it?
Or even more—what if Lady Myria was found
guilty and executed? The estate would go to her
infant son, and who would be the child's most likely
guardian but his half-uncle, the seneschal?
And children die so very easily, and from so
many natural causes.
Now that she had a likely suspect, Kethry de-
cided it was time to begin investigating him.
The first place she checked was the barred door.
And on the bar itself she found an odd little scratch,
obvious in the paint. It looked new, her air-spirit
confirmed that it was. She lifted the bar after ex-
amining it even more carefully, finding no other
marks on it but those worn places where it rubbed
against the brackets that held it.
She opened the door, and began examining every
inch of the door and frame. And found, near the
top, a tiny piece of hemp that looked as if it might
have come from a piece of twine, caught in the
wood of the door itself.
Further examination of the door yielded nothing,
so she turned her attention to the room beyond.
It looked a great deal like the lord's room, with
more books and a less ostentatious bedstead—and a
wooden floor, rather than one of stone. She called
Warrl in and sent him sniffing about for any trace
of magic. That potion required a tiny bit of magick-
ing to have full potency, and if there were another
bottle of it anywhere about, Warrl would find it.
She turned her own attention to the desk.
Tarma's first opponent had been good, and an
honest fighter. It was with a great deal of relief—
especially after she'd seen an anxious-faced woman
with three small children clinging to her skirt watch-
ing every move he made—that she was able to dis-
arm him and knock him flat on his rump without
seriously injuring him.
The second had been a mere boy; he had no
business being out here at all. Tarma had the shrewd
notion he'd been talked into it just so she'd have
one more live body to wear her out. Instead of
exerting herself in any way, she lazed about, letting
him wear himself into exhaustion, before giving him
a little tap on the skull with the pommel of her
knife that stretched him flat on his back, seeing
stars.
The third opponent was another creature altogether.
He was slim and sleek, and Tarma smelled "as-
sassin" on him as plainly as if she'd had Warrl's
clever nose. When he closed with her, his first few
moves confirmed her guess. His fighting style was
all feint and rush, never getting in too close. This
was a real problem. If she stood her ground, she'd
open herself to the poisoned dart or whatever other
tricks he had secreted on his person. If she let him
drive her all over the bloody practice ground he'd
wear her down. Either way, she lost.
Of course, she might be able to outfox him—
So far she'd played an entirely defensive game,
both with him and her first two opponents. If she
took the offense when he least expected it, she
might be able to catch him off his guard.
She let him begin to drive her, and saw at once
that he was trying to work her around so that the
sun was in her eyes. She snarled inwardly, let him
think he was having his way, then turned the ta-
bles on him.
She came at him in a two-handed pattern-dance,
one that took her back to her days on the Plains and
her first instructor; an old man she'd never dreamed
could have moved as fast as he did. She hadn't
learned that pattern then; hadn't learned it until
the old man and her Clan were two years dead and
she'd been Kethry's partner for more than a year.
She'd learned it from one of Her Kal'enedral, a
woman who'd died a hundred years before Tarma
had ever been born.
It took her opponent off-balance; he back-pedaled
furiously to get out the the way of the shining
circles of steel, great and lesser, that were her sword
and dagger. And when he stopped running, he found
himself facing into the sun.
Tarma saw him make a slight movement with his
left hand; when he came in with his sword in an
over-and-under cut, she paid his sword-hand only
scant attention. It was the other she was watching
for.
Under the cover of his overt attack he made a
strike for her upper arm with his gloved left. She
avoided it barely in time; a circumstance that made
her sweat when she thought about it later, and
executed a spin-and-cut that took his hand off at
the wrist at the end of the move. While he stared in
shock at the spurting stump, she carried her blade
back along the arc to take his head as well.
The onlookers were motionless, silent with shock.
What they'd seen from her up until now had not
prepared them for this swift slaughter. While they
remained still, she stalked to where the gloved hand
lay and picked it up with great care. Embedded in
the fingertips of the gloves, retracted or released by
a bit of pressure to the center of the palm, were
four deadly little needles. Poisoned, no doubt.
She decided to make a grandstand move out of
this. She stalked to the challenger's pavilion, where
more of her would-be opponents had gathered, and
cast the hand down at their feet.
"Assassin's tricks, 'noble lords'?" she spat, ooz-
ing contempt. "Is this the honor of Felwether? I'd
rather fight jackals. At least they're honest in their
treachery! Have you no trust in the judgment of
the gods—and their champion?"
That should put a little doubt in the minds of the
honest ones—and a little fear in the hearts of the
ones that weren't.
Tarma stalked stiff-legged back to her own pavil-
ion, where she threw herself down on the little cot
inside it, and hoped she'd get her wind back before
they got their courage up.
In the very back of one of the drawers Kethry
found a very curious contrivance. It was a coil of
hempen twine, two cords, really, at the end of which
was tied a barbless, heavy fishhook, the kind sea-
fishers used to take shark and the great sea-salmon.
But the coast was weeks from here. What on earth
could the seneschal have possibly wanted with such
a curious souvenir?
Just then Warrl barked sharply; Kethry turned
to see his tail sticking out from under the bedstead.
There's a hidden compartment under the boards here,
he said eagerly in her mind. I smell gold, and magic—
and fresh blood.
She tried to move the bed aside, but it was far too
heavy, something the seneschal probably counted
on. So she squeezed in beside Warrl, who pawed at
the place on the board floor where he smelled
strangeness.
&nbs
p; Sneezing several times from the dust beneath the
bed, she felt along the boards—carefully, carefully;
it could be booby-trapped. She found the catch, and
a whole section of the board floor lifted away. And
inside ...
Gold, yes; packed carefully into the bottom of
it—but on top, a wadded-up tunic, and an empty
bottle.
She left the gold, but brought out the other things.
The tunic was bloodstained; the bottle, by the smell,
had held the narcotic potion she was seeking.
"Hey-la," she whispered in satisfaction.
Now if she just had some notion how he could
have gotten into a locked room without the proper
key. There was no hint or residue of any kind of
magic. And no key to the door with the bar across
it.
How could you get into a locked room?
Go before the door is locked, Warrl said in her
mind.
And suddenly she realized what the fishhook was
for.
Kethry wriggled out from under the bed, replac-
ing tunic and bottle and leaving the gold in the
hidden compartment untouched.
"Katran!" she called. A moment later Myria's
companion appeared; quite nonplussed to see the
sorceress covered with dust beside the seneschal's
bed.
"Get the priest," Kethry told her, before she had
a chance to ask any question. "I know who the
murderer is—and I know how he did it, and why."
Tarma was facing her first real opponent of the
day; a lean, saturnine fellow who used twin swords
like extensions of himself. He was just as fast on
his feet as she was—and he was fresher. The priest
had vanished just before the beginning of this bout,
and Tarma was fervently hoping this meant Kethry
had found something. Otherwise, this fight bid fair
to be her last.
Thank the Goddess this one was an honest war-
rior; if she went down, it would be to an honorable
opponent. Not too bad, really, if it came to it. Not
even many Sword Sworn could boast to having de-
feated twelve opponents in a single morning.
Even if some of them had been mere babes.
She had a stitch in her side that she was doing
her best to ignore, and her breath was coming in
harsh pants. The sun was punishing hard on some-
one wearing head-to-toe black; sweat was trickling
down her back and sides. She danced aside, avoid-
ing a blur of sword, only to find she was moving
right into the path of his second blade.
Damn!
At the last second she managed to drop and roll,
and came up to find him practically on top of her
again. She managed to get to one knee and trap his
first blade between dagger and sword—but the sec-
ond was coming in—
From the side of the field, came a voice like a
trumpet call.
"Hold!"
And miracle of miracles, the blade stopped mere
inches from her unprotected neck.
The priest strode onto the field, robes flapping.
"The sorceress has found the true murderer of our
lord and proved it to my satisfaction," he announced
to the waiting crowd. "She wishes to prove it to
yours."
Then he began naming off interested parties as
Tarma sagged to her knees in the dirt, limp with
relief, and just about ready to pass out with ex-
haustion. Her opponent dropped both his blades in
the dust at her side, and ran off to his side of the
field, returning in a moment with a cup of water.
And before handing it to her, he smiled sardoni-
cally, saluted her with it and took a tiny sip himself.
She shook sweat-sodden hair out of her eyes, and
accepted the cup with a nod of thanks. She downed
the lukewarm water, and sagged back onto her heels
with a sigh.
"Sword Sworn, shall I find someone to take you
to your pavilion?"
The priest was bending over her in concern.
Tarma managed to find one tiny bit of unexpended
energy.
"Not on your life, priest. I want to see this
myself!"
There were perhaps a dozen nobles in the group
that the priest escorted to the lord's chamber. Fore-
most among them was the seneschal; the priest
most attentive on him. Tarma was too tired to won-
der about that; she saved what little energy she
had to get her into the room and safely leaning up
against the wall within.
"I trust you all will forgive me if I am a bit
dramatic, but I wanted you all to see exactly how
this deed was done."
Kethry was standing behind the chair that was
placed next to the desk; in that chair was an older
woman in buff and gray. "Katran has kindly agreed
to play the part of Lord Corbie; I am the murderer.
The lord has just come into this chamber; in the
next is his lady. She has taken a potion to relieve
pain, and the accustomed sound of his footstep is
not likely to awaken her."
She held up a wineglass. "Some of that same
potion was mixed in with the wine that was in this
glass, but it did not come from the batch Lady
Myria was using. Here is Myria's bottle," she placed
the wineglass on the desk, and Myria brought a
bottle to stand beside it. "Here," she produced a
second bottle, "is the bottle I found. The priest
knows where, and can vouch for the fact that until
he came, no hand but the owner's and mine touched
it."
The priest nodded. Tarma noticed with a preter-
natural sensitivity that made it seem as if her every
nerve was on the alert that the seneschal was be-
ginning to sweat.
"The spell I am going to cast now—as your priest
can vouch, since he is no mean student of magic
himself—will cause the wineglass and the bottle
that contained the potion that was poured into it
glow."
Kethry dusted something over the glass and the
two bottles. As they watched, the residue in the
glass and the fraction of potion in Kethry's bottle
began to glow with an odd, greenish light.
"Is this a true casting, priest?" Tarma heard one
of the nobles ask in an undertone.
He nodded. "As true as ever I've seen."
"Huh," the man replied, frowning with thoughts
he kept to himself.
"Now—Lord Corbie has just come in; he is work-
ing on the ledgers. I give him a glass of wine,"
Kethry handed the glass to Katran. "He is grate-
ful; he thinks nothing of the courtesy, I am an old
and trusted friend. He drinks it, I leave the room,
presently he is asleep."
Katran allowed her head to sag down on her
arms.
"I take the key from beneath his hand, and qu-
ietly lock the door to the hall. I replace the key. I
know he will not stir, not even cry out, because of
the strength of the potion. I take Lady Myria's
dagger, which
I obtained earlier. I stab him." Kethry
mimed the murder; Katran did not move, though
Tarma could see she was smiling sardonically. "I
take the dagger and plant it beneath Lady Myria's
bed—and I know that because of the potion she has
been taking—and which I recommended, since we
have no Healer—she will not wake either."
Kethry went into Myria's chamber, and returned
empty-handed.
"I've been careless—got some blood on my tunic,
I've never killed a man before and I didn't know
that the wound would spurt. No matter, I will hide
it where I plan to hide the bottle. By the way, the
priest has that bloody tunic, and he knows that his
hands alone removed it from its hiding place, just
like the bottle. Now comes the important part—"
She took an enormous fishhook on a double length
of twine out of her beltpouch.
"The priest knows where I found this—rest as-
sured that it was not in Myria's possession. Now,
on the top of this door, caught on a rough place in
the wood, is another scrap of hemp. I am going to
get it now. Then I shall cast another spell—and if
that bit of hemp came from this twine, it shall
return to the place it came from."
She went to the door and jerked loose a bit of
fiber, taking it back to the desk. Once again she
dusted something over the twine on the hook and
the scrap, this time she also chanted as well. A
golden glow drifted down from her hands to touch
first the twine, then the scrap.
Vows And Honor Book 1: The Oathbound Page 19
