“My mother’s uncle ran across three of ’em and they told him and he told my mother that—”
“My second cousin’s boy was in Jendi last month when the ships was coming in and he told my cousin to tell his dad who told me that—”
“I heard it from a peddlar who’d been there—”
Paithan decided at length, with some relief, that Gregor’d been feeding him soom candy.[21] The elf put Zifnab’s prophecy completely, finally, irrevocably out of his mind.
Paithan crossed the border of Marcinia into Terncia without a border guard so much as glancing into his baskets. They gave his bill of lading—signed by the Varsport official—a bored glance and waved him on. The elf was enjoying his journey, and he took his time. The weather was particularly fine. The humans, for the most part, were friendly and well mannered. Of course, he did encounter the occasional remark about “woman stealers” or “flithy slavers” but Paithan, not one to be hotheaded, either ignored these epithets or passed them off with a laugh and an offer to buy the next round.
Paithan was as fond of human women as the next elf, but—having traveled extensively in human lands—he knew nothing could get your ears (and perhaps other portions of one’s anatomy) cut off sooner than dallying with human females. He was able to curb his appetite, therefore, contenting himself with admiring stares or snatching a quick kiss in an extremely dark corner. If the innkeeper’s daughter came to his door in the dead of night, wanting to test the legendary erotic skill of elven men, Paithan was always careful to bundle her out in the mistymorne, before anyone else was up and stirring.
The elf reached his destination—the small and unsavory town of Griffith—a few weeks past his scheduled arrival. He thought that pretty good, considering how chancey travel was through the constantly warring Thillian states. Arriving at the Jungleflower Tavern, he saw his slaves and the tyros settled in the stable, found a place for his overseer in the loft, and took a room in the inn for himself.
The Jungleflower was apparently not much in the custom of housing elves, for the proprietor looked a long time at Paithan’s money and rapped the coin on the table, wanting to make certain mat it had the sound of hardwood. Hearing it thump true, he became somewhat more polite.
“What did you say your name was?”
“Paithan Quindiniar.”
“Huh.” The man grunted. “Got two messages for you. One came by hand, the other by faultless.”
“Thanks very much,” said Paithan, handing over another coin. The proprietor’s politeness increased markedly.
“You must be thirsty. Seat yourself in the common room, and I’ll be bringing you something to wet your throat.”
“No vingin,” said Paithan and sauntered off, the missives in his hand. One he recognized as human in origin—a bit of cheap parchment that had been used before. Some attempt had been made to efface the original writing, but that hadn’t succeeded well. Untying a frayed and dirty ribbon, Paithan unrolled it and read the message with some difficulty around what apparently had once been a tax notice.
Quindiniar. You’re late. This’ll …
… you. We’ve had
to make … trip , . . keep customer happy. Back… .
Paithan walked over to the window and held the parchment to the light. No, he couldn’t make out when they said they were returning. It was signed with a crude scrawl—Roland Redleaf. Fishing out the worn bill of lading, Paithan looked for the name of the customer. There it was, in Calandra’s precise, up-right hand. Roland Redleaf. Shrugging, Paithan tossed the scroll in the slop bucket and carefully wiped his hands after. No telling where it had been.
The proprietor hurried in with a foaming mug of ale. Tasting it, Paithan pronounced the brew excellent and the highly gratified innkeeper was now his slave for life or at least as long as his money held out. Settling down in a booth, propping his feet up on the chair opposite him, Paithan lounged back and opened the other scroll, preparing to enjoy himself. It was a letter from Aleatha.
11
My dear Paithan,
You’re probably astonished to hear from me. I’m not one for writing. However, I’m certain you won’t be offended if I tell you the truth and that is that I’m writing to you out of sheer boredom. I certainly hope this engagement doesn’t last too long or I shall go out of my mind.
Yes, dear brother, I’ve given up my “wild and wicked ways.” At least temporarily. When I’m a “staid old married woman” I intend to pursue a more interesting life; one only needs to be discreet.
As I had foreseen, there is a bit of scandal over the impending marriage. The dowager is a snobbish old bitch who came near to ruining everything. She had the nerve to inform Durndrun that I had been having an affair with Lord K———, that I frequented certain establishments Below and that I even carried on with the human slaves! In short, I was a slut, not worthy of being honored with the Durndrun money, the Durndrun house, and the Durndrun name. Fortunately, I had foreseen something like this happening and had procured a promise from my “beloved” that he was to inform me of any allegations made by his dear mama and allow me to refute them. He did so, coming to see me in the mistymorne! of all times. That’s one habit of which I shall have to break him!
By Orn! What does one do at such an ungodly hour? There was no help for it. I had to make an appearance. Fortunately, unlike some women, I always look well on arising.
I found Durndrun in the parlor, looking extremely serious and stern, being entertained by Calandra, who was enjoying the whole thing immensely. She left us alone—quite proper between engaged couples, you know—and, if you will believe this, my dear brother, the man began heaping his mother’s accusations upon my head!
I was, of course, prepared.
Once I understood the precise nature of his complaints (and their source), I tumbled down upon the floor in a swoon. (In passing, there is a true art to that. One must fall without doing damage and preferably without any unsightly bruises on the elbows. It is not as easy as it looks.) Anyway, Durndrun was quite alarmed and was obliged—of course—to lift me in his arms and place me on the sofa.
I came to myself just in time to prevent him ringing for help and, seeing him bending over me, called him a “cad” and burst into tears. He was again obliged to take me in his arms. Sobbing incoherently about my besmirched honor and how I could never love a man who didn’t trust me, I attempted to push him away, making certain that in the ensuing struggle my gown tore and the lord discovered that his hand had wandered to a place where it should not have been.
“Ah, so this is what you think of me!” I flung myself on the sofa, taking care that in my frantic attempts to repair the damage, I simply made it worse. My only worry was that he should ring for the servants. I, therefore, did not allow my tears to degenerate into hysterics.
He rose to his feet and I could see, out of the corner of my eye, the struggle ensuing in his breast. I quieted my sobs and turned my head, looking up at him through a veil of golden hair, my eyes shimmering quite prettily.
“I admit that ! have been what some might call irresponsible,” I said in a choked voice, “but then I never had a mama to guide me! I’ve been searching so long for someone to love and honor with al! my heart, and now that I’ve found you …” I couldn’t go on. Turning my face to the tear-soaked pillow, I stretched out my arm. “Go!” I told him. “Your mama is right! I am not worthy of such love!” Well, Fait, I’m sure you must have guessed the rest. Before you could say “matrimony,” Lord Durndrun was at my feet, begging my forgiveness! I allowed him another kiss and a long, lingering glance before I modestly covered the “treasures” he won’t acquire until our wedding night. He was so carried away by his passion he even spoke of turning his mother out of his house! It took a great deal of persuading to convince him that the dowager would be as dear to me as the mother I never knew. I have plans for the old lady. She doesn’t know it, but she will cover my little “escapes” when married life becomes too boring.
21
candy, the elven expression for someone passing fiction off as the truth, is a human concoction much loved by elves, who are extremely fond of sweets. The candy tastes quite delicious but eating too much can have dim consequences on elven digestive systems.