Vows And Honor Book 1: The Oathbound

by The Oathbound [lit]

  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.