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Chapter 11: Skysong

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They were about a mile away from the town when Zhao started dragging her feet. Daine looked around at her but she wasn't surprised at the expression on the other girl's face. After the way the townsfolk had been yelling at her the day before a deep unease was painted onto every gesture Zhao made.

"It's alright," Daine said. "I can find my way from here."

"But I said I apologise to your man." The other girl fiddled with the end of her braid uneasily. Yimou had been running ahead with a long branch, whisking the trail against spiders and scorpions, but when he saw that his sister had stopped he came running back.

"Awww, Zhao!" He groaned, seeing the decision on her face. "After we've walked so far?"

"Maybe… maybe in a few days." The girl replied, and looked hesitantly up at Daine. "If you want?"

If I'm still here. Daine thought, but she nodded. It was worth the small amount of guilt the lie gave her to see her new friend's face light up. Something in her chest seemed to be made heavy by the sight, and she realised that she would miss the warm companionship of this girl she'd only known for a few hours. Compared to the cold, business-like way Numair acted, Zhao's stilted friendship was like sunshine.

"I'm sorry for the way they treat you," she blurted out. "Please don't let it… keep you away."

Yimou made a snorting noise and shook his head, but Zhao only shrugged awkwardly. When Daine made as if to keep walking the woman reached out and grabbed her glove wrist.

"Wait!" She said, and closed her eyes. Her lips moved as if she were practicing a speech she'd memorised, and then she held out a small packet. "My grandma she say you to have this. For thanks, from all of us… but also for yourself. She say it protect you from you hunting shadows."

"Shadows?" Daine echoed, and her eyes widened. Had the old woman recognised her? Did she know that last night they had sheltered a wanted criminal? She took the packet in a blind, flustered whirl and managed to babble some kind of nonsense reply. Zhao smiled and nodded her head in a bow. Then she took her brother's protesting hand and turned around, heading back home.

Daine frowned and looked at the packet. It was wrapped in a scrap of red cloth which felt thick and dimpled under her calloused fingers. When she unwrapped it she nearly dropped the thing that fell out of it, scrambling for it before it could disappear into the soft dust underfoot.

It was greenish. No… when it caught the sunlight it was green. The rich, watery green of young grass by a river. A kind of green that spoke of life and water. She was so captivated by the colour and the heavy weight of the thing that it took her a few moments to actually process that it was a necklace. A thin metal chain ran through a loop in the green stone… no, not a loop. It was a claw, curved around a serpentine tail and outstretched in the same snarl as the intricately carved reptilian face.

She held it up against the light. Dragon. The sky seemed to sing through the stone until the clouds danced across its carved surface.

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Numair opened his eyes, groaned loudly, and reached up to tug his hat over his eyes. His clumsy fingers met nothing but greasy, dishevelled hair, and he cursed again.

"Bit bright for you, is it?" A voice said, and he thought that they were being so loud and sharp on purpose to spite him. He cracked one eye open to size up the speaker and this time his swearing was much more vehement. Of course she was torturing him on purpose. It was Daine.

"N't… y'r… b'ssn'ss…" he managed, missing every single vowel in his desperate attempt to reach the end of the sentence without vomiting. The curly-haired cow in the stupid hat leaned closer and sniffed loudly near his ear.

"Thought so." She said in a voice full of smug disgust. "Drunk as a skunk."

"N't…!"

"No wonder they locked you up in the sot's cell!"

"''m n't…!"

"And I had to find this out from the innkeeper!" she almost yelled the last part, and the man clapped his hands over his ears and rolled away from her. That was another bad move. They'd laid him out on a thin wooden bench, and there was only so far a man could roll before gravity took the inevitable course to its painful conclusion.

"I'm so sorry about this." He heard Daine saying as he pushed himself up onto his knees. "Here's a little extra on that there bail you asked for, sir, as a promise he'll not be playin' this trick again."

"Don't s'pose you'll let him out of your sight for a few weeks, eh ma'am?" A second, male voice guffawed. Daine didn't reply for a moment, but Numair felt strong gloved fingers pressing against his elbow and then he was being hauled upright. He leaned against her a little giddily, wondering how the hell someone so little could be so strong. And loud, come to think of it. He shook his head groggily and pressed sweating fingertips to one temple.

"Well," Daine said, half to him and half to the jailor, "I'll be keepin' a close eye on him 'til he's sobered up some, at least." Her voice softened a little, and she smiled at the lawman. "Know anywhere that sells good coffee, mister?"

Ten minutes later, a slightly more awake Numair cradled a bitter-smelling cup of coffee in one hand and tried to resist the urge to press the cool milk-jug to his forehead. People were already looking at him strangely, and the hotel was the kind of place that had china cups rather than tin. It would probably not welcome such an uncouth act.

"What happened?" Daine demanded almost as soon as she'd set the coffee pot down. Numair winced across the table at her.

"Can you not… have pity on me for five… ow! Ten minutes?"

"I could, but the iron's gone from your leg, you see. If the sheriff has it then we'd better scarper before this pot of coffee gets any colder."

"He doesn't have it." Numair kicked his ankle back against his chair and smiled a little at how light the leg felt after months of having it encased in iron. "I know a smith here, and he…"

"Oh. That's alright then." Daine cut across him flatly and then sipped her coffee. "They know you're a drunken idiot, but not a chain ganger."

"You must have been worried." The man said without thinking about who exactly he was saying it to. Her shoulders tensed, but he didn't notice. The milk-jug had proved too alluring, and he reached out and picked it up. "With me vanishing all night, I mean."

"I barely noticed." Did he imagine it, or was there a strange defensive note in her voice? His head hurt too much to challenge her either way. He pressed the jug to his head and sighed, feeling the first relief from what promised to be a very drawn-out headache. Certain things in the world were too loud, and they all clamoured at his skull until it throbbed. He chose one in particular and glared at it.

"Your hat is too bright."

"And you could've bought another bottle of whisky for what I paid for it." She returned fire.

"Well, you… your… your spikes are too sharp." He stumbled, and then put down the jug and picked up his coffee. She gaped at him, halfway between anger and laughter.

"My spikes?"

"Cactus spikes." He traced an aura around her with one finger as he took a deep gulp of coffee. "When you're being angry-but-not I think, Daine's a cactus today. All spikes. Hiding what's on the inside. Emotions, feelings… I dunno, nutrient supplies…? It's a strained analogy."

"Hm." She made a noncommittal sound and eyed him levelly, trying to ignore the slight heat in her cheeks. "Are you still drunk?"

"Again with the spikes Miss Cactus! And why were you drunk, my beloved husband? Eh? Why don't you ask me that?"

"I did." She said dryly. "You begged me for ten minutes of pity. So I'm lookin' at you thinking: yeah, that's pretty pitiful alright."

"Then I'll tell you." He scowled and looked into the depths of the coffee pot, and then held it out to her. "….right after you get some more coffee."

"Get it yourself."

"I'm busy being pitiable over here."

"I'd hardly keep a skilled man from his trade." She snapped, and yanked the pot out of his grip.

By the time she returned with a new pot of coffee Numair had stretched his long arms across the table and was snoring gently into a puddle of milk. Daine thought about slamming the jug down on his outstretched hand for a moment, and then thought better of it. Smiling sweetly at one of the men who tended the hotel, she asked if he would assist her suddenly unwell husband to their room.

The man grinned and slung the skinny man over his shoulder like a sack of meal.

This time when Numair awoke the world was softer. The sun had set, which helped, and the room was lit by a single candle which was gently soothing his headache back into sobriety. He couldn't see for a moment; the world seemed to be all circles and shining gems. Then he blinked slowly and focus came back.

It was Daine again. She wasn't angry this time. Like the light, this time she looked softe. She was asleep – not the bleak sleep of exhaustion, but a gentle quietness that told the man she'd been lulled asleep by the peaceful candlelight. She had been sitting beside the bed, her legs tucked neatly under her. One hand pillowed her head against the mattress, and the other was outstretched towards him. Her fingers held a compress rag, now bone dry. It must have slipped from his forehead when she drifted into sleep.

It was odd, Numair thought, that she would pour her whole heart into caring for a dumb animal without a single thought for her own comfort. He put his unconscious self firmly into that same group, because he knew that to Daine there was little difference between nursing a litter of kittens or soothing a man's drunken headache. As soon as she woke up she would be prickly again, but when no-one was watching her the girl put all of her comments and resentments to one side with ease.

He sat up carefully, trying not to disturb her, and looked out of the window. The moon was still high; it was very late, not very early. He slid off the bed with a stifled groan and rubbed his eyes, knowing that now he was awake and sober he wouldn't fall back asleep. Whatever Daine suspected he had gotten drunk for a reason, and now it was all coming back to him.

Varice.

Varice was here. All curves and smiles and the smell of crisped sugar. Varice, with her bouncing ringlets and glasslike laughter. He had spent half the day watching her lodgings from the hidden safety of the smith's yard. He had hoped that she was there because he needed her for his plan. Even so, he'd flinched and nearly cried out in shock when he actually caught a glimpse of her whirling blue satin skirts whisking along the balcony.

Numair stared out of the window at the night sky and realised his hands were biting into the splintered wood. A chip had embedded itself into his palm and he sucked at the calloused skin without thinking. These were the hands of a worker. Varice was used to being held by the hands of a gentleman. Soft, white and fleshy hands that were good for touching nothing but soft, white and pliant flesh.

He shivered and told himself it was just the cold. It was cold. He pulled the shutter gently to and then looked around. Daine was still fast asleep. Daine, who was all brown sunburned skin and sharp edges. He couldn't have found someone more unlike Varice if he'd searched for them.

Still, Daine was changing. Now that his mind was less drugged by alcohol he could look at her properly. The hat was gone – thank goodness – but she was still dressed very strangely. Her dress was made of a soft reddish fabric, and although it was dusty and crumpled the colour suited her. It pooled messily around her legs but was neatly tucked in around her waist. By some miracle (or by pure stubbornness) whoever had dressed her had convinced her to wear a corset. The darted fabric had warped her muscled body into a feminine silhouette.

On anyone other than Daine, he thought snidely, the transformation would have been almost pretty.

To his eyes it made her look sly, devious, as if she were laughing at everyone who was actually fooled into thinking she was a genteel lady. His mental picture laughed, and with a chill he realised that it wasn't Daine's voice that mocked him. Of course. He still saw dainty waistlines and sumptuous fabrics as Varice's domain. A woman who dressed like that – who looked like that – was not to be trusted. Nothing could be more sinister than a pretty face.

This is Daine, not Varice. He scolded himself. If she was being cruel she wouldn't bother being subtle about it.

He picked her up carefully and lifted her onto the bed, then tucked the blankets around her. They were still warm from his body heat, and she sighed and cuddled into the spot where he'd lain.

Why am I comparing her to Varice? He thought. She's just a child.

Her eyes opened hazily, and his thought was chased away. Her eyes were not a child's. He'd seen them broken, barbed and bright with tears. In the candlelight she looked at him in a sleepy confusion that held a different kind of awareness. Numair froze. Even half-asleep, with her defences down there was something velvety in Daine's eyes.

The light flickered for a moment, and he tore his gaze away. No. No, a child would never have those eyes.

"Numair?" She asked in the drowning voice of a sleepwalker.

"Ssh," he whispered, and stroked her hair with his uncut hand. She looked even more confused by the gesture, but her heavy eyes flickered shut in a few seconds and her breathing deepened again.

"Shit." Numair whispered, and this time when he returned to the window he treated the moon to a glare.

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