Honor-Bound [ Lore of Penrua: Book III ]

63

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—"