The Crowded Shadows (9 page)

She blinked, took a deep breath, concentrated on Christopher’s narrow face. He was paler than she’d ever seen him, his eyes intent.

“Is that him?” he asked softly.

He seemed no more angry now than he had been the night she had told him, and that calmed her. She nodded. Christopher straightened his back. She expected him to turn and look at the bandit, but instead, he slid his eyes to the left, his eyelashes casting long shadows on his cheek, and tilted his head, as if listening to something over his shoulder. He ran his thumb along the back of her hand, then lifted his eyes to her again.

“Let’s get all our stuff out of here, girly. We can carry it to the bathhouse and sit outside, eh? Talk to Raz through the wall while we wait our turn? I’ll get that girl to bring us some cold cider and some apple pie. We’ll sit in the sun and make a bloody picnic of it before we head out again. What do you think?”

Wynter nodded, and together they gathered their things and went outside. She did not look back at the man.

T
he bathhouse was in the orchard. Dappled in the lacy shade of the fruit trees, it was a little, dirt-floored, one-tub hut, and whether by accident or by virtue of Razi’s purse, they were the only ones waiting to use it. It felt miles from anywhere. Safe and at peace.

Wynter sat beside their pile of belongings, leaning against the wall of the bathhouse, her face turned to the sun. There was a blackbird trilling in the apple tree above her. She closed her eyes and listened, while Christopher, a plate in one hand, a tankard in the other, elbowed his way in through the bathhouse door and let it swing shut behind him.

“How do,” he said. “Brought you some cider and a pie.”

“I don’t want it.” Razi’s voice was quiet and flat.

“Aye. I know. It’s just an excuse to come in without you throwing things at me. I’ll leave them here.” There was a soft clink and a rustle as Christopher set the food down on the other side of the wall from Wynter. “You’ll be wanting it later, you know. You can’t have much left in your belly, after what you coughed up behind the barn.”

There was an abrupt splash, as if Razi had sat forward suddenly, or lifted his arms, and then a long moment of silence.

“Are we heading home now?” asked Christopher, eventually. “You and me and Wynter?”

“No, Christopher. We are not.” Razi’s voice was muffled and Wynter suspected that he had lifted his hands to cover his face.

There was another brief silence, then Christopher’s quiet voice pressed tentatively on. “At home, you could resume your practice. Wynter can build that hospital for you. I can… I can roll bandages or something. Open the stables again, go back to breeding horses.”

Wynter opened her eyes. She knew that Christopher wasn’t talking about the palace; he would never refer to the palace as home. He was talking about the Moroccos. About Algiers. He was talking about starting a new life. She turned her head, waiting for Razi’s answer, not sure what she wanted it to be. Razi stayed silent.

“Razi,” insisted Christopher. “Come
home
. Before these people see you dead.”

This was met with more silence. Wynter could picture Razi lying in the tub, his elbows on the rim, his head tilted against the back. She imagined him, his hands pressed to his eyes, waiting for Christopher to let him be. The silence stretched on and Wynter heard Christopher sigh and shuffle his feet.

“I’m sorry about Lorcan, Razi,” he said softly. “I’m sorry about that poor Arab boy.”

Wynter closed her eyes again and rested her head against the wall. Razi still did not speak.

“When your father finds out that it wasn’t you
…”

“He will not. Jahm will be too frightened to let him know.” There was a gentle
splash
as Razi dropped his hands. “Those poor people,” he said, his voice cracking. “Those poor… I sent that poor man
…”

“If your father thinks you are dead, he will try to avenge you. There will be chaos unless—”

Christopher was silenced by Razi’s quiet laugh. “Vengeance often comes amazingly slow in our circles, Christopher, and then only if politically expedient. You of all
…”
There was no sound for a moment. Then Razi spoke again, his voice very broken. “You of all people should know
that
. Oh God! Simon and his men… and poor Shuqayr! How can…? Chris, I can never make up for this.”

Wynter wanted Christopher to come outside. She wanted to tell him to leave Razi be, to let the poor man suffer in private. She opened her mouth to call him, but Christopher obviously knew Razi just as well as she did because he said, “Wynter and I are just outside, all right? Call through if you want us.”

The door of the bathhouse creaked. Wynter could see Christopher’s hand on the latch. He began to pull the door open, but then hesitated and turned back. “I know I don’t have to say it to you, Razi. You’re no bloody fool; but it weren’t you that killed Shuqayr, and you didn’t cut De Rochelle’s throat or kill his men, neither. And, Raz, I know we don’t ever talk about it, but what that landlord said? It doesn’t signify between us. You didn’t steal my hands from me, Razi, and it weren’t your place to sacrifice a kingdom for the sake of revenge. I ain’t never held it against you, and you shouldn’t go trotting down tired old roads now, just because you’re heartsick and weary.”

Wynter listened for Razi’s response, but there was utter silence from the bathhouse.

“Take as long as you want in there now,” said Christopher. “They can always heat more water if it gets cold.” He stepped out and closed the door. He stood for a moment, gazing unseeingly at the rough wood planking, then he came across and sat on the grass beside Wynter.

He slouched back against the wall. Wynter leaned against him. She slipped her arm through his and took his hand. They gazed out into the orchard.

“I’m so sorry about your dad,” he said at last.

She nodded.

“He was
…”

She tightened her grip on his hand. “Please, Christopher. I can’t.”

Christopher shook his head suddenly and his face drew down as though he were about to cry. Wynter tilted her head against his shoulder, turning her cheek into the fabric of his tunic. After a moment he kissed her hair.

“I’m just sorry, lass,” he said hoarsely. “I want you to know.”

She put her free hand on his chest and they sat like that, comforting each other in silence. Gradually the sound of gentle splashing from the bathhouse told them that Razi had decided to wash himself.

“They played football with that boy’s head,” whispered Christopher. “They thought he was Razi. They thought he was
Razi
and they did
that
to him.”

Wynter continued to stare out into the golden hazy afternoon, willing Christopher not to say any more. She suspected where this conversation was going and had no desire to follow it to its natural conclusion.

“It wasn’t the King that did this, was it, girly? He
wants
Razi on the throne.”

“It could have been anyone,” she whispered quickly. “The people hate Razi. They
hate
him, and now they think he killed my father. Any peasant could have done this.”

“A peasant wily enough to poison the water supply of a group of knights? To get the better of a man like Simon De Rochelle?”

“They think Razi murdered my
dad
,” she insisted. “The people loved my—”

Christopher cut across her, his voice flat and certain. “I will
kill
Alberon, if it turns out to have been him.” Wynter groaned and tried to pull her hand from his, but Christopher tightened his grip and turned to look her in the face. His eyes shocked her, how bright and hard they were. “If it turns out that Alberon ordered his brother dragged to his death, and had a football made of his head,
I will kill him
. Whether Razi wants me to or not.”

Wynter took a breath and clenched her free hand over their joined fists. “You will not have to do that, Christopher. I know Alberon would never hurt Razi. I
know
it. So you will never have to do that.”

“But if I do?”

Wynter blinked. He was asking her would she still love him? Would they still be friends? “You will never have to,” she said desperately.

Christopher’s face went blank, and Wynter felt him begin to draw away, but he stopped almost immediately and all his brutal determination melted to tenderness. He leaned forward and pressed his forehead to hers. “Of course I won’t,” he whispered. “I’d never have to do that.”

Wynter closed her eyes, suddenly too close to tears.

They drew back and leant against the wall, their shoulders touching. Sunlight settled down around them in a dusty haze. The birds continued their joyous trilling in the trees. How life went on. How it all went on around them, in the midst of such darkness.

Wynter began to doze, had actually begun to dream. when she felt Christopher startle beside her. She took a sharp breath, snapping awake abruptly, and looked around for the source of his anxiety.

The bandit was leaning against one of the apple trees at the edge of the orchard, chewing on a toothpick and grinning. His eyes crawled over their entwined arms, slid slyly to the hand that Wynter had resting on Christopher’s thigh. His expression made something scurrilous of their affection, and when he looked back up, he held Wynter’s eyes with a knowing, scornful leer. Immediately her heart began to skitter about in her chest and she felt a rush of shameful panic that no one in her life had ever instilled in her before.

Christopher rose to his feet, and the bandit shifted the toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other, looking him up and down with confident disdain. He was a good bit taller than Christopher and a great deal bulkier, and Wynter knew that this was all he saw. She could tell that he did not consider her friend a threat.

This careless dismissal of Christopher re-awoke something in her. The real Wynter seemed to step up, and the trembling child this man threatened to make of her slipped quietly away. She rose smoothly to her feet and moved to Christopher’s side. Neither of them reached for their knives, but Christopher’s hands hung loose and ready. His face was blank and watchful. Wynter had her courtmask on, looking up slightly from under her eyes, and she balanced lightly on the soles of her feet.

The bandit’s expression sharpened. He spat his toothpick to the ground, his eyes flicking from Christopher to Wynter. Behind them, the bathhouse door swung open, and Razi came out into the sunlight, shirtless and rubbing his hair with a cloth. He paused as he took in the situation. At the sight of the bandit, he instantly dropped the cloth and stepped forward.

The bandit’s eyes opened just a touch wider. All of Razi’s sinewy power seemed to be burning within him suddenly, and though only half a head taller than the bandit, his rage seemed to tower him over the other man. The bandit’s eyes slid to the long, ugly crescent of scar on Razi’s right shoulder and that seemed to make his decision for him. He shot one more sneer at Christopher and Wynter, tipped his head as if bidding them a fond adieu, and sauntered casually away through the trees.

“Who in God’s name was that?” snapped Razi.

Wynter opened her mouth but couldn’t find the words to explain.

Christopher watched as the bandit disappeared behind the wall of the inn. “That was no one,” he said. “No one. Naught but a ghost.” He turned and looked around him. “Right,” he said, not meeting anyone’s eyes. “Right. I’m taking these dirty plates back to the inn. Our girl can have her bath, then I can have mine, and then we’ll all head off, clean and happy and—”

“Christopher?” Razi interrupted suspiciously. “Who was that man?”

“Why don’t you eat that pie now, Raz?” suggested Christopher, gathering the dirty dishes. “Let the sun dry you off. Drink a bit of cider. I’ll only be a moment down at the kitchens. I’ll settle our bill, see that the horses are ready to go, restock our provisions. You stay here and protect Wynter from any more sly-eyed dicks. What say you?”

Razi’s face cleared in comprehension. “Ahhhh!” he said and gave Wynter a sympathetic look. He obviously now thought the bandit was just some slithering peeping Tom. “It’s all right, sis,” he said gently. “He wouldn’t come back now; he probably didn’t expect you to have company. Go on ahead.” He stood aside and held the door open for her. “I’ll be just here, all right?” His voice was so kind and his eyes so tired that Wynter wanted to grab him and hug him. Instead, she passed him out his pie and his drink, and he closed the door behind her.

She heard Christopher murmur and Razi rumble a short reply. His long silhouette moved against the sun raddled gaps in the planks, and he sat himself down against the wall as she unbound her hair and let it fall in a lank mess down her back.

“I am still here, Wyn,” he called suddenly. “Everything is all right.”

She smiled. “I know, Razi. Thank you. Eat your pie, won’t you?”

She heard him sigh again; there was a clink as he picked up the plate.
Don’t just look at it
, she thought,
eat
. Finally she climbed the steps and slipped thankfully into the still-hot water, closed her eyes and floated away.

She was drying her hair in the sun when Christopher hurried back up through the orchard and came jogging up the path. He had been gone so long that they were seriously beginning to fret. He stripped off his tunic as he approached and bundled it in his hand, then reached back and pulled the tie on his undershirt. He unpinned his hair as he elbowed his way in the bathhouse door, and it fell in a heavy coil past his shoulders.