No Quarter

by Tanya Huff

  * * * *

  “Lookie what we have here.” One of the three young men lounging about the sunny front of Izak a’Edvard’s shop pushed himself up onto his feet as Vree and Magda approached. “You two an item?” He flicked the beaded ends of his mustache with a forefinger and arched his back enough to stretch his sleeveless tunic tight against the undulating ridges of his chest. “Or does a charming, sophisticated, handsome fellow like myself stand a chance?”

  “No,” Vree replied before Magda could answer. Her posture clearly indicated she expected him to get out of her way.

  “Vree …”

  Magda sounded so worried, Gyhard tried to keep the amusement out of his mental voice—and failed. *People usually accept it when an assassin says no.*

  “He doesn’t know.”

  *And you’re not to tell him.*

  “We got us a grumpy one, boys.” His friends grinned encouragement and shifted position on the bench to get a better view of the fun. “You the little healer’s personal bodyguard, Southie?”

  Vree started around him, but he grabbed her shoulder with a scarred hand and pushed her back.

  *Oh, oh.*

  “I asked you a question, Southie.”

  *Doesn’t smell like he’s drunk; he must be stupid.*

  “Vree …”

  “Is that your name, Southie?” He laughed. “It sounds like the noise a pig makes when you slit its throat. Vreeee!” Bowing slightly toward Magda, he purred, “Excuse me, healer,” his emphasis indicated he was fully aware of the apprentice circle on her badge, “but I’m going to have to teach your little friend here a lesson in manners.”

  Clutching Vree’s hand tightly, Magda glared at him. “Look, you’re making a mistake.”

  He held his hand out from his chest, just even with the top of Vree’s head. “Somehow, I doubt it.”

  “She looks dangerous, Jak.” While the warning held a certain amount of derision, it was a warning for all of that.

  Jak spread his arms. Muscles rippled from shoulder to wrist, the pattern of scars a moving history of other fights. “She’s half my size, Ziv. How dangerous can that be?”

  One of Vree’s instructors had told her that women made marginally better assassins than men because they didn’t posture.

  *No blades!*

  Responding instinctively to the sound of a direct order, Vree changed the direction of her initial movement and launched herself into the air. Planting a hand on each of Jak’s shoulders, she flipped over his head, smacking her knee into his chin as she passed. She slapped the cobblestones, rolled, and regained her feet an instant later.

  Bellowing with pain and rage, Jak spat out a bloody tooth, whirled, and charged. A few moments later, loyalty dragged his friends into the fight. By the time the trio of palace guards arrived, short swords drawn and wondering what they were going to tell their captain if the Southern woman got killed, it was all over. They stared wide-eyed from the groaning men to Vree, who was wiping a trickle of blood from her nose on her sleeve.

  *I’m surprised they touched you.*

  *It wasn’t intentional. These idiots don’t know how to fall.*

  *Accidents happen?*

  *Only once.*

  *Feel better now?*

  She grinned at his tone. *Much. Thanks for reminding me not to kill them.* To Gyhard’s surprise, the thanks were sincere. *I thought you never served?*

  *I didn’t. But I spent sixty years as Governor Aralt and over the years he, I, gave a great many orders.*

  “You’re hurt!” Magda rushed forward and patted the air in front of Vree’s nose. “Let me Heal that!”

  “It’ll heal itself in a minute.” All at once, she became aware of the dozen or so people who’d been drawn out of the surrounding buildings at the sound of battle. Most wore singed leather aprons, the rest wore the weapons they’d come to this street to buy. None of them looked happy.

  “No one can move like that,” muttered a smith, her hands wrapped around the shaft of a heavy hammer.

  “She doesn’t look Shkoden,”

  “She doesn’t move like she’s human.”

  “Demon. I’m tellin’ ya, she must be a demon.”

  Magda whirled on them, hands on her hips. “Don’t be ridiculous. She’s from the Havakeen Empire. And if these three braggarts couldn’t finish what they started, it’s hardly her fault.”

  It might’ve worked had the three members of the palace guard not suddenly decided to make up for arriving late. As they moved into a defensive position around the two women, the rumbles from the crowd grew ugly.

  Her breathing back to normal, Vree studied patterns and planned her attack, just in case. *This is stupid.*

  *Granted. But it doesn’t make it any less dangerous.*

  *Granted.*

  *Don’t tell them what you are. Were. You’d stand a better chance with them believing you a demon.*

  “No one her size could take down three people their size,” the smith declared. “It’s impossible!”

  Magda sighed. “You’ve always been the strongest, haven’t you? You hate the thought of anyone so much smaller than you being able to defeat you.”

  “What’re you talkin’ about?” the smith snarled. She shifted her grip on the hammer. “This ain’t about me. It’s about her.” Raising a beefy arm, she stepped forward. “Now git out of my …”

  Whether she intended a blow or merely a shove became irrelevant as a pair of strong hands grabbed her from behind and threw her to the ground. The hammer bounced out of her reach, striking sparks off the cobblestones. When she tried to rise, the point of a sword at her throat changed her mind.

  The tall young man holding the sword, tossed a straying strand of ebony hair back over his shoulder and slowly swept an arrogant violet gaze over the area. His looks and his bearing as much as the sword, silenced the crowd. “Maggi,” he sighed at last, “what is going on here?”

  Everyone started talking at once.

  “I was speaking to my sister.” The gentle admonishment had steel behind it. A bard couldn’t have done it better.

  “It wasn’t my fault, Gerek,” Magda told him. “Vree and I just wanted to go into this shop and these three buffoons wouldn’t let us.”

  “And?”

  “And so Vree fought them.”

  “And?”

  “And she won.”

  “And?”

  “And now these people think she’s a demon!”

  “Maggi, demons don’t really exist. They’re stories told to frighten children.”

  Magda glared at her older brother. She didn’t know what he was doing in Elbasan and while she appreciated him dropping out of the Circle to save her, if indeed he had saved her, she didn’t appreciate his tone. “Don’t tell me,” she snapped. “Tell them.”

  “These are adults,” Gerek pointed out facetiously. “They know that.”

  So fascinated was everyone by this exchange that they forgot about the men who’d started it and had Jak not bellowed as he surged to his feet, he might’ve had a slim chance of success. As it was, Vree’s dagger caught the loose fabric where the wide legs of his trousers joined and buried itself guard deep in the wall behind him. Jak stared down at the pommel, just visible at his crotch, and fainted.

  “Hope he tucks left,” someone murmured.

  One of the palace guards snickered. The tension dissolved in shouts of raucous laughter.

  About to demand an explanation, Magda caught the expression on Gerek’s face and stopped cold. She’d seen that expression before. Frequently. It was the last thing she wanted to see in this time and this place.

  Gerek was in love.

  * * * *

  “All right. Let me see if I understand this.” Gerek paced across one of the small rooms in the suite set aside for the Duc of Ohrid at the palace and stared over at the lights of the Bardic Hall. “Not only does Vree have two kigh, but they’re in love with each other.”

  “That’s right.”

 
He sighed, turned, and propped one leg on the polished marble window sill. “That’s not love, Maggot. That’s masturbation.”

  “Gerek!”

  His teeth were very white against the shadow of whiskers on his chin. “You’ve been studying here for almost two years. You must’ve run into the word.”

  “Of course I’ve run into the word and stop grinning at me in that stupid way!” Magda spat a curl out of the corner of her mouth and glared at her brother. “You haven’t been listening to anything I’ve said! Vree and Gyhard are two separate people!”

  “In one body.”

  “Yes!”

  “In one beautiful, desirable, very sexy body.”

  “No!” She snatched a tapestry cushion up off a padded chair and threw it at him.

  Stretching out a languid arm, he lazily plucked it out of the air before impact and tossed it back onto the chair. “Are you saying she’s not beautiful?”

  “Of course she’s beautiful. I’m not blind.”

  A single ebony brow swept upward in an interrogative gesture Magda’d hated all her life. The only way she could get a single brow to rise was if she tied the other one down.

  “Gerek! She’s my patient!”

  He spread his hands, the gesture as elegant as everything he did. “Not mine.”

  “Look, Gerek, Vree’s really vulnerable right now and she hates feeling vulnerable and that makes things even worse.” Gathering up her robe in one hand, Magda crossed to his side and stared earnestly up at him. “She truly loves Gyhard, but she’s afraid of her feelings because assassins are taught only to love the army. And being assassins. If it hadn’t been for Bannon, Vree’d never have been able to do what she did.”

  “I thought you said his name was Gyhard?”

  “Bannon’s her brother. For some reason I’m not entirely clear on, mostly because I haven’t wanted to ask, they were trained together, against all tradition, and she loved him. That made it possible for her to love Gyhard even though she’s having trouble handling the emotions. This entire experience has completely messed up her whole identity. Her kigh is so confused all the time …”

  “All the time?” he prodded when she paused.

  “Okay, it wasn’t confused this afternoon. This afternoon she knew exactly who she was.”

  “And Gyhard loves her? Whoever she is?”

  “Yes.”

  “What? No accompanying diagnosis?”

  She bit her lip. “He’s afraid that someday his love won’t be strong enough to stop him from taking over her body.”

  “And what are you afraid of, little sister?” Gerek asked gently, cupping her chin with his palm.

  “The same thing,” Magda admitted with a sigh. “Gerek, you’ve got to promise me you’ll stay away from her.” Wrapping his hand in both of hers, she searched his face for any sign of capitulation. “The last thing Vree needs right now is you panting all over her, further confusing the issue.”

  He freed his hand. “I don’t pant.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Have I ever hurt anyone?” Before she could answer, he added, “Intentionally?”

  “Well, no, but …”

  “Then trust me.”

  * * * *

  Gerek fought the urge to scratch as he accompanied the page through the section of the palace that held the royal family’s private apartments. It might have been more politic to shave before this visit, but having discovered upon arriving in Elbasan that beards were now the fashion, he had no time to waste. He clasped his hands behind his back to keep them from his chin. Because it’s too late to do anything about it now.

  When the page pulled open a gleaming section of paneling carved with the crowned ship of Shkoder, he tugged at his tunic and followed her into the room.

  “Gerek a’Pjerin, Majesties.”

  He bowed extravagantly, sweeping the thick carpet with an imaginary hat—the way Tadeus had taught him when he was seven—and straightened to see the Queen approaching him with outstretched hands and a fond smile.

  “It’s good to see you, Gerek, and a little surprising to see you so soon after your arrival. I’d have thought Elbasan had more interesting claims on your time.”

  “How can you say that when I have thought of nothing but Your Majesty’s beauty …” He laid a gentle kiss on the back of each of her offered hands … and grace from the moment I left my father’s keep.”

  “You’ve been spending too much time with the bards, Gerek,” the king called from his chair by the empty hearth. “You’re starting to sound like one.”

  “Nonsense, Theron.” Llyana returned to her own chair, her cheeks lightly pink. “I’ve never had a bard say anything half so pretty to me.”

  “Then you ought to spend more time with Tadeus if you’re feeling the lack. Give that one half a chance and he’d say pretty things to me.”

  “Yes, dear, but not to me.”

  Theron grunted and laced his hands over his stomach. “Sit, Gerek,” he commanded, nodding at a third chair. “I can’t stand the way you and your father insist on towering over people.”

  Gerek grinned as he sat. “I’ll try to be shorter, Majesty, but I’m afraid I can’t speak for my father.”

  “Who can,” the king agreed dryly. “How is he?”

  “He sent his respects, Sire, and his deepest regret that he would be unable to attend the Full Council. He only hopes that my humble attempt to take his place will meet with your approval.”

  “Well, you’re more of a diplomat than he ever was, but you can stop forking it off the manure pile, boy; I’ve known you most of your life. How is he really?”

  “When I left, he was furious about a ram that’d been pulled out of a breeding program without his approval.”

  “Of course he was. And how is my sister?”

  “Equally furious, sir. Nees was the one who removed the ram.”

  The king shook his head and exchanged a speaking glance with his consort. “Of course she was,” he said. “And how are you? Besides having unfortunately lost your shaving kit.”

  “Theron, he’s obviously growing a beard,” Llyana declared as Gerek’s ears reddened. “Before you say any more,” she reached over and tugged at the gray-brown curls adorning His Majesty’s chin, “you should remember how you looked when your beard was growing in.”

  Family matters took a certain amount of time to cover as Annice had entrusted Gerek with a number of messages to her brother that she didn’t think needed to be sent through the Bardic Hall. Servers were setting out wine as they discussed the lack of action on the Cemandian border and the slow but steady growth of trade.

  When the servers had left and the three were alone again, Theron stared down into his goblet as if he might read answers in the wine. “So, Gerek, why did you come to see us so soon after your arrival?”

  Half smiling at the emphasis, Gerek admitted he was concerned about his sister.

  “Ah. She’s told you about the assassin.”

  “Yes, Majesty.”

  “We have them under constant surveillance. Besides the kigh, there are always guards within crossbow range.”

  “Begging Your Majesty’s pardon, but that didn’t do much good this afternoon.”

  “How fortunate that you arrived when you did then.”

  Gerek’s jaw dropped. “How did you know …?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Theron advised gently, setting the goblet on the small marble table by his elbow. “I’m the king. When those close to me are involved in a street brawl, I’m informed. So, what’s your suggestion?”

  “Majesty?” The abrupt question had taken him completely by surprise.

  The king smiled. “I know the two who raised you, Gerek. Given that, given them, I can’t believe you don’t have a better way of dealing with the situation in mind.”

  Not entirely certain he liked being read so easily, Gerek spread his hands. “I had thought that perhaps I could be used as an additional guard, one who cou
ld stay much closer than those now assigned.”

  “Magda was very insistent that there be no guard at all. What we have now is an attempt at a compromise. The guards are discreet and she pretends they aren’t there.”

  “But she can hardly object to me, Majesty. I’m her brother.”

  Brow furrowed, Theron considered the offer from a number of angles; unfortunately, with no idea of the only relevant one.

  If she realizes she’s a healer with a healer’s privileges instead of just my little sister, she won’t ask me to stay away from Vree, she’ll order it. She’s like that. Stubborn. Certain she knows what’s right. Gerek couldn’t let that happen. He had to get closer to the Southern beauty who’d stolen his heart.

  “I have to admit I didn’t like Maggi being so far from the guards,” the king allowed at last. “If you think you can get closer, go ahead, and if she gives you any trouble with it, tell her you’re there on my order.”

  “Yes, Sire.” He stood. “Thank you, Majesty, I …”

  “Father?” The Heir paused in the open door and looked slightly embarrassed. “My apologies, Majesty, I didn’t realize you were … Gerek! How nice to see you back in Elbasan.”

  “Your Highness.” His bow to the Princess Onele was significantly less flamboyant than to her parents. The odds were good that when he became duc, she’d be Queen—his direct liege.

  “What brings you down from Ohrid?” she asked, her gaze frankly appreciative.

  Having attracted that kind of response his entire adult life, Gerek had long since learned to ignore it. “I’m here to sit as my father’s proxy on the Full Council, Highness.”

  “I’ll be looking forward to your participation.” She smiled and reached behind her, pulling her oldest daughter out from her shadow and into the room. While her relationship with her consort had grown to be distant at best, she doted on both her daughters. “Look who’s here, Jelena.”

  Jelena took one panicked look at Gerek, turned bright red, dropped her gaze to the embroidered toes of her slippers, and murmured something unintelligible.

  Gerek smiled kindly down at the girl. “But the princess Jelena was a child when I saw her last; this is a young woman.”