The Sword of the South - eARC (11 page)

“And young Gwynna?”

“Slept through the whole affair,” Bahzell chuckled.

“Did not!” the girl protested sleepily.

“Did so,” Leeana corrected, touching her nose gently.

“Well…maybe,” Gwynna admitted with a grin.

“As well for the shadows, I’m thinking.”

Her father smiled, easing her onto the bar, and reclaimed his knife. He wiped it before clicking it back into its sheath.

“At least wizards’re after having honest blood, though I’m thinking it’s the only honest thing as most of them do have. No need to be wiping shadow blood from a blade.”

“Yes, they were very considerate,” Kenhodan agreed guilelessly.

Bahzell eyed him suspiciously, and then chuckled and clouted his left shoulder so hard he staggered. He opened his mouth, but the direcat went into a fresh sneezing fit before he could shoot back a smart remark.

“What’s his problem?” he asked instead, nodding at the cat while his right hand checked his shoulder for broken bones.

“He says shadows taste funny,” Gwynna said sleepily. “We bit six of them, and he’s been sneezing ever since.”

Kenhodan glanced up, ready to smile, but the look on Bahzell’s face stopped him. He swallowed his humor as he realized Bahzell actually believed his daughter could talk to the cat! The hradani’s expression mingled acceptance and pride with an edge of concern, and Kenhodan reminded himself—again—that he was in no position to say what this peculiar family could do.

“Don’t worry, young Gwynna,” Wencit reassured her. “The sneezing will pass.”

“I already told him so,” Gwynna nodded. “I did when we bit them. He just says he wants it to hurry up. You know how he is Wencit.”

“Yes.”

The wizard moved to the broken windows and peered out, and Kenhodan sighed mentally and refused to ask questions. Everything else about this household was preposterous. Why shouldn’t Gwynna talk to the cat? But what about this “
we
bit them” business? Surely she didn’t mean—?

He put a firm lock on his curiosity and joined Wencit by the windows.

The first faint light of a blustery dawn glinted on the wizard’s silver hair. He sniffed deeply, wrinkling his nose, and nodded to himself.

“Time Kenhodan and I were gone. This may have set them back enough for us to make a clean break.”

“Aye, and you’ve come with your usual luck, Wencit,” Bahzell said. “It’s just this week Brandark raised Belhadan. We’ll be finding him at the docks, and he’ll find us a way south. I’m thinking we’ll make better time by sea than afoot, seeing as how Walsharno’s taken it into his head to be visiting the Wind Plain right this very moment. Aye, and Gayrfressa with him.”

“No!” Wencit spun to his host accusingly. “I thought I made it clear you weren’t included in this little episode!”

“And so you did, or tried to. But that was being then, and now’s after being now,” Bahzell said calmly. “You could refuse to invite me before these enemies of yours were after violating my roof and raising weapons against my guests. Now?”

His expression was as calm as his voice, but his ears were half-flattened and his brown eyes were hard. Wencit looked into that unwavering gaze for a moment, then turned to his wife.

“Leeana?” Wencit appealed to her without much hope in his voice.

“He’s right, and you know it.” Leeana reached up to rest a hand on her husband’s bulging biceps with no sign of her earlier resistance. “You know our customs. Honor demands that one or both of us accompany you against anyone who violates our roof.”

“I might point out that you invited the attack by extending your hospitality against my wishes! Honor shouldn’t demand that you risk your lives in my quarrel, and I won’t have you doing it!”

“Honor requires what we believe it requires.” Bahzell repeated Leeana’s earlier words softly. “We can’t be picking and choosing on the basis of safety, Wencit. Not with honor.”

“But it’s not your quarrel! It’s
mine
—mine and Kenhodan’s!”

“Wencit, if you try much harder, you’ll be making me angry,” Bahzell said. “I remember a wizard as made mine and Leeana’s quarrel his fight, once upon a time.”

“That was different! This is—”

“Oh, admit it, you old horse thief! You’re not so senile yet as to not want me along! Who else is it as might be keeping your ancient and venerable hide in one piece?”

“Kenhodan might! And I might be ancient and venerable, but I’m not exactly a dotard yet myself!”

“Aye, and Kenhodan’s one as swings a pretty blade. But if two swords are good, why three are after being better. Besides, if you’re not minded to let me come with you, I’ll have to be following on my own. And if you’re daft enough to be making me do that, how is it you expect me to talk Leeana into staying home with Gwynna? You know she’s the better tracker.”

Wencit swelled with frustration, but then Bahzell put one hand lightly on his shoulder.

“And laying all that aside,” he said softly, “I’d a talk with himself whilst waiting for your friends the shadows.”

Wencit glared at him for an instant, then exhaled sharply.

“All right. All right!” He shook his head resignedly. “Tomanāk knows you’re handy with that cleaver, but don’t blame me if you wake up dead one morning!”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be blaming you for that. Why, if such as that was to happen, it would mean someone’d managed to be sneaking up on me in my sleep. And if that’s after being the case—” his left hand blurred and the hook knife whined from its sheath to sink four inches deep into the far wall “—it’s only myself I’ll have to blame, isn’t it now?”

Kenhodan thought he heard Wencit mutter something about the thickness of skulls under his breath…but he might have been mistaken.

* * *

Wulfra of Torfo flinched as the icily incisive thought speared her brain. She herself required a crystal at both ends to communicate with someone else, though she could observe others with her unaided gramerhain. The ability of that ice and iron mind to reach her anytime and under any circumstances mocked her power, and the implications of such strength made her nervous.

The shape of two eyes, slitted and yellow like a cat’s, glittered in her thoughts, and the mental voice was a chill purr of malice.

“Your minion failed.”

“He was outclassed. Just as I’d be if I faced Wencit personally. You knew that when you agreed to let Alwith attack.”

“True. But having tested the mettle of your opponents and counted their number, my dear, I suggest you deal with them from a distance.”

The biting thought’s malicious amusement angered Wulfra, but she pushed the emotion carefully aside.

“I have to know where he is for that. His glamour’s too strong for me to pierce without a link to someone inside it. You know
that
, too.”

“To be sure. Wasn’t it I who found him for your lightning strike? Yet even I dare not take liberties when he’s fresh,” the cold voice whispered. “If your minions bungle their attacks too often, he may begin to suspect that I’m observing him despite his glamour, and neither of us would like that, would we?” The mental purr became a chuckle. “Still, at the moment he’s too tired to detect my prying. Alwith was a fool, but he wasn’t
completely
wrong. Our Wencit’s less young than he was.”

“Do you have a suggestion?” Wulfra kept her mental tone respectful, but the cat-eyed wizard sensed her impatience.

“Patience, Wulfra. Patience! Revenge is best taken slowly, distilled in small sips. But, yes, I have both information and a suggestion. You might like to know that our Wencit is highly perturbed by your recent display of power. Isn’t that amusing?”

“Do you mean—?”

Wulfra’s thoughts were suddenly icy with fear. If Wencit ever guessed who she was dealing with, her fate was sealed, indeed.

“Calmly, dear Wulfra! Of course he doesn’t suspect
that
; how could he? But he’s anxious—
very
anxious. I believe he fears you’ve tapped the sword’s power, or a part of it. Of course, we know better, don’t we?”

Wulfra’s racing fear became the coal of anger the cat-eyed wizard could so easily ignite. Of course she hadn’t mastered the sword! And neither, she thought in a secret part of her brain, had her patron. If he could have done so, he would’ve had no need for her.

“But that’s neither here nor there,” the cat-eyed wizard purred, “and I do have information. Look for a ship, my Wulfra. A ship of Belhadan captained by a hradani named Brandark. There now! Even you should be able to find so singular a vessel.”

Communication ceased and the mind link snapped, leaving Wulfra to feel dismissed…and angry. She was no child to be so discounted! She’d won her power the hard way, through acts which would have led to instant execution had they been known at the time. And her cat-eyed patron needed her—needed her badly! How dared he treat her so?!

But deep inside, she knew how he dared. It was because for all her knowledge, she
was
a child beside him. Yet perhaps he’d forgotten that children grew up and some surpassed their tutors.…

She forced herself to undertake several minutes of carefully calm thought, banishing her rage. It was many minutes before she could unclench her fists in a semblance of normality, but then she brushed back her golden hair brusquely and moved to her crystal. Purposeful concentration carried her rapidly through the energizing incantation. Whatever the cat-eyed wizard thought of her, it was she who must bear the brunt of any failure…well, she and her allies.

She bent closer to the stone and formed a mental image of Harlich’s face. He should be alert for her regular contact.

He was. The face she’d pictured appeared in the stone, masklike for just a moment. Then the mask’s eyes opened. Harlich himself blinked into existence in its place, and his eyebrows rose in question. She shook her head, and he shrugged. He’d never cared much for Alwith anyway.

“There’s a ship,” Wulfra began carefully. “You have to find it. And then…

CHAPTER FOUR

Designs and Departures

Wencit might have accepted that he had no hope of convincing Bahzell to stay home in Belhadan, but he remained determined to set out as quickly as possible. Personally, Kenhodan would have preferred to let the very last of the rain wear itself out, and he wouldn’t have objected to a few hours sleep, either.

Bahzell, obviously, agreed with him, and unlike the majority of people faced with Wencit of Rūm, he was completely prepared to argue the point. In fact, he spent fifteen minutes trying to convince Wencit to send a messenger to Brandark while the prospective travelers got some of that badly needed sleep for which Kenhodan longed. Kenhodan lent his own arguments to the effort, but Wencit was adamant. Speed was evasion, and evasion was salvation. They must leave at once! When Bahzell (inevitably) proved stubborn, the wizard turned to Leeana.

“…so you can see why we have to hurry, can’t you, Leeana?”

“No.” Leeana’s response robbed Wencit of breath—momentarily, at least—and she pressed her advantage ruthlessly. “For once, my rock-headed husband is right. Not even you can speed the tide, Wencit, and you know perfectly well no ships will leave harbor before the ebb.” She shrugged. “Since that’s true, there’s no point in sending you out exhausted, especially when Brandark doesn’t even know you’re coming yet! I’ll choose a discreet messenger to find him and warn him about what you have in mind while you three sleep.”

“But—”

“Best be giving it up, Wencit,” Bahzell rumbled. “There’s no budging her when she’s after using
that
tone of voice. Tomanāk knows I’ve tried often enough, and I can’t recall as I ever succeeded.”

“Once,” Leeana told him, green eyes glinting with humor. “Twenty-five years ago, I think it was.”

Bahzell flattened his ears impudently at her, and she grinned, then folded her arms and returned her gaze to Wencit. There was much less humor in it now, and the toe of her right foot tapped gently on the floor as she waited courteously for his response.

The wizard looked back and forth between his hosts for perhaps fifteen seconds. Then he puffed his lips and threw up his hands.

“Oh, all right!” he said with scant grace…and yawned. His eyes widened, and then he smiled sheepishly. “Maybe you’re right. The gods know I can use some sleep, too. Where’s my room?”

Leeana smiled back serenely and pointed at the stairs.

* * *

Kenhodan needed sleep badly, but his rest was uneasy. Dying mutters of thunder thrust him into a dream world of unfamiliar sights and sounds—sights and sounds he knew even as he dreamed that he should have recognized…and would be unable to recall clearly when he woke. Nor could he. His only memories were images of war: blows and counter blows, death and destruction, and a haunting, crippling sense of guilt, as if he were personally responsible for all the blood and suffering of the world.…

He soaked his blankets in sweat and half-woke endlessly, but always fell back into hunted slumber. None of it meant anything to him, yet he sensed uneasily that it should have. It was tempting to ascribe it all to the taproom battle, but he couldn’t. Somehow he knew the vague, terrifying dreams spoke directly to his maimed memory…or to his unknown future.

When Leeana finally called him to breakfast, he was at least somewhat rested, physically, but his inward exhaustion was even worse. It showed in his weary eyes and slow responses, and Leeana cocked her head sympathetically at him.

“You slept poorly?” she asked as she and Gwynna bustled about the kitchen. Others might cook, but only she and her daughter served food to their guests. It was that sort of kitchen.

“I had dreams,” he replied evasively.

“Dreams?” Wencit arched an eyebrow. “What sort of dreams?”

“Unpleasant ones,” Kenhodan said shortly.

“Never have bad dreams, myself,” Bahzell said cheerfully around a thick chunk of rare beef. He swallowed and downed half a tankard of ale. “Would it happen they told you aught of your past?”

“I don’t know,” Kenhodan said slowly. “Maybe. If they did, I’m not surprised by all the scars anymore. They were…violent.”

Wencit chewed expressionlessly, and Kenhodan felt a fresh stab of frustration. He had no choice but to accept that some compelling reason kept Wencit from telling him more, but what possible threat
could
force the world’s premier white wizard to keep silent on so vital a question?

A flash of humor came to his rescue as he considered what he’d just asked himself and reevaluated his own importance to the world. But it was still vital to
him
, he thought wryly, even if no one else cared.

“You and Poppa are going on a trip, aren’t you?” Gwynna’s voice broke into his thoughts as she climbed onto the bench beside him.

“Yes, we are.” He made room for the long-legged child, struck once again by a prevision of the lovely woman she would one day make.

“Momma told me,” Gwynna confided. “She wanted to go, too, but Poppa said no. They had what Momma calls a ‘discussion’ about it. A
loud
one.”

She grinned, and Kenhodan almost choked on a mouthful of exquisitely fried potatoes. He swallowed, then looked at her.

“A discussion?” he repeated carefully.

“Yes. That’s when they spend an hour telling each other the same things over and over and then decide to do what they knew they were going to do all along. When
I
have a discussion like that, Momma calls it a quarrel.”

“I see.” Kenhodan managed to keep his voice admirably level, but his face ached from suppressing his grin when he tried to picture Bahzell as a harassed husband “discussing” things with the cool and independent Leeana. It was surprisingly easy. What was hard was imagining him winning the argument, but Gwynna’s next words explained it.

“Momma doesn’t travel with Poppa as much as she used to. I think she’s worried about leaving me with Farmah and Lentos. She says I’ll drive anyone mad if they have to take care of me long without being rescued.”

“I can understand that,” he said feelingly.

“Me, too.”

She wiggled her ears at him, disturbingly like her father, and grinned impishly.

“Let me see,” Kenhodan said. “I’ve met Farmah—that’s her over there, isn’t it?” He gestured at a middle aged hradani woman with dark hair and a checked apron, and Gwynna nodded. “But I don’t think I’ve met Lentos.”

“Oh, he’s away this week. He’s my teacher, from the Academy. He’s nice, but he must be almost as old as Wencit, and he gives such good advice I can hardly stand it.”

“I see,” Kenhodan said politely. It hadn’t occurred to him that Gwynna might be old enough for a tutor. He smiled at her, touched by her mixture of precocity and whimsy—and privately sympathizing with the tutor responsible for her. “I’m sure he only does it because it’s something you should know.”

“Oh, I know that.” Gwynna waved airily. “But I really wanted to talk about last night. I wanted to apologize for dropping your stew.”

“That’s all right. You did bring me another bowl.”

“I know. I just wanted you to understand it was only because your scars surprised me. I mean, Poppa has a lot, too, but not like those.” Her brows knitted in a troubled frown, but his smiling nod erased it magically. “Good! I wouldn’t want you to think they scared me or anything. Well, not much, anyway.” She leaned closer to whisper in his ear. “I used to think Poppa had all the scars there were, but he doesn’t have as many as you do. I don’t think they’re ugly or anything, though. They just surprised me, is all.”

“They surprised me, too,” he told her with a certain edge of sincerity.

“Then you’re not mad at me? Really?”

“Really,” he assured her, and she heaved a sigh of relief and smiled.

“Good! Because I’d like you to do something for me when you go with Poppa.”

“Do what?”

He was amused by her assumption that he was going with Bahzell rather than the reverse, but he concealed it carefully.

“Well…” Gwynna doodled a fingertip on the table, studying her invisible design intensely. “Farmah knows lots of stories, and she tells them in the kitchen sometimes. Lentos knows more, but his aren’t as interesting, because he only ever tells what really happened. But Farmah says warriors used to carry things with them to remember ladies back home. She says they called them ‘favors’ and they were things like handkerchiefs or veils.” Her lip curled disdainfully. “I think those are dumb things to take on an adventure!”

“So do I,” he said gravely, and she regarded him suspiciously.

“Well, it
is
dumb to take useless things. What good’s a handkerchief, unless you need to blow your nose? But I thought it would be nice to have someone carry
my
favor. I know I’m not a lady yet—” She broke off with a silvery giggle. “Momma says I’ll
never
be a lady, but I think she’s wrong, and so does Wencit. Anyway, I wondered if
you’d
carry my favor?”

Her blue eyes looked up very seriously, and he was deeply touched, as if a warm finger had brushed his cold amnesiac world. He felt a surge of grateful tenderness…and protectiveness.”

“I’d be honored to carry your favor, Lady Gwynna.”

“You don’t mind I’m only ten?” she asked anxiously. “I’ll be eleven in a few weeks.”

“I don’t mind at all,” he told her solemnly.

“Well, good! I mean, you’re the only one I can ask. I can’t ask Poppa, because he’s already Poppa. And Wencit is…well, he’s just
Wencit
. I can’t imagine him being anyone else. Not even for me.”

“I understand,” Kenhodan said, but he didn’t, really. He could feel the girl’s presence himself, an acute awareness of the happy deviltry which followed her around. He wasn’t even surprised by his own sense of protectiveness, yet it seemed strange to see such tenderness from the ancient wizard, and Gwynna’s choice of words suggested something even deeper.

Don’t go reading too much into things
, he chided himself.
It’s obvious he and Bahzell and Leeana are close. It’s probably just friendship
.

“I thought you would,” Gwynna said cheerfully, “and I won’t give you anything dumb, either. I brought something special. Here!”

She handed him a straight, heavy object fifteen or sixteen inches long. It was wrapped in oiled silk and weighted his hand with the solidity of tempered steel. He recognized the dagger instantly, and his eyebrows rose.

“Momma and Poppa gave it to me two years ago. If we were still on the Windy Plain I’d already be training as a war maid, so Momma said I might as well start here, and Lentos agreed. It’s hard, but it’s fun, too. But this is special—a corsair dagger Captain Brandark brought back from his last big sea fight when he was still captain of Poppa’s ship. He gave it to Momma as a souvenir when he bought
his
first ship. I thought you’d like to have it, since you already have his old sword. And it’ll be lots more useful than a stupid old
handkerchief!
”

Her scorn was withering.

“I agree,” he said, touched by her hardheaded practicality.

He unwrapped the sheathed dagger, drew the blade, and examined it carefully. It might have come from a corsair, he realized, but it was dwarven work, and an outstanding example of it. It carried the rippled pattern of water steel, and the double-edged blade was sharp enough to slice the wind.

He looked up to find her gazing at him just a bit anxiously and slid the weapon back into its scabbard. Then he stood, unbuckled his belt, and threaded the free end through the sheath’s belt loop. He re-fastened it and sat back down on the bench.

“I shall carry your favorite everywhere, Lady Gwynna,” he told her gravely.

“Good!”

She patted his elbow and climbed down to help clear the table, and Kenhodan looked up to meet Bahzell’s eyes. The hradani’s gaze measured him thoughtfully, then moved to his daughter. Kenhodan felt a little abashed by the fierce love on Bahzell’s face, but there was something else there, too. An inexplicable sadness, perhaps.

“It’s a good lass she is,” Bahzell said softly.

“Yes, she is,” Kenhodan agreed.

Bahzell nodded sharply. Then he drained his tankard noisily, thumped it to the table empty, caught Wencit’s eye, and jerked his head at the door.

“Young Frolach was after finding Brandark. He says Brandark told him it’s pleased he’ll be to give us ship room as far as Man Home, as he’s a cargo bound there. If we’re wishful, he’ll bear us farther—to Coast Guard, say. But it’s in my mind you’d be minded to go the last bit by land?”

“Good thinking,” Wencit agreed. “Angthyr’s so unsettled merchants will shun the ports, so any arrivals by ship will certainly attract attention. We can go overland through South Pass, instead.”

“So I thought my own self,” Bahzell nodded. “What do you say, Kenhodan?”

“One route’s the same as another.” Kenhodan shrugged “I seem to recall a little about Angthyr, but not enough to make suggestions.”

“Aye.” Bahzell tugged a watch from his pocket and glanced at it, then rose. “Well, let’s be taking our leave, then, and I’ll be telling you what I can about Angthyr as we’re walking.”

Kenhodan and Wencit rose with him and began gathering the gear Leeana had chosen while they slept. Each had his personal weapons, but Leeana had also provided Kenhodan with a longbow of Vonderland yew. Bahzell carried a huge composite horse bow (one far beyond his own strength, Kenhodan suspected), but Wencit had neither requested nor been offered a missile weapon.

The new bow suited Kenhodan. It was a magnificent weapon, and though he’d had no opportunity yet to try it, he’d felt a sort of natural affinity for it—almost, but not quite, like the one he’d felt the night before for Brandark’s old sword—the moment he touched it. It wasn’t quite the heaviest he could pull, but it felt good in his hands, and he liked the supple way the wood yielded to his muscles. Vonderland provided the best of the Empire’s archers, and they were one reason even the heaviest cavalry extended profound respect to an Axeman army.

In addition to weapons, each had a heavy pack of concentrated food, two or three changes of clothing, and two blankets, plus other incidentals required for a comfortable camp. Kenhodan belted on his water bottle and checked his coal oil-filled fire striker and the small pouch of medicines Leeana insisted each of them carry. Clearly she knew what was needed for moving quickly but comfortably through rough terrain. Which, he reflected, shouldn’t have surprised him in the least in a war maid commander of a thousand.