Authors: Sevastian
“You are most kind,” the tall trader said with a bow. Tris waited until the men had left the tent and were out of earshot before he looked to Vahanian, but the mercenary was already at the tent flap, looking after the receding traders.
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“I suppose I really should ask why you stayed for that, Jonmarc,” Linton said tiredly. “Manners have never been your strong point, but you seem determined to be obnoxious.”
“They were lying,” Vahanian said with conviction. “If he’s a Mussa trader, I’m a Nargi priest.”
Linton looked at Vahanian for a moment before responding. “Why?”
“I’ve smuggled Mussa silk for years,” Vahanian replied. “The traders aren’t on the road this time of year because they’ve got some sort of festival honoring the silkworm. Silk is their livelihood.
The festival is very important to them.”
“Maybe these aren’t very religious traders,” Linton objected.
“And his report about the road,” Vahanian continued doggedly. “Every other traveler has told stories that would curl your hair about magic beasts. That trader wanted you to believe he didn’t even understand your question.”
“Maybe he’s not superstitious,” Linton snapped. “Honestly, Jonmarc, you’ve always been cautious, but I can’t see the need—”
“Something’s wrong. I don’t like it.” “You can worry about it all you like,” Linton said tiredly. “I’m going back to bed.”
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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
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Vahanian said nothing when he and Tris left, but the mercenary walked determinedly back to the tent he shared with Harrtuck. “What next?” Tris asked, after attempting in vain to get a word out of the mercenary the entire way across camp.
“We’re leaving,” Vahanian said resolutely. “Linton can be as stubborn as a mule. That scout wasn’t just looking for chickens, and it’s mighty suspicious that the ‘traders’ show up right on his heels.” Vahanian shook his head. “Go pack,” he said as they reached the tent flap. “We’re getting out.”
“What’s this about packing?” Harrtuck said in a hearty voice. Vahanian stepped into the tent, and Tris followed.
“I caught a spy last night,” Vahanian reported tersely. “Then this morning, we get a contingent of
‘Mussa traders’ who want to stay the night. There’s something wrong and I want us out of here.”
Harrtuck exchanged glances with Tris, who shrugged. Setting his jaw, Harrtuck took a step toward Vahanian. “Jonmarc—”
“Look,” Vahanian retorted, wheeling on the fighter, “you hired me to protect you. I’m doing that.
I think we’ve been scouted for bandits again. Maybe worse. I’m not completely convinced Kaine didn’t have something up his sleeve when he split off part of the group. It smells, Tov, and I don’t 285
like it.”
“We hired you to protect us, that’s true,” Harrtuck replied evenly, unaffected by Vahanian’s temper. “But we’ve also been hired to protect the caravan. Are you just walking away from that?”
“Yes,” Vahanian replied unapologetically, starting to roll up his blankets.
“Well, I’m not,” Harrtuck answered, planting his feet and balling his fists on his hips. “I made a promise, and I’m seeing it through, at least until the Dhasson border.”
“Nice knowing you,” Vahanian clipped. “Because according to the vayash moru who saved my life the night I got thrashed, there’s dark magic waiting at the Dhasson border for Tris.
Something about ‘what you need will find you on the way north,’” he said, still stuffing his things into a saddlebag.
“That’s it?” Tris wondered accusingly. “You’re leaving, just like that?”
Vahanian turned to look at him. “You’re the ones who want to stay. Leave with me and I’ll take you to the river crossing, and you can decide whether you’re going to Dhasson from there or into Principality. I’ll take you that far. But I’m not going to stay here and be a target.”
“Have you forgotten what’s at stake, Jonmarc, for Goddess’s sake?” Harrtuck argued. “Tris is the best chance anyone’s had to stop Arontala in ten years. Having that chance should be worth it, especially to you.”
Vahanian looked away. “Ten years is a long time,” he muttered angrily, turning back to his packing. “What happens in Margolan isn’t any of my business.”.
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“No, but what happened at Chauvrenne was,” Harrtuck snapped. “Men died for you there, because of Arontala. Or is ten years too long to remember?”
Vahanian turned on Harrtuck with enough speed that Tris thought the mercenary would take a swing at the armsman.
“No,” Vahanian replied in a low, deadly voice. “Maybe I’ve put it behind me.”
“Did you?” Harrtuck retorted. “And does that go for Shanna too?”
This time Vahanian did swing, connecting a solid punch that bent Harrtuck backward but did not move the fighter from his place. Harrtuck did not return the blow, but rubbed his jaw appreciatively. “Damn good swing,” he said. “Damn good. I taught you too well.”
Vahanian stared sullenly at Harrtuck, rubbing his fist. “By the Whore, Tov, you deserved that.”
“And if Carina hadn’t only just healed you, I’d pound some sense into you myself,” Harrtuck shot back. “Bandits or no, Jonmarc, we stand a better chance in a group than we do alone on the road, and you ought to know that. You’re not running away from the bandits,” he said chal-lengingly, lifting his chin as if defying Vahanian to swing again. “You’re running from Arontala.
Now, do you want your chance at him or not?”
For what seemed like forever, Vahanian and Harrtuck glared at each other. Finally, Vahanian looked away with a curse and shouldered past them toward the tent flap.
“Where are you going?” Harrtuck demanded.
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“To shoe the horses,” Vahanian snapped over his shoulder. “If we’re fool enough to stay here, I want them ready to ride on a moment’s notice.”
Tris said nothing until Vahanian’s boot steps faded. Then he looked at Harrtuck. “That’s the second time you’ve mentioned Chauvrenne,” Tris said. “Maybe it’s time you told me what happened there.”
Harrtuck took a deep breath and looked away. “I made it a rule a long time ago not to talk about Jonmarc, much, anyway,” he said, rubbing his jaw.
“You know what’s at stake,” Tris replied. “I want to know what we’re dealing with.”
Harrtuck looked back at Tris as if taking his measure. “You’re starting to sound like a king, my liege,” he said quietly. “Perhaps the road is good for you.” He paused, then pursed his lips as he came to a decision.
“I met Jonmarc ten years ago, when we had both signed on with the Eastmark army, out on the border with Dhasson. We were young and good with a sword. It was a good place to be,” he said with a sigh, “for a while.”
“After about a year, the army got a new commander. And at his heels was a Fireclan mage. You know the opinion fighting men have of mages as a rule,” he said, with an apologetic glance at Tris.
“I know.”
“The commander, a man of great honor in Cartelasia, began to change,” Harrtuck recounted.
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“He started to use the army for his own gain. Jonmarc was a captain, and he didn’t like what he saw. Then one day, his platoon got an order to collect the taxes from a village that refused to pay. He didn’t like it, but he went,” Harrtuck remembered. “The villagers were a stubborn lot.
Marching soldiers into town didn’t intimidate them. The order came to burn them out,” he said.
“Jonmarc refused, and his soldiers followed.”
“What happened?” Tris asked quietly.
“They were hunted down and captured by their own army, and brought back in chains for court martial,” Harrtuck replied bitterly. “The commander himself ruled on it, with Arontala one step behind him. Had the entire platoon executed for treason while Jonmarc watched, then took Jonmarc out to the village, torched it himself, and left Jonmarc there to die with the villagers.”
He fell silent for a moment. “Somehow, he escaped. And he’s been running ever since.” He paused again. “That’s why I picked Jonmarc as a guide. He’s not only the best damn swordsman I’ve ever met, but he has as much at stake as you, Tris, in seeing Arontala fall.”
“Then why—” Tris began.
Harrtuck shook his head, anticipating his question. “Why isn’t he chomping at the bit for revenge? Maybe because the only person he blames more than Arontala is himself. I don’t know. All I know is that he was one of the sharpest strategists in the Eastmark army, and he’s wasted most of the last ten years running silks and brandy on the river. I guess he just gave up.”
“If he’s as good as you say, and he smells a rat, maybe we should take him seriously.” Tris held up a hand before Harrtuck could argue. “I agree with you about staying with the caravan, at least through the forest. But perhaps we should stay on guard.”
Harrtuck chewed his lip, then nodded. “Aye, there’s nothing to lose by sleeping with one eye open. I’ll talk to Ban and Carroway.”
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“And Cam,” Tris added after a moment’s thought. “I have the oddest feeling that he and Carina are bound up in this some way.”
“Just pray to the Lady that Jonmarc’s being overcautious,” Harrtuck replied. “The forest’s no place for trouble.”
Tris headed for the tent opening. “Where are you going?” Harrtuck asked.
“To shoe some horses,” Tris replied without turning. “Just in case.”
Tris found Vahanian at work in the makeshift stable, shoeing their horses, checking their gear and readying their provisions, his sword and his crossbow near at hand. If the other stablehands noted the sudden interest, they said nothing, leaving them to their work. For several hours, Tris and Vahanian worked silently, stopping late in the morning for lunch and catching up on lost sleep on the bales of hay. It was not until the afternoon sun lengthened the shadows into night and the stablehands headed for their beds that Vahanian finally spoke beyond a curt order or a pointed instruction.
“So,” he said without looking up from the hoof he was inspecting, “I imagine Harrtuck told you about Chauvrenne.” It was more a statement than a question, and after a moment’s pause, Tris nodded. Vahanian cursed under his breath. “Obviously I didn’t hit him hard enough.”
“You hit him hard enough to fell a mule.”
“Should have been about right, then.”
“There’s just one thing I want to know,” Tris said, looking down at the horse he was handling, and working a new shoe into position.
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“What’s that?”
“Your friend the vayash moru says I don’t dare go to Dhasson. So what happens after we cross the border into Principality?”
Vahanian was silent for a moment, then answered without looking up. “You send a message to your uncle, and I get paid.”
“And then?”
There was another pause, more awkward this time, and the sound of Vahanian pounding a horseshoe into place. “Look, Tris, I know what want. You want me to sign on with the great cru-sade. Well, my crusading days are over. The way I figure, with what you’re gonna owe me, I can buy the silk franchise into Nargi. That’ll double my profits and I can retire a rich man. Go to the river, get a boat, do some legitimate trading for a change, stop getting beat up—”
“Give up,” Tris added. For a moment, before Vahanian’s expression slipped back into his familiar mask, Tris thought he saw a flash of something more, but then the fighter’s eyes hardened.
“Yeah,” Vahanian replied off‐handedly. “I guess you can call it that. Harrtuck does. Makes no difference to me.”
“Harrtuck says it used to.”
“I got over it.”
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“Did you? Can you?” Tris pressed, letting the horse’s hoof down and leaning against the stable wall.
“I was doing just fine until Harrtuck hired me to save your regal ass,” Vahanian retorted. “And I have no intention of getting myself killed fighting something you can’t possibly beat.”
“Someone has to try,” Tris replied. “Because he wants it all—all seven Kingdoms. You don’t think Arontala will stop with Margolan, do you?” Tris continued. “Where will you run then?” He paused. “I don’t have that option,” Tris said. “I lost my family.”
“There’s a lot of that going around.”
Tris looked at Vahanian’s back for a moment in silence as the fighter moved on to the next horse and began studying its hooves. “Shanna… was family?” Tris asked quietly.
This time, Vahanian was silent long enough so that Tris did not think the mercenary was going to reply. “She was my wife,” he said finally without looking at Tris.
“And Arontala… killed her?”
At that, Vahanian looked up, his expression a mixture of anger and pain. “You ask a lot of questions.”
“The answers matter.”
Again, a long silence, and then a curse and a long exhale, before Vahanian straightened and turned away. “I imagine you’ll get it out of Harrtuck anyway,” he said, running a hand back through his hair. “Yes, I blame Arontala,” he said, his voice low and tight. “I was younger than 292
you are, before I went into the army. Making a good living, or at least getting by, blacksmithing and pulling grave jewelry out of the caves in the Borderlands, from the tombs that everyone forgot about.
“One night, a mage showed up who called himself Foor Arontala. He offered me more money than I could imagine for a talisman he said was down in the caves. All I had to do,” Vahanian said with a bitter, mocking tone, “was go get it and bring it back.”
Tris waited out the next silence, wondering if Vahanian would go on. Vahanian’s gaze was far away. “So I did,” he said quietly. “Found it right where the mage said, in a tomb I hadn’t seen before. And I brought it back. Slipped it onto a thong around my neck so I’d be sure I didn’t lose it. Only that night, the Things came.”
“Things?”
Vahanian swallowed hard, remembering. “Things. Like the ‘magicked beasts’ you keep hearing about. They’re real. And they’re evil. They came out of nowhere, and all they wanted was death.” He paused, and his hand unconsciously rose to a scar that ran from his ear to his collarbone and down under his shirt. “We fought them with everything we had. I ran them through, hacked them to bits, nothing mattered. By dawn, there was no village left, no one but me. And the things disappeared like smoke with the morning light.” He turned to Tris, his eyes bright with remembered pain. “The talisman called them,” he said tightly. “Arontala had to know that. I brought them to the village. And there wasn’t a thing I could do about it when they came.”