The Crowded Shadows (33 page)

Razi clunked against something. There was silence, then another heartfelt, grunted curse. Wynter glanced into the tent, then back to the trees.

“Whose tent are you ransacking?” she said tightly.

“Úlfnaor’s.”

“
Jesu Christi!
” Wynter moaned. “Have you lost your reason?”

Razi continued to ignore her. There were soft little clunks as he lifted things and carefully put them down again. Wynter’s hand opened and closed on the hilt of her sword.
Come on, come on!
she thought, eyeing the impenetrable trees with growing anxiety.

There was a soft little “ah!” and Razi went still. Wynter crouched to look into the tent. “What?” she hissed, but Razi did not have to reply. She recognised a diplomatic folder when she saw one. Razi met her eyes, then he laid the hardbacked folder on the ground and carefully unlaced its ties.

“Shit,” he said, flatly.

“What is it?”

He was staring bleakly at the documents inside the folder. Carefully he lifted one, then another of the thin parchments, his mouth turning down a little more with each one.

“What is it, Razi?”

“The seals are paper thin.”

Wynter rolled her eyes in frustration. Thin seals were an absolute bane. There was no way to dislodge them without cracking the wax, not even a heated knife slipped between parchment and seal would work without damaging the crest in some way. “That explains the hardback portfolio rather than the usual leather roll,” she whispered. “Someone is being very careful.”

“Aye,” murmured Razi distractedly.

“Whose seal is it?”

He held a document out to her. What she saw froze her heart.

“Marguerite Shirken?” she whispered.

He nodded.

“Oh good Christ, Razi. What…?”

A woman called out down by Ashkr’s tent. They were not alone! Another voice answered the first and there was the unmistakable sound of two people conversing as one walked towards the other.

Wynter jerked her head,
Get out of there
, and Razi carefully secured everything before replacing the portfolio and leaving the tent.

Hallvor was crouched in the shade of Ashkr’s tent, plaiting cured willow bark into cord and humming quietly to herself. Two other women sat with her, their swords across their knees, playing knuckle bones. The three of them rose to their feet at Razi and Wynter’s approach.

“How is Sólmundr?” asked Razi, bowing politely.

The two guardswomen glanced at Hallvor, and she gestured to them to go back to their game. Reluctantly they crouched down into the shade, their eyes on Razi and Wynter. Hallvor led them away from the women, guiding them to the door of the tent. The sun beat down viciously here, the dry ground crackling underfoot.

“Sólmundr?” Razi asked again, looking into the healer’s dark eyes.

Hallvor compressed her mouth and her jaw tightened. “
Ní sé go maith
,” she said, shaking her head. “
Ní
…
ní
… ” she stopped talking and sighed in frustration, knowing full well that Razi and Wynter couldn’t understand her. She gestured helplessly, looking around as if for inspiration. Wynter shaded her eyes, trying to read her distressed face. “Sólmundr,” Hallvor said. “
Ní
…”
she cupped her hands and brought them to her mouth, in a drinking gesture. Then she shook her head.

“He will not drink?” asked Razi, repeating her motion with a slurping sound. Hallvor nodded. Razi grimaced.“ ’Tis too damn hot for that,” he said. “Can we go inside?” He motioned ducking in under the door, and Hallvor shooed the two of them ahead of her, pushing in after them and closing the door in her wake.

The ventilation flaps had been opened in the roof and the tent was cool and shady. The smoke of a little fire basin kept away the flies. Sólmundr was propped up in his bed, lying back against a deer-hide stuffed with straw. His knees were drawn up under the furs, and his eyes were shut, his white face motionless, his hands lifeless in his lap.

Hallvor crouched down at the foot of the pallet and anxiously scanned Sólmundr’s face. Razi and Wynter moved to the head of the bed.

“Hello, Sól,” said Razi, kneeling and taking Sólmundr’s hand. “I hear you’re being a stupid dung-head.” The weathered face creased into a smile, and Wynter saw a flash of the goodnatured man that they had met at the tavern. She knelt down by Razi’s side, as Sólmundr slit his eyes to look at them.

“Tabiyb,” he rasped. “You cured my agony. Your hands are gift to the world.” Wynter could see Razi’s precious opium in the unfocused spread of Sólmundr’s pupils. She could smell it on his breath.
We can use this if we are careful
, she thought.
We can take advantage of his confusion to get the information we seek
.

Razi grunted, holding the wiry man’s wrist between his fingers, counting his heartbeats. “Do not insult me with hollow flattery, if your intent is to kill yourself with neglect,” he growled mildly. Sólmundr chuffed a tiny laugh and his eyes slipped shut. Razi pushed the covers down and loosened his bandages. “Coinín tells me that you have work to do here,” he murmured, lifting the bindings and looking at the wound. “Yet you refuse to get well. You are too lazy to fulfil your duty to your people? Is that it?”

Sólmundr turned his face away, clenching his fists at Razi’s touch.

“A pox on my people,” he said softly.

Wynter and Razi glanced at him, shocked, but Sólmundr hardly seemed aware of what he was saying. He opened his eyes and stared at the wall of the tent. The painted silhouette of a lamb shivered in the breeze, sleeping peacefully beneath the splayed forepaws of a great bear. “A pox on them,” he breathed, “and their ways. Let Úlfnaor deliver that bitch’s papers without me. Let
him
dance to beat of her drum. I not go no further.”

Wynter and Razi glanced at Hallvor, but her eyes were on Razi, watching as he checked for infection. Razi began to bind the wound again, nodding reassuringly to Hallvor. “Those papers are important, Sólmundr,” chanced Razi, glancing at Wynter. “Surely you know this. Surely it matters to you that they get through.”

Sólmundr frowned at the little painted lamb. “Nothing matter. Nothing ever mattered except him. Now I useless. Cannot keep even my final promise
…”
He squeezed his eyes shut and covered his face with his hand.

“Well, it did not take him long to replace you,” said Wynter with a flash of inspiration. “Christopher has already taken your place at his side. He has accompanied him to the ceremony.” She had hoped for jealousy, thought it might spur Sólmundr to anger and jolt him to life, but to her amazement, when Sólmundr whipped back his hand and stared at her, it was hope she saw in his eyes.

“Coinín?” he breathed. “Coinín takes my place?”

Hallvor looked sharply at him. “Sól?” she asked.

“Hally,” he said, “
Tógfaidh Coinín m’áitse?
”

Hallvor’s eyes welled up and she nodded reluctantly. She murmured something about Ashkr, something that made her hang her head in shame.

Sólmundr laughed. “Oh,” he said. He scrubbed at his eyes. His breath hitched. “Oh, they did not tell me! They thought it would to hurt me. Oh, Iseult!” He sat forward suddenly and grabbed Wynter’s hand.

“Be
careful
, man!” cried Razi. “You will burst your stitches!”

Sólmundr flopped back against the cushion, dragging Wynter forward as he clutched her hand to his chest, his eyes closed. Then he licked his dry lips and glanced at Hallvor. “
A chroí
,” he whispered. “
Rud éigin le hól
.”

Hallvor’s solemn face cracked into a grin and she leapt to her feet. She grabbed Wynter and Razi around their shoulders, squeezing them together with shocking strength. “
Buíochas leat
, “she whispered into Wynter’s hair. “
Buíochas, a luichín
.”

Wynter was suddenly reminded of Marni, and the memory of that fierce, gigantic woman brought a momentary lump to her throat. She swallowed down on the unexpected emotion and nodded, patting Hallvor on her sinewy forearm. The dark-haired woman broke away and strode to the door, disappearing for a moment, and returning with a waterskin and three wooden beakers.

Sólmundr accepted the water with obvious thirst, and Hallvor stroked his hair and his strong arms and patted his back as he drank. Eventually he lay back against the cushions, his face weary, hunched slightly with the pain of his wound.

“So,” said Razi, eyeing Sólmundr. “I have not wasted my good sutures, my priceless opium and my precious time on a man who is determined to die, then, have I, Sól?”

Sólmundr just smiled in reply. “Coinín will take my place?” he asked. “He will stand by Ashkr?”

Razi glanced at Wynter. “He is in the forest now,” she said evasively. “He fulfils your duty as we speak.”

Sólmundr shifted carefully in the bed. “I must speak to him,” he murmured. “But somehow, I think
…”
He smiled up at the ceiling. “Aye, Coinín is a good man.”

“And what of your other duties?” asked Razi. “You will not be fit to travel for at least a fortnight and even then only very slowly. It is vital, surely, that those papers get through? How long do you have before they must be delivered?”

Wynter watched suspicion seep through the drug that was addling Sólmundr’s mind. Slowly, his expression hardened as he searched Razi’s face. To his credit, Razi didn’t turn away and his dark eyes remained steadfastly on Sólmundr’s.

“Who are you, Tabiyb?” asked Sólmundr softly. “Why for you ask me this questions about papers?”

“I am your doctor, Sól,” answered Razi. “I do not want you getting on a horse and ending up with your guts spilled out across your saddle. Those stitches will not stand up to hard travel. Even if your people were to strap you to a travois I could not—”

“It not your worry,” interrupted Sólmundr. “You not speak of it again,
tá go maith
?”

Razi licked his lips and dropped his eyes. Sólmundr glanced at Hallvor who was gesturing innocently to Wynter that she should drink some water. Wynter smiled and accepted, all her attention on the men’s low, carefully modulated conversation.

“You know what it is to be blood-eagled, Tabiyb?” asked Sólmundr.

Razi eyelids fluttered at the thought of that terrible torture. He nodded. Wynter stared at Sólmundr. Her throat clicked around the mouthful of water she was trying to swallow. Blood-eagled, good God.

“My people,” murmured Sólmundr, “this is what we do with spies. yes? Blood-eagle. I not like see that happen you, Tabiyb.” He looked deep into Razi’s brown eyes and the light tone of his voice belied the edge of iron in his face. “It not nice way to die,” he said.

“I won’t mention it again,” whispered Razi.

“Good,” nodded Sólmundr. “I think that good.” There was a moment of uneasy silence, during which Hallvor glanced between the three of them, her dark eyes questioning.

Sólmundr laid his head back against the hide cushion, watching Razi closely. “You play chess, Tabiyb?” he asked. “I suspect you do. I suspect you play very good, yes?” Razi nodded, and Sólmundr’s face creased into that charming gap toothed smile. “But not so good as me, I think,” he said. “I think I get Hallvor to fetch my board, yes, Tabiyb? And we play. We play many game together, you and me… and your little sister, she stay and watch, yes?”

Sólmundr turned his attention to Wynter. Although he was exhausted, his eyes sliding in and out of focus, she still felt like an insect under glass when he looked at her. “I not think it good idea,” he said, “I not think it
safe
, that you two be all alone in this big empty camp. I not like to think that you make mistake. Maybe go in wrong tent, maybe pick up wrong thing. And be accused of spies.”

Oh God
, thought Wynter,
oh my God
. Razi reached for her hand.

“You not worry, Tabiyb,” Sólmundr said. “I keep you out of trouble. Nice and safe, here by my bed. I play with you the chess, till the others come back from forest.” He lost his smile for a moment. “Yes, Tabiyb?”

Razi sat rigid and staring, his hand tight on Wynter’s. He nodded stiffly. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, Sólmundr. Let’s play chess.”

“I
t is still your move,” murmured Razi softly.

Sólmundr rolled his eyes open and licked his lips, peering at the board. They had made less than seven moves in two hours. Still, Sólmundr clung tenaciously to consciousness, shoving his pieces clumsily into place with shaky, sweat-soaked fingers.

Wynter reclined against the furs of Sólmundr’s bed, her head supported on a roll of hide, her knees bent to ease the pain in her back. She passed the time watching the painted silhouettes on the tent, and worrying about Christopher. The breeze was quite high, and it snapped and shivered at the hide coverings, making the lodge poles creak.

“You beat me this game, I think,” rasped Sólmundr, pushing a rook into place and slumping back against his hide cushion.

Razi grunted and surveyed the board. “Hmm,” he said. “And all it took was filling you with opium and removing a portion of your intestines.” He hesitated, his hand hovering over the game, then moved his knight and sat back, eyeing Sólmundr with sly amusement. “Your move.”