Valdemar Books

by Lackey, Mercedes

"Watch the blade," she said, frowning in concentration.

  Writing, as fine as any scribe's, flared redly along the length of it. To her amazement it was in her own tongue.

  "If I were holding her, it would be in my language," Kethry said, answering Tarma's unspoken question. " 'Woman's Need calls me/As Woman's Need made me/Her Need must I answer/As my maker bade me.' My geas, the one I told you of when we first met. She's the reason I could help you after my magics were exhausted, because she works in a peculiar way. If you were to use her, she'd add nothing to your sword skill, but she'd protect you against almost any magics. But when I have her—"

  "No magic aid, but you fight like a sand-demon," Tarma finished for her.

  "But only if I am attacked first, or defending another. And last, her magic only works for women. A fellow journeyman found that out the hard way."

  "And the price of her protection?"

  "While I have her, I cannot leave any woman in trouble unaided. In fact, she's actually taken me miles out of my way to help someone." Kethry looked at the sword as fondly as if it were a living thing—which, perhaps, it was. "It's been worth it—she brought us together."

  She paused, as though something had occurred to her. "I'm not sure how to ask this—Tarma, now that we're she'enedran, do I have to be Swordsworn, too?" She looked troubled. "Because if it's all the same to you, I'd rather not. I have very healthy appetites that I'd rather not lose."

  "Horned Moon, no!" Tarma chuckled, her facial muscles stretching in an unaccustomed smile. It felt good. "In fact, she'enedra, I'd rather you found a lover or two. You're all the Clan I have now, and my only hope of having more kin."

  "Just a Shin'a'in brood mare, huh?" Kethry's infectious grin kept any sting out of the words.

  "Hardly," Tarma replied, answering the smile with one of her own. "However, she'enedra, I am going to make sure you—we—get paid for jobs like these in good, solid coin, because that's something I think, by the look of you, you've been too lax about. After all, besides being horsebreeders, Shin'a'in have a long tradition of selling their swords—or in your case, magics! And are we not partners by being bloodsisters?"

  "True enough, oh, my keeper and partner," Kethry replied, laughing—laughter in which Tarma joined. "Then mercenaries—and the very best!—we shall be."

  TURNABOUT

  This was the original story I sent Marion which was rejected; I later broke it into "Sword-sworn" and this one, and sold this one to Fantasy Book Magazine. It was my very first piece to appear in print!

  The verses are also part of an original song published by Firebird Arts and Music of Portland, Oregon, which actually predated the story. Can I recycle, or what?

  By the way, the song doesn't exactly match the story; that was because I had left the only copy I had of the song with the folks at Firebird and I couldn't remember who did what to whom. So, to cover the errors, I blamed them on the Bard Leslac, who began following the pair around to make songs about them—but kept getting the details wrong!

  "Deep into the stony hills

  Miles from keep or hold,

  A troupe of guards comes riding

  With a lady and her gold.

  Riding in the center,

  Shrouded in her cloak of fur

  Companioned by a maiden

  And a toothless, aged cur."

  "And every packtrain we've sent out since has just vanished without a trace—and without survivors," the merchant Grumio concluded. "And yet the decoy trains were allowed to reach their destinations unmolested."

  In the silence that followed his words, he studied the odd pair of mercenaries before him, knowing they knew he was doing so. Neither of the two women seemed in any great hurry to reply to his speech, and the crackle of the fire behind him in this tiny private eating room sounded unnaturally loud in the absence of conversation. So, too, did the steady whisking of a whetstone on blade-edge, and the muted murmur of voices from the common room of the inn beyond their closed door.

  The whetstone was being wielded by the swords-woman, Tarma by name, who was keeping to her self-appointed task with an indifference to Grumio's words that might—or might not—be feigned. She sat straddling her bench in a position that left him mostly with a view of her back and the back of her head, what little he might have been able to see of her face screened by her unruly shock of coarse black hair. He was just as glad of that; there was something about that expressionless, hawklike face with its ice-cold blue eyes that sent shivers up his spine.

  The other partner cleared her throat, and gratefully he turned his attention to her. Now there was a face a man could easily rest his eyes on! She faced him squarely, this sorceress called Kethry, leaning on her folded arms that rested on the table between them. The light from the fire and the oil lamp on their table fell fully on her. A less canny man than Grumio might be tempted to dismiss her as being very much the inferior of the two; she was always soft of speech, her demeanor refined and gentle. She was sweet-faced and quite conventionally pretty, with hair like the finest amber and eyes of beryl-green, and it would have been easy to think of her as being the swordswoman's vapid tagalong. But as he'd spoken, Grumio had now and then caught a disquieting glimmer in those calm eyes—nor had he missed the fact that she, too, bore a sword, and one with the marks of frequent use and a caring hand on it. That in itself was an anomaly; most sorcerers never wore more than an eating knife. They simply hadn't the time—or the inclination—to attempt studying the art of the blade. To Grumio's eyes the sword looked very odd slung over the plain, buff-colored, calf-length robe of a wandering sorceress.

  "I presume," Kethry said when he turned to face her, "that the road patrols have been unable to find your bandits."

  She had been studying the merchant in turn; he interested her. There was muscle beneath the fat of good living, and old sword-calluses on his hands. Unless she was wildly mistaken, there was also a sharp mind beneath that balding skull. He knew they didn't come cheaply—it followed then that there was something more to this tale of banditry than he was telling. Certain signs seemed to confirm this; he looked as though he had not slept well of late, and there seemed to be a shadow of deeper sorrow upon him than the loss of mere goods would account for.

  Grumio snorted his contempt for the road patrols. "They rode up and down for a few days, never venturing off the trade road, and naturally found nothing. Overdressed, overpaid, underworked arrogant idiots!"

  Kethry toyed with a fruit left from their supper, and glanced up at the hound-faced merchant through long lashes that veiled her eyes and her thoughts.

  Tarma answered right on cue. "Then guard your packtrains, merchant, if guards keep these vermin hidden." He started; her voice was as harsh as a raven's, and startled those not used to hearing it.

  Grumio saw at once the negotiating ploy these two were minded to use with him. The swordswoman was to be the antagonizer, the sorceress the sympathizer. His respect for them rose another notch. Most freelance mercenaries hadn't the brains to count their pay, (much less use subtle bargaining tricks. Their reputation was plainly well-founded.

  However he had no intention of falling for it. "Swordlady, to hire sufficient force requires we raise the price of goods above what people are willing to pay."

  Odd—there was a current of communication and understanding running between these two that had him thoroughly puzzled. He dismissed without a second thought the notion that they might be lovers—the signals between them were all wrong for that. No, it was something else, something that you wouldn't expect between a Shin'a'in swordswoman and an outClansman—

  Tarma shook her head impatiently. "Then cease your interhouse rivalries, kadessa, and send all your trains together under a single large force."

  Now she was trying to get him off-guard by insulting him, calling him after a little grasslands beast that only the Shin'a'in ever saw, a rodent so notoriously greedy that it would, given food enough, eat itself to death; and one that was known for hoarding anything a
nd everything it came across in its nest-tunnels. He refused to allow the insult to distract him. "Respect, swordlady," he replied patiently, "but we tried that, too. The beasts of the train were driven off in the night, and the guards and traders were forced to return afoot. This is desert country, most of it, and all they dared burden themselves with was food and drink."

  "Leaving the goods behind to be scavenged. Huh. Your bandits are clever, merchant," the swords-woman replied thoughtfully. Grumio thought he could sense her indifference lifting.

  "You mentioned decoy trains—?" Kethry interjected.

  "Yes, lady." Grumio's mind was still worrying away at the puzzle these two presented. "Only I and the men in the train knew which were the decoys and which were not, yet the bandits were never deceived, not once. We had taken extra care that all the men in the train were known to us, too."

  A glint of gold on the smallest finger of Kethry's left hand gave him the clue he needed, and the crescent scar on the palm of that hand confirmed his surmise. He knew without looking the swords-woman would have an identical scar and ring. These two had sworn Shin'a'in bloodoath, the strongest bond known to that notoriously kin-conscious race. The bloodoath made them closer than sisters, closer than lovers—so close they sometimes would think as one.

  "So who was it that passed judgment on your estimable guards?" Tarma's voice was heavy with sarcasm.

  "I did, or my fellow merchants, or our own personal guards. No one was allowed on the trains but those who had served us in the past or were known to those who had."

  Tarma held her blade up to catch the firelight and examined her work with a critical eye. Satisfied, she drove it home in the scabbard slung across her back with a fluid, unthinking grace, then swung one leg back over the bench to face him as her partner did. Grumio found the unflinching chill of her eyes disconcertingly hard to meet for long.

  In an effort to find something else to look at, he found his gaze caught by the pendant she wore, a thin silver crescent surrounding a tiny amber flame. That gave him the last bit of information he needed to make everything fall into place—although now he realized that her plain brown clothing should have tipped him off as well, since most Shin'a'in favored garments heavy with bright embroideries. Tarma was a Sworn One, pledged to the service of the Shin'a'in Warrior, the Goddess of the New Moon and the South Wind. Only two things were of any import to her at all—her Goddess and her clan (which, of course, would include her "sister" by bloodoath). The Sworn Ones were just as sexless and deadly as the weapons they wore.

  "So why come to us?" Tarma's expression indicated she thought their time was being wasted. "What makes you think that we can solve your bandit problem?"

  "You—have a certain reputation," he replied guardedly.

  A single bark of contemptuous laughter was Tarma's reply.

  "If you know our reputation, then you also know that we only take those jobs that—shall we say—interest us," Kethry said, looking wide-eyed and innocent. "What is there about your problem that could possibly be of any interest to us?"

  Good—they were intrigued, at least a little. Now, for the sake of poor little Lena, was the time to hook them and bring them in. His eyes stung a little with tears he would not shed—not now—

  "We have a custom, we small merchant houses. Our sons must remain with their fathers to learn the trade, and since there are seldom more than two or three houses in any town, there is little in the way of choice for them when it comes time for marriage. For that reason, we are given to exchanging daughters of the proper age with our trade allies in other towns, so that our young people can hopefully find mates to their liking." His voice almost broke at the memory of watching Lena waving good-bye from the back of her little mare—but he regained control quickly. It was a poor merchant that could not school his emotions. "There were no less than a dozen sheltered, gently-reared maidens in the very first pack-train they took. One of them was my niece. My only heir."

  Kethry's breath hissed softly, and Tarma swallowed an oath.

  "Your knowledge of what interests us is very accurate, merchant," Tarma said after a long pause. "I congratulate you."

  "You—you accept?" Discipline could not keep hope out of his voice.

  "I pray you are not expecting us to rescue your lost ones," Kethry said as gently as she could. "Even supposing that the bandits were more interested in slaves to be sold than their own pleasure—which in my experience is not likely—there is very, very little chance that any of them still live. The sheltered, the gentle, well, they do not survive—shock—successfully."

  "When we knew they had not reached their goal, we sent agents to comb the slave markets. They returned empty-handed," he replied with as much stoicism as he could muster. "We will not ask the impossible of you; we knew when we sent for you there was no hope for them. No, we ask only that you wipe out this viper's den, to ensure that this can-never happen to us again—and that you grant us revenge for what they have done to us!"

  His words—and more, the tight control of his voice—struck echoes from Tarma's own heart. And she did not need to see her partner to know her feelings in the matter.

  "You will have that, merchant-lord," she grated, giving him the title of respect. "We accept your job—but there are conditions."

  "Swordlady, any conditions you would set, I would gladly meet. Who am I to contest the judgment of those who destroyed Tha—"

  "Hush!" Kethry interrupted him swiftly, and cast a wary glance over her shoulder. "The less that is said on that subject, the better. I am still not altogether certain that what you were about to name was truly destroyed. It may have been merely banished, and perhaps for no great span of time. If the second case is true, it is hardly wise to call attention to one's self by speaking Its name."

  "Our conditions, merchant, are simple," Tarma continued unperturbed. "We will, to all appearances, leave on the morrow. You will tell all, including your fellow merchants, that you could not convince us. Tomorrow night, you—and you alone, mind—will bring us, at a meeting place of your choosing, a cart and horse…" Now she raised an inquiring eyebrow at Kethry.

  "And the kind of clothing and gear a lady of wealth and blood would be likely to have when traveling. The clothing should fit me. I will be weaving some complicated illusions, and anything I do not have to counterfeit will be of aid to me and make the rest stronger. You might include lots of empty bags and boxes," Kethry said thoughtfully.

  Tarma continued: "The following morning a fine lady will ride in and order you to include her with your next packtrain. You, naturally, will do your best to dissuade her, as loudly and publicly as possible. Now your next scheduled trip was—?"

  "Coincidentally enough, for the day after tomorrow." Grumio was impressed. These women were even cleverer than he'd thought.

  "Good. The less time we lose, the better off we are. Remember, only you are to be aware that the lady and the packtrain are not exactly what they seem to be. If you say one word otherwise to anyone—"

  The merchant found himself staring at the tip of a very sharp dagger a scant inch from his nose.

  "—I will personally remove enough of your hide to make both of us slippers." The dagger disappeared from Tarma's hand as mysteriously as it had appeared.

  Grumio had been startled, but had not been particularly intimidated; Tarma gave him high marks for that.

  "I do not instruct the weaver in her trade," he replied with a certain dignity, "nor do I dictate the setting of a horseshoe to a smith. There is no reason why I should presume to instruct you in your trade either."

  "Then you are a rare beast indeed, merchant." Tarma graced him with one of her infrequent smiles. "Most men—oh, not fellow mercenaries, they know better; but most men we deal with—seem to think they know our business better than we simply by virtue of their sex."

  The smile softened her harsh expression, and made it less intimidating, and the merchant found himself smiling back. "You are not the only female hire-swords I have dea
lt with," he replied. "Many of my trade allies have them as personal retainers. It has often seemed to me that many of those I met have had to be twice as skilled as their male counterparts to receive half the credit."

  "A hit, merchant-lord," Kethry acknowledged with open amusement. "And a shrewd one at that. Now, where are we to meet you tomorrow night?"

  Grumio paused to think. "I have a farmstead—deserted now that the harvest is in—which is at the first lane past the crossroad at the south edge of town. No one would think it odd for me to pay a visit to it, and the barn is a good place to hide horses and gear."

  "Well enough," Tarma replied. All three rose as one—Grumio caught the faint clink of brigandine mail from Tarma's direction, though there was no outward sign that she wore any such thing beneath her worn leather tunic, brown shirt, and darker breeches.

  "Merchant—" Tarma said suddenly.

  He paused halfway through the door.

  "I, too, have known loss. You will have your revenge." He shivered at the look in her eyes, and left.

  "Well?" Tarma asked, shutting the door behind him and leaning her back up against it.

  "Magic's afoot here. It's the only answer to what's been going on. I don't think it's easy to deceive this merchant—he caught on to our 'divide and conquer' trick right away. He's no soft money-counter either."

  "I saw the sword-calluses." Tarma balanced herself on one foot and folded her arms. "Did he tell us all he knew?"

  "I think so. I don't think he held anything back after he played his high card."

  "The niece? He also didn't want us to know how much he valued her. Damn. This is a bad piece of business."

  "He'd rather we thought the loss of goods and trade meant more to him," Kethry replied. "They're a secretive lot in many ways, these traders."

  "Almost as secretive as sorceresses, no?" One corner of Tarma's thin lips quirked up in a half-smile. The smile vanished as she thought of something else.

  "Is there any chance that any of the women survived?"