The Rebellion (40 page)

“How?” I asked miserably.

“The same way we all do at such times,” Brydda said harshly, the calmness suddenly drawn aside from his eyes as if it were a veil, revealing raw pain. “Do you think I have forgotten Idris already? Of course I have not. I fear some part of me will always be grieving for him. But I cannot let grief get in the way of a cause that both Idris and I believed in. So I act. I pretend. And some of the time I am able to forget that it is a pretense, and for that little period, I forget my pain.”

“Act?” I echoed blankly.

He shook me again. “Pretend, Elspeth. Pretend that you are clever, wise, brave, calm, courageous—in the same way that you pretend to be Elaria the gypsy.”

A man and a woman came out of a nearby door with a child between them. The parents ignored us, but the little girl looked deeply into my eyes, seeming to search for something.

“We are almost there,” Brydda said when they were out of earshot. “They are expecting you to be a fumbling half-wit, and I have made no attempt to question their misconceptions. Their surprise will give you an advantage. For Obernewtyn’s sake, you must show your best and most impressive face, as well as your most human one. This is not the time to be cold and withdrawn. You must give them something to warm to. Once we are in there, I cannot be seen to instruct or direct you—especially since Malik already suspects that you are my pawn.”

I took a deep shuddering breath; then I drew on an expression of determined calmness and turned it to the big man.

“Hmmph.” Brydda’s lips twitched in a faint smile. “Well, that is not so good, but it will do to be going on with.” The rebel turned a corner into a lane that was too narrow for me to walk alongside him, and I fell behind. At once, the false smile fell from my lips and eyes. If he wanted acting, then acting he would have—but I would not pretend to myself.

As we walked, I tried to recall Brydda’s warnings about subjects to be avoided and what I must and must not say, his advice on how to behave if this or that happened. My mind seemed to whirl with a tempest of words that would not connect.

“We are here,” Brydda said suddenly. His tone was light, but his eyes betrayed tension. He flung his hand to indicate a tall cream wall in which was set a heavily carved wooden door. He paused, his hand poised over the gate latch, to look at me. “Are you all right?”

I nodded resolutely, though in truth I felt like sitting on the footpath and howling.

Brydda merely nodded and pushed the gate open. Beyond it was a little lush wilderness in miniature, open to the sky. It reminded me with painful insistence of a leafy glade where, during breaks from the summertime harvest on the farms, Matthew, Cameo, Dameon, and I had often gone to sit before Rushton took over Obernewtyn. Matthew and I used to lie flat on our backs, searching the clouds for images of the future, of our hopes and our dreams. My eyes misted, but I blinked savagely as a thin boy a few years older than me came through the trees to meet us. Either he had been waiting, or the door had given him some silent warning of our approach. He had a long serious face, flyaway gingerish hair, and sad blue eyes that were unchanged by his smile.

“Welcome, my friend,” he said in a warm, unexpectedly deep voice, clasping the rebel’s hand. Then he bowed formally to me.

“You are Dardelan?” I guessed.

He nodded. “I suppose it is not hard to guess. Brydda probably told you that I am by far the youngest rebel you will meet today. A fact that Malik has seen fit to mention in at least
a dozen ways since his arrival,” he added ruefully to the big rebel.

“I am Elspeth Gordie,” I said, holding my hand out to him.

He shook it solemnly, then led the way along a little winding path to the terrace of a graceful-looking residence.

“This is a wonderful idea,” I said, waving my hand behind us as we passed into an overheated hallway. “Much better than building up against the street. Far more private.”

“The Beforetimers used to have many such walled gardens—one to each residence, or so my father says,” Dardelan murmured, ushering us inside. “They were very keen on privacy. I must apologize for the heating. I know it is too hot, but my father’s illness makes him very susceptible to chills.”

“It is nice to be warm,” I said politely, though in fact I felt stifled by the hot, closed atmosphere of the house. “Brydda told me of your father’s illness,” I said on impulse, thinking of the teknoguilder Pavo. “I had a friend die of it. I am sorry.”

Dardelan nodded acknowledgment, and his eyes held a measure of speculation that indicated I was not what he had expected. He led us through the house via a dark hall into a huge sunken room. It was windowless, being at the center of the dwelling, as near as I could make out. Two lanterns cast a murky light over the room’s occupants.

A subdued hum of conversation fell into silence as they became aware of us, and I felt myself suddenly to be the cynosure of all eyes. I bore the visual dissection in dignified silence, blinking and waiting for my eyes to adjust to the dimness.

After a long pause, a handsome older man, with smooth gray hair and eyes the same shade, rose and stepped forward into the lantern light. “So, the Misfit,” he said in a sneering voice. There was an arrogance in the way he eyed me from
head to toe. I waited for him to introduce himself, but when he did not, taking into account his deliberate discourtesy and arrogant bearing, I guessed he was Malik.

I lifted my eyebrows and stepped farther into the room. “I will move closer to the light so that you may get a better view, should you wish to count my teeth and toes.”

An astounded silence met my words; then an elderly man gave a startled bark of laughter.

But Malik was too experienced a player to let this pinprick upset him. “You are even younger than the stripling,” he said disparagingly, as if my words had been callow rather than clever. And, in addition, he had managed to turn the words into a sideways jab at Dardelan.

“To be young is not necessarily to be weak,” Brydda said pleasantly. “Whereas to be old … but you know what it is to be old, don’t you, Malik. It renders the mind resistant to anything new.” As he spoke, he moved to stand near Dardelan, symbolically allying himself with the youth rather than with me. I was, I realized suddenly, truly alone.

Malik gave Brydda a stiff smile. “I am older, true, but I am proud of my years, for age brings caution and experience and wisdom, and these things are well in one who would command. But perhaps that is why you surround yourself with children and freaks, Brydda. With such an obedient and malleable following, you would have no need of age or its virtues.”

Dardelan colored slightly but wisely he held his tongue.

“I am no leader,” Brydda said mildly.

Malik snorted, and it must have been obvious to the others in the room that he regarded Brydda as a rival. His eyes came swiftly back to me. “Does it speak, we wonder?” he inquired brightly. “Or has your parrot exhausted its meager
repertoire, Brydda? Perhaps you should have toiled harder to gift your little pet more words to play with.”

I had to bite my tongue to keep from showing anger before I spoke. “I speak when I have something to say, not to admire the sound of my voice,” I said flatly.

The rebel’s eyes glittered with malice, but his smile did not falter.

“Malik, this is Elspeth Gordie,” Dardelan said. “It is impolite for us to speak to a guest without using her name.”

“She is no guest of mine, boy,” Malik snapped. “I have higher standards. She is a gypsy halfbreed and a Misfit to boot.”

The man who had laughed earlier leaned forward in his seat, and I realized that prematurely gray hair made him appear older than he was. His face was unlined, and I guessed his age to lie between Brydda’s and Malik’s. He was far less robust in appearance than either of them, yet there was a craftiness in his eyes that suggested the muscle he used to reign was one of brain rather than brawn.

“There is not much to you but skin and bones, child,” he murmured. “Are they all like you, these warriors Brydda says you would bring to strengthen us?”

I saw then the part I was meant to play at this gathering. I was to be a pawn for these men to score against one another. Anger drove away my dreary sadness. I would be no one’s pawn. I made myself smile.

“Do you measure your followers by their mass, sirrah?” I asked sweetly. “We Talented Misfits measure ourselves by our deeds, and surely you of all people would concede that size does not always indicate courage or cunning or even strength.” I let my eyes fall momentarily to his own slender frame.

It was difficult to tell in the half-light, but I thought his pale cheeks flushed slightly. “I am Cassell,” he said at last. “And talk is cheap.”

“That may be so of rebel talk, sirrah,” I rejoined promptly. “But my words bear my honor; therefore, they are valuable indeed.”

This time his brows raised. “Well, you can talk a good fight.”

I sensed I had won a slight victory but did not press the point. A movement on the other side of the room caught my eye. When the man who had made it rose, it was all I could do not to gape. It was the Elii I had known as a girl at the Kinraide orphan home. The orphanage guardians there had always predicted that Elii would die of the rotting sickness as his father had, for he had led orphans questing for whitestick. But he showed no sign of ill health. Nor did he show by word or gesture that he remembered me.

For that I was grateful, since he had not known me as a gypsy but as an orphan. And perhaps the simple answer to that was that I had changed, too.

He shook my hand and looked into my face, and I remembered that he had always been prone to judge by instinct rather than by the words people offered. The man alongside him had a stern, ascetic face and disdainful eyes, and wore his yellow hair in two flaxen plaits. Dardelan introduced him as Tardis’s representative, Gwynedd.

Dardelan moved me past the silent Murmrothian to a hugely obese man named Brocade, who did not trouble himself to rise. He might have been brother to the Teknoguildmaster, except that where much of Garth’s bulk was muscle, Brocade was like a plump, overstuffed powder puff. He was dressed in as much lace and silk as any maiden would wear on her bonding day. From Brydda’s lecture, I remembered this
man was a staunch ally of Malik’s and resisted the temptation to ask Cassell if this was the sort of size he liked behind him.

Brocade had a haughty, self-important air as his eyes swept over me disparagingly. “The creature is very badly dressed considering the importance of this meeting,” he said in an affected tone. “Are all your Misfits the same color as you? I am not fond of that darkish skin color, for as a rule, such belongs to people of inferior mentality.”

I was too dumbfounded by this absurdity to respond.

A drawling and unusually accented female voice arose from the darkest corner of the room. “This is a very interesting observation, Brocade. I must be sure to mention it to Bram and the tribes when next we speak.”

I turned with the rest to see a woman unfold herself from a couch as gracefully as a cat. Standing, she was at least a head taller than any man in the room and possessed of considerable exotic beauty. Her skin was a striking yellow-gold, and her tawny eyes were slanted up at the outer edges. Her hair was as straight and black as combed silk and cut perfectly level at her jaw and across her brow. The hair and eyes and graceful movements made her appear almost catlike, and the impression deepened as she displayed an amused, feline smile.

Yet the look she bent on Brocade was anything but amused, and he swallowed convulsively, numerous chins wobbling in alarm as her fingers slipped casually to the hilt of an ornate knife in her belt.

“I did not mean to insult your people,” he bleated. “Your color is not the same as this creature’s.”

“What has color to do with anything?” Jakoby asked, for I knew it must be her. She wore voluminous trousers, a long tunic belted at the hip, and flat sandals.

Her fingers caressed the hilt of her knife absently, and Brocade followed the movement with bulging eyes. “I meant no offense,” he said.

“None taken,” Jakoby said pleasantly. “Provided you retract your statement. But if you wish to stand by it, then I must demand a bout to see whether your pale skin really reflects greater wit than other colors.”

“A … bout? You can’t mean I should wrestle you? A woman?”

Her brows arched. “Is my gender also cause to think me inferior?”

“No! I—I—I retract!” Brocade stammered, mopping his damp brow with a scrap of silk.

Jakoby gave a throaty laugh of derision; then she turned to me and held out her long hand. I put mine into it, expecting her to shake it, but instead she seemed to weigh it in hers thoughtfully as she stared into my eyes. Then she turned my hand over and examined the palm minutely. After a long moment, she closed my hand into a fist but kept it in her own hard grip, looking again into my eyes.

“A good hand, girl. One that must grasp many threads of destiny. A hand whose owner is at once open and true, and yet who is the keeper of terrible secrets and a seeker of them.”

Before I could wrench my hand away, Jakoby released it and turned to face the rest of the room.

“I vote for an alliance with this girl’s people,” she announced.

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