No One's Chosen (23 page)

Doiléir was slow to rise, his arm not wanting to push
him up from the dirt. Somehow he managed and came back to his feet.
He came charging at Socair, meaning to tackle her. He thudded into
her stomach with his shoulder dropped low. Socair spun as he
impacted and flung him to the ground again. She wanted to call out
to him, to beg him to stop this foolishness and talk. It was half
her fault they'd gone to screaming in the first place. Doiléir had
to bear some blame for being so deep in his cups that he would say
such a thing at all. The crowd made the words unforgivable. At
least for now.

He must have caught a rush of energy. Doiléir sprang
to his feet this time, wheeling 'round to Socair and throwing a
quick series of jabs. Her brigandine took the blows harmlessly but
Doiléir was undeterred. He backed, took a breath, and ducked in
again. This time, he was not so lucky. Socair sent a hooked punch
into the side of his head. Doiléir fell into a pile on the ground,
groaning as he hit. A cheer went up around them and Socair rushed
to grab him up, knowing she had put him unconscious. Silín helped
and proved the more useful of the two as the height difference made
carrying the elf with any dignity a hard thing to do.

The crowd dispersed more quickly than it had formed.
There was dinner to be eaten and while a fight was ready enough
excitement, once the business was done there was no reason to
linger. Silín was silent during the entire return trip. Socair was
not sure what to make of her facial expression. It was
disappointed, she thought, but Silín would smile every so often, as
if she were searching for some long ago time to prove it would all
be fine.

Socair, for her part, was not angry, as such. She
understood well that there was no place for Doiléir to point the
anger he felt over what he had seen. And the disappointment in
himself for having taken a bolt to the leg. Drink had sent it
pouring out at the first thing that had presented itself to him.
She supposed it was lucky she had been the one to confront him. It
could have been much worse had it been one of the Binseman's riders
or a ranking officer. He was an Attendant, to be sure, but that
most likely meant only a change in who would be apologizing on his
behalf.

They returned to Socair's tent at her insistence and
laid Doiléir on her bed. Her Attendants had received their new tent
and the accommodations were well enough, but Socair wanted them
nearby. She wanted Silín at her side and to speak to Doiléir as
soon as he rose from the slumber she had forced upon him.

The two women pulled chairs in front of the bed as
though staring at Doiléir would somehow help. Socair looked over to
Silín. She wore a loose shirt that allowed Socair to admire her
shoulders and the curve of her breasts. She was not small, by any
stretch, but she did not muscle the way Socair did. She was taut
and sinewy in a way that suited her. Silín was the fastest of them
though less able with a sword than Doiléir. They sat close enough
that Socair could smell her. It was a sour scent, but not
unpleasant. Silín must have had the time to bathe herself, but she
had not. Silín hated filth and had always complained when Socair or
Doiléir would lie on a bed unwashed or embrace her while covered in
dirt. It gave her pause.

"You've not washed."

Silín gasped and put a hand over her chest to close
the gap her shirt had left open. "Socair, please."

"No… it…" Socair blushed. She had not meant to say
anything bad. "It's… fine. I like your scent." It was Silín's turn
to blush now. "But… you hate filth. Why have you not bathed?"

Silín was quiet for a time. "I cannot bear to be
seen. Not naked. Not by anyone. I…" She hesitated. "I do not feel
things as you and Doiléir do. That much I have always known. I do
not cry or burn with passion so brightly as you. And I do not drown
myself in despair as Doiléir seems wont to do. I…"Silín could not
seem to find the words to say what she felt so she began again. "It
was terrible. All those bodies. I know it was terrible. But… I do
not remember a single face. I can scarcely even picture the pile if
I try. And when I do it is a muddled mass of bloodied clothes."

She shifted uncomfortably in her seat before
continuing. "I can picture the face of every satyr perfectly. Their
black eyes watching me. When… when we returned the first night, I
made for the baths. I got as far as my smallclothes and I froze. I
could feel their eyes on me. I've not been back since. I know it's
mad. This is the first I've been without my armor since then…"

Silín fell silent.

"We'll go together next time. After everyone has
gone."

"I…" Silín stopped and flashed the briefest of smiles
at the floor. "Thank you."

It would be hours before Doiléir finally awoke. Silín
fell asleep in the chair next to Socair. She was alone with her
thoughts again, though they were different this time. Determined.
Mistakes must not be made twice, she knew. If things went poorly
again they would talk, properly. They would not leave each other.
They would find strength in their bonds as she had with her
brothers on their hunts.

It was well after midnight when Doiléir finally
groaned and opened his eyes. A Saol storm had blown in from the
Mire and boomed occasionally around them. The heavy patter of rain
on canvas was soothing. Doiléir rubbed his head and looked over to
see Socair sitting next to a sleeping Silín.

He smiled. "She drools, you know."

"I know," Socair replied softly. "I've woken to a
hairful of the stuff more times than I wish to remember."

Doiléir looked at the roof of the tent and closed his
eyes tight for a time. He opened them and continued looking
skyward. "I'm sorry, love."

"I know." The words were all she gave.

He sighed and tried to laugh but the pain in his ribs
turned them to an awkward cough.

"I should hope it hurts enough to bring you some
sense." Socair's words were not unkind, almost playful in her
subtle way.

Doiléir spoke. "I love nothing more than a heavy
rain." The words seemed to be for no one in particular.

Socair knew the fight was done. He had apologized and
she knew he meant it. She had made him mean it in the yard in front
of half the soldiers in the camp. The rumors they were likely
whispering already would be around longer than any anger she would
be able to rally.

"You are a brazen man, Doiléir."

"It is no fault of mine. I fell out of my mother
upside-down and I've had no end of trouble trying to keep shit
pouring from the proper end."

Socair smiled briefly. Looking at Doiléir with
concerned eyes, the smile faded. "Will you be alright?"

"I will, but I am not," he said plainly. "I would
destroy them to the last cursed hoof that I could." Doiléir was
silent for a moment. "I did not expect it, the corpses."

He sat up in the bed, groaning against the pain. "A
young girl… in the pile… she was still alive."

"What? Why didn't you say something?"

"She was half buried and cut shallow across the
throat. Blood was still pouring out of her. Slowly. I could see she
was weak. I don't know." Doiléir put his face in his hands for a
moment. "They'd put her eye out. It… just… hung there. She looked
at me… the eye jerked. I know she died. She must've."

He said nothing else, just kept his face in his
hands.

"We'll be alright," Socair said.

"We will," he agreed.

The morning came and they were forced to rise early
so they might travel with the main column. None of them spoke, but
Socair felt at ease that they were by her side. The rain dumped on
the column from dawn until dusk when they halted the march. The
progress had been slow and muddy and the camps would be set up
hastily. Socair bathed with Silín as she had promised. They spoke
of the walk and the welcome coolness of the rain and how much Silín
hated the mud. Things seemed to be just the slightest bit better.
Doiléir brought wine to the tent when their bath was through.

They had seen what the centaur and their minions were
truly capable of. They would steel themselves against it. They had
to. It would get no easier for them.

Finding a place in the High District that they could
use to keep close watch on the warehouse had been harder than
Óraithe had suspected. While there were four of them, true enough,
it would certainly draw attention to have elves from the slums
loitering in the area. At best they could expect to be questioned
and told not to come back. At worst, they'd find themselves in
chains for some imagined offense. Was loitering even against the
law? It was not past the highborn to fabricate a crime entirely, so
it likely didn't much matter.

The High District was not so convenient as the Low
District for questionable activity. The roads were wider, the
alleys were lit more thoroughly without the tall structures making
shadows, and there were hardly any ladders at all.

It took nearly three hours to find a ladder and, even
then, it was too far from the warehouse to be of immediate use.
Worse than that, the steel ladder was built into the wall and held
firm even with Scaa pulling at it with all her strength. They had
even climbed to the thing to see if it offered an over-roof route
to a useful vantage point but they made it no more than a few
houses in any direction before they were foiled by either distance
or too great a height difference between houses.

It was decided by Scaa and Óraithe that daytime
information gathering would just have to be done at a distance.
Óraithe found herself wishing that any among them were able to use
magic. There was potential in all elves, she'd always been told,
but that did little to help. She had heard that elves touched by
Speir could pull words to their ears. It was idle wishing and she
put it out of her brain. They would be doing their business in the
dark, so a lack of information about their comings and goings
before the sun had set would be of minimal use anyway.

Bonn and Teas had been given the task of watching the
warehouse and reporting their findings. Her father's shop had
afforded her some clothes that would not look entirely out of
place, especially in the less opulent parts of the High District.
Teas had taken a liking to Bonn as well. She seemed almost motherly
with him. It suited her, Óraithe knew. She had tried mothering
Óraithe before the frustration of arguing with such obstinance
became too much for her. Bonn seemed to like her as well. She had
showed him what she knew about the proper way to drink tea in the
north and was teaching him his letters. Teas had lectured Scaa for
nearly an hour when she found out the boy did not know how to read
or write. It wasn't entirely uncommon among the Low District to be
unable to write, but reading was considered one of the great arts
that separated the elves from the hippocamps. He had been a slow
study but seemed to be coming to grips with the basics.

Óraithe couldn't stop her mind from drifting back to
Teas and whether she was alright on her own as she walked the
streets of the Low District with Scaa. Night was falling and the
guards in the High District were not known for their gentle
handling of young slum girls… or boys for that matter. Óraithe
looked to Scaa. If the girl worried over Bonn, her face did not
show even the slightest hint of it. They had their own work to do.
Someone would need to see the layout of the warehouse from the
inside. They could not expect to be efficient without an
understanding of the place.

Scaa walked quickly and Óraithe had to occasionally
skip to keep up. Night was falling around them as they made for a
shop that sold second-hand clothes from the High District. There
were at least a dozen like it that Óraithe knew of. The shops
claimed to be selling leftover stock that had been bought from the
traders in the High District. More often than not, the clothes were
either stolen or found in piles of discarded goods behind High
District shops. Even at the prices charged in the Low District,
they could not afford to buy them outright so Scaa suggested they
steal them.

Óraithe would be the one to visit the warehouse. She
had wanted to balk at the idea but it was true they needed to
understand the layout of the place and there was no one else. Bonn
could not be trusted to actually lie, so he was right out. Teas was
a strong choice and even suggested by Scaa but Teas was easily
flustered around strangers. She still regarded Scaa with a strong
suspicion though her time with Bonn had seemed to lower her guard
somewhat. Aside from that, she was light-haired and that would at
least attract questions she would find hard to answer. Scaa was
unsuitable. She could pass for a boy with the right clothes and a
casual enough glance, but that would not hold up and while she
spoke well enough, she was a slow reader. Óraithe had been the
choice. She was tan and clear-skinned. She could even read the old
tongue and speak it a bit. She was short, but that was not
something one was apt to mention to her face if they believed her
to be of the High District. Even among the slums there were few who
would mock her for her height. Drunken raiders, maybe, and some of
the more crude among the black market traders.

The shop they meant to rob was somewhat shabby and
sat along a quiet run of shophouses. Some were fabric shops, others
were cobblers, but nearly all of them were something to do with
clothing of some manner or other. It had not been quite time when
they arrived so Óraithe and Scaa sat waiting in a nearby alley.

"What color dress are you thinking of, milady?" Scaa
ribbed.

Óraithe rolled her eyes. "I'd just as soon walk in
and set the place alight as wear a proper dress." She often wore
longer skirts and dirty dresses for lack of anything else. She'd
made alterations to most that allowed her to run with confidence in
case she had need to flee, which she often did.