Ialin wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. "Oh, we have to assume that."
"We'll disguise her," Zylas explained, whiskers tickling Collins' ear.
Collins' mind conjured images of a horse wearing a huge plastic nose, mustache, and glasses combination. The usual methods of disguise: clothes, haircut, contact lenses, perhaps a fake scar or two would not work here. They could not even sneak into the relative safety of careful cross-dressing. "As a horse? Or a woman?"
Ialin gave Collins another one of his judgmental stares. "We'll do the horse part. She'll have to handle the woman herself. We'll send the pack, so you can put anything she'll need in there."
Collins looked doubtfully from the grazing horse to the pack near Ialin's feet. "Won't I have to know something about the town I'm supposed to represent?"
"Not as much as you think," Zylas said.
Apparently missing Zylas' words, spoken low and directly into Collins' ear, Ialin said, "Just a bit."
Sensing Collins' tension, Korfius whined, butting the now-stilled hand.
Absently, Collins continued his ministrations while his two older companions outlined their plan.
Chapter 14
COLLINS' watch read 5:00 p.m. when he rode Falima across the well-cropped grassy field that separated the outer curtain wall from the forest. He tucked the watch into his pocket, wishing he could have left it behind with Zylas. Pulling out impossible technology at the wrong time might give him away, but he relied upon it to determine a proper and consistent pretend switch time, to keep track of Falima, and to have a clear idea of how long the whole process was taking him. The black fur beneath him was disorienting after several days of riding a golden buckskin. Having never heard of bleach, his companions found it impossible to lighten Falima's coloring, so had chosen to make her body the same coarse ebony as her mane, tail, and points. Apparently, jet black was one of the most common horse colors in Barakhai and should not attract undue attention.
At switch time, Falima would make herself scarce. The dye might carry over into her human form, though probably not with much consistency. Apparently, some items in the pack would allow her to touch up blotches or to change her appearance in other believable fashions. Collins hoped he would recognize her, though it did not matter. His escape plan and hers did not hinge upon one another.
Sheep looked up as they passed, baaing noisy greetings. The goats proved more curious, approaching them to sniff, bleat at, and chew the cloth shoes his companions had provided in place of his Nike look-alikes. The horse's ears went flat backward, and she emitted occasional warning squeals that sent the goats scattering, though they always returned. The cows paid them no attention at all.
As they crossed the plain, Collins got a clear view of the outer wall, and he steered Falima toward the attached roofed structure that clearly represented the gatehouse. A massive construct of plank and rope pressed against the stone wall, apparently the drawbridge. Collins pulled up in front of the gatehouse, at the edge of the moat. Insects skittered over the surface of the water, leaving star-shaped wakes. Far beneath them, fish glided through the transparent pond, apparently accustomed to having no place to hide.
The gatehouse consisted of two of the round towers that interrupted the wall at regular intervals, with a straight stretch of stone no wider than the drawbridge between them. On the roof of each tower stood two guards dressed in white-chested aqua tunics, the top portion decorated with designs that looked like thinly stretched clover to Collins. Black belts held their uniforms in place and supported long, thin swords in wooden sheaths. All four watched Collins' approach with obvious interest, though they raised no weapons. One called down in a strong, female voice, "Who's there?"
Collins had initially assumed they were all men, so the speaker caught him off guard.
When he did not answer immediately, the woman's partner boomed out, "You were asked a question, good sir. Are you deaf or rude?"
Collins dismounted and bowed, hoping they would attribute any violated protocol to his foreignness. "Just tired, sir. I am Benton." It seemed ironic that he would use the full name he had so many times asked others to shorten. He had often wished his parents had named him Benjamin, like every other "Ben" he had ever met. His current friends had assured him that Benton fit this world much better than Ben; and, by using his real name, he would not forget it, as he might a pseudonym, in the heat of a chaotic moment. If he accidentally did call himself "Ben," it would follow naturally as a proper shortening or interrupted utterance. "And this…"He made a flourishing motion toward Falima, "is Marlys." It was another alias he would remember, though he knew it made things harder for his companion. He dared not use anything approaching her real name, as it might trigger suspicion. "We've traveled a long way under less than ideal circumstances."
"From where?" the woman asked, and the others leaned forward for the answer. Now, Collins was able to get a good look at all of them. Mail peeked from beneath their collars and sleeves, and helmets pinned down their hair. Their faces ranged from the male partner's dark brown to the woman's cafe au lait to the paler khaki of the guards in the other tower. Wisps of sable hair escaped onto one man's forehead, but the others kept their locks bunched beneath arming caps and metal helmets.
Collins used the town name Ialin had given him, "Epronville. We've come to do our shift for the king."
"Where are your colors?" one of the pale men asked.
Anticipating the question, Collins had a ready answer. "Bandits. That was part of our less than ideal circumstances."
The woman's partner snorted. "Bandits robbing guardsmen. You're right. You do need a shift here. Some competent training."
Collins feigned affront. "Do you think we don't feel foolish enough? You have to rub our noses in it?" He wondered how the slang would translate. "Perhaps you'd like to bring the whole guard force out here to point fingers and laugh at us?"
He simulated the guards, jabbing a digit toward Falima. "Ha ha ha, simple rube guards can't even keep themselves safe from bandits." He dropped his hand. "And, by the way, don't bother to mention we faced off six of them."
The dark man made a gesture of surrender. "Take it easy. I meant no disrespect." The tight-lipped smirk he tried to hide told otherwise. He turned and disappeared from the tower.
Keeping his own expression neutral, Collins congratulated himself on his acting. He had managed to divert the guards from the issue of the missing colors. The fact that it made him look weak did not bother him at all.
The fourth guard reappeared at his position. Then, a ratcheting, clanking noise ground through Collins' hearing. The drawbridge edged downward, adding a squeal of massive, rusty hinges to the din.
"You'd best move back," the woman instructed. "Or you might get crushed."
Collins led Falima away from the moat, hoping his failure to exercise the proper caution would pass for small town ignorance rather than a complete lack of knowledge about castles. He knew Barakhai had only one such fortress, that the dwellings of the outlying superiors consisted only of mansions with the barest of defenses. When he considered their system, it seemed miraculous that they managed even that much. At most, the people had only eight hours a day to accomplish any work along with such necessities as eating and general personal care.
Suspended by two sturdy chains, the drawbridge dropped across the moat with a thud that shook the ground. Falima loosed a low nicker, prancing several more paces backward.
"Easy girl." Collins rubbed her neck soothingly, feeling the warm sweat that slicked her fur. He glanced surreptitiously at his palm, worried the moisture might disturb the dye. Though caked with dirt and foamy horse sweat, his hand remained free of black smudges. He breathed a sigh of relief.