Destiny's Kingdom: Legend of the Chosen (5 page)

On her way out of the cottage, Trina caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror that hung just inside the door. She had changed into her common clothes, and on this day poured a cinnamon rinse in her hair, and had darkened her lashes and brows, which completely altered her appearance. She frowned at the reflection that looked back at her as she pulled on the hat that Clea had displaced earlier. She was too tall to be a typical Keystone's daughter, too boyish in her appearance and her build, her slim shoulders lacking the aristocratic confidence that that could be expected from one with such a title, moving uncomfortably in her ceremonial robes and gowns whenever she had to wear them. The castle maidens could make her up to play the part for functions and appearances, but beneath it all she wore her title and her adornments with a distinct level of unease. Though she believed in her position and was fervent in her devotion to her duties, she was most at ease when donning her disguise. She felt comfortable mingling with her people, took great joy in painting portraits of them and their children and their pets in Sigh Marketplace alongside all the citizens of the kingdom, and they would treat her nicely and normally, and without the abject formality she received when she wore her jeweled head chain that bore the crest of Val-Vassu.

"Who's this stranger in my house?" Clea breezed by, flung open the door and hung onto the knob as she leaned back, inspecting Trina's appearance playfully. "Ah, yes it's you, master of art and disguise." Trina returned her sarcasm with feigned scorn, but Clea ignored the look. She held the door open and extended her hand across the entry in a sweeping gesture. "Shall we?"

On Seventh Day, people traveled on either foot or beast, leaving behind the more modern land craft that would normally be used to commute between the village and Sigh City. The lilting notes of a flute and a piccolo carried across the buzz of conversation, a street performer used magic to turn drops of water into tiny flames and then held them suspended in tiny spinning circles in front of his face while a small crowd of fascinated onlookers watched the show.
 

The sun was out but there was a breeze on the air and the two weaved through the crowd, occasionally drawing looks from local young men. Trina was always the observer, and Clea usually seemed blissfully ignorant of the attention she commanded. During her normal work she spent so much time in jumpers and coveralls, that on their weekly Marketplace trips she inevitably shed her smuggler's exterior in favor of a much different appearance. This day she drifted through the crowd in an ankle length skirt made of billowy, colorfully patterned material, and a sleeveless blouse, which bared her youthful midriff. The skirt clung carelessly around the slender curve of her hips, and her hair swept in a curtain of dark waves across her back, hanging free and unkempt. She didn’t want for much, but today she was in a shopping mood, so she stopped at several merchants' carts before they arrived at their usual spot on the road where Trina would set up her easel and her artists' stool. She had an uncanny gift of being able to capture the very essence of her subjects in her work and had quite a reputation in the Marketplace. She signed her pieces with the name Bel’ah, an anonymous term which meant little girl in old-world language, and was what most of the elders called all young women anyway.

Trina rummaged through her pack, then dumped the contents on the ground before her. She sat back and sighed.

"Oh, curse my failing brain," she said. "I forgot my charcoal tray." Clea looked down at her and watched as Trina thought for a moment, remembering where she'd left her missing supplies. She put her hand out in front of herself, palm up, and closed her eyes. Her fingers curled just a bit as she concentrated, and her forehead wrinkled from the intensity of her focus. Second shelf…supply closet…next to the yellow paint-spattered jar. There was a shimmering above her open palm, and then the tray of charcoals appeared. Trina let out a breath, and smiled up at Clea.

"You must have been practicing," she said. "You're getting much better." Trina shrugged.

"I'll still never figure out how Aazrio does it with such ease."

While Trina set up her easel, Clea stood, surveying the scene. Her eyes glanced about with purpose, shining deep blue like one of Trina's crown jewels, and for several minutes she didn't say anything at all. Trina looked up from under the brim of her hat, squinting against the brightness of the morning sky.

"What trouble, o smuggling hound?" Clea continued to look around for a moment, at first not acknowledging her friend's query. Then she hummed a puzzled response.
 

"Being watched," she said, curious but unworried. "Can't you feel it?"

"Clea you're always being watched. One would think you'd be used to it by now."

"Not like that," she replied, ignoring the suggestive inflection that Trina regularly used on her.

"With intent. Motive. Hmmm." She turned around and watched Trina for a moment, then dropped to crouch next to her as she tightened the bolt on her easel. Clea leaned in to her friend and whispered discreetly.
 

"Don't look now but due north. Isn't that Ryder Deluka?"

"I don't know. You said not to look."

"Look now but be indifferent. Don't linger on him." Trina looked up from her spot on the ground, casting her gaze along the street and over the people that filled it.
 

"He's staring still, isn't he?" Clea asked.

"I'm not sure, Clea," Trina replied, "I don't know who he is." Clea smiled broadly and caught her bottom lip in her teeth in a thoughtful manner, then stood and tossed her hair over her shoulder.

"I don't know who he is either," she said, "aside from reputation. But he's looking for me, I can tell, I can feel it. His eyes are practically burning my back as I stand here. He must need something."

"Can't ever imagine what," Trina muttered with a smirk, setting up her paints.

"To employ me, I suspect," Clea replied, her tone matching the mocking that Trina had been offering, and dispelling the insinuations. "Ryder runs an underground jewel ring. While I was out this week I heard through the leylines that he'd come across a big bounty out on Oracuu. By now I'm sure he's gotten at least some of it ready to distribute." She swiveled around and looked over her shoulder. "I'll be back in a bit," she said as she sashayed away.

Clea knew the game, and she played it well. She was the hunted, the stalked; and following at a reasonable distance behind her, was the pursuer. He could be sizing her up, or making sure no one was trailing him, or maybe he just enjoyed the sport. Clea had seen all types of traffickers, and she had long ago grown tired of trying to predict what category they fell into.
 

After leading him around for what felt like a respectable distance, she stopped at a fruit cart that was set away from the street, where the proprietor was also selling leather goods at an adjoining stand. He was busy showing off his handiwork to some customers, and Clea stood, looking over the mound of shiny apples, pretending not to notice that her trailing shadow had come up close enough behind to almost brush against her.

"Clea Colletta," said the unfamiliar voice. It was a dry, raspy voice that sounded as if he'd smoked too many tobacco rolls in his time, and followed them up with plenty of spirits.

"Ryder Deluka," she replied, not missing a beat. She could feel his shock at the acknowledgement of his name without even turning to look at his face, and she smiled to herself. It was always so good to have the upper hand.

"I see we come together by reputation alone," he countered, finally walking around to stand in front of her. She took her time before raising her eyes to meet his.

"I'll take that as a compliment," she said, her gaze steady.

"As you should," he replied. Clea briefly took in the appearance of her potential associate. Ryder was an average sized man, his dark blonde hair cut short to his head and receding slightly. He wore a heavy vest over his dark clothes even though the weather didn't warrant such layering of garments, and his thick boots were dusty. His unshaven face was tanned and lined as though he spent much time outside, and his expression was hard and direct. Her skin crawled being so near to him; this was the only part of her existence that was unpleasant. Dealing with professional traders and traffickers was never enjoyable, and only occasionally above bearable. Most of them were lecherous and filthy. Ryder actually hid it well, but he had the same aura as them all, the same undertone in his voice and in his mannerisms. She turned her attention and her eyes back to the fruit, seeming to take great care in picking just the right one.

"I hear congratulations are in order," she continued casually. "A big bounty from Oracuu.”

"Twelve thousand kilos. Mixed variety jewels. Some garbage. But most…" he paused and put himself in her line of vision again, "not garbage." Clea cocked an eyebrow and tipped her head in recognition of his obviously boastful comment.

"Impressive," she drawled. "If for no other reason than the fact that you got past the infamous gypsies of Oracuu."
 

Ryder's expression darkened, and he spoke through clenched teeth. "You mean the witches of Oracuu." Clea tried to hide her smile and she shrugged impassively.

"Witches, gypsies…what difference?" She noted how quickly the trafficker got back to the deal, and wondered if the gypsies had perhaps been more trouble than he cared to remember.

"Three kilos are ready to transport," he began, his voice low. "Small cargo, not much bigger than a standard issue flight crate. I could just as well do it with a one-man craft myself. But I can't take any chances." Ryder moved back into Clea's personal space and picked up a random apple, biting into it without paying the merchant. She shook her head slightly, letting her disdain show a bit. Her own apple in hand, she tossed the merchant coins enough to pay for both fruits, then turned to walk away.

"Where to?" she asked, biting the apple and looking around casually, trying to appear that she wasn’t actually walking with him.

"Tal-Min Vista," he replied. At least he wasn't skirting around the issue. Tal-Min was dangerous territory, heavily guarded, and would command a pretty price. Clea was already calculating it in her head.

"Nice job for the right person," she said, looking up to him, crunching another mouthful of fruit. He hadn't taken his eyes off her, and she circled around in front of him as they walked.

"What terms?" he asked, his voice a grunting growl. They were coming to the outskirts of the Marketplace, where the carts and vendors were fewer and far between, and Clea turned away from him, walking back toward the more crowded section. She knew better than to get too far away from potential witnesses, just in case a deal ever went wrong.

"Terms?" She continued to bite the apple, chewing and looking away as if thinking on the matter. "Terms…hmmm. Ten thousand. All up front." He laughed out loud.

"Ten thousand? I think you over estimate yourself Clea."

"I doubt that. Ten thousand. Your choice. I don't negotiate. Not on matters like this, anyway."

"What makes you think you're worth that kind of money? Ten thousand? That's prices old pros demand. From where I stand, you're still a novice Clea."

"I'd hardly call five years of straight work novice level," she snapped, whirling on him and dunking the apple core into a mulch bin without looking. "Five years. Never dropped a load. Never missed a deadline. Never lost so much as a sliver of Rouganian crystal. Ten thousand. Your choice. And choose now, I grow bored of this lack of faith in my abilities."

She faced him now. Standing tall against his much larger frame, gone was the coy, teasing girl that had walked in a weaving pattern around him as they made their way through the street. Beneath the exterior of a flowing skirt and a bare belly was the spirit of a career smuggler. Ryder shifted his weight, and looked down at this young woman who had in an instant, turned from potential seductress into potential business associate. On the one hand he was disappointed, on the other, spitefully impressed. She was worth the money she commanded. He knew this, had done his research. Clea was a mystery in her own right; had a reputation for getting into areas that were widely known as impossible to infiltrate. It was a close kept secret how she did it, and her abilities kept her in great demand. Five years of perfect deliveries, no trails behind her, and no bargain ever left undone.

"Can you get it there within three days?"

"I can get it there tomorrow if I have ten thousand in my pocket." He looked her up and down briefly.

"I don't see any room for pockets on you."

"I'm walking away." She turned. She was so glad she didn't have to actually like the people she did business with.

"Deal, Clea," he said, grabbing her arm. She looked up at him with an incredulous face then yanked her arm away from his grasp.
 

"Never…never touch the pilot."

"You're right, Clea," Ryder bowed slightly, "apologies, fair lady." Her eyes didn’t change expression as she spoke.