And daggers too, he thought, buckling the jeweled knives to his belt. Naitachal led the way out of the inn, into the streets of Rozinki.
The stable hands had done an exceptional job of grooming the horses. No doubt this and the brief rest had refreshed the beasts, which fidgeted and danced on the cobblestone streets of Rozinki. They certainly knew what cobblestones were; they came from the royal stables, and had no reason to act as if they had never felt stone under their feet before. Their antics gave Alaire something to think about besides their current situation.
"Be young and stupid," Naitachal said, as they guided their horses up the ramps and streets leading to the palace. "Everyone will be certain to ignore you, and they'll dismiss anything you might let slip. In other words, be yourself."
Alaire felt his face grow hot at the sly glance Nai- tachal cast him, but before he could protest, he saw for himself the wisdom of such a move. I remember the way the elders of Fenrich always ignored the young and foolish boys of the village back home. Perhaps I should chase girls -- discretely of course -- 1 remem- ber what that one old man used to say. About how in the springtime, when the blood runs away from the head and the mind freezes, the only difference between a young man and a goat is that you can eat the goat when you get tired of its games.
"But don't overdo it," Naitachal hastened to add.
"Oh, certainly not," Alaire said. "I don't have a silly impulse in my body. After all, I don't go around wear- ing dresses, or pouring ice-cold springwater on my friends."
Even though Naitachal said nothing, Alaire saw the slightest grin of satisfaction on the dark, elven fea- tures.
They rode in silence then, to concentrate on con- trolling their skittish beasts. In between hauling his horse's head down and curbing his prancing, Alaire studied the city, which followed the hill's natural curves. High above, the castle presided over the town and bay like a squat, stony frog. All the city's streets led upwards to it The cobblestone streets themselves had seen better days and there were places where the cob- bles were missing altogether. Some of the less populated streets, dark in the shadows of decaying stone buildings on either side of them, stank of stale beer and urine. Though not clearly marked, these establishments were probably taverns, their doors and iron-shuttered windows open to air out the fetid inte- riors. The barkeepers, bleary-eyed, casually threw unconscious drunks into the limestone gutters. Alaire rode without comment. There were always cheap tav- erns, cheap beer, and cheap drunks to populate the first and drink the second. There probably always would be.
Then, in a more cheery section of town, the struc- tures were all of wood, with more windows to let in light and air. Instead of thatch, lush green moss cov- ered the roofs. This was obviously a business district, and native Suinomites swarmed markets and shops, all wearing dieren garments of one style or another.
When they turned to look at the two Altheans, they stared at their horses. Everyone else rode the splay- footed dieren, if they rode anything. Not another horse was in "Do you notice anything .. . peculiar?" Naitachal asked quietly as they rode past aisles of merchants hawking fresh vegetables and live poultry.
Alaire had to admit he had, but he wasn't sure what it was. Granted, this was a foreign country. The lan- guage here seemed to be a mixture of their own and one other, a heavy, guttural tongue that was rough on the ears. The city, even back in the tavern district, was immaculately clean of trash and sewage. He could only assume Rozinki had an efficient sewer system and equally efficient rubbish-collectors. Even in S City one found telltale garbage, but not here. Cleanli- ness obsessed these humans.
Then he saw what it was that was so unusual here.
The humans. Only humans, here.
No White or Dark Elves, no orcs, no dwarves. The signs also were in the human tongue, and there was nothing written in Elven, Dwarven or Orcish.
Alaire began to feel very uncomfortable for Nai- tachal. He glanced over at his Master, relieved to find his ridiculous hat completely covered the top, pointed portion of his ears. He looked human in every other way. Though he was the only black human among these people, he didn't seem to be attracting nearly as much attention as his gelding.
"This is a very . . . human settlement," Naitachal noted, echoing Alaire's thoughts. "Only humans."
"Yes, I see," Alaire said. "But let me point out that your absurd hat covers your ears. You look human."
Naitachal looked relieved. "Of course I do," he said, but didn't sound completely convinced. His nose wrinkled "I must have imagined that smell just then."
"What smell was that?"
The unmistakable odor of tar and feathers."
By the time they reached the castle, the sun pre- pared to set on the sea. Already the air had become considerably frostier; Alaire wished he had not packed up the dieren coat, even if it didn't go with anything he now wore.
Archenomen's palace was considerably larger than it had appeared from across the bay. A lesser wall sur- rounded it, perhaps for ornamentation, since it did not compare to the castle itself. Either by design or acci- dent, it was as black as Naitachal; every stone, every metal fixture, every wooden adornment, including the twin doors of the main entrance.
Guards dressed much like the ones who had approached them earlier that day came forward with, of all the silly things, ceremonial spears. Alaire smoth- ered a smile with faint amusement. They were thin and gaudy and would never make a suitable weapon; he would have preferred his own short dagger in a fight to one of those frail things. Alaire relaxed, know- ing no fight was likely to occur, in spite of the guards and their arrogant stance.
"State your business," one of the guards said with brusque politeness.
Naitachal rode forward, and bowed over the neck of his horse. "We have come to see the king of this land, Archenomen. I am Ambassador Naitachal, rep- resenting the kingdom of Althea, appointed by Reynard."
The two guards conferred privately, then one came forward to examine Naitachal's papers. Alaire could only suppose that he hadn't identified Naitachal Dark Elf, yet. His expression was bland as he took the letter and scroll back.
Nodding to the Bard, the guard said, "Go with him," indicating the other guard. "No horses," he added.
So here they dismounted, and stable hands appeared to take their horses. The doors were a good two stories high, and the knockers were so heavy the guard had trouble lifting one. One solid boom announced their presence.
A small window opened, through which the guard spoke to an unseen figure in the unknown tongue. He beckoned to Naitachal, who again relinquished his papers. The letter and scroll disappeared through this window, and the huge twin doors slowly opened.
The small figure who greeted them did not inspire fear or confidence. Alaire's first impression was of a man who had risen as far as he could as a servant, and still didn't like his position. He was old enough Alaire's father, but was thinner and more gaunt Naitachal. The livery he wore had all the trappings of an upper servant's attire, though a little less elaborate than what Alaire saw at home. What struck Alaire as odd was the long flowing cloak that trailed behind him. The thin fabric was useless for providing warmth.
The man certainly carried himself as if he thought he was serving in a place far below the rank he truly deserved. Does he have royal blood?