Sleepless (Curse of the Blood Fox Trilogy, Book #1) (11 page)

 We would
have had to fight our way to the innkeeper's station, but as soon as our swords
were noticed the crowd inched away from us with disdainful looks. They did not
seem quite so impressed by our patched clothing as I had hoped. In fact, I
caught one older gentleman frowning quite steadily at my feet. I couldn't tell
why; they looked much better than they usually did. The new sandals even had
twisted leather designs in the thongs, because nothing had been exceptionally
plain-looking at the shoemaker's either.

“I feel clean
and dirty all at once,” I whispered to Traken, following him over to a solemn
man standing behind a glossy marble counter. He held a large feathered quill in
one hand and stared at us with the sour eyes of someone who was not where they
wanted to be.

“Ye-e-e-s?”
he drawled with a twist of the lips. “May I help you, good people?” He said
“good people” like he possibly meant “swamp scum”. Traken leaned forward, a
deliberately charming smile on his face.

“Yes, you
can. We'd like a room.”

The man
looked between the two of us.

“And are you
and the lady used to an establishment of this caliber?”

“We certainly
are,” Traken said, flashing his teeth. The man coughed delicately into a
handkerchief in his left hand.

“Well, sir
and madam, I should explain to you that the Marlduk has a very high standard of
fine elegance, and we expect our guests to exemplify this purpose. Our...”

I leaned
heavily on the counter and fished a blade from inside one sleeve. While he
talked, I practiced balancing it tip-down on the end of one finger.

“... rules
were set in place by the very founder of the inn, who wanted each and every
wealthy and prosperous guest to feel right at home in an atmosphere and crowd
that suited their class. We cannot allow...”

Traken leaned
on the counter as well, eyes trailing to the dagger. He flicked his fingers at
it disinterestedly, and it caught on fire.

“... anything
but the best for fine guests such as yourselves.” The man fiddled with his
quill nervously. “What are your names, please?”

Dogboy's eyes
glittered. “Wolf. Wolf and Fox.”

The man's
brow furrowed, but he jotted it down. “You can have the white room, third on
the left up the stairs. It will be one gold piece for the night.”

I let out a
low whistle and looked at Traken. He looked back at me.

“Well?” he
said.

“You're the
one running this,” I told him.

“You ruined
my favorite robe. Didn’t that book of yours teach you anything? The gracious
thing to do would be to compensate me.”  

I huffed and
dug one shiny coin out of my pack with all the good grace of a cross boar. The
man at the counter took the gold coin from my hand as if it might be diseased, and
handed over a shiny silver key from a cabinet behind him. He let us go with a
sullen look that clearly said he was deeply sorry we had managed to afford his
prices. As I followed Traken back through the disgruntled crowd and up the
grand staircase, I kicked the back of his ankle hard enough to make him stumble
and grab the railing.

“More like a
rat than a wolf,” I said. “You're going to rob me blind. How much do you think
a traveler who only pretends to be a mercenary actually makes?”

“Enough, with
all those bounties you turn in,” he said, a strangled groan caught in his
throat as he righted himself. “Kicking a sorcerer is a dangerous gamble,
princess. I may not be allowed to kill you, but my master said nothing about
disfigurement.”

“Disfigurement?”
I asked with something close to a sneer on my face. “My, my, aren’t we a bit
full of ourselves?”

“It would
take just one word,” Traken said, leaning down. A low hum of magic tickled my
skin as power pooled around him ever-so-gently. He towered over me on the stair
above, the brim of my hat almost touching his face.

“I wouldn’t
give you the chance,” I shot back, eyes glaring straight into his. Suddenly a
woman in a fine white gown gliding down the staircase above let out a gasp as
she saw us and tripped on the hem of her enthusiastically long attire. I broke
Traken’s stare and caught her arm before she fell, bracing myself on the
railing to keep from toppling with her.

Her jewelry
tinkled as she regained her footing and jerked away, rose-faced. For a moment
she looked back, and I was caught in the golden gaze of a young woman with
caramel skin and fine black curls. Pink lips puffed at me, her brow neatly
creased.

“Catherina,”
a deep voice called with all the anxiety of a parent who thought their child
was about to be eaten. The girl turned quickly, sharp eyes disappearing behind
dark locks, and continued down the staircase as if nothing had happened at all.

When I looked
back at Traken, he was smirking.

“You just
ruined what would have been an interesting show,” he said. “I could have told
you she wouldn’t thank you.”

“What an odd
idea,” I told him, brushing my hands off. She had been wearing something
powdery on her skin. “Gratitude can’t be told in words.
You
didn’t thank
me for saving you, and I didn’t expect you to. It isn’t why I did it.”  

“Hmm,” was
all the sorcerer said back, something akin to displeasure in his voice. “Come
along then, princess. We will be traveling all day again tomorrow. We have to
rest.”

My body
balked at the thought. I was sore, but not nearly tired enough to welcome the
Dream. I could hear beautiful music cascading through the windows, calling to
me; I wanted that festival, and possibly some more Wake-Me-Not roots to chew
on.

“You can't
tell me you don't want to go out there,” I said.

“There is no
more time to play.” He headed towards the large white door the man at the desk
had said was ours. It had engravings of dancers and musicians along the frame.

“How boring,”
I said as he turned the little key in the lock. We entered a room that looked
like it was meant for someone who had lived their whole life in utter disregard
of poverty. There were elaborate couches trimmed with lace, glossy tables,
gold-trimmed windows and detailed tapestries depicting the gods and other old
and popular legends. A huge bed stood at the far side of the room under a
magnificent canopy of pink silk.

“My, what
money can buy you these days,” I said, staring darkly at a fancy marble statue
of a fat sprite with doves nesting in his hair.

“And I can
assure you this was probably the worst room he had to offer,” Traken said,
whistling as he ran one finger along an immense ivory bedpost. “No wonder they
charge in gold. Who will get the bed?”

I looked. It
was big enough for about five people width-wise, and double the length of a
normal mat. Its puffy purple quilt looked comfortable if not a little stiff. I
didn’t really plan to sleep in such a thing, but played along. “I don't know,
both of us? It's big enough.”

“Are you
offering to share a bed with me?” Traken asked, grinning large.

“Why not? I
sleep with a knife. Actually,” I mentally counted the daggers I had left, “four
of them.”

“Intriguing,”
he said, “but as exciting as that would be, I was only joking. I am not nearly
naïve enough to sleep next to you or anyone. I will take the furniture near the
door here, if you don't mind, and I'd like to assure you that I sleep with a
blade too... and one eye open.” His expression made me want to ruffle his
feathers again. A riled Traken was much more fun than this one.

However,
right now I needed a distraction before this sleep-planning got too far.

“This place
certainly is huge,” I said, peering at everything from under the brim of my
hat. “Do you think there are even private bathrooms? I couldn't imagine nobles
agreeing to share.”

“Looks like
it's attached directly to this one,” Traken said, pointing out an opening in the
wall that led to a very richly tiled room. He wandered in to inspect it, and
called his findings back out. “A toilet seat covered in dyed elephant skin...
what ludicrous luxury. It reminds me of the house of an aristocrat I was spying
on once. The walls of one whole room were embedded with precious gems that had
to be worth more than the entire estate.”

He probably
went on to say more, but I used what small moment I had and darted to the door,
making a silent escape. Traken could obviously magic himself anywhere to find
me, and finding was what he was good at, but if I could get myself lost in the
crowds of festival-goers then maybe I would stand a chance for a little while.

A merry
little chase
, I
thought, bounding down the stairs again. I side-stepped the thinning chatters
in the lobby and exited out the grand front entrance into the early sounds of
festivities.

The sun was
finally almost gone from the horizon, and the moment I hit the street I was
encompassed in merry crowds of visitors and townsfolk, which erased any fear that
Traken's job might be easy.

The streets
were not brightly illuminated like in Rusuro, but the dim lighting created a very
pleasant ambiance. Colorful paper lanterns lined the roads, and huge stages
were alight with dancing torches or hovering magi-globes. The smell of food was
intense and staggering. I wished for a moment to have a night like the one in
Rusuro again, trying every delicacy on display; the way Traken's eyes had lit
when I shared bits with him had been amusing. It had been such a long time
since I shared things with anyone like that. Perhaps festivals were the types
of events my book had spoken of, that were meant to be shared with others as a
form of bonding and camaraderie.

It is your
own stubborn fault you’re missing this, Dogboy,
I thought.

I spent at
least an hour wandering through the stalls by myself and watching the
performances. Their shows truly were impressive, and just like the clothing
from the tailor shop, not a single one was plain. I watched acrobats flip on
tightropes over fire, and dancers tumble and weave around each other as if they
had been born without bones in their bodies. I wondered if there was a magic
behind their movements, a “source” they were accessing all their own... if
there was, its only name could be freedom.

Every
production was accompanied by music, from flutes and drums to violins and
harps. The voices of those instruments thrilled against my skin like the songs
of my swords and the tickle of magic, and I followed every new curiosity with
jubilation and an emerald gaze. It was a pity that I had spent so many years
crazed, indifferent to the glorious things that life had to offer such as this.
The Restful Monks had given me so much more than I could ever thank them for.

It was in the
throes of these thoughts, and under the gaze of the blood-red moon, that I
found myself near a stage where a large number of people had gathered. They
were waving flags of different shades of red in time to a beat, a rhythm
carried by drummers on the edges of the large platform. The musicians were
fierce women with hard muscles, wearing only under-cloths on their upper halves
and wide-legged pants on their lower. They pounded savagely against large
leather-hide drums, generating a ceaseless sound that felt like a war-cry in my
chest.

I could not
will myself away, and stood transfixed at the back of the audience. I watched
with a consuming fascination as they moved, skin sleek with sweat in the
torchlight, bits of dirt and sweat flying into the air each time their hands
hit the reverberating flesh of the drums. The scene spoke to me of a feeling
from long ago. It was old and feral.  

“Excuse me,”
someone said in my ear, breaking me from my trance. “You, two-swords. Yeah,
you. Aren't you supposed to be on stage?”

I looked over
in a captivated daze to see a small, middle-aged man with a large nose glaring
up at me. He “humphed” through his nose in such a way that made his mustache
shiver.

“May I help
you?” I asked, after a moment of stunned silence.  

“Yes, you
very well can,” he said, sounding slightly aghast. “You
are
our
replacement dancer, right? Davin broke his ankle, and we sent for a replacement
from Madam Celia. You.”

“I'm afraid
I'm just here in town for the festival.”

His frown
sagged into a sullen look and he leaned forward, pipe-smoke breath saturating
my face. “Okay, look, could you pretend you are? You got two swords and you
know 'em, right? You ever danced? Well, you've fought, that's for certain.
Close enough.” He “humphed” again through his nose. “We got a main guy, Ro, and
he's a good sword dancer, but he needs someone to dance against or we can't do
the show. Yesterday was a big hit and we have an even bigger crowd tonight, but
now our other man...”

“What exactly
are you asking for?” I interrupted. He swallowed his words and sighed.

“Look, I'll
pay. I just need you to go up on stage and fight off against our guy. It's a
dance, no slicing each other. If you just follow his movements, you'll be
fine.”

I had danced
like that when I was first learning swordplay, under the tutelage of my old
sword-master, but that was a long time ago. The thought of moving to those
drums appealed to me though, and I didn't like the idea of such fervor going to
waste.

“Alright,” I
told him, and was immediately yanked through the crowd.

Around back,
a large man that must have been Ro was waiting by the stairs leading up to the
platform. He had dark hair cut close to his scalp and thick eyebrows resting
over patient eyes. He wore loose pants made of beaded soft leather and thick
colorful bands on his arms, but the most striking attribute was a large tattoo
of a wolf on his chest. The eyes were sharp, triangular and yellow, and the
teeth were bared. It was a symbol almost tribal, like the remnants of the
Crulla
clans that had integrated into the rest of Kurdak when I was still young. It
was likely this dance was based off their old traditions, as they had been
known for their graceful swordplay, but even more likely that he was a true
descendant. His thick shoulders and squat neck looked right, and the wolf did
not seem to be merely painted on.

The tattoo
pulled at me, drew me in just like the drums. The man, Ro, held long swords in
both hands at the ready; his expression was unreadable as he looked me up and
down.

“This is my
partner?” he asked. His voice was thick, like a giant's. He towered a foot
above me. “Kind of small.”

“She knows
swords,” the middle-aged man coddled, pushing me forward. “She doesn't know the
dance, so you'll have to go slow.”

“Slow? With
the drums? I don't know.” He looked at me, dark eyes simple and direct. “You
could end up dead.”

That brought
a toothy smile to my face. “You'd have to at least be trying.”

“That will
do, I guess,” he said with a nod. “Come out here with me, and just follow my
lead. Bring both your swords.”

“And take off
that hat,” the mustached manager added. “This is a show. They need to see you.”

I did not
like the thought of that, but I had little time to argue. Ro ascended the steps
without another word, and the manager made a motion with his hands towards the
drummers. Their hands froze, eliciting gasps from the crowd, and then just as
swiftly they moved into a low beat, quiet and slow. It built tension in the
air, growing faster and stronger until I could feel it against my skin again.

I took off my
bag and Traken's robe, and hesitated a moment longer before taking off the hat.
It was dark, and it was not like anyone would be able to see anything, but the
idea of leaving it behind still petrified me. The drums were calling, though,
and I felt like I couldn't leave them waiting. I left everything at the foot of
the steps and followed Ro up, unsheathing both Valentina and Phernado. The cool
air prickled my bare midsection and made the hair on my arms stand on end.

The crowd
hushed, a mass of life rigid in its state of expectation, as we appeared in the
middle of the drum circle. Ro moved slowly, deliberately, and I mimicked him,
one step every couple of beats. In this way we circled each other, and I felt
the familiarity of it like a training exercise. This was the sizing up part, so
I played along and followed each powerful movement like a moth drawn to the
promise of fire. The eyes of that wolf drew me in, captivating me. Ro's dark
gaze followed me as well, and we were lost in the graceful, steady movements.

My swords
sung along with the drums, and their pulsing hum stirred my blood further.
This, for once, was not the rage of bloodlust I felt from them, but an elation
of spirit. Their joy in turn lightened my heart, and I smiled.

Let's
dance with him, shall we?

Suddenly the
drums grew thunderous, calling us to arms, and Ro leapt forward. I did as well,
and our swords met with a hiss of steel. We didn't press the touch, but pulled
back and struck again. I realized soon that we were creating more music with
the clash of our swords, following the rhythm.

I fell into
it naturally, as if it were a playground I knew like the back of my hand. In a
way it was. It was strange to know where each swing of his swords would be and
try to meet them instead of dodging and finding an opening. We spun and fell
forwards and backwards to the entrancing, all-encompassing music. If Ro had
meant to go slow, I didn't let him. We were soon moving at speeds hard to
follow, metal flashing, skin drenched in sweat. These were not preconceived
steps, but a natural flow of sparring blending with the beat of the drums. My
long braid whipped around behind my back, weaving circles behind my movements.

Too soon the
drums slackened, and though I did not want to, I followed. Ro and I stalked
each other again, striking and falling back, and the story unfolded: the tale
of two warriors head-to-head, slowly losing strength with each movement. The
drums echoed this, falling feeble at some points, growing weaker.

Despite the
slower movements, there was a light burning in Ro's eyes. The beat swelled and
then plummeted, and we came in for one more attack. He hooked my leg with his
as he slid in, a clear signal not to move away, and we pushed the swords
against each other and held them. The moment wavered with the ailing beat, and
he signaled down with his eyes. As soon as the drums went silent we collapsed
onto each other as if our souls had left our bodies. My side hit the wooden
stage, and Ro crumpled above me, though his muscles tensed and he did not quite
press me with his complete weight.

The drums
called out one, two, three more times, but we didn't move. I could feel through
Ro's chest pressed down on my cheek that my dance partner's heart was beating
strong and fast.

The
instruments let out a few more small, pathetic cries, and then the drummers
slumped against them, just as drained and defeated as us. This I saw under the
shadow of Ro's massive arm, and felt the sensation in the air that hung as
silence. Then the crowd erupted with its own noise, and only after a time of
that did Ro and I finally break from our spells. I gathered my swords and
stood, looking out over the dim sea of the audience. I saw coins flashing,
teeth gleaming, and many more flags than I could count waving frantically back
at me. The din of excitement was a roar just as pleasurable as the rumble of
the drums.

Ro mimed for
us to bow, and then I followed him off the platform. The manager was back there
waiting for us, dancing on his toes. His little eyes were shining.

“That was
incredible! You two do so well together.” He jumped towards me and clung to my
hand, shaking it furiously. “Please, please say you'll stay the next couple
days and perform. Or at least the rest of the night. I'll make it very worth
your while.”

“I would like
to, but I'm afraid I really can't,” I said, realizing I had a big grin on my
face. “I'm glad the show went well though.” I glanced down at the foot of the
stairs, and felt my stomach drop. “Where did my hat and bag go?”

“Oh, that
young man right there. He has them, said he knew you,” the manager said,
mustache rippling.
And you trusted that?
I wondered, spinning around.
Traken stood just a couple feet away, an icy smile on his face, and my
shoulders tensed. His brown eyes, half-golden in the firelight, glinted with
nothing less than malicious intent.

“Ah. Hi,” I
said. “I see you found me.”

“So I have,”
Traken agreed, and his soft voice worried me that much more. It was not the
cold tone I had heard him use against the Falcons, but a scathing temperament
that seemed much more personal. Had I really thought Traken was fun when he was
angry?

“Girl, what's
your name?” the manager interrupted, holding out a small pouch which he had
just filled with money from the coin hats. I sheathed my swords quickly and
took it, fumbling for an answer before I remembered what Traken had told the
innkeeper.

“Fox.”

“Well, Fox,
it was a pleasure doing business with you.” He bared his teeth, little
rectangles blackened with tar. Ro stood behind him, dabbing sweat off with a
small cloth. He smiled at me, and it was genuine and soft.

“That was a
good dance, Fox. I would have liked to do it again with you.”

Traken moved
closer before I could answer, tilting his head to examine the larger man. His
lips went up in a sneer.

“Nice dog,”
he said.

It was only
then, with those words becoming a solid reality as they were spoken, that the
tattoo of the beast on Ro's chest truly stuck me. A wolf or a
dog
? The
difference held the importance of more than a century's worth of searching. If
I wanted my answers, I had to trust the man with the dog. The nagging feeling
that Traken had not been the right one was still fresh in the back of my mind,
and ready to accept any answer that would ease its conscience, but the rest of
me was not so sure.