That was one thing she didn’t have to ask for. He didn’t have to act the next morning, when the 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 include 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 platinum 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 impropriety, 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 argument 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 on their return. Besides, 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 guarding her possessions and plainly incapable of guarding 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 master’s dismay. His expression, carefully controlled, seemed to be remote and impassive—only his rapidly 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 visible 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 intended 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 mistress. 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 twixt her legs plenty of times before, and enjoyed 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 convinced 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 weaponry 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 saddlebow. That would be an unexpected bonus—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 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 anticipation. Tomorrow he would give the scouts trailing 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 discreet 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. Dutifully, 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 swallow 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 magics, 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. 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 th
ey’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? Tail-guard this morning had black hair and a pouty, babyish look to him.”
Kethry revived a bit more. “Really? Are you talking 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 hire-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 Kethry with exaggerated care. Tarma claimed it with the same caution—caution 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 were 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 something’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.”
“Mind-magic,” Kethry said with satisfaction. “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, and 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 him, and letting your memory supply an acceptable face. He could very well look like a different person to everyone in the caravan, but since he always looks familiar, any of them would be willing to vouch for him.”
“Which is how he keeps sneaking into the packtrains. He looks different each time, since no one is likely to ‘see’ a man they know is dead. Very clever. You say this isn’t a spell?”
“Mind-magic depends on inborn abilities to work; if you haven’t got them, you can’t learn it. It’s unlike my magic, where it’s useful to have the Gift, but not necessary. Was he the same one you were watching?”
“He is, indeed. So your True Sight spell works on this ‘mind-magic,’ too?”
“Yes, thank the gods. What tipped you off to him?”
“Nothing terribly obvious, just a lot of little things that weren’t quite right for the ordinary guard he’s pretending to be. His sword is a shade too expensive. His horse has been badly misused, but he’s got very good lines; he’s of much better breeding than a common guard should own. And lastly, he’s wearing jewelry he can’t afford.”
Kethry looked puzzled. “Several of the other guards are wearing just as much. I thought most hire-swords wore their savings.”
“So they do. Thing is, of the others, the only ones with as much or more are either the guard-chief, or ones wearing mostly brass and glass; showy, meant to impress village tarts, but worthless. His is all real, and the quality is high. Too damned high for the likes of him.”
“Now that we know who to watch, what do we do?”
“We wait,” Tarma replied with a certain grim satisfaction. “He’ll have to signal the rest of his troupe to attack us sooner or later, and one of us should be able to spot him at it. With luck and the Warrior on our side, we’ll have enough warning to be ready for them.”
“I hope it’s sooner.” Kethry sipped at the well-watered wine which was all she’d allow herself when holding spells in place. Her eyes were heavy, dry, and sore. “I’m not sure how much longer I can hold up my end.”
“Then go to sleep, dearling.” Tarma’s voice held an unusual gentleness, a gentleness only Kethry, Warrl, and small children ever saw. “Furface and I can take turns on nightwatch; you needn’t take a turn at all.”
Kethry did not need further urging, but wrapped herself up in her cloak and a blanket, pillowed her head on her arm, and fell asleep with the suddenness of a tired puppy. The illusions she’d woven would remain intact even while she slept. Only three things could cause them to fail. They’d break if she broke them herself, if the pressure of spells from a greater sorcerer than she were brought to bear on them, or if she died. Her training had been arduous and quite thorough; as complete in its way as Tarma’s sword training had been.
Seeing her shiver in her sleep, Tarma built up the fire with a bit more dried dung (the leavings of previous caravans were all the fuel to be found out here) and covered her with the rest of the spare blankets. The illusions were draining energy from Kethry; Tarma knew she’d be quite comfortable with one blanket and her cloak, and if that didn’t suffice, Warrl made an excellent “bedwarmer.” The night passed uneventfully.
Morning saw them riding deeper into the stony hills that ringed the desert basin they’d spent the day before passing through. The road was considerably less dusty now, but the air held more of a chill. Both Tarma and Kethry tried to keep an eye on their suspect guard, and shortly before noon their vigilance was rewarded. Both of them saw him flashing the sunlight off his armband in what could only be a deliberate series of signals.
“From ambush, bandits screaming
Charge the packtrain and its prize,
And all but four within the train
Are taken by surprise,
And all but four are cut down
Like a woodsman fells a log,
The guardsman, and the lady,
And the maiden, and the dog.
Three things know a secret—
First; the lady in a dream;
The dog that barks no warning
And the maid that does not scream.”
Even with advance warning, they hadn’t much time to ready themselves.
Bandits charged the packtrain from both sides of the road, screaming at the tops of their lungs. The guards were taken completely by surprise. The three apprentice traders accompanying the train flung themselves down on their faces as their master Grumio had ordered them to do in hopes that they’d be overlooked. To the bandit-master at the rear of the train, it seemed that once again all had gone completely according to plan.
Until Kethry broke her illusions.
“Then off the lady pulls her cloak—
In armor she is clad,
Her sword is out and ready
And her eyes are fierce and glad.
The maiden gestures briefly,
And the dog’s a cur no more.
A wolf, sword-maid, and sorceress
Now face the bandit corps!
Three things never anger,
Or you will not live for long—
A wolf with cubs, a man with power,
And a woman’s sense of wrong.”
The brigands at the forefront of the pack found themselves facing something they hadn’t remotely expected. Gone were the helpless, frightened women on high-bred steeds too fearful to run. In their place sat a pair of well-armed, grim-faced mercenaries on schooled warbeasts. With them was an oversized and very hungry-looking wolf.
The pack of bandits milled, brought to a halt by this unexpected development.
Finally one of the bigger ones growled a challenge at Tarma, who only grinned evilly at him. Kethry saluted them mockingly—and the pair moved into action explosively.
They split up and charged the marauders, giving them no time
to adjust to the altered situation. The bandits had hardly expected the fight to be carried to them, and reacted too late to stop them. Their momentum carried them through the pack and up onto the hillsides on either side of the road. Now they had the high ground.
Kethry had drawn Need, whose magic was enabling her to keep herself intact long enough to find a massive boulder to put her back against. The long odds were actually favoring the two of them for the moment, since the bandits were mostly succeeding only in getting in each other’s way. Obviously they had not been trained to fight together, and had done well so far largely because of the surprise with which they’d attacked and their sheer numbers. Once Kethry had gained her chosen spot, she slid off her horse, and sent it off with a slap to its rump. The mottled, huge-headed beast was as ugly as a piece of rough granite, and twice as tough, but she was a Shin‘a’in-bred-and-trained warsteed, and worth the weight in silver of the high-bred mare she’d been spelled to resemble. Now that Kethry was on the ground, she’d attack anything whose scent she didn’t recognize—and quite probably kill it.
Warrl came to her side long enough to give her the time she needed to transfer her sword to her left hand and begin calling up her more arcane offensive weaponry.
In the meantime, Tarma was in her element, cutting a bloody swath through the bandit horde with a fiercely joyous gleam in her eyes. She clenched her mare’s belly with viselike legs; only one trained in Shin‘a’in-style horse-warfare from childhood could possibly have stayed with the beast. The mare was laying all about her with iron-shod hooves and enormous yellow teeth; neither animal nor man was likely to escape her once she’d targeted him. She had an uncanny sense for anyone trying to get to her rider by disabling her; once she twisted and bucked like a cat on hot metal to simultaneously crush the bandit in front of her while kicking in the teeth of the one that had thought to hamstring her from the rear. She accounted for at least as many of the bandits as Tarma did.
Tarma saw Kethry’s mare rear and slash out of the comer of her eye; the saddle was empty, but she wasn’t worried. The bond of she‘enedran made them bound by spirit, and she’d have known if anything was wrong. Since the mare was fighting on her own, Kethry must have found someplace high enough to see over the heads of those around her.
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