Mickey Zucker Reichert - Shadows Realm (24 page)

“Exactly.” Silme smiled. “Take away the staff and that fits an eighth of Norway’s population.”

“Norway’s population,” Taziar repeated forcefully. “Not Cullinsberg’s. Mardain’s mercy, Silme, she’s got an unmistakable accent. Isn’t there something you can do to disguise her?”

Silme leaned against the door to their room. “I suppose. But do you think we have time to shop now? And do you really believe it would matter? New clothes and some makeup isn’t going to do much to change a description Harriman only knows from vague reports anyway, other than to draw suspicion if it’s noticed.”

“I meant some sort of magical disguise.” Taziar had never seen any Dragonrank mage change his appearance, even the ugly or elderly ones. But his contact with the rare sorcerers was limited to Silme, Astryd, and the few meetings they led him into, most notably his excursion to the Dragonrank school; and the situation seemed too dangerous not to ask. “Isn’t there some way she could make herself look different, even if just to Harriman?”

Silme shook her head. “The mind barriers keep sorcerers from casting anything that works by modifying other people’s perceptions or intentions, like dreams or illusions. That’s what makes Allerum’s lack of mind barriers so dangerous. When he first came here, we couldn’t trust anything he saw or heard. His every mood was suspect. Luckily, he learned how to tell when sorcerers tried to manipulate him and even how to fight back a bit.”

Taziar listened carefully. Though quick to revert to English words and a strange, distant morality, Larson doggedly avoided talking about the more serious aspects of his past.

Silme continued, “I might be able to enter Harriman’s mind, but not without risking a confrontation with his master.” She frowned, and fear touched her expression briefly.

Taziar stared. Never before had he seen Silme appear any way except in complete control of a situation.

Silme recovered quickly. “To actually alter Astryd would take phenomenal amounts of magic, certainly more than she has or can afford to waste. Even if she managed it, she’d never get herself back to looking exactly the way she does now.”

Taziar shivered at the thought. It was Astryd he loved, not her appearance, but he wondered if he could still consider her the same person with unrecognizable features on a face he had come to use as the standard for beauty.
And even if Harriman doesn’t recognize her, what if he finds her as attractive as I do?
The image returned, of the nobleman calmly blocking a berserk’s punch, tearing Skereye away from his victim like a starved lion from its kill.
Harriman’s strong, bold to the point of insanity, and Astryd’s never had to physically defend herself against any man larger than me.
“It’s too dangerous.”

Silme sighed in exasperation, naturally assuming Taziar was still concerned about Harriman identifying Astryd. “She can leave the staff and take another name. This is a huge city. She can’t be the only Norse woman in Cullins-berg. Besides, Shadow, everyone in the town would recognize you. Only Harriman might know Astryd. She may even be able to avoid him completely. Harriman may leave the simple chores, like hiring new girls, to his underlings. And you’re forgetting the most important thing. If she gets into trouble, Astryd can transport back to us almost instantly. Can you do that?” Her gray eyes probed in question.

Taziar’s rebuttal died in his throat.
That’s true. As long as Astryd can transport, she’s in no danger.
He managed a grimace of acceptance. “You’re right, as always. But before she goes, I want to talk to her. I need to describe the layout of the whorehouse, to name some of the people, and give her some directions.”

Silme clapped a hand to Taziar’s shoulder, too relieved to quibble. “Take all the time you need.”

Astryd threaded through the maze of city streets, concentrating on Taziar’s complicated series of directions designed, it seemed, to keep her clear of back roads and shadowed alleys. Though still touched by fatigue, nervous energy drove her to shy at every sudden movement. Her edginess drew unwanted attention. The afternoon crowds eyed her with pity, questioning her intelligence or passing whispered comments about the tiny, young woman with no man to protect her from thieves. Under ordinary circumstances, Astryd would have found the citizens’ concern amusing, but two days of draining her life energy nearly to nothing had left her more exhausted than a morning nap could overcome. Her aura spread around her, its usual brilliant white sheen dulled by weariness, its edges dark. Anxiety kept her hyperalert; each movement claimed more vitality than normal, fraying the fringes of her aura.

Astryd took slow, deep breaths. Gradually, the rapid hammering of her heart slackened, and she was able to pay closer attention to the shops and landmarks Taziar had detailed. She tried to recall the list of names and descriptions of people she might encounter in Shylar’s whorehouse, but it all blended into a verbal lump of colors and shapes; the odd, Cullinsbergen names all sounded alike to her. The realization triggered another burst of stress. She calmed herself using the mental techniques taught in the Dragon-rank school.

Astryd turned another corner, and, by means of a rotting signpost, identified her new location as Panogya Street.
Magic or not, I’m the most ill-suited for this task. What does a shipbuilder’s daughter know of espionage?
Until Astryd’s dragonmark had appeared seven years ago, she had spent a carefree childhood helping her mother and sisters sew clothes and prepare meals or skipping across the timbers her father and brothers used to construct the fishing boats. Every spring, as ice dissolved from the harbors, the thaw turned men restless. Many sailed off, in dragon-prowed ships crafted or patched by her father, to seek war and win treasures in distant lands. They returned, scarred but wealthy, sharing their spoils with a rowdy generosity. But Astryd’s father and brothers never joined them. She had come by her slight stature honestly, by breeding, and her menfolk’s small hands were unfit for wielding their heavy-bladed axes in wild battles. The most exciting ventures of her town she knew of only distantly and vicariously, from stories leaked thirdhand after drunken boasts in the village tavern.

Spending eleven months of each year at the Dragonrank school, Astryd had learned much of strength, meditation, and magic, but little of human nature. She spent her one month vacations with her family. But the fisherfolk treated her with uncharacteristic reverence. The boys she grew up with had married during her absence, and her relationships with people were as stilted and ungainly as those of a child playing at being an adult.

Astryd’s reminiscences brought her to the polished wooden door of Shylar’s whorehouse. She wiped sweating palms on her cloak, and smoothed the skirts beneath it, and tried, again, to remain composed. Only minimally successful, she hoped the men would attribute her discomfort to the understandable nervousness of a woman requesting employment in a whorehouse.
It may appear appropriate, but it won’t help my powers of observation or make my task any easier.
Resigned, Astryd tapped a fist against the door.

Several seconds went by while Astryd feigned engrossment in the panel, avoiding the smug glances of passersby. Then, the door swung open and a male face peered out. “Yes?”

“I’m looking for a job,” Astryd said, wishing she sounded less timid.

The man studied Astryd in the afternoon sunlight. Frowning, he gestured her into the entryway. When she stepped through, he closed the door behind her.

“Cooking and cleaning,” Astryd clarified. “And running errands.”

The man shook his head. “We have someone who cooks, and the girls pitch in with the other jobs. But I’ll ask the master.” He marched forward. The hallway ended in a door. Pulling it open, he gestured Astryd through it.

Astryd found herself in a huge, open room where women lounged in brightly-colored dresses styled to accentuate the bulges of breasts and thighs. A smaller number of men sat, mixed in with the girls. All discussion ceased as Astryd appeared, and every eye turned toward her. She met their gazes without flinching, making no judgments. Discovering the woman she had seen in her location spell, she smiled.

“Wait here.” The man’s tone seemed more suited to a threat than a suggestion. He trotted past the base of a staircase and through a door just beyond it.

As the conversations resumed, Astryd turned her attention to the layout of the whorehouse. The walls of the meeting room were painted a soft, baby blue, interrupted by a pair of doors in the farthest corner of the left wall that Taziar had explained led to matched bargaining rooms. The chambers above them remained in perpetual darkness, and knotholes in the floor allowed their occupants to hear and observe any business being conducted in the rooms below. To Astryd’s right, the staircase led to the bedrooms, and the door the man had gone through opened onto the kitchen and private rooms of the women who lived here.

Shortly, the kitchen door was wrenched open. The man who had met Astryd emerged first, followed by Harriman and his bodyguards. Harriman was wiping his hands on a rag. His gaze roved up and down Astryd with the intensity of a man purchasing expensive merchandise. His expression never changed, but the movement of his fingers on the cloth slowed and became mechanical.

Astryd shivered.
Does he look at everyone this way? Does he like my appearance? Does he recognize me?
Harriman stepped around the man in front of him and tossed the rag at him. The other man fumbled it, then caught it in a two-handed grip. He sidled out of the way to give Halden and Skereye room to pass.

Astryd looked up at Harriman, studying bland features that appeared more kindly than she’d expected. Taziar’s warning rose from memory. “
You’re gathering information, Astryd. Don’t try anything recklessly heroic. If you get Harriman alone in a position where you can easily kill him and escape, try it. But don’t risk your life and destroy your cover for vague possibilities.
” The thought of Taziar condemning headstrong courage made her grin.

Apparently thinking Astryd’s expression was intended for him, Harriman returned the smile. “Fine. You can start today. Keep the dust off the walls and furnishings and make sure the beds are made. In return, we’ll give you room and board. Don’t take anything that doesn’t belong to you. I’ll expect you to run errands for anyone here who asks, but you take your final commands from me. Whatever I say, you do. Understand?”

Astryd nodded. Her glance strayed beyond Harriman to his bodyguards. They towered nearly half again her height; a layer of fat fleshed out their muscles, sacrificing definition for girth. Their scarred features and glazed eyes looked familiar. Astryd had known men addicted to the berserker mushrooms and the blood-frenzy of Viking raids who lived in desperate misery between sessions of pirating. She knew they would prove ferocious and unpredictable warriors, undaunted by pain.

Harriman gestured toward the staircase. “Get to work.” He looked beyond Astryd. “Mat-hilde, you come with me. We need to talk.” He spun on a heel and trotted up the steps, Halden and Skereye directly behind him.

The woman Harriman had indicated swallowed hard, and several others flinched in sympathy. With a slowness indicating reluctance, Mat-hilde uncrossed her ankles, rose from a stool, and yanked at the clinging fabric of her dress. Astryd read fear in Mat-hilde’s eyes, and saw the woman shiver as she climbed the stairs.

Astryd seized the rag from the man’s hands and followed, certain of two things.
The exchange won’t be pleasant, and I’m going to know why.
She watched as Mat-hilde entered a room. Astryd caught a glimpse of Skereye’s back and the corner of a bed before the door slammed shut.

Astryd scurried past rows of bedrooms. The door before the room Harriman had chosen for his conference was closed, but the panel of the next chamber stood ajar. Astryd peeked through the crack into a cramped, pink-walled room with no windows. The bed sheets and coverlet lay rumpled, and a nightstand held a flickering lantern.
Perfect.
Astryd slipped within, pulling the door closed behind her. Aware that the walls would have been built thick enough to block out sounds from neighboring rooms, Astryd tapped her life energy to accentuate her hearing. She pressed an ear to the partition, but Mat-hilde’s voice wafted to her as an incomprehensible whisper.

Astryd drew more life force to her, channeling it into her spell. Her aura dimmed, then flared back to blend in tone with the half-lit room.

“... and Shylar always said we don’t have to do anything we don’t feel comfortable doing.”

Astryd heard the unmistakable sound of a slap, followed by a shrill gasp and a stumbling step. Harriman’s voice sounded as loud as a scream. “Shylar’s gone, damn it! I’m in charge now, and I say you do whatever the customer wants. Do you understand that?”

Harriman’s words pounded Astryd’s magically acute hearing, causing pain. She back-stepped, clamping a hand to her ringing ear. Turning, she pressed her other ear to the wall, felt the surface cold against her cheek.

Astryd heard no reply from Mat-hilde. Another slap reverberated through the room, and some piece of furniture scraped across the floor. “I asked if you understand.”

Mat-hilde’s voice held the hesitant, breathy quality of tears withheld. “I ... understand.”

“Good girl.” Harriman spoke condescendingly, the way a man might praise a dog. A moment later, the door opened.

Astryd backed away from the wall, furiously pretending to dust. She heard the heightened stomp of footsteps as Harriman and his guards retreated down the hallway and the clomp as they descended the stairs. Quickly, Astryd dismissed her spell, pocketed the rag, and entered the room Harriman had vacated. Mat-hilde perched on the edge of the bed. The corners of her mouth quivered downward as she fought to keep from crying.

Astryd let the door click shut behind her. Without a word, she crossed the chamber, sat beside Mat-hilde, and wrapped her arms around the prostitute’s shoulders.

Mat-hilde stiffened, resisting Astryd even as she struggled to contain her tears. Then, apparently reading sincere concern in Astryd’s touch, Mat-hilde softened. Her sinews uncoiled, and her tears fell, warm and moist, on Astryd’s neck. Astryd drew Mat-hilde closer, each sob made the sorceress ache with sympathy. Finally Mat-hilde pulled away, and the crying jag died to sniffles.