Hand of Fire - Ed Greenwood [30]
Their request to go disguised in armor had vastly amused Voldovan – and pleased him, for their presence on the ready wagons freed up two of his real guards for outrider duty, rather than – as he put it – "a-wasting them to stand as targets when they could be doing something useful!"
Shandril had even drawn comfort from the leering pair of grizzled guards who'd hung extra plates of armor to clang and clatter down Shandril's front, and smeared greasy fingers around her jaw to make her look unshaven and "more've a man, har har!" One of them had taken care to lean close and momentarily pluck out the tiniest silver harp on a chain that she'd ever seen, and introduced himself baldly as "Arauntar."
The other had sent her staggering with an adjusting slap at the shoulder-plates her breastplates were hanging from and announced grandly, "Beldimarr, at yer service – hands an' jaws an' I've one o' them little trinkets, too!"
Beldimarr sported a long, snakelike white scar that ran from his right temple right down his neck, to disappear somewhere in the unwashed hairiness below. Narm stared at it in fascination until the grizzled caravan guard thrust his face into the young mage's, bestowing on Narm the fruits of breath enriched by rotting scraps of meat amid rotten teeth, and snarled, "Starin' at me, pretty boy? Well, begone with yer hungry eyes – 'tis women I fancy, almost as much as – hah – they fancy me, now!"
Shandril ducked her head away to hide her mirth at Narm's incredulously gagging expression, but she needn't have bothered – Arauntar roared with laughter enough for them both. When he could speak again – still hooting with occasional glee – he slapped a crossbow into her midriff with enough force to drive her breathless, and announced gruffly, "This way up, see? An' you can crank it tight an' ready, but mind you loosen it at every stop, after you wind another tight an' ready – so as to switch back an' forth, so they're slower to break, see? An' no loading of it until you've a foe to fire at, for I do perceive that y'art violently carried away from sanity – an' I'd just as rather I didn't get violently carried away by a stray bolt from you!"
Orthil Voldovan had come up to inspect his two new standing targets at that moment, with a wolflike smile and the cheerful words, "Behold: Here be a pair of strange beasts, which folk of experience call 'fools.' "
Now, with her teeth clacking together every few breaths from the crashings of the journey – she'd already nipped her own tongue painfully, and they weren't even out of Scornubel yet! – Shandril was heartily glad her crossbow wasn't loaded… and in full agreement with old Orthil about she and Narm being fools, too. The drover down beside her knees was a thin, sour man by the name of Storstil, and Narm had a stouter one, Narbuth, who never stopped talking and telling jokes, even to himself.
No family or clan names were given among Voldovan's men – this seemed to be an unwritten but firm caravan rule – and they were all men, too. Narm and Shandril had counted thirty-two wagons, not counting the cook wagon, Voldovan's own "strongwagon" where the smallest, most valuable cargoes were carried ("coffers o' gems," as Beldimarr had described the strongwagon's load,
"and maps 'n' treaties 'n' coins an' things – together wi' boxes of scorpions and deadly biting vipers, to give thieves somethin' final to think about, har har"), and the two ready wagons they rode on. Everyone riding with the caravan had been paraded before the guards so disappearances and uninvited guests among them could be noted, later, but Shandril couldn't say she remembered every face and name, or even all of those who'd looked