Honor-Bound [ Lore of Penrua: Book III ]

62

There was something exceedingly irritating about Diarmán when he was feeling clever. He was animated, a showman, as pleased to make people wait for the answers he had to give them as he was to reveal his plans. His eyes were full of mischief, his grin as bright as the licking flame of a candle.

It was enough to make Uachi want to knock him on the head, especially because it was impossible not to respond to that impish smile.

"Well?" he demanded. "This is when you tell us why we aren't taking an army with us to storm a castle, Diarmán."

"We are not taking an army with us because we are not going to be storming any castles, Captain." Diarmán swiped the little wooden tower back from Callia. He tossed it into the air, snatched it in his fist as it fell, and then set it back in its place with a click. "We're going to go right in the front door."

Artai barked a laugh. "Excellent. Go on, my friend, and we'll reunite your head with your shoulders when we make it past the gates. If you think they will parlay with the Empire, you are sorely mistaken. They've declared for Coratse—or weren't you listening?"

"Ah, but that's the clever bit, my unimaginative friend." Diarmán cast a decidedly unfriendly glance toward Artai. "We will not be the Empire. We will be harmless wanderers: a bedraggled minstrel troupe. Have any of you talents aside from bashing heads in and slitting throats, I wonder?"

Diarmán looked around and was met with blank stares—even from Uachi, who should have expected something mad, something daft to come out of the Faelán fool's mouth. For the first time, Diarmán's playful demeanor stuttered.

"You do realize that we are trying to capture some very important people." Torun looked nonplussed, but his expression was earnest; he, at least, was trying to grasp the plan. "I understand what you are proposing—that we sneak into this great house—but once we are within..."

"We shall play some merry tunes and flirt with some pretty maidens and, I hope, have a good, hot meal."

Rolling his eyes, Artai turned away from Diarmán and back to the table. "Matei, we do not have time to indulge this foolishness. Let's talk about how we might breach the walls."

"And then," Diarmán said crisply, addressing Matei now, "When the castle sleeps, we will smuggle our precious princesses out. And the other two, too."

"Easy." Callia was clearly out of patience, too. "No one will notice a band of four or five minstrels slipping in and then slipping back out, doubled in number."

"They most certainly won't, because we won't be double in number. We'll—"

"Hide them in plain sight," Uachi broke in. The pieces had fitted together suddenly, and just like that, Diarmán's ridiculous proposal turned into something like a plan.

"Like Uarria." Understanding had dawned on Matei's face—cautious, but sharp. "But how, Diarmán? Callia has a point. We might go in with Farra in our number, but when we come out again and there are five shadowcats—"

"What are you talking about?" demanded Artai, who clearly had not heard the story of how Uachi and Diarmán had returned Uarria to her father. Torun put his hand on Artai's shoulder and leaned in, offering a hushed explanation; the words princess and music could be faintly heard as Diarmán continued.

"They needn't be shadowcats. Rats. Raisins. Rings. Something small enough to fit into a pocket. Something that will not cause us trouble. But we would need to slip out again quietly, and as quickly as may be. Once they notice their prizes missing, they will suspect us at once."

Silence fell. Everyone present was carefully considering the plan, trying to judge if it was hare-brained or genius. Artai's scowl had slipped after Torun's explanation. It returned within a moment. "This is an enormous risk," he said. "Suppose we slip into the household and they find us out? None of us are minstrels! None of us can play the part!"

"I can," Diarmán replied. "And two or three of us is enough. The fewer, the better, I should think."

"And if they discover the deception?" Callia asked.

"They will not. I'm very convincing." Diarmán waved a careless hand. "But if they do—well, then, they will have our heads, I suppose, and the rest of you can have your siege or your castle-storming after all."

Matei had been silent for some time. Now, he tapped his fingers against the table, drawing everyone's attention. "This is dangerous. It puts a small number of people at a great risk."

"But if we can pull it off, it saves us," Uachi said.

"If something goes awry—if it proves to be too great a risk—we simply prove ourselves to be what we claim to be: performers, no more. One night of music and revelry, and then we're gone again. No harm."

Uachi nodded. He gestured toward the map. "Suppose we cannot slip in and slip out with our targets in tow. At the least, we will come away with more information about what lies in store for us. We will uncover whether Koren is holed up at the house or not. We will have an understanding of the layout of the castle. The number of fighting men that await. Perhaps we might discover a better way in."

"I don't like this plan," said Artai. "For what it's worth, I think the risk is too high."

"You don't have to like it," said Uachi. "You don't have to go. Diarmán and I will."

With a cheerful grin, Diarmán made a flourishing bow. "At your service."

"Uachi, no," said Matei. "Diarmán can play the flute, but you will not a convincing minstrel make. There are others among my men who play. Let me—"

"No, Matei. Let it be me. I have traveled far and long with this fool. It would be unwise to put two strangers on such a mission."

Matei did not look pleased. He met Uachi's eye, wearing a frown that suggested he had some opinions on this plan that he wished to express, but after a moment of silence, he nodded. "Fine. Then let it be you. But how do you propose to become a convincing minstrel overnight? Are you going to surprise us with an angelic singing voice? Or is it an unexpected talent for dance?"

Uachi flicked his thumb against the hilt of his dagger. He wasn't insulted. Matei was only being honest. No one had ever called him an artist. "Perhaps—"

"You can play a drum," said Diarmán. "Do you have any rhythm, Uachi of the North? ...Wait. A far better question. Do you have a drum?"

Calling somebody "friend" when you obviously dislike them is next level sass. 😬