I suspected the only magic at work was half a dozen sturdy Modegan longbows. But it’s the nature of people to cry magic whenever they’re faced with something they cannot easily explain, especially in Vintas.
Alveron leaned forward in his seat. “Might I rely on your help in this?”
There was only one response to that. “Of course, your grace.”
“Do you know much woodcraft?”
“I studied under a yeoman when I was younger,” I exaggerated, guessing he was looking for someone to help devise a better defense for his collectors. “I know enough to track a man and hide myself.”
Alveron raised an eyebrow at that. “Really? You are possessed of quite the diverse education, aren’t you?”
“I’ve led an interesting life, your grace.” The bottle of wine I’d drunk made me bolder than usual, and I added. “I’ve got an idea or two you might find helpful in dealing with your bandit problem.”
He leaned forward in his chair. “Do tell.”
“I could devise some arcane protection for your men.” I made a flourish with the long fingers of my right hand, hoping it looked sufficiently mystical. I juggled numbers in my head and wondered how long it would take to create an arrowcatch using only the equipment in Caudicus’ tower.
Alveron nodded thoughtfully. “That might suffice if I was only concerned for the safety of my collectors. But this is the king’s road, a major artery of trade. I need to be rid of the bandits themselves.”
“In that case,” I said, “I would assemble a small group who know how to make their way quietly in a forest. They shouldn’t have too much difficulty locating your bandits. When they do, it should be a simple matter to send your guard out to catch them.”
“Easier yet to set an ambush and kill them, wouldn’t you say?” Alveron said slowly, as if looking to gauge my reaction.
“Or that,” I admitted. “Your grace is the arm of the law.”
“Death is the penalty for banditry. Especially on the king’s road,” Alveron said firmly. “Does that seem harsh to you?”
“Not in the least,” I said, looking him squarely in the eye. “Safe roads are the bones of civilization.”
Alveron surprised me with a sudden smile. “Your plan is the very image of my own. I have gathered a handful of mercenaries to do just as you’ve suggested. I’ve had to move secretly, as I don’t know who might be sending these bandits their warnings. But I’ve got four good men ready to leave tomorrow: a tracker, two mercenaries with some skill in the forest, and an Adem mercenary. The last did not come cheaply, either.”
I gave him a congratulatory nod. “You’ve already planned it better than I could, your grace. It hardly seems as if you need my help at all.”
“Quite the contrary,” he said. “I still need someone with a little sense to lead them.” He looked at me meaningfully. “Someone who understands magic. Someone I can trust.”
I felt a sudden sinking sensation.
Alveron got to his feet, smiling warmly. “Twice now you have served me beyond all expectations. Are you familiar with the expression ‘third time pays for all’?”
Again, there was only one reasonable answer to that question. “Yes, your grace.”
Alveron took me to his rooms, and we looked over maps of the countryside where his men had been lost. It was a long stretch of the king’s highway running through a piece of the Eld that had been old when Vintas was nothing more than a handful of squabbling sea kings. It was a little more than eighty miles away. We could be there in four days of hard walking.
Stapes provided me with a new travelsack, and I packed it as well as I was able. I took a few of the more practical clothes from my wardrobe, though they were still more suited for a ballroom than the road. I packed away a few items I’d quietly pilfered from Caudicus’ lab over the last span, and gave Stapes a list of a few essential items I was lacking, and he produced them all more quickly than a grocer in a store.
Finally, at the hour when all but the most desperate and dishonest persons are abed, Alveron gave me a purse containing a hundred silver bits. “This is a messy way of handling it,” Alveron said. “Normally I would give you a writ charging citizens to provide you with assistance and aid.” He sighed. “But using something like that as you travel would be as good as blowing a trumpet announcing your arrival.”
I nodded. “If they’re clever enough to have a spy among your guard, it’s safe to assume they have connections with the local populace as well, your grace.”
“They might be the local populace,” he said darkly.
Stapes led me out of the estate through the same secret passage the Maer used to enter my rooms. Carrying a hooded thief’s lamp, he took me through several twisting passages, then down a long, dark stairway that bored deep into the stone of the Sheer.
Thus I found myself standing alone in the chill cellar of an abandoned shop in Severen-Low. It was in the section of the city that had been ravaged by fire some years ago, and the building’s few remaining roof beams stretched like dark bones against the first pale light of dawn.
I stepped from the burned shell of the building. Above, the Maer’s estates perched on the edge of the Sheer like some predatory bird.
I spat, none too pleased with my situation, press-ganged into mercenary service. My eyes were gritty from my sleepless night and my long journey through the twisting stone passages in the Sheer. The wine I’d drunk wasn’t improving anything either. For the last few hours I could feel myself growing less drunk and more hungover by slow degrees. I’d never been awake through the entire process before, and it was not pleasant. I’d managed to keep up appearances in front of Alveron and Stapes, but the fact of the matter was that my gut was sour and my thoughts were thick and sluggish.
The cool, predawn air cleared my head a little, and within a hundred steps I began thinking of things I’d forgotten to include on the list I’d given Stapes. The wine had done me no favors there. I had no tinderbox, no salt, no knife. . . .
My lute. I hadn’t picked it up from the luthier after having its loose peg fixed. Who knew how long I might be hunting bandits for the Maer. How long would it sit unclaimed before the man decided it had been abandoned?
I went two miles out of my way, but found the luthier’s shop dark and lifeless. I hammered on the door to no avail. Then, after a moment’s indecision, I broke in and stole it. Though it hardly seemed to be stealing, since the lute was mine to begin with, and I’d already paid for the repairs.
I had to climb a wall, force a window, and trip two locks. It was fairly simple stuff, but given my sleepless wine-sodden head, I’m probably lucky I didn’t fall off the roof and break my neck. But aside from a loose piece of slate that set my heart racing, things went smoothly and I was back on my way in twenty minutes.
The four mercenaries Alveron had assembled were waiting in a tavern two miles north of Severen. We made brief introductions and left immediately, heading north on the king’s highway.
My thoughts were so sluggish that I was miles north of Severen before I began to reconsider a few things. Only then did it occur to me that the Maer might have been less than completely honest in everything he had told me the night before.
Was I truly the best person to lead a handful of trackers into an unfamiliar forest to kill a band of highwaymen? Did the Maer really think so much of me?
No. Of course not. It was flattering, but simply not true. The Maer had access to better resources than that. The truth was, he probably wanted his sweet-tongued assistant out of the way now that he had the Lady Lackless well in hand. I was foolish for not realizing it sooner.
So he sent me on a fool’s errand to get me out from underfoot. He expected me to spend a month chasing his wild goose in the deep forest of the Eld then come back empty-handed. The purse made better sense, too. A hundred bits would keep us provisioned for a month or so. Then, when I ran out of money I’d be forced to return to Severen where the Maer would cluck his tongue in disappointme
nt and use my failure as an excuse to ignore some of the favor I’d accumulated so far.
On the other hand, if I got lucky and found the bandits, all the better. It was exactly the sort of plan I’d credit to the Maer. No matter what happened, he got something he wanted.
It was irritating. But I could hardly go back to Severen and confront him. Now that I’d committed myself, there was nothing to do but make the best of the situation.
As I walked north, my head throbbing and my mouth gritty, I decided I would surprise the Maer again. I’d hunt down his bandits.
Then third time would pay for all, and Maer Alveron would be well and truly in my debt.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
The Players
OVER THE NEXT FEW hours of walking, I did my best to get to know the men Alveron had saddled me with. I speak figuratively, of course, as one of them was a woman, and we were all five of us afoot.
Tempi caught my eye first and held it the longest, as he was the first Adem mercenary I’d ever met. Far from being the imposing, hard-eyed killer I’d expected, Tempi was rather nondescript, neither particularly tall nor heavily built. He was fair-skinned with light hair and pale grey eyes. His expression was blank as fresh paper. Strangely blank. Studiously blank.
I knew Adem mercenaries wore blood-red clothing as a sort of badge. But Tempi’s outfit was different than I’d expected. His shirt was held tight against his body with a dozen soft leather straps. His pants, too, were belted tightly at the thigh and calf and knee. Everything was dyed the same bright and bloody red, and it fit him snugly as a gentleman’s glove.
As the day grew warm, I saw him begin to sweat. After living in the cool, thin air of the Stormwal, the weather must have seemed disproportionately hot to him. An hour before noon, he loosened the leather straps of his shirt and peeled it away, using it to wipe the sweat from his face and arms. He didn’t seem even slightly self-conscious about walking the king’s highway naked to the waist.
Tempi’s skin was so pale it was almost the color of cream, and his body was lean and sleek as a coursing hound, his muscles shifting under his skin with an animal grace. I tried not to stare, but my eyes couldn’t help but pick out the thin, pale scars that crossed his arms and chest and back.
He never offered a word of complaint about the heat. Words of any sort seemed rare from him, and he responded to most questions with a nod or a shake of the head. He carried a travelsack like mine, and his sword, far from being intimidating, seemed rather short and unimpressive.
Dedan was as different from Tempi as one man can be from another. He was tall, wide, and thick around the chest and neck. He carried a heavy sword, a long knife, and wore a mismatched set of boiled leather armor, hard enough to knock on and often mended. If you have ever seen a caravan guard, then you have seen Dedan, or at least someone cut from the same bolt of cloth.
He ate most, complained most, swore most, and had a stubborn streak thicker than a broad oak plank. But to be fair, he also had a friendly manner and an easy laugh. I was tempted to think of him as stupid due to his manners and his size, but Dedan had a quick wit when he bothered using it.
Hespe was a female mercenary. Not as rare a creature as some folk think. In appearance and equipage she was a near-mirror of Dedan. The leather, the heavy sword, the slightly weatherworn and world-wise attitude. She had broad shoulders, strong hands, and a proud face with a jaw like a cinder-brick. Her hair was blonde and fine, but cut short, in the fashion of a man’s.
But to see her as a female version of Dedan was a mistake. She was reserved where Dedan was all bravado. And while Dedan had an easy manner when his temper wasn’t up, Hespe had a vague hardness about her, as if she were constantly expecting someone to give her trouble.
Marten was the oldest of us, our tracker. He wore a little leather, softer and better cared for than Dedan’s or Hespe’s. He carried a long knife, a short knife, and a hunter’s bow.
Marten had worked as a huntsman before falling out of favor with the baronet whose forests he had tended. Mercenary work was a poor job by comparison, but it kept him fed. His skill with a bow made him valuable despite the fact that he wasn’t nearly as physically imposing as either Dedan or Hespe.
The three of them had formed a loose partnership some months ago and had been selling their services as a group ever since. Marten told me they’d done other jobs for the Maer, the most recent of which involved scouting some of the lands around Tinuë.
It took me about ten minutes to realize Marten should be the leader of this expedition. He had more woodcraft than all the rest of us put together and had even hunted men for bounty once or twice. When I mentioned this to him, he shook his head and smiled, telling me that being able to do something and wanting to do it were two very different things indeed.
Last was me: their fearless leader. The Maer’s letter of introduction had described me as, “a discerning young man of good education and diverse useful qualities.” While this was perfectly true, it also made me sound like the most wretchedly useless court dandy in existence.
Not helping matters was the fact that I was younger than any of them by years and wearing clothes more suited for a dinner party than the road. I carried my lute and the Maer’s purse. I wore no sword, no armor, no knife.
I daresay they didn’t quite know what to make of me.
The sun was about an hour from setting when we passed a tinker on the road. He wore the traditional brown robe, belted with a length of rope. He didn’t have a cart, but led a single donkey so loaded with bundles of oddments that it looked like a mushroom.
He made his slow way toward us, singing:If you need no mending, and nothing needs tending
A wise man will still see the right time for spending.
Enjoy the sunshine,
But though you might feel fine,
If you don’t stop now, you’ll be filled with regret.
It’s better to simply pay,
And prepare for a rainy day
Than think of the tinker when you’re dripping wet.
I laughed and applauded. Proper traveling tinkers are a rare breed of people, and I am always glad to see one. My mother told me they were lucky, and my father had valued them for their news. The fact that I was in desperate need of a few items made this meeting three times welcome.
“Ho, Tinker,” Dedan said, smiling. “I need fire and a pint. How long before we hit an inn?”
The tinker pointed back the way he had come. “Not twenty minutes’ walk.” He eyed Dedan. “But you can’t tell me there’s nothing you need,” he admonished. “Everyone needs something.”
Dedan shook his head politely. “I beg your pardon, Tinker. My purse is too thin.”
“How about you?” The tinker eyed me up and down. “You’ve the look of a lad who’s wanting something.”
“I do need a few things,” I admitted. Seeing the others look longingly down the road, I motioned them on. “Go ahead,” I told them. “I’ll be a few minutes.”
As they headed off, the tinker rubbed his hands together, grinning. “Well now, what is it you’re looking for?”
“Some salt to begin with.”
“And a box to put it in,” he said as he began to rummage around in his donkey’s packs.
“I could use a knife too, if you have one that’s not too hard to come by.”
“Especially if you’re heading north,” he said without missing a beat. “Dangerous road that way. Wouldn’t do to be without a knife.”
“Did you have any trouble?” I asked, hoping he might know something that could help us find the bandits.
“Oh no,” he said as he dug through his packs. “Things aren’t so bad that anyone would dream of laying hands on a tinker. Still, it’s a bad stretch of road.” He produced a long, narrow knife in a leather sheath and handed it to me. “Ramston steel.”
I drew it out of its sheath, and gave the blade a close look. It was Ramston steel. “I don’t need anything that fine,” I said, handi
ng it back. “I’ll be putting it to everyday use, eating mostly.”
“Ramston’s fine for everyday use,” the tinker said pushing it back into my hands. “You can use it to trim kindling, then shave with it if you like. Keeps an edge forever.”
“I might have to put it to hard use,” I clarified. “And Ramston’s brittle.”
“There is that,” the tinker admitted easily. “As my father always used to say, ‘the best knife you’ll ever have until it breaks.’ But the same could be said of any knife. And truth be told, that’s the only knife I have.”
I sighed. I know when I’m being skinned. “And a tinderbox.”
He held one out almost before I finished saying it. “I couldn’t help but notice you’ve got a little ink about the fingers.” He gestured at my hands. “I’ve got some paper here, good quality. Pen and ink too. Nothing worse than having an idea for a song and not being able to write it down.” He held out a leather parcel of paper, pens, and ink.
I shook my head, knowing that the Maer’s purse would only stretch so far. “I think I’m done with song writing for a while, Tinker.”
He shrugged, still holding it out. “Letter writing then. I know a fellow who had to open a vein once to write a note to his ladylove. Dramatic, true. Symbolic, certainly. But also painful, unsanitary, and more than slightly macabre. Now he carries pen and ink with him wherever he goes.”
I felt the color drain from my face as the tinker’s words reminded me of something else I’d forgotten in my rush to leave Severen: Denna. All thought of her had been forced out of my mind by the Maer’s talk of bandits, two bottles of strong wine, and a night with no sleep. I had left without a word after our terrible fight. What would she think if I spoke so cruelly to her, then simply disappeared?
I was already a full day’s journey from Severen. I couldn’t go back just to tell her I was leaving, could I? I considered it for a moment. No. Besides, Denna herself had disappeared for days without a word of warning. Surely she would understand if I did the same. . . .
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