Alisiyad Chapter 20 ~ Varaneshe

Russ almost forgot that there was such a thing as the Festival that weekend.  Arlic’s house was quiet and serious that Friday morning, and whatever events had been planned, weren’t happening.  Important guests left practically as soon as they had arrived.  Servants and palace guards did their work or stood their guard quietly.  Russ saw men who might have been officials or at least important citizens, but they were with Arlic.  There wasn’t time to think about it much; Currun had seemingly set aside his doubts, and locked into Purposeful Mode.  Russ could practically see the schemes rushing past his eyes.  How to get in, how to find Alisiya, how to get out again?  How, how, how?  It seemed impossible to Russ.  He didn’t know anything about infiltration . . . stealth . . . kidnapping, or liberating, or whatever it was they were doing.  He wished he did.  Hell, he wished he were James Bond right then.  The name is Markson.  Russ Markson.  He shook his head.

“We’ll walk to Varaneshe,” Currun told him.  They walked through the halls with Pillari, Currun striding out front as he talked.  He had sent maids and manservants scurrying to find travel clothes, packs, and supplies that simple peasants or merchants might have.  “There are many people returning that way from the Festival Market; most people don’t stay for the duration, and especially now that Arlic has canceled many events.  We’ll blend in with them, two travelers on foot.”

“That will be the easy part,” Pillari said, staring to the side as they went.  “Getting out with the Ch—Alisiya . . . that will be the impossible part.  If he’s kept her secreted away so successfully this long . . . .”

Currun shrugged.  “You forget we never went there to look for her.  Not since she was born, at least.”  He glanced at Russ, and added, “We would have taken her away from him then, but no one understood what was going on.  He hid her from us, and everyone there denied her existence, so we gave up.”  He shook his head and looked away.

“We thought she was dead,” Pillari sighed with a shake of his head.  “Gone. A ghost.  Maybe she is . . . .”

“She said she was alive,” Russ maintained.  Pillari gave him a brief glance before looking away.  And she was real.  I really did see her, Russ insisted to himself.

Currun waved a hand impatiently.  “If she is, I’ll find her.”

They came to the doors of the armory, and the guards there let them in without a question when Pillari told them to.  Russ wondered at the way Pillari was obeyed just as if he were Arlic himself.  He didn’t think about it long, because then there was the armory itself to see.  Swords, daggers, pikes, shields, bows, arrows, and spears decorated the walls and tables.  Giant chests filled with who knew what else were stacked on top of each other, and rows of empty steel boots lined themselves at attention, waiting to come to life.  Ancient warfare was all around him.  There were enough weapons, armor, and gear to outfit a small army.

“Ideally, we will not even need to use weapons.  If no one detects that we are there, we’ll pull out the rug from under them without them even knowing it,” Currun said, inspecting daggers one by one.  “I was trained to do that; to be one with shadows, or to disappear in the open.”  He nodded.  “The most important thing here is to avoid being noticed.  It would be pointless for only two of us to go, then draw attention to our helplessly outnumbered selves.  No.  We will be in and out like a spider’s bite.”  He paused and looked at Russ, doubt again clouding his eyes for a moment, then he asked, “What weapons are you accustomed to?”

Russ scratched the back of his neck and looked into the eyes of an empty helmet’s visor.  “I . . . didn’t really need weapons . . . back home.”

Currun set a knife down and stared at him.  “You worked at an inn, and had no use for weapons?”  He glanced up and down briefly, taking in Russ’s size and build with new curiosity.  “I had assumed that at least helping the innkeeper keep the rabble down would have been one of your tasks.  But . . . I have to say . . . you don’t appear as one who has relied on only your strength and hands to fight.”

“Didn’t need to.”

Currun grunted, losing interest in Russ’s world.  “So you have no experience with weapons whatsoever.”

“I, uh . . . had a pocketknife once.”  Russ studied a mace hanging on the far wall.  “Lost it, though . . . .  I don’t suppose you have any guns.  Not that I’ve used those really, but I’ve seen people use them . . . on TV and stuff.”

He looked up at Currun, who stared back and blinked once before shaking his head.  “Well.  This is only on the chance that you can’t follow my orders well enough to keep quiet and avoid exposing us.  But here,” he selected a pair of knives from the table, and held them out.  “Hide this one in your boot, and the other should be kept against your body where you can get at it with the most ease.”

Russ took them and stared at them, one in each palm.  Pillari said, “Two small knives against all of Leeton’s men and dogs?  Currun—”

“Dagger, sword, what does it matter?” Currun crossed his arms and leaned against the table, regarding Pillari though half closed lids.  “If he lets us be found out, no weapons will help him, you know that.  Especially unskilled as he is.  It’s a formality, really.”  He shifted his lids to Russ.  “This whole idea hinges on stealth.  Reveal ourselves, be caught, stumble, make noise, blunder, lie badly . . . die.  So I don’t want you waving those knives about like they make you a warrior.”

Russ held his breath for a moment before exhaling out, “Wouldn’t dare.”

“Good.  The only thing you need to do is do whatever I say.”  He nodded curtly.  “Do that and you might not be a hindrance.”

Russ closed his hands around the hilts and lowered them to his sides, biting back a retort.

Pillari shook his head at the floor.  “Ghosts and ghost’s stories,” he muttered, turning toward the doorway.  “Fine things for the living to trust in.”

Currun snorted, pushing past Russ and Pillari to walk out of the room ahead of them.  “And you call us the living,” he remarked.  “If it wasn’t for the water we’d all be dead.  Ghosts and ghost’s stories then, are fine things for the prolonged and the reanimated to trust in, eh, Markson?”

He disappeared around the corner.  Russ was about to follow when Pillari put a hand on his arm.  “Ignore him,” he said dryly.  “He likes saying those things.  You’re either alive or dead, there’s no in between.”

“Yeah,” Russ nodded, though he wasn’t quite sure these days.

Pillari wasn’t finished.  “Listen.  My brother can do everything he’s claimed, the stealth and the surprise.  But if I were you I’d think twice about doing everything he tells you to.”

“Why?” Russ eyed him sideways.

“He’s reckless.  Not the kind of reckless that thinks he’ll never die, but the kind that doesn’t care if he does or not, anymore.”  Pillari shook his head, still with his hand on Russ’s arm.  “You can take my word on that,” he added with a small smile, “I’ve known him a long time.”

“I’m not sure what else I can do,” Russ said, looking toward the guards at the door.  “He knows what he’s doing.  I don’t.”

Pillari released his arm.  “I don’t know what you saw, or thought you saw, in your room.  But I don’t think either of you know what you’re doing.”

“I—”

“Come along,” Pillari cut him off, heading toward the hall.  “You have a long walk to Varaneshe ahead of you.”

The Festival Market transformed the streets of Elharan from when Russ had last been through them, two days ago.  The city was covered in stands and stages.  Vendors shouted at passersby to stop and shop, while crowds of tired people laden with wares and relieved of their money viewed the diversions.  Music from different corners raised together to create a discordant noise above the voices.  Apparently, the events of the day before were little cause to dampen the spirits outside of Arlic’s house.  Russ heard himself being discussed, not by name, but as “the Otherworlder.”  It was common knowledge on the streets that both he and Liseli were dead, but the whole story was nothing more than warped gossip to liven the year’s Festival talk.

He and Currun wandered through the streets, aimlessly it seemed to him.  Currun stopped at a few stands to study the wares, and even bought a few things.  Russ tried not to look impatient, though he wished Currun would take the “simple travelers” act a little less seriously.  There was hardly any time to begin with.

“Put this in your pack.”  Currun shoved a newly purchased wheel of cheese at him.

“Currun, can we—”

Currun hit him in the chest with the cheese, and he fell silent.  He’d forgotten already that they were not Currun and Russ, but Ayohdi of Varaneshe and his cousin Rulun from one of the northern fishing villages.  “If we can’t even get out of Elharan without being recognized,” Currun said in a low voice as he yanked open Russ’s travelling pack and shoved the cheese in, “we may as well stay.  Now, for the last time, try to act like you’re a lad from the fishing villages come to Elharan for the first time.”  He swore and headed off down the street.  Russ swore back at him, mentally, but followed without a word.  It doesn’t have to be this complicated, he thought.  All they had to do was walk out with the other travelers; it wasn’t like anyone was even paying that much attention to them.  Currun seemed to be playing incognito just for the sake of it.

Currun engrossed himself in perusing a stand of leatherworks; stuff like pouches, shoes, and belts.  Russ tried to look interested in something, but his eyes kept wandering back up the hill, where he could see Arlic’s house standing sentinel over the Market.  It looked like a single spot of stillness and quiet in the bustling city.  He had a feeling it was memories of Byzauki, Ilia, and Aysha that made the Erykumyn solemn, not what had happened to him or Liseli.

He looked back at Currun and thought, Bastard.  This isn’t a fucking game.  Let’s go.  But he just shook his head and looked the other way, down the street.

He knows what he’s doing.  You don’t.

A stand of musical instruments caught Russ’s eye, and he decided to look them over to pass the time.  There were mostly wind and string instruments, all made of wood with leafy or geometric designs carved into them.  Russ found himself staring at a redwood guitar with a body and head carved into a dragon; the frets were like spikes from its neck and it cradled the strings against the hole in its belly, which was inlaid with gems.  That, he thought, would make one hell of a souvenir to take back home . . . or somewhere else . . . .

“How much for that?” he asked the vendor, pointing, but before the man could answer Currun swooped down from behind.

“More than we’ve got to our names, cousin Rulun.  Don’t waste the man’s time.”  He took Russ by the arm and pulled him away from the protesting vendor, and when they were out of earshot he said, “If that is your idea of inconspicuous, I—”

“I wasn’t going to buy it, I was just trying to look interested,” Russ muttered, yanking his arm back.

Currun snorted, but said, “The morning grows old.  We’d best begin our journey to Varaneshe, or the day will run out on us.”

“Fine with me.  Cousin.”  Russ glared, but Currun only laughed as he turned down the street.  Russ adjusted the heavy pack over his shoulder and followed, telling himself just to be happy that they were finally on their way.