‘Jealous?” Tich’ki prodded.
“No! I just don’t want to spend the rest of my life in a Westerin prison. Or a Westerin graveyard, either’”
“Right.” Lydia returned to her musing. “All right. We agree that it’s hard to disguise elves.”
Naitachal held up a hand. “To disguise male elves ...” he corrected slowly. “Particularly serious, combative types.” He turned to look at Eliathanis, who narrowed his eyes.
“I don’t think I like what you’re thinking.”
Naitachal shrugged. “You’re the one who was .., interrogating the dancing girls. I’m sure they’d be happy to help their dear elfy-welty.”
“They didn’t call me that! And I can’t—I won’t ...”
The Dark Elf smiled alarmingly. “You can. You will. They did. Listen to me, my friends. I think we’re about to find a way out of Westerin!”
Kevin squirmed uncomfortably in the saddle of the riding mule, trying to get the yards and yards of gauzy, gaudy skirts to spread out properly, grimly trying to ignore the pretty chiming of little silver bells every time he moved.
“Don’t squirm, dear,” Lydia cooed. “It tears threads.”
Kevin glared at her. The warrior was a sugar-sweet confection, her tanned face softened with powder and paint, her lithe, muscular form disguised by a frilly bodice and layer after layer of gauzy skirts in a dozen shades of pink. A silky cloak of dusty rose shot through with gold threads was thrown over the whole thing, her black curls— and Tich’ki—hidden under its cowl. Yes, but at least she’s a woman! I feel like an idiot.
What made it worse was that he knew he looked rather alarmingly like a girl in all this frippery: a slightly scrawny one, perhaps, a bit too athletic even for a dancer, but a girl nevertheless. The bardling rubbed a reflexive hand over his chin, not sure whether to be discouraged or glad right now that at almost sixteen he still didn’t need to shave very often. Smooth cheeks would help the illusion.
If only the illusion wasn’t quite so good!
Eliathanis, riding beside Naitachal, was plainly feeling the same way, sitting his mule in silent misery. Kevin bit back a laugh. What a pretty girl the White Elf made!
Both elves were, of course, slim and beardless as all their kind, and despite Eliathanis’ martial calling, their long, silky hair and elegant, fine-boned faces made it quite easy for them to pass as women. Naitachal’s dark skin had been lightened to a more nondescript tan with judicious use of powder, making him look more like a half-elven hybrid than a perilous Dark Elf. Unlike the unhappy Eliathanis, he seemed to be having a wonderful time.
After all, Kevin mused, how often does a necromancer get a chance to act silly?
It had been Eliathanis’ dancing girls, of course, who had lent them all this gear, with the understanding that it would be left for the dancers to gather up again outside the walls. The dancers, the bardling decided, were definitely getting the better of the deal, winding up with what was left of Lydia’s not quite honestly gained coins as well as getting their gear back.
Well, actually, it was Councilman Selden who was paying for the whole thing. In a manner of speaking, anyhow.
Kevin censed suddenly. There to one side stood Empty Eyes, the elven leader of the street gang.
“Gently,” Naitachal murmured. “You’re a harmless dancing girl, that’s all you are.” The Dark Elf straightened slightly, startled, then chuckled. “Well now, what do you know?” he continued softly. “Our disguises really do work! Did you feel that slight tingling just now?”
“Yes.”
“That dissipated shame of an elf tried casting a Dispel Magic spell on us!”
Naitachal leaned sideways in the saddle to give Empty Eyes a flirtatious wink and a blown kiss—Kevin exploded into laughter, just in time managing to turn it into girlish titterings.
“L-look at his face! He—he—he doesn’t know what hit him!”
Naitachal swept back his silky hair with a toss of his head. “Too skinny for my taste!” he declared in a light tenor so unlike his usual baritone that Kevin burst into laughter all over again.
