I would have to be very careful, opening it.
Kaia? Darik, the taran-adai very faint and faraway inside the bonecase of my skull, struggling against the current of my thoughts.
I motioned him along, and he obeyed. We did not speak for a long while.
I was not quite sure it was safe.
Distrustful of Air
A small, filthy alley in the middle of the heaving press of the docks swallowed us without a sound. I was fairly sure we were not followed by now, and pulled D’ri aside, against the wall. “Listen.” The word carried a great deal of urgency in G’mai, my tongue dry and my palms a little damper than I liked. “Can you sense any pursuit?”
He shook his head. “They watched us as we left. Now...” He tilted his head, the fierce killing quiet of a s’tarei closing around him. “No, I do not think so. What is it, Kaialitaa?”
The name—little brave one, with the added accent that made it a tiny jeweled sharpness, like a decorative needle or stilette—should have pained me. I was too worried to feel the cut. “The little viper last night was Sorche’s apprentice. It is very likely she heard Sorche curse my name and set out to avenge her. And yet.”
“And yet?”
I took a deep breath, ignoring the stench and leaning against the filthy, crumbling wall of a fish-crammed warehouse. “There are two of us in danger.”
He did not argue, simply leaned close, examining my face. A frown was probably cutting deep furrows across my forehead, down my chin, casting nets from the corners of my eyes.
Janaire frowned very prettily. I shook the thought away, a quick motion I used to check over his shoulder. Still clear enough. No rasping along my nerves, but I was shaken enough to see pursuers where none existed.
“The old man?” What light managed to pierce the alley’s depth showed his dawning comprehension. “Of course.”
I could still feel the two dry, light taps on my finger. “Not the little one, and not Gavrin. Janaire and Atyarik, is there any...?”
“They were simply searching for me. Perhaps news of my good fortune has reached the Queen.” The traditional term to state a young s’tarei had found his adai carried no bitter tinge; his tone was merely thoughtful. Blue-black hair fell across his forehead, and I longed to brush it away.
I denied that longing. “But to kill an adai...” I exhaled sharply. Even if we were overheard in some fashion, I could be certain there were only four people in Antai who understood my native tongue. And half of them were in this alley.
“I had reached an age past expecting an adai.” He glanced up, checking the crooked slice of sky the alley permitted. I waited, but he simply stared, unseeing. “Perhaps my royal aunt thought so too, and thought to cut a tapestry string before it snarled.”
“The G’mai we met in Vulfentown cannot have carried word beyond the Seven Reaches yet,” I pointed out. “Tis Redfist’s new friend who has the key to this riddle.” I used the word for a murderous misstep on a mountain pass, and his slight, pleased smile was a reward I did not deserve. Puns, riddles, a turn of phrase, a well-chosen utterance—our bards and tale-spinners are held in high honor, and the speed with which they can flay pride and lay open the heart of a matter is legendary.
His expression changed. For a moment I thought he would lean closer...but instead, his gaze focused on my forehead. “Why the large red one as well, then?”
The same thing had occurred to me; I told the tiny cheated feeling at the very back of my throat to go away. “There was some trouble in his homeland. He says he came through Antai before.” It was a thin explanation at best. “Redfist would have warned us if there was a commission on him in Antai. If he knew.”
Then again, I had thought Ammerdahl Rikyat would never have sought to mislead me, too. It was enough to make a sellsword suspicious. Of course, we are even distrustful of the air we breathe, or so the proverb goes. I found myself studying the band of scarring at D’ri’s throat. At least I could be certain of a s’tarei.
No. At least, I could be certain of him.
He shook his head slightly, his throat moving as he spoke. “I do not like this.”
“Nor do I. Come, we should—” I moved as if to urge him along; I disliked the thought of tarrying now we knew we were clear of pursuit and in agreement.
His hands clasped my shoulders, and he kissed me. A pleasant pressure of lips, the dance of tongues, and again the dangerous softness rose to swamp me. Was this what the courtship songs were about? It was too intense to be safe. Yet there was a curious comfort in the blindness of trust.
A whip cracked, horses heaving as a cart rumbled past the mouth of the alley, and I jolted back into my own skin. His forehead rested against mine, our breathing following the same high, fast rhythm.
It is the blood-heat, only that. Was it normal to shake? Was this what Janaire felt, when Atyarik touched her? What my mother had felt, when my father drew near? I had a vague memory of being carried on his chest as he followed my mother during her duties as the Heir of Anjalismir. I remembered resting my cheek against his dotanii straps, all well with the world and my mother’s light lilting laughter soothing us both.
“Kaia,” Darik breathed. I shut my eyes, just for a moment, and leaned against him.
Then I stepped away, wishing I did not feel so bereft once his heat no longer reached me. Still, he followed, and that was enough.
Reckoned For It
“Kaia!” Redfist called in greeting, I did not halt. Ninefinger glanced up, his ill-luck eyes widening, but by then I was moving quickly, my boots slapping flagstone floor, and I kicked the chair from beneath him. Wood groan-creaked, and D’ri was suddenly there, catching Redfist’s shoulder and pushing him back into his chair’s embrace, whispering fiercely in the red barbarian’s ear.
Ninefinger’s face slammed into the tabletop, knocking over two drinking-horns and a chai pot. Mead splashed, a sharp sticky alcoholic fume rising. The table, a long chunk of heavy hinterland oak too bulky to be carried from the villa, seated perhaps fifteen, and quivered all along its length. I grabbed his wrist, twisting, had his meaty arm locked and my palm at his nape, my fingers digging under his filthy, gold-gleaming hair.
I am smaller and much lighter, yes, but there is something to be said for resting a boot on the back of a man’s bent knee, and grinding said knee into the flagstones while your arm snake-wriggles under, locks his arm uselessly away, and your palm presses upon the nape. There are ways to keep even the heaviest of giants from struggling free, especially when you slide your slimmest, sharpest blade parallel to his throat and use it to point his gaze at the ceiling. Like a young sheep, neck stretched before mutton is served.
Leverage is a concept any thief learns early, and a female sellsword alone in the world even earlier.
“Kaia!” Redfist surged up, but D’ri made another quick movement and the red-and-white Skaialan settled just as quickly.
“Barbarian dog.” My lips skinned back from my teeth, my tradetongue clearly enunciated in Corran Ninefinger’s dirt-ringed ear. I glanced at D’ri, only long enough to see he had Redfist well in hand. “What have you done?”
Darik said something else too low for me to hear, and Redfist let out a grunt, as if he’d been struck. Perhaps he had, I had more than enough work in keeping Ninefinger subdued, and he only quieted when my stilette’s edge kissed his throat afresh. The blade was sharp as a whisper, and I could slash one side of his throat neatly enough. The blood would be some trouble to mop up, but that would not be his problem. “Come now,” I said, softly. “What have you done, and what were you planning to drag my friend Redfist into?”
He said something in Skaialan, harsh consonants and equally harsh vowels, a burr in the back of the throat. The stilette scraped skin, and a line of bright blood formed between wiry golden beard hairs.
I hissed, much like a Smoke clan adder myself. “In tradetongue, dog.”
“He says he doesnae know what ye’re about, lass.” Redfist gave up, settled full
y in his chair with a creak. “What is this?”
“Our visitor last night was the first of many.” I tightened my hold on the blond giant’s greasiness, and he was very still with the blade knocking at his pulse. “What are you wanted for? Tell me now, and I might let you live.”
“Lass, let him go.” Redfist, it seemed, wished to be a diplomat. “Corran is a friend.”
Ninefinger babbled more in Skaialan. Perhaps I had knocked the ability to speak tradetongue out of his very large skull. His stink was more heated now, fear-struggle turning him damp and slippery.
“A friend warns when he may bring death to his hosts,” I snarled. “Shall I slit his throat, Redfist, or does he explain?”
“He can barely jabber with you holding him li’ that.” Redfist leaned forward slightly, but Darik tensed. The barbarian subsided, and Corran Ninefinger’s babble took on a tone I knew—frantic, seeking to please, to take the whetted blade from the blood trapped under his skin. “Easy, Kaia. He’s my friend.”
“That does not make him mine. Everyone in this house is in danger, because of this lout.” I tightened my grasp. It would take some doing and a shifting of my position to snap his neck, he had so much sheer bulk. But I could open the jugular with a single motion from here, should it become necessary.
Redfist folded his hands, staring at Ninefinger. Who had regained his tradetongue, it seemed, for he began to spit disjointed sentences laced with what sounded like nonsense. “Nae, crannok finnair...Rainak, curaigh le shennong—”
“Nae, Corran.” Redfist shook his head, beads braided into his clean, oiled beard clicking. “Tis past time. Let him go, Kaia. He’s nae the one the barstids are after.”
“Well, it’s not me, for once, and Janaire and Atyarik...Gavrin...” My grasp loosened slightly. Perhaps it was a measure of the stinking man-mountain’s intelligence that he did not try my grasp.
Patiently, our ruddy Skaialan spread his hands. “Tis me. I can understand yer anger, lass, but spare him. It’s for love of Highlands and clan he’s here far from home, and offering me his service. Be angry at me, Kaia.”
“Oh.” My grip loosened further, and I hopped aside with a final yank at the man’s hair, to remind him I was not to be trifled with. “Well. When were you going to share this information with me, then?”
“I didnae know for sure.” His face crumpled slightly, straightened with an effort. His cheeks had turned to blushing apples. “Nor did he.”
And if not for Sorche deciding she hated me enough to risk her standing in the Guild, I might not either, until too late. “Well, then.” The resultant pause was full of the low crackle of the fire, the villa breathing as afternoon sun-warmth caressed its walls. “I may have been mistaken, Ninefinger.” The stiffness of the phrase was intentional; I did not like the man, and was happy to have any hook to hang said dislike upon.
“Tis only a broken nose,” the blond giant moaned, shaking free a square of rancid cloth from his pocket as he rose, gingerly. Dripping with mead and blood, he wiped at his Festival mask of leering gore. “Were you a man, I would call you to answer for that.”
“I shall gladly meet you in the dueling ring, barbarian.” I kept the stilette handy, easing away from him. “Issue a challenge, and we shall dance.”
“Cafran’s cock, there will be nae such thing.” Redfist heaved himself up, too, and Darik let him. Our barbarian reached for the spilled drinking-horns, broad capable red-furred hands with strangely delicate fingertips. “I had thought I went far enough to escape Black Dunkast.” He blinked, heavily, and his upper lip lifted slightly, a gleam of teeth giving the snarl weight.
Darik skirted him and arrived on my side of the table, resting a hand on my shoulder, and the warmth of that contact eased something in me.
“Doon-kiest.” I tried the name. “You mentioned him once before, I think.”
“Oh, aye. He rules the clans now, with his bastard lot and his treachery.” Redfist set the horns aright, carefully, and a shiver of barely repressed fury went through his large frame. His jerkin, large enough to be a whole cow’s hide, was only slightly splattered.
The small betraying movement, so uncharacteristic of his usual bluff good temper, was disconcerting. Hinges squeaked at the front of the villa, and if not for a light pleasant tenor working its way through a common Antai drinking-song, I might have drawn my dotani to greet the new arrival. It was Gavrin returning from wherever he had roamed, and his tread was merry and light to match the tune. Perhaps Diyan was with him.
Ninefinger pressed the cloth to his abused nose and glared at me.
I well know that look in a man’s eye. Sooner or later, the blond giant would try my steel. A good sellsword does not go seeking duels—it wastes time better spent drinking or sleeping—but there are times it is the only possible end to a mutual dislike.
“But more than that,” Redfist continued, “he killed my father and destroyed my clan, and one day he will be reckoned for it.”
And Him They May Not Have
The minstrel held up a small jingling bag. “A tavern or two, more will come later when they know me. Fair work, and easy enough, especially with the little one passing a dish to catch raining copper in.” He grinned, and Diyan gave a little hop of joy, rattling the wooden bowls he carried. Janaire avoided the boy gracefully, carrying a cauldron with a rag wrapped about its handle. It smelled almost like qu’anart, a specialization of lowlander cooks during chill winters, and Atyarik had bread, bought fresh that afternoon. It was as merry a gathering as it could be with Redfist’s quiet and his guest’s puff-discolored face.
At least the mess had convinced Ninefinger to bathe. He no longer smelled like the bottom of a sweating manure heap.
“So.” Janaire set the cauldron down, her fingers flicking. Power rippled, a simple trick to keep the food warm. “I have been a-marketing, and I do not think we have done too badly. Hist, little one, your eating-picks, and some for our guest.”
Diyan bolted for the hall to the kitchen, nipping through the door before it could close. A faraway thread of city-noise quieted, the great tide-change between afternoon and dusk spreading through the sky.
D’ri’s knee bumped mine under the table. I took a heavy gulp of chai, almost burning my throat. No wine tonight.
I needed a clear head.
“It smells wonderful.” Gavrin reached for the ladle, but Janaire slapped lightly at his hand. The Pesh turned crimson, his throat suffusing with bright fire. Atyarik glanced at the minstrel, a faint smile playing about his thin lips. Harsh as the crags of his province, he looked every bit the warmaster to Darik’s princeling.
“Kaia.” She ladled my bowl first, then D’ri’s—a habit I could not break her of. The highest-ranking adai is served first, and she persisted in treating me as if I were an elder agemate of hers, due such respect. “Insh’tai.”
“Insh’tai,” I murmured in return. “There is news.”
“Ah.” Atyarik set the bread-platter down. “I sensed as much.” His gaze flicked to Ninefinger, who glowered at me. It was too much ill-feeling for a simple misunderstanding, but then, his nose had been broken, and I had not asked Janaire to gift him with a healing. Nor had she offered, which was thought-provoking.
There is a certain type of man who will not forgive anyone more skilled than himself in any way, no matter how small.
“May well turn yer stomachs,” Redfist muttered. Janaire ladled her own three-quarter bowl and our red barbarian a double-measure; Diyan clattered back with a handful of picks. He received a double-measure as well, and Gavrin his usual ladle-and-a-half. Then Atyarik, and she only gave Ninefinger a single dollop. When she had settled with her own bowl, I poured wine, conspicuously not filling the blond giant’s glass.
Perhaps he would ignore the subtle hint, too. Or perhaps I wished to provoke him. He didn’t wait for everyone to be served, his left paw almost dwarfing his bowl and his picks tapped once against the table to make them the same length. He slurped at the qu’anart
, making a face as if it offended him.
“Well.” I returned to my seat, and Darik reached for a piece of bread. “It appears someone wants our beloved red-haired giant dead.”
Gavrin stared at me for a long moment or two, glanced at Redfist, then bent over his bowl. Diyan had settled on my left side, dragging his heavy wooden chair forward with some difficulty. I tore a chunk of bread in half and handed it to the boy. The Antai do not make sponge, their long loaves are pillowy with crisp crusts. It is an acquired taste, even when the crumb is not full of sawdust. I had my own eating-picks, tucked in my belt as every sellsword learns to do on her first campaign.
“Why?” Janaire sounded honestly perplexed, a line between her eyebrows. “Who could possibly want to harm you?” Her cheeks glowed from the exertion of cooking, and she tapped her picks once on the side of her bowl, to bring luck to the table.
Redfist coughed, slightly, and he turned almost as red as Gavrin’s throat. Watching the two of them blush like boys when a true adai spoke to them was only amusing the first few times. “Ah. Well. You see...”
“Did you think he was naught but a mere sellsword?” Ninefinger could barely contain himself. “This is the chosen Connaiot Crae ye speak to, ye tannocks.”
“Means less than nothing to them, Corran.” The ruddy giant dabbed at his bowl with an eating-pick, squinting as if he saw a future in the silky-textured fish stew. “Means even less than that in Skaialan, now.”
“Only because you will nae return.” Corran’s tone took on something close to wheedling. This sounded an old argument, one rehearsed more than twice. “I tell you, Dunkast and his Black Brothers will ruin us all, Standing Stones to the devil’s arse, and we look for our Connaiot Crae to help us.”
Steelflower at Sea Page 11
