Shadowdance (35 page)

He was no fool.

Hugging himself, he stared back at the alley entrance, this time intently watching the faces of those who passed, watching for one remembered face in particular, fearing it might return while he was still helpless.

He had cause enough, he reflected, to fear Chohlit, and cause enough now to wonder what he had stirred in the man's soul that night on the plain of Kenay when his dancing had destroyed the rebel leader's army. Was he here in Parendur? Why?

Could he have been on the same road, just moments behind me?

Innowen felt for the dagger secreted inside his tunic and drew a measure of comfort from it. It wasn't much of a weapon. Even so, it was more than a beggar would usually have. He fingered his purse beside the dagger and looked back up the alley again. Biting his lower lip, he pulled it out, loosened its strings and dropped the gold
cymoren
into it with his other coins, mostly copper
selats
and a few egg-shaped silver
phalens.
Returning the purse to its hiding place, he leaned back and thought.

Parendur was a big city. Why shouldn't Chohlit be here? Innowen tried to put aside his fears and suspicions, yet they nagged at him. He shouldn't stay in this alley much longer. If Chohlit was actually following him—an unlikely possibility—the man might double back.

He bit his lip again as he glanced up and down the alley. His hand settled on his begging bowl. He lifted it, studied it for a moment by holding it close to his eyes in the faint light, then slammed it forcefully against the wall. It broke into several pieces.

Seizing the largest shard, he ran his thumb along the clean, sharp edge. The rolled rim of the broken bowl made a safe grip. It wasn't as good as a sword or a quality dagger, but if he swung it quickly and surely, he had no doubt that it would cut, and he felt better having two weapons. He thrust the shard down into his knee wrappings. He could get at it quickly there.

Hastily, he wrapped his elbow again. The bleeding had stopped. It hadn't been much anyway, he chided himself. But if he hadn't stopped to tend it, he might have fallen into the arms of his enemy.

He frowned. Vashni and maybe Chohlit in the same morning, both close enough to spit on if he'd dared. Perhaps he had made a mistake in coming to Parendur alone. Well, no matter now. Here he was, and he intended to stay alive.

He flopped over on his belly again and crawled back into the crowded street. He paused long enough to examine the sky, at least the piece of it he could see between the roofs of the buildings that lined the road. It was still early morning. Lots of sunshine left. Lots of time before he was whole.

He crept along with all the strength and speed he could muster, taking the first turn that bore him away from his previous path, assuming, of course, Chohlit would have continued straight ahead. That wasn't necessarily a sure bet, Innowen admitted, so he turned down yet another street, taking a random way, and finding among several burned out buildings the first evidence of the fires caused by the storm of nights before. He continued slowly past, staring at the blackened timbers and scorched stones, and turned down yet another street.

He found himself on the edge of one of Parendur's many small squares. Heat shimmer rose from the paving stones that suddenly lined the way. He was glad it was morning. Later in the day, the stones would be too hot for him to crawl on. They'd sting his flesh too severely. Only sandaled people would walk there after noon.

For now, though, he could tolerate the heat. He set his gaze on the low well that stood at the center of the square. A potent thirst, born of wiggling his way through the dirt and dust, seized him. He waited until he saw no carts, no beasts of any kind that might trample him, then began to navigate a veritable forest of legs and feet toward his goal.

A low circle of stones ringed the well. Eagerly, he dragged himself up, taking all his weight on his forearms, and peered over the side. His lips felt ready to crack, and his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

The well was dry, another victim of the drought.

Innowen wished that he knew all the names of all the gods of Ispor, that he might curse them in the most personal terms.

He twisted his body around and leaned against the well. His useless legs were tangled, and he bent forward to position them better. When he looked up again, another man had sat down beside him on the well's wall. The man was thin as a branch, and he had about him a desperate look. His cheeks were sunken, and his narrow lips were parchment dry. A ragged beard sprouted unevenly from his chin, and his eyes shone with a feral greed. His clothes were little more than tattered rags.

Innowen knew he was about to be robbed. Beggars, especially crippled beggars, were easy marks. It didn't matter how secret his purse was. This man would be happy enough with a tunic that had fewer holes than his own.

His heart thundered inside his chest as the man moved his hand slowly, surreptitiously along the wall toward Innowen's shoulder. It would happen any moment now.

Innowen turned his head and smiled at the man. A puzzled expression turned up the corner of the would-be thief's mouth as he moved his hand casually back to his lap. Innowen waited an instant, then crooked a finger, beckoning the man closer. A furrow appeared between the thief's eyebrows. He looked both ways around the square, which was not too crowded at the moment, then smiled with sudden amiableness and bent down over Innowen.

Quick as he could, Innowen caught the man's collar and jerked with all his strength. Off-balance, he flipped heels over head into the road beside Innowen, grunting in pain as his back struck the hard paving stones. Innowen's right hand tangled in the dirty mop of black hair, lifted the thief's head, and cracked it smartly on the ground to get his attention again. With his other hand he waved the sharp pottery shard in front of the man's eyes before he set it at his throat.

"Next time you plan to rob a cripple," he said as lightly as he could, despite the trembling that coursed through his body, "remember, they may not be as helpless as you think. Now get out of here!"

Innowen let him go, and the man jumped up, shaken and angry. He looked as if he might try to kick Innowen. His fists clenched at his side, and his lips curled back over his teeth. But then his eyes flickered to the shard and to Innowen's own gaze. It was in that moment when their eyes locked that Innowen knew he'd won.

With as much dignity as he could gather, the thief hurried away.

Innowen let go a long breath as he returned the shard to its place in his knee wrapping. The street life of Parendur went on around him, oblivious to what had happened. What was it to any of them if a thief robbed a worthless beggar?

He looked around the square, sure that if there was a well, close by he would find an inn. He was not disappointed. On the farthest eastern side of the square, still in a narrow band of shadow, he spied a sign and started his slow journey toward it.

Before he reached that door, he was twice stepped on by women, whose averted gazes prevented them from seeing him until it was too late. He hesitated there, nursing the fingers of his left hand in his mouth. Finally, he rose up as high as he could and knocked on the rough wooden surface.

A large fat man in a dirty apron answered. His head was bald, and a bright scar ran down from the crown of his brow past his left eye all the way to the lobe of his ear. He looked out, then down at Innowen on the ground and scowled. "Get away from here! No hand-outs!" He started to slam the door.

"I can pay!" Innowen called back as loudly as he dared in the crowded street. "I want a room, not a hand-out!"

The door opened a little wider, and the proprietor poked his head out. "How would a beggar like you come by money to pay?" he sneered. He pushed the door completely open as he leaned against the jamb, filling the entrance with his imposing bulk. He pulled a rag from the waistband of his apron and began to wipe his hands.

"I'm a veteran," Innowen lied, eyeing the man's scar. "It's my discharge pay. I've kept part of it." He glanced back over his shoulder as he dragged his body against the wall and propped himself up.

The proprietor sneered again, still wiping his hands. "Veteran of what?" His eyes narrowed suddenly. "You part of this bunch of animals that's moved in on us?" His bulk took on menacing proportions as he drew himself erect. "I'll kick the guts out of you! Get away from my wall!"

Innowen cringed back, bringing his hands up to protect himself as best he could. "No! I fought to keep them out!" he lied again.

The fat man relented. "You're one of Taelyn's men?"

Innowen nodded. That long night outside Parendur's gate had made Taelyn a hero, and by extension, the men who fought with him. Maybe he could play on that. He didn't like lying, but a crippled beggar had few enough cards to play.

"Get in here then."

To Innowen's surprise, the man bent down and lifted him in massive arms and carried him inside.

The interior was dimly lit by a few oil lamps that dangled on chains from the low beamed ceiling. The smoke from their burning lingered like a wispy fog in the air. A confusing assortment of stale odors assailed the senses. Some tables and chairs lay scattered about. A couple of stools were overturned in a corner. One of the tables had a broken leg and stood at a crazy angle.

"We had a little excitement last night," the proprietor said gruffly, placing Innowen in one of the safe chairs. "Excuse the mess."

He went behind the bar that stood at one end of the room and returned with two mugs of foaming barley beer. Innowen lifted one and peered at the dirty rim, grateful, after all, for the poor lighting. When his host wasn't looking, he used the ball of his thumb to rub at the place where he intended to put his lips.

"Taelyn," his host said by way of a toast.

Innowen hoisted his mug and drank deeply. Even if the mug was filthy, the beer was cool and washed the street dust from his throat. When he set it back again, half the contents were gone.

"You're a veteran, all right," the proprietor commented. "You one of the wounded that got left behind?"

Again, Innowen nodded. Another lie.

"Can't blame him for leaving," his host went on. "Too few soldiers and too many invaders, and that chicken-shit Kyrin to look after. Actually did us a favor going, the way I see it now. If the fighting had come into the city, it would have been a lot harder on all of us. As it is, that big black bastard that commands them is trying to win us over by being nice to us." He tossed off the rest of his beer, grabbed Innowen's mug, and refilled them both. "Not that it stopped one of his Nimrut mercenaries from raping and killing my youngest daughter a couple nights ago." He came back and sat down heavily in his chair and stared at Innowen.

"What's that I see in your eyes?" Innowen said suddenly. He looked at the broken furniture again and turned back. "What did you do?"

A nasty grin crossed his host's lips. "The bastard that did it had the nerve to come back last night. He had a room here, 'cause we were forced to put some of them up. Still, I didn't think he'd have the nerve to show his face here again. I gave him all the free beer he wanted, and everything else, too. Got him good and drunk." He hesitated, lifting his mug, watching Innowen over the rim. When he set it down again, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "They might find his body in a day or two at the bottom of that empty well out there. Or maybe they won't."

Innowen raised his own mug again in a toast to the proprietor.

"What's your name?" the other man said, changing the subject. "You say you got money?"

"Petroklos," he answered. He pulled his purse from inside his tunic and let it fall on the table. It made a heavy thunk on the coarse wood.

The proprietor eyed the leather pouch. "I'm Baktus. How long do you plan to stay, Petroklos?"

Innowen studied his host and the red scar that trailed down one side of his face, wondering just how much to trust him. Slowly, he opened the purse and took out the gold
cymoren.
He slid the triangular coin across the table and left it beside Baktus' mug.

"Just overnight," he said.

Baktus touched the coin with the tip of one finger, but he didn't pick it up. "That's too much money," he said slowly. "More than a veteran's discharge pay."

Innowen ignored that. "I'd like you, or someone you trust, to pick up a few things for me." He opened the purse again and pulled out the bird-shaped ring which was the sign and seal of Lord Minarik. He placed it on his finger and laid his hand flat on the table. The light from the oil lamps seemed to seek out the ring and dance on its stylized wings.

Baktus' eyes widened with surprise, then narrowed cautiously. He took another drink of his beer, never looking away from Innowen. "You're no cripple," he said at last.

Innowen thought about that. "Maybe you're right," he answered. He leaned forward on the table and peered intently into Baktus' eyes. "Maybe you
are
right."

He grinned, and settled back in the chair with his beer. Baktus grinned suddenly, also, and the two men drained their mugs.

Chapter 15

In his small room behind the bar, Innowen stripped off his rags and washed himself from a basin of precious water, which Baktus had graciously offered. He had slept most of the afternoon away. Now, a tension gripped him—a taut sense of expectation. A single oil lamp filled the room with a soft, warm glow. His shadow made exaggerated movements on the wall before him, as if to tease and mock him,