshal. The race is run ’round the outer sides of the city walls and only cuts in up the southern hill behind the Palace — that’s along the track where the Dracoon’s stables have entry. It’s dirt packed, the whole circle. Lets folk see what’s happening better too. Can’t imagine trying to get a good glimpse of the runners in these alley ways. Can you?”

  “No, not by much.”

  Gwyn took closer stock of the city as the street opened into a market square. The music of both public dances and troubadour performances mingled with the cries and smells of vendors. Bright banners hung from the upper windows of the local mercantile houses. There were streamers and ribbons fluttering from booth crosses, and the bottle-glass windows from a nearby inn gleamed from polishing. But underneath it all, Gwyn felt a pervading sense of struggle. The timber frames in the stone masonry were old. The plaster along the upper walls was frayed. The cobblestones underfoot were slicker than she had known in the northern cities, and she suddenly realized it was because of the rounded indentations of wear.

  She followed her guide away from the market along another small lane, and then she began to understand what she was really seeing. The subtle disrepair of age surrounded her. Here in this street, she doubted the sun ever shone more than a single quarter of a quarterday, because the original houses and establishments around them had been built tall, and then built upon again. The lower levels were well-oiled where there was wood, sometimes the plaster was fresh with paint, but on the whole the tired, drooping structures looked as if they relied upon their mutual leanings for support. They seemed too weary to actually bother to crumble.