Renda smiled grimly. “I split the verinara leaf, Gikka. You know my mind.” She swung herself up into her saddle and nodded once to her father. “My duty to Pegrine’s spirit is greater than my duty to her flesh. And I cannot simply sit. If the House of Brannagh needs vengeance, we should have courage enough to see to it ourselves.” She sighed, patting her horse’s neck. “Come, we lose the night. Are you sure you know where to find them?”
Three
Farras
The younger one stood unsteadily against the table and scrutinized her face, the curves of her slight figure, just as he had when he approached her at the bar. She had planned what he would see, what would draw him to her: sun-darkened olive skin, dark brown hair, a familiar something about her face. To his eye, she was one more comely Bremondine wench, his for the taking. With her tunic unlaced a bit as it was, she had made sure his eye looked no further than that.
She had had little time to prepare, coming straight from the castle, and the illusion was less than perfect. Had he been any less befuddled with drink he would have noticed that the cloth of that fetchingly unlaced riding tunic was too fine, too costly for a tavern whore, or that she had unusually long nails on the little fingers of both hands. Likewise, it should have struck him odd that she had not taken off her cloak indoors on such a warm night.
“Gikka, did you say?” He gave her a dull smile. “An unusual name. Bremondine, is it?”
“Aye,” she murmured, watching him. She kept her hand light over the concealed dagger at her hip, ready to fly, but no. His eyes blinked blearily. She saw no light of recognition in them, no guilt, no fear. The name of the Brannagh squire made absolutely no impression on him. He was indeed drunk or simply ignorant.
“Sir Finnig of—,” he grinned at her before he drew out the chair beside him. His mind was as transparent to her as if he spoke aloud—it was best any half Bremondine bastard he might sire tonight know as little of him as possible. “Just call me Finnig.” he slurred, patting the seat. With a demure smile, she took a chair opposite him rather than the one he offered. It put her back to a wall where she could watch the door behind the two men. Let them read the gesture as they may; she would not let herself be trapped behind the table. She turned her chair out at a messy angle to the corner, an angle the drunken knights would not notice but enough to leave her free to move clear.
“Gikka,” he said again. “I know that name.” He turned to his companion and almost knocked himself off balance. Somehow in the same motion he managed to drop himself into his own chair. “I say, Bernold,” he called loudly, “do I know the name Gikka?”
But the other knight only sighed in exasperation and drank his ale, as if he had performed his part in this show many times before. “How should I know?” He raised the mug in a grumpy salute to the woman before he turned his attention back to his drink.
Curious. Bloody odd, in fact. For murderous guilty men, they seemed quite at their ease.
The trail leaving the glade had gone cold already, and Gikka had seen no point in taking up the search there. She supposed that the villains had just been paid for a difficult job, and likely they would want to celebrate. So the women had ridden at all speed along the western road straight toward Farras, the only city within a day’s ride of Brannagh.
They had to find Pegrine’s killers tonight. Tomorrow, an the brutes had a brain between them, the “knights” would vanish and two more common men would leave the Farras gate than came in the day before. But tonight, Gikka wagered, they’d not pass up a last chance to lodge and board like kings.
Just outside Farras, she and Renda had seen the Wirthing arms on two horses’ bridles at a roadside inn, and it seemed likely that they belonged to the men who had taken Pegrine, being as this inn was the nearest to Brannagh lands. But with Wirthing’s lands not too far to the south, his knights were a common sight in Farras, especially during the festivals of the Gathering. Gikka had to be certain.
She had gone into the tavern alone. If they were real Wirthing knights and not the ones the women sought, they would certainly remember fighting beside the Knights of Brannagh and possibly even under Lady Renda’s command during the war, and she would find herself embroiled in the demands of her station and stayed from her purpose, while Gikka could quietly take her leave, unseen, unnoticed, and no harm done, either to them or to the thousand year alliance between Wirthing and Brannagh.
But if these men had indeed been at Brannagh, if they had been the ones to take Pegrine…once she was sure, she and Renda would put Pegrine’s spirit to rest.
The trouble was, she was not sure. And the longer she sat with these two men, the less sure she became. Their Wirthing doublets fit surprisingly well for bandits who had killed a random pair of knights afield, and she couldn’t see, much less smell, any blood about them. Besides that, even though they were drunk, she had heard no slip in their cultured Wirthing accents, nor had she seen the slightest misstep in their manners. She, who had spent years living among knights in castle and in battle, could not tell these men from real knights. If they did not serve the Earl of Wirthing, they were good impostors. Very good.
“No, I’m quite certain of it, Bernold. The name Gikka rings familiar,” Finnig said, shaking his head. “Though I would certainly remember a face as lovely as this,” he added with a leer.
The tavernkeeper had come to mop the spilt ale from their table, overhearing the whole exchange. He laughed in disbelief, but before he could open his mouth Gikka dropped a coin into his apron pocket with a tangible thunk. He breathed out slowly, his fingers moving slyly over the engraving of the coin. A fiver. That was enough money to see him through the rest of his life if he was careful. He smiled and put a hand on the younger knight’s shoulder.
“Course you knows the name Gikka. Lads, there’s no soul on Syon what lives and breathes as hasn’t heard of Gikka.”
“Gikka.” Bernold looked at him dully. “I do know that name...”
Her eyes narrowed slightly, but she said nothing. He had no reason to betray her. He had to know he’d never survive it. Her gaze touched the door, the window above the spot where Renda listened outside, the two drunken knights. She decided she could afford to hear a bit before she killed him.
The tavernkeeper’s eyes sparkled, and he pushed back the sleeve of his tunic, winking at Gikka. “Aye, you do indeed, and no one in Farras knows more about her than…heh heh…your humble servant. Gikka, well, she’s sheer legend, her.” He rocked back on his heels and grinned, counting off the famous bits of her life on his fingers like a shopping list. “…robbed half the merchantmen in Brannford ere she was grown, hired out to any as could pay.”
“Hired out?” Bernold leered suggestively.
“Aye, as assassin and spy.”
“And you know this?”
The tavernman nodded. “All Syon knows it. I’m surprised you do not.”
“Absurd,” Finnig declared. “The best spy is the one no one knows.”
Gikka nodded agreement. “It does sound a bit farfetched.”
“And that is twice true for assassins,” Finnig spoke over her, crossing his arms smugly. “Barkeep, if everyone knows who she is and what she does, why would anyone just sit and wait to be killed? Why would they even let her come near?”
The tavernman blinked at the two knights and at Gikka. “Exactly.” Bernold nodded. “She may have been a great assassin once, but she cannot be so now, not with such infamy following her all over Syon.”
“And why was she never captured or punished?” He waved dismissively. “This story is rubbish.”
“Oh, but she was captured. Once. She spent some time in Kadak’s prison. After she escaped—”
“Escaped Kadak’s prison?” Finnig laughed. “First an assassin, and now she’s escaped Kadak’s own prison. Ah, but stories do grow.”
“I suppose she willed Kadak to find her,” chuckled Bernold.
“—escaped, as I say.” The tavernman shook a finger at him. “No priso
n stands as can hold Gikka, lad. Aye, she escaped, only to turn right back ‘round and go in again to help the sheriff’s knights as was captured escape. So twice it is she escaped.”
“The Sheriff of Brannagh.” Bernold stroked his chin.
“Aye, but Lady Renda, it was, what sent her in after them, and Lady Renda what she serves to this day. Not counting as she brought the late Duke Brada out besides, at war’s end. So three times in and out of Kadak’s prison, it is. Three!”
Finnig grinned. “But Duke Brada died. She did not save him after all.”
“Oh, but she did. Our duke lived long enough to see the war’s end and victory at Brannagh hands. A good death, indeed.”
“Brannagh, Brannagh,” grumbled Bernold.
The tavernman paused, and Gikka watched a worried wrinkle cross his brow before he smiled again and continued his story. “Calls herself Squire, now, does Gikka, both of the Graymonde lands and mines she came to own and in service to Brannagh.” He cast a quick, self-conscious glance at the woman.
“Graymonde. That’s it, Bernold, Gikka of Graymonde.” Finnig laughed loudly, lifting his mug. “The war hero. Yes, squire to Renda of Brannagh, no less; there’s irony for you.”
Irony? Gikka looked up at him and watched him empty the mug. She dared not ask what he meant, though the question sat on the edge of her lips, begging to prove their guilt. But no whore would ask. She’d played the part often enough, smiled and cooed countless marks into the alleyways and inns of Brannford, and she’d learned her role well. She drew a deep breath. Listen, Gikka. Watch. Learn.
“...consorts with a sorcerer, and a nasty one, at that. Looks the very picture of a mother’s son but icy shrewd behind those blue eyes of his. Dith the Impenitent.”
She could not resist. “I thought they called him the Merciless.”
The barkeep laughed. “Both, says I, and worse. Burnt a whole ship right on the waterways, and for what? To kill a few graetna dogs, or so I heard.” He mopped the table again. “Oh, on stories of that one alone, I could keep you a tenday. Under threat of death from Rjeinar, the Hadrian god of vengeance, so they say, for that wicked business at Kadak’s stronghold—sure you heard about that, gents?”
“No,” Finnig said, “in truth, from where we were, we only saw the Hadrians fleeing in a panic.”
“Is what we all saw. And run they did! Oh, but I never seen Hadrians run so fast in all my days, like to break down the very walls, screaming, ‘Rjeinar! Rjeinar is upon us!’” The man wiped his tears of laughter away with his apron. “That’s him. Saucy as you please. Course,” he gestured roundly, “he’s away now, gone north to study with some master, or so they say.” He winked. “Gray magic at best, if you take my meaning. Comes away from that, and you’ll be glad he’s got his loyalties to the House of Brannagh.”
“Quite.” Finnig’s tone was oddly terse.
“But barkeep,” broke in Bernold. “What does this Gikka of Graymonde look like?” He looked at the woman and grinned. “I mean, this could be she, and how are we to know?”
“Oh, Bernold.” Finnig laughed and reached an arm around her possessively. “You need only look at her to see. She’s no killer.”
The barman glanced up at the ceiling above their heads as if trying to remember, but Gikka thought he might be putting back a grin. “Bremondine, is our Gikka, maybe even that witchy Verdura blood from up north.” He ignored the blaze of contempt that flared in the woman’s black eyes. “Dark of hair and eye, like this one. Handsome trim figure, mannish loose hair. Just like this one.” He watched the quick look of worry cross the knights’ faces and the glare from Gikka. At that, the innkeeper straightened, laughed and clapped her on the back with a wink at the two knights. “Oh, but I’m scaring you gents!” He laughed. “Oh, but look at those wide eyes! I had you lads, didn’t I? Fear me not, the real Gikka’s a good bit older, to my mind, and with none so sweet a face. Nah, Gikka, that’s a common name with these Bremondines, these days, especially with those of—” he looked at her sideways as he moved back to the empty bar, “—her kind. Good for business, y’understand, to play the part, because what man on Syon doesn’t dream of…” and the rest was lost to muttering.
“There, you see?” Finnig raised his pint and put his hand over Gikka’s arm. “Just a regular whore, Bernold. But it’s as well you’re not Gikka of Graymonde,” he slurred, stifling a belch. “If you were,” he laughed, “we two would be dead by now.”
Her heart quickened but she willed herself to stay calm under his touch. “Oh, I think not,” she purred. Below the table, she flexed her other hand over the hilt of her dagger. Not just yet. “What grand scheme of yours would draw her eye? Sure such a one as she has bigger foes than you.”
“Oh, my darling,” grinned Bernold malevolently. “You’ve no idea what company you keep tonight.” He drew himself up and leaned toward her, quieting his voice. “We, that is, we two alone, defeated the Knights of Brannagh.”
“Defeated the knights?” Idle boast, perhaps. Even sheer lies. Patience, she told herself, patience. She had to be sure. “What,” she asked, looking from one to the other, “in tournament? Sure not in battle. The land is at peace.”
“Nay, not in battle, pretty one.” Finnig combed his fingers affectionately through her hair. “We duped that Brannagh sheriff and took his very granddaughter right from her nursery and sold her, is what, and for an embarrassingly high price, at that.” He laughed, running his fingers along the neckline of her tunic. “Enough to keep you in silk gowns and ribbons your whole long life, my dear.”
Sold her. Gikka swallowed hard, fighting back her rage. She managed a quizzical smile, one bordering on admiration, even while bile rose in her throat. Now would come the meat of it. “But who—”
“Damnable Brannagh knights,” spat Bernold darkly, and suddenly all his humor was gone. “They stole victories that should have been ours. They rescued the villages on the earl’s lands without so much as a salute to our own knights.” He stared into his ale. “To hear Wirthing villages praising the name of Brannagh...”
Gikka blinked at him. The Knights of Wirthing had been counted allies of Brannagh for centuries. During the last year of the war, Renda and several of the warriors she’d gathered and trained had stayed at the earl’s castle for a time to tend wounds and gather supplies. In return for his hospitality, the earl had asked for their help.
The Wirthing forces had been overwhelmed and nearly destroyed by the Anatayans who had been allied, however briefly, to Kadak. The northerners had swept down past the Dhanani tribes’ western flank and pressed both Wirthing and the Dhanani tribesmen. The Dhanani had no love for Wirthing, so they would have gladly abandoned Wirthing to the Anatayans in exchange for their own safety. But the Dhanani were blood-bound to Brannagh, so they had helped Renda and her knights drive the Anatayans back to their own lands. Renda’s knights had reclaimed Wirthing’s prime pastureland from Kadak as well as freeing several outlying freeman villages that later swore the earl fealty. But in faith, the villages had shouted their first praises to Brannagh.
At the astonished look on Gikka’s face, Finnig flashed a quick smile that was meant to be comforting and slapped his hand against Bernold’s shoulder in lighthearted camaraderie. “Would that I could say it took some doing to kidnap the child, but—”
“The old fool Brannagh.” Bernold shook his head, refusing to lighten his mood. “So trusting. Has none but some old crone of a nun to mind the little one, and with the war done, no one so much as watches the gatehouse by day. We waited until the old woman doddered away, bade the simple child follow us to her grandfather, led her without the castle walls, scooped her up and rode away. Then we sold her.”
Gikka glanced at the window. “But what sort of person would buy—”
Finnig laughed over her. “I doubt they know she’s missing yet.”
“Oh, yes. We know.” A cold voice came from behind the two knights, a voice they’d come to know in the war, and they turned their c
hairs noisily over the floor to see Lady Renda of Brannagh standing in the open doorway, one sword drawn and the other still sheathed at her hip. Her rich auburn hair, released from the elaborate work of her maids, was simply tied back, and she wore but a simple tunic and breeches beneath her plain cloak. Even without her plate armor, she was a commanding presence. They had no doubt who she was, not with those bright amber eyes. Aghast, they turned back to see Gikka standing as well, dagger and sword drawn.
Without a word, the tavernkeeper retreated into his own rooms, closing the door behind him and hushing his startled family. He was no doubt listening against the door, perhaps feverishly playing his hand over the fiver in his apron, wondering if he had done the right thing and wondering what open battle between two of the noble houses might mean. Witnessing, she snarled to herself. She hoped he had the good sense to keep his peace about what he saw.
Finnig and Bernold stood blinking the ale blur from their eyes and gazing back and forth between the two women. At the edge of her vision, Gikka saw the barest flicker of a smirk cross Bernold’s features. He nudged Finnig against his hip as if he were a trained horse, and the younger knight took a step toward Gikka, hands open, a warm smile on his face, unfailingly confident of his charm. “Come, I know just where she is. We’ll go and buy her back, and no harm done.”
Gikka’s lip curled in a snarl. She slammed her dagger upwards under Finnig’s chin and into his brain with a growl, turned it and viciously ripped the blade out to let the twitching spastic body fall to the ground at her feet. Then she stepped contemptuously over the still moving corpse and turned her gaze upon the other knight, who had by now drawn his own sword and begun circling toward her.
“Hold!” Renda stepped forward and motioned her squire back. “I would have some answers first.”
Sword of Hemlock (Lords of Syon Saga Book 1) Page 5
