“Yes, I did,” she said, lying playfully again.
“No chance. You don’t sound like a courtier, you don’t dress like one, and I’ll bet my last farthing that you can’t write like one.”
“What does it matter who wrote the letter?” she answered.
“So you didn’t?” I pressed.
“No,” she replied, a trifle sulkily.
I released her hands, waiting for more information. She folded her arms and sat in silence for a minute or so. Then, in what I took to be her own voice-it was devoid of courtly affectation and touched with some regional accent that was round and earthy-she said, “And you don’t think I look like a courtier?”
Her tone was hurt, and this seemed so completely genuine that my suspicion momentarily evaporated and I had nothing but a kind of pity for her.
“Well, I haven’t really seen you yet,” I said, as kindly as I could in the circumstances.
“There!” she said, snatching the mask from her face. “Now you can see me.”
She was quite beautiful. Her face was fuller than was the fashion at court and she held a slight rosiness in her cheeks which would have seemed too countrified for the city, but she looked real as few of the women in the palace had looked. I was caught by surprise.
“Well?” she demanded, pouting slightly. Even in the dull light I could see that her eyes were hazel, deep and darker than any I had seen in the city.
“You look wonderful,” I said, honestly.
“But not like a court lady.”
“Better than a court lady.”
She looked at me quizzically, a childlike skepticism passing over her face. Then she smiled broadly again. “Good,” she concluded. “Look, we are nearly there.”
She moved the curtain and the light fell on her face. We had been traveling for some time and were now far from the city. Trees grew out of darkening fields and, in the distance, isolated stone cottages showed lights at the windows.
“Where are we?” I asked.
“Nearly there.”
“Yes, but. .”
She reached across and laid her finger on my lips. I fell silent and then decided that this would be a good time to kiss her. I had no idea who she was or what she had in mind for me when the coach stopped, but I could not believe she meant me harm. Well, I preferred not to. It was conceivable that she would slip a stiletto in my ribs or hand me over to someone else who would, but she was no goblin, even if she wasn’t a courtier either. I contrived to get closer to her on the pretext of looking out of the window and then made the move. As my cheek brushed against hers she backed away: a small but decisive gesture.
“Wait till later,” she said.
But there was something in her glance, or the way she averted it and stared fixedly out of the window, that told me beyond any doubt that there would be no “later.” It was my turn to sulk. I suppose I should have been more concerned for my safety, but I was too busy being disappointed in that petty, self-involved fashion that I’ve cultivated so expertly over the years.
It was quite dark when the carriage drew to a creaking halt. I had long since lost track of which direction we were heading in. I was thus rather alarmed when I looked out and found the dark, irregular silhouettes of trees hanging over the road. We were on the edge of that vile forest.
“Where the hell are we going? I demanded, petulance muffling my growing fear.
“We are at an inn,” said my companion. “Climb down and go inside. I have to pay the driver. When you go in, go straight up the stairs at the back of the bar and wait for me in room four. It will be unlocked.”
“Why don’t I wait for you here?” I asked, suspiciously.
“Because we should not be seen going in together,” said she, with that provocative little smile, which seemed to promise so much more than I was going to get. “That just isn’t done.”
She wagged her finger at me. As she fumbled for her purse and replaced her mask, she added, “Go on in and I’ll join you presently.”
I wanted to believe her, but as I got down and walked across the cobbled yard to where the small hubbub of the tavern emanated, I knew she wouldn’t be coming up. I considered having a few beers-if they were any good-and then getting the first ride I could back to the city, but I was too frustrated to be so passive. I sensed no malice from her and I wasn’t about to threaten the girl, partly because I doubted that she knew entirely what it was that was about to happen. The assassins had got to me in Phasdreille. There was no reason for them to arrange so elaborate a ruse to get me out here in the middle of nowhere. No; this was something different, and I felt a rising sense of caution touched with anticipation. I wanted to see who had gone to so much trouble to get me out here and why.
So I started to go in. But first I took one last look at the masked beauty in the carriage, who was making a show of sorting through some coins. I didn’t expect I’d see her again and had almost decided to go back to say something romantic and significant when the carriage suddenly launched forward and, with a clatter of hooves, vanished into the darkness. Well, that was my ride gone.
So much for romance.
For a minute or two I just stood there, not surprised, but feeling sort of confused and pathetic anyway. Then someone came out of the pub pushing a dolly with a barrel on it and the decision was made. He gave me a curious look. Suddenly conscious of how strange it must seem to be standing around in the courtyard in the dark, I took a few purposeful strides, gave him a “good evening” kind of nod, and stepped into the inn.
The barroom was curious. It had more of the Cresdon bustle than the other inns I had seen since we were transported to wherever we now were. It was smoky and loud-not like the Eagle, you understand, but it certainly had more character than the Refuge or anything in Phasdreille. The atmosphere cheered me. Maybe the beer would even be decent.
I made my way to the bar and ordered. At first I didn’t notice, but the patrons were a surprisingly mixed bag. In place of the tall, pale, and blond aristocratic types I had grown used to, these were tall, short, fat, thin, pale, dark, brunette, redheaded-in short, just what you’d expect in the taverns of Thrusia. My heart skipped at the idea and a thought struck me: Perhaps I had crossed back, taken another mystical carriage ride back across the edge of reality, back to Stavis. Then I tasted the beer: the same straw-colored ditchwater as before. I was still here.
As if to emphasize the point, I turned and found myself gazing across the room to the foot of a narrow staircase made of plain wooden boards. I took a sip of my “beer,” left the rest of it on the bar, and walked to and up the stairs quite calmly, almost as if I knew what I was doing. Room four was the second from the head of the stairs on the right. I knocked, and, when no one answered, pushed the door open.
A candle was burning inside. There was a rough-looking bed with an uneven mattress stuffed with straw, a deal table and chair, and a large water pitcher and bowl. On the table was a bottle of beer and two earthenware goblets. Nothing else. I walked in, closed the door behind me, and sat on the bed. Drawing a knife from my boot, I stared at the door to a large closet and spoke aloud. “All right, let’s get on with it. I’m in no mood for games.”
The door swung open. “Nor am I, Will.”
It was Lisha.
She stood there, small and still, smiling slightly. I stared at her, my mouth open. Then, without thinking, I threw my arms around her and squeezed her hard. This was the last thing I had expected and suddenly it seemed that I had never been happier to see anyone.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I exclaimed.