Honor-Bound [ Lore of Penrua: Book... - Chapter 66: Chapter 66

"Try to look like you're enjoying yourself," whispered Diarmán.
"You cannot tell me that traveling musicians always enjoy themselves." It had been all that Uachi could do to stop himself from scratching his face on the long journey here. The paint Diarmán had slathered all over him itched fiercely, and this discomfort layered on top of the necessity of walking all the way had put Uachi into a foul mood. Knowing that they were followed at a greater distance by Matei's men was little consolation. He and Diarmán could not be seen with Imperial soldiers, and few minstrels could afford to go mounted; they had traveled on horseback with a pair of Matei's men, but they had left them camped on a ridge half a day's journey from House Resh Deran to preserve the illusion of solitude and poverty that they would rely upon for their ruse.
Uachi had thought he had left his walking days behind him when he had ridden away from House Eldran on Diarmán's good horses. He was not enjoying the return of his blisters.
"Of course they don't. They wander about the countryside relying on the rich and the poor for their bread. It must be a miserable life," Diarmán replied. "But no one wants to listen to a miserable bard."
Their destination lay ahead, and the road before them led straight to it. It was a towering holdfast not unlike Coratse's castle, albeit smaller. The walls were thick stone, pale and pinkish in the sundown light. If Matei and his men had to find a way to breach these walls, they would be hard-pressed to succeed. Uachi found himself trying to estimate the number of fighting men such a house would employ. Stone walls were enough to keep the place safe in peacetime, but it remained to be seen how well-manned and well-armed the stronghold was now that Narr was at war.
"Well, forgive me for saving my smiles and tittering for later," Uachi muttered. "I've a limited stock of merriment and I'm not about to waste it."
Diarmán rolled his eyes and shook his head. "Fair enough. I would not want you to have to scrape the bottom of the barrel to scrounge up a laugh or two tonight. Do try to look a bit less like...you, though."
Uachi frowned at him.
"The shoulders. The whole...face." Diarmán gestured at his own face with a sweep of his hands. "You're very...ah..."
"Very what?"
With a sigh and a narrowing of his eyes, Diarmán stopped. "How do I say this?"
"With words, is my suggestion."
"You have the silhouette of a soldier, Uachi of the North." Diarmán stepped forward and placed both of his hands on Uachi's shoulders. He had to reach up to do it; Uachi was tall. With a gentle flick, Diarmán indicated Uachi's arms, and then he poked him with a fingertip right between the brows. "These, and this. All of this is very unminstrellike."
Uachi batted his hand away and stepped back. "You've already painted my face, you menace. Do you propose to reorganize my bones, too?"
Laughter rang through the gloaming. Diarmán tipped his head back and grinned up at the darkening sky, delighted. "Oh, Uachi. Not here, where anybody could see." He nudged him with an elbow and then began to walk again. "I just think it would be a good idea for you to hunch a bit. And to ease up on the scowling."
Uachi ignored what he thought might have been a very peculiar innuendo. "You make it sound easy not to look like myself." Still, he rolled his shoulders and tried to loosen his posture.
The pair lapsed into silence again, trudging along the road toward the great house. They did not have to play-act much: they were tired, they were footsore, and they were hungry. They'd agreed that it was wiser to miss a meal so that their grumbling bellies would make themselves known when they reached House Resh Deran.
The guards standing outside the great doors of the holdfast must have seen them coming from a distance, but there was no immediate disturbance at their arrival. Indeed, when Uachi and Diarmán were within hailing distance, they found both men leaning on their staves and wearing smiles of amused curiosity.
"Well met, good sirs," said Diarmán. He offered a sweeping, elaborate bow. "I am the Prince of Song, and this is my companion, Drummer."
Uachi was astounded. They had not talked about names, and these were so ridiculous that—
"Well met, your melodious highness," said the taller of the men. "I must say, I've never heard of a prince with a crown like yours."
Diarmán glanced upward with theatrical good humor. He doffed his hat and gave it a haughty brush with his knuckles. "I daresay you haven't. It is singular indeed, for all it's only my traveling crown."
"His traveling crown," echoed the taller guard. He grinned at his companion, who said, "Oh, aye. The one with the gold and the jewels is back at his palace, I imagine."
"You imagine correctly, good sir." Diarmán put his hat back on.
"And where is this palace of yours, Prince of Song?" asked the shorter. His tone was playful and indulgent.
"Why, it's in the Land of Pleasure and Repose, of course." Diarmán gestured to Uachi. "I and my loyal servant have come but recently from that most storied of realms to grant the heartsick and world-weary a blessed glimpse of our bounties."
The tall guard managed to keep a straight face for a second or two, but then he broke into laughter, and the short guard was not far behind. They nudged one another. With affected suspicion, the shorter pointed at Uachi with his stave. "And this fellow here, is he a prince, too?"
"Oh, no." Diarmán glanced at Uachi and then did a double take, giving him a thorough up-and-down look. "Oh, no. Certainly not. Have you seen the man? This is Drummer, didn't I say?"
"You did," said the tall guard, "but I thought maybe you'd left off the 'prince.'"
"I absolutely did not. He is the loyalest of companions, my most filial of servants, my dearest of acquaintances. Nearly a friend, he is, which is high praise from a prince like myself. Furthermore, and of most pressing interest to you, good sirs, is that this fellow here is the most talented drum-beater within—why, I should say, within nearly ten yards on every side."
This triggered another torrent of laughter. Uachi shifted his weight, trying his best not to straighten up. He felt a bewildering mixture of irritation and amusement at Diarmán's antics, emotions that he could only convey to his companion with a furrowed brow and a smile he tried valiantly to suppress. Diarmán only returned a glimmering smile when he caught the look.
"Are you truly the best drummer in the very near vicinity?" demanded the shorter guard, indicating Uachi with his stave a second time.
Uachi's amusement faded at once. He did not appreciate being so rudely pointed at, as if he were nothing more than a horse. He opened his mouth to respond. Before he could, his stomach growled. Loudly.
Raising his voice to be heard over the gales of the guards' laughter, Diarmán said, "As you can see—er, hear, my dearest sirs, we have had a long and wearying journey from the Land of Pleasure and Repose. We would be most indebted to you if you were to grant us a warm meal and a night's comfortable rest. In exchange, we will, of course, offer you the most memorable entertainment you will have enjoyed in a goodly long time."
"A week at least, eh?" The tall guard smirked, turning without any hesitation to tap with his stave upon the huge, heavy doors of the holdfast. He raised his voice. "Oi, J'Orrin, we've a pair of minstrels out here. Send word to Her Ladyship and see if they can't be offered a night's welcome."