Authors: Victor Gischler
Even as Rina observed the village through the eyes of the falcon, she was aware of Alem and Maurizan on their horses next to her. They’d been good traveling companions and had grown close to each other. It was only now, looking inward and tapped into the spirit, that Rina could examine her feelings.
She vividly recalled a night around the campfire when Alem had made some joke and Maurizan had laughed, touching Alem lightly on the arm. When Rina had felt irritation, she’d told herself that it was because she’d been tired and in no mood for frivolity. She now understood it was because she hadn’t wanted Alem to enjoy Maurizan’s attentions.
Looking inward while tapped into the spirit was dangerous, Rina realized. She saw herself with the same clarity she saw the rest of the world. The many intersecting lines of emotion that connected to even the most trivial events in her life were dizzying in their complexity. If she wasn’t careful, she could fall into the depths of herself and never come out again as she picked apart every relationship with everyone she’d ever known.
If she’d been able to feel shame, she would have for the way she resented the young gypsy. But why? What claim did Rina have on Alem? Some instinct told her to release her hold on the spirit, and she did.
The vague sense of fatigue washed over her immediately, not too severe but palpable. Even when the exertions were minor she could still feel it. There was also the knot in her stomach from her unexpected and unwanted look inward. She felt some ownership of Alem that wasn’t justifiable, and Maurizan’s obvious youthful infatuation with the boy continued to grate on her nerves. It was foolish and unreasonable, but there it was.
Because he’s the only one you have. You sent Brasley away, and the girl doesn’t like you
.
The thought of being utterly alone in the world twisted something in her stomach.
“What did you see?” Maurizan asked. “Is it safe?”
Rina sighed. “I don’t know.”
“That’s not helpful,” the gypsy said. “We need to know.”
“If you don’t like how I do things, you can go your own way,” Rina said crisply. “Nobody invited you.”
She spurred her horse and trotted downhill toward the village. It wasn’t something she’d planned, but sitting there helpless and irritated had suddenly become unappealing. She heard the hoof beats of the others following. So this was it. They’d go into the foreign village and see what happened. Rina frowned. Not her father’s idea of reasoned leadership. Full speed ahead and damn the consequences.
I’m no leader. I’m not anything. I’m no duchess, that’s for sure
.
She puffed the chuma stick in the corner of her mouth. The smoked hung in the air. There was no breeze.
The three of them trotted down the main street of the village, the horse’s hooves kicking up dust as they entered the main square. Women in loose robes, faces covered with veils and hoods, scattered from the well, splashing water from earthen vessels as they scurried, eyes cast down and away from the strangers.
Okay, not a good sign
.
Alem pulled his horse alongside Rina’s. “Maybe this is a bad idea.”
“There might be a reason the village is so remote,” Maurizan said behind them. “My people know a little something about not wanting to be found.”
“We’re not leaving without food and water,” Rina said. “And information.”
Alem gestured to a hut across the small square. There was a wooden stand in front of the hut, a dismal display of pale melons, some long yellow fruit that came in bunches and what looked like apples but with fuzzy rinds. Flies buzzed around the stand.
“I could try over there,’ he suggested. “A flash of silver might bring them out.”
“Let’s give them a chance to come out on their own.” Rina nodded at the well. “In the meantime, let’s get the water.”
Maurizan and Rina tossed Alem a half dozen empty water skins, and he began filling them at the well. This was at least one of their problems solved. Alem drank deeply, splashed his face with a handful of the cool water.
“Here they come,” Rina said behind him.
He turned to see the five men striding across the square toward them.
Rina puffed the chuma stick, flicked her reins, maneuvering her horse between Alem and the approaching men.
“You want some help with them?” Alem asked.
She frowned down at him, raised an eyebrow.
Are you kidding?
Alem shrugged. “It’s only polite to ask.”
She dismounted and handed the reins to Alem. “Load the water skins onto the horses. We might have to leave in a hurry.”
She turned toward the approaching men, hands spread, palms up.
See, no weapons. We don’t want trouble
. “Hello.”
“That’s our well,” said one of the men, voice gruff and heavy with an unfamiliar accent.
“We’ve travelled a long way across barren lands,” Rina said. “We’re thirsty.”
“You’re thieves.” The man’s hand fell to the hilt of a curved sword Kork had called a scimitar. She’d trained occasionally with the blades to get the feel but still preferred her rapier.
Rina tapped into the spirit and appraised the men.
They wore blousy, overlapping robes like the rest of the villagers, but with the loose fabric bound by strips of cloth at the ankles and wrists to keep the billowing material from getting in the way during combat. She took in the way they stood and moved. Legs just a little too far apart, stances just a bit off balance. These were men educated in the blade but out of practice. They would be slow to start and best finished quickly.
“We aren’t thieves,” she said. “We can pay.”
The man’s dark face spilt in a wide, white grin. He was missing an incisor on one side. “You’ll pay with your lives.”
He drew the scimitar as he rushed forward.
He probably thought he had an extra second to make his strike, the time it would take for Rina to draw her sword. He was wrong. She sprang forward as he swung, ducking below his blade and ramming an elbow into his gut. Rina heard the air
whuff
out of him. She grabbed a fistful of the man’s robe, turned her body and pulled in one of the simple throws Kork had shown her. With the strength from the bull tattoo it was easy. He went up and over, landed hard on his back, dust kicking up from the rough stone. That took the remainder of his breath, and he sprawled there, mouth working to suck for air.
Already the other four were in motion, blades drawn and screaming some kind of blood-curdling war cry.
She went low and twirled a leg back, catching one at one man’s ankles and upending him. She drew her blade, popped up and parried a sweeping strike so hard the scimitar flew out of the man’s hands. When he shifted his gaze upward to watch his lost weapon fly into the air, Rina kicked him in the chest. He flew back twenty feet landed hard, and curled into a ball.
The final two came in slowly, spreading apart in an attempt to get on both sides of her. They were wary now. Rina hadn’t been the easy prey they’d expected.
She braced herself, watching both of them in her peripheral vision.
“Enough,” came a new voice from behind her.
She didn’t turn, keeping the two men with scimitars in front of her. She judged the new voice as too far away for a sword swing. If he attacked, she’d be able to turn in time.
The two men lowered their swords.
“Pick up your brothers and go.”
The two men picked up their fallen comrades and dragged them away.
Rina sheathed her rapier and turned to face the newcomer. She spared a glance for her friends. Alem stood behind her horse. He’d cocked his crossbow and had loaded it with a bolt. Likely he’d thought to assist her, but she was glad he hadn’t fired into the melee. He wasn’t that good a shot and would just as likely have hit her as one of her opponents. Still, it was the thought that counted, she supposed.
Maurizan leaned forward in the saddle, her hand cupped at her side in a way that Rina now recognized to mean she was holding the hilt of the dagger stashed up her sleeve. With a flick of her wrist she could send it flying or slip it in between a pair of ribs. Rina hadn’t seen her do it, but she’d watch the girl move and handle the blade and knew the gypsy girl had it in her, had maybe even used the dagger before to some bloody end. Whatever Rina’s opinion of Maurizan, she had to give her credit. She’d been ready to fight.
The voice of the newcomer didn’t match his looks. His commands to the men had been confident and strong. But his face was lined and old like some ancient brown tree, his hair and beard long and white. He wore the same folded, draped robes as the others in the village, but instead of a vague brown or beige color, his clothes were a glossy deep green. A silver pendant of a snake wrapped around an eye hung on a chain around his neck.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“Rina Veraiin,” she said. “We’re travelers. Your men wanted that fight, not me.”
The old man nodded. “I think you must not be familiar with the etiquette of the Nomad Lands. Water is life. This is our well. Steal horses or gold and you would not take as much from us.”
“I told them I’d pay.”
“You cannot drink gold,” he said.
“I’m sorry. We didn’t know.”
The old man nodded slightly. “I accept your apology. Go in peace, and we will think no more of it.”
“We don’t want to stay where we aren’t welcome,” she said. “We’ll go on.”
The old man shook his head sadly. “No. You cannot. I am a priest of the Kashar. The people in this village serve the mountain. It is forbidden place for outsiders. You can turn and go back the way you came, but you cannot go on.”
Tosh looked up to see Mother enter the common room. It wasn’t an unprecedented sight, but it was unusual. There were no clients at this late hour. As she strode toward Tosh, Mother raised an eyebrow at a pair of the girls, who stood immediately and left.
She stopped in front of Tosh. “A word, if you please.”
Tosh nodded. “Of course.”
“Who’s the best?” she asked.
Tosh understood what she was asking. The obvious answer was Tenni. She had trained with the sword the longest and had a natural aptitude. Most of all, she was driven. She
wanted
to learn. It would not be much of a lie to tell Mother that Darshia was best, or even Prinn. Both girls had come a long way. Tosh would be proud to stand next to either of them on the battlefield, and whatever Mother had in mind, Tosh wished more than anything to keep Tenni as far away from it as possible.
Except Tenni wouldn’t tolerate that.
And it wasn’t in Tosh to lie to Mother.
“Tenni.”
Mother nodded as if she’d already known the answer. “Bring her. And a pot of tea.”
Tosh went to the kitchen. A girl named Urma was there, sixteen, too young to be working at the Wounded Bird, but that wasn’t true really. There were girls on the street who’d started younger. Urma had rich, brown hair, freckles and a sweet face. Tosh also noticed she had white, straight teeth, a feature most of the brothel’s clients overlooked when they came in wanting big tits and a round ass. Tosh couldn’t stomach rotten teeth in a woman, but who was he to say what primed another man’s pump?
When Tosh stepped into the kitchen, Urma abruptly moved away from the jar that held the sweetbreads, eyes going wide and innocent, hands clasped behind her back.
Tosh didn’t really care if the girl filched a snack. “Where’s Tenni?”
A shrug.
“Get her,” he snapped.
She bolted from the kitchen.
Over the weeks, Tosh had become something of an authority at the brothel. The younger girls hopped when he gave a command. Even veterans like Darshia and Prinn usually honored his requests without question. It wasn’t a responsibility he’d asked for or wanted. It had just happened. Even the bruisers Lubin and Boon followed his lead.
Tosh ripped the strong, black tea leaves into shreds and dropped them into one of the good ceramic pots, poured kettle water in on top and covered it with the lid. He put pot and cups on a tray and carried the lot back into the common room where Tenni sat across from Mother at the center table. He poured each of them a cup and sat.
Mother sipped, squinted at Tosh. “Have you told anyone what we discussed?”
“No.”
Tosh glanced at Tenni. He knew her well enough to read her face. She was curious but also slightly annoyed that he knew something she didn’t.
“I’m glad you know how to keep a secret,” Mother said.
He hadn’t told anyone because he didn’t
want
it to be true. Maybe Mother would come to her senses and they could all forget about her reckless plan. He should have known better. Mother didn’t forget, didn’t forgive and didn’t yield.
“Since Lord Giffen began his puppet rule, the Perranese have relieved him of his duties as steward,” Mother said. “Chen has filled all vacant administrative positions with his own bureaucrats. A self-important stick insect of a man named Dra’Kreeto has been appointed Chamberlain for Castle and Keep and performs all of Giffen’s old duties as steward … just at a slightly different rank.”
They sipped tea.
Mother’s eyes flicked up to Tenni and Tosh over her teacup. “Does either of you know the man?”
Both shook their heads no.
“No matter,” Mother said. “Urma knows what he looks like and will show you tomorrow. I want both of you to recognize the man on sight.”
Tosh frowned. “He’s one of Urma’s clients?”
“No,” Mother said. “But Urma’s mother is a barmaid at a tavern near the castle, a place called the Bawdy Baron. Have you been there?”
“Too classy for a simple soldier,” Tosh said.
“Dra’Kreeto is a frequent patron,” Mother said. “After Urma shows you what he looks like, watch him a few days. See when he comes and goes to and from the tavern. It’s my understanding he has armed men with him at all times. Find out how many and how well armed.”
“What’s this man to us?” Tosh asked.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Mother said. “After you observe him a few days and discover when he might be vulnerable, I want you to murder him.”