"It does not" Naitachal protested, glancing at his reflection in a door-length mirror. "My father would have been proud to see me like this. Who do you sup- pose decided to make it some other color than black?"
"Father, of course," Alaire said, pulling on a boot.
His outfit was nowhere near as grand as his Master's, but it felt good to wear fine clothes again. He had fallen out of the habit when he started training Naitachal; after all, it hardly made sense to wear silks and satins for sword practice. "I suspect he wants to emphasize your heritage, without suggesting that you might be a practicing Necromancer, to gain some sort of leverage."
"Your father is canny," the Bard replied. "My race is impossible to hide, so why not announce it? As the proverb says, 'if you're going to walk on thin ice, you might as well dance.'" He strutted grandly in front of the mirror. The gesture was so, well, unelflike Alaire burst out laughing.
"What do you find so amusing, human?" Naitachal demanded, fiercely.
Alaire snorted to see him standing there, hands on hips. "It just looks as if... well... you're modeling a dress."
"I do not. I have not ever," Naitachal said indig- nantly. Then he paused, sheepishly. "Well. Truthfully, I have..."
He went on to tell Alaire about the time Kevin and his group dressed up as dancing girls to flee Westerin.
By the time he finished, Alaire had doubled over in laughter.
Naitachal stood over him, with his arms crossed over his chest, glaring like a black-and-scarlet, pom- pous peacock. "Well, it worked," he said at last.
Alaire collected himself and straightened the fine silk shirt and suede breeches. "Think we should carry swords?"
Naitachal shrugged. "Of course. It's expected, out here."
Alaire thought he could read something else, a brief, disturbing expression in the elf's eyes.
And daggers too, he thought, buckling the jeweled knives to his belt. Naitachal led the way out of the inn, into the streets of Rozinki.
The stable hands had done an exceptional job of grooming the horses. No doubt this and the brief rest had refreshed the beasts, which fidgeted and danced on the cobblestone streets of Rozinki. They certainly knew what cobblestones were; they came from the royal stables, and had no reason to act as if they had never felt stone under their feet before. Their antics gave Alaire something to think about besides their current situation.
"Be young and stupid," Naitachal said, as they guided their horses up the ramps and streets leading to the palace. "Everyone will be certain to ignore you, and they'll dismiss anything you might let slip. In other words, be yourself."
Alaire felt his face grow hot at the sly glance Nai- tachal cast him, but before he could protest, he saw for himself the wisdom of such a move. I remember the way the elders of Fenrich always ignored the young and foolish boys of the village back home. Perhaps I should chase girls -- discretely of course -- 1 remem- ber what that one old man used to say. About how in the springtime, when the blood runs away from the head and the mind freezes, the only difference between a young man and a goat is that you can eat the goat when you get tired of its games.
"But don't overdo it," Naitachal hastened to add.
"Oh, certainly not," Alaire said. "I don't have a silly impulse in my body. After all, I don't go around wear- ing dresses, or pouring ice-cold springwater on my friends."
Even though Naitachal said nothing, Alaire saw the slightest grin of satisfaction on the dark, elven fea- tures.
They rode in silence then, to concentrate on con- trolling their skittish beasts. In between hauling his horse's head down and curbing his prancing, Alaire studied the city, which followed the hill's natural curves. High above, the castle presided over the town and bay like a squat, stony frog. All the city's streets led upwards to it The cobblestone streets themselves had seen better days and there were places where the cob- bles were missing altogether. Some of the less populated streets, dark in the shadows of decaying stone buildings on either side of them, stank of stale beer and urine. Though not clearly marked, these establishments were probably taverns, their doors and iron-shuttered windows open to air out the fetid inte- riors. The barkeepers, bleary-eyed, casually threw unconscious drunks into the limestone gutters. Alaire rode without comment. There were always cheap tav- erns, cheap beer, and cheap drunks to populate the first and drink the second. There probably always would be.
Then, in a more cheery section of town, the struc- tures were all of wood, with more windows to let in light and air. Instead of thatch, lush green moss cov- ered the roofs. This was obviously a business district, and native Suinomites swarmed markets and shops, all wearing dieren garments of one style or another.
When they turned to look at the two Altheans, they stared at their horses. Everyone else rode the splay- footed dieren, if they rode anything. Not another horse was in "Do you notice anything .. . peculiar?" Naitachal asked quietly as they rode past aisles of merchants hawking fresh vegetables and live poultry.
Alaire had to admit he had, but he wasn't sure what it was. Granted, this was a foreign country. The lan- guage here seemed to be a mixture of their own and one other, a heavy, guttural tongue that was rough on the ears. The city, even back in the tavern district, was immaculately clean of trash and sewage. He could only assume Rozinki had an efficient sewer system and equally efficient rubbish-collectors. Even in S City one found telltale garbage, but not here. Cleanli- ness obsessed these humans.
Then he saw what it was that was so unusual here.