Rise of the Death Dealer (7 page)

ROBIN LAKEHAIR

T
he Dragon Lizard sprawled lazily on a flat grey boulder in a manner that made hard rock look warm and comfortable. The boulder rested atop a stack of boulders which formed the bend in the river.

He looked contentedly at blue-green water flowing around a rocky bend some fifteen feet below. It rippled over half-submerged rocks, formed ponds at the edges of a pebbled beach until it widened into a large pool. Cascading on, the stream churned itself to white water on a scatter of small boulders and flowed on.

The lizard obviously liked the view.

His sun-drenched body lay just out of dappled shadows cast by a scrub oak. He was the length of a child’s forearm, the color of the stone except for shiny gills reflecting greens of the forest trees and the gold of the morning sun. His eyes flickered closed, then one suddenly popped back open.

The girl, carrying her sandals in one hand and a walking stick in the other, was coming fast, leaping barefoot from rock to rock as she moved along the shaded side of the river. She wore a belted tunic, her pouch slung by a strap over a shoulder. A sheathed knife dangled from the belt.

The lizard dashed down a narrow crack. A moment later it reappeared in the company of three little things a third its length. They scurried to the lip of the rock, lay down, eyes wide.

The girl waded through the water just below, then climbed onto a large rock rising about three feet out of the water. The top of the rock descended in gently rolling swells to the water’s edge. Here and there puddles the size of footbaths glistened in its smooth natural recessions. The girl, splashing through each puddle, moved to the water’s edge, set down her sandals and walking stick, and stretched luxuriously, letting the morning sun bathe her face.

It was a small, triangular face framed by a cascade of red-gold hair that parted at the center and fell sideways in natural waves to the tops of smooth tan shoulders. It had gently arched eyebrows, a small straight nose. The upper lip was as straight as a delicately sculpted knife cut, and appeared even straighter over a voluptuous lower lip the color of a budding rose. There was a hint of the same color in the tan cheeks. The delicate clarity of her features heightened the contrasting lushness of her firm flesh. Her hazel-green eyes were big and active, with brilliant whites surrounded by long dark feathery lashes.

Her name was Robin Lakehair. She was a Cytherian from the village of Weaver, a Sacred Maiden who, like all virgin Cytherian girls, worked spinning the sacred cloth for which Weaver’s temples were renowned. She was an orphan. Since her parents had died of the black death that passed through the forest when she was three, she had been raised by temple priestesses until she was fifteen when, being of adult age, she took a room by herself. She was seventeen.

Robin lifted her leather satchel and emptied its contents on the warm rock: a collection of corked vials carved from colored stones, a bone comb, a crust of bread, a tangle of colorful ribbons and her sacred wooden whorl. After carefully arranging her precious collection, she stood, unbuckled her leather belt and dropped it beside her satchel. Taking hold of the hem of her plain grey square-necked tunic, she lifted it over her head. She folded her tunic neatly, set it beside her things and again stretched, giving her nude body to the luxurious, warm embrace of the sunshine.

The great ball of fire in the sky painted her a golden nutmeg with loving strokes, as if the great orb of endless fire knew well that rarely was there a human animal created to wear only garments made of light.

Robin was no taller than a full-grown deer. Her breasts stood high on her little barrel chest, as smooth and firm and plump as river-washed pebbles. Her arms were short, her hands small, her waist tiny, and her legs long muscular arrows ending in sturdy feet. As young and vibrant as a new blade of grass, as strong as a bowstring.

She looked up and down the river, into the forest, then up at the top of the outcropping of rock topped by the scrub oak. Spotting the lizards, she smiled and made a soft clicking sound. She opened a pouch, scrambled up the rocks and sprinkled a spoonful of dried insects on a shelf of rock. As the lizards scurried down to the meal, she hopped back down to the edge of the water and watched them feed. Robin laughed with delight, then strode into the water and with a joyous shiver sank into the cold blue-green current.

She floated on her back letting it carry her out into the middle of the pond, then rolled over on her flat tummy so that only her head and round firm bottom protruded from the rippling blue water. She arched up, dove, vanished under the water. A long moment later she surfaced some way down river. She turned and swam back with strong strokes, climbed out.

She shook herself like a frisky colt, and beads of water shot with sunlight flew in all directions, like a riot of wet jewels. Kneeling on her tunic, she uncorked a vial and poured its contents on her hair. She scrubbed until a thick lather formed, spread the lather over her body, rubbing vigorously, then plunged back into the water.

The lizards stayed and watched, and a shadow crossed over them. They promptly bolted in all directions and disappeared.

Brown John, who had been concealed behind the scrub oak, had edged forward. The look on his face was bawdy, flushed, and profound. He also liked the view.

Robin floated back downriver, playfully flopping about and diving, then swam back to her rock and climbed out. This time she wore not only a slick coat of water, but a handful of soap bubbles.

It was the kind of wardrobe Brown John admired.

Robin shook and wiped herself dry, then kneeled on her tunic. Using a rose ointment, she economically anointed her face and body, then rubbed her lips with rose vermilion. She selected a bright yellow ribbon, set it aside, put everything but her comb back in her satchel, then sat down cross-legged on her tunic. With her hair to the sun and her back to the scrub oak, she began to comb her hair.

Brown John’s fingertips drummed the air in time with the stroke of Robin’s brush. His head bobbed to the same tune.

When Robin finished with her comb, she picked up the ribbon and, laying it flat across the top of her head and joining the ends at the base of her neck, bent her head forward and tied her hair back. As she did, Brown John moved down and across the rock to stand behind her.

Suddenly, seeing his shadow, she gasped and rolled upright in one movement, drawing her knife. She waved the blade at the stranger using one hand while the other tried to cover her nudity. It was a beautiful and energetic effort, but futile.

Brown John smiled and said, “Robin Lakehair.” It sounded like a title rather than a name.

Robin hardly heard him. She was gasping and tugging at her tunic with her free hand.

Brown John said politely, “Perhaps, child, if you lifted your foot.”

She looked down, groaned, and jumped aside, snapping up her clothing. Turning her back, she slipped into her tunic with three wiggles and a yank, while watching him over a shoulder. Then she turned back, deliberately smoothing her tunic with one hand, while the other held her knife aimed at Brown John’s belly. Her straight brow was lowering over angry eyes. She seemed to be frowning but it was difficult to tell. Her firm smooth forehead was barely cooperating, and her cheeks were too busy blushing. But her tone helped.

“You snake! Were you watching?”

Brown John sat down on a flat rock, said, “To my great good fortune, yes.”

Groaning, she glanced away, then looked back at him sharply. Her eyes were large beautiful wet wounds. “That was awful of you. Mean.”

“Not mean, child, simply lucky. Extraordinarily lucky to have chanced to pass this way. The sun, the lizards and I will not only carry your lovely image to our graves, but far, far beyond.”

She hesitated, then asked, “Do I know you?”

“I believe so,” he said with a slight tone of mystery. “I, at least, have seen you many times.”

“Really? Where?”

“Well, once I saw you standing on top of a barrel and laughing in the village of Coin. And last summer you were watching the performers on the stage in Rag Camp.”

Robin, unconsciously lowering her knife, gasped, “But… but no one knew I was there!”

“I thought as much,” he said. “Then, of course, you are always in the front row when we perform in your village.”

“Oh!” Robin blurted. “You’re the
bukko
! The wizard-master!”

He bowed extravagantly. “I am called Brown John.”

“I know! Everyone knows!” Robin exclaimed. She picked up her belt, sat down cross-legged on the rock facing him, and buckled it on. “But you remember me? You know my name?”

Brown John studied her smile as it performed about her face, as varied as the song of the robin after which she was named. He said quietly, “Indeed I do.”

She stiffened slightly, and suspicion returned to her eyes.

“You… you came here to find me… didn’t you?”

“Yes. And you are right to be angry with me. When confronted by a scene more dazzling than any that could be created on a stage, the manners of performers are inevitably rude and inadequate.”

“Oh.”

“Nevertheless,” he continued, “my spying on you was not intentional. The fact that you selected this extraordinarily beautiful pond, and were bathing in a wardrobe made of sunshine and bubbles, was all quite by chance. But to look away would have denied my nature, and I would be lying if I said I regretted it.”

She blushed, and shook her hair vigorously to hide it. Beads of water flew about sparkling. She eyed him warily. “You’re too clever. You make me forget what I’m saying.” She hesitated, collecting her thoughts. “Why did you come to see me?”

He considered her thoughtfully. “Because your virtues are well-known, and because I have seen in you a brave heart. And an appetite for chance, adventure.”

Her big feathery eyes scolded him more gently now. “You’re trying to confuse me again… not really answering my question.”

He chuckled. “You are right, Robin Lakehair. Let me put it this way. I have a role which I believe you, and only you, can play.”

“Me?”

“You.”

“But I… I’m not an actress.”

“Indeed not. In fact it is well known that you are incapable of anything false or artificial… and can hear all that is false in others.”

“But then why…”

“Because the role is real,” Brown John said interrupting her.

She cocked her head boyishly, her eyes glistening with sudden curiosity.

“If I am right, the spirit of the open road already makes your feet itch.” He leaned forward, lifted her chin slightly with a finger. “In fact you remind me of a former traveling companion, a girl who joined us when she was just about your age. I can’t recall her real name. We called her Ansaria, after the wild root which enchants children. She was the embodiment of beauty and adventure. They loved her everywhere we went. Even named their children after her.” He sighed nostalgically. “Oh, we were respected then. Invited to carnivals and castles to perform for kings and queens.”

She looked at him from under her straight brows. “You’re playing with me.”

He shook his head. “I do not play, it only sounds that way because you are not accustomed to hearing someone speak seriously of dancing girls. And because the nature of your, and Ansaria’s, attraction is difficult to explain. Elusive. Like trying to cage a shooting star. But then, it is not required that you understand.” He looked directly into her eyes intently. “Tell me, which of our acts do you like the best?”-“Oh, I loved them all,” she said enthusiastically.

“Of course.” His eyes twinkled. “But think now. I am certain you have a favorite!”

“Well, last summer, there was a dancing bear and a clown… and a beautiful dancing girl. She was small and dark, and wore red scarves and all kinds of baubles and beads. They were wonderful.”

“Ahhh,” murmured Brown John. “Nose, the rubber man, and Lale.”

“That’s it! But what was the bear’s name?”

“They called him Sir William.”

Robin chuckled, “Sir William. How wonderful.” She became dreamy. “The girl was so beautiful.”

“Yes… she was,” he said with a touch of nostalgia. “In a way she was also like yourself. She could not hide. There was no distance between her and her audience. No matter how she cluttered herself with jewels and gaudy cloth, her deepest feelings were always on display. One night she would be so brazen and frenzied in her dancing that she would drive Nose wild with jealousy. The next night she would jump into the audience and try to plunge her dagger into a girl for winking at him.”

“Really?” Robin whispered.

He nodded. “They no longer dwell in Rag Camp. One morning they were just gone. They are what we call followers of the wind. Sometimes they’re like a storm, sometimes like a breeze. But always moving.”

“It sounds frightening,” Robin said with a shiver. “But wonderful too.”

“Yes,” Brown John said thoughtfully. He looked off at the water swirling down over rocks, gathering in eddies, turning white as it crashed over logs and boulders. “I miss it,” he sighed, “but I no longer have the temperament for the road.”

She nodded, waited. Eyes wide and impressed.

He looked at her. “What others did you like? What skits?
The She-Ass! Chums’? The Gelded King
?”

She blushed. “Well… they were funny… but very bold.” She hesitated, then said with a rush of excitement she could not conceal, “There was one story! I’ve seen it every time,
The Lizard Song of Ting-Gad
!”

“Ahhh yes,” said Brown John. “And the part which you liked best was, of course, where the lizard turns into the handsome outlaw chief?”

She blushed.

Brown John threw back his head and laughed out loud. Just as abruptly, he became subdued and serious. “The transformation is a very difficult piece of stage business to perform. It has a touch of magic to it, but a very, very fragile magic. The performers who play it must be totally involved and dedicated, as well as skilled. Its effect comes a long time after the performance. Sometimes it is years before its subtle power takes hold, and transforms the audience with its dream.”