Beyond the Shadows
Page 79
Kylar nodded silently. To hear Durzo say it without scoffing was alien, and the man seemed to marvel at it himself.
Durzo plowed ahead. “I knew your regard wasn’t easily won, and I knew you’d seen darker sides of me than I’d let even most of my wives see.” He chuckled. “You know, I can ignore it when Count Drake loves me. He’s a saint. He cares about everybody. No offense, but you’re no saint.”
Kylar smiled.
Durzo studied the fire. “Second, I . . .” He cleared his throat. “I’d tried to root out feeling anything at all with drinking and whoring and killing and isolation, and I’d made myself into a monster, but I’d still failed. I still cared about you more than I cared about myself. That tells me something about myself.” He grew quiet.
“And third?” Kylar prompted.
“Third, ah hell, I don’t remember. Oh, wait. I spent years beating into your skull how hard and unfair life is. And I wasn’t wrong. There’s no guarantee that justice will win out or that a noble sacrifice will make any difference. But when it does, there’s something that still swells my chest. There’s magic in that. Deep magic. It tells me that’s the way things are supposed to be. Why? How? Hell, I don’t know. This spring I’ll turn seven hundred, and I still don’t have it figured out. Most poor bastards only get a few decades. Speaking of which . . .” Durzo cleared his throat. “I’ve got bad news.”
“Speaking of which which?” Kylar asked, chest tightening.
“Life being unfair and all that.”
“Oh, great. What is it?”
“Luc Graesin? Kid you died on the wheel to save?”
“It was more for Logan than for Luc, but what about him?”
“Hanged himself,” Durzo said.
“What? Who killed him? Scarred Wrable?” Kylar could see Momma K deciding that even a remote threat to Logan would have to be eliminated.
“No, he really hanged himself.”
“Are you joking? After what I did for him? That asshole!”
Durzo grabbed his blanket and lay down, resting his head on his saddle. “Letting someone die for you can be tough. If anyone should understand that, it’s you.”
61
. . . get up in three seconds, I’m gonna nail you with a biscuit.” Kylar struggled to open his eyes, and the voice went on without even slowing. “One, two, three.” Kylar’s eyes shot open, and he snatched the hard biscuit out of the air with such force that it exploded into crumb shrapnel.
“Dammit,” he said, combing biscuit pieces out of his hair. “What’d you do that for?”
Durzo was grinning from ear to ear. “Fun,” he said.
Kylar scowled. There was something different about his master. His eyes seemed a little more round, his skin a little lighter, the shirt he was wearing tighter across the chest and shoulders. “What are you doing?” he asked.
“Eating breakfast,” Durzo said, chomping into another biscuit.
“I mean your face!”
“What? Pimple?” Durzo asked, patting his forehead, the word coming out “pimpuh?” around the biscuit.
“Durzo! You went to bed Ymmuri, and you woke up halfbreed.”
“Oh, that. What, you want to hear more? I talked last night more than I’ve talked in a hundred years.” Kylar thought he might not be exaggerating. “You need to learn everything at once?”
“You’re mortal now. And you’re old. You could keel over at any moment.”
“Hm, you have a point,” Durzo said. “You saddle the horses, I’ll talk.”
Kylar rolled his eyes—and began tending to the horses.
“You’ve tried illusory masks. I’ve seen your whole little scary-black-mask thing that the Sa’kagé found so impressive.”
“Thanks,” Kylar griped. It had been impressive, dammit. “Wait, when did you see that?”
“In Caernarvon.”
“You came to Caernarvon? When did you—”
“Too late to save Jarl, but early enough to save Elene. Now stop interrupting,” Durzo said. “You might have noticed there are some drawbacks to making masks of real faces, especially with disguises of people of different height from yours. I made some good masks in my time, but it was horrible work, and if someone touched you or it even started raining, the illusion would break. Then one time I died. Got a leg hacked off and bled to death. When I came back, as always, my body was whole. Look at yourself—dead six times and not a scar. How can that be? How could I regrow an arm?”
“I thought you said it was a leg,” Kylar said, throwing a saddle over Tribe’s back. For once, the brute didn’t try to bite him. “And what’s that about Elene?”
“It was an arm. Just remembered. I’ll tell you about Elene later. What I figured out is that somehow our bodies know what shape we’re supposed to be. I mean, when you cut any man’s arm, arm skin grows back there, not a nose or another head. Why? Because the body knows what’s supposed to be where. I figured that if that was the case, all I had to do to make a perfect disguise was change the instructions. Hah, if only it were that simple. I figured out a few things along the way. Like Ladeshians aren’t just really tanned. And if you change your height dramatically, expect to be uncoordinated for a year. And don’t mess with your eyesight. And don’t change things about your body that you merely don’t like. Pretty soon you’ll be so damn beautiful people will stop on the streets to watch you—it makes for a lousy disguise. Anyway, it took me—I don’t know—a hundred years? I have about twenty bodies I do now. That is, bodies I’ve spent enough time in that I know how they work, understand their stride, their movement, their quirks. Twenty is probably too many, but I got nervous once when I found two different paintings of me made two hundred years apart from different sides of Midcyru and obviously me in both of them. Some Alitaeran collector had the two hanging side-by-side in his study. I’d moved to Alitaera to start a new life and I was using that same damn body.”
“Wait, you’re telling me you could have chosen any face? And you chose the nasty ugly Durzo Blint face?”
“That’s my real face,” Durzo said, offended.
Blood rushed to Kylar’s cheeks. “Oh, by the God, I’m so sorry. I mean, I’m sorry I said that, not that your face is . . .”
“Gotcha,” Durzo said.
Kylar pursed his lips. “Bastard.”
“Anyway, it takes time to make the transition, especially when you start, and doing it halfway can be rather horrifying. We’re on the trail, so we may meet people. If the skin on the upper half of my body is blackest Ladeshian, but my legs are white, or if half my face is young and half old, folks don’t take it too well. I can actually do it much faster now, but I figured I’d show you body magic that’s merely intensely difficult before I show you the damn-near impossible stuff.”
“Wait, does that mean you can make yourself look like anything? So you could be a girl?”
“I don’t want to hear your twisted fantasies,” Durzo said.
“Hey!”
“I’ve never been a girl or an animal. I have a small fear of getting stuck: once I made a disguise that I was a man without a trace of Talent. What was supposed to be a quick, one-month disguise while I infiltrated the Chantry instead took me a decade to undo and cost me my chance to recover the silver ka’kari,” Durzo said. “Being stuck as a fat Modaini, bad. Being stuck as a woman, unthinkable.”
Durzo plowed ahead. “I knew your regard wasn’t easily won, and I knew you’d seen darker sides of me than I’d let even most of my wives see.” He chuckled. “You know, I can ignore it when Count Drake loves me. He’s a saint. He cares about everybody. No offense, but you’re no saint.”
Kylar smiled.
Durzo studied the fire. “Second, I . . .” He cleared his throat. “I’d tried to root out feeling anything at all with drinking and whoring and killing and isolation, and I’d made myself into a monster, but I’d still failed. I still cared about you more than I cared about myself. That tells me something about myself.” He grew quiet.
“And third?” Kylar prompted.
“Third, ah hell, I don’t remember. Oh, wait. I spent years beating into your skull how hard and unfair life is. And I wasn’t wrong. There’s no guarantee that justice will win out or that a noble sacrifice will make any difference. But when it does, there’s something that still swells my chest. There’s magic in that. Deep magic. It tells me that’s the way things are supposed to be. Why? How? Hell, I don’t know. This spring I’ll turn seven hundred, and I still don’t have it figured out. Most poor bastards only get a few decades. Speaking of which . . .” Durzo cleared his throat. “I’ve got bad news.”
“Speaking of which which?” Kylar asked, chest tightening.
“Life being unfair and all that.”
“Oh, great. What is it?”
“Luc Graesin? Kid you died on the wheel to save?”
“It was more for Logan than for Luc, but what about him?”
“Hanged himself,” Durzo said.
“What? Who killed him? Scarred Wrable?” Kylar could see Momma K deciding that even a remote threat to Logan would have to be eliminated.
“No, he really hanged himself.”
“Are you joking? After what I did for him? That asshole!”
Durzo grabbed his blanket and lay down, resting his head on his saddle. “Letting someone die for you can be tough. If anyone should understand that, it’s you.”
61
. . . get up in three seconds, I’m gonna nail you with a biscuit.” Kylar struggled to open his eyes, and the voice went on without even slowing. “One, two, three.” Kylar’s eyes shot open, and he snatched the hard biscuit out of the air with such force that it exploded into crumb shrapnel.
“Dammit,” he said, combing biscuit pieces out of his hair. “What’d you do that for?”
Durzo was grinning from ear to ear. “Fun,” he said.
Kylar scowled. There was something different about his master. His eyes seemed a little more round, his skin a little lighter, the shirt he was wearing tighter across the chest and shoulders. “What are you doing?” he asked.
“Eating breakfast,” Durzo said, chomping into another biscuit.
“I mean your face!”
“What? Pimple?” Durzo asked, patting his forehead, the word coming out “pimpuh?” around the biscuit.
“Durzo! You went to bed Ymmuri, and you woke up halfbreed.”
“Oh, that. What, you want to hear more? I talked last night more than I’ve talked in a hundred years.” Kylar thought he might not be exaggerating. “You need to learn everything at once?”
“You’re mortal now. And you’re old. You could keel over at any moment.”
“Hm, you have a point,” Durzo said. “You saddle the horses, I’ll talk.”
Kylar rolled his eyes—and began tending to the horses.
“You’ve tried illusory masks. I’ve seen your whole little scary-black-mask thing that the Sa’kagé found so impressive.”
“Thanks,” Kylar griped. It had been impressive, dammit. “Wait, when did you see that?”
“In Caernarvon.”
“You came to Caernarvon? When did you—”
“Too late to save Jarl, but early enough to save Elene. Now stop interrupting,” Durzo said. “You might have noticed there are some drawbacks to making masks of real faces, especially with disguises of people of different height from yours. I made some good masks in my time, but it was horrible work, and if someone touched you or it even started raining, the illusion would break. Then one time I died. Got a leg hacked off and bled to death. When I came back, as always, my body was whole. Look at yourself—dead six times and not a scar. How can that be? How could I regrow an arm?”
“I thought you said it was a leg,” Kylar said, throwing a saddle over Tribe’s back. For once, the brute didn’t try to bite him. “And what’s that about Elene?”
“It was an arm. Just remembered. I’ll tell you about Elene later. What I figured out is that somehow our bodies know what shape we’re supposed to be. I mean, when you cut any man’s arm, arm skin grows back there, not a nose or another head. Why? Because the body knows what’s supposed to be where. I figured that if that was the case, all I had to do to make a perfect disguise was change the instructions. Hah, if only it were that simple. I figured out a few things along the way. Like Ladeshians aren’t just really tanned. And if you change your height dramatically, expect to be uncoordinated for a year. And don’t mess with your eyesight. And don’t change things about your body that you merely don’t like. Pretty soon you’ll be so damn beautiful people will stop on the streets to watch you—it makes for a lousy disguise. Anyway, it took me—I don’t know—a hundred years? I have about twenty bodies I do now. That is, bodies I’ve spent enough time in that I know how they work, understand their stride, their movement, their quirks. Twenty is probably too many, but I got nervous once when I found two different paintings of me made two hundred years apart from different sides of Midcyru and obviously me in both of them. Some Alitaeran collector had the two hanging side-by-side in his study. I’d moved to Alitaera to start a new life and I was using that same damn body.”
“Wait, you’re telling me you could have chosen any face? And you chose the nasty ugly Durzo Blint face?”
“That’s my real face,” Durzo said, offended.
Blood rushed to Kylar’s cheeks. “Oh, by the God, I’m so sorry. I mean, I’m sorry I said that, not that your face is . . .”
“Gotcha,” Durzo said.
Kylar pursed his lips. “Bastard.”
“Anyway, it takes time to make the transition, especially when you start, and doing it halfway can be rather horrifying. We’re on the trail, so we may meet people. If the skin on the upper half of my body is blackest Ladeshian, but my legs are white, or if half my face is young and half old, folks don’t take it too well. I can actually do it much faster now, but I figured I’d show you body magic that’s merely intensely difficult before I show you the damn-near impossible stuff.”
“Wait, does that mean you can make yourself look like anything? So you could be a girl?”
“I don’t want to hear your twisted fantasies,” Durzo said.
“Hey!”
“I’ve never been a girl or an animal. I have a small fear of getting stuck: once I made a disguise that I was a man without a trace of Talent. What was supposed to be a quick, one-month disguise while I infiltrated the Chantry instead took me a decade to undo and cost me my chance to recover the silver ka’kari,” Durzo said. “Being stuck as a fat Modaini, bad. Being stuck as a woman, unthinkable.”
