Honor-Bound [ Lore of Penrua: Book... - Chapter 64: Chapter 64

Uachi did not have a drum. This was just the first of many problems to overcome in the execution of Diarmán's mad plan to infiltrate House Resh Deran. It was also the easiest to solve: a drum was found somewhere in the Imperial encampment within the hour, for music was one way soldiers entertained themselves on long, exhausting journeys.
What was perhaps a more urgent concern was his marke. Even were he to manage a convincing beat on a drum while Diarmán played his flute, it was unlikely that any Arcborn wanderer in the south would be welcomed in a household loyal to Coratse. Not now. Not with Koren in the mix and his legacy in the northern reaches.
Later that day, as Matei consulted further with the three commanders—though they had aligned on a plan, contingencies would be prudent—Uachi and Diarmán sat around one of the campfires. Uachi had his new drum on his knee; it was a homely instrument without any indication of its origins in Penrua. Diarmán had fiddled with it for a while, humming to himself as he tapped away, trying to find the best and simplest methods for using the thing.
"Now, hold it in one hand—your off hand—and just set the beat. Da-dat, da-dat, da-dat. Like that," Diarmán said. "I think it best if you use your fingertips to start. Don't get fancy. Simple. All right?"
"I'm not going to get fancy," Uachi snapped. He looked around in hopes of ensuring that they were alone for this humiliating lesson, but of course they were not. No one was seated at their campfire, staring, but the passing soldiers going about their errands were throwing lingering glances and bemused smiles their way. "I'm rethinking this plan."
"Don't you dare. It's a brilliant plan." Diarmán had conjured his flute, and he used it now to rap Uachi on the head. He very nearly earned himself a backhand for his audacity. Grinning, Diarmán set the flute to his lips and spoke around it, raising his eyebrows. "Ready? One. Two."
He began to play. After a moment, so did Uachi. He sat with his shoulders hunched, glowering down at the drum, which he held in his left hand while he tapped out what rhythm he could make with his right. It was a curious thing, this instrument: no more than a ring of wood with hide drawn taut over it, travel-worn and old, it nonetheless created a powerful sound when he struck it just right.
They played for a minute or two before the flute music stopped. Uachi looked up to see Diarmán grinning at him, his eyes narrowed. He flicked his red hair back from his brow and leaned forward, reaching for the drum.
Uachi leaned back, embarrassment heating his neck and his cheeks. "Don't laugh at me, you horse's arse. 'Tis only my first go at this bloody foolishness!"
Diarmán looked like Uachi had hit him. He stiffened, his eyes wide. He sank back to sit, lowering his hand. "I'm not laughing at you."
"Yes, you bloody well are. You're grinning like a milk-fed cat on a lady's lap." Uachi cut his glance away. There were still soldiers milling about, staring, and he hated it. He wished they would go on about their business and leave them to this work. Did they not have better things to do? He would have to—
"Uachi." Diarmán's voice was soft.
Uachi did not look up. "Just—just play the bloody song again, will you? I'm not likely to be convincing without a damn sight more practice and we haven't much time."
"Are you going to let me speak, or are you going to keep sulking?"
This did draw Uachi's attention. He caught Diarmán looking at him, the smile absent from his features now.
"I wasn't laughing at you. I swear it. You're doing fine. You're doing well."
"Then what was that grin all about? You needn't lie to spare my feelings. I just want to get on—"
"I was having fun. Enjoying myself? Fun? Have you ever heard of it?" Diarmán raised his eyebrows. Now he did laugh, shaking his head. "Now, give me this."
Taken aback, Uachi did not protest when Diarmán took the drum from his hands.
"Now, watch my hand. Gently. Do you see?" He tapped the drum a few times, producing a resonant sound. "Don't bash it like you're swinging a stave at some unfortunate head, you great old grump. Gently. Like you're touching...ah...something you'd touch gently."
The silence that followed was broken only by the steady cadence of the drum. That, and the sound of folk milling around the encampment. Uachi watched Diarmán's hands for a moment, and then he raised his gaze and saw what he had somehow known he'd see: a lingering flush on Diarmán's fair skin.
He took the drum back. Diarmán released it without protest. The men straightened, Diarmán returning his attention to his flute. After he had arranged his fingers and before he had placed the instrument to his lips, he looked Uachi in the eye. "Now, don't look at it. And don't look at them. You keep glancing 'round like you expect them all to be staring."
"They are," Uachi muttered. "They should bloody well—"
"Ignore them. Like you said, we have little time, and you need a damn sight more practice. Ignore them, and don't glower at the drum like it's insulted your honor. Look at me, Uachi. That's the key. We play together."
It was uncomfortable. Uachi met Diarmán's eyes for a moment, no more, before he had to look away. But, as they began to play again, he tried to focus less on the instrument in his hands and more on the man he was playing music with. It was not easy, but when he paid attention to the sparkle in Diarmán's eyes and the grin tugging at his lips, he could almost ignore the staring eyes of Matei's soldiers. He could almost, almost believe that the sounds he was making with that humble little drum were music of a kind.
Some time later, Uachi sat in the same place with the same company. He was in a much fouler mood.
"Hold still, won't you?" Diarmán swatted his shoulder. "You're smearing it!"
"You're the one smearing it. What are you doing, painting me up like a tart off to court?"
"Do you want me to paint you up like a tart off to court? Because I can." Diarmán raised his forefinger, a threat in his eyes. His fingertip was bright red. "Purse your lips, Uachi."
"I would give anything I own to have this moment preserved forever."
The new voice was Matei's, and his arrival did nothing to improve Uachi's mood. Nor did the aftermath. Diarmán had pressed his finger to Uachi's face again, but Uachi had turned to look at his friend, causing paint to smear across his cheek.
"I said hold still!"
"You should be bloody well done by now!" Uachi snapped. "Matei, I'm going to strangle him."
Matei was grinning. He held up both hands, palms toward the pair. "Wait here. Just like this. I'm going to send a bird to the capitol and have them send the royal portraitist."
Diarmán's snort of laughter heaped insult upon insult. Uachi shook his sleeve down over his fist and reached up, ready to wipe the paint right off of his cheek. Diarmán yelped and seized hold of him with both hands, smearing his sleeve red. "Just be patient, will you? Or do you want to try your luck getting into House Resh Deran with that marke plain for the world to see?"
"I'll look a lot less foolish!"
"But you'll be a lot more. Sit!" Diarmán released him and reached for the small pot of paint again. He had a whole slew of them, colors that were usually used to paint shields and banners and the little wooden pieces Matei had on his map.
Matei sat down with them, grinning with amusement as he watched Diarmán make child's play of Uachi's face. Farra butted his shoulder with her head, and he put his arm around her. "You won't even recognize him when he's all painted up, my poor girl."
"That's the idea." Diarmán traded the red for a pot of dark blue, making a soft, musing sound deep in his throat. "Shall he be comic or tragic, Your Grace?"
"Comic, I think. We've all of us had more than enough troubles."
It was such a light comment, flippant, even, but as Uachi closed his eyes so that Diarmán could smear paint across the lids, he could not help but feel the truth in the words.
How could he sit here, letting Diarmán make him up like a fool, when Ealin was lying under the cold earth, left forever under unfamiliar skies? Their mission was a sound one. A critical one. But music and face paint and clever tricks—compared with the destruction they'd left behind, it felt careless and bitterly cruel.
"There." Diarmán put the cap on the last little pot. He had used just a few of the colors. "We'll have to take these with us. A satchel with a few provisions, our paint, and our instruments. Some loose coin. A few extra clothes."
Apart from conjuring paint from somewhere in the camp, Diarmán had managed to patch together some outfits that were thoroughly ridiculous. Uachi wore his own trousers and tunic and boots, but a whole layer of borrowed clothes had been added on top. There was a bright red sash tied round his waist and a jacket in blue, a size too small. From a tattered banner, a page had stitched together a pointed hat with trailing flaps that covered Uachi's ears, and at the ends of each flap were braided lengths of cord in yellow and green. It was rude and hasty work, but it fit their look of jumbled garb.
Diarmán had a similar hat, although his was less pointed. He had mixed some of the brown paint he had found with water and carefully combed it through his ruddy curls to dampen their color, which even the dirt and dust of their long journey had not dulled. His jacket was too large and old enough that its original color—probably red or orange—had faded into an uncertain rust-brown. There were patches over the elbows.
"We look like idiots," Uachi said.
"We certainly do. And you haven't even seen your face," Diarmán replied with a grin.
Matei chuckled. "He has painted you a wide smile. It's rather convincing."
"I'll show you something convincing," Uachi muttered.
"You'll wear the paint to sleep. Give it a bit of..." Diarmán waved his hand at Uachi's face. "A bit of a muddle and smash. And in the morning, off we go."
"Are you sure you want to do this, my friends?" asked Matei. His good humor had faded. "It is a dangerous mission."
"Dangerous and important. Don't be stupid, Matei." Uachi got to his feet. After a long day of sitting around tapping away at a drum and letting Diarmán make him look like a fool, his bones creaked and popped. He stretched his arms above his head, arching his back, and then bent to retrieve his drum. "Let us try."
I think Uachi is a bit shy about his newfound musical prowess. 👉👈
Now we're off to pretend to be minstrels. What could possibly go wrong?