Villains by Necessity (32 page)

Plumes were the thing to wear in Kwart; as Dous had its tunics and Trois its fringed vest, so did the people of Kwart mark themselves by plumes, in gentlemen's hats or helmets and ladies' headdress. He adjusted his new headgear in the mirror with a grin, and tipped his new hat to himself several times. Then he set off for the main part of town, to make back something of the funds expended in his little outing.

As Arcie lounged on the corner, watching the early morning crowd go past, his visual hunting was interrupted by a hiss from the shadows.

"Arcie!"

Arcie turned around to see Sam lurking in an alleyway and motioning to him. He left the corner and padded over.

"Hello laddie," he said softly, as soon as he was close enough. "What are ye about?"

"Expenses, Arcie. I need my clothes repaired or replaced ... otherwise I may not be able to complete the job." Sam flapped his ragged sleeves like a disheveled crow.

"Job?" asked Arcie, eyebrows curling in confusion.

"Mizzamir, you feeb!" Sam hissed.

"Oh aye, so you're right. Nay problems." The Barigan shrugged and fumbled among his pouches until he came up with a small one that clinked. A twitch of the drawstrings, and he peered into it. "Aye, yon's about fortyfive in tellins and stellins ... enough?"

Sam's eyes widened. "Uh, yes, plenty..."

Arcie tossed him the pouch with a grin. "Take it, then ... keep ye the change."

Sam looked worriedly at his small companion. He %%%hadn't expected this. Arcie hadn't become the Guildmaster of Thieves back in Bistort for handing out largess. He was the most notorious kind of thief, the kind that would steal the buttons off your shoes. The thought of him casually handing over forty-five tellins in mixed coins to an out-of-luck assassin to buy clothes was unthinkable.

Arcie watched Sam's confusion a moment. He was recalling a dark night in fog and swamp, in agony, dying, when sudden hands had pulled him free of the mud's clutch and thrown him over a centaur's withers. Mayhaps we were never really friends, before, laddie, he thought, but we must by rights be now ... though I'd never dream to embarrass ye by saying so.

"Get yerself something nice," encouraged Arcie, with a tip of his new hat, "and by Bella's breasts, my hired death-dealer, get a haircut and shave." With that, the thief turned on his bare heel and ambled off down the street. Sam was left holding the pouch of coins, standing there a long moment. Then he whispered after the departing figure a silent, "Thanks."

"You really are conspicuous, you know that, do you not?" Kaylana said sternly, looking up at the tall dark figure of the knight, who made no comment.

"Are you still insistent that you will not come out of that armor?" she inquired.

The helmet nodded. Kaylana sighed.

"You have me right confused, dark knight. You do not eat, you do not sleep, you do not drink, you do not speak. But you fight and you reason, apparently, and you hear my words. And you are dammed conspicuous in that black plate-mail."

Blackmail folded his mailed arms over his breastplate adamantly. Kaylana drummed her fingers on her staff.

"We cannot have you walking around town like that, you understand," she said. "People will notice."

The helmeted head raised in a gesture of aloof dismissal.

Kaylana gave him her best exasperated look. "All right, then. You seem to be able to take care of yourself.

But try not to cause any trouble." %%%Kaylana made her way boldly toward the local dry goods shop. She didn't need to buy anything much for herself, and Blackmail needed nothing, so she took the liberty of purchasing such traveling necessities as waterskins, haversacks, and provisions.

Valerie had taken a look about the town and given up.

She risked the sun a brief moment, to remove her cloak and shake it, reversing it. She replaced it hurriedly, as the hot sun burned her fair skin, adjusting its folds over her arms and face. That was better. The crimson took in less of the heat, and would not be so noticeable in the wellpopulated town, but she didn't want to spend any more time out here than she had to. She hastened to the inn they had chosen, with the sign of the Frothing Otter creaking in the wind. Nightshade peered about from her shoulder.

Robin left town altogether the instant the others had wandered from sight. The few people that saw him stared and pointed, and children ran away. Centaurs were not common in Kwart, and old prejudices were still around.

Ducking into a livery stable, he grabbed at the silver bracelet on his wrist. With a flash and twist of magic he appeared within the Silver Tower, in Mizzamir's magical working room.

The room was empty, but his arrival was announced by the soft chime of a bell. Robin quickly ran his fingers through his mane and tail, and straightened his collar as the rune-worked door to the room opened and admitted the radiant figure of the silver-haired Elf. Robin bowed respectfully, and the arch-mage nodded acknowledg ment.

"So, young Robin, how are you getting on?" asked the mage with a raise of his elegant eyebrow. "I'd thought you had said they were killing each other."

"Sir, I had thought they were ... but when I returned to confirm it, I found them in good health and spirits, and there was no trace of the earlier harsh words." Robin fidgeted as the mage looked surprised.

"Hmm, quite odd. Have you found out where they're headed?" %%%"Yes sir, I have." Robin squared his shoulders and took out his notes. To his surprise, the mage did not seem overly shocked by the news that the villains intended to recover the Spectrum Key and open the Darkgate. Mizzamir simply nodded sagely and, when Robin was through, said, "Yes, it is as I suspected. Well, there is no harm in letting them try ... though I wish there was some safe way of stopping them before the Tests kill them all. Or, for that matter, before Fenwick goes after them once more."

He sighed. "What are they doing at the moment?"

"The villains, sir? They've stopped to rest, sir, in a town called Martogon. They've split up, running errands."

"Split up, eh?" Mizzamir looked out the window at the clear blue sky. "Well, that is convenient. If Fenwick is going to rush in like this, it leaves me no choice but to cut him off at the pass, as it were. Else he will quickly catch up to your little band of villains and put them to a nasty sticky end. Return to Martogon, Robin... I shall be following shortly. Do not wait for me."

Robin nodded respectfully, and with a low bow, pressed the two gray stones on his bracelet. With a whoosh and whirl of magic, he found himself once more in the warm stables of Martogon. He shook his head. The mage's face, particularly in annoyance, had seemed oddly familiar somehow. Must have been a trick of the light.

He settled down to try to get some sleep in an empty loose box, but a horse in the next stall over was making noises of distress that bothered him.

Sam had quickly changed into an inexpensive dark brown tunic and pair of green leggings, and tenderly handed his folded assassin blacks to the tailor. "I want you to mend these," he said. "Don't alter them. Don't decorate them or anything. Just mend them." The tailor took the clothes with a wrinkled nose, the plumes on his hat fluttering, and lifted a corner of the tunic. Light showed through numerous holes, making the garment

%%%appear to be made of inept lace. "Sir," began the tailor, "are you sure you wouldn't want to purchase ..."

"I've purchased quite enough, thank you," retorted Sam. "Can you mend them or not?"

"Sir," replied the tailor huffily, "you have lost much of the original fabric. I'll need to do quite a bit of patching."

Sam ground his teeth silently. "And I suppose you don't have any matching fabric."

"There really is no call for it, sir," explained the fellow; Sam forced himself to stay calm.

"Look," he said. "I'm a member of a group of theater performers."

"Ah yes, in town for market day, are you?" asked the fellow with a raised eyebrow.

"Yes," answered Sam. "We're doing ..." his mind raced, "The Tragedy of Oswald, Prince of Volinar.' You know, the one where the fellow's uncle kills his father and marries his mother? It's a very good play," he added. He'd seen it performed once, in his younger years ... He'd taken Cata to see the performers when they came to Bistort one year. Sam had been very amused by some of the complicated poisoning scenes, since they were incredibly inept by assassin standards.

"Ah yes, sir ... and this is your costume, then?" The tailor poked at the heap of faded blacks.

"Yes indeed," Sam nodded. "I've got the lead this year ... only when we were rehearsing this morning one of the fellows bumped into me and knocked me off the stage into a bramble patch ... tore my costume right up. I was furious, of course."

"Hmm, I imagine so," retorted the tailor, scratching at some of the darker reddish stains on the fabric. Sam dismissed them with a wave of his hand.

"Stage blood," he said curtly. "Didn't get a chance to wash it out. Take care of it for me, will you? I'll need them by tonight... Here's a deposit," he added, clinking down a gold tellin on the countertop. "There's more if you get them done in a hurry." The tailor took it with a disdainful look.

"Very well, sir," he said. "They should be ready at %%%about five this afternoon." He vanished into the back room. Sam dithered about for a moment and then with fretting heart took himself back to the Frothing Otter for a meal and some sleep. Valerie's amulet was nestled in a pouch around his neck. All was well, but something in the air made him uneasy. , One by one, the companions returned to their rooms at the inn and slept the sunny hours away.

Sam's time sense awoke him at precisely half-past five that same day. Lying flat on his back on the hard inn bed, his eyes suddenly flew open, staring at the cracked and faded ceiling. He slid out of the bed and peered out the window. Night was falling. A cool breeze ruffled his hair and brought a smile to his face. Five hours of intense sleep had sent sparks fizzing in his blood. He could have gotten by on two or three hours, but now he felt fully recharged and ready for just about anything. It was good to be back in a city, full of buildings to hide in and around, people to not be seen by, and the gentle flowing tide of humanity all around that had once been his livelihood.

He sniffed the night air, scenting dinners being cooked, drinks being poured, buildings releasing their heat, and the presence of people going about their business.

It was a beautiful night, even if it wasn't as dark as it should have been. Clouds drifted over the moon and streetlamps cast stark pools of golden light and blue shadow. The night sent shivers down his spine, so glad was he to have it to himself. He felt in very high spirits.

First things first. He snatched his moneypouch from its hiding place in his pillow and donned his hated green and brown clothes. Then he drifted swiftly downstairs and out the inn door, making his way back through town to the tailor's, forcing himself to walk normally.

He walked to the shop with tension in his limbs. Had the fellow made a mess of his clothes? Was he going to be doomed to wander the streets like a failed peasant? He ignored the

"Closed" sign on the door and walked in.

The tailor looked up from finishing a hem on a green silk dress and gave a twitch of his nose when he saw who it was. %%%"Oh, it's you again. I told you five o'clock. You're late."

Sam was in too good a mood to let the fellow get to him. "Well, I was otherwise occupied ... got the cos tume?"

The tailor sniffed. "Yes, here ..." He fumbled under neath the counter and tossed a paper-wrapped package to Sam. "I had to make a few substitutions here and there, depending upon what I could find lying around ... I don't think your audience will notice."

Sam, meanwhile, was tearing open the packet. He un folded black cloth, faded, yes, but clean now, and pressed. Patched, he noticed in horror, with a few scraps of black and dark gray, and elsewhere dark blue, dark green, deep purple, dark browns, and dark red. He clicked his teeth in annoyance.

"This is silly," he stated. "I'll look like a right jester in this garb." The tailor shrugged.

"See if your company has any ink or stage ichor around, then, and dye it. I can do no more."

"That's not a bad idea," replied Sam. "Here, this should cover it..." He tossed a handful of silver at the man. The tailor started to protest, and Sam added, "Espe cially since you've done an inadequate job on matching the colors and putting me through the trouble of dyeing it." He put just a touch of coldness into his voice as he spoke, and the tailor reluctantly conceded. Sam paused a moment and scooped up a pair of dark brown leather gloves and a long indigo scarf. "I'll take these too."

Arcie was enjoying the first good meal he'd had in what seemed like years. He'd scanned the inn's menu, de liberated a moment, and then ordered half of it. He was just tucking into his second plate of roast pork with ap ples and mushrooms when Sam came darting through the door, crossed the crowded dining hall, and leaped up the stairs that led to the private rooms. Arcie noticed an expression of glee on the assassin's face, and resolved to investigate just as soon as he'd finished dessert.

A platter of mashed potatoes, two puddings, and a slice of chocolate cake later, the Barigan padded heavily %%%up the stairs, puffing contentedly on his pipe. He found the door to Sam's room by careful listening, choosing the one that had a sort of soft whistling coming from it, the noise Sam made when he was working on something but not being stealthy about it. Arcie knocked, and called, "Ho, laddie! what's are you about now?"

From within came the reply; "Go away, Arcie, I'm dyeing."

"What?" snorted Arcie. He opened the door; Sam had locked it, of course, antisocial fellow that he was, but Arcie wasn't an exguildmaster for nothing. He peered inside, and chuckled at the sight.

Sam was sitting cross-legged on the floor, wearing only his black shorts and the numerous network of scars that decorated his skin. He was surrounded by wet black arti cles of clothing spread out on the floor. In front of him was a bowl filled with black liquid. Empty ink bottles were scattered about. Sam, the clothes, and the floor were liberally bespattered with black. Sam looked up at Arcie and sighed. "Come on in, then, and shut the door," he sighed. At some point he'd run his stained hands through his hair, and his gold-blond tufts were now half-toned and spiky, making him look as though he had a large hedgehog on his head.