Villains by Necessity (v1.1)

by Eve Forward

  “I guess this is one you’re to do, knight,” said Valerie, examining it.

  “That looks like the one I had in my dream!” exclaimed Robin. “With the tracks and ... but this is ... wait a moment!”

  “Uh-oh,” Arcie muttered, looking at the centaur and stealthily drawing his dagger.

  “What are you doing!?” exclaimed Robin. “What is this?”

  Arcie readied his dagger, but felt a strong hand descend upon his shoulder. He looked up, and up, to see Blackmail lift his hand again and motion a negative.

  Arcie looked exasperated, but Blackmail signaled a request for trust. Arcie sulkily put away the dagger; Kaylana sighed and turned to the centaur.

  “I suppose we should have explained to you earlier, Robin. Our quest is a strange one, and one that many would not approve of. I shall explain it to you, and hope that you will be as wise as my companions and can grasp it.”

  Kaylana briefly explained the situation to the centaur: of the world’s increasing imbalance, of the danger of such an influx; of the Darkgate and the Key. Robin listened with increasing horror. Undo the actions of the Heroes?

  Release darkness and evil? This must not be! But at the same time, he felt a faint unease; these people he journeyed with did not seem like evil demons. They were certainly very nasty, it was true, but still they seemed so human at times; he had watched Sam’s bumbling attempts to attract the attention of the Druid, heard Arcie whistling along to the music of his harp. Blackmail’s obvious sorrow at the loss of his steed ... These things showed something more than a mindless evil...

  But that was no concern of his. He absorbed all the information Kaylana gave to him, and then steeled his thoughts. He could feel the deep gray eyes of the Druid boring into his own, but made his will stern and secret, controlling his thoughts instinctively so that her gaze did not go past his retinas, and then answered as Mizzamir had instructed him.

  “Oh! Well, you should have said so. How fascinating! I won’t interfere at all. What a ballad this will make, whether you succeed or fail. Please, let me continue with you ... I may not be much help, other than as an entertainer, but this is so ... unusual, that my curiosity, among other things, drives me to know more ...” he stammered nervously, head swimming from the weight of this news but careful to speak only the truth. It wasn’t hard. Centaurs by nature were an honest people; only Robin’s poet training gave him the ability to fudge and exaggerate and delude slightly.

  “Look, minstrel,” Sam put in. “If you want to come along you’re going to have to start pulling more of your own considerable weight. When we fight, you fight. When we run, you run. No more fainting or skipping out. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, I understand,” Robin answered firmly. That was true enough, anyway. He understood every word.

  Whether he would have to obey was another matter.

  “Right, then,” retorted Valerie. “Blackmail?”

  The knight nodded and stepped up to the mural. Pausing a moment to trace the golden griffin device on the shield in the mural, he then pressed his gauntlet into it.

  There was a flash of brilliant light that left purple afterimages dancing around the room, and he vanished.

  “I hope he makes it,” worried Kaylana. “We are running out of time and are probably being pursued even now. I wonder if we will be killed by the likes of Sir Fenwick before the entire world sublimates in light.”

  “How do you spell ‘sublimates’? One b or two?” asked Robin, taking out a roll of parchment and scribbling furiously, to cover his shakey relief that the villains had bought his story. Now for a few convincing ballads to let them think he really was interested in their insane plot, which would also serve as notes for his report to Mizzamir...

  “I never likes speculating on how I’m going to die,”

  Arcie retorted, pulling out his pipe. “The only thing to do right now is wait. Smoke ‘em if ye has ‘em.”

  “There ought to be a way to get around this,” Valerie said in annoyance, tapping the floor. “It irks me no end to have my own survival hang on the actions of cretins like yourselves, no offense.”

  “None taken I’m sure,” Sam retorted sweetly.

  “I am not worried,” Kaylana put in thoughtfully. “It seems to me the dark knight knows what is going on better than any of us.”

  “Unusual fellow, him,” Arcie said. “Not a word this whole trip... Doesn’t eat, doesn’t sleep...”

  They continued to inspect the mural, while the drops of water spattered about in a random dripping chorus.

  “The Hero Sir Pryse,” commented Valerie, looking at the mosaic. “A powerful man.”

  “What does the inscription say?” inquired Arcie, as they waited. Valerie studied it.

  “Here is the Test of Honor,” she read. “You who hold to what is right, ploys of others all despite, are the true champions of the light.”

  “Sort of rhymes,” said Sam grudgingly.

  “Who says they have to rhyme?” asked Robin. Sam shrugged. “Well, I think it’s a nice touch. I hope when you write a song about us, that is assuming we survive ...”

  “And that you can remember anything worth writing about,” put in Arcie. “... I hope you manage to make it rhyme, or at least try... too many of your modern ballads are just a collection of disjointed sentences.”

  “That’s true,” agreed Arcie. “Damned hard to remember them words after the first seven beers, some of them. Not real songs.”

  “No,” admitted Kaylana. “Those were all lost with the bards.”

  “What-” began Robin, rather crossly.

  There was a sudden popping sound, and Blackmail appeared in the room, apparently unharmed. He was holding a deep purple chunk of crystal and beckoning to them, as it flashed tight and then settled into stillness. He hastened to the opening and parted the waterfall, as a low groaning grating sound began to thrum through the stone.

  As they hurried out of the cave, a sudden rumble shook the earth. On the safety of the edge of the grotto, they turned. The hidden shrine caved in, rocks and water splashing, as outside the waterfall collapsed, sinking in on itself. Valerie raised an eyebrow.

  “Sir Pryse was a rather crafty fellow,” she commented.

  Next to her. Blackmail nodded, looking at the destruction.

  “One almost has to admire it.”

  VI

  They passed through the rest of the sullen Kwartan countryside without incident, avoiding the looming castles of the feudal lords. Early morning, and with the sight of human habitation in the distance, the little band of renegades put aside thought of dinner and sleeping the new day away. Instead they pressed onward, heading for the large town in the distance, looking forward to recovering some of their strength and replenishing some of their provisions.

  Sam made a vow under his breath not to touch even the merest drop of alcohol. They passed through the front gates of Martogon, along with oxcarts of goods and chatting pedestrians, shortly before noon. Martogon was near the coast, a neutral city established here somewhat against the wishes of the local lords. Inhabited mainly by other outlanders, it was probably one of the few cities that strangers like themselves could find decent treatment.

  “Fenwick’s men are probably still dredging the Fens for us,” chuckled Sam.

  “I believe we can rest here today and tonight,” suggested Kaylana, “and then move on early tomorrow evening.”

  “Sounds well enough to me,” said Arcie. The rest concurred, and they drifted off on their own errands.

  In Sam’s opinion, of course, the first thing to do was buy some new clothes. He knew he looked like a villain, and a fairly scruffy looking one at that. He felt terribly conspicuous as he walked down the street, and at the first opportunity he ducked into the shadows of the buildings and inched his way invisibly toward a haberdasher’s.

  Within the shop at last, and free to inspect what the establishment had to offer, he found himself torn. The shop’s owner, busily taking the measure
ment of a portly local merchant, merely gave him a look that one might reserve for a dead mouse found in one’s breakfast, and left Sam to his thoughts.

  Back at the Guild, of course, all one’s clothes were not only tailor-made, but specially tailor-made, with hidden pockets and loops and slits in which to hide various tools of the trade. The average assassin didn’t feel really dressed unless he was carrying at least fourteen different lethal weapons about his person. And of course, back in those days, he’d had plenty of money. He-could afford the very best. People had once asked for his services in particular, hearing of his reputation, asking for the blade that never missed. He’d had a whole wardrobe then, lots of clothes and costumes for wear in the outside world so that none would know him for his trade. Merchant, soldier, beggar, prince, thief-he could appear as anyone if it helped him come within reach of his target. But one by one, the clothes had been sold away, for the money he now needed for food; his profession, the only one he knew, was no longer in demand. At the end he’d had nothing more than his “working” clothes; the uniform of matte black that allowed him to blend with the shadows.

  Sheer stupid stubborn pride had made him keep them this long, knowing the risks he ran in this new Light world ... but that same pride now gnawed at his heart as he debated the clothes before him. He couldn’t afford a tailor. His old outfit would have to go, there was no choice in the matter, he insisted with himself; faded, torn, tattered, it barely kept him warm. What to take its place?

  Within the confines of the shop’s stock, clothes of a similar color were conspicuous by their absence. He couldn’t have anything of bright hues; it would cut his efficiency by half, at least, besides making his eyes hurt. He rubbed his face on the soft sandwashed silk of his sleeve absentmindedly, lost in distraction. Perhaps ... he winced. It was shameful, bitter, unpleasant... but unavoidable. He was going to have to charge Arcie expenses.

  Arcie, meanwhile, was busy. He had followed Sam’s example and padded his way to the lower merchant quarter of town, where some of his Barigan kinfolk looked up from their honest work in surprise at seeing a stranger in town. They had greeted him cheerfully, with that comradeship held between those of a country people in a world of city folk, and he had responded in kind, giving compliments on the condition of the houses and gardens.

  By the time he’d gotten to the store he was after, he’d already been gifted with a couple of ripe apples and a biscuit.

  Munching these, he padded into a different tailor’s shop, exchanged words of good cheer with the seamstress, and emerged attired in a clean new overshirt of dark green and a pair of natty brown breeches with a touch of yellow braid around the cuffs, nicely setting off his newly polished brown boots. A few more stops gained him a pouch of tobacco, a new tinderbox, and a brand new hat to replace his battered leather cap lost to the recent chaos. It was soft brown, with a bright blue plume.

  Plumes were the thing to wear in Kwart; as Dous had its tunics and Trois its fringed vest, so did the people of Kwart mark themselves by plumes, in gentlemen’s hats or helmets and ladies’ headdress. He adjusted his new headgear in the mirror with a grin, and tipped his new hat to himself several times. Then he set off for the main part of town, to make back something of the funds expended in his little outing.

  As Arcie lounged on the corner, watching the early morning crowd go past, his visual hunting was interrupted by a hiss from the shadows.

  “Arcie!”

  Arcie turned around to see Sam lurking in an alleyway and motioning to him. He left the corner and padded over.

  “Hello laddie,” he said softly, as soon as he was close enough. “What are ye about?”

  “Expenses, Arcie. I need my clothes repaired or replaced ... otherwise I may not be able to complete the job.” Sam flapped his ragged sleeves like a disheveled crow.

  “Job?” asked Arcie, eyebrows curling in confusion.

  “Mizzamir, you feeb!” Sam hissed.

  “Oh aye, so you’re right. Nay problems.” The Barigan shrugged and fumbled among his pouches until he came up with a small one that clinked. A twitch of the drawstrings, and he peered into it. “Aye, yon’s about fortyfive in tellins and stellins ... enough?”

  Sam’s eyes widened. “Uh, yes, plenty...”

  Arcie tossed him the pouch with a grin. “Take it, then ... keep ye the change.”

  Sam looked worriedly at his small companion. He hadn’t expected this. Arcie hadn’t become the Guildmaster of Thieves back in Bistort for handing out largess. He was the most notorious kind of thief, the kind that would steal the buttons off your shoes. The thought of him casually handing over forty-five tellins in mixed coins to an out-of-luck assassin to buy clothes was unthinkable.

  Arcie watched Sam’s confusion a moment. He was recalling a dark night in fog and swamp, in agony, dying, when sudden hands had pulled him free of the mud’s clutch and thrown him over a centaur’s withers. Mayhaps we were never really friends, before, laddie, he thought, but we must by rights be now ... though I’d never dream to embarrass ye by saying so.

  “Get yerself something nice,” encouraged Arcie, with a tip of his new hat, “and by Bella’s breasts, my hired death-dealer, get a haircut and shave.” With that, the thief turned on his bare heel and ambled off down the street. Sam was left holding the pouch of coins, standing there a long moment. Then he whispered after the departing figure a silent, “Thanks.”

  “You really are conspicuous, you know that, do you not?” Kaylana said sternly, looking up at the tall dark figure of the knight, who made no comment.

  “Are you still insistent that you will not come out of that armor?” she inquired.

  The helmet nodded. Kaylana sighed.

  “You have me right confused, dark knight. You do not eat, you do not sleep, you do not drink, you do not speak. But you fight and you reason, apparently, and you hear my words. And you are dammed conspicuous in that black plate-mail.”

  Blackmail folded his mailed arms over his breastplate adamantly. Kaylana drummed her fingers on her staff.

  “We cannot have you walking around town like that, you understand,” she said. “People will notice.”

  The helmeted head raised in a gesture of aloof dismissal.

  Kaylana gave him her best exasperated look. “All right, then. You seem to be able to take care of yourself. But try not to cause any trouble.” Kaylana made her way boldly toward the local dry goods shop. She didn’t need to buy anything much for herself, and Blackmail needed nothing, so she took the liberty of purchasing such traveling necessities as waterskins, haversacks, and provisions.

  Valerie had taken a look about the town and given up.

  She risked the sun a brief moment, to remove her cloak and shake it, reversing it. She replaced it hurriedly, as the hot sun burned her fair skin, adjusting its folds over her arms and face. That was better. The crimson took in less of the heat, and would not be so noticeable in the wellpopulated town, but she didn’t want to spend any more time out here than she had to. She hastened to the inn they had chosen, with the sign of the Frothing Otter creaking in the wind. Nightshade peered about from her shoulder.

  Robin left town altogether the instant the others had wandered from sight. The few people that saw him stared and pointed, and children ran away. Centaurs were not common in Kwart, and old prejudices were still around.

  Ducking into a livery stable, he grabbed at the silver bracelet on his wrist. With a flash and twist of magic he appeared within the Silver Tower, in Mizzamir’s magical working room.

  The room was empty, but his arrival was announced by the soft chime of a bell. Robin quickly ran his fingers through his mane and tail, and straightened his collar as the rune-worked door to the room opened and admitted the radiant figure of the silver-haired Elf. Robin bowed respectfully, and the arch-mage nodded acknowledg ment.

  “So, young Robin, how are you getting on?” asked the mage with a raise of his elegant eyebrow. “I’d thought you had said they were killing each other.�
�

  “Sir, I had thought they were ... but when I returned to confirm it, I found them in good health and spirits, and there was no trace of the earlier harsh words.” Robin fidgeted as the mage looked surprised.

  “Hmm, quite odd. Have you found out where they’re headed?”

  “Yes sir, I have.” Robin squared his shoulders and took out his notes. To his surprise, the mage did not seem overly shocked by the news that the villains intended to recover the Spectrum Key and open the Darkgate. Mizzamir simply nodded sagely and, when Robin was through, said, “Yes, it is as I suspected. Well, there is no harm in letting them try ... though I wish there was some safe way of stopping them before the Tests kill them all. Or, for that matter, before Fenwick goes after them once more.”

  He sighed. “What are they doing at the moment?”

  “The villains, sir? They’ve stopped to rest, sir, in a town called Martogon. They’ve split up, running errands.”

  “Split up, eh?” Mizzamir looked out the window at the clear blue sky. “Well, that is convenient. If Fenwick is going to rush in like this, it leaves me no choice but to cut him off at the pass, as it were. Else he will quickly catch up to your little band of villains and put them to a nasty sticky end. Return to Martogon, Robin... I shall be following shortly. Do not wait for me.”

  Robin nodded respectfully, and with a low bow, pressed the two gray stones on his bracelet. With a whoosh and whirl of magic, he found himself once more in the warm stables of Martogon. He shook his head. The mage’s face, particularly in annoyance, had seemed oddly familiar somehow. Must have been a trick of the light.

  He settled down to try to get some sleep in an empty loose box, but a horse in the next stall over was making noises of distress that bothered him.

  Sam had quickly changed into an inexpensive dark brown tunic and pair of green leggings, and tenderly handed his folded assassin blacks to the tailor. “I want you to mend these,” he said. “Don’t alter them. Don’t decorate them or anything. Just mend them.” The tailor took the clothes with a wrinkled nose, the plumes on his hat fluttering, and lifted a corner of the tunic. Light showed through numerous holes, making the garment