“Do that again,” she repeated.
Sela held the two blades as before but now she was just staring at them as if she were no longer sure what she held. “What on earth…hmm? Oh, I shouldn’t. There’s a risk when the blades touch, each one is hard enough to damage the other. I shouldn’t have let it happen in the first place.”
Marta reached under the seat of her covered wagon and pulled out a small box, which she flipped open and pulled out a small copper mallet. “Then use this. It’s soft.”
Sela took the hammer, shrugged, and very carefully tapped first Shave-the-Cat and then Leafcutter. Nothing.
“Now touch the blades. Don’t even tap them, just touch.”
Reluctantly, Sela brought the two blades together. As soon as they made contact the camp rang with the sound of it. “That is very strange,” Sela said.
Marta was barely listening. She thought she had the old flash of recognition when the swords had touched the first time, but the second time it happened she was absolutely certain. When the swords chimed, there was a Law of Power involved. Marta knew she was nowhere near to grabbing hold of it, but like a seasoned hunter, she knew the track of her quarry when she saw it.
“You haven’t noticed anything like this before? Even when Master Solthyr was working in his forge?”
Sela shook her head. “Never. He kept Sunset, Shave-the-Cat and Leafcutter even when he had sold or given away everything else. But they were wrapped in oiled cloth and stowed away most of the time. I never saw him handle more than one at a time.”
Marta considered. Both Shave-the-Cat and Leafcutter were shortscythe style. Perhaps that was a coincidence, but Marta didn’t really believe in coincidences.
“Longfeather!”
The goshawk looked up from his meal. “What is it?”
“It’s me, calling you. I’d appreciate a little more respect, if you please.”
“And if I don’t please?”
Marta scowled. Frankly, she’d been wondering when Longfeather would start testing the bars of his cage. Better to settle things now, she realized, or it was only going to get worse. Under the terms of their contract, she was free to determine the conditions under which Longfeather served. This being a magical contract, it gave Marta a great deal of leeway. She gauged the height of the branch where Longfeather was perched, and made her decision.
“Hog,” she said.
And now the man who became a goshawk became a hog in the next blink of the eye. His hooves slipped off either side of the branch and he gave a perfectly respectable pig squeal as the rough branch slammed into his nether regions. He continued squealing as he flipped over the branch and fell hard to the ground several feet below. By this time Sela was laughing so hard she could barely breathe, but Bonetapper merely hopped onto Longfeather’s abandoned perch and proceeded to take up where Longfeather had left off with his evening meal.
“You were saying, Longfeather?” Marta asked.
“L-long bristle is closer to the truth,” Sela said. The hog just glared at her and tried to stand up, but clearly the transition from a hawk’s talons to a pig’s four hooves was a little hard to get the knack for right away. Longfeather lost his balance, fell hard and rolled over on his back again, his four hooves in the air, which started Sela on another round of giggles. Marta just waited with exaggerated patience while Longfeather finally sorted out his footing. He staggered closer to the campfire.
“I suppose you thought that was funny, too?” he asked Marta in a grunting voice.
Marta just smiled. “No. But this is—snail.”
Longfeather was a snail now, a tiny snail with a pearlescent green shell. The snail, being a snail, didn’t say anything. Marta took advantage of his silence. “You are what I need you to be, Longfeather, and if you still doubt that you’re much more an idiot than your reputation. Now. I need you to be co-operative and answer my questions—goshawk—do you think you can do that?”
The goshawk was back, but if a goshawk could turn green, then Longfeather would have been green. As it was he staggered as if dizzy and had to flap his wings more than once to regain his balance.
“I can’t…I can’t wear that shape. Please…don’t do that again.”
“I won’t, unless you defy me again or I have need of a snail. The need you can’t control, but the rest is up to you. Are we clear?”
“Yes, Lady Marta. What--what do you want to know?”
Marta didn’t miss the gleam of satisfaction in Sela’s eyes. Not that Marta blamed her, but Sela’s antipathy for Longfeather could cause problems, and that was something Marta did not need. They’d both need watching.
“Longfeather, you gave one of Master Solthyr’s swords to Boranac of the Five Isles., I believe it was the one called ‘Sunset.’ Is that correct?”
“I did not know its name,” said the goshawk, “but I did give the other sword to Boranac, yes.” The hawk’s voice was a bit screechy, but Longfeather had always sounded like that as a goshawk.
“Does he still have the sword?”
“I cannot say for certain, but I believe so. Boranac is a great admirer of Master Solthyr’s work. I doubt he would have given it up willingly.”
“Thank you. That’s all I need at the moment.”
Longfeather tested his wings hesitantly, then flew back to his perch, chasing Bonetapper off, but by then there was nothing left of Longfeather’s meal but a few scraps of fur.
“If you ever need me to kill this damn raven,” Longfeather said, “I am enthusiastically at your disposal.”
Marta smiled. “I’ll keep that in mind,” she said, ignoring Bonetapper’s sour look. She turned back to Sela. “I’m going to list the seven named swords of type shortscythe your father created, so correct me if I’m wrong—Shave the Cat, Sunset, Leafcutter, Sunrise, Bonebane, Part the Breeze, and Sunlight-on-Water. “
Sela frowned. “That’s right, though I would like to clarify one thing—these seven blades are the only named swords my father created of any type. He made many swords, even spears and a few daggers, but he never gave any of the others a name. These swords are different. He even referred to them as a group—the Seven Sisters. I thought it was strange at the time, but when I asked about it, he just smiled.”
Marta considered this. “We’ve accounted for three of the named swords. Could you identify the other four if you saw them?”
“I-I believe so. Why?”
“Because we need to find them. Every last one.”
§
Marta could not go to sleep. She was tired, but that brief contact with the Fifth Law had her mind buzzing like a wasps’ nest and it would not let her rest. She finally got out of her cot and stepped down from the cart.
It was a cool night and the smoldering campfire left a haze of wood smoke that almost made Marta sneeze. Sela was curled up in her blankets near the fire; Bonetapper and Longfeather had found separate roosting spots nearby. Marta moved carefully and quietly and managed to leave the campsite without awakening any of them. While the sensible thing would have been to assign them to a schedule of watch duty, Marta didn’t see the point—awake or asleep, Marta would know if someone was approaching the camp. It was a knack her mother had taught her, and while it was more hedge-witch magic than anything to do with the Laws, Marta had found the trick useful more than once.
Marta walked out of the grove of oaks where they’d made camp and down to the beach. There was a nearly full moon that dimmed the stars and reflected in wavelets and ripples out on the bay. A dark line of clouds near the horizon hinted at storms further out to sea; the surf was running high. Marta sat on a driftwood log and for a while she simply sat, listening to the rush and hiss of the waves as they pounded the beach and then receded. It was only a little later that Marta realized that she wasn’t just sitting. She was waiting.
Bloody hell….
“Hello, lambkin.”
Once again, the basic inequality of their relationship was emphasized to Marta. If she wanted to
speak to Amaet, she had to make the journey to Amaet’s temple on Mount Karsanmon. Amaet, on the other hand, could talk to Marta whenever, wherever, and however she damn well felt like it. The only recourse Marta had was not to listen, but this was both difficult and—Marta had long since realized—foolish. Amaet always gave accurate and useful information. She always gave it for her own reasons and in pursuit of her own agenda, but that was just to be expected.
The Power called Amaet sat on the other end of Marta’s log. Marta didn’t need the silvery glow around the Power’s body to recognize her companion. Amaet was the creator of the Arrow Path which was Marta’s magical discipline as it had been her mother’s before her. She could never fail to recognize her mistress, no matter what form she took. In this particular case, she had taken the form of a plump old woman, with a kindly face and scraggly white hair. She could just as easily have appeared as a young man or woman beautiful beyond mortal understanding, though Marta only had her mother’s word for the former, since Marta had never seen Amaet appear as anything other than female.
Marta took a deep breath. “To what do I owe this honor?”
Amaet laughed. It was a moment or two before she could speak. “Oh, girl…do you have any idea how much like Black Kath you sound? I could almost hear the ‘What do you want???” and ‘Get to the bloody point!!!” in your speech. I have to say, I’ve missed that with your mother gone.”
Marta knew very well that any conversation with Amaet, no matter on whose initiative it was, presented dangers. Careless words had consequences—some questions Amaet would answer because it suited her whims. Another answer, on a different day to a different question, might add years to the debt-burden Marta already carried as part of her mother’s inheritance. For all the apparent informality in Marta’s speech, she chose her words carefully.
“That would make two of us, Amaet. So. What do you want and how dearly is it going to cost me?”
“Your mother taught you well, but even she understood that I can be helpful when I choose to be, and demand nothing in return.”
“That is true,” Marta admitted. “but only if the help you give serves your purposes as well.”
Amaet shrugged. “As I said—she taught you well.”
The Power said nothing else for a while. Marta knew better than to press her, and Amaet’s silence let Marta return to contemplating the look and sound of the waves. The glances Marta took at Amaet now and then showed the Power apparently doing the same.
“I remember this,” Amaet said. She wasn’t looking at Marta, but rather at the waves on the bay.
Marta frowned. “You’ve been here before?”
“Probably. I’ve been a great many places,” Amaet said, but Marta got the distinct feeling that, at least for that moment, Amaet was barely aware of her. Or of anything that didn’t have anything to do with the Power’s view of the bay.
“Sometimes,” Amaet said. “I have to wonder how mortals can be so oblivious.”
Marta tried not to stare. What is she talking about?
The image of Amaet shivered, and the atmosphere changed completely. Now Marta felt the presence of the Power, and understood to the core of her being that, despite her current appearance as a kindly old grandmother, Amaet and kindness simply did not go together.
I understand that you touched the Fifth Law recently. Bravo.
Now Amaet was no longer bothering to form words, but speaking directly to Marta’s mind, in that way that Marta had always considered both intrusive and rude, and served no real purpose except to remind Marta—as if she needed it—who and what she was dealing with.
“Yes,” Marta said aloud. She could have answered in the same fashion, but it pleased her just a little to assert her humanity. She liked the contrast.
So much like your mother…though I think there’s something you should know.
Marta took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “And how much will this knowledge cost me?”
Amaet smiled then. Marta didn’t like it when Amaet smiled. Now she was reminded just why that was.
Not nearly so much as not knowing will cost you. But don’t worry—today I come bringing gifts.
So the information would not add to her debt burden. Marta was not reassured. Even if there was no immediate effect on Marta’s debt, Amaet never offered anything that didn’t suit her own purposes first and foremost. That’s where the price would eventually be paid. Marta kept her tone polite.
“Thank you. What is this that I should know?”
You’re not the only one looking for the Seven Sisters.
“Are they seeking the Fifth Law as well?”
There was no answer. Marta was alone on the driftwood log. She looked back out to sea. Amaet’s information, though of course incomplete, was still useful. Not that this knowledge changed anything, no matter who else might be on the hunt. Master Solthyr’s swords held the key to the Fifth Law, and so she would seek them out.
She really had no choice.
§
Marta and Sela were finishing their breakfast the next morning when Longfeather came soaring over the grove and then glided down to his perch by the camp. Bonetapper eyed him suspiciously, but kept his own perch about three feet away.
“The road and surrounding area is clear except for a couple of woodcutters and what looks like a merchant pack train on its way to the port at Shalas,” Longfeather said.
“Escorted?”
The goshawk appeared to shrug. “Of course. Two mounted guards, and the wagon driver has a crossbow.”
Sela frowned. “I thought the roads along the Antoka coast were safe?”
“They are…mostly,” Longfeather said. “It’s a sensible precaution. Merchants who weren’t sensible were my natural prey.”
“Now that’s rats and vermin,” Sela said sweetly.
Longfeather appeared about to make a retort, but apparently thought better of it. “As you say. Though I don’t consider them that much different.”
Marta cut off any further exchanges. “Thank you, Longfeather,” she said. “Now I want you and Bonetapper to find a source of fresh water. I’d like a bath before we reach Shalas.”
Marta’s two winged servants took off from the tree and flew off in opposite directions.
Sela looked thoughtful. “So we are going to Shalas. I wondered.”
“Originally, I had planned to buy some supplies and pass through, but now it seems we have business with Boranac of the Five Isles. We’re going to need a boat. “
“Hiring one could be difficult,” Sela said. “If Boranac isn’t a pirate himself, he tolerates them operating in his waters for a share of the spoils. Sensible captains avoid the area.”
“He’d do much better to protect and encourage trade,” Marta said. “but no one ever accused Boranac of being the keenest blade in the rack.”
Given the choice, Marta liked to deal with sensible people, but Boranac’s reputation was of one both thick-skulled and arrogant. Not the best combination in a person, to her way of thinking, and in a leader it was especially troubling. The one thing both stupid and arrogant people had in common was that they both could be persuaded to recognize their best interests, though one usually had to use different means of persuasion for each. But stupid and arrogant? Such people wouldn’t understand and didn’t think they needed to. They tended to be fearless when a little fear might save a lot of lives, their own not excluded. Marta sighed. She was not looking forward to what was to come.
So much like your mother.
Amaet’s words came back to her, and Marta shook her head. Not yet. Not even close.
Bonetapper returned first, looking about as smug as a raven can look. “There’s a large stream just within the foothills, about half a league from here. It has a hot spring.”
“Really? An actual hot spring?” Sela asked. From the way her face practically lit up like a brushfire, Marta could tell that she was already imagining a long, hot, soaking bath, the first in weeks.
&nbs
p; “It exits the rocks into a natural basin large enough to soak in, then spills into the spring. Upstream, the water is mountain runoff and cold. Where the hotspring runoff enters the stream, pleasantly warm.”
It sounded wonderful. Black Kath had often cautioned Marta about anything that sounded wonderful. “Almost too good to be true,” she said.
Bonetapper cocked his head at her. “It is as I’ve said.”
Marta shook her head. “I’m not doubting you. But so near the coastal road? I’d expect such a marvelous resource to be common knowledge and at least serving as a rest station along the merchants’ route. Something’s amiss.”
“There’s no one around it,” Bonetapper said. “Not for leagues. I’m certain.”
Sela looked hopeful. “Perhaps…perhaps we should take a look?”
It was not Marta’s habit to go looking for trouble, when trouble had little problem in finding her on its own, but she felt something. A…pull, was the closest she could come to describing the feeling, and she’d felt it at the moment when Bonetapper had announced the existence of the spring. It wasn’t like the pull of a Law. There was no recognition of the sort she’d expect to feel in a case like that. No, but there was something, perhaps, that would be good for her to understand.
Marta nodded. “I think we definitely should.”
When Longfeather returned to camp he and the raven were instructed to keep watch while Marta and Sela set out to find the hotspring following Bonetapper’s directions. The farther they moved from the coast, the higher the land rose. There were large hills that were little short of mountains themselves, the harbingers of the southern Boarsback Mountains further inland. Still, the going was not yet steep, and the needles of the evergreen forests kept their path quiet and relatively free of underbrush. They found the small valley that Bonetapper had described with little effort, and it wasn’t long before they heard the distant sound of rushing water. It was about the same time they both caught a distinctive scent. It was faint, but unmistakeable.
Death.
Sela had left her mailshirt behind, probably in anticipation of that hot bath she’d been hoping for, but she didn’t come unarmed. She drew Shave-the-Cat and immediately went into a fighter’s crouch. She turned her head this way, then that way, looking for danger toward the valley walls and in the shadows of the trees. Marta just continued to test the air with her nose and—briefly—her tongue. The smell was too faint and earthy to be recent. Another few days and there would be no sign at all.
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