Nightlord: Shadows (17 page)

So, best case, we’re all getting better. At worst, I’m ruining my workout, but giving them the energy to have a truly impressive one. Does that make me supernatural steroids? I can live with that.

“By the way,” I said, after a helping of something resembling salmon vanished down-gullet.

“Yes, my angel?”

“How’s the foot doing?”

“It aches, but I have been monitoring it closely all day. I have made a few minor adjustments to the spell, but nothing of real note. The principle is working, and I am very pleased with the progress.”

“Good. I’ll want to look at it again, tonight.”

“I will be very pleased, my angel.”

Seldar cleared his throat. I looked at him and nodded.

“My lord?”

“Yes?”

“Why does the Lady Tort call you her angel?”

The word she was using was
arhela
, not
arhia
, as she used to call me.
Arhia
means something like spirit in the service of light.
Arhela
, one the other hand, is more like an elemental force, like a storm or tidal wave. If there’s an angel of songs or an angel of poetry, it would be
arhia
. The angels of hurricanes and meteor strikes would be
arhela
. They don’t serve light or darkness, as such; they’re just there, impartial and generally unstoppable.

Apparently, she promoted me during my nap.

“That’s something you’ll have to ask her,” I told him. I glanced at Tort. “If you want to explain, I don’t mind.” I didn’t add that I’d like to hear the explanation, myself.

“I will consider it,” she promised. Seldar took that as a cue to shut up and eat. I changed the subject.

“Another thing. I’m trying to get a smith to make us some special armor. I think I can arrange to lay hands on something close to cash—I’ll look into it tonight, while all of you get some sleep—but he says he’s got other projects that he has ahead of mine. Is there any way we can speed that up?”

“I will see to it,” Tort promised. She looked smug.

“Hold it. By ‘speed that up,’ I mean ‘help him move along at high speed.’ I do not mean, ‘string him up by the ankles and beat him until he agrees,’ or anything of the sort.”

“You would prefer that he be persuaded, rather than coerced.”

“If at all possible, yes. That’s it, exactly.”

“I remember. As I said, I will see to it,” she assured me. I decided that, First, I trusted her implicitly, and that there wasn’t a Second.

“I look forward to seeing the result. Thank you.”

“It is entirely my pleasure, my angel. May I inquire as to your plans for the rest of the day?”

“Is there a slaughterhouse in town? Or someplace where they are likely to be killing and/or butchering animals?”

“Yes. May I ask why, so that I may aid you in your endeavors?”

“I plan to double-check my enchantment work on the swords for the three swordsmen,” I answered, nodding at the three in question.

“Ah!” Tort nodded, understanding immediately. She already had some idea of the power in those blades. It’s a form of nosiness to peek at other people’s enchantments. It’s like looking at the title of a book someone else is reading. We can’t help it.

“If they work the way I think they do, we’ll continue to work at an insanely high level until nearly sunset. Then these three will need to eat again, and I’ll need to, um, go out for dinner.”

“I have already made plans for that, my angel.”

I paused with a spoonful of something halfway to my mouth. After a second, I put it down.

“I trust you implicitly,” I told her, “but you’ll understand that I just woke up a couple of days ago and I’m still a little uncertain about the lay of the land, so to speak, in Mochara. Your plans aren’t going to cause unpleasant repercussions, are they?”

“I think not.”

“Then I look forward to seeing what you’ve got.”

“A pleasure to be of service. Now, finish eating. I have errands to run this afternoon.”

“Yes, dear.”

We found a woodcutter on the west side of town and made his day. He would go into the forests at the foot of the Eastrange, cut trees, hitch them to a pair of domesticated
dazhu
, and drag them back to town for cutting and splitting. Between us, we split his whole stock of firewood. When that wasn’t enough to keep us busy, I took a couple of unsplit logs, cut off a two-foot chunk from the ends, and started playing catch with them. They were much more awkward than a medicine ball, but that’s a good thing; if it’s easy, it isn’t good for you. I also took a few long pieces of wood and did some whittling, making big sword-sticks for later.

During a break to talk with the woodcutter—Timon—I asked about some makeshift training equipment. Nothing fancy; some logs, cut to length. Things to lift, things to carry, things to walk on or walk over, things to balance on, that sort of thing. Timon agreed that he had a few trees left—I told the guys to stop cutting things to pieces and save them—and would be happy to have them delivered.

I also asked him about his lumber imports. He cut trees down and dragged them back; I described a pair of two-wheeled little carts, drew a little in the dirt, and explained how he could drag back more in one go if he strapped these on to the logs.

“But,” I cautioned him, “bear in mind that I’ve spoken with dryads before. You do pay attention to them, right?”

“Yes, Lord,” he answered, not meeting my eyes. He seemed uncertain what to make of people coming to his place of business and making his life easy. “When they says anything to me, anyways. I just avoids ’em.”

“And you do still plant trees, right? I recall making an edict about that.”

“I always planted trees, lord. Got the wife potting ’em upstairs. Cut two, plant three, that’s the law.” He twisted his hands together and apart, nervously. “That’s right, innit? I’m not in trouble?”

“No, no, not at all. You’re doing just right.”

“I asks ’cause I also take windfall trees, and I don’t plant none for those.”

“I don’t think you need to. Has anyone—or anything—ever asked you to?”

“No, Lord.”

“Then don’t worry about it. If a dryad ever gives you trouble about that, you tell her I’ll take care of it, then make sure someone tells me. Okay?”

“I’ll do my best, lord.”

“Good man.”

We cut logs, split wood, threw around a couple of heavy chunks, and basically worked ourselves into the ground. We lined up, thanked Timon, shook his hand, and went back to Tort’s. I glanced back and saw him staring at a month’s worth of work, all neatly stacked.

Tort saw us coming; I deliberately looked up to see if I could spot her spying on us. It wasn’t that hard to do with my nonhuman eyes; the ripple-effect distortion of the scrying window seems obvious when I think to actually look for it. I know she kept an eye on us; she met us in the little stable-yard behind the house and watched.

The three boys and I squared off with lengths of wood instead of real swords. I wanted to see what they had already learned, as well as see what I could remember from my banquet in Zirafel.

Turns out, the warriors three were pretty good. Torvil was the best of the three, Kammen a close second, and Seldar trailed the field. Seldar tended to pay more attention to his footing and positioning, though; the other two were more offense.

I drilled them on defense for a while. My own reflexes being what they were, I wasn’t too worried about my own defense. I also knew my reflexes remembered things I hadn’t drilled on and wanted to avoid sudden surprises. It did me good to practice with moves and maneuvers I’d never learned. It did them good, too, I think, albeit only a little. We would practice more regularly in the future; I felt kind of responsible for them, now.

It was late in the day when we halted. Tort performed her version of a cleaning spell—I made a note to study it; it was much quicker than the kludged-together spell I invented—and saw to it we were fed.

Once we had a chance to sit back and burp a bit, I disconnected myself from the life-linking spell. Sunset wasn’t too far off, and I didn’t want to find out what might happen to living people if they were still connected to me.

“So, have you lined up a slaughterhouse for us?” I asked.

“Better. Once the day falls away, we shall see to your needs, and the needs of your guard.”

“Oh? What have you got planned?”

For answer, she nodded to the maid. Pilea fetched two other servants and started shutting the house up—closing shutters, pulling curtains, locking doors.

“Ah. Should I just wait here, then?”

“Certainly. I would be pleased to have the opportunity to observe, and your guard should become familiar with the process, as well.”

“I suppose.” I turned to them. “Okay. When the sun hits the horizon, I start to die. That is, I change from a living, breathing man into the undead version. You’ve seen me in each form, but you haven’t seen the process. I don’t glow, or change shape, or any of that stuff, but you’ll definitely know it’s happening. It stinks, for one. I’ll change color, for another. Aside from that, I don’t know that there’s a good way to tell.”

“Your eyes,” Seldar commented.

“My eyes?”

“At night, your eyes are black.”

“Ah. Got it. My eyes change color.”

“I do not think you ‘got it,’” he replied. “Your eyes are always black, but I mean that your
eyes
turn black.”

“What, the whole eyeball?”

“Entirely.”

“Well, that’s new.” I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. Adjusting the color of my skin was just a matter of covering it with a spell that could tweak the intensity and wavelength of the light that bounced off. If my eyes were solid black, however, I would have to build an actual illusion of whites, irises, and pupil. Illusions of that quality are decidedly more difficult.

What really bothered me, though, was that my daytime eyes were black, instead of blue. I’ve had blue eyes all my life and now they’re different. It’s weird, the things that bother me the most. You’d think a little thing like eye color wouldn’t be all that much compared to sharp fingernails and teeth. But there you go; it was the blue changed to black that bothered me.

“It’s good that you notice these things,” I went on. “I haven’t looked in a mirror in the last few decades. If you see anything else change, let me know. I’m trying to wear spells that will let me blend in; I don’t like making people nervous just by my appearance.”

They agreed to do so, and the sunset started. I stood up and faced everyone.

I hated it. It had been a busy day, and those always make the transformation unpleasant. More unpleasant. I sweat more, it smells worse, and the full-body tingling, stinging, itching sensation feels more like needles than insects.

Someday, I’m going to have some narcotics handy, just to see if they make any difference to a dying metabolism.

Once the sunset finished its work, Tort ran her cleaning spell over me again. I adjusted my coloration spell, made sure my fangs were retracted, and looked at everyone.

“Well? Anything besides the eyes?” I asked. They all looked at me intently, actually walking around me to inspect me from every angle.

“Could you pull your hair back?” Torvil asked. There wasn’t a lot of hair to pull back, but I ran my fingers along the sides of my head.

“Have you eaten a lot of elves?” he asked.

“Not that I recall. Why?”

“Your ears seem a little bit pointy. Not a lot, but some. They aren’t as round on top as I would’ve thought.” Everyone moved closer to look. I waited.

“Yes,” Kammen said. “I think so.” Seldar and Tort nodded, wordlessly.

“If it takes that much effort to decide,” I told them, “I don’t feel too bad about it. I’ll just leave my hair a little long. Will that do it?”

“Easily,” Seldar said.

“Good. Other than that, just the eyes?” They agreed. I set to work on a spell to disguise my eyes, but Tort saved me the trouble. I should have known. It was a good spell, too. Tight, compact, very efficient. I wondered who, in the history of the world, had needed an eye-disguising spell so badly that he developed one and refined it down to something like this. Someone with a damaged eye, perhaps? Maybe, but I didn’t ask.

“Right. Thanks. Now, my dinner?”

“This way,” she said, and sat down on her staff to fly. We followed her outside and through the streets. We came to an open area surrounded by houses. If it had been paved, I’d have called it a cul-de-sac, which it probably was, anyway. I can be as provincial as the next person.

There were a fair number of people—fifty or so—waiting there. Someone already had a fire going with both a spit and a grill over it. Nearby, they had a sizable pig and a number of implements that indicated, at least to me, that the pig should be concerned.

A hush settled on the crowd as we came around the corner. People stepped out of the way, making a clear lane straight to the pig. Some of them were looking at me with confused expressions. They probably expected me to be taller.