Green, Sharon - Lady Blade, Lord Fighter.htm
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I took a minute to swallow some wine before turning back, then looked directly at him.
"My brother Rymar is dead," I got out with more difficulty than I'd expected to have, feeling as though saying the words aloud was what made them true. "After our oldest brother's accident Rymar was named Father's heir, but Rymar always considered that a responsibility rather than a privileged right. Now he's dead too, but not because of any accident. They tried to make it look like one, but only a fool would have believed that, and my father's no fool. Rymar was deliberately killed."
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"Who's 'they'?" Jakkar asked in his rumble of a voice, his big left hand unconsciously stroking his sword hilt. "And why would they want to kill a Ducal heir and not go after the Duke himself first?"
"I don't know," I admitted, annoyed at the lack of logic to the thing. "It's clear they want my father's heir dead, but not him. And as for who 'they' are, I don't know that either. I have a feeling my father knows, but I don't."
"If he doesn't know yet, I'm willing to bet he's working on it," Rull commented, having heard of my father even before I'd joined the Fist. "Was Rymar your father's last living son?"
"He just might have been," I said, swallowing again at my wine. "My other brothers, one older than me and one younger, haven't been heard from for years, which probably means they're both dead. There's no other reason for them .not to have let Father know where they are. Except for my two little sisters, all that leaves is me."
"Who will be doing what?" RuH asked, a question Foist, Jakkar and Hammis were also interested in having answered. Fists are closer than most families, closer even than marriage, and what affects one of its Blades affects the other four as well. "Will you need to go home for a while to pay your respects, or was your father simply sending you a warning?"
"My father wants me home, but not to pay my respects," I said with the reluctance firmly back in place, not exactly avoiding the four pairs of eyes on me, but not quite meeting them either. "I don't know what he has in mind, but he definitely and specifically wants me home. And besides that, he wouldn't be sending me the sort of warning you mean. He—doesn't know I'm a Blade."
I used the relative resulting silence to look up—relative in relation to the carousing still going on in the rest of the room—and found that I would have been better off continuing to avoid the stares of my Fistmates. They weren't exactly furious, or at least Foist, Jak and Ham weren't.
"That's not quite what you said when you joined the Company," Rull pointed out with a growl after a moment, his light eyes filled with dagger points. "Of course my family knows all about this, you said. Of course I have their permis-
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sion, you said. They know all about what I'm doing and they approve, you said."
"My aunt Illi knew and approved," i countered, wishing Rull would stop looking at me like that. "I wasn't trying to make trouble for the Company, but if I'd asked my father he probably would have refused permission, and I wasn't of age yet. Was I supposed to go home and sit quietly while waiting for the years to go by? I wasn't lying, I simply didn't tell all of the truth."
"Oh, is that all you did?", Rull said, folding his arms across his chest white the others sighed or shook their heads or rubbed their eyes. "The fact that your father's a Duke is completely beside the point, is it? If he'd found out and had gone foaming at the idea, he couldn't have done more than asked the King to have our Company disbanded and outlawed, now could he? Of course he couldn't, so why would we be upset? You didn't do anything more serious than jeopardize the lives of everyone in the Company. Talk about Seepar. The only lives he endangers are the five of the Fist he's supposed to be backing."
There was no amusement of any sort in Rullin, not in his eyes or his face or his voice, and it suddenly came to me that there was no longer any extraneous noise in the room. Everyone was listening, every Blade there had heard what he'd said, and it didn't matter that Rullin was right about what I'd done. Fistmates don't say things like that to one another, not when they want to continue being Fistmates, but that, of course, was the whole point. He'd been trying to tell me that not only was I about to leave, I also needn't bother coming back. I'd been wondering why he'd been avoiding me the last couple of weeks and had been trying to tease him out of whatever his problem was, but it looked like the problem went too deep for teasing. He'd taken the very first opportunity to invite 'me out of the Fist, and although it hurt more than I'd ever be able to explain to an outsider, I wasn't someone who believed in staying where 1 wasn't wanted. I held his gaze for a long moment after he'd fallen silent, then simply turned and got out of there.
I had to push my way through onlookers and a sudden babble of disturbed conversation, but size and determination count for quite a lot in a situation like that. 1 felt as though
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I'd just lost four of the five fingers of my sword hand, but that, of course, is what it's all about. A fist is a hand closed and ready to fight, the same thing a Fist is, especially the closed part. When a Fist is forced open it's never done without pain, and I've always preferred licking my wounds in private.
I strode through the areas until 1 reached the door leading to the front hall, threw it open then left it for one of the servants to close behind me, and didn't realize I was being followed until the door was closed and most of the revel-noise was cut off. Hurrying footsteps sounded behind me, and then came the voice of someone I'd forgotten about entirely.
"My lady, I really must insist that you wait for me," that ass of a courier complained, obviously having trouble keeping up. "I am, after all, the one your father sent to escort you home."
Which shows how hard my father was trying to protect my virtue, 1 thought rather than said, gesturing to the door servant to find my cloak. Those of the south placed a much higher value on virginity than northerners did, which also showed how vastly more intelligent northerners were.
"I shall hire an escort for us first thing tomorrow," the ass babbled on, making no effort to take back the letter I discovered 1 still held. "Should you be able to tell me how quickly you expect your maids at the Countess* house to pack your clothing and possessions, I'll know when to tell the escort to ..."
"There won't be an escort," I said, staring at the letter I held as the idea came to me. "I'll be leaving for home tonight, after I make a few necessary stops, and if you intend coming with me you'd better be prepared to move fast and ride hard. I want to be home as soon as humanly possible."
"But—but—my lady!" he protested, back to being shocked. "You mean to ride the entire distance alone? With the protection of no one but myself?"
"Oh, I'm sure you won't have any trouble supplying me with all the protection I need," I murmured, turning away from his wide-eyed and stunned disbelief. I'd stop at my barracks to pick up my gear, at the Company clerk's to hand in my resignation, and at my aunt IlH's to thank her for all
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she'd done for me. Right after that I'd start for home, and once I got there my father would know his troubles were over.
My brother Rymar had been one of those people everyone liked, the sort whose every word and gesture told you he would never hurt you, the sort who never caused harm to anyone or anything. It was one of the furiously unfair parts of life that people like Rymar usually ended up being hurt, swept out of the way like dust before those who never minded hurting everyone they could reach. As my father's heir he'd been a prime and easy target, but our enemies would not find it the same with the one who would next be heir.
The only one left to be heir.
Me.
With no Fist to go back to, with no brothers to claim the Duchy, what other course of action made as much sense? My father needed an heir and I needed something to do with my life, and even if my father hadn't already thought of it on his own, he would certainly welcome the sugge
stion. We hadn't seen each other for five years, and he'd be pleased and proud at what I'd Jearned and done. As I took my cioak from the servant I tucked the letter into my swordbelt, more anxious than ever to be home again and started with my new life.
Sofaltis stared at Rullin with a look that made him feel as though he'd savaged something small and helpless, and then she turned and forced her way through the gathered crowd to disappear from sight. His first urge was to go after her and tell her he hadn't really meant what he'd said, but Rullin had spent most of his life training himself to ignore first impulses. By the time he knew he should have done it anyway the miserable female infant was not only out of sight, but probably gone from the house as well. He unfolded- his arms, muttering curses at himself under his breath, then turned to find the eyes of the rest of his Fist on him.
"Nice going, Rull," Foist said with a judicious nod, folding his arms as his very pale eyes pinned Rullin where he stood. "I've never been able to draw blood like that without
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using my sword. You should run a Company practice in the technique."
"Why in hell did you just let her walk away like that?" Hammis demanded, fists on hips and dark eyes blazing. "Why didn't you stop her?"
"Maybe he forgot how long it took us to find a fifth for our Fist who actually suited all of us," Jakkar rumbled, another pair of dark, accusing eyes. "Maybe he was afraid she was starting to get ideas about him, and he wanted to get rid of her before she did."
"Are you all happy now?" Rullin growled back, sending his glare to each of them in turn. "Since I couldn't tell on my own what a stupid thing I'd done, you three had to do the telling for me. Do you have it out of your systems now, or is there something else you'd like to add?"
"I still want to know why you didn't stop her," Hammis persisted, too angry himself to care about Rullin's anger. "It wasn't as if she tried to hurt the Company on purpose, and there are more than a few of us still walking around who wouldn't be if she hadn't joined up. Is Jak right? Did you think she was after you, so you either had to run yourself or make her do it?"
"Don't be stupider than you look, Ham," Rullin said in disgust, wishing he could get back to his drink but knowing he had to first settle things in his Fist. "Soft and Gentle wasn't after me or she would have said so. She was just in the mood for my brand of wrestling, and laughed when I told her she had to learn to ask nice. She tried to play stubborn, so I did too, which is what probably started it all. She knows I like spreading myself around too much to ever settle down, so which one of you thinks she's dim enough to get a taste for me anyway? I didn't stop her because I'd really put my foot in it, and if I'd tried to force her to listen to an apology, she , probably would have drawn on me. Tomorrow morning she'll be easier to talk to, and more likely to listen to what's being said. Especially if you three are right there behind me. Are you three going to be right there behind me?"
"We're trying to decide if it would took better or worse with our points in your back," Foist said, running a hand through his long blond hair. "I don't like the idea of Soft and Gentle feeling hurt like that, even for just one night. What if
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she goes out and gets into a fight? She's all alone, so how would we know about it?"
"Alone she isn't," Jakkar told him, just in time to keep Hammis from exploding again. "That little twerp in the tights went trotting off after her, and if anything happens even he'll be smart enough to come back and get us. As long as he's first of all smart enough not to get in her way."
"Maybe you're right about waiting until tomorrow," Foist grudged to Rullin, turning aside to reach down for his wine cup. "If we've got to send her home for a while, a proper sendoff 11 make her feef better—and bring her back faster."
"And meanwhile we gel to fight one Blade short," Hammis muttered, going after his own cup. "Which is better than adding a temporary fifth we don't know and can't count on. Fighters should have to give up their families when they become Blades."
"We're all jealous of her family. Ham, but she's not going back there to stay," Foist said with a small laugh, clapping the other big man on the back. "Before we know it she'll be here again, right where she belongs. You get bom into a family, but a Fist goes a lot deeper than that."
Jakkar added something to that that made Hammis snort out a laugh, but Rullin wasn't listening any longer. He sat down to retrieve his wine cup and emptied it in a swallow, then gestured to one of the servants to refill it. If the other three thought they were wild over what had happened, they should feel it from his point of view. Maybe it was the thought of Softy's going home that had pushed him so far out of line, or maybe it was the way he'd been feeling for the last couple of weeks. Rullin didn't know what he wanted or how he felt about all that, but one thing he did know: there wasn't a girl in the house who suited him as well as Soft and Gentle did, which meant the night ahead was going to be a very long one.
Chapter 2
The inn was probably the best in the east, large and sprawling and well-staffed, usually worth the high prices charged. From midspring to late summer travelers on the highway streamed in and out of it, but that early in the season there were only a few, risking an unexpected return to winter simply because they had to. The man who stood looking out of one of the windows of his suite was one such, but the smile on his lips as he stared down into the courtyard below said the risk was unimportant in the face of what daring it brought. The smile was one of pride and very deep affection, and if there had been anyone in his rooms to see the expression, it would have pleased him even more.
Below in the courtyard were a number of young men, some sitting about drinking, some laughingly enjoying the shy but eager attention of the wenches who had brought the drink, others paying heed only to what was occurring in the middle of the yard. Two of the young men were stripped to the waist despite the coolness in the air, and each of them held a wooden practice sword. Both were clearly fighting men, well made and in excellent condition, but one of the two stood taller and broader than the other, the wooden sword he held fitting his palm like living steel. His hair was a very pale brown, so pale it almost seemed an unwashed yellow, and the color of his light, laughing eyes appeared to change now and again, possibly with his mood. The two had done with circling and now struck at each other, without shields to catch the blows, without mail to deflect the strokes, speed alone combined with skill to keep the young fighters from reaching one another.
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The exchange had gone on only a handful of minutes before the man watching from his window knew the smaller of the two fighters had underestimated the larger. The majority of really big men depended on strength and size to win their set-tos for them, a combination which was usually susceptible to the superior one of speed and skill. The big man below, however, had clearly developed speed and skill of his own, and had simply combined them with size and strength. His heavy wooden sword moved so fast it might have been made of parchment instead, but when it struck the frantically defending second fighter, the man knew there was nothing of parchment about it. His cry of pain reached the watcher above as his left hand flew to his ribs, and then he was seated rocking on the flagstones, and the match was done.
"Damned fine swordsmanship, damned fine," the watcher muttered to himself, pride swelling his chest and straightening him where he stood. Below, the victorious fighter had his hands full, this time needing to defend himself from the adoring excitement and congratulations of the serving wenches. When the fighter laughingly proved himself incapable of successful defense against an attack of that sort the watcher chuckled, silently advising him to collect what kisses and caresses he might as quickly as possible. Another watcher now approached the young man, also grinning, and the message he meant to deliver would take the young man from the midst of pleasant diversion.
The watcher had left the window
and was pouring two cups of wine when the rap came at the door, but he made no effort to go and open it. The opening of the door from without was fully expected, and when he turned he saw the young fighter being urged inside with tunic and swordbelt filling his hands. He smiled his greeting as he moved forward, and the young man answered with surprised pleasure as the door was closed behind him.
"Father, you came yourself!" he exclaimed, throwing aside both tunic and swordbelt to stride forward with arms outstretched. "1 was expecting your agent."
"The problem is too important, Kylin," the older man said as he and his son embraced with muscle-cracking strength and backslapping which would have felted lesser men. The older was nearly the size of the younger, and despite the dis-
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parity in their ages it was clear to any with eyes that the older was an even more seasoned fighter than the younger.
"There's trouble at home?" the fighter Kylin asked with a frown, standing at arm's length from his father. "Is that the reason you sent for me? Are any of my brothers hurt?"
"The trouble isn't in our own duchy," the older man said with a shake of his head, gesturing his son into returning with him to where the wine stood. "Your brothers, thanks to the skill they've developed from their war training, have crushed enough underhanded attacks to send those scheming cowards looking elsewhere for easier prey. Unfortunately for our kingdom, they found easy pickings in the Duchy of Gensea."
"Duke Rilfe is beset?" Kylin asked, accepting a cup but not drinking from it. "I would have expected him to be one of the last attacked, what with the size of his levy, the high quality of their training and arming, and the unswerving loyalty they all feel for him. Is it Prince Traffis' troops?"
"Prince Traffis is still too well occupied in the northern duchy to spare the men and attention," the older man answered with another shake of his head, his annoyance causing him to swallow his wine rather than sip at it. "When he first marched across the northern border with his foreign army, claiming to be the rightful heir to the throne his older brother sat on, we all expected the King's army to make short work of him. And then Zeran attacked from the northwest into our own western duchy of Arthil, and even with our levy we needed most of the King's troops to keep them out. I've always regretted the lack of a mountain range in Arthil; prime farmlands and grazing tracts are too hard to defend in a climate like ours."