The Gates of Night_ The Dreaming Dark - Keith Baker [54]
“That’s all down to Ferric,” Huwen said. “Whatever he deems fair. He’ll make you a deal. I’m sure of that.”
“It would be far simpler to kill those inside,” Xu’sasar said. “We could make a beginning with the bird.”
Daine held the crow’s beak shut with his thumb and forefinger, silencing the bird before it could respond. “Enough, Xu. There’s no need for killing here. If I have to drop an enemy, I’ll do it. But I’m not killing a man just to get a roof over my head for one night. Understood?”
Xu’sasar clicked her tongue, and they moved forward once more.
Daine was a mystery to her. Xu’sasar would follow his orders, but she would be ready for whatever treachery awaited them. Clutching the bone wheel in her hand, she concentrated, remembering the lessons she’d learned as a child and envisioning a new shape. The wheel flexed and contorted in her grip, ivory melting and stretching. Xu’sasar reached down with her left hand to grip the second hilt. A moment later she held a bone dagger in each hand, with an ivory chain connecting the hilts. She tested the blades. Their balance was a thing of beauty, and she felt as if they were her own claws. She showed her teeth to the moon above and hoped the people at this “inn” would give her a reason to shed blood.
“You’re certain of this?” Xu’sasar said. They stood outside the Crooked Tree.
“I’m certain,” Daine said. “Now open the door for us. And put the knives away. We don’t want these people thinking we’re killers.”
“That would be a ludicrous misunderstanding,” Huwen said. “I’d laugh at the very idea of it, if I weren’t distracted by the agonizing pain of a broken limb.”
Xu’sasar tucked the blades into the straps of her harness, shortening the chain with a thought. She felt a slight emotional tremor as she approached the door, and once more she realized the touch of fear. It was the chaos, the uncertainty. In Xen’drik, life had always been simple. Strangers were enemies. Life was conflict. She was always ready for a battle, prepared to die with a weapon in her hand. But to enter a stranger’s lair with empty hands, to trust the unknown, was terrifying.
Xu’sasar forced down the fear, struggling to keep her emotions hidden from the outlanders. She was a war-wraith of the Qaltiar, and there was nothing this human could do that she could not. She threw open the door and stepped inside.
The room was warm, the air smoky and slightly sweet. Fires were set in stone hearths to each side of Xu’sasar, and the low and steady flames seemed the only source of light in the wide room. It was likely a dark chamber, little better than the moonlit night, but shadows meant nothing to Xu’sasar, and she scanned the room, taking in every detail. Packed earth floor. No tables or chairs, only large cushions scattered across the floor. A short man watching from behind a long counter, sorting through piles of leather water-skins. The wide trunk of a gnarled tree rose up in the center of the room and extended through the roof. A spiral staircase coiled around the trunk. And a man and a woman danced, moving slowly to the soft and somber music.
“Welcome!” The innkeeper made his way out from behind the counter and strode toward Xu’sasar. He was a soft man, bones hidden beneath rolls of fat, and he wore a coat of gray velvet and a comforting close-lipped smile. He seemed in good health and good spirits, yet his voice was that of a dead thing, as if his lungs were rotting within him. Xu’sasar stepped to the side, setting her back against the wall, and her left hand slid to the hilt of a dagger.
“Welcome to the Inn of the Crooked Tree!” the man continued, pleasant words at odds with his ghastly tone. “Always a pleasure to see one from the quiet lands under our humble roof. It has been