Two-Bit Heroes

by Doris Egan

  So as it turned out, Hilo was on everybody's payroll. Not only were we paying him and this outlaw band as well, the City of Shaskala was still giving him his regular salary. It may not have been unrelated after all, that a roadblock had forced us in a direction most people avoided. And I really didn't think the chambermaid back at the inn would have anything to worry about when it came to buying those sheets and towels and things that are so important for a young couple just starting out in the world.

  The sun comes up quickly on the plateau. I didn't know it then, but this was one of the rarest things there: a clear morning. I turned once and saw a sunrise of incredible beauty; turned again a few minutes later and it was over, the sky a simple shade of gray. There were fewer trees along the track. On all sides of us an ocean of short coarse

  grass fanned away into eternity. There were plants here and there in it that I'd never seen before, and purple and white flowers with spiky leaves. Not that the ocean was entirely flat; there were hills and valleys all the way around us, and we forded three streams before noon.

  "Hasn't anyone told you about the Northwest Sector?" Des splashed water on his face. "Three out of four water sources here are poisonous."

  "Oh." I exchanged a glance with Ran, who'd pulled off his outer robe and shirt and was taking the opportunity to do a quick wash. Getting out of this territory was looking more and more difficult.

  Ran gave a slight shrug and dried himself with his shirt. I said to Des, "How can you tell which are poisonous?"

  "By asking someone who knows," said Des. He held the reins to his mount and motioned to me. "Up you go, sweetheart." He hauled me over; he was stronger than he looked.

  "Des, are you the Stereth Tar'krim everybody is looking for?"

  Lex na'Valory gave him a leg up and he climbed on in front of me. "Certainly not," he said. "We're just good friends."

  Daylight showed Des Helani to be in his early thirties, with a long and easy grace that sat well on a mount. Lex na'Valory and Grateth Tar'briek looked about the same age, or perhaps Grateth was a little younger. Lex's face bore a constant expression of discontent. Grateth was stocky, even-tempered, competent, and never far from his weapons. He carried at least two knives that I could see and I noticed that whatever he was doing, Ran seemed to be in his line of sight. Both of them wore the army in their posture, but somehow what seemed like discipline in the way Grateth held himelf became resentment when you watched Lex na'Valory. Mora Sobien Ti was older, with streaks of gray in her black hair. Her outer robe was short,

  more like a jacket, and her inner robe was cut like a riding skirt. I'd never seen a riding skirt on this planet. They all bore the air of people who were used to the life they lived; who washed and drank when they could and paid no attention when they couldn't.

  As for me, I ached from riding and dreamed of stretching out in one of the professional baths back in the capital.

  "You barbarians are such fragile creatures," marveled Des Helani when we stopped for a brief rest, and he saw me trying to contort my body into some position that would give it relief. "Cantry is the same way."

  "Cantry?"

  "You'll meet her. Another barbarian, you could be sisters."

  We went on and the afternoon grew mistier and mistier. "This is more like it," said Des. Our mount picked its way along the trail and I heard the wagon behind us.

  "You prefer this weather?"

  "All outlaws prefer this weather, darling. You'll get to like it, too."

  That did not strike me as encouragingly as he'd meant it to.

  In late afternoon we came to the edge of a low valley, a wide, shallow saucer of land in the middle of nowhere. Two twisted plateau trees marked the start of a trampled pathway that led down through the long grass. Our wagon followed Des Helani's mount into the mist, and after a few minutes I said, "There's a building." I was still riding behind Des and I felt him take a deep breath.

  "That's ours, darling," he said. "That's our home. A little wet on rainy nights, but serviceable."

  Stone walls broke through the mist. As we drew nearer I could see the whole thing: An ancient wall of gray stone with taller, equally ruined buildings within. An old monastery? A fort? Physically, it would be hard to tell the difference between the two, at least on this world.

  Des slid off his mount and helped me down. He said, "Mora, we'd better salvage what we can of the meat. Some of it smells a bit high."

  "I'll take it to the cookhouse," she said, and stood by the wagon, her arms folded, waiting for Ran to get down.

  Ran climbed down slowly. Mora took the drivebox from him and led our cart and beasts away.

  He came over and stood beside me. "Well?" he said to Des Helani.

  "Please," said Des. "Guests first." And he motioned us toward the entrance. Grateth and Lex na'Valory fell in behind us.

  We entered what I later found was the main building of the fort. It had a large public hall and ten smaller rooms, five on each side. About half of them were lacking their fair share of the roof. A fire burned on the floor at one end of the hall, and at the other was a collection of mats, cushions, boulders, and a truly excellent large table of gleaming darkwood, with any number of candles on it. It was dark and smoky in the hall. And at the end we were headed for, it was crowded.

  A good dozen outlaws were stretched out at their ease on the cushions. I couldn't take them all in then; there were men and women, young and middle-aged, dressed colorfully and drably, busy and idle. Most of them wore trousers, like the fishermen and outdoor-working provincials I'd seen in the past; but beside that, many wore jackets or short outer robes of intricate, patterned colors that reminded me of Andulsine carpets. These people certainly weren't trying to blend into the scenery—crimson and gold, midnight blue, swirls of deep purple—a treasure of color moved in the darkness, flicked into prominence here and there by the store of candles.

  And as for the jewelry, my sister-in-law Kylla would have been considered downright conservative.

  Des Helani's stride lengthened, and he stood straighter. "I was magnificent!" he called. "Shall I tell you how magnificent I was?"

  "Can we stop you?" said a voice.

  "Tell us, Des!" said a woman, laughing. "Tell us how magnificent you were."

  "I was glorious," he said, and by then we'd reached the center of the group. A young man with a face beautiful even by the standards of Ivory sat there on a boulder, polishing an old short sword. "But first, introductions," Des continued. He passed by the young man and stood in front of another, older man holding a sheaf of papers. This one

  was in his thirties and had the look of a scholar—or an accountant—with mild dark eyes and prematurely graying hair. He was wearing spectacles.

  "Allow me to present the most sought-after prison-guest in the Northwest Sector," said Des, declaiming the words like an actor. "Stereth Tar'krim. Stereth—" suddenly his voice dropped into normality, "—these are the ones from the message."

  Stereth Tar'krim blinked up at us from his cushion. He put down his papers, stood, and adjusted his spectacles as he frankly looked over Ran and me.

  For your sake, imaginary reader, I will pause here and tell you what spectacles are. Picture a small circle of glass bordered by a rim of gold wire. Then picture a matching circle of glass, connected to the first by more wire. Now imagine someone looking through these circles of glass— each circle being directly in front of an eye, you see. Of course, they're not floating there in air before this person's face—they're held up by a bridge over the top of the nose, and anchored by extensions of the wire that reach back and over the tops of the ears.

  You'll probably be wondering about the purpose of all this. It's not an adornment—anyway, not generally. It's an aid in vision. You see, the glasses are not just normal glass; they're actually lenses that compensate for eyesight problems. You can see versions of them in pictures of people from history. If you're wondering why Stereth Tar'krim didn't simply have his eyes fixed or replaced, you've fa
iled to grasp the point that first as an Ivoran and then as an outlaw, he was in no position to have that done. Even if he knew about the option.

  Anyway, the contraption may sound unstable, but it really does sit on your face without any difficulty—except, as now, when Stereth had to push it back up the bridge of his nose.

  Excuse me for interrupting my history at such a dramatic meeting, but it was something you needed to know.

  Now—as I said, Stereth pushed back his spectacles, peered at us, and said, "Honored by this meeting. Des, we got your relay. I see you took the initiative."

  "You said I was in charge."

  "I know. You were. You did a fine job."

  "I was magnificent!… Wasn't I?'

  "You did the right thing, and I'm glad you didn't wait to consult me. We might have lost them."

  Des grinned and relaxed. Ran glanced at me and we exchanged careful looks at how wanted we apparently were.

  "I hope you weren't alarmed at being invited here," Stereth said to us. "I hope Des made you as comfortable as possible."

  "He was charming," I said.

  "He always is," said Stereth. "And now, if I may ask, which of you is the sorcerer?"

  I said nothing, and Ran stood there looking unhappy. Finally he said, "Gracious sir—"

  Stereth Tar'krim interrupted him. "The rules here are different. You can call me Stereth to my face, and what you call me otherwise doesn't matter."

  "Stereth," said Ran. "May I ask what makes you think that either of us is a sorcerer?"

  Stereth smiled, a very mild smile. "We keep trained messenger-birds here. Later, when you have leisure, you might go and visit the coop over by the west wall. We share these birds with friends of ours who are too far away to visit."

  "With a Shaskalan cop named Hilo?" I asked.

  Stereth said, "It's good to have friends. A bird from Shaskala returned to one of our stations, near where Des' group was operating. He took it upon himself to arrange this meeting."

  From the cushion where he'd deposited himself, Des looked up. "I was magnificent."

  Stereth gave in gracefully. "Yes, Des, you were magnificent."

  "He wasn't that good," said Lex na'Valory.

  "We can use a sorcerer," said Stereth. "We need every edge we can get, just to survive. We can pay well."

  "With stolen goods and tabals," put in Ran.

  "Is a professional sorcerer in any position to make moral judgments? How many people have you ruined or killed? Is sorcery not still illegal in the empire, or have I missed something?" Stereth's voice was gentle, toneless, and made me shiver.

  "People accept what I do as part of life," said Ran, mak-

  ing no more vain pretense as to which of us was the one they wanted. "It's technically illegal, yes, but nobody cares. But you're—"

  "An acknowledged outlaw? Liable to hang? Very likely. That's not a moral inferiority, though, it's just the reality of my greater relative risk." He said it reasonably, like one business person speaking to another about the ups and downs of the market.

  "I was going to say, you're a bandit. You rob innocent travelers and raid people's homes."

  Stereth took no offense. He smiled, touched the shoulder of the unnaturally handsome boy with the sword, and took over his seat on the boulder. "I hate to get into these morality contests. Won't you sit down?" He indicated the pillows and cushions scattered on the hall floor.

  "Thank you, I prefer to stand."

  Generally making someone look up at you is considered a psychological advantage. Stereth just looked relaxed. If anything, it made Ran seem like some schoolboy or employee called into the main office for a reprimand.

  Stereth said, "Since your options have pretty much dwindled, why don't we talk about your salary?"

  "I'm not working for you."

  "I can start you with a retainer of two thousand ta-bals—"

  "That's very kind of—"

  "And both your lives." A silence descended upon us all. I heard someone in the group crack a nut. "Perhaps your wife should have some input into this," said Stereth.

  I opened my mouth and Ran said, "She's not my wife."

  Des Helani sat up straight, and Stereth's face showed very faint surprise. "Oh? Des—"

  "That's not what I heard from Shaskala," said Des.

  Ran said, "It makes life easier in inns and in our job if we just say that we're married. But she's my assistant—and a recent assistant at that. We only started working together a few weeks ago."

  It's hard to keep people as hostages for one another when they barely know each other. But how believable this would be—

  Des called, "Is that true, darling? If I'd know you were free, I'd've let you ride closer to me."

  I met his look squarely and said, "If we'd ridden any closer, I'd be pregnant."

  This brought whoops from Des' friends. Stereth turned to me and allowed a genuine smile to form, lifting his iron control by about ten percent—just enough to let pure, shared enjoyment show—and I realized this was another one who could turn on the charm. He said, "You're not as quiet as you look."

  "I don't think you are either," I said slowly.

  Our smiles held. Then Stereth pushed up his glasses again and turned back to my non-husband.

  "So you're saying any threats I might make to your friend would be pointless."

  "Ishin na' telleth," said Ran. "It's all one to me. A business decision—you should understand that."

  "Oh, I do. —Cantry, put that jar down and join us." He was looking up and I followed his gaze to see a narrow balcony running the length of the hall. A young woman was carrying a large clay jar, about a third as large as she was tall, and now she set it on a place on the balcony with a lot of other jars. She had short, curly fair hair and was slightly built—the other barbarian. She wiped her forehead with one arm and called down to Stereth, "I'm not finished yet."

  "You are for now," said Stereth. "We have guests. Des can finish for you later."

  "Thanks," said Des. "It's not my turn to carry water till tomorrow."

  "Claim the credit," said Stereth. "Tell her it was your idea."

  Cantry had disappeared from the balcony, and a few seconds later she reappeared in an archway across the room. She walked over to stand by Stereth.

  He said, "My wife, Cantry. —These two people say they aren't married, beloved. What do you think? Do they look married to you?"

  Cantry slid one arm around his waist and evaluated us. Her eyes were light brown, her face was clear and childlike. This was the barbarian I'd been mistaken for in Shaskala, whom Des said might be my sister? She was my height, but that was about it. Her hair was blond, for heaven's sake.

  All barbarians look alike to these people. Cantry said finally, "They feel married to me."

  "Me, too. But people get that look just from being together, they say. You start to resemble your pet lizard after a few months."

  Stereth was clearly enjoying playing with us. He couldn't have any proof, though. Ran said, "I'm not going to work for you, and neither of us would bring in much ransom. You may as well let us go."

  "Let you go! —Des, did you tell these good people they would be held against their will? Forgive me. You can leave any time. Any time you feel up to traveling alone across the Sector. We've confiscated your wagon, but you can still go on foot. Try not to eat or drink anything, and if you meet anybody on the way, just say you're innocent travelers, and I'm sure they'll let you past."

  Not to mention that directions had gotten a little confused in the mist on the way here.

  Ran was silent, and Stereth said, "You see what I mean about options." He motioned to Cantry, who brought over a bottle of wine and some bowls. Stereth poured, drank some to show it was clean, and handed us each a bowl. "Still." He smiled. "The sun is sinking, the night is young, and I'm sure we have much to discuss. We don't ask each other our birth-names, here, but if you want to volunteer them it's all right. Otherwise, we'll just have to say 'hey, g
uest' until we come up with nicknames for you both."

  "I already have a nickname," I said. The wine was red and incredibly strong. "Gods, don't you water this stuff? — Tymon, that's my nickname."

  " 'Tymon.' And this doesn't offend you?"

  "Not if it's said with respect and affection."

  "I shall endeavor to meet your requirements. And your, um, business associate… ?"

  Ran looked up from the bowl. "Call me Sokol," he said.

  Sokol is a word frequently seen in Ivoran literature. I used it myself a great deal when I collected folktales all through the south. It means "anonymous."

  Stereth gazed at him as a man will who has suffered a thing too long to take offence at further indignities. "Sokol," he repeated. He sighed. "I can see," he said, "that this will take some time."

  Chapter Six

  The Ivoran word for rice, krim, is also the generic term for grain, and covers wheat, corn, oats, rye, and barley as well. But you see the importance they place on rice in their culture.

  Rice doesn't grow anywhere on the High Plateau, and it didn't grow much in Tammas District, where Stereth Tar'krim grew up—he was Davor Metonid then. There was an aborted revolution in Tammas District: Burned fields, food shortages, and an influx of unsympathetic soldiers from the Emperor's special forces. None of this had much to do with Davor Metonid, except that his wife and child were hungry and his job at the Imperial Records office went up in flames (literally) when the district capital was burned. He stole two loaves of bread from a black marketeer who was under the protection of the Imperial Guard Captain and after being hung from a pole for an afternoon he was cut down (quite without malice) and sent to the district prison. His nearsightedness would not allow him a berth in the army, where most convicted felons ended up.

  His wife and child died, whether from sickness or starvation is hard to say. One may have advanced the other. In any case, Davor Metonid now had only himself to worry about, and a two-year stint in Tammas District Prison.

  I don't pretend to know what was going through his head at that point. However, somewhere along the line, with fourteen Ivoran months still to serve, Davor Metonid engineered a group escape. He took four men with him. They killed six guards on the way out—nothing like burning your bridges, apparently. Hanging is the penalty for attempted escape from an Imperial prison. Killing a guard is considered worse. Once out, he suggested they make for the Northwest Sector, a good month away on foot. They disagreed. They all