The Charnel Prince - J. Gregory Keyes [74]
He held his breath.
“Pis’es ecic egmo?” someone asked sharply.
“Uno viro morto,” A heavily ironic voice said. Neil recognized it as that of the Sefry man who spoke for the rest of them.
“Ol Viedo! Pis?”
Neil felt fingers grab his arm. He fought the instinct to leap up.
Then he felt fingers brush his forehead. His breath was going stale, and his lungs began to hurt.
“Chiano Vechioda daz’Ofina,” the Sefry replied. “Mortat daca crussa.”
The fingers jerked away. “Diuvo!” the guildsman shouted, and the flap closed. There followed an argument he could not make out. Finally, after long moments, the wagon started moving again. After an eternity of wooden wheels grinding and stopping on stone, someone tapped his boot.
“You can get up now,” Vaseto said.
Neil took the coins from his eyes and sat up. “We’re through the gate?”
“Yes, no thanks to you,” Vaseto grumbled. “Didn’t I tell you it would work?”
“He felt of me. In another instant he would have reckoned I was still warm.”
“Probably. I didn’t say it was without risk. But the Sefry played their parts well.”
“What did they tell him?”
“That you died of the bloody-pus plague.” She smiled. “The makeup helped.”
Neil nodded, scratching at the counterfeit welts the Sefry had made of flour and pig’s blood.
“He’s probably off praying right now,” she added. She jerked her head. “Come on.”
He poked his head out the back of the wain. They were in some sort of square surrounded by tall buildings. One, with a high dome, was likely a temple. People bustled everywhere, as strangely and colorfully dressed as the caravaners at the bridge.
They went around to the front of the wagon, where three Sefry sat under an awning, swaddled thickly against the sun.
“Thank you,” Neil said.
One of the Sefry, an old woman, snorted. The other two ignored him.
“How did you get them to help?” Neil asked Vaseto as she led him across the square.
“I told them I would reveal the hidden space in their wagon where they were carrying their contraband.”
“How did you know about that?”
“I didn’t,” she said. “Not for certain. But I know a thing or two about Sefry, and that clan almost always carries contraband.”
“That’s good to know.”
“They also owe me a few favors. Or did. We just used up most of them. So don’t waste this chance. Keep that wig on. Don’t let your straw mat show.”
Neil plucked at the horsehair mummer’s wig that had been pulled over his own close-cropped hair. “I don’t care for it,” he muttered.
“You’re a true beauty with it on,” Vaseto told him. “Now, try not to talk too much, especially if someone speaks to you in Hansan or Crothanic. You’re a traveler from Ilsepeq, here to visit the shrine of Vanth.”
“Where’s Ilsepeq?”
“I’ve no idea. Neither will anyone you tell. But Espinitos pride themselves on their knowledge of the world, so no one will admit that. Just practice this: ’Edio dat Ilsepeq. Ne fatio Vitellian.’ “
“Edio dat Islepeq,” Neil tried experimentally. “Ne fatio Vitellian.”
“Very good,” Vaseto said. “You sound exactly as if you don’t speak a word of Vitellian.”
“I don’t,” Neil said.
“Well, that explains it. Now come, let’s find your girls.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
AMBRIA
I LIKE THAT ONE,” Mery said absently. She was lying stomach down on a rug, her legs kicking up behind her.
“Do you?” Leoff asked, continuing to play the hammarharp. “I’m pleased that you like it.”
She made fists and rested her chin on them. “It’s sad, but not in the way that makes you cry. Like autumn coming.”
“Melancholy?” Leoff said.
She pinched her mouth thoughtfully. “I guess so.”
“Like autumn coming,” Leoff mused. He smiled faintly, stopped, dipped his quill in ink, and made a notation on the music.
“What did you write?” Mery said.
“I wrote, ‘like autumn coming,’ ” he said. “So the musicians will know how to play it.” He turned in his seat. “Are you ready for your lesson?”
She brightened a bit. “Yes.”
“Come sit beside me, then.”
She got up, brushed the front of her dress, and then scooted onto the bench.
“Let’s see, we were working on the third mode, weren’t we?”
“Uh-huh.