The mutter of voices hadn't really stopped when I'd walked in, not with the number of mutterers in the place even at that
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early an hour. A good two-thirds of the big room was filled, mostly with men at the small tables or standing in front of the counter at the back, a serving girl bringing drinks to those who didn't care to get up themselves and walk for them. The men paid for the service, of course, rather than having it included in the price of whatever they were drinking, just the way the services of the three other women in the room weren't included. Night houses took care of everything at once, but taverns didn't have the same arrangement.
I took a breath of the thick, overwarm air around me and then began walking toward the counter, trying to decide what to do next now that I'd found the place. I'd been told by my guide out of the city to buy a drink and wait to be contacted, but he hadn't mentioned how long a wait it might be. I didn't know exactly how fast time was running out on me, but it would be safe to assume I didn't have any to waste. I worked my way around to the right side of the counter where there were fewer patrons, and also where it ended short of the wall to allow a narrow aisle which led back to a door standing in shadow.
The tavern keeper behind the counter, a big man with a craggy, unshaven face and a dirty, once-white cloth tucked into the top of his trousers, spent a minute or two trying tp ignore me. He seemed to be hoping I'd disappear if he pretended I wasn't there to begin with, and I discovered that the attitude was annoying me. I wasn't used to being ignored in taverns, most especially not in taverns that were dives, and I suppose my impatience showed in my expression. After the minute or two, the tavern keeper walked over to me with a scowl.
"We don't serve no ladies in here," he informed me in a deep, scratchy growl, black eyes staring at me from under bushy brows. "Get on home, girl, and do it fast."
"Your service policies are fascinating," I said in as dry a tone as I could manage, cursing silently at myself for momentarily having forgotten what I was wearing. The man was trying to frighten me into leaving, the way he would have done with any other innocent little girl. "But fascinating or not, I'll have a brew."
"You don't hear so good," he said, but his eyes narrowed as he looked at me a little more closely. "If you're hopin' t'
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catch your man stumblin' in here with his hands all over a rag, it ain't gonna happen. You wanna make trouble, you do it some place else."
"I'm here for a brew, not trouble, and I don't have a man," 1 said, trying to make him believe it. "What I do have is an appointment to meet someone here, so you're stuck with me for a while. If I have a drink in my hands, the wait should go faster for both of us."
He continued to stare at me for a moment, possibly trying to decide whether or not to throw me out anyway, then turned away and went to draw a brew. He came back with the drink sloshing over one side of the dented metal flagon, then plunked it down on the counter closer to him than to me.
"I don't want no trouble," he said again, just as though I hadn't heard him or believed him the first time. "The one you're waitin' for—gimme a name."
The demand was as fiat as the look in his eyes, as flat as his hands on the counter to either side of the flagon. I couldn't believe he was asking a question like that, then sighed when I remembered again what he was seeing.
"The man's an old friend of mine, someone I've known for years and years," I said, calmly meeting the veiled suspicion in his eyes. "He's small and dark and was a Blade for a while, but he's given that up now. He invited me to meet him here the next time I was in the neighborhood, so that's what I'm doing. His name escapes me for the moment."
An odd look came into the man's eyes and he snorted, then he pushed the flagon to me and walked away. I wasn't quite sure what his reaction meant, but I couldn't help noticing that he hadn't asked to be paid for the brew. Either he felt I'd earned the drink by showing I knew better than to mention names, or something was going on that I wasn't yet seeing as a whole. I knew I would probably find out about it sooner or later, so instead of worrying at something I couldn't change I took my brew to an empty table that stood to the right of the counter, then sat down with my back to the wall.
My body, at least, was grateful that 1 was finally resting it, and a short while passed with nothing terribly exciting happening. The serving girl got most of what she served from the tavern keeper, but every now and then she hurried up the aisle on my right to the shadowed door recessed into the back
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wall and through it, then came out a minute or two later with what was probably supposed to be food. From what I could see and smell as she passed my table, it wasn't anything 1 would have had the nerve to swallow, even on a bet. The small, overfilled bowls dripped new stains to add to the old on her cheap skirt and blouse, and none of what she brought looked hot but the soup, which looked even greasier than it did hot.
The working women stationed at their own tables glared in my direction at first, but once I'd shaken my head to the offers of three men who came over one at a time, they understood I wasn't there to compete. All of the women were a bit long in the tooth and were trying to hide it by wearing too-youthful, low-cut blouses and very full, very bright skirts. Their less-than-lender age was probably the reason they were working a tavern rather than a night house, and the men I turned down seemed disappointed that I wasn't there to replace them.
I sipped at my brew as I let my gaze wander across the big room, faintly surprised that the patrons of a place like that were so well-mannered and well-behaved. There were no arguments, no fights, no rowdy laughter and horseplay, no insistent drunks to discourage; even the men who had approached me had taken no for an answer without a fuss. There was some quiet laughter at some of the tables, but most of the conversations seemed serious and absorbing, at least to the men engaged in them. I was beginning to wonder what sort of place that tavern really was, when the door was yanked open and six men laughed their way in.
"We'll have brew and lots of it," one of them called even before they'd reached the counter, their raucous amusement intruding on everyone's previous quiet. Scowls followed them as they moved across the floor, but the sight of their tan leathers and swordbelts kept words from joining the scowls. The six newcomers were mercenaries, and when they reached the counter they casually pushed the men already there out of the way so they could all stand together.
I'd been curious as to whether the tavern keeper would give them the same lecture about trouble that he'd given me, but possibly once a day was the limit for that particular lecture. He busied himself filling flagons without saying any-
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thing at all, and it was difficult telling if the previous conversations had started up again because of the laughing, joking and noise of the six. One of them pounded on the counter as though it were a drum, apparently trying to hurry the arrival of the brew, and once he'd started another laughed and joined him.
All six had flagons in front of them and had swallowed down half or more of the round, when one of those in the middle of the line stepped away from the counter fast with a laugh of his own. The serving girl had hung back among the tables until she thought the mercenaries were occupied with drinking and then had tried hurrying past behind them, but the one in the center hadn't been as distracted as the rest and had turned fast to catch her. She gasped with fright as she was pulled up against the big man, a very young girl caught up in something she wanted no part of, and the tavern keeper finally remembered there were supposed to be rules in that place.
"She ain't for nothin' but servin' drinks 'n food," he said to the mercenary holding the struggling girl, raising his voice to be heard over the laughter of the others. "You want a woman, take one a them that's here for it. The girl's got chores waitin' in the kitchens."
' 'I like my rags at least half
a decade younger than my grandmother," the man answered, grinning down at the whimpering girl rather than looking at the tavern keeper. "This one doesn't have much in the face, but I'll bet she's round and ready under all that cloth. You don't mind if I just take a look, do y—"
The way his words suddenly broke off drew my full attention back to the incident, a good part of my thoughts having drifted away to consider how long I'd have to sit there waiting to be contacted. Knowing how well most taverns protected their own had kept me from worrying that the girl would be hurt, but suddenly it was no longer the girl who the mercenary was looking at. Moving away from the counter had put him in a position to see my table with nothing blocking his view, and that's what he was looking at over the top of the girl's head. My table. And me.
"On second thought, maybe the girl should go and do her chores," the man said, loosening his hold enough that his
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victim was able to push away from him and race stumbling into the aisle leading to the kitchens. "1 know better when 1 see it, and that's what I'm seeing right now."
His easy grin was now being sent directly to me, and then he began coming over right behind it. His friends had turned to look at me as well, most of them chuckling, and a cold knot tightened in my middle when the tavern keeper put one hand on the counter but didn't say a word. The serving girl was one of his but I wasn't, which meant I was strictly on my own.
"This certainly is a nicer place than ! thought it would be," the mercenary said as he stopped in front of my table, leaning forward to rest his fists on it. That close his dark-haired and dark-eyed good looks couldn't be missed—or the fact that he'd had a couple even before getting to the tavern. It was fairly clear he was a younger son of some noble house, probably of the lesser nobility, and had found a more comfortable home as a mercenary than he would have had in a position that required some sense of honor.
"I find I really like this place," he said, grin going wider as he stared at me. "Especially the way it's decorated. Let's you and I discuss your price while we look for a comer where we can be alone, girly. My friends and I had a long ride getting here, so plan on earning every copper."
"I'm not one of the workers here," I said, not believing for a minute that he thought I was, raising my flagon lefthanded to casually sip from it. "I had my own long ride getting here, and now I'm trying to enjoy a quiet drink. Why don't you go back to your friends and do the same?"
"Well, well, now that's what I call luck," he drawled, picking out from what I'd said the only part he wanted to hear. "If you're not one of the workers here, then I don't have to worry about paying you. Get up and let's go."
I'd never really believed before that the things you go through can make you stupid, but that was the time I found out it was true. If I'd had any sense I would have gone with him quietly to get him away from his friends, waited until he had his pants down around his knees, then showed him what a good edge my dagger had taken. That's what I would have done if I'd had any sense, but I'd spent too much of too many days being told how obedient good little females were sup-
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posed to be. I had never been a good, obedient little female, and I felt strongly that it had been too long since the last time I'd proved it.
"Come to think of it, that is what they say about mercenaries, isn't it?" I drawled back, seeing the confusion coming into his dark eyes. "You're the ones who always need somebody else to do the getting up. What do you plan for once we find some place to be alone? Watching while I see to myself?"
The confusion disappeared from his eyes to let fury take its place, his recognition of the snickering insult coming just about immediately. That particular insult was the one most likely to start a fight with any mercenary still breathing and able to lift a weapon, and the one in front of me proved himself no exception. With a growling snarl he straightened up and showed how dangerous he was by knocking the small table out from between us, sending it and my brew flying off to his right and my left. Most of the tavern's patrons stayed where they were, doing the sort of watching-but-not-watching indulged in by those who have no intentions of getting involved in a fight, but four men at a nearby table discovered they were too nearby. The flung table almost landed in their laps, causing them to jump up and back, and their movement drew the immediate, glaring attention of the man I'd insulted. He watched them only a matter of seconds, just long enough to be sure they were backing off with nervous glances for the mercenaries still at the counter, but when he turned back to me he discovered he'd taken too long with the distraction. With the table out of the way I'd slid to my feet and to the right, with the aisle and the door to the kitchens now behind me. He began an angry step forward, then stopped abruptly when he saw the dagger in my right fist.
"Do you expect that to impress me, you stupid rag?" he snarled, the movement of his eyes showing he hadn't realized I'd stand only an inch or two less than his own height. "Holding a blade isn't anything at all like using one."
"It isn't?" I asked in turn, giving him a look of wide-eyed innocence. "I didn't know that. Why don't you come a little closer, so I can find out what the difference is."
There was a stir among the men not-watching the goings on, a ripple that was most likely strongly suppressed laughter. The other mercenaries still at the counter also stirred, and the
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face of the man in front of me darkened when he realized he couldn't ask for help from his friends. They'd heard me insult one of their number and had felt insult of their own, but I was only a woman with nothing but a dagger, an easy victim for someone who was both male and mercenary. The man who had started the fuss would have to finish it alone, a necessity whether he wanted it to be or not. He hadn't yet noticed that his friends couldn't come at me unless they knocked him down or climbed over the counter, but even if he had he probably would have thought my positioning was an accident. He was stupid even for a mercenary, but he didn't believe in taking chances.
"Now you want me closer?" he asked, deliberately stepping back as he forced a sneer into his voice. "I've heard that rags like to change their minds, but I don't feel like letting you do that. You wanted me at a distance, so you'll get me at a distance—sword distance, that is."
He laughed as he reached for his hilt and drew, taking it slow to give me plenty of time to see it coming and panic. Facing a sword with nothing but a dagger was an excellent way of committing suicide, but I'd known too many mercenaries to have been anything like positive that he'd decide to play it fair. I'd been hoping he'd be arrogant enough to draw his own dagger, and when he didn't I had to ignore ftiat cold knot deep inside as it tightened again.
He flicked his point at me casually, more interested in frightening me than in scoring, but when 1 simply leaned aside to cause the miss and that not-laughter rippled through the patrons again, his rage returned. 1 was supposed to have frantically tried beating his weapon away instead of all but ignoring it, and he was beginning to realize how idiotic he looked. Women were supposed to tremble back from men and their weapons, not thumb their noses and stick their tongues out, and he and his rage weren't going to let me get away with it. He growled again, deep in his throat, then started swinging in earnest.
His first blow chipped splinters of wood out of the counter as I jumped back, my dagger blade sliding the backswing on its way safely past me when it came. Those two moves hadn't been particularly difficult, not after all the training I'd had, but that was scarcely the end of it. Even as I ducked a wild
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swing at my head I cursed the lack of a proper weapon, knowing beyond doubt thai I could have taken the mercenary if I'd had a sword in my fist. If he'd been any good he would have been a Biade or a fighter, and as more of the counter exploded in chips I cursed at the thought of being ended by someone that unskilled. Not only was it unfair it was wrong,
my own life being the very least of it. My father—my sisters—what would become of them—?
It may have been desperation that fired through me then, or maybe it was stubborness and the knowledge that I had very little to lose. The mercenary had his lips peeled back from his teeth as he stopped and drew an X in the air in front of me with his point, no attempt to reach me in the gesture; the movement was the beginning of an exercise taught to the very young, a way of regaining the control of calm in the middle of a fight without leaving yourself unprotected or off-balance. The man had paused in his attack to gather himself for a more precise effort, and I knew in an instant that I had to use that pause or his next attack would end it all.
I've heard people say how time slowed for them when they were forced to a final, desperate move, how it had almost seemed like a dream they moved through rather than reality. I had just enough time to wish it would happen the same for me, but then the second X came and after it the third, and then it all went so fast I would have missed it if I'd blinked. The mercenary, strengthened by the calm he'd captured, swung out of the bottom of the last leg of his exercise and into a slash starting high on his right, not the least pause or hesitation as be rolled into the downstroke. So fast was the movement that it was nearly a blur, difficult to follow and impossible to avoid. If I hadn't already begun my own movement I would have been caught staring, doing nothing to keep from being cut down where I stood.
But 1 had started my own movement, a counter I would have considered insane if I'd had the time to think about it. Instead of moving back again up an aisle I was rapidly running short of, my counter took me toward the mercenary and his descending blade, my left arm raising up as though I wore a shield on it. I had enough time to catch a blinding flare of silver and then I felt the crashing jar against my arm, the staggering blow that would have knocked me flying if I
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