Authors: Victor Gischler
Brasley sighed extravagantly. “Fantastic. How could this trip get worse?”
The cold rain had been steady all day, and after they passed the inn, Brasley brought his horse alongside Rina’s and asked, “Is there any good reason we’re passing up a perfectly good, warm, dry place to sleep?”
Rina glanced back at the inn. She thought about telling Brasley they were low on funds, but that wasn’t true. They were by no means wealthy, but they could certainly afford a couple of rooms. It was a small, shabby village and a small, shabby inn, so it wouldn’t be expensive. Unfortunately, it likely also wouldn’t be all that comfortable, although it certainly would be warm and dry.
“We still have four hours of daylight.” She glanced at the sky; the rain clouds were so thick and dark that calling it daylight was being generous. Still, she’d felt driven ever since leaving the gypsy camp. She had to make it to the Nomad Lands, had to find Talbun. Every minute seemed a delay that put Klaar farther and farther out of her reach. The Perranese would dig in, and they would own the duchy, and they’d have a foothold in Helva.
Then it will be the king’s problem, won’t it?
That thought had a fleeting appeal. That she could go off, start a new life without looking back. Let somebody else handle the Perranese.
But no. Like the people of Klaar, Rina was independent minded, but she was still a loyal subject.
They’d crossed the grasslands in ten days, keeping west but also veering south, where they’d picked up a narrow road that made traveling a bit easier. The same gnarled trees dotted the landscape, but in clumps of twos and threes or even a dozen, and small farming villages had sprung up about a day from one another, the wide fields around each one barren for the winter, but she seemed to recall the locals grew some variety of grain. At least that’s what she remembered her father saying, and as always she felt something go tight in her chest when she thought of him.
The rain had come before dawn’s light and hadn’t eased.
A wave of fatigue rolled over her suddenly and she had the sharp feeling she should turn the horse back toward the inn. Just to be warm for a few hours. Just to sleep on something softer than the ground.
No. They rode on, the village dwindling behind them, Brasley grumbling in the saddle.
Rina glanced back, saw that Maurizan was riding close beside Alem; their heads leaned together in conversation. That had been the norm the past week, and Rina wondered if Alem was the real reason Maurizan had followed them. Her childish infatuation with the boy was obvious to everyone but Alem, a situation that irritated Rina for no good reason.
That night a campfire proved impossible. Everything was soaked. Brasley kicked the small pile of wet kindling, scattering sticks and cursing under his breath. “So is everyone enjoying their riding holiday to the ass end of nowhere?”
“Give it a rest, Brasley.” Rina kept her voice flat.
Anger flashed briefly in Brasley’s eyes before he turned away.
They all curled under wet blankets beneath a cluster of the gnarled trees about a hundred yards off the road where the land rose just enough to keep the rainwater from puddling around them. They awoke the next morning sore and cold and none of them in any better mood than Brasley. They climbed groaning into their saddles and headed off southwest again, the horses’ hooves splashing the mud of the wagon-rutted road.
If they passed through a village big enough to have an inn, they’d stop, Rina decided. Everyone’s morale needed a boost. She regretted not stopping before. The wet, cold misery had sapped them all. Even a farmer’s barn would be welcome. Sleeping in the hay and the stink of horseshit, they would at least be dry.
But as they day waned, there was still no sign of civilization. They resigned themselves to another night under wet blankets.
In the failing light, Brasley’s horse stepped into a hole. It had been filled with water and he hadn’t seen it. The horse pitched forward, going down in front, and Brasley flew out of the saddle, landing with a cold splash in the mud. His horse sprang up again, trotting a few yards away, spooked but unhurt.
“Damn it!” Brasley sat up and slapped the puddle next to him with open palm, splashing more muddy water. “This is ridiculous. We’ve been traveling in the cold and the wet and getting saddle sore, and for what?”
Alem dismounted, offered Brasley a hand. “Come on, man. Get up. You’re just out of sorts.”
Brasley slapped his hand away. “Out of sorts! Really. I can’t imagine why.” He stabbed a finger at Rina. “You
know
this is wrong. The king should have been told about the Perranese
immediately
. You’ve let your private obsession cloud your judgment, and you’re dragging us all along for the ride.”
Rina sat in the saddle, shoulders slumped. She looked down at Brasley in the mud, her face blank. The only sound was the patter of rain. Brasley was right about one thing at least. They couldn’t go on like this.
She dismounted and drew her rapier, the blade coming out of the scabbard with a metallic hiss loud enough to make Maurizan gasp behind her.
“On one knee, Brasley.”
He blinked up at her, suddenly less confident. “What—?”
“Do it.”
Brasley knelt in the mud, looking up at her, a mix of worry and curiosity on his face.
“You’re an untitled, lesser son of a minor nobleman,” Rina said. “We have to do better than that if you’re going to be my envoy to the King of Helva.” She tapped his shoulder with the tip of her sword, tried to remember the words her father had used on such occasions. “Under the holy eyes of Dumo, as Duchess of Klaar and before these witnesses here present, I hereby name you Sir Brasley Hammish, bound now by oaths to protect and serve me and the Duchy of Klaar until such time as you are released from my service or death takes you.” She tapped the other shoulder. Okay, she’d paraphrased slightly, but the words were close enough. “Rise, Sir Brasley.”
Brasley didn’t rise. He stared up at her. “Can you do that?”
She shrugged. “I’m either a duchess or I’m not.”
He rose slowly, one of his knees popping. The rain fell. “I … I don’t know what to say.”
“You were right,” Rina said. “The crown needs to be told about the Perranese. Likely they won’t be able to do anything until the spring thaw, but they still need to know. And somebody needs to speak up for Klaar at court. You’re a silver-tongued devil, so I guess that’s as close as we have to a diplomat.” Rina allowed a slight smile to twitch at the corner of her mouth. “And anyway, you’re a huge pain in the ass. The sooner we get you back to clean sheets and fine living, the sooner you’ll stop bellyaching. I think life at court will agree with you better than life on the road.”
He grinned. Sheepish. “Still, I’d feel better if I had a signed letter proclaiming my knighthood. Something with your signature and the Duke’s seal in wax.”
Rina shrugged again. “I don’t have my father’s signet ring. Sorry. But a letter at least can be arranged.”
“It’ll have to do.”
“This is the court of the King of Helva. And you’re now a knight and the official representative of the Duchy of Klaar. You’ve got to strut in there as arrogant as a peacock and make them listen to you.” She smiled more warmly now. “I feel you’re the
perfect
man for the job.”
Tosh put the girls through their paces, or rather Tenni did while he watched. She, Prinn, and Darshia were nearly as good as Tosh now, which is to say far from master swordsmen, but good enough to keep alive on a battlefield until it was time to run away.
They had to bring the girls down in shifts since there was only room in the cave for about a dozen of them to pair off and have room to spar. Tenni was putting them through some basic stances. When the next shift came down, Darshia would take charge.
When it had been put to the girls that they would now learn swordsmanship, their reply had been surprisingly enthusiastic. Only two women had packed their things in the night and slipped away. Tosh had been surprised more hadn’t left. Perhaps the girls simply didn’t know what they were in for.
Neither did Tosh, not really. Mother hadn’t deigned to say what her plan might be, only that it
behooved oneself to be prepared
. Tosh had reported frequently on the girls’ progress, and Mother had nodded quietly every time, tensely quiet, as if some secret scheme were coming to fruition.
The cave below the Wounded Bird was thick with girl sweat. Tosh didn’t mind.
The first shift ended, and the women went upstairs to bathe and then pleasure the slow trickle of Perranese warriors who patronized the brothel. Nobody in Klaar could quite understand why the bulk of the foreign garrison had been moved outside the walls when a perfectly good city was available to shelter them through the brutal winter. There had been three harsh blizzards since the arrival of the Perranese, but Klaar was still waiting for
the big one
, the storm that inevitably arrived each winter to punish anyone foolish enough to dwell in such climes.
When the others had gone, Tenni went to Tosh and planted a soft but lingering kiss on his lips.
“You’re enjoying this too much,” Tosh said.
Tenni kissed him again on the cheek. “Not
enjoying
, but I think it’s a good idea.”
“Why?”
“No woman starts out to be a whore,” she said. “I hope you think I’m worth more than that.”
Tosh sighed. “Of course. I didn’t mean—”
“I want to do something else, to rise above where I am.
What
I am. And I want to fight against those who’ve invaded my home. This way I can do both.”
Tosh nodded, kept his face serious. He didn’t want Tenni to think he wasn’t listening, wasn’t taking her seriously. “I know. Honestly, I do. But the thought of you ending up like Freen …”
She moved in quickly, her arms going around behind him to pull him close. Her face against his chest. She heard his heart beat. “I know. But this is the time. Don’t you feel it? History is thrusting us into the path of … something. I don’t know. Really, I’m not sure how to explain, but can’t you sense it? The world is being tossed into chaos, and there are just us select few who see it, who can do something, and if we don’t … well, I’m not sure the gods will forgive us. That we would be offered this chance and then cower. I can’t believe it. I won’t. We
must
rise to the occasion.”
Tosh struggled to understand. As a soldier you kept your head low and waited for storms to pass. Tenni seemed always to be looking into the distance, seeing something greater, maybe something that wasn’t even real. She seemed to perceive a world that was beyond his ken. Tosh didn’t have the heart to disagree. “I understand. Of course.”
She smiled and pulled him close again. “You don’t really, do you?”
No. Instead he said, “I know I love you.”
“Good enough.” She cupped his groin, and he gasped, eyes wide.
He said, “We don’t have time to—”
“Ten minutes until the next shift comes down,” Tenni said. “Show me what you can do.”
Tenni was more than satisfied with Tosh’s ability to rise to the occasion.
* * *
Two weeks later, Mother called Tosh to her private office. He wasn’t as nervous this time. The Wounded Bird had been quietly going about its business, servicing the rotating battalions of Perranese soldiers. And with Klaar now growing accustomed to the Perranese occupation, most of the local clientele had returned as well. Tosh cooked meals and trained the girls after hours. He made love to Tenni and played with Emmon. It would be a simple thing to think of life as just about perfect.
Except he would then see Freen’s lifeless, glassy eyes and remember the blood on his hands. Tosh reminded himself that the ground underneath your feet could open up at any time without warning. In his entire life, he’d never had so much to lose. That was life, wasn’t it? You spend so much of it trying to find happiness, and then when you get some, you worry every day something is going to take it away.
“Tosh.”
He looked up, saw Mother staring at him. “Sorry. Just thinking. You wanted to see me.”
“Are the girls progressing?” she asked.
He scratched his chin. “I’m not sure how to answer that. Compared to what? I don’t know what the expectation is.”
She refilled the glass on her desk with red wine from a decanter that was mostly empty. For the first time, Tosh noticed Mother’s cheeks were flushed; a few disheveled strands of hair had pulled loose from her tight bun. “Just … give me your best guess. Do you want some wine?”
“Yes, please.”
She gestured impatiently at the chair across from her, and Tosh sat. She filled another glass from the decanter and slid it across her desk toward him. “Can they fight or not?”
He grabbed the glass quickly, sipped slowly, giving himself a moment to think. “A half dozen of them are pretty handy.”
“And the rest?”
“They’ve only just learned how to stand and hold their weapons without hurting themselves,” Tosh told her. “Getting used to the weights of their blades.”
She rubbed her eyes. “When can all of them be ready?”
Tosh didn’t want to ask but did anyway. “Ready for what?”
Mother rubbed her eyes, sighed, refilled her glass and tossed half of it down with one gulp. She reached across the desk to touch something. It was the ring she’d been fiddling with last time. “You know Lord Giffen?”
“Personally?”
“No. I mean you know who he is, yes?”
Tosh nodded. Of course. If it wasn’t for Lord Giffen, Klaar would be under direct control of the Perranese. According to hushed tavern gossip, Giffen was doing everything possible to keep the occupying regime from being too heavy-handed with the local populace. The occupation would have been much worse if not for Giffen.
“I’ve heard things, Tosh. I have eyes and ears everywhere. You might not think a woman who runs a brothel would have a far reach, but I do. Someone like me has friends in both high places and low. Important men have counted on my discretion for years.”