Well Met in Molos Page 4

  "You said..." one of the others begins, hotly.

  Rasil silences him with a harsh motion of one hand.

  "Shut it, Uba!" Rasil glares at Zerris. "Why do you want to know, old man?"

  "You tell me," Zerris says, expression and voice both even as he returns Rasil's stare from the heights of greater experience. This contest was never going to be even. Rasil is old enough by barely a year to remember when Zerris, never the leader but always the cunning one, walked away from the children to become a man.

  Rasil looks away first, to spit in the dust. "Yes, he's dangerous. Seen him around, looked like easy pickings. Like a merchant's son, or one of those merchants that only has a caravan full of fancy stuff and turns out to be a fool. So we followed him a bit, and started getting uneasy. Wasn't so sure he was what he made himself look like. So Taib took a closer look."

  At the edge of the circle, one of the smaller boys looks at the ground abruptly with his face flushing.

  Zerris carefully does not look directly at Taib, keeping his entire attention on Rasil. "Taib could not pick his pocket?"

  Rasil breaks eye contact with Zerris to glare at Taib, who does not look up, but shifts uneasily.

  "I got close enough to count the stitching," the young boy mumbles at the dirt, "then he just says, calm as anything, 'That would be a really stupid idea.' Doesn't even turn around."

  Rasil looks back at Zerris angrily. "We make ourselves scarce, then he steps up from nowhere, throws me a purse from some merchant, full of coin, and says 'Here, that's to ignore me,' and walks off. So we ignore him, understand?"

  Zerris has kept his emotions off his face, by dint of far more practice than Rasil can claim. He nods slowly. "I understand. I won't ask you to follow him. But is that all you know?" Zerris understands a lot more even than Rasil does about how dangerous Kalle is, and his head is whirling. Fighter, thief, shadow, and such awareness, by the Gods! His suspicions were roused by Melech, but Melech had only been repeating what he had been told by his men—poor scraps of information lacking in detail. Rasil—walking in Kalle's footsteps—had seen Kalle the way Zerris would: as a mark to analyse. Zerris trusts Rasil's judgement, and trusts his eyes. Rasil can describe a man or woman in such a way that Zerris can pick them out of a crowd of a thousand with absolute certainty. And that description matched—with absolute certainty—a man Tiglis had seen, and heard, and known herself to be shadowed by.

  "Don't know where he sleeps, don't know what he does, did see someone try to knock him cold on dusk. Only noticed by accident, two nights ago when we were trying to stay away from the guards. Saw him strolling along when this man jumped him from behind. I swear we didn't see him move, just saw the mugger fall down and soak the cobbles. Then Kalle looked straight at us, gave us a salute with a bloody knife, and kept on strolling. Had a grin like those dogs that guard the fortress.

  "And that's it, Zerris. That's all we know and all we want to."

  Zerris nods slowly. Without speaking, he tosses Rasil a small handful of coins, then stands up.

  "Your health, Rasil."

  Rasil snatches the coins with the speed and accuracy of a viper, before most of them even hit the dust. "Yeah. Your health, Zerris."

  *~*~*

  Zerris runs straight home, urgency gripping him once more.

  He avoids followers and conceals his intentions by long habit, but there are few people about, and anybody following him would need to run hard enough to make their presence known.

  His home is known to many, a fact he dislikes but cannot avoid. Should he move, he would lose valuable trust. Besides, he inherited the house from Rana, after she outlived his father Jakodi, and does not wish to lose their memories.

  He is, however, confident of his privacy. The uneasy marriage of city and desert cultures in Molos means that although many consider their houses to be places of entertainment, many more consider them sacrosanct places where no business is conducted. Zerris let it be known that he is one such, for his sister will not countenance strangers in her home.

  It is not so rare for a woman to turn away all visitors. The strong-minded, free-willed women of the desert become insular and defensive when faced with the sexual forwardness and lack of respect of city men, it being far easier for a woman to avoid a confrontation than to answer to city guards for having defended her honour with a blade.

  Zerris has found this fact an immensely useful one to exploit; Tiglis has found it the foundation upon which she has retained her sanity and her safety.

  *~*~*

  Zerris locks his front door carefully, then claws at his robes to remove them.

  Underneath, he wears pants and shirt similar to, but lighter than, those worn by most labourers in Molos, not the long shift of true desert dwellers.

  His shirt comes off far more easily than did his robes.

  Shirtless, he looks like a fighter, and moves like a fighter as well. Yet as he walks a few steps, his pantherine movements become lighter and more poised. His shoulders relax and roll slightly backwards. The set of his hips shifts.

  Upstairs, the other bedroom is much plainer and more austere. It holds a serviceable wooden chest which itself holds clothes concealing, underneath them, a locked wooden box identical to the one Orianna had used.

  A chair, an odd Empire touch in a house bearing the stamp of the desert, stands before a mirror mounted above a shelf. The box gives up another cloth, another bottle of spirits of wine, and shaving equipment.

  He dampens the cloth and begins, very carefully, to remove his beard.

  "White skin, wears black, no beard, straight sword," he mutters as he stretches the skin on one cheek and works patiently to loosen the spirit gum, the spirits of wine stripping away the grease which had concealed the edge of the prosthesis. "By all the Hells, it cannot be him! But if he looks like a merchant's son, or a rich fool... Curse him! And that scar... We'd wondered if there was a scar there, hadn't we? If only Tiglis could have risked a closer look, I might already know!"

  He pauses to stare into his reflection's eyes. "But that might be the opening you need. He was at the markets the night before last, and last night, you were not there to see him. Might he be there again? If he does not know he is hunted, and he is not attempting to hide..."

  He grimaces at his reflection, which returns the expression. "A curse upon his parents! Tiglis should not get involved, but Tiglis may be needed. Oh yes, she saw the way he looked at her. Confront him, or invite him?"

  The mirror returns a sour twist of Zerris's lips, one side of his face exposed.

  "Can we risk Tiglis meeting him? What might a man like that see? Demons eat his eyes! How to be friendly to the goat-fucker now we know he's a goat-fucker?"

  He stares into his own eyes, man to mirror to man, and sees the man looking back. His hands ball into fists, his knuckles white around the spirits-soaked cloth. He feels himself begin to shake, and must close his eyes to steady himself. "Tiglis can make her own decisions," he whispers as he calms.

  Always, poised between taking off one face and putting on another, there is uncertainty, self-doubt, and fear. The only way through is to stiffen resolve and distract himself with planning.

  He goes back to patiently working upon his beard, nearing his chin. "Need to see Vara again, anyway. Take the opportunity to make some coin, and she may know. She is not wholly blind. And if Tiglis has no luck, there is always the dice."

  Zerris stops working at his beard as another spasm passes across his face. "Every night a different venue," he snarls at his reflection. "Why not? At least we know now why the goat-fucker makes himself hard to find."

  The beard removed, he takes a deep breath, eyes closed, then lets tension flow from his body along with the air.

  Tiglis opens her eyes. She was born Zerris and Zerris is always the hardest role to put off, but she knows no greater relief than when she does so.

  Her lips quirk. "Let Kalle try to see through me. We will see how he faces a desert woman in the light."


  Meeting the Enemy

  When Tiglis slips out Zerris's door, she has replaced poise and physical prowess with daintiness. Her head and body are obscured by a desert woman's robes and the face by a mantle protecting nose and mouth. Her exposed eyes are feminine.

  She pauses to give quick, birdlike glances up and down the road before darting into the stream of people headed towards the markets.

  Few stalls brave the worst of the heat, and they have few customers, yet by the time Tiglis reaches the great square in the centre of Molos, it is so crowded the stalls are crammed together and the customers must jostle for space.

  At night the market is lit by great oil lanterns hung from buildings and from tall, rope-supported poles. They are not yet all burning, the sky still glowing.

  Tiglis lets herself become more animated as she dives into the market crowd, skipping as she exposes a face carefully constructed to appear womanly despite her stature, her hair loose as an unmarried woman's inside her mantle rather than braided as a girl's or restrained out of sight as a married woman's. She is softer featured than Zerris, and looks happier, but retains her surefootedness. She stops to buy a cactus apple from one of the first stalls she passes, her hand disappearing inside her robes so nobody can see where, or how large, her purse is.

  She peels the fruit, its spines already removed, as she wanders more leisurely onwards, her rapid glances around her developing the critical intent of the experienced shopper.

  The communal rubbish heap at the centre of the market, still small but destined to grow to great heights no matter the toil of labourers ferrying its contents to the compost heaps outside the city, takes the apple's skin.

  Food vendors fill the night with constant claims of better produce, or better value, than their competitors. Those selling objects or clothing take a more personal tack, targeting specific passersby with cunning praise or pitiful entreaties.

  Such attempts at a sale are likely to be followed by imprecations when ignored, but Tiglis smiles prettily when she shakes her head, and nobody has yet responded to that with anger.

  She comes to a stall selling slabs of goat fried over glowing coals in a portable brazier. The seller, not yet very busy, greets her immediately.

  "Tiglis! I missed you last night! Are you hungry? You must be hungry, you never look any less starving. You must look after yourself!"

  Tiglis's right hand emerges from within her cloak, holding a long dagger. She skewers a strip of meat, flicking a coin towards the stall-holder with the same hand as she does so. He catches it easily.

  "I always look after myself, Amnon, and when I don't, Zerris does," she says through a mouthful of goat.

  Amnon scowls and gestures wildly with the fork he uses to turn the goat. "Zerris! That ruffian is no good. You need to find a man of your own and move away from your brother."

  Tiglis's blue eyes flick from side to side, showing Amnon the startled face of someone who knows how sharply such an insult might be answered, if Zerris overhears. Amnon is a good friend, but sometimes needs to be reminded to show respect. "He's good to me," she says. Amnon's words pricked a nerve, but Tiglis keeps that to herself.

  Amnon shakes his head mournfully as Tiglis moves on.

  She stops by a clothes stall as if taken by surprise, hesitates, almost moves on, then peeks another look. She darts forward to peer at a daring dress before blushing prettily and self-consciously adjusting her robes about her. She moves a little way around to look shyly at a more everyday item.

  The woman owning the stall pounces. "It would look beautiful on you! Come, you're a girl of the city, why hide your beauty inside those robes? You must try it on! Come inside, come inside!"

  Tiglis, blushing prettily, allows herself to be chivvied inside the tent.

  "You haven't visited me for a week, Tiglis."

  "It doesn't pay to pick the same herbs too often, Vara, you must let them recover." Tiglis swiftly dumps nine richly embroidered purses, two knives, and a large handful of jewellery into a bag Vara impatiently holds open, pulling them from inside her robes.

  "Some jewellery as well? Good!" Vara pushes some coins into Tiglis's hands.

  "Did you see anyone following me, Vara?"

  "Following you? No, just the usual men who get distracted by how pretty you are."

  "I only blush in public, Vara. No young men dressed in black city clothes, wetlander skin, and smooth chin, and a straight sword hanging off his waist?"

  "I'm an old woman, let me have my distractions." Vara snatches a city woman's dress off a table, holding it critically against Tiglis's body. "See? If you wore this, you would need to hold suitors off with a knife. No, nobody of that description."

  "Hmm. Have you heard of anyone like that at all?"

  Vara eyes her with what would be suspicion if it were not prurient interest. "I have not, but you should immediately tell old Vara why you are asking!"

  Tiglis kisses Vara quickly on the cheek, then scurries out of the tent and onwards without saying another word. Vara jumps out to throw wild offers of better prices at her retreating back, holding the dress high imploringly.

  As Tiglis continues on, moving from stall to stall with the calculated, avaricious look of a shopper who does not intend to be side-tracked, importuned, or gulled, her path through the markets appears to become erratic.

  She examines the contents of a stall critically, and then spontaneously dashes back the way she has come to eye a completely different item. She wanders slowly without stopping, then turns on her heel to dart towards a pile of spice, or stand tall to peer over stalls before weaving between aisles to get to a stall which, upon her arrival, fails to sustain her interest.

  Eventually, she completes a full lap of the markets, seemingly despite herself. A stall near where she had found the cactus apple sells her a bag of fried locusts.

  Chewing the crunchy treats happily, she strides out with a much more resolute air about her that speaks now more of proud desert women than of the flighty city girl she could easily have been mistaken for.

  She slips between stalls like a wraith, dodges through crowds with the ease of a cat, and avoids clusters of distrustful guards escorting their rich charges as though she choreographed their movements herself.

  Yet although she appears to move with a resolute aim in mind, she does not move in a straight line, or even in a consistent line.

  She comes at last to one of the elaborate columns dotting the market square at uncomfortably regular intervals. Carved from a stone alien to Molos and in a style not even the looming, easily forgotten fortress echoes, the columns are shunned by stallholders and shoppers alike, their very presence an unwelcome reminder of the imperial might Molos manages, for the most part, to comfortably ignore.

  She steps lightly around the column in a half circle before putting her back into a corner formed by the stone's multiple vertical creases. She draws her mantle over her face until only her eyes and a strip of her nose are visible, and waits. The bag of fried locusts has disappeared inside her robes.

  Perhaps a minute later, a young man, barely taller than her, dressed all in black and with his lips curved in a happy grin, strolls out of the crowd as if forming from shadows.

  His clothes are tough yet light, and made of better material than most attending the markets can afford. His wetlander hose and shirt appear to be coarse silk—a fabric rarely seen in Molos, where the finest fabric ever seen in the streets is the wool of young goats. Orianna's guess, then, had been correct. His boots are leather, marking them equally as expensive, and his jerkin kid leather. His shirt appears to be black but, with the shift of light, might instead be green, and with another shift of light appears to disappear into its own shadow.

  They are all, Tiglis realises, clothes well suited to silent, rapid movement in tight spaces. Melech, Kedar, Rasil's gang, and even Tiglis herself saw him as a monochrome peacock, a rich merchant or even a noble of a wetlander house, with more flair than sense and more arrogance than
cunning, although Rasil's gang quickly learned the error of that judgement, and Melech had his suspicions. But with the wisdom of insight, Tiglis sees his garb is far more calculated than that. She can see how he has fooled them all. She can respect that, but feels more wariness than admiration.

  The head above his collar has short-cropped, straw-pale hair that stands out in Molos, blue eyes lighter than Tiglis's own, and skin that has a bronze tan as its only tinting but appears, incredibly, to be losing it. His chin is clean as a boy's but firm as a man's. A faint scar, just visible against his tan, circles his neck. A sword with an unusual thin hilt and an even more unusual straight blade hangs from his left hip, underneath a long-bladed straight knife.

  Tiglis favours him with an even eye that betrays no emotions.

  He stops just out of arm's reach to throw a florid salute that manages to appear a full bow despite being accompanied by a mere inclination of his head. "Good evening, fine lady. My name is Kalle. If I may be so bold, you led me a fine chase."

  Tiglis returns him a level, appraising look from inside her mantle. "May the night find you under safe stars, Kalle" she says formally, "which you may need should you continue to stalk women in Molos."

  Nothing in Kalle's expression or voice alters to show any contrition. "I make my own luck," he says, "by not being seen to stalk, follow, hunt, shadow, or track anyone. It is rare skill that can detect me when I do not wish to be seen. The fact that you detected me, my most beautiful Tiglis, means you have less cause for concern than most, and far less cause for complaint."

  One visible eyebrow arches sharply. She does not react to the fact that he already knows her name. She did not expect anything less. "What, sir Kalle, do you mean by that? There is much I could make complaint about."

  "But you not only detected me, you did so while reaping what must have been a modestly profitable harvest, and did not let my attention stop you. I believe that makes us colleagues, at the very least."

  Tiglis's eyes give nothing away—certainly not that she had found him difficult to detect, and was not at first sure he had been there at all. "Yet you did follow me, and cared enough to find out my name without me giving it to you. That suggests you followed me with intent, not whim."