TWO

reconnaissance attempt

It was a small hut, old; this was easy to tell. But it had strong foundations, and it had been built with a firm hand and a good eye. The simple room was sparsely-furnished: a small bed in one corner, a table and two chairs in the other. Worn and a little unsteady, but still welcoming to tired bodies. An old lamp sat on the table, rusty but workable, its food waiting in the corner. As a shelter for those seeking a respite from travel, the cabin served its purpose well.

Across the room, the door pushed open. A figure tumbled in, staggering, clutching feebly at the doorframe.

"Augh …"

Dias strode into the hut, passing Claude. He paused, then turned to watch the young man's struggle. A fleeting smirk crossed his face, and his expression grew stoic again. "I guess you really haven't ridden much."

"That's what I said," Claude answered wearily, closing the door behind him. He rested his head against the wall, eyes closed. "I don't know which was worse, the bandits or the horses."

"We made good time." Draping his cloak onto the back of one chair, the swordsman turned his attention to the oil lamp. Soon, a warm light bathed the small room in a gentle, orange-tinted glow. He glanced back at the other man. "Are you going to stand all night?

"Yes."

"Are you sure you don't want a seat?"

"Hmm, let me think. Yes."

"Sit down."

"You'll have to beat me senseless first."

"You'll be fine after a while. Keep standing and you'll make your feet sore as well."

Reluctantly, the young man made his way over to the table. He pulled the other chair out and sat down gingerly, wincing the entire time.

While Claude dealt with his discomfort, Dias gauged his attentiveness. The youth seemed fairly at ease now, and sufficiently diverted.

Let's try.

"Well …" Dias leaned against the table. "I suppose life out here hasn't really been what you expected, has it?"

Claude shifted uncomfortably. "Ouch. I'm not really sure what I was expecting."

"It must be much harder than back home," Dias continued smoothly, watching the other man's face. "Travelling long distances, on foot or on horseback, being constantly exposed to the elements, having none of the conveniences you're used to …"

"Roughing it," the other man laughed. "Training took care of most of that, but you're right, it's different in person. Ow!"

"There must be a lot that you miss."

"Ugh; must be."

"I can't even begin to imagine, Clother. What do you miss the most?"

Claude's head lifted sharply. "Clother?" His gaze met Dias' without blinking. One brow furrowed. "What are you talking about?"

Dias leaned back, crossing his arms. Either the man was telling the truth, or he was extremely keen and was keeping up an excellent guard. Having no prior experience directly observing the prince in action, it was hard to tell. But, regardless, he would still be young and inexperienced: for all intents and purposes, ignorant to the workings of the outside world. He likely had a poor concept of the implications and potential consequences surrounding his leaving the castle.

Alright then. Play his game.

"His Royal Highness, Clother T. Cross." It came out rather sardonic, and he quickly spread his hands in apparent apology at the misidentification. "From what I heard of the bandits' conversation back at the hideout and from what I've seen myself, I thought you were the prince of Cross."

"… Cross?"

"The kingdom ruling this continent. Have you heard of the disturbance at the castle?"

The other man shook his head. "How could I?"

Dias' next words were chosen carefully; he didn't want to antagonize the prince more than necessary. "Recently, the prince disappeared. The reason is unknown, unsurprisingly. There are theories, but the entire matter has been kept under wraps by the palace, in order to keep up the royal family's appearances."

An eye-roll. "Isn't it always like that."

Red eyes narrowed, picking up on the response. "Regardless, it's well-known in underground quarters. They're good at ferreting out that sort of news. There are many who would be more than willing to take advantage of the situation." The fingers on one hand tapped the table nonchalantly. "You bear a very striking resemblance to Prince Clother, from all descriptions, and the bandits from earlier were hoping to ransom you to the Kingdom of Cross. Considering the monsters currently plaguing all of Expel, the timing couldn't have been worse."

He paused, in speech and in motion. The younger man had lain his head down on the table, shoulders slumping. Dias tilted his head, awaiting an expression of astonishment or dismay at learning what reckless actions cause.

Instead, the previous finger-tapping was replaced by an odd rattling.

It was several seconds before Dias realized the rattling noise was the table, shaking from silent laughter. He quickly took off his gloves, pressing them down around the base of the oil lamp in case it toppled over.

Claude raised his head, elbows dropping against the table, right hand clenched into a fist against his mouth. His upper body was twitching as he tried hard to keep it down. He inhaled shakily, finally managing to catch his breath.

"Ex- excuse me, I'm sorry," he wheezed, wincing but unable to leash the mirth, left hand waving away from his face. "But … that's, that's absolutely hilarious …!" With that, he went into another fit of uncontrollable laughter. "It sounds like a, a badly-plotted B-movie or tabloid heading-" The young man stretched his arms in front of him, palms out, gesturing theatrically: "'Spaceman from Space: Alien Doppelgangers-'" He continued to convulse.

The swordsman raised an eyebrow. This was nowhere near the reaction he had been expecting.

"Ha ha ha, ow, pain-"

"… Are you done?" Dias finally asked.

"Oh, man …" Claude wiped at his eyes, settling back down. "I'm really, really sorry." He ran his fingers through his hair. "You don't have a clue what I'm talking about, and the entire situation is very serious for Cross. But … trust me, from over here, you'd see how ridiculous the whole thing sounds."

"I would assume," Dias replied blandly, letting go of the lamp. From what he'd observed thus far, based on reactions alone, this man was not Clother.

The possibility could not be entirely eliminated, but for the most part ... he was either telling the truth, or he was a nutcase.

Who is this man who calls himself Claude?

An ironic smile. "Are you trying to guilt-trip me?" Claude shook his head. "Trust me, I am not your Prince Clother." Both hands gripped the table edge and he leaned forward, gaze direct and unwavering. "The last thing I need to do is waltz into a castle impersonating royalty and have the real deal turn up – or worse, get fried by the Galactic Federation when they get here while I'm reclining on the throne." His lip twitched. "Which would be damn funny, though." He started giggling again, lost in some picture only he was seeing.

He was either telling the truth, or he was a nutcase.

The swordsman propped his head up in thought with his left hand, fingers tucked in. It was difficult to tell, Dias acknowledged.

Claude rubbed at his eyes with both hands. "Eh, believe me or not, whatever. I'm tired." He stifled a yawn. "There's no real use arguing about it tonight, is there?"

Point. "No."

"Then let's turn in." The young man stretched, then looked around, realizing there was only one bed. "Ah, Dias- "

The mercenary glanced over, acknowledging the meagre furnishings. "You take it. I'll guard the door."

"But- "

"You're more tired than I am."

"Still- " The other man frowned, the inequality clearly not sitting well with him.

Among other things. "We're going to be riding again tomorrow."

"Um," Claude reconsidered. He rubbed the back of his neck. "… Thanks."

He got up, grimacing again, and moved to the edge of the bed, resulting in another wince. He removed his headband and jacket, then slid off his shoes, letting the articles pile on the floor as he rolled over. Grabbing the corner of the sheet with one hand, he looked back at the swordsman.

"Good night."

"Hm." Dias replied absently. The other man settled down into the bed, pulling the covers over himself and letting out another "ow" before finally getting into a tolerable position. Despite his aches, he was soon fitfully asleep, lost in dreams.

Dias watched the dozing form, hands clasped pensively under his chin.

He wasn't quite sure what to think, now that he'd the opportunity to observe 'Claude' a bit more. The young man seemed to have undergone some form of military training; his posture, his body language when reacting, indicated a degree of formal discipline, and not the style one would expect of the prince.

But it's not consistent. He seems to switch randomly to something more casual.

And during the skirmish back at the hideout, the man demonstrated he was no light-weight when it came to a tight situation; he displayed good reflexes and a considerable amount of fighting ability, in spite of the handicap.

But there was his revulsion at the bandits' deaths.

Well, training and real-world experience were not always mutually inclusive. And he could have been faking it.

A body double for the prince, perhaps? That would help to explain his relative proficiency and his physical appearance. But then again, he had clearly been telling the truth when he said he had little experience with horseback riding – which would have been an imperative skill.

But he could be faking it, again.

But why carry on a charade in such a manner? And his strange dialect, the unfamiliar vocabulary …

And what was the story with the phase gun?

Does it even exist?

Dias rubbed his temples. Go with nutcase for now, and think about it in the morning.

He turned the wick down, blowing at the flame, allowing the oil lamp to die out. Getting up, he lifted the chair out from behind the table for easy maneuvering, facing the door, and settled down to sleep.

…

A muffled thud.

A narrow slit of red.

A gloved hand tightened its grip around the already-unsheathed blade. Dias waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness.

The first thing he noticed was that the sheets on the bed were crumpled. The bed was empty.

The second thing he noticed was that Claude was at the door, the communicator clutched tightly in his hand. Dias was about to get up and stop him, when he realized that the other man wasn't wearing his coat.

He's not trying to run away.

Claude paused, head turned to one side, as though considering something. Dias closed his eyes again, pretending to be asleep. After a moment's silence, he heard the door squeak lightly, then stop. The mercenary kept his eyes shut, remaining motionless. Finally, the door squeaked again,

Dias let several more minutes pass before rising, going to the door. Slowly, he turned the knob, pulling it open just a crack. He paused, then pulled it open more, leaning out, searching the starlit area.

Claude was standing by the water pump where the horses were tethered, his back to the building. One arm was slightly outstretched, the brightly-glowing communicator in hand. He was gazing up at the sky, up at the stars, as though scanning them for … for what, Dias couldn't imagine.

"… service number …"

An unfamiliar, monotone voice emanated from the device, startling the mercenary into a heightened awareness. He narrowed his eyes, straining to hear-

"… ocation un … own … Initiating … manual … contact … ayday …"

The young man brought the device close to his face. "Ens … Kenni … Calnus," he said. The communicator let out a melodic sequence of beeps. Finally, the mechanical voice spoke again.

"… transmiss …n … failed …"

The wind chilled, changing direction, rustling the crisp leaves, whistling towards the way station. "Out of range," he could hear Claude whisper, disappointment clouding the voice. The outline of the shoulders slumped.

Silently, the swordsman withdrew, back into the hut.

…

In the morning, Claude was already outside, brushing the mare's mane and coat while both she and the gelding busied themselves at the trough, tails swinging and swatting lackadaisically at random insects. Both horses were already saddled.

Efficient. Dias made his way down the steps, the creaking of the wood causing the youth to turn his head. "Did you sleep well?"

Claude returned his attention to the mare. "Yeah."

"No disturbances?"

"Nope. You?"

"No."

The dappled mare suddenly backed up, hindquarters twitching at some itch or irritation.

"Whoa, there, Windsocks," Claude muttered, sidling away to avoid being stepped on. The mare cocked her head at him, blinking blankly; one ear flicked, ousting a fly from its perch. Satisfied, she dipped her head back into the trough and resumed drinking.

Dias crossed his arms. "Windsocks?" There was a hint of mild amusement. "You named the horse?"

The youth scratched his neck, shrugging in reply. "Yeah."

"Hm."

Claude reflected on the disinterested response, then turned away. "I named yours too."

The swordsman said nothing. The horses continued to drink, and Claude continued working, moving over to the blue-gray.

Finally, harmless curiosity won out. "What?"

"'Cynic'."

Dias snorted at the straight-faced answer – as 'Cynic' did the same. Claude laughed, and patted the gelding on the nose. He turned back to look at the older man, then gestured at the horses' backs. "Ah, can you check?"

What- oh. Dias pushed gently at the mare's shoulder. She shifted pleasantly, allowing him to bend down and inspect the saddle job. "This strap is a bit loose," he pointed out. "That one is too tight." He began to fix it.

Claude watched him quietly, then moved to the other side of the water trough, kneeling down and adjusting the blue-gray's saddle accordingly. When he was done, Dias examined it as well, tugging at the straps.

He got up. "It's fine." The other man nodded.

Picked it up pretty quickly – or so it seems.

"Here." Dias shoved a package at the youth.

"What …?"

"It's a sword." The tone was dry, mildly sarcastic. "Perhaps you've seen one before."

The other man hefted the scabbard. He turned it over, hand closing around the hilt and sliding the blade out just a little, inspecting it. "Wait, is this from-"

"Didn't think he needed it anymore."

Claude's face turned slightly queasy again, but he made no comment. He reluctantly wrapped the sword belt around his waist, adjusting the position of the scabbard, tightening it at the buckle.

"Draw it."

"… What?"

"Draw your blade."

The young man looked quizzically at him, then grasped the hilt of the weapon and unsheathed it; wobbling a little at the unexpected shift, he held it out in front of him, two-handed.

"Swing."

Claude complied.

Rough around the edges, but … "Have you ever used one?"

The other man nodded. "Yeah, but Beginner's Melee Weaponry in Basic Combat Arts only concentrates on form-" He paused. "Uh, I'm not used to real swords. I mean, the weight."

"Start learning." Dias walked off towards the water pump. After refilling his canteen, he took the gelding's reins in hand, drawing it away from the trough before mounting. Opposite, Claude sheathed his sword. The youth frowned slightly at Windsocks' saddle before following suit.

The way back to the main road was a quiet one; the stillness was broken only by the warbling of birds, the crackling of twigs and dried leaves on the side paths.

Finally, Claude spoke.

"Where are we going?"

There was no point in hiding it; if he were the prince, or anyone associated with the royal family, he would soon recognize the scenery and the route. "Cross Castle."

One set of hoofbeats halted.

"You still think I'm the prince." Dismay was evident in his voice.

Dias pulled the gelding to a stop and turned to look at the other man. "Perhaps. Regardless, if your story is true, it's in your best interest to go to Cross and clear the matter up before anything else happens. Otherwise, you'll be hounded clear across the continent once they catch wind of you."

"Oh." Claude blinked. "I didn't think of that."

"If you wanted to go chasing after the phase gun, forget it for now and get rid of this obstacle first. Who knows, the King may know something that could be of use to you."

"R-right." The youth paused. "But … what if they think I'm the prince, too?"

A shrug. "Then you can figure something out."

"Great."

"You can go elsewhere, if you like."

A sigh. "No, you're right. It's best to go to Cross and get it out of the way."

A point in his favour. Through this, and the events of the previous night, Dias found himself beginning to believe.

The other man gazed out at the horizon, past the sea of trees swaying over their path. His lip twitched. Right arm swept out in an exaggerated motion, pointing straight ahead. "Take me to your leader, heh!" Windsocks neighed, breaking into a light trot and passing Cynic, who had started to forage in the greenery.

Dias shook his head and nudged the blue-gray after the dappled mare. At the very least, he was beginning to believe that Claude believed his crazy little story.

Either way, I'll find out once we get to Cross.