Satisfaction Guaranteed

by Samantha M. Derr

  Ash whuffled and nudged Nic's stomach.

  The woman laughed. "But I am sure you will. He is a good judge of character and I believe he likes you." With a parting pat on Ash's arched neck, she turned toward the inn door and disappeared into the twilight. Nic constrained a shiver at the eerie sight. He had overheard enough late night, liquor-soaked conversation to know an assassin when he saw one.

  He tore himself from the thought and turned his attention to the horse. "Ash, is it?" He offered a handful of oats and thoughtfully stroked Ash's soft nose as he chewed. It wasn't often when guests told him their horses' names. He usually had to give them himself. "Have I got a treat for you," he continued, leading him into the building. "The finest summer straw, harvested only a month ago. Dry hay, cold well water, lambskin chamois. We are a full service establishment, sir."

  Whether or not Ash understood, he offered no resistance to entering the box next to Deacon's. The dull boom of Bull's anger against the walls of her stall continued to fill the rafters, but Ash remained calm and easy. He gazed upon Nic from a deep eye that seemed to hold more than the common equine intelligence.

  What else can you expect from an assassin's horse? Nic unbuckled and removed Ash's bitless bridle and the rest of his tack and set it aside for cleaning. Like the assassin, the saddle bore signs of a recent battle in gashes and scars in the hard leather. Some of those gashes continued to Ash's black hide. Nic brushed light fingertips over them, wincing at the ridges of dried blood. Poor beast. He can slide into shadows as well as his mistress, but that doesn't do much good in the middle of a fight. He felt again the flash of panic when Ash and the woman materialized mere feet away from where he stood. Bad enough when a human could do it, but a horse? Well, uncanny or not, he must be hungry. Nic scratched Ash's withers and slid away with an apologetic, "I'll be back with your supper in a moment, sir."

  After a good meal, Bull quieted and allowed Nic to brush her grey coat with nothing worse than a nip on the arm. Her head hung and her breath slowed to a deep, even rhythm. Daffodil's mistress personally fed and groomed him, then departed for the inn. Daffodil curled up in the straw like a leggy wild thing. Deacon nearly crushed Nic against the stall walls several times as he brushed her down, though she seemed careful not to let him catch her looking at him as she played her little game. If she were human, she would have been stuttering, "Terribly sorry, it was an accident," over and over again.

  Ash preened under Nic's ministrations, shifted from side to side to give Nic space, leaned into the curry, and lifted his feet for easy access. When Nic finished and left the stall, Ash bumped his shoulder. It felt much like a pat from a grateful friend.

  Once all were fed, watered, cleaned, and resting, Nic padded around the stable perimeter, lowering lantern flames, locking doors, and absently rubbing the bruise Bull had given him. Ash, his black coat gleaming, stood alert and watchful when Nic returned to him, his head over his stall door.

  "Can't sleep?" Nic whispered, climbing onto the door and stroking Ash's cheek. His coat far surpassed that of any other beast Nic had encountered; he belonged in a royal stable. Nic wondered who the people were who rode in the saddles he had polished, other than a warrior, a mage, an Amazon, and an assassin. They weren't just any adventuring party, he'd wager. They were special. He met Ash's deep eye and added, "What have you seen?"

  Dragons, evil sorcerers, demons, warlords... Nic could only imagine.

  "I think," he began slowly, tracing the swirl of fur on Ash's cheek, "your mistress is a princess. From the south. The warrior is her protector. And she is on a quest to find..." He gazed at the rafters in thought. "She is on a quest to find a... locket. Of birthright. Because she was away so long in the school of assassins, after being kidnapped at a very young age. The Amazon and the cleric are companions she picked up along the way, each of them with their own reason to seek the one who holds the locket." He grinned at Ash. "How am I doing so far?"

  Ash shook his head, whickering.

  Nic chuckled. "Fine, then. You tell me."

  The expression on Ash's long face couldn't have been more exasperated. Laughing, Nic gave him a last caress and dropped off the door. "All right. I'll go find out for myself."

  He slipped in through the inn's back door, keeping to the shadows in the dim kitchen. The baking fires had been banked and the cook retired for the night, leaving behind covered baskets of bread heels and the soup pot, muttering to itself over glowing embers. Nic rifled through the leftovers, filling a bowl and his pockets, then edged to the corridor leading into the inn proper. Bright light made him squint, then familiar figures resolved themselves. The party, seated around a table; Abigail the serving wench, leaning over the big warrior's shoulder to fill his tankard; the tiresome minstrel plucking his strings by the hearth; a clump of farmers, as colourless as their autumn fields, playing games of chance and excess beer.

  Nic propped himself up against the corridor wall as he ate, keeping to the shadows. On a normal night he would slink to the hearth and tolerate the minstrel's out of tune lyre, if only for the chance to bathe in the fire's heat. That night, though, caught up with curiosity and imagination, he ignored his aching feet and watched the party. Like so many others, they radiated the vigour of souls who lived with a purpose. They were heroes. The warrior bellowed and gestured with his tankard. The cleric chuckled into a handkerchief. The Amazon's smile glowed like a white blade and her wiry hands sketched magic and battles in the air.

  Only the assassin sat quietly, a sliver of shadow amongst her bright companions. She drew Nic's eye. His gaze followed the curves of her face and the subtle patterns in her armour. He wondered what that tooled leather felt like, warm or cold, hard or flexible. He watched her lips, wishing she would speak so he could catch the edge of her low, rough voice. She held her tankard in two folded hands, leaving it on the table top. She seemed downcast, more so than when she spoke with Nic earlier.

  What are you thinking? he wondered, watching her eyelids flicker as she stared into her drink. What did you do? Where have you been?

  He glanced down to swallow the last of his soup. When he looked back up, he nearly choked on a chunk of gristle. The assassin's ochre eyes had lifted to meet his own. She stared at him across the bright room, her gaze piercing the shadows and pinning him in place. His breath caught in his throat, and he gripped his hard bread with enough strength to crumble it.

  Then something intercepted his sight. He blinked and his focus snapped into place to find Abigail standing directly before him. She faced him, but her attention was elsewhere. Her tongue stuck out in concentration as she fished around in her creamy bosom with one hand, clutching her blouse's low neckline with the other.

  "God's teet," she cursed. "Damn things ain't never stay in place."

  "Um." He stared, wide-eyed, at the violent movements under her shirt.

  "Oh, quit gawking." Her good-natured scolding brought his attention up to her rosy face. She winked. "The ladies ain't what's wandering, but the buttresses underneath. Ah!" Her expression brightened with triumph and she wrenched out a felted, palm-sized pad. She grinned at Nic and thrust her chest out, displaying her lop-sided bosom. "Makes a difference, dinnit? The difference between one copper and seven." She brandished the pad. "Now don't go blabbing this to nobody, got it? A girl's got to have her secrets."

  Nic shook his head. "Abby, everyone knows. Your brain and your chest are both mostly wool."

  "Ah. Nasty boy." Before he could dodge, she tapped him on the nose with the felted wool. He flinched back, face wrinkling in disgust. "No peeking. That big bloke's surely interested in these charms of mine."

  "Those charms belonged to a sheep."

  "A lamb, thank'n you kindly. What do you take me for?" That intense look of concentration came over her again as her hand returned to her bosom, on a mission to insert the pad back where it belonged.

  Nic's eyes rolled in exasperation. He shifted to the other side of the corridor to look past Abigail's squirming figure. "Wh
at are they like?" he asked carefully. The assassin had gone back to staring into her tankard, searching for the secret of life or reliving a recent kill.

  Abigail grunted. "Like any other, I suppose. Louis caught one of 'em in a different guest's quarters, digging in his drawers. There'll be some kind of compensation come morning, I suspect." She jumped up and down, and her anatomy jumped up and down with her. "Decent polite, otherwise. And they ain't breaking anything." Her voice lowered dramatically. "Not like that elf in the green hat."

  "You're going to have to stand up to these people one day." Nic brushed down his front and folded his arms, casting an amused smirk in Abigail's direction.

  "You stand up to them," she retorted, rubbing her bare arms in an exaggerated shudder. "He just sat there, drinking those poor fairies and milk chasers, staring out of those dead blue eyes. Never said a bloody word. Then I turned around and—bam—all the clay pots were broken."

  Nic's smirk grew into a grin. "His horse was nice."

  Her glare shone through the darkness. "He was insane."

  "Most of them are." He sagged against the wall, watching the assassin. "You'd have to be. Just imagine what they do, the stories they can tell." Curiosity overcame him and he asked, "Have you... heard anything?"

  He felt her staring at him, and her growing amusement. "Ask them yourself. All you gotta do is go over there'n talk to them."

  He recoiled from the thought, suddenly and painfully aware of the horse shit and straw dust ground into his clothing and skin. "I don't—I don't know. No. Louis'd string me up." He retreated toward the kitchen. "You know he doesn't like me hanging around the paying custom."

  "Aw, come now." She grabbed his arm. "You going to stare at them from the shadows? You know that'll make them nervy. Come in. The bloke's sweet on me. One o' the girls is bound to be sweet on your baby face. Maybe both. We can make a night of it."

  Nic wrenched out of her grip. "No. If you got nothing to tell me, then I'm going to bed. Horses are damn notorious early risers."

  Abigail sighed but let him go. "Maybe another night, then," she called after him as he escaped out the kitchen. "We don't always got guests and horseflesh to look after. Sometimes we can look after each other."

  The night air shocked his flushed cheeks. Nic lifted his face to the star-filled sky and eased the tension in his breast and belly with a deep breath. That wasn't the first time Abigail had propositioned him. Nor would it be the last, he reckoned. He wondered how long he could turn her away before she realized something was wrong with him.

  Gentle snorts welcomed him home. Stretching out the kinks and sore muscles of a day's labour, he drifted down the aisle to the end and ascended to his loft. There, he felt blindly for the rough posts around his nest of blankets. One post for warriors, one for mages, one for each class of adventurer who came through his inn. He carved a notch for their four guests, taking special care with the new class: An assassin, as beautiful as she was no doubt deadly.

  Then he lay back, folding his hands behind his head. His attempts to spy had failed, leaving it to imagination alone to give him a glimpse of the outside world.

  *~*~*

  He started awake, eyes bolting open and body tensing. He stared blankly at the slivers of moonlight visible through chinks in the ceiling, trying to figure out what had woken him. When nothing obvious presented itself, he strained to listen. There must have been something.

  A whisper from below made his skin twitch. Thieves? He crept carefully to the ladder, minimizing the rustle of straw under his blankets. It would be just his luck to have horse thieves make a go at it while they had so much fine horseflesh under their roof. Any damage or loss would be on Nic's head, and he didn't think the giant warrior or his dangerous companions would be understanding.

  Although, Nic admitted with an inward grin, if they made an attempt on Bull they would steal nothing but passage to the next world. Better to scare them off, he decided, hovering over the square of dim lantern light into which his ladder jutted. Or I'll have to spend the rest of the night scrubbing their blood out of the floors.

  In one hand he gripped a long-knife, an old tool overly sharpened into a delicate flechette. He was by no means a threatening figure, but he might make enough noise to startle them away. On quick and silent feet, he descended the familiar rungs. His eyes probed the gloom and his ears strained. He saw only long, still shadows, cast by the lone lantern at the stable entrance, and heard the breaths of his charges.

  Thieves would have been more obvious. Nic shivered. Is something out there? Stories haunted his imagination, conjuring demons to haunt the empty stalls as he passed and witches to peer in through the knotholes in the walls. The adventuring party could have brought something back with them, wherever they had been. Some wizard's familiar or a malevolent spirit.

  He peeked into the stalls of his own master's beasts first, and ensured the two cart horses slept soundly. Then he hopped up to catch a glimpse of Daffodil, who sprawled in his straw like a dog, his side heaving regularly. Deacon leaned against the wall of her stall, one leg lifted. Bull woke at his approach and lifted her head enough to glare at him over her pale shoulder.

  Nic turned his thinly booted feet toward Ash's stall, finding himself inexplicably reluctant to approach. The effects of his imagination mingled with his disconcertion at Ash's uncanny intelligence and abilities.

  He crept near, steeled himself, and carefully stood on the door's lowest boards to peer over.

  He saw nothing more than pools of shadows. He knew, though, that the light by the door should have been enough to see into every stall, so he continued to glare stubbornly until the shadows solidified and differentiated, and he picked out Ash's noble form, lying on the straw at the back. He wasn't alone.

  Demon, Nic flinched and lost his grip when he caught sight of a humanoid form nestled against Ash's side, no doubt feeding on horse blood. He tumbled, earned a palmful of splinters when he tried to catch himself, and hit the dusty floor with a solid thud.

  Straw rustled. Nic scrambled backwards, one hand madly slapping the floor in search of his knife, his eyes fixed on the door in terror. When a white oval appeared over the boards, he released a whimper and hurriedly closed his eyes.

  Don't look it in the eye, it'll steal your soul. Everyone knew that demons—even horse blood drinkers—collected souls in an oiled leather sack carried on their twisted backs.

  "Hello?"

  The husky voice sounded familiar, but it had to be a trick. Nic gave up on his lost knife and flung an arm up to protect his face, eyes, and the soul they guarded.

  "Stableboy? What are you doing?"

  It had stolen the assassin woman's voice. Probably to trick Ash into allowing the demon to lie beside him. Nic would not be fooled. Keeping one arm up, he awkwardly stood, his other hand flailing to keep his balance. "Begone, demon," he rasped. "All who reside beneath this roof are under my protection."

  "I see that." The voice warmed with amusement. "And if I were truly a demon I would be quite terrified, I assure you."

  That wasn't quite the response Nic had hoped for. He stilled, thinking, and finally spat, "You can't trick me. You'll steal neither my soul nor any more horse blood this night."

  Hands gripped his flailing arm. He squawked and tried to wrench away, but the demon had an impossible strength. It pulled his protective arm gently but firmly away from his face.

  "I am no demon, stableboy. Look at me."

  Nic hung in its grip, attempted another half-hearted escape, and finally sagged. He tilted his head toward the floor and cracked one eyelid open. When he saw black, soft-soled boots and his soul remained safely within him, he let his gaze drift upward. Shapely legs encased in leather, straps, and sheathed daggers. The easy roundness of hips, a flat stomach, a swell of breasts, a glimpse of a pale throat, and then the assassin's face, alight with humour.

  Bravely, Nic flicked his eyes up to meet hers, then sent them to a dark corner of the stable. He had retained ownership
of his soul, but one could never be too careful.

  "Satisfied?" she asked.

  Nic frowned and swallowed a sensation that felt suspiciously like embarrassment.

  She chuckled. "No need to blush. Ash is my most precious friend. I am glad that he has such a fine guardian." Her grip loosened and she allowed Nic to pull away. "You have my thanks, stableboy. Knowing that you watch over him eases my heart."

  "Thank you, madam," Nic grumbled. Bad enough that he had made a fool of himself, but she was going to make it worse with her condescension and her sweet smile. He rubbed his wrists, which had gained an unmanly ache, and winced when his splinters drove deeper into his palm.

  "Oh, I hurt you." She moved closer and lightly clasped his hand.

  Nic's years of servitude clashed with the shreds of dignity he still owned. He wanted to tear away from her and retreat to his loft, but she was a customer. And customers had every right. He settled on a tight, "I'm fine, madam. Just a splinter."

  "I am sorry. Like the shadows. Sometimes I forget my strength. I do not spend as much time with mundane folk as I should." She tugged him to Ash's open door and sent Nic in first. "Sit down and I will look at your palm." When he made no move to obey, she grinned. "Fear not. The arts of death and the arts of life are similar enough that I can care for you without severing an artery."

  He hadn't meant to laugh, but a snicker escaped him. He eased down in the straw, finding that his body was well displeased with its recent abuses. His hips and shoulders ached, and something twinged in his back.

  Ash stretched his neck to settle his large head next to Nic's thigh. Nic scratched his forelock with his good hand.

  "He really does like you," the woman commented. She sat cross-legged across from Nic and took his splintered hand in hers, splaying out his palm. "Strange... he does not usually like men."