Vows And Honor Book 1: The Oathbound

by The Oathbound [lit]

  me, Laeka, and I'll introduce you to what we keep."

  With the child trotting at her side and the inn-

  keeper following, Tarma strolled back to Kethry.

  "This's a good place, she'enedra, and they aren't

  altogether outrageous in what they're charging. We'll

  be staying. This is Laeka, she's our Keeper's daugh-

  ter, and his chief stableman."

  Laeka beamed at the elevation in her station

  Tarma granted her.

  "Now, hold out your hand to Kessira, little lady;

  let her get your measure." She placed her own

  hand on Kessira's neck and spoke a single com-

  mand word under her breath. That told Kessira

  that the child was not to be harmed, and was to be

  obeyed—though she would only obey some com-

  mands if they were given in Shin'a'in, and it wasn't

  likely the child knew that tongue. Just as well, they

  didn't truly need a new back door to their stabling.

  The mare lowered her head with grave dignity

  and snuffled the child's hand once, for politeness'

  sake, while the girl's eyes widened in delight. Then

  when Tarma put the reins in Laeka's hands, Kessira

  followed her with gentle docility, taking careful,

  dainty steps on the unfamiliar surface. Kethry

  handed her the reins to the mule as well; Rodi, of

  course, would follow anyone to food and stabling.

  Hadell showed them their room; on the first floor,

  it was barely big enough to contain the bed. But it

  did have a window, and the walls were freshly

  whitewashed. There were plenty of blankets—again,

  well-worn but scrupulously clean—and a feather

  comforter. Tarma had stayed in far worse places,

  and said as much.

  "So have I," Kethry replied, sitting on the edge

  of the bed and pulling off her riding boots with a

  grimace of pain. "The place where I met you, for

  one. I think we've gotten a bargain, personally."

  "Makes me wonder, but I may get the answer

  when I see the rest of the guests. Well, what's

  next?" Tarma handed her a pair of soft leather

  half-boots meant for indoor wear.

  "Dinner and bed. It's far too late to go to the

  Hiring Hall; that'll be for first thing in the morn-

  ing? I wonder if we could manage a bath out of

  Hadell? I do not like smelling like a mule!"

  As if to answer that question, there came a gentle

  rap on the door. "Lady-guests?" a boy's soprano

  said carefully, "Would ye wish th' use o' the

  steamhouse? If ye be quick, Da says ye'll have it t'

  yerselves fer a candlemark or so."

  Tarma opened the door to him; a sturdy, dark

  child, he looked very like his father. "And the charge,

  lad?" she asked, "Though if it's in line with the

  rest of the bill, I'm thinking we'll be taking you up

  on it."

  "Copper for steamhouse and bath, copper for soap

  and towels," he said, holding out the last. "It's at

  the end of the hallway."

  "Done and done, and point us the way." Kethry

  took possession of what he carried so fast he was

  left gaping. "Pay the lad, Tarma; if I don't get

  clean soon, I'm going to rot of my own stink."

  Tarma laughed, and tossed the boy four coppers.

  "And here I was thinking you were more trail-

  hardened than me," she chuckled, following Kethry

  down the hall in the direction the boy pointed.

  "Now you turn out to be another soft sybarite."

  "I didn't notice you saying no."

  "We have a saying—"

  "Not another one!"

  " 'An enemy's nose is always keener than your

  own.' "

  "When I want a proverb, I'll consult a cleric.

  Here we are," Kethry opened the door to the bath-

  house, which had been annexed to the very end of

  the inn. "Oh, heaven!"

  This was, beyond a doubt, a well managed place.

  There were actually three rooms to the bathing

  area; the first held buckets and shallow tubs, and

  hot water bubbled from a wooden pipe in the floor

  into a channel running through it, while against the

  wall were pumps. This room was evidently for ac-

  tual bathing; the bather mixed hot water from the

  channel with cold from the pumps, then poured

  the dirty water down the refuse channel. The hot-

  water channel ran into the room beside this one,

  which contained one enormous tub sunk into the

  floor, for soaking out aches and bruises. Beyond

  this room was what was obviously a steamroom.

  Although it was empty now, there were heated

  rocks in a pit in the center of the floor, buckets

  with dippers in them to pour water on the rocks,

  and benches around the pit. The walls were plain,

  varnished wood; the windows of something white

  and opaque that let light in without making a mock-

  ery of privacy.

  "Heaven, in very deed," Tarma was losing no

  time in shedding her clothing. "I think I'm finally

  going to be warm again!"

  One candlemark later, as they were blissfully

  soaking in hot mineral water—"This is a hot spring,"

  Kethry remarked after sniffing the faint tang of

  copper in the air. "That's why he can afford to give

  his baths away"—a bright grin surmounted by a

  thatch of tousled brown hair appeared out of the

  steam and handed them their towels.

  "Guard-shift's changin', miladies; men as stays

  here'll be lookin' fer their baths in a bit. You wants

  quiet, ye'd best come t' dinner. You wants a bit o'

  summat else—you jest stays here, they'll gie' ye

  that!"

  "No doubt," Tarma said wryly, taking the towel

  Laeka held out to her and emerging reluctantly

  from the hot tub, thinking that in some ways a

  child being raised in an inn grew up even faster

  than a child of the Clans. "We'll take the quiet,

  thanks. What's wrong?"

  The child was staring at her torso with stricken

  eyes. "Lady—you—how did—who did—"

  Tarma glanced down at her own hard, tawny-

  gold body, that was liberally latticed with a net-

  work of paler scars and realized that the child had

  been startled and shocked by the evidence of so

  many old wounds on one so relatively young. She

  also thought about the adulation that had been in

  Laeka's eyes, and the concern in her father's when

  the man had seen it there. This might be a chance

  to do the man a good turn, maybe earn enough

  gratitude that he'd exert himself for them.

  "A lot of people did that to me, child," she said

  quietly. "And if you've ever thought to go adven-

  turing, think of these marks on me first. It isn't like

  the tales, where people go to battle one candlemark

  and go feast the next, with never a scratch on them.

  I was months healing from the last fight I had, and

  the best that those I fought for could give me was a

  mule, provisions, and a handful of coin as reward.

  The life of a mercenary is far from profitable most

  of the
time."

  Laeka gulped, and looked away. "I like horses,"

  she ventured, finally. "I be good with 'em."

  "Then by all means, become a horse-trainer,"

  Tarma answered the unspoken question. "Train 'em

  well, and sell 'em to fools like me who earn their

  bread with swords instead of brains. Tell you what—

  you decide to do that, you send word to the Clans

  in my name. I'll leave orders you're to get a better

  choice than we give most outlanders. Hmm?"

  "Aye!" The girl's eyes lighted at the promise,

  and she relaxed a little as Tarma donned her close-

  fitting breeches, shirt, and wrapped Shin'a'in jacket,

  covering the terrible scars. "Da says t' tell you

  supper be stew, bread 'n' honey, an' ale."

  "Sounds fine—Keth?"

  "Wonderful."

  "Tell him we'll be there right behind you."

  The child scampered out, and Kethry lifted an

  eyebrow. "Rather overdoing it, weren't you?"

  "Huh! You didn't see the hero-worship in the

  kid's eyes, earlier, or the worry in her Da's. Not too

  many female mercenaries ride through here, I'd

  guess; the kid's seen just enough to make it look

  glamorous. Well, now she knows better, and I'm

  thinking it's just as well."

  "You knew better, but you took this road anyway."

  "Aye, I did," Tarma laced her boots slowly, her

  harsh voice dropping down to a whisper. "And the

  only reason I left the Plains was to revenge my

  Clan. All Shin'a'in learn the sword, but that doesn't

  mean we plan to live by it. We—we don't live to

  fight, we fight when we have to, to live. Sometimes

  we don't manage the last. As for me, I had no

  choice in taking up the blade, in becoming a merce-

  nary; no more than did you."

  Kethry winced, and touched Tarma's arm lightly.

  "Put my foot in it, didn't I? She'enedra, I'm sorry—I

  meant no offense—"

  Tarma shook off her gloom with a shake of her

  head. "I know that. None taken. Let's get that food.

  I could eat this towel, I'm that hungry."

  The whitewashed common room was quite empty,

  although the boy who brought them their supper

  (older than the other two children, darker, and

  quieter) told them it would be filling shortly. And

  so it proved; men of all ages and descriptions slowly

  trickling in to take their places at table and bench,

  being served promptly by Hadell's two sons. The

  room could easily hold at least fifty; the current

  crowd was less than half that number. Most of the

  men looked to be of early middle-age with a sprin-

  kling of youngsters; all wore the unconsciously com-

  petent air of a good professional soldier. Tarma

  liked what she saw of them. None of these men

  would ever be officers, but the officers they did

  serve would be glad to have them.

  The talk was muted; the men were plainly weary

  with the day's work. Listening without seeming to,

  the women soon gleaned the reason why.

  As Tarma had already guessed, these men were

  foreign mercenaries, like themselves. This would

  be Hadell's lean season—one reason, perhaps, that

  his prices were reasonable, and that he was so glad

  to see them. The other reason was that he was that

  rare creature, an honest man, and one who chose to

  give the men he had served beside a decent break.

  Right now, only those hire-swords with contracts

  for a year or more—or those one or two so prosper-

  ous that they could afford to bide out the merce-

  nary's lean season in an inn—were staying at the

  Broken Sword. Normally a year-contract included

  room and board, but these men were a special case.

  All of them were hired on with the City Guard,

  which had no barracks for them. The result was

  that their pay included a stipend for board, and a

  good many of them stayed at inns like the Broken

  Sword. The job was never the easy one it might

  appear to the unknowing to be; and today had been

  the occasion of a riot over bread prices. The Guard

  had been ordered to put down the riot; no few of

  these men had been of two minds about their or-

  ders. On the one hand, they weren't suffering; but

  on the other, most of them were of the same lower-

  classes as those that were rioting, and could re-

  member winters when they had gone hungry. And

  the inflated grain prices, so rumor had it, had no

  basis for being so high. The harvest had been good,

  the granaries full. Rumor said that shortages were

  being created. Rumor said, by Wethes Goldmarchant.

  Both Tarma and her partner took to their bed

  with more than a bellyful of good stew to digest.

  "Are you certain you want to come with me, even

  knowing there probably won't be work for you?

  You deserved a chance to sleep in for a change."

  Kethry, standing in the light from the window,

  gave her sorcerer's robe a good brushing and slipped

  it on over her shirt and breeches—and belted on

  her blade as well.

  "Eyah. I want to be lurking in the background

  looking protective and menacing. I want to start

  rumors about how it's best to approach my partner

  with respect. You put on whatever act you think

  will reinforce mine. And I don't think you should

  be wearing that."

  Kethry glanced down at Need and pursed her

  lips. "You're probably right, but I feel rather naked

  without her."

  "We don't want to attract any attention, right?

  You know damn well mages don't bear steel other

  than eating knives and ritual daggers." Tarma

  lounged fully-clothed—except for her boots—on the

  bed, since there wasn't enough room for two people

  to be standing beside it at the same time.

  "Right," Kethry sighed, removing the blade and

  stowing it under the bed with the rest of their

  goods. "All right, let's go."

  The Hiring Hall was no more than a short stroll

  from the inn; an interesting walk from Tarma's

  point of view. Even at this early an hour the streets

  were full of people, from ragged beggars to well-

  dressed merchants, and not all from around here—

  Tarma recognized the regional dress of more than a

  dozen other areas, and might have spotted more

  had she known what to look for. This might be the

  lean season, but it was evident that Mornedealth

  always had a certain amount of trade going.

  At the Hiring Hall—just that, a hall lined with

  benches on both sides, and a desk at the end, all of

  the ubiquitous varnished wood—they gave essen-

  tially the same story they'd given the guard. Their

  tale differed only in that Kethry was being more of

  herself; it wouldn't do to look an idiot when she

  was trying to get work. As they had been told, the

  steward of the hall shook his blond head regretfully

  when Tarma informed him that she was only inter-

  ested in short-term assignmen
ts.

  "I'm sorry, Swordlady," he told her, "Very sorry.

  I could get you your pick of a round dozen one-to-

  five-year contracts. But this is the lean season, and

  there just isn't anything for a hire-sword but long-

  term. But your friend—yes."

  "Oh?" Kethry contrived to look eager.

  "There's a fellow from a cadet branch of one of

  the Fifty; he just came into a nice fat Royal grant.

  He's getting the revenue from Upvale wine taxes,

  and he's bent on showing the City how a real aristo

  does things when he gets the cash to work with.

  He's starting a full stable; hunters, racers, carriage

  beasts and pleasure beasts. He knows his horse-

  flesh; what he doesn't know is how to tell if there's

  been a glamour put on 'em. Doesn't trust City mages,

  as who could blame him. They're all in the pay of

  somebody, and it's hard to say who might owe whom

  a favor or three. So he's had me on the lookout for

  an independent, and strictly temporary. Does that

  suit your talents?"

  "You couldn't have suited me better!" Kethry

  exclaimed with delight. "Mage-sight's one of my

  strongest skills."

  "Right then," the steward said with satisfaction.

  "Here's your address; here's your contract—sign

  here—"

  Kethry scrutinized the brief document, nodded,

  and made her mage-glyph where he indicated.

  "—and off you go; and good luck to you."

  They left together; at the door, Tarma asked,

  "Want me with you?"

  "No, I know the client, but he won't know me.

  He's not one of Kavin's crowd, which is all I was

  worried about. I'll be safe enough on my own."