as he took his leave. Kathur, indeed! So she had been named—or chosen a name—for the rich color of her hair. Because
en-K’thar
in Drusalan meant “the fox,” and she had given him the feminine equivalent with its soft shift of vowels.
In-K’thur
meant no more or less than “female fox.” The Vixen.
Chapter Four
The Hour of the Fox
Aldric reached out and gave the door a single firm push. It swung inward, silently, and a broad bar of dusty golden light speared past him into the gloomy stable, pinning his shadow against the deep straw on the floor. He remained in the doorway for several minutes, not moving, saying nothing, just watching the hard-edged contrasts of sunlight and darkness and half-expecting sudden movement.
More than half-expecting. Widowmaker was hooked in battle position now, close in to his left hip on her silver-plaqued weaponbelt, and his right hand had returned to her hilt after opening the door with a blurred flick that was too fast and precise for accident.
His caution was not required, for slowly—as his eyes became accustomed to the dimness within—they were able to see that everything was in order. Exact order. And that very neatness made them go narrow and flinty.
The horses were safe. The harness was safe
(good!)
. The pack-saddle and its armor-boxes were safe—though doubtless carefully searched.
All safe. Everything he owned—except the silver which would have taken him out of here at a time of his own choosing. Yes, a selective fire indeed. Who set it? Not a flicker of the sardonic thought showed on his face for the interested scrutiny of the man who stood nearby. The promised escort.
And the expected spy.
All of his suspicions were confirmed now; not that they were meant to be allayed for long, or indeed at all, by so transparent an excuse. But if the inn had indeed been fired deliberately as the first step to getting him right where somebody—
who
?—wanted him, then it was an act of such casual ruthlessness as to take the breath away—the act of somebody who cared nothing for consequences. Or because of who supported them, didn’t
have
to care. And that thought was the most frightening at all.
Aldric walked lightly inside and patted Lyard’s questing muzzle as the big Andarran courser shifted in his stall, recognised the one man in this whole place he trusted absolutely and demanded attention. Aldric gave the black stallion an apple, autumn-wrinkled but still sweet, which he had filched from a fruit-bowl as he left Kath-ur’s house, then for fairness’ sake gave another to the pack-horse and crunched into a third himself as he scanned the stable building. His gaze swept over fresh bedding, noted new grain and clean water; he smelt the sweet and slightly dusty aroma which told him the place was well-aired and dry, and nodded faintly with reluctant approval, honest enough with himself to admit that he had wanted to find fault somewhere. He watched as the horses noisily consumed their presents, then walked slowly towards the tack set on a wooden frame at the far wall, turning his head to stare arrogantly at Kath-ur’s servant.
“How far to the harbor?” He asked the question around a mouthful of fruit, deliberately rude.
There was no answer and Aldric tentatively considered repeating himself in Drusalan—even though the apple clogging his mouth could prove a challenge when speaking that guttural, slipshod language, especially when it was a language he had been at pains to prove he neither spoke nor understood. He decided not to bother. “I’ll walk anyway.”
He neither knew nor cared if he was understood, for as he spoke he stroked the flat of one hand casually over the elaborate, expensive tooled leather of his high-peaked saddle. More expensive than any footslogging or carriage-riding Drusalan could understand; his touch was that of a man sliding his hand across the naked body of a lover, and with reason.
He was still in control of his own fate.
The
en-K’thar
in Drusalan meant “the fox,” and she had given him the feminine equivalent with its soft shift of vowels.
In-K’thur
meant no more or less than “female fox.” The Vixen.
Chapter Four
The Hour of the Fox
Aldric reached out and gave the door a single firm push. It swung inward, silently, and a broad bar of dusty golden light speared past him into the gloomy stable, pinning his shadow against the deep straw on the floor. He remained in the doorway for several minutes, not moving, saying nothing, just watching the hard-edged contrasts of sunlight and darkness and half-expecting sudden movement.
More than half-expecting. Widowmaker was hooked in battle position now, close in to his left hip on her silver-plaqued weaponbelt, and his right hand had returned to her hilt after opening the door with a blurred flick that was too fast and precise for accident.
His caution was not required, for slowly—as his eyes became accustomed to the dimness within—they were able to see that everything was in order. Exact order. And that very neatness made them go narrow and flinty.
The horses were safe. The harness was safe
(good!)
. The pack-saddle and its armor-boxes were safe—though doubtless carefully searched.
All safe. Everything he owned—except the silver which would have taken him out of here at a time of his own choosing. Yes, a selective fire indeed. Who set it? Not a flicker of the sardonic thought showed on his face for the interested scrutiny of the man who stood nearby. The promised escort.
And the expected spy.
All of his suspicions were confirmed now; not that they were meant to be allayed for long, or indeed at all, by so transparent an excuse. But if the inn had indeed been fired deliberately as the first step to getting him right where somebody—
who
?—wanted him, then it was an act of such casual ruthlessness as to take the breath away—the act of somebody who cared nothing for consequences. Or because of who supported them, didn’t
have
to care. And that thought was the most frightening at all.
Aldric walked lightly inside and patted Lyard’s questing muzzle as the big Andarran courser shifted in his stall, recognised the one man in this whole place he trusted absolutely and demanded attention. Aldric gave the black stallion an apple, autumn-wrinkled but still sweet, which he had filched from a fruit-bowl as he left Kath-ur’s house, then for fairness’ sake gave another to the pack-horse and crunched into a third himself as he scanned the stable building. His gaze swept over fresh bedding, noted new grain and clean water; he smelt the sweet and slightly dusty aroma which told him the place was well-aired and dry, and nodded faintly with reluctant approval, honest enough with himself to admit that he had wanted to find fault somewhere. He watched as the horses noisily consumed their presents, then walked slowly towards the tack set on a wooden frame at the far wall, turning his head to stare arrogantly at Kath-ur’s servant.
“How far to the harbor?” He asked the question around a mouthful of fruit, deliberately rude.
There was no answer and Aldric tentatively considered repeating himself in Drusalan—even though the apple clogging his mouth could prove a challenge when speaking that guttural, slipshod language, especially when it was a language he had been at pains to prove he neither spoke nor understood. He decided not to bother. “I’ll walk anyway.”
He neither knew nor cared if he was understood, for as he spoke he stroked the flat of one hand casually over the elaborate, expensive tooled leather of his high-peaked saddle. More expensive than any footslogging or carriage-riding Drusalan could understand; his touch was that of a man sliding his hand across the naked body of a lover, and with reason.
He was still in control of his own fate.
The
Similar Books
