“Let’s try the stall there,” Tyrolean suggested as they parted. “I could do with a drink. Fair hot this morning.”
It was hot; sweat already ran down Draken’s sides and dampened his skin beneath his sword belt and laced leather pants. A crude counter made from a slab of wood balanced on a large square stone under a tented area of the market stalls. The fabric overhead softened the heat of the sun and dulled the market din.
“Ah, this one knows what she’s about,” Tyrolean observed after swallowing from his mug. The wine was miraculously chilled and not the least bitter.
“Thank you, my lord,” the tender said, smiling with a curtsy that showed off her generous breasts to best advantage. “What are purebreds like yourselves doing in Reschan?” And together? was the unspoken question. Despite her welcoming smile, she never took her eyes off them.
“Aren’t we allowed?” Tyrolean smiled, his mood obviously lightened by the cold wine he was draining from his cup. He ran his hand along the edge of the counter, eyed the woman’s cleavage, and took another drink.
“We just don’t see many fullblood Akrasians about.” Her eyes flicked to Draken. “Though the halfs ’round here try to pass themselves off as such.”
Tyrolean looked around with narrowed eyes as if a half-blood Akrasian might produce itself so he could kill it for being born of mixed parentage. She observed this with a small, cruel smile. Draken decided her face was far too pretty for such a smile. She wasn’t as young as she looked.
“We’re traveling,” he said, pushing his dented cup at her for a refill. “From Auwaer. What news?”
She paused in reaching for the jug, her back half-turned to them. “Long journey by boot.”
“We come by the Erros,” Tyrolean said.
She topped off his drink and wrinkled her nose. “River folk. Soon slit your throat as carry you fair.”
“Our drogher-driver was fair enough.”
“No doubt to you and those swords. So a trade. News from Auwaer for news from Reschan.”
“I hear someone tried to assassinate the Queen,” Draken offered.
She snorted. “Psh. I heard the same. But would Lord Marshal Reavan travel here if so?”
“Reavan is here?” Draken couldn’t keep the sharpness from his tone.
“Saw him with my own eyes, didn’t I? Came through with his lot of Escorts.” She glanced at Tyrolean. “I thought you might be with him, but they’ve stayed to the keep, praise the Seven, and don’t mix with Brînians, sure.”
Draken nodded. He stared at the next stall where a little long-nosed creature snuffled its way around a slab of stone thick with gleaming knives. His silence paid off.
“Bit of a scuffle at the gate.” Her voice dropped to a whisper as she leaned closer. “Urian’s men didn’t let him right through as they should. An Escort died there last night, if rumor can be believed.”
“Died?” Tyrolean asked. “Sounds more than a scuffle.”
“Reavan is not a favorite of Urian,” she said. “Nor is the other to him.”
They want too much of the same thing to be allies,
Bruche intoned. Draken rested his chin on his palm, silently agreeing with the spirit. “So why do you think he’s here then?”
She let her gaze travel down his chest, following the line of Elena’s necklace. Bruche shifted Draken’s perspective, returning the favor.
“Maybe to put a stop to Va Khlar,” she said. “Killings every day and no end in sight.”
“Anyone caught at it?” Tyrolean asked.
“Not to lay blame.” She sniffed and wiped at an imaginary bead of sweat in her cleavage. “But they’re skilled at avoiding it, aren’t they?”
Tyrolean leaned back and surveyed the throngs of marketers behind them. Neither of them spoke again as they finished their wine. They pushed away from the stall in the market after paying in Queenshead coin, which she stared at suspiciously. “Who are you to pay with Rare?”
“Never mind,” Tyrolean said. “We weren’t here, if you want to keep it.”
She tucked the coins deep into her skirts and bent to retrieve a jug, treating them to another glance down her dress.
“Why would Reavan come here, Ty?” Draken asked as they stepped away. “When he’s not friendly with the Baron?”
“No past hostility I’m aware, but you heard the woman,” Tyrolean said. “I don’t fancy answering the Lord Marshal’s questions, should he find us.”
I look forward to meeting this Reavan,
Bruche said, moving Draken’s hand to his hilt.
“If anyone’ll be questioning, it’ll be me. I outrank him.” Draken had a far greater concern. “But if he finds Aarinnaie before we do, he very well might kill her.”
And the Prince would never let that go
, Bruche said in a thoughtful tone.
It could start a bloody war.
“Hmm.” Tyrolean nodded toward a row of proper shops fronting an edge of the market. “Let’s try a swordsmith. They tend to meet up with mercs. He’ll know the local mischief.”
Gleaming blades hung thick on every wall of the smithy. Draken bargained a quarter-Rare for a thorough sharpening. Savvy enough to not question the Queenshead coin Tyrolean produced, the graying swordsmith chatted while she worked the blade.
“Not pretty, but a fine blade, well-balanced and handle-forged. See here.” She lifted the weapon and gestured to where the leather-wrapped hilt met the sharp edge. “Fashioned from one shaft, handle to tip. I see moonwrought from time to time, I do, in the old swords. These days it’s reserved for trinkets and wedding cuffs.”
Draken nodded his agreement, thinking of his necklace. “It hasn’t failed me yet.”
The swordsmith eyed them over the cloth around her face to protect her from any flicks of metal as she sharpened the sword. “I daresay not, sure.”
“What news?” Tyrolean asked. “We’ve just come down from Auwaer ourselves.”
“Looking for work?”
Draken shrugged. “If the coin is right.”
“Credentialed or independent?” the swordsmith asked with practiced casualness.
So she suspected Tyrolean and Draken were unlicenced mercenaries. It suited their purpose.
Careful here,
Bruche warned.
“Something more like the latter,” Draken said.
“Va Khlar clan are shopping for quiet swordhands,” the swordsmith said.
“Truth?” Tyrolean said, glancing at Draken.
“Could use the coin,” Draken said.
The swordsmith lifted the white blade and examined it again. She ran a rag down the flat and asked, bloodshot eyes narrowed, “How is it a Brînian came by such a sword?” She didn’t sound as easy as before. “Akrasians control the only ’wrought vein left.”
“Payment,” Draken answered.
“Worked for an Escort troop last Sohalia,” Tyrolean added.
The swordsmith paused in her loving handling of the sword. “Escort.”
“On the quiet,” Tyrolean added. “Nasty things they don’t like to dirty their smooth hands with.”
“Come in with Reavan’s lot, then?” she asked, relaxing a little.
“No,” Tyrolean said. “No, we didn’t.”
The swordsmith returned the sword hilt-first to Draken. “If I had time, I’d fill those scratches proper. But the edge is clean now.”
Draken examined the sword. It looked better with a professional sharpening and polish, though the leather strapping was still worn and sweat-stained. He returned it to its sheath. “Where can we find Va Khlar?” he asked. “To see if he’s hiring?”
“Backland Tavern by the rear gates,” she answered, rinsing her hands in a bowl and wiping them on a dirty towel.
“We know the place,” Tyrolean said. “But Va Khlar’s men don’t banner themselves. How are we to know them?”
“Look for them who talk with their fingers. Give up their tongues to keep their master’s secrets under torture. If not, ask their boy, Gusten. He’ll put you together with the Clan, sure.”
The Gadye who had watched them that morning at the inn had signed with their fingers.
They know you’re here,
Bruche said.
And?
asked Draken.
I’m no one to them.
The spirit made a noise that reached Draken’s throat.
Right. And I’m just the bad half of your imagination.
The swordsmith added, “Keep your wits about you. Something’s on with Va Khlar, and they always think outside mercs disposable. Not to mention it’s against Crown Law.”
“We’re used to that bit. Thanks,” Draken said.
As they walked toward the back gates, hot sun left snail trails of sweat on Draken’s skin and glued the pendant to his chest. The chain itched the back of his neck. They turned for the tavern by the back gates, which were guarded by harsh men who questioned everyone who tried to enter the town. More than a few were turned away. Beyond the gates, a few trees spilled out onto wide, sunny grasslands dotted with travelers.
The narrow, dark tavern was blessedly cool. Disinterested faces took in the newcomers and went back to their midday meals with a side-dish of gossip.
They sat and ordered food. Draken leaned toward Tyrolean to speak lowly. “This is where Va Khlar recruits? They’re the most powerful traders in town. Doesn’t seem right.”
“Perhaps they’ve dropped their standards,” Tyrolean said.
Most of the men looked like common workers. Their clothes were dirty, and their hands were rough and cracked. They eyed Draken and Tyrolean warily, but looked away when challenged with a returned gaze.
“I guess quantity comes before quality when one plans war,” Draken said.
“It’s my experience as well.” Tyrolean fixed him with a perceptive gaze. “Do you think it? Do the Va Khlar try for war?”
“Whoever is behind the attempt on Elena’s life used Aarinnaie, and it can’t be coincidence she’s now with Va Khlar.” Draken shrugged. “I’ve seen wars started over less.”
“You’ve fought, then. You’ve seen war.”
Tyrolean had been stationed in Reschan during the Akrasian invasion of Monoea and he was too young for the Sword War between Brîn and Akrasia. He’d likely seen naught more than a scuffle in his career. Draken grunted. “You’ve no idea.”
They ate a passable midday meal, but saw no finger signing, Gadye, or anyone who looked like anything other than typical commoners seeking relief from heat and work. Most were Brînian or mixed race.
The boy serving the narrow inn endured pawing and low taunts from the Brînians without protest. Not two years from adulthood, he was dirty in the way boys often are, but not in the way of an unfortunate. He had rosy cheeks and good bones. When he brought their food and refilled their empty mugs, Draken asked, “You’re Gusten?”
The boy’s pale blue eyes flicked toward Tyrolean and back to Draken. “I am, my lord.”
“Anyone causing you trouble?” Draken said.
Gusten shook his head. His hair slid over his eyes. He pushed it back with his free hand.
“We were told to speak to you if we want to meet Va Khlar.”
Gusten glanced behind himself and whispered, “Not now. Let this lot finish.”
“All right,” Draken said. “We’ll wait.”
Gusten worked though the lunch crowd, shooting Draken and Tyrolean worried glances every now and again.
“I think you rattled him,” Tyrolean said.
Draken agreed. “Keep an eye out for him to run.”
The tavern emptied until only the sleepy barkeep and Gusten were left. The barkeep never so much as glanced at them. Their close watch on the boy was unnecessary because Gusten approached them once all the other customers had gone. “Anything else, lords?”
“We were going to have a conversation,” Draken reminded him.
Gusten glanced at the barkeep, who had settled down on a bench, arms crossed, chin to chest. He slid his lanky frame onto the bench across the table, suddenly looking very tired, like someone whose tour of duty had lasted too long and still had no end in sight.
“You’re with the Clan?” Tyrolean asked.
“I didn’t think mercs care from where their coin came, as long as terms are met.” Gusten’s sudden cool tone belied his age.
Draken played with his eating knife. “Some work just isn’t worth it.”
“Truth?” Tyrolean leaned forward on his elbows and stared into the boy’s face. “We weary of rumor. Va Khlar is active, that much is clear. But are they hiring? Give us a name and we’ll be off.”
Gusten stared at Draken, expressionless. “They’ll never hire you anyway. They’d never hire a bloodlord from the Pirate King’s ranks.”
King. The boy had called him King. Like Heir Geord had.
“I’m no Brînian lord, boy,” Draken said. “See the company I keep? Do I look like I love the Prince?”
The boy’s brow furrowed as he studied Draken, who held his gaze.
“All right. I’ll take you,” Gusten said.
Without a second glance back, he led the way through the door. But twelve paces down the street a sickening thud stayed their progress. Gusten fell back against Draken, making him stumble. Draken barely had time to grasp the significance of the pearly gray shaft protruding from the boy’s chest before Tyrolean hissed, “Cover!”
Draken dragged Gusten into the shadow of the nearest building and Tyrolean followed, his swords drawn. Draken felt for a pulse on Gusten’s throat and found none. The boy hung limp in his arms.
“We’re wide open out here on the street,” Tyrolean muttered, scanning the surrounding rooftops and doorways.
But no more arrows came and after a scanning the rooftops and road, Tyrolean rose and sheathed his swords. Draken knelt, head bowed, still holding Gusten. His face was starkly beautiful, rose-colored lips still parted from his last breath.
A small crowd gathered: passerby carrying new and worn wares, women with bundles on their shoulders, abruptly quiet children. Beyond some uncomfortable shifting and a private murmur, no one ventured forth, and within moments they dissipated, as if they recognized Draken and Tyrolean as dangerous company.
Draken sighed as he hefted Gusten’s body up into his arms. The earliest of the ghost moons was not yet competing with the sun for the sky, and a boy was dead.
Chapter Seventeen
T
yrolean leaned back on the sleeping couch in silent vigil while Draken stalked their room at the inn, muttering curses in his original and new languages. Osias and Setia hadn’t yet returned, and four moons now rode the sky.