“No guise, I fear,” said Bransen as he reached up and popped the soul stone out from under his bandanna, quickly pocketing it. Instantly he felt the first twinges of separation, the first sparks of discord from his line of ki-chi-kree. “It is who… oo I ammm.”
Cadayle winced at the stutter, despite her insistence.
“You hate seeing me like that,” Bransen remarked, his voice relatively strong and steady. Cadayle looked at him in surprise. In response, he merely glanced down at his hand, still in his pocket, still holding the soul stone. He was getting much better at maintaining that connection even when the stone was not strapped to the focal point of his chi, up on his forehead.
Cadayle frowned, though, and Bransen immediately began his awkward gait.
“Don’t you be thinking of stealing anything in this town,” Cadayle whispered. “Laird Delaval frightens me.”
Bransen didn’t reply, but of course he was thinking precisely that.
They were turned away at the gate, for no wagons and horses were allowed inside other than those owned by the fortunate nobility who lived within the walls and the higher-priced merchants and tradesmen who had to pay dearly for a license to bring a horse or donkey or wagon inside. The guards did point them at a nearby stable outside the wall, however, and assured them that the proprietor was a man of high regard.
His reputation didn’t matter much to them anyway. They had little of value in the wagon other than Bransen’s silk clothing and the pack they simply would carry away with them. Doully was old and more a friend than a worker, and they had planned to sell the horse team upon their arrival anyway, for the poor beasts had seen too much of ill-groomed roads and broken trails.
“They’ll both need shoeing, to be sure,” Yenium the stablemaster informed them. He was a tall and very thin man with a dark complexion and darker beard that grew in every day. “Ye been walking a long way.”
“Too long,” said Callen.
The man stared at Bransen.
“Bringing him to the monks,” Cadayle explained. “He was hurt in the war.”
Yenium laughed aloud. “But they’ll do ye no good,” he said, waving his hands in apology even as he spoke the words. “Not unless ye got good gold to pay, and lots of it.”
Callen and Cadayle exchanged sour looks, though neither was surprised, of course. It seemed as if some things were constant throughout the land of Honce.
“Our funds run short,” Callen said. “We were hoping that you would have need of the horses and the wagon.”
“Buy ’em?”
“They’ve walked too much of the roads,” Callen explained.
“True enough,” Yenium said. “And the donkey?”
“We’ll be keeping that one,” said Callen. “We’ve a long way to go yet.”
Knowing their negotiations to be in good hands, Bransen let Cadayle lead him off to the side. Sure enough, Callen joined them shortly after, jiggling a small bag of silver coins and even a single piece of gold. “And he’s to board Doully for us free for as long as we’re in Delaval,” Callen said with a satisfied grin. “A fair price.”
“More than,” Cadayle agreed and slung the pack over her shoulder. She was about to suggest that they go and see the city proper before the daylight waned but was interrupted by the blare of horns from inside the city wall. Cheers followed, and many of the peasants outside the wall began streaming for the gates, moving eagerly and chattering with obvious excitement.
Callen and Cadayle flanked Bransen and moved him along swiftly to beat the rush. Fortunately, they weren’t far from the gate, and with a rather lewd wink at Cadayle, the young guard let them through. Not that the view was any better beyond the wall as thousands had gathered around the grand square, all jumping and shouting, lifting their arms high and waving red towels.
“What is it, then?” Cadayle asked a nearby reveler.
The woman looked at her as if she must be crazy.
“We’ve just come in,” Cadayle explained. “We know nothing of the source of the celebration.”
“The laird’s come down,” the woman explained.
“The king, ye mean!” another corrected.
“Laird Delaval-King Delaval soon enough, by the graces of Abelle and the Ancient Ones,” the first said.
Bransen shook his head shakily, continually amazed at the manner in which the peasants always seemed to hedge their bets regarding the afterlife, citing both of the dominant religions.
“He’s come down with his lady and all the others,” said the woman. “Tonight the brave Prince Yeslnik’s to be formally named as Laird of Pryd Holding. That and a host of other honors on the man. Oh, but he’s handsome, and so brave! He’s killed a hundred of Ethelbert’s men, don’t ye know?”
Cadayle smiled and nodded, hiding her knowing smirk well as she turned to regard Bransen, who of course knew better than to believe any such supposed heroics attributed to the foppish Prince Yeslnik. But Cadayle’s smile disappeared in a blink, for Callen stood there alone with no sign of Bransen. Immediately Cadayle brought a hand up to her pack, realizing as she grasped it that it had been relieved of some of its contents. It was not hard for her to guess which things might have been taken.
She gave an awkward bow and moved away from the peasant woman, catching her mother by the elbow and leading her to a quieter spot.
“What is he thinking?” she asked.
“That with all of them down here…” Callen motioned with her chin toward the castle.
Cadayle heaved a great and helpless sigh.
Her husband was a stubborn one, she knew.
And that stubbornness was likely to get him killed.
Bransen didn’t change into his black silk suit until he reached the shadows at the base of the stone wall to the castle’s highest and most fortified keep. The exotic cloth had held up well through the years, and was still shiny, as if through some magic the dirt could not gain a hold on it. The right sleeve of the shirt had been torn away by Bransen, to make both his mask (for he unrolled the gem-holding headband down to the tip of his nose, with eyeholes cut in appropriately) and a strip of cloth that he tied about his upper right arm to hide an easily identifiable birthmark.
As he had expected, almost all of the soldiers had gone down to watch the pomp and ceremony of the anointing of Laird Yeslnik. The main gates were guarded, he noted as he crossed about the side streets and back alleys, as were all the entry points to the castle proper.
But Bransen was Jhesta Tu, or a close approximation at least, and he didn’t need a doorway. So he moved to the back wall, out of view, and donned his black suit.
He glanced around, hearing the distant sounds of the growing celebration. He saw no guards in the area and held confidence that any who were supposed to be here, behind the structure and thus blocked from the merrymaking, were likely away from their posts, watching the happenings in the lower bailey.
He couldn’t be sure, though, and that truth gave him pause.
“But you are the Highwayman,” he reminded himself, his grin widening beneath the black mask.
Bransen fell within himself. He thought of the gem-stones, of the malachite, and used the feelings its touch had inspired to reach that corresponding energy within his ki-chi-kree. If he had had the magical gemstone in his possession he could have floated off the ground, he knew, but even without it, even just remembering its powers, Bransen lightened his body greatly. He reached up with one hand and pulled himself up the wall.
Like a spider he scrambled, his hands and feet finding grooves in the stone. So weightless had he become that it mattered not how deep the ledge or how firm his grip. In less than a minute the Highwayman had scaled the seventy-five feet of the highest tower, all the way to the one narrow window on this back side of the structure. He peeked inside, then settled himself securely on the ledge. With a look all around at the wide and glorious rolling countryside south of Delaval, he slipped into the dimly lit room.