“This is unexpected, Diagus. I thought I’d never get the pleasure of your amiable company again. You know what your last words were to me?” Otholo cleared his throat and fixed a scowl upon his face. “The next time we meet, you puffed up peacock, I’ll take your big dandy head from your shoulders and ram it up your powdered arse.” Elora tried to conceal her smile and failed. Otholo had mimicked the Shadojak’s voice perfectly.
“Yep,” Diagus admitted. “Sounds like something I’d say. And maybe I still will at that. Unless you can make yourself helpful.”
“Of course,” replied Otholo, bowing theatrically. Elora got the sense he was mocking him. “Anything for the Pearly White. And who is this gorgeous young rose you’ve brought me?” His odd coloured eyes roamed over her body lustfully before settling on her own odd eyes.
“Does the sweet rose have a name?” he asked, taking her hand and raising it to his mouth. She pulled it back before it touched his lips.
“Elora,” she answered, raising an eyebrow at his hurt look. He seemed friendly in a sly way. She guessed him to be in his early twenties although the way he held himself and acted portrayed somebody older.
Otholo smiled. “This rose has thorns. Let me introduce myself, Elora. Seeing as manners are something the Shadojak is lacking. I am Otholo of the golden lute: roaming bard of the southern nations, the morning songbird of the north. I’ve sung in every city and free town from the snow-capped peaks in the Valerian Mountains, to the wild dusty villages of the travelling desert people. Personal singer to King Rionstark of Gromland and one-time lover of his daughter Princess Dalana - she wanted to make a prince of me, but alas.” Otholo held his hands over his heart, shaking his head, a sorrowful expression drooping his face. “My heart belongs to all, slave to the song and Master of Music. I belong to everyone and not to just one. I am the whisper in the wind the...”
“Pipe it, you puffed up peacock,” growled Diagus, cutting him mid-flow, “We are short of time and I am short of patience yet have temper of plenty.”
“Of course, Diagus. What is that you will have of me? I don’t think you’ve come to seek me out for my voice.”
“No. I need you to read a journal for me.”
“Whose? And why?” Otholo asked.
Diagus nodded towards Elora “Hers. And because it’s written in Minuan.”
Elora now understood why he had brought her here. It wasn’t to find help in getting her uncle back from Silk. It was to find out who she was. Her eyes roamed over Otholo again, dressed in tight fitting leather trousers, shiny boots with a Cuban heel and a white silk shirt full of lace at the cuffs and down the button line. About his neck he wore a purple cravat, pinned through with a golden broach in the shape of a lute.
“How can you read Minuan?” she asked, feeling a rising excitement rush over her. She may find out who her father is.
“I’m Minuan. Or was before they cast me out.” He cocked his head to the side, blue, green eyes puzzling her out. “Tell me why your journal is written in Minuan.”
“It’s my uncle’s. He was also Minuan. He took me from Aslania when I was a child and brought me here.”
“But you can’t be Minuan. You’ve the wrong colouring,” Otholo said. “I was cast from God’s Peak for having a green eye and this.” He turned his head, his fingers finding a dark lock of hair amongst his blond curls. Finger thick, it was braided and held together with ivory beads. “They’re a strict race, Minuans. Anything more than silver blonde hair, blue eyes and you’re out. You think Hitler was bad, he’s got nothing on them. These differences I had made me an outcast. Characteristics from a time when Minuans were less than pure, a throwback. I was given the choice to leave or serve on as a servant with no prospects. To be free, never to return or stay and be castrated. Not much of a choice really. I was glad to be rid of the bleeding lot of them.
“But you Elora, I’m afraid would have been killed at birth. I mean, your hair is raven but your eyes, they’re...so un-pure.” He bent down to retrieve a bottle of wine that was by his feet, held it up to the light and grinned when he saw the last few mouthfuls of the red liquid. He put it to his lips and upended the bottle.
Once finished he dropped it to the floor and dabbed his lips with a handkerchief that he flourished from his sleeve.
Elora had never heard of her eyes been described as un-pure before. Strange, freaky and on a couple of occasions evil but never un-pure. At least she now knew the reasons she was hidden as a child and why Nat had smuggled her away from Thea.
“So where’s this journal of yours? You have me intrigued.”
“We need to go somewhere quiet, away from prying eyes,” Diagus said.
“Very good. But first I need a drink,” said Otholo and putting one arm through Elora’s, led them away from the tower, his Cuban heels tapping against cobbles and echoing down the street. She let herself be led, although felt wary of the Shadojak following silently behind. Was it his intention to take her somewhere quiet so he could give her the final judgment? It’s not something he would do in public. Would Otholo try to stop him?
She spared a glance at the bard. Tall and rangy, striding with his chin held high, swaggering confidently - if not a little camp - as if he owned the city. Even if he did stand up against Diagus, she doubted that there was much he could do. Otholo didn’t have the look of a fighter.
They passed through the main street, people spilling from several pubs or queuing for the night clubs; laughing, shouting or making out. Otholo weaved passed them, nodding at burly doorman who nodded back, waving out to people he knew who seemed thrilled to see him and winking at random girls, a mischievous grin on his face. It seemed to Elora that the whole of York knew him.
“This way, if you please,” he said, leading them down a darkened side street that ran away from the pubs and clubs then down a narrow path that came out onto a lane, a number of shop fronts lay to either side. Dark and quiet, they had long ago shut for the day and so Elora was surprised when Otholo stopped outside a wine merchant shop.
“Frog snot!” he exclaimed, when he pushed on the door and found it to be locked. Then began to pat down his shirt and push his hands inside the pockets of his tight trousers.
“What are you doing?” growled Diagus, glancing up and down the street.
“I’ve got a key somewhere; I know I have.”
When it became apparent that the key wasn’t on his person, Otholo scanned the floor, even pushing a plant pot aside with a polished boot.
“Otholo, come on, forget the bloody wine.” The Shadojak shook his head, agitation written hard upon his already hard face.
Otholo paused, bent over and grasped a house brick that lay beside the plant pot he had moved. “Here it is.”
Elora thought it was a stupid place to leave a key, under a brick beside the door. But soon realised as Otholo pulled the brick back over his shoulder, that the brick itself was a key.
Before Diagus had time to react the brick passed through the door. The glass imploding, scattering shards of the broken window but the shattering sound was barely audible above the shrieking alarm that forced Elora to cover her ears.
She turned wide-eyed to Otholo and was surprised to see him grinning at her before placing his finger to his lips.
“Shhh,” he whispered. Then kicked the remainder of the glass from the door and stepped inside.
Elora watched as Diagus’s granite face went a shade of puce and stormed in after Otholo, murder written in his good eye, death in the other. She followed, careful not to snag her arm against any shards left in the frame, hoping that the Shadojak would keep his cool.
Otholo was pulling random bottles of wine from shelves and scanning the labels before tutting and replacing them, perusing at leisure as if the alarm wasn’t blaring with the threat of the police at any moment.
“Tsssk, no,” he said replacing another. “Is there no decent spirit in the place?” Then his gaze fell upon a shelf at the back of the store. He sauntered across the room and picked up a bottle, removing the cork with his teeth. He spat the cork out, placed the bottle to his lips and took a long pull.
“Much better. Champagne cognac, the only thing worth drinking in this poor establishment. Now...” He grabbed two more of the bottles and shoved them into Diagus’s arms. “Make yourself useful, you can do more than just glare.” His attention then turned to Elora, “Fancy anything, my sweet. Don’t be shy, I’m paying.”
“No,” she replied, feeling angst at the situation. After all, she had broken into a wine shop and the bottles he handed her were worth sixty pounds each. He placed another bottle in her hands and gave her a mischievous wink.
