Lords of Rainbow Read Free Page B

seeing all of them watching her. But there was a little angry beastling within her that now stirred.
    And so she smiled at them, a thin smile, her hands stilled in a firm grip on her horse’s reins.
    “ I would, my lords,” she said in a little voice, “rather remain unoffended, and you likewise.”
    “ If you will not have it,” he said, “then so let it be.”
    And he tossed the moneybag to the ground. The dark satin pouch landed with a clank on the chest of one black corpse. Everyone stared at it.
    “ Whatever you choose to do, I have paid, and we are acquitted. Once again, my thanks.” He turned away, sure of what she would do next.
    Only, that was not the thing to be, to be sure . Not with Ranhé.
    “ My lord!” she called loudly, while sudden violent anger started rising in a mass of smoke and veils and uncontrollable darkness in her throat.
    The dame and the young lady watched her from the carriage.
    Elas had turned away, and had begun pulling at the body of the driver in order to take his place.
    “ My lord, I choose my own terms of acquittal.”
    What the hell is making me say it, what the hell . . .
    He paused and turned to stare at her.
    And she grinned at him, a skull’s grin. “So then, let the dead man have it—for funeral expenses? I choose to take nothing from you.”
    And before she allowed her mind to register the two women’s confused faces, or the nature of the expression in his eyes, Ranhéas Ylir turned her back on them. She rode away in the northwesterly direction along the big road, leaving the small trail behind, before anything else could be done.
    She was remotely aware of the fact that she fled without real cause, leaving behind a reasonable payment.
    Even in their generosity they reek of pride. Keep your money and choke on your highborn arrogance, she thought, as an excuse for her own loss of sense.
    And then, But why did I not take the money? Is it not because of my own pride? So then, I choke also.
    Night, silver-hued, was almost fully upon her. She tried to put the encounter out of her mind. But the memory of striking down those beings, those so-called Bilhaar, was bitter.
    Indeed, the roiling darkness was still settling in the back of her throat. . . .
    Something was not right.
    In the black roadside foliage, cicadas and evening insects worked up a comfortable cacophony of sound.
    She felt sorry for that old matron and the young woman, her daughter. Alone, without a bodyguard or reasonable escort. What damned arrogance.
    The thoughts refused to leave her.
    And then, one old familiar thought surfaced.
    What does anything matter anyway? I have killed again .
    Ahead of her, the oblivious night sang.
     
     
    I speak of veils and mysteries, and here is another.
    Ranhéas Ylir.
    For several years now, she had crisscrossed the West Lands—settlement and wilderness—serving as a guide, bodyguard, messenger, scout, spy, scribe, interpreter, and anything else conceivable.
    Rumor had it that she could speak, fight, portray anything.
    She was nondescript, young in appearance, yet she had been thus for years. She was cultured, when needed. Or she became rough-hewn like a child of the gutter. She was lighthearted, loud-spoken, and frivolous. Or she was deadly serious, intellectual, and fastidious in her attitudes. And maybe she held, of all things, a distaste for spilled blood.
    Aside from that, nothing in the world seemed to be of great consequence. She had no concrete values—or, if she did, they appeared as mutable as the wind, those of a chameleon. She also admitted no ties of any sort, nor—however odd this may sound of a mercenary—could she be bought, although she made it a point to sell herself and was in demand.
    Ranhé claimed no relation to nobility. Her roots stemmed from the big City, mercantile and clerical. Or maybe even the gutter. What more that could have meant, no one knew, for she was a storyteller. Indeed, one might think she had spread the bulk of the rumors