Vows And Honor Book 1: The Oathbound

by The Oathbound [lit]

  Warrl obviously didn't care about poor Kethry.

  "You're being very unfair to her, you know. And

  you're supposed to have been her familiar, not mine.

  You're a magic beast; born out of magic. You belong

  with a spell-caster, not some clod with a sword."

  Warrl was not impressed with Tarma's logic.

  She doesn't need me, he spoke mind-to-mind with

  the swordswoman. She has the spirit-sword. You need

  me, I've told you that before. And that, so far as

  Warrl was concerned, was that.

  "Well, I'm not going to argue with you. I never

  argue with anyone with as many sharp teeth as

  you've got. Maybe being Kal'enedral counts as being

  magic."

  She pushed Warrl's head off her lap and went to

  open the shutters to the room's one window. Moon-

  light flooded the room; she seated herself on the

  floor where it would fall on her, just as she did

  every night when there was a moon and she wasn't

  ill or injured. Since they were within the walls of a

  town and not camped, she would not train this

  night, but the Moonpaths were there, as always,

  waiting to be walked. She closed her eyes and found

  them. Walking them was, as she'd often told Kethry,

  impossible to describe.

  When she returned to her body, Warrl was lying

  patiently at her back, waiting for her. She ruffled

  his fur with a grin, stood, stretched stiffened mus-

  cles, then stripped to a shift and climbed in beside

  Kethry. Warrl sighed with gratitude and took his

  usual spot at her feet.

  "Three things see no end—

  A flower blighted ere it bloomed,

  A message that was wasted

  And a journey that was doomed."

  The two mercenaries rode out of town in the

  morning, obviously eager to be gone. Grumio watched

  them leave, gazing sadly at the cloud of dust they

  raised, his houndlike face clearly displaying his

  disappointment. His fellow merchants were equally

  disappointed when he told them of his failure to

  persuade them; they had all hoped the women would

  be the solution to their problem.

  After sundown Grumio took a cart and horse out

  to his farmstead, a saddled riding beast tied to the

  rear of it. After making certain that no one had

  followed him, he drove directly into the barn, and

  peered around in the hay-scented gloom. A fear

  crossed his mind that the women had tricked him,

  and had truly left that morning.

  "Don't fret yourself, merchant," said a gravelly

  voice just above his head. He jumped, his heart

  racing. "We're here."

  A vague figure swung down from the loft; when

  it came close enough for him to make out features,

  he started at the sight of a buxom blonde wearing

  the swordswoman's clothing.

  She grinned at his reaction. "Which one am I?

  She didn't tell me. Blonde?"

  He nodded, amazed.

  "Malebait again. Good choice, no one would ever

  think I knew what a blade was for. Or that I ever

  thought of anything but men and clothing, not

  necessarily in that order. You don't want to see

  my partner." Her voice was still in Tarma's grav-

  elly tones; Grumio assumed that that was only so

  he'd recognize her. "We don't want you to have to

  strain your acting ability tomorrow. Did you bring

  everything we asked for?"

  "It's all here," he replied, still not believing what

  his eyes were telling him. "I weighted the boxes

  with sand and stones so that they won't seem

  empty."

  "You've got a good head on you, merchant," Tarma

  saluted him as she unharnessed the horse. "That's

  something I didn't think of. Best you leave now,

  though, before somebody comes looking for you."

  He jumped down off the wagon, taking the reins

  of his riding beast.

  "And merchant—" she called as he rode off into

  the night, "—wish us luck."

  He didn't have to act the next morning, when a

  delicate and aristocratically frail lady of obvious

  noble birth accosted him in his shop, and ordered

  him (although it was framed as a request) to in-

  clude her in his packtrain. In point of fact, had he

  not recognized the dress and fur cloak she was

  wearing, he would have taken her for a real aristo,

  one who, by some impossible coincidence, had taken

  the same notion into her head that the swordswoman

  had proposed as a ruse. This sylphlike, sleepy-eyed

  creature with her elaborately coiffed hair of plati-

  num silk bore no resemblance at all to the very

  vibrant and earthy sorceress he'd hired.

  And though he was partially prepared by having

  seen her briefly the night before, Tarma (posing as

  milady's maid) still gave him a shock. He saw why

  she called the disguise "malebait"—this amply-

  endowed blonde was a walking invitation to impro-

  priety, and nothing like the sexless Sworn One. All

  that remained of Tarma were the blue eyes, one of

  which winked cheerfully at him, to bring him out

  of his shock.

  Grumio argued vehemently with the highborn

  dame for the better part of an hour, and all to no

  avail. Undaunted, he carried his expostulations out

  into the street, still trying to persuade her to change

  her mind even as the packtrain formed up in front

  of his shop. The entire town was privy to the argu-

  ment by that time.

  "Lady, I beg you—reconsider!" he was saying

  anxiously. "Wait for the King's Patrol. They have

  promised to return soon and in force, since the

  bandits have not ceased raiding us, and I'm morally

  certain they'll be willing to escort you."

  "My thanks for your concern, merchant," she

  replied with a gentle and bored haughtiness, "But I

  fear my business cannot wait till their return. Be-

  sides, what is there about me that could possibly

  tempt a bandit?"

  Those whose ears were stretched to catch this

  conversation could easily sympathize with Grumio's

  silent—but obvious—plea to the gods for patience,

  as they noted the lady's jewels, fine garments, the

  weight of the cart holding her possessions, and the

  well-bred mares she and her maid rode.

  The lady turned away from him before he could

  continue; a clear gesture of dismissal, so he held

  his tongue. In stony silence he watched the train

  form up, with the lady and her maid in the center.

  Since they had no driver for the cart—though he'd

  offered to supply one—the lead-rein of the carthorse

  had been fastened to the rear packhorse's harness.

  Surmounting the chests and boxes in the cart was a

  toothless old dog, apparently supposed to be guard-

  ing her possessions and plainly incapable of guard-

  ing anything anymore. The leader of the train's six

  guards took his final instructions from his master,

  and the train lurched off down the Trade Road.
As

  Grumio watched them disappear into the distance,

  he could be seen to shake his head in disapproval.

  Had anyone been watching very closely—though

  no one was—they might have noticed the lady's

  fingers moving in a complicated pattern. Had there

  been any mages present—which wasn't the case—

  said mage might have recognized the pattern as

  belonging to the Spell of True Sight. If illusion was

  involved, it would not be blinding Kethry.

  "One among the guardsmen

  Has a shifting, restless eye

  And as they ride, he scans the hills

  That rise against the sky.

  He wears a sword and bracelet

  Worth more than he can afford

  And hidden in his baggage

  Is a heavy, secret hoard."

  One of the guards was contemplating the lady's

  assets with a glee and greed that equaled his mas-

  ter's dismay. His expression, carefully controlled,

  seemed to be remote and impassive; only his rap-

  idly shifting gaze and the nervous flicker of his

  tongue over dry lips gave any clue to his thoughts.

  Behind those remote eyes, a treacherous mind was

  making a careful inventory of every jewel and visi-

  ble possession and calculating their probable values.

  When the lady's skirt lifted briefly to display a

  tantalizing glimpse of white leg, his control broke

  enough that he bit his lip. She was one prize he

  intended to reserve for himself; he'd never been

  this close to a highborn woman before, and he in-

  tended to find out if certain things he'd heard about

  bedding them were true. The others were going to

  have to be content with the ample charms of the

  serving maid, at least until he'd tired of the mis-

  tress. At least there wouldn't be all that caterwauling

  and screeching there'd been with the merchant

  wenches. That maid looked as if she'd had a man

  betwixt her legs plenty of times before, and en-

  joyed it, too. She'd probably thank him for livening

  up her life when he turned her over to the men!

  He had thought at first that this was going to be

  another trap, especially after he'd heard that old

  Grumio had tried to hire a pair of highly-touted

  mercenary women to rid him of the bandits. One

  look at the lady and her maid, however, had con-

  vinced him that not only was it absurd to think

  that they could be wary hire-swords in disguise,

  but that they probably didn't even know which end

  of a blade to hold. The wench flirted and teased

  each of the men in turn. Her mind was obviously

  on something other than ambushes and weaponry—

  unless those ambushes were amorous, and the weap-

  onry of flesh. The lady herself seemed to ride in a

  half-aware dream, and her maid often had to break

  off a flirtation in order to ride forward and steady

  her in the saddle.

  Perhaps she was a tran-dust sniffer, or there was

  faldis-juice mixed in with the water in the skin on

  her saddle-bow. That would be an unexpected bo-

  nus; she was bound to have a good supply of it

  among her belongings, and drugs were worth more

  than jewels. And it would be distinctly interesting—

  his eyes glinted cruelly—to have her begging him

  on her knees for her drugs as withdrawal set in.

  Assuming, of course, that she survived that long.

  He passed his tongue over lips gone dry with antic-

  ipation. Tomorrow he would give the scouts trail-

  ing the packtrain the signal to attack.

  "Of three things be wary—

  Of a feather on a cat,

  The shepherd eating mutton

  And the guardsman that is fat."

  The lady and her companion made camp a dis-

  creet distance from the rest of the caravan, as was

  only to be expected. She would hardly have a taste

  for sharing their rough camp, rude talk or coarse

  food.

  Kethry's shoulders sagged with fatigue beneath

  the weight of her heavy cloak, and she was chilled

  to the bone in spite of its fur lining.

  "Are you all right?" Tarma whispered sharply

  when she hadn't spoken for several minutes.

  "Just tired. I never thought that holding up five

  illusions would be so hard. Three aren't half so

  difficult to keep intact." She leaned her forehead

  on one hand, rubbing her temples with cold fingers.

  "I wish it was over."

  Tarma pressed a bowl into her other hand. Duti-

  fully, she tried to eat, but the sand and dust that

  had plagued their progress all day had crept into

  the food as well. It was too dry and gritty to swal-

  low easily, and after one attempt, Kethry felt too

  weary to make any further effort. She laid the bowl

  aside, unobtrusively—or so she hoped.

  Faint hope.

  "Sweeting, if you don't eat by yourself, I'm going

  to pry your mouth open and pour your dinner down

  your throat." Tarma's expression was cloyingly

  sweet, and the tone of her shifted voice dulcet.

  Kethry was roused enough to smile a little. When

  she was this wearied with the exercise of her mag-

  ics, she had to be bullied into caring for herself.

  When she'd been on her own, she'd sometimes had

  to spend days recovering from the damages she'd

  inflicted on her body by neglecting it. Tarma had

  her badly worried lately with all the cosseting she'd

  been doing—like she was trying to keep Kethry

  wrapped safely in lambswool all the time—but at

  this moment Kethry was rather glad to have the

  cosseting. In fact, it was at moments like this that

  she valued Tarma's untiring affection and aid the

  most.

  "What, and ruin our disguises?" she retorted with

  a little more life.

  "There's nothing at all out of the ordinary in an

  attentive maid helping her poor, sick mistress to

  eat. They already think there's something wrong

  with you. Half of them think you're ill, the other

  half think you're in a drug-daze," Tarma replied.

  "They all think you've got nothing between your

  ears but air."

  Kethry capitulated, picked up her dinner, and

  forced it down, grit and all.

  "Now," Tarma said, when they'd both finished

  eating. "I know you've spotted a suspect, I can tell

  by the way you're watching the guards. Tell me

  which one it is; I'd be very interested to see if it's

  the same one I've got my eye on."

  "It's the one with the mouse-brown hair and ratty

  face that rode tail-guard this morning."

  Tarma's eyes widened a little, but she gave no

  other sign of surprise. "Did you say brown hair?

  And a ratty face? Tailguard this morning had black

  hair and a pouty, babyish look to him."

  Kethry revived a bit more. "Really? Are you talk-

  ing about the one walking between us and their fire

  right now? The one with all the jewelry? And does

  he seem to be someone you know very vaguely?"

  "Yes. One
of the hired swords with the horse-

  traders my Clan used to deal with—I think his

  name was Tedric. Why?"

  Kethry unbuckled a small ornamental dagger from

  her belt and passed it to Tarma with exaggerated

  care. Tarma claimed it with the same caution, cau-

  tion that was quite justified, since the "dagger" was

  in reality Kethry's sword Need, no matter what

  shape it wore at the moment. Beneath the illusion,

  it still retained its original mass and weight.

  "Now look at him."

  Tarma cast a surreptitious glance at the guard

  again, and her lips tightened. Even when it was

  done by magic, she didn't like being tricked. "Mouse-

  brown hair and a ratty face," she said. "He changed."

  She returned the blade to Kethry.

  "And now?" Kethry asked, when Need was safely

  back on her belt.

  "Now that's odd," Tarma said thoughtfully. "If

  he's using an illusion, he should have gone back to

  the way he looked before, but he didn't. He's still

  mousy and ratty, but my eyes feel funny—like some-

  thing's pulling at them—and he's blurred a bit

  around the edges. It's almost as if his face was

  trying to look different from what I'm seeing."

  "Uh-huh. Mind-magic," Kethry said, with satis-

  faction. "So that's why I wasn't able to detect any

  spells! It's not a true illusion like I'm holding on us.

  They practice mind-magic a lot more up north in

  Valdemar—I think I must have told you about it at

  some time or other. I'm only marginally familiar

  with the way it works, since it doesn't operate

  quite like what I've learned. If what I've been told

  is true, his mind is telling your mind that you know