"Doesn't look much like a castle," Alaire said absently, as he urged his horse to follow Naitachal down a steep section of road. "How are we supposed to get across this bay?"
The Dark Elf said nothing as they drew closer to the shore, where the road came to a complete stop. A clanking bell on the flat boat caught his attention, and as the people reacted he realized that this must be a signal the craft was about to leave. A ferry! Alaire thought in surprise. He had never seen a ferry large enough to take several laden carts and wagons at once.
The only ferry he had ever seen could only take a sin- gle donkey and its little cart.
"They have a full load already," Naitachal observed.
A man and a woman began moving about the boat, tying down wheels, herding people to benches along the sides. "Or maybe not," he added, pulling out a purse of coins.
They rode straight up to the boatmaster. He'd started to pull the ramps back onto his ship, but stopped when he saw the silver. The gray-haired boat- master seemed as fit as a man of thirty, despite his ancient, wrinkled face. With a visible effort he turned away from the coins, shaking his head and saying wordlessly, no, we can take no more.
Naitachal held up a large silver coin, and the boat- master paused, as if considering. He came over and studied the coin, and muttered something to Nai- tachal in a language Alaire didn't understand. After biting it, he grinned widely, and motioned for them to board the ferry, horses and all.
Alaire dismounted before they were underway and tethered his horse. With several other able-bodied passengers he helped the boatmaster pole the craft across the bay. The water never got very deep, and what had appeared to be a large bay turned out to be a marsh dotted with tiny islands, around which other boats were moored A cold, icy wind whipped around them, and Alaire was grateful for the exercise; it helped him to limber up and keep warm.
If the boatmaster was ambivalent about them, sev- eral of the other passengers were the opposite: One man and woman, evidently farmers and wearing con- servative black and white clothing, kept glaring at Alaire and Naitachal with resentful and suspicious glances.
Must not see too many foreigners, particularly from the sunny south, he thought, remembering to smile when their eyes happened to meet.
Naitachal seemed to take this all without a single sign that he noticed or cared. Alaire thought that it might be because he got this kind of reaction from hu- mans all the time. Perhaps he was simply playing his part, and he had no intention of showing that these folk bothered him.
Soon they arrived at the pier on the other side of the marshy bay, and as soon as they docked the Suino- men natives wasted no time in putting distance between themselves and the newcomers.
"First, a bath," Naitachal announced. "Then we change into something impressive and expensive, and go present ourselves properly. Do you see anything that looks like an inn?"
The language of Suinomen closely resembled, but was not identical to, their own. Right now the differ- ences were enough to keep Alaire totally confused. He finally ignored the voices and concentrated on simply observing. He ought to be able to spot an inn simply by the customers going in and out!
Naitachal led the way down the pier to the main wharf. The stone dock ran along the curve of the shore, out of sight, with little activity near the ferry.
People and goods appeared further on; sailors shouted and cursed in a babble of strange tongues that were more alien than the boatmaster's.
Naitachal seemed to know what he was doing; he dismounted and led his horse up a stone ramp to a higher street, and Alaire followed his example. On this upper level there were more shops, and each had a sign over the door that indicated the shop's specialty; a wooden fish for seafood, a bee for honey, wax and candles, a bigger fish with a fountain coming out of its head for oil and some kind of meat and ivory product That last sign puzzled Alaire. He could not imagine what a fish had to do with oil and ivory.
Finally, they came across a sign with a crude bed painted on it, and behind the inn was a small stable.
Paying for the brief use of a room and bath became an exercise in pantomime, but the people here seemed to appreciate silver, no matter whose face was on the coins.
Alaire scrubbed himself pink in the communal bath while Naitachal cooked himself in the adjoining steam room. They returned to their room wrapped in woolen robes supplied by the inn. The bardling had had only the briefest glimpse of the clothing his father had supplied for them. He almost choked on laughter when he saw his Master's outfit. Now Naitachal wore a frilly, lace-dripping shirt, a scarlet, gold-trimmed coat, and scarlet satin breeches. A gold-trimmed scarlet hat with a trailing plume crowned the silver-white hair.
The entire outfit was the land of thing young and fool- ish nobles in Althea would wear to impress one other.
The knee-high, scarlet leather boots were equally grand, and the gold heels were simply the penultimate touch of nonsense. No one would be able to fear someone who dressed like that.
Perhaps that was exactly what Father had in mind.
"Not bad," Alaire commented, trying on his own courtiers garb. "Even if it makes you look like a procurer."
"It does not" Naitachal protested, glancing at his reflection in a door-length mirror. "My father would have been proud to see me like this. Who do you sup- pose decided to make it some other color than black?"
"Father, of course," Alaire said, pulling on a boot.
His outfit was nowhere near as grand as his Master's, but it felt good to wear fine clothes again. He had fallen out of the habit when he started training Naitachal; after all, it hardly made sense to wear silks and satins for sword practice. "I suspect he wants to emphasize your heritage, without suggesting that you might be a practicing Necromancer, to gain some sort of leverage."
"Your father is canny," the Bard replied. "My race is impossible to hide, so why not announce it? As the proverb says, 'if you're going to walk on thin ice, you might as well dance.'" He strutted grandly in front of the mirror. The gesture was so, well, unelflike Alaire burst out laughing.
"What do you find so amusing, human?" Naitachal demanded, fiercely.
Alaire snorted to see him standing there, hands on hips. "It just looks as if... well... you're modeling a dress."
"I do not. I have not ever," Naitachal said indig- nantly. Then he paused, sheepishly. "Well. Truthfully, I have..."
He went on to tell Alaire about the time Kevin and his group dressed up as dancing girls to flee Westerin.
By the time he finished, Alaire had doubled over in laughter.
Naitachal stood over him, with his arms crossed over his chest, glaring like a black-and-scarlet, pom- pous peacock. "Well, it worked," he said at last.
Alaire collected himself and straightened the fine silk shirt and suede breeches. "Think we should carry swords?"
Naitachal shrugged. "Of course. It's expected, out here."
Alaire thought he could read something else, a brief, disturbing expression in the elf's eyes.