Rangers at Roadsend

by Jane Fletcher

  “The Sisters are also supposed to be compassionate, meek and celibate.”

  Katryn looked shocked. “You mean they’re not?”

  “No. On all three counts. And the Chief Consultant is probably—” Chip broke off sharply. It was not a wise conversation to have in the middle of a street in Landfall. She fought the impulse to look back over her shoulder to see who was listening. “Er…perhaps we should discuss it another time. This isn’t really the place. We could just manage a quick look around the market before we need to get to the briefing.”

  Katryn opened her mouth as if to ask another question; then she, too, seemed to realize the risk of being overheard and nodded her agreement.

  As ever, the market was crowed. Sounds, smells and gaudy colors fought in a riot for the senses. The two Rangers sauntered between stalls laid out with goods from all over the Homelands. If something could not be found in the market at Landfall, it probably did not exist. Neither bought anything, although not for lack of effort on the part of the traders they passed.

  “Do you think the Militia will get the warrant?” Katryn asked.

  “Kalispera seemed confident, and they stand a better chance without me there. Honesty and I always used to enjoy irritating each other. She’d probably ask for extra information just for the fun of watching me run around.”

  They walked on farther, leaving the market square and heading toward the Militia station. Katryn’s face was creased in thought. At last, Chip asked. “What are you thinking?”

  “I’m trying to work out what ‘Chip’ is short for.”

  “It’s not short for anything. It’s a small fried piece of potato.”

  Katryn gave a yelp of laughter. “I think not. I’ve just got the handle on your parents’ idea of names: Prudence, Constance, Mercy, Honesty. I just can’t see how ‘Chip’ fits in.”

  Chip bit her lip to hide her smile. “I’ll give you a clue. ‘Chip’ has nothing to do with what my parents called me. I got the nickname when I was six, and I’ve clung to it. It’s a big improvement.”

  “That isn’t much of a clue.”

  Chip’s smile escaped. “How about…my mothers picked names to help us in our careers. They felt the merchants would like entrusting the guild to someone called Prudence, and you couldn’t doubt the fairness of a magistrate called Honesty. Now remember, I was headed for the Sisterhood…”

  “I know,” Katryn exclaimed. “Faith.”

  “Oh, they probably would have liked to, but I’m afraid Great-Aunt Faith disgraced the family some while back, and the name has been out of bounds since.”

  The lines on Katryn’s forehead deepened. “Chastity, Devotion, Diligence…”

  “She’s the tax auditor,” Chip interjected.

  Katryn dissolved in stifled giggles. “No, I can’t guess.”

  “You don’t have to. Prudence called me by my name when we met. Obviously, you weren’t paying attention. They named me Piety.” Chip was fighting with her own laughter. “My parents were cruel bitches.”

  Chip felt light-headed standing close by Katryn, sharing laughter. She did not know whether she totally believed Katryn’s story but could not bear to let the doubts surface. She suspected that there was more to come out, and Katryn was still holding back on her for some reason. Yet Chip knew, in the depths of her being, that she trusted Katryn as a Ranger should trust a comrade: with her life.

  *

  More than twenty women were crammed into the briefing room at the Militia station. Captains Gutmann and Kalispera stood at the front, giving the necessary background and assigning roles. Most of the assembled squad of black-clad Militiawomen were squashed onto benches; others lined the walls. The two accountants from the merchants’ guild sat to one side. Their faces looked as though they were trying to project “serious professional” but were at risk of lapsing into “kids on a picnic.” Chip and Katryn were in a corner at the back. Chip was resigned to the Militia’s taking control, because it was providing the manpower, but she had been angered by initial suggestions that the Rangers would play no part in the raid at all. In the end it had been an unexpected piece of news that had settled the issue.

  Gutmann was moving on to the discovery. “Wright and Paulino have kept their noses clean since they’ve been in Landfall, so we haven’t had dealings with them. One of our regular informants is a delivery girl who works in the area. We decided to tap her to see if she could tell us anything interesting. She knew who we were referring to, couldn’t say much about the pair—thinks they’ve made several lengthy trips out of town. But one thing she could say is that they aren’t out of town at the moment. She saw Wright at Drummond’s place yesterday morning. So much for their visit to relatives.”

  Gutmann gestured toward the back of the room. “Since they know our colleagues from the Rangers are in town looking for them, we think they’ll be staying out of sight, so we’ve got good hopes of finding them in Drummond’s house. But they might try to bolt when the raid starts. There are two rear exits. We want to have people waiting outside both, and we want someone there who will recognize our suspects. Unfortunately, their faces aren’t well known in Landfall, but we have Captain Kalispera from Woodside and Ranger Private Nagata, who are familiar with the pair. Captain Kalispera will be on the gates to the stable block. Private Nagata will be on the scullery door. Ideally, we don’t want anyone to leave, but our top priority is to catch Wright and Paulino. If they are spotted, make damn certain they don’t get away.”

  The Militia captain went on to name the members of each group and to allocate specific duties. “We go on the first strike of the noon bell. Any questions?”

  “Are they likely to be carrying weapons?” one of the Militiawomen called from the center of the floor.

  Gutmann turned to Kalispera for an answer. “They’ll both fight if cornered, and Paulino often carries a knife. Wright usually relies on talking her way out of things. If they’re forced to make a run for it, they won’t have time to grab anything nasty on the way out.”

  “Why didn’t they use false names in Redridge?” someone else asked.

  Gutmann snorted. “We’ll ask them when we catch them. My guess is that it kept the paperwork aboveboard. Remember, it was a real long shot that they were recognized.”

  “Do we have a description of what this jewelry is supposed to look like?”

  “It’s in the contract. The accountants have it. But it’s likely the jewelry never existed and Drummond just pocketed the money.”

  Chip looked around the room as the questions continued. The only one that interested her was the first. The Militia traditionally went armed with long batons, although swords and bows were issued when necessary. Because of the triple murder, this was judged to be one of those occasions. It probably was what had prompted the question. However, Chip wondered how proficient the Militiawomen were with the weapons. She would have liked to have had a few more trained Rangers. Her sweeping scan of the room finished on Katryn, who was passable with a sword—just.

  Chip leaned over and whispered, “You said you’re better with a bow?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “A lot better? A little better?”

  “A lot better, ma’am,” Katryn said confidently.

  “Take your bow with you.”

  *

  The scullery door to Drummond’s kitchen opened onto a small yard, which in turn provided access to the side street via an iron gate. Currently, both gate and door were ajar, although nobody had gone in or out for a while. Chip waited with Katryn and three Militiawomen in the shadow of a nearby alley, at a point where they could see the gate without being visible from the house.

  The Militiawomen fidgeted with their weapons while they exchanged comments, excluding the two Rangers from their conversation as much as possible. Chip considered them. The sergeant appeared to be competent, but like her subordinates, she was overeager to show that she was just as good as a Ranger. The risk was that this attitude would push them
to do something stupid in a crisis. Katryn looked calm but preoccupied. She had checked her bow and arrows once and now stood with her eyes fixed on the gate.

  The side street was no more than three meters wide and virtually deserted, although the sounds of passersby echoed from the main thoroughfare at the end. The cobbles were worn, and some were missing. The walls on either side rose high, with few windows and less ornamentation. Signs of the area’s new prosperity had not yet spread down this back way. A group of laborers had been busy at the junction with the main street, although they were gone now, presumably at lunch. Several of their larger tools were leaning against the wall.

  The temple bell struck the hour of midday. Like runners in a sprint, the Militiawomen surged forward. Chip and Katryn followed more slowly, and by the time they reached the entrance to the yard, the three Militiawomen were lined in front of the scullery door, swords drawn. Chip stood in the gateway. The enclosed area was four meters square, empty apart from two broken barrels and a small heap of rotten sacking. She looked up just in time to catch someone leaping back from an upstairs window.

  Chip turned her head to speak to Katryn, who was directly behind her. “Our friends can mind the door. I’ll stay here. You would be better some way back, where you can get a clean shot if necessary.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Katryn retreated several steps.

  Chip continued standing in the gateway. For a while, there was no sign of anything happening. Then she heard shouts inside the building, but it was impossible to make out any words. The Militiawomen were getting twitchy again.

  Abruptly, the scullery door was wrenched wide open; a head poked out, saw the Militia and ducked back in again. The door slammed shut. The Militia privates seemed unsure whether to pursue the attempted absconder, but the sergeant ordered them to stay put. Chip mentally nodded her approval. The waiting went on.

  “Sergeant!” Katryn called urgently.

  Chip twisted around. Katryn had positioned herself on the other side of the street, in the mouth of the alley. She was pointing past Chip’s shoulder, up toward the junction with the main road. Chip’s head turned, following the direction of her outstretched hand.

  Figures were moving on the roof, from which a rope had been lowered. One woman was just reaching ground level, and a second was clambering out over the edge of the roof, preparing to follow. Two others were there assisting, although it was unclear whether they would also try to climb down or merely remove the rope and other evidence after the escapees had fled.

  “It’s them!” Katryn shouted.

  Chip didn’t need the confirmation. She yelled to the Militia and charged up the street.

  The first woman was standing on the ground now, holding the rope steady and looking up. At the sound of Chip’s cry, she backed off a step; then she turned and ran. The second woman flung herself down the rope, using her hands merely to slow the speed of her descent. She let go two meters from the ground and dropped the rest of the way.

  The woman hit the cobbles hard, her foot twisting, sending her staggering sideways. She recovered her balance immediately and turned to follow her companion—but too late. Chip made a diving tackle and hurled the fugitive to the ground. The impact must have driven the air from the woman’s body, but desperation gave her strength. She struggled violently, reaching for her waist, and then Chip saw the knife.

  Chip cracked the heel of her hand up under the woman’s chin, snapping her head back. She grabbed the wrist and smashed the hand gripping the knife down onto the cobbles. Still the woman clung to her weapon and fought on, but Chip had gained the mastery. She sat astride the woman’s chest, pinning both of her wrists against the ground. From down the street came the sound of the Militiawomen racing to her aid. Then Chip heard other, closer footsteps. She looked up. The first woman was returning, brandishing above her head a long iron crowbar, no doubt taken from the laborers’ discarded tools.

  Time slowed to a crawl. Chip watched the attacking woman seem to float closer; at the same time, she was aware of the woman beneath her, who was also armed and struggling. There was no way to avoid the iron bar without releasing the hand holding the knife. I’ve got a choice, Chip thought. I can sit here and get brained or move away and get stabbed. She had hours to make up her mind but could reach no sensible conclusion. The sound of the Militiawomen was very close but not close enough to matter.

  Suddenly, feathers sprouted on the chest of the woman who was wielding the bar. She shuddered to a halt, looking just as surprised as Chip. But Chip’s confusion faded faster; she had seen such things enough times before. She did not need to wait for the patch of red blood to seep through the woman’s clothes or for her ears to recognize the hiss as the flight of an arrow. The shot woman still looked bewildered, unable to work out what had happened, but her legs were failing her. The crowbar twisted and slipped from her fingers. It hit the ground at the same time as her knees. And then the Militiawomen arrived. Two of them needlessly hauled the dying woman back; the third joined Chip and tore the knife from the hand of the woman on the ground.

  The Militiawomen were shouting to one another in three disjointed conversations. The sergeant shouted the loudest. “This one’s finished! Help Sergeant Coppelli get the other tied up!”

  The captured woman was dragged to her knees, and her arms were pulled behind her back. For the first time, she saw the state of her companion and screamed, “Clary! You fucking assholes! I’ll kill you. I—” She broke into sobs.

  “Too late; you’ve missed your chance.” The sergeant was smug. She looked at the dead woman lying on the ground and then at Chip. “I hope that wasn’t just a very lucky shot by your private. I felt the arrow go past.”

  Chip turned her head. Katryn was still standing by the gateway, her bow hanging loose in her hands. It was a distance of, at most, twenty meters—a close-range shot. But the sergeant was right. It was not what Katryn had hit that was impressive; it was what she had missed. With three women running up the narrow street and Chip kneeling in front of the target, shooting the woman must have been like threading a needle by throwing cotton at it. Chip remembered the confidence in Katryn’s voice when she had said, “A lot better.” She had not been idly boasting.

  Chip’s gaze narrowed to Katryn’s face. What she saw prompted her to stand, leaving the captive in the care of the Militiawomen, and walk back down the street. Katryn did not move. Her eyes were fixed on the dead woman, her face a mask of horrified disbelief. It was an expression that Chip was also familiar with: the spontaneous gut response of a woman who, for the first time, has killed another human being.

  Chapter Seven—Rumors

  Katryn still appeared to be disorientated back at the Militia station as the initial reports were gathered. She answered questions when they were put to her but volunteered nothing. Her first spontaneous words came during the walk to their quarters, when she said she wanted to visit the baths. Chip nodded, understanding the common and futile wish to metaphorically wash the blood from your hands.

  Afterward, they again took dinner in the mess. There was no point in paying for food that Katryn would not taste. She ate each mouthful as though she were having to concentrate on working out how to swallow. Chip kept an attempt at conversation going, confined mainly to issues within the 23rd Squadron, although Katryn did little more than nod in the right places. Chip watched her in sympathy, remembering the first time she had killed someone. She had been five months in the Rangers, a private in Sergeant O’Neil’s patrol.

  It had been high summer. The patrol had spent four days on the trail of a gang of cattle thieves and had finally overtaken them at dawn. Ash had called on the gang to surrender, but they had come out fighting. Chip, inexperienced, had been caught on her own when one of the gang rushed at her, waving an old sword that looked better suited for use as a meat cleaver. Chip had avoided the bandit’s clumsy swipe easily. Then she had moved in, ducking the backswing and driving her own sword into the woman’s body.

  C
hip could not forget a single detail. She had used the classic stroke that the Rangers taught new recruits; the point of her sword had entered under the bandit’s ribcage and angled upward to slice the heart and lungs. She imagined that she could still feel the texture of the flesh transmitted through the hilt of her sword to her hand. Fixed in her memory were the odd sound at the back of the dying woman’s throat and unrelated details: the smell of mint-grass and cattle, the pattern of stitching on the woman’s shirt, the taste of dust in her mouth. The only thing Chip could not recall was the woman’s face. In her dreams for years after, it had been a faceless corpse that had fallen against her and crumpled to the ground.

  But Chip could remember her state of mind that night—the unrelenting rerunning of the fight through her head, the pointless questions. The Rangers had handed the surviving members of the gang over to the Militia in the nearest town. Afterward, Ash had dragged Chip to a tavern, bought a bottle of rough spirits and poured most of it down her throat. Years later, when Chip had also become a sergeant, the two had spoken about the incident. Ash had said getting drunk was not a good way of coping with the reaction, but it was better than anything else she had come up with.

  It had been a long time since the dead bandit had intruded into Chip’s dreams, but she still had only to close her eyes to revisit the scene. Chip flexed her hand, trying to dispel the tactile memory of the sword hilt and the feeling of resistance as the blade slid into the body. She looked across the table. Katryn’s eyes were fixed on her plate, although it was doubtful that she saw it or anything else in the mess hall. The remains of her food were starting to congeal. It was obvious that she would eat no more.

  “Come on. I’m taking you to the inn,” Chip said as she stood.

  Katryn looked up. “I don’t know. I’m not sure I want—”

  “Believe me. You want to come to the inn with me.”