Paladin's Strength

by T. Kingfisher

  “The drink is coming.”

  “And stop telling me stories.”

  “Yes’m.”

  “I will piss on your foot if you tell me another story.”

  “Noted.”

  Galen returned just as the healers had finally cleared a bed. He ceremoniously handed the woman one of the low bowls they used in Morstone for wine, and Istvhan helped prop her up through the door and down onto the bed, while she drained the bowl. Being now completely superfluous to the process, he and Galen took themselves out and left the woman in the hands of professionals.

  “Well, that was a good deed done,” said Galen.

  “Easy for you to say. I can’t feel my fingers. She had a grip like a snapping turtle.” He took one of the remaining bowls and took a sip. It was, of course, beach plum. “All right. Let me fill you in…”

  They found a quiet place, a meeting room about the size of a large closet, and Istvhan ran down the entire saga from leaving to their arrival at Morstone. “But we found Clara’s people. We’ve got a plan…” He briefed Galen on the general outlines.

  “You’re breaking into their colosseum?” Galen nodded to himself. “Right. Give me a few hours to get everything sorted here and get some food in me, and I’ll be ready to go.”

  “You are not,” said Istvhan. And when Galen looked mutinous, he added, “That is an order, dammit.”

  “Strictly speaking, we’re only a little bit military. You can’t exactly have me court-martialed. What is Beartongue going to do, cut my pay?”

  Istvhan rubbed his face. Bishop Beartongue insisted that the paladins draw a stipend, but the fact was that none of them were particularly materialistic. A life spent mostly on the road in the service of the god had impressed on all of them the importance of traveling light, and even now that they had mostly settled in one place…well, Istvhan’s brother-in-arms, Stephen, considered it a huge splurge if he bought two skeins of yarn that actually matched. If Galen owned anything more than his sword and his armor and the kit to care for them, Istvhan would be surprised. I don’t even know if he’s got a third pair of drawers for formal occasions.

  “You can’t come with me because you’ve got a different job to do. I’m just damn glad you arrived in time to hear it from me, not the local clergy.”

  Galen raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Appealing to my sense of duty is usually a winning proposition, but I’ll be the judge.”

  “We found the person who made the smooth men.”

  Galen inhaled sharply. “Go on.”

  Istvhan plunged into that tale as well. He did not spare himself in the telling, either in how the tide had risen against the smooth men or in how he had failed to kill Stachys when he had the chance. “He’s out there somewhere now,” he finished. “And you can either wait here to see what the Rat’s people turn up, or you can go back to Beartongue and tell her what you’ve learned. It might be enough to get some more temple muscle back up here, though the gods only know what that would do to the local political situation.”

  “That’s for the higher-ups to decide,” said Galen. “We’re just the muscle.” He smiled wanly. “The mostly unstoppable berserk muscle, I grant you. Though it sounds like they’d need a lot more than the seven of us to destabilize this place.”

  “Mmm. Yes. Well, in any event. You have got to make sure word gets back about this wonderworker and the smooth men. I know the Rat will do what they can, but they’re stretched absurdly thin here. They’ve dropped damn near everything to help us, but…” He waved a hand in the general direction of the mass of people in the courtyard.

  “I saw on the way in. You’re right, though, they are working miracles, given what they’re up against.”

  Istvhan leaned back. “So what about you? How did you fare after we left?”

  “Oh, nothing so exciting. The hunters came back with crossbows, and I told them you’d left and pulled the tarp back off the wagon. They couldn’t very well pretend I’d shoved the two of you into barrels, and they didn’t relish a fight against all of us, so they went away again. After that, it was a straightforward trip.” He paused. “Except for the ox.”

  “How did that happen?”

  “We were in some little town off the trade road and ran into an ox that had balked. The drover was beating it—not just a tap on the flanks, but really beating it. The ox wasn’t moving and this fellow was getting madder and madder.” He grimaced. “You hate to see anybody beat an animal like that, but it’s not like I know what to do with livestock. But Brindle pulled up the mules and threw Brant the reins and was on the drover like a terrier on a rat. Got the stick away and started asking him how he’d like a gnole to beat a human instead.”

  Istvhan put his face in hands. “Oh god, I can see it now.”

  “Yup.” Galen took a slug of wine and wiped his mouth. “The drover wasn’t any too pleased but he’d obviously never seen a gnole before and didn’t know whether to spit or run away. And then I was right behind him, of course. I was just going to suggest the drover step away and cool down, but Brindle said he wasn’t leaving an ox with a human like that. So then I realized we were probably about to commit cattle rustling right there on the main road and was trying to figure out how we’re going to get away with it, when Brant showed up. Pulled out his purse and counted out money on the spot, told Brindle to unhook the ox from the cart, and that ended the matter.”

  Istvhan raised his eyebrows at that. “Odd man, but his heart’s in the right place.”

  “There’s probably a hundred acorns planted between here and the mountains. And we made the rest of the trip with an ox tied to the back of the wagon. It moves about half as fast as I walk and Brindle dotes on it.”

  “So shines a good deed in a weary world?” offered Istvhan.

  “Something like that. Oh—also Andrel left once we were out of the mountains. Demanded his pay, said he wasn’t going any farther with us.”

  Istvhan winced. Once your hired men started deserting, it often spread like wildfire. “How did everyone else react?”

  “At that point, I think we were all glad to see the back of him.” He shrugged.

  “Think we’ll have to worry about him?”

  “At the moment, no. Unless you already know about the sisters, going around telling people that a man on your last job ran off into the woods with a werebear nun is a hard sell. I suspect he’s getting good and drunk and sulking a bit. But I’ll see that the Rat doesn’t hire him again. Are you and Clara sleeping together yet?”

  The question came in the exact same tone of voice and caught Istvhan by surprise. “Ah…I…how is that your business?”

  “Just wondering if I have to start shopping for wedding presents, that’s all.”

  Istvhan snorted. “Yes, we are, no, you shouldn’t. It’s probably nothing. And if it’s more than nothing, we’re about to do something stupendously dangerous in two days, which may render it all moot anyway.”

  “Look me in the eye and tell me in the voice that it’s probably nothing,” said Galen, who was easy-going and good-natured and knew very well how to place a knife.

  Istvhan stared at the ceiling.

  “Mm-hmm. You sure you don’t want my help? I can send Brindle back to the Bishop…”

  “And who’s going to guard him and the mules? And the ox? We’ve paid off all the mercenaries. No, I need you to take word.” He sighed. “And I suppose we probably shouldn’t meet again. If they catch us, they’ll come for any known associates, and if we’re seen together…” He spread his hands.

  Galen scowled, stood up, and tried to pace. He could only get about four strides in the little room, so he sat down again, clearly frustrated. “I don’t like this.”

  “I’m not exactly thrilled myself.”

  The redhead looked at him, looked at the ceiling, looked back at him again, and then checked his bowl to see if there was any wine left in the bottom. “Fine. We’ll do it your way.” He drained what was left down to the dregs, grimacing. �
�What do they make this stuff out of?”

  “Beach plum,” said Istvhan, rising to his feet. “You don’t get used to it.”

  Forty-Two

  On the last morning, neither of them slept late. There was no banter. Istvhan sat up and draped his wrists over his knees. He missed Ethan’s galley and even Maude the toad, who might have provided something harmless to talk about, but Faizen had not thought it prudent to return them to Ethan’s safehouse. (Ethan himself had appeared briefly to tell them that the damage was minimal and indistinguishable from monkeys or something called a kinkajou, whatever that was.)

  He turned and saw Clara looking up at the ceiling. Without thinking, he leaned over and placed his palm between her breasts. She inhaled sharply and he imagined that he could feel the roiling of emotions under his hand.

  “Clara—”

  “Don’t,” she said. She wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Please don’t. Not now. I can’t handle it.”

  He swallowed. “I never meant to add to your burdens, Domina.”

  “I know. And if the world was different…” She sat up. “In another life, maybe we’ll meet on the canal, and I will be a trader and you will be a mercenary and we will fall into each other’s arms.”

  Istvhan wanted to ask her about this life, and whether there was any chance of that happening now. But she had asked him not to, and to force the conversation would be cruel. More than cruel. Perhaps dangerous for us both, if she cannot keep the beast on a leash when we break into the colosseum.

  “As you wish, Domina,” he said, and they rose together, to dress and prepare to storm the Sealords’ gates.

  Getting into the colosseum was easy. Clara’s nerves screamed that it was too easy, that it should have been hard, but it wasn’t. They sat on the back of the wagon with the barrels, both of them wearing laborer’s clothes and slouched down to look smaller. Istvhan’s mail fit under the coarse tunic and Clara had her hair stuffed into a hat. They had elaborate backstories worked up, just in case, but all they did was show their passage chit to a bored-looking guard and the wagon rumbled over the bridge without a second glance.

  “I expected it to be much harder,” she whispered to Istvhan.

  “They’re more concerned with keeping people in than out, I suppose. And they bring so much food in daily...” He shrugged. “The transition to the actual cell levels are going to be where things get hairy. That’s where they actually patrol.”

  He wasn’t wrong. They carried barrels into the kitchen and simply walked off afterward, into the hive of activity there. No one looked at them until they reached a set of stairs leading down.

  “These?” murmured Istvhan.

  “They’re what I remember from the map.”

  They went down the stairs. There was a wooden door at the bottom, barred from their side.

  “It’s bound to be guarded,” she said. Istvhan executed a complicated wiggle, unhooking the short sword that had been lying along his back. Clara took hold of the bar and waited for his signal.

  The guard on the other side said, “Hey! What are you—” and Istvhan’s sword took him in the throat.

  “Subtle,” said Clara, looking down at the man and the blood now painting the walls.

  “I didn’t want him to raise the alarm.”

  “I think anybody who uses this door is going to be more than just alarmed.” She stepped back to avoid standing in the growing puddle of blood.

  “Look on the bright side,” said Istvhan, “it keeps us from worrying if we need to hide the body.” He stepped over the corpse, and hurried down the hallway. “Did you have another plan?”

  “I thought we could talk to them. Try to deceive them.”

  “Interesting.”

  “I somehow thought you had experience with stealth missions.”

  “Domina, I’m a berserker.”

  “Perhaps you gnawed your shield very quietly?”

  He gave her a wry look over his shoulder. “Cross corridor up ahead. Wait here.”

  He crept to the crossing, looked both ways, then gestured for her to join him at the end. “Not a lot of cover.”

  “They both attach to the corridor that we want, if memory serves. That one should have alcoves, although the map wasn’t clear on how big they were.”

  “Pick a direction.”

  “Left.”

  They went left, around a turn. There was another guard at the end of the corridor, facing them. “Let me handle this one,” muttered Clara, stepping forward, while Istvhan held the sword out of sight. “’Scuse me, sir, we’re looking for the storerooms. We’re supposed to pick up a bag of fennel seed, but we’ve gotten turned around…”

  “This isn’t food stores,” said the guard. “You’ve gotten very lost. Go back the way you came and up two flights of stairs.”

  “But we were just up there and they told us to come down three flights,” said Clara.

  “I still think we got an extra flight in there,” said Istvhan helpfully.

  “Oh, this place is a maze.”

  “Regardless, you’re in the wrong place. Man on the door shouldn’t even have let you in,” said the guard, rolling his eyes. “Go back the way you came.”

  “Isn’t there a shorter way?”

  “No.”

  “But if we really have to go down another flight, there should be a set of stairs past you, and then we could—”

  “No.”

  “But—”

  “Go back the way you came,” said the guard acidly. “Don’t make me call a patrol to have you marched back.”

  “Ugggh,” said Clara. “I’m going, I’m going…wait, did we come from the right or did we go straight?”

  The guard made a frustrated noise and took several steps toward them, gesturing. “You had to have come from the stairs.”

  “Well, I thought we did…” She took a step backward, which led the man out of sight of the cross corridor, and then, fresh out of ideas, laced her hands together and clubbed him on the back of the neck.

  He went to his knees. Istvhan stabbed him helpfully.

  “Don’t gloat,” she said, glaring at the paladin.

  “Domina, I would never. Shall I put the body with the other one?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  There was less blood this time. Clara mopped up as much as she could with the man’s tunic while Istvhan dropped the body with his comrade’s corpse.

  “I took their swords out so it’ll look like they stabbed each other.”

  “Will they buy that?”

  “Can’t hurt.”

  They crept down the corridor again, looking for a place to hide.

  “I’m sorry,” said Istvhan a few minutes later, looking at the bodies scattered at their feet. “Did you want to try to talk to any of these?”

  “Hrrwufff.”

  “Was that sarcasm? Do bears do sarcasm?”

  The look the bear gave him indicated that while bears might not, Clara certainly did. A moment later, her body shuddered and became a good deal smaller and less hairy. She stood up and Istvhan handed her what salvageable clothing he could find. One of the guards had been carrying a loop of rope, which made a serviceable belt for the battered robe. He pulled off his tunic and offered it to her. It left his armor rather distressingly obvious, but it made her look rather less like she had exploded out of her clothes, so that was probably a wash.

  “They’re going to know we’re here,” she said, pulling the tunic over her head.

  “I think that ship sailed a while ago.” Istvhan nudged one of the bodies. “They didn’t even bother to ask who we were or where we were going, they just charged us.”

  “You had a bear with you.”

  “I would ask a man with a bear where he was going.”

  “…I suppose that’s fair.”

  “No, I’m guessing they’ve found the bodies.” He grimaced. “This is a really dreadfully good design from a security standpoint. Everything funnels into the guard levels and then thro
ugh a couple of choke points on those levels. All you need is a handful of patrols to hold the whole thing.”

  A shout went up somewhere behind them. Someone else had found the last set of bodies. “Intruder on the floor!” they bellowed. “Intruder!”

  “Well, shit,” said Istvhan conversationally. A paladin and a bear could take down a remarkable number of people, but he was limited by not being berserk and Clara was limited by not being able to stand up in the hallway.

  “Alcoves around the corner,” she said, breaking into a run.

  “Your ability to memorize a map astounds me, Domina.”

  “I’m a trader. It’s what we do.”

  “And here I once asked you if bears could read maps.”

  “Yes, well.” She peered around the corner and presumably saw no one, because she did not slow. “They’re not very good at remembering landmarks or cardinal directions, unfortunately. There!”

  They reached the alcoves. They looked at the alcoves. They looked at each other. They looked at the alcoves again.

  “They looked a lot bigger on the map,” said Istvhan.

  “They’re where the privy drains from upstairs cut through the walls,” said Clara. She managed, by turning sideways and inhaling, to wedge herself into one, but Istvhan couldn’t see her getting out again in a hurry. “Well, damn. I suppose we just keep going—”

  Nearly a dozen men appeared at the end of the hallway.

  “No,” said Istvhan, very quietly, “I’ll keep going. You stay here.”

  “What? What are you doing?”

  “Surrendering,” he said. “Get your sisters out.”

  “What?”

  “Hush, Domina.” He raised his sword in salute to the oncoming guards. “There’s far too many of them. This is where we part ways, and may all the gods look after you.”

  Clara wedged herself as far back in the alcove as she could, straining her ears to hear what was happening.

  Now? Now?

  No. Don’t change, she thought. Don’t. There are too many of them, and if you try to change in this hole, you’ll get stuck like a cork in a bottle. And that means you cannot panic, no matter how much you want to.