Exile's Valor

the only seats left were at two-person tables like the ones Alberich and the stranger each had. Somehow Alberich didn’t think that Norris was going to ask if he could join the scholar.

Norris paused for a moment beside Alberich; Alberich’s neck prickled, but he didn’t look up from his book. Surely it wasn’t possible that the actor was going to sit at his table!

Surely it isn’t possible that he recognized me?

The actor certainly gave Alberich a good look-over. Alberich did just what his persona would have done: he read, outwardly oblivious to anything going on around him. Norris moved on, and said to the stranger, “Friend, would you mind if I sat at this table?”

“Be my guest,” the man said with every sign of indifference. And that would have been perfectly ordinary, if it hadn’t been that both of them pitched their voices just a little louder than if they’d been talking merely to each other, and not for the benefit of anyone who happened to be nearby.

Alberich turned his page, and furrowed his brow. It was appropriate to furrow his brow at this point; the author was taking a slightly controversial stance, and one that someone like Alberich was bound to disagree with. Alberich had chosen this book quite deliberately; he was very familiar with it, and if challenged, could converse knowledgeably about the contents. And tonight, he just might have to. Despite the heat in the overcrowded room, he felt a chill of apprehension.

He heard the scrape of a stool on the floor; the sounds of someone sitting down behind him. He didn’t actually hear anything then, but the serving wench materialized, as they all did, whenever Norris summoned them, however imperceptible the signal was to anyone else. The actor ordered dinner, and when it came, there was a pause as the wench flirted a little with Norris then was summarily shooed away.

“Is it all right?” said the stranger, in a very, very soft voice.

“Safe as houses,” Norris replied, casually. “Safer than my room. Can’t tell who might be on the other side of the wall, there.”

Well, thought Alberich, That’s what you get for insisting on the big corner room. Norris had recently demanded—and gotten—one of the better chambers at the inn. Even with Myste keeping a jaundiced eye on the take, the innkeeper was doing a phenomenal amount of business thanks to the ongoing presence of the actors here, and couldn’t afford to offend Norris at this point. The problem with the new room, however, was that while Norris had one of his fellow actors as a neighbor on one side, the other was a room that anyone could rent, and it was often taken by someone who wanted to be near the actor. That would practically guarantee a snoop with her ear to the wall.

“What about him?” persisted the stranger, and Alberich knew, by the prickling feeling on the back of his neck, that the man was pointing at him in some way. Probably with a little jerk of the chin; less obtrusive, unless you were watching for something of the sort.

“Hmm.” There was a scrape; Norris this time; Alberich could tell from the position of the chair.

He’s going to do something. Alberich thought he could guess what, and a moment later, it came. And now he had to do something that was against all of his instincts; he had to relax, not tighten his muscles in anticipation. The scholar would be deep in the book and would not even be aware of the rest of the world. You should be able to come up behind him and shout in his ear without his noticing.

There was the sound of a stumble, and Norris blundered into him, spilling his drink, knocking the book out of his hand, nearly knocking him over. Alberich did not try to save himself; he let the chair go over, and himself with it, as with a cry, he lurched for his book. Norris was there before him, picking it up, all apology, offering his hand, and when Alberich was on his feet, dusting him off.

“Horribly clumsy of me, I beg your pardon—” While Norris babbled on, he was managing to get a look at the book, in fact, at the place where Alberich had been reading. And thank the Sunlord for that, since it meant he was not looking closely at Alberich’s disguise instead! He handed it back to Alberich so quickly, though, that it was unlikely anyone like the scholar would have realized that the actor had examined the book before relinquishing it. But an actor had to be a quick study; the man probably had both pages memorized by now.

Alberich snatched it away, glared angrily at him, and fussed over the book, making certain that none of the pages were bent, nothing stained. “You clumsy oaf!” he shrilled, pitching his voice to a whiny falsetto. “Curse you, fellow! Where did you think you were going?”

“I’ll buy you a new drink,” Norris was saying, as the serving wench bustled up with a towel to clean up the mess.

“If you’ve so much as creased a page, you’ll buy me a new book, young man,” Alberich replied querulously. “Copies of Canton’s Lives of the Philosophers do not grow on trees!”

“No, they don’t, I’m sure,” Norris said agreeably, as the serving wench brought another drink and Norris paid her for it. “And I would be devastated to think I had ruined one. I particularly admire his scholarly treatise on Loval Hestalion, for instance.”

Alberich simply gave him a good long stare, as if suspiciously certain that Norris was only trying to jolly his way past Alberich’s anger. “It’s Lowal Hestalion, young man, as you would know if you