Shortly, a ghostly shape coalesced within the room, lean, bandy-legged, right arm gone at the elbow: Stoop, their old siegemaster, recently lost to them. The shade offered a slight inclination of his head. ‘Shimmer,’ he breathed, and she was surprised to actually hear the word pronounced.
‘Stoop. I have a message for K’azz.’
‘I can deliver it,’ the shade of the old man drawled. ‘But I can’t say as whether he’ll respond.’
‘I understand. The message is that visitors have arrived from Jacuruku. Skinner has returned there and they appear to be implying that he is our responsibility.’
‘We sensed those two,’ Stoop murmured. ‘Hardly human, them.’
Shimmer frowned at the observation. ‘You will pass on the message?’
‘Course. Get right on it. Good to see you again, Shimmer.’ The shade headed to the door as if it would open it to exit but passed right through the adzed planks instead. His presence left behind a cloud of dust that wafted to the stone floor.
Puzzled, Shimmer knelt to run a hand through the dust, then straightened, studying her fingers. The man had acted almost as if he were still alive. And never before had she seen one of them gather dust to their form. But then, Stoop quite often appeared as spokesman for the fallen Avowed. She wiped the powder from her hands and returned to the desk.
Shimmer frankly expected no response. K’azz had disavowed Skinner and those who chose to follow him. Thrown them from the ranks more than a year ago. The man’s actions were now his own. The company was in no way answerable for them … no matter what others might insist. These visitors could linger as long as they liked. They would get no satisfaction. Over the next few days she ignored them while approving requests from the local merchants regarding expenses for repairs to their vessel.
Four days later she was therefore quite surprised when Ogilvy, one of the regulars, a recruit of their Third Investment, knocked and entered, pressing a scarred and battered knuckle to an equally scarred, hairless brow. ‘K’azz, ma’am,’ he announced in his hoarse gravelly voice, bowing as if she were some sort of nobility. Countless times she had told him a salute would do, but it seemed the man’s manners were ingrained as he bowed and ma’amed even as she told him not to. Now she just endured it.
Nodding, she dismissed him. She set down her quill and rose to come down. She took a moment to pause before a mirror of polished bronze next to the door and examine herself. Short and dark, her long black hair braided. She happened to be wearing a full-length gown of brocade, slit and laced at the sides, tight across her chest and narrow at the arms all the way down past her wrists where the cloth flared. It hadn’t occurred to her before, but she seemed to have taken the role of acting-governor rather seriously in setting aside her usual plain leathers and quilted aketon. But that face! Always so severe, lass. Nose flattened like some brawling barroom wench, and lips too damned thin.
She scowled at her reflection. Still, not exactly something to run from howling into the night.
And anyway, who gave a damn? She threw open the door, yanked the sheathed dirk hanging there from its peg, and shoved it through the back of her belt as she descended the circular stone staircase.
She found him at the stables running a hand over one of their few mounts. His leathers were travel-stained, with tall moccasins wrapped tight up to his knees. Seen from behind his hair hung wild and unkempt, touched with streaks of grey.
He turned before she reached him and she paused. Again the shock of this man, this youth of her own remembrance, now an old man. He must’ve been living very hard recently as he’d lost even more weight. His keen eyes were sunken and his cheekbones stuck out as sharp as blades. And he’d grown a beard, also touched with grey.
Old. Prematurely old. Prematurely? We’re all old, girl! You’re over a hundred and twenty! Shaking herself, she closed to take both cool hands in hers, giving a light kiss to each cheek. ‘Welcome! What have you been doing?’
‘Picking out routes to Lake Jorrick.’
‘You’re really going to name it after him?’
He smiled behind his beard. ‘Why not? He’s a hero in Genabackis.’
‘Well … I suppose so. Here to stay?’
The bright eyes, which had been searching hers, edged aside. ‘Perhaps. My apologies for leaving all the paperwork to you.’
‘You left it to Blues.’
‘Ah! No wonder he fled. Then I don’t apologize. Any word on them?’
‘They may have reached Korel by now.’
‘So … they merely have to find Bars and rescue him from the Stormwall — should it even be him. They ought to be back soon.’
‘I should’ve gone.’
‘Blues can take care of himself. He’s the best of us.’
‘Well, I miss him. As I miss you …’
The dark wind-burnished skin about the man’s eyes wrinkled then and he glanced down. ‘I miss all of you as well — so, what of these visitors?’
Shimmer headed for the open fortress gates. ‘Gwynn names them servants of Ardata.’
K’azz walked at her side, hands clasped at his back. ‘Yes. I can feel their presence. No doubt they rank among her most powerful. She’s telling us that she takes their message very seriously. Unfortunately, we can’t oblige …’
‘Such was my answer.’
‘But they want to hear it from me.’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s why I’m here …’
Shimmer’s questing gaze fell to the gravel road that wound to Haven Town. And when they go — so too will you? Off into the wilderness again? Do you not worry about the effects of these long absences? The rumours and disquiet? Not among us Avowed, of course, but the regular troops and the lay people. Some even claim you died long ago and we merely rule in your name.
Still, she mused, it was just like the old days when so often they laid false rumours of his presence or absence … Blues and others even masquerading as him … all as precautions against the ever-present threat of those damned Claw assassins …
Blinking, Shimmer came up short, realizing that they’d reached the town already. The long descent down the rear of the cliff seemed to have passed in an instant. They must have spent the entire walk in a long mutual silence.
And ahead, down the main strip, the two emerged from the inn, no doubt just as aware of their proximity as they of theirs. The big man, Nagal, was forced to duck quite low to manage the small doorway. From windows and open doors curious locals watched as they closed upon one another. None of the four of them, Shimmer noted, carried a blade longer than a dirk. A deliberate wariness?
The dark woman offered the sketch of a bow. The forest of amulets upon her breast rustled and clattered. K’azz answered the bow. ‘Duke D’Avore,’ she said. ‘Or is it Prince?’
‘I have held many titles,’ he answered easily enough. ‘I suggest the one of which I am most proud — Commander.’
‘Very well … Commander. I am Rutana and this is Nagal.’ The huge fellow, who appeared to have been suppressing a crooked secretive smile the entire time, also bowed.
‘Greetings and welcome to Stratem. How may we be of service?’