The Trophy Chase Saga

by George Bryan Polivka

  Talon stopped two steps behind, considering the poster and its meaning, its potential to hurt her mission. She made a promise to herself that she would be more vigilant in assessing her surroundings, but wasted no energy in self-recrimination. She stepped in close behind Panna.

  “So he is a murderer after all,” she whispered.

  “No,” Panna implored, still staring at the poster. “No, there’s a mistake.”

  “I will need much proof of that, before we continue with our bargain,” Talon breathed.

  Panna turned to Talon, anger and fear in her eyes. Would Tallanna abandon her now, here? “There’s a mistake, don’t you see? He’s at sea. How could he have…how could he even be suspected of such a thing?”

  “But when did he go to sea? And what did he do before he left? What might he have done after you saw him last?”

  Panna’s eyes jumped back and forth between Talon’s, pushing away all thoughts of Packer’s guilt. Talon knew Packer was innocent, and guessed rightly he was suspected of the killings on the beach, those she had committed herself. But Panna didn’t know about those; she only knew about her own crimes. So Talon waited, knowing Panna’s innocence and naïveté would once again work in her favor.

  Panna turned again to the poster. Her resolve was iron. “He is not guilty of anything like this. He was not carrying the guilt of such a crime when I last spoke to him.” His face, his kiss, his lips on her shoulders. She closed her eyes to return to that moment, in her dining room, on the bench. Then she opened them again. “It’s a terrible mistake.”

  “He went to sea at Inbenigh,” Talon whispered, watching the girl, patiently waiting for the idea to slip through her defenses, like a cold mist through a locked door. “Perhaps something happened there before he left. Perhaps he fought someone, much as you did.”

  Finally it struck her. She put a white-gloved hand to her mouth. “Oh, dear God. They think it was him!” She turned to Talon, who feigned bewilderment. “They think it was Packer who attacked that poor fisherman. He’s died, don’t you see? And they think it was Packer who assaulted him. But it was me! I should be on this poster. I have to tell them, I have to turn myself in!” Her eyes were unseeing as she imagined the grief she had now caused him, would yet cause him.

  “Shhh!” Talon said, taking her by the arm and staring deep into her eyes. “You must listen to me now. Everything now depends on finding Senslar Zendoda.”

  Panna’s eyes were wet with tears. “I have to give myself up. I can’t let this go on. I’m sorry.” Her bargain with Tallanna no longer mattered.

  Talon squeezed Panna’s arm harder. “Yes, surrender—but surrender only to Senslar Zendoda. Him alone. He is Packer’s swordmaster. He can be trusted. Not some deputy. Not some sheriff. No one else will believe you. They will think you are lying to protect him. But the swordmaster will help you. He will help Packer. I know the ways of your people; I know the ways of mine. No one else will care about the truth.” Talon waited as Panna embraced this. “Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” Panna nodded. She remembered the reverence with which Packer had spoken of Senslar, how he had defended his teachings to her father. “Packer trusts him.”

  “Yes. You can trust Senslar Zendoda,” Talon said, cooing. She loosened her grip, glanced around to see what notice they had gathered from passersby. She knew their posture had not been one of a servant and her lady. No one seemed to be giving them more than a casual glance. Talon bowed her head, took a submissive pose. “Now, if you’ll precede me into the Sheriff’s office…”

  “Yes, of course,” Panna said, wiping her eyes with a gloved hand.

  The inside of the Sheriff’s office was dark and cool, and smelled of sawdust.

  “May I help you?” a clerk asked, a thin man with wrinkled white skin that seemed to hang from his face and hands. He was wide-eyed, clearly not accustomed to dealing directly with ladies such as this.

  “I have information about Packer Throme,” Panna said, summoning her courage, trying to hide the redness of her eyes. Talon drifted far back, toward the small, curtained windows, where she stood with her head slightly bowed, as though out of place.

  “Who?” the man asked, too loudly.

  Panna smiled meekly, took her time. “Packer Throme. He’s the one on the handbill just outside?”

  “Oh, the murderer!”

  Panna breathed in sharply.

  “You have information about him?”

  “Yes, but I will give it to no one but Senslar Zendoda.”

  The clerk frowned, then looked confused. Panna stole a glance at Tallanna, who was not looking at her, but who was smiling encouragement nonetheless.

  “I don’t understand. You’re talking about the Swordmaster?”

  “Yes, I must speak to Mr. Zendoda.”

  The clerk just laughed. “He doesn’t come around here much. Why do you want to talk to him?”

  “That is my business.”

  “Say, you know what aiding and abetting is?”

  She shook her head.

  “It means if you know something about a criminal, you need to say it, or you’re a criminal too.”

  Panna glanced at Talon again, but she was looking at the floor, waiting submissively.

  “I’m not saying what I know or what I don’t know. I will speak only to Senslar Zendoda,” Panna said, unapologetic.

  “I see. Well. That’s somethin’ then.” He scratched his head. “Wait here, would you?” The clerk left them, and went through a large wooden door into the back room.

  Panna looked questioningly at Talon, who nodded her approval. Panna took a deep breath, relieved. She was glad Tallanna was here.

  The clerk returned in a moment with Sheriff Bench Urmand, whose suspicious demeanor melted away quickly as soon as he got a look at Panna Seline.

  “Good day. I’m the Sheriff of Mann, Bench Urmand. What can I do for you?”

  “You can take me to Senslar Zendoda,” Panna said firmly.

  Bench stared at her for a moment. “This is about Packer Throme?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you after the reward, miss?”

  “No,” Panna said immediately, too emotionally. She imagined she felt the heat from Talon’s eyes. “Packer Throme is a student of Mr. Zendoda’s, and—” Tallanna’s parasol slipped from her hand and clattered onto the wooden floor. Panna glanced around, caught the warning, and bit her tongue.

  “So you know this Throme?” Bench pushed immediately. “From where?”

  “I’m simply doing my civic duty,” she added. “The reward is yours to give as you see fit.”

  He studied her closely. “I see. You wouldn’t by chance be the daughter of that priest from Hangman’s Cliffs?”

  Panna’s eyes went wide, and she felt her cheeks flush. She was caught, her disguise unveiled just that quickly. And then she realized she could not be caught, not yet. He had no idea who she was. And as she did in Inbenigh, when she refused to have her mission cut short, she turned on her attacker. “Do I look like a pastor’s daughter from some backwater village?”

  Urmand immediately backed down, holding both hands out in front of him. “No offense meant, miss. I just…I have to ask these things. So tell me, why didn’t you go to his office at the Academy?”

  Panna blinked. “Beg your pardon?”

  “This is the Sheriff’s office. Mr. Zendoda is Swordmaster. Why come in here and say you’ll talk only to him, rather than go there?”

  Panna felt another surge of panic. What did he suspect? She had no answer for this. She had no idea what to say, what the right answer was. She had come here because Tallanna said to come here. Remembering her training, though, she raised her chin, kept eye contact with a look of confidence, and waited. She couldn’t believe this would work, but she had no idea what else to do or what to say.

  Bench relented again. “I’m sorry,” Urmand sighed. “I meant no offense. Whatever your reasons for wanting to speak to him, this is a legal matter, so
you came to the right office.” He held up both hands, conceding defeat. “I’ll see if I can get a message to him.”

  “Thank you so much.”

  The Sheriff walked back through the great door, pulling on his earlobe and looking defeated, leaving Talon and Panna alone.

  Talon had now studied the office thoroughly. The visitor’s area, where she and Panna now waited, was relatively small, maybe fifteen feet across and twelve deep. The wall fronting the street featured two small windows, one on each side of the door, both heavily curtained. They were designed for defense; big enough for a gunman to use to protect the office, but too small for any person to climb in or out easily. Under each window was a wooden bench.

  The front door was made of solid oak, hung on huge iron hinges, with an iron bolt as well as a keyed lock. The back wall, the one Panna faced as she spoke, was covered with yellowed handbills and wanted posters. A huge door hung in the center of it, solid ash, almost four inches thick. This door was hinged from behind. Four iron bars covered an opening high in the center of the door, a window measuring not much more than a foot square. There would be a jail, and likely prisoners, beyond the door. A great iron keyhole and lock mechanism provided security.

  Beside the door, on the left, was the clerk’s station, a small L-shaped desk. Behind it was a stool; in front of it was a single chair.

  The white ash door now stood just slightly ajar, but Talon couldn’t see past it. She heard voices back there clearly enough, however, and recognized the occasional rustle and slap of playing cards, the squeak of a burdened chair.

  After what seemed an interminably long time, during which conversation could be heard in the back room, the Sheriff emerged, followed by the clerk. “I’ll be back with an answer as quickly as I can,” he said to Panna.

  “Thank you.”

  “Assistant Deputy George will stay with you until I return.”

  “I appreciate your personal attention to this matter.” She said it in a way that she hoped conveyed he might be rewarded. She was rather pleased with the way it came out, and knew Tallanna would be proud of her.

  Urmand did not look terribly pleased as he bowed and grunted and left through the front door. He was carrying a leather mail pouch bearing the seal of the Sheriff of Mann; in it was a note he had quickly jotted for the Swordmaster.

  Bench mounted his horse and headed up the street toward the Academy at a trot.

  Assistant Deputy George invited Panna to sit across from him, and she did. But he did little more than watch the young woman wait, making her uncomfortable very quickly.

  Talon moved the curtain back an inch and looked out the window, keeping her back to the clerk, trying to stay out of his thoughts as well as his sight. He seemed more than happy to spend whatever moments he wasn’t straightening his paperwork looking at Panna.

  The minutes drifted by interminably. The longer Panna sat, the deputy smiling and shuffling papers and then smiling again, the more she doubted the wisdom of this deception. It was fine with the deputies and the sheriff, but she needed Senslar Zendoda’s help. She did not want to deceive him in any way. Yet how could she simply confess who she was when she had just denied who she was so thoroughly?

  Panna waited in silence for what seemed like ages, though all told, it was less than a quarter of an hour. Two deputies came and went, exchanging paperwork with the clerk. Then suddenly, Talon stepped away from her spot by the window, closing the curtain.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” she said to Panna. Both Panna and the deputy looked surprised. Talon bowed her head once, then walked right past them through the great wooden door at the back of the room. “I’ll need the privy,” she said as she went.

  “Hey, you can’t go in there!” Deputy George said, standing. “You,” he ordered Panna, “stay put!” Then, shaking his head at the folly of women and of foreigners, he followed Talon, oblivious as a sheep in a slaughterhouse.

  Panna saw the door close behind the deputy, and went immediately to the window. She heard noises behind the door, shuffling of feet, and she registered the single syllable of a spoken word, but she was unprepared even to imagine what was actually happening a few feet from her. Outside, she saw a short man with a black cape, a dark red beret, and a white goatee. He dismounted a very big horse. He wore a long rapier at his hip.

  The Camadan entered the harbor of the Port of Mann just past noon. She limped along with shreds and ribbons where she should have had a mainsail, a topsail, a foresail, and a maintopgallant. The wind overfilled the sky sails, the jib sails, the spanker, and the royals, causing her to list precariously. She made port under the competent direction of the first mate, a cautious man who, after the storm, had been convinced by an overwhelming majority of the crew to make port here at Mann, risking the wrath of Scat Wilkins. It was the only city in which they could, with any reasonable certainty, find enough cloth to make repairs in short enough order that they could set sail for Split Rock, and perhaps make the designated rendezvous. But that’s not why the crew wanted to come to the Port of Mann.

  The crewmen and crew-women who worked the processing plant that was the Camadan all stood on deck and cheered the familiar sight as they pulled in. Scat Wilkins’ driven need for secrecy had kept them from this port, home to almost all of them, for more than a year-and-a-half. It was a welcome sight.

  Senslar Zendoda stepped into the office. He saw Panna, and walked to her immediately. He did not recognize her as Panna, of course, in spite of the descriptions he had gathered quite recently, and in spite of the descriptive terms Packer had used of her rather freely in his presence. He saw a beautiful, richly dressed, deeply concerned, almost fierce young woman; a striking, almost poetic vision of strength and need. It was easy for him to focus only on her, too easy for the last person on earth who could save her to be distracted by her.

  Senslar Zendoda had sped here alone after a brief conversation with Bench Urmand, who had then left to visit the crown prince. He walked toward Panna and stopped a few feet away, his face open, friendly, warm; the bear to the bait, standing within the iron jaws that would trap him. “I am Senslar Zendoda.” He bowed deeply.

  Panna didn’t speak. Her eyes were almost wild with a desire to spill all she knew, but she did not. Instead, she looked for Tallanna. The closed door did not move.

  “What is your name?” he asked kindly.

  She faltered, but only for a moment, and then, looking into his calm gray eyes, she remembered her own mission, not Tallanna’s mission, not her bargain, but the true mission of her soul. She stepped toward him and put her hands out; he took them. “I am Panna Seline. And I need your help. I must find Packer Throme.”

  As Senslar’s eyes narrowed with confusion, the door opened behind Panna. The swordmaster saw Talon, not Tallanna the servant, but a Drammune warrior. The servant’s garb was gone, sheep’s clothing shaken from the back of the wolf. Talon had been unwilling to confront her great nemesis in anything but her strength, and so she had removed the dress that disguised her. She stood now in her leathers, her knife at her belt, her bloodied sword in her hand. Her hair swept wildly around her shoulders. She had heard Panna abandon the carefully crafted pretense, but it didn’t matter to her now. The deception had done its job.

  Senslar’s hands left Panna’s in an instant, and his right hand went to his sword hilt. Panna spun around, following the sudden change that had come over the swordmaster, and saw Tallanna, with the fires of hell burning in her eyes. Through the open door, Panna could now see bodies, lying in blood on the floor, Deputy George and others. She knew instantly what this woman had done, understood in a moment what she herself had done.

  The next few seconds were a blur to her. A hand, the little man’s left hand, shoved Panna violently aside, with shocking strength, toward the wall. She tripped over the chair and fell backward, striking her head on the wall. The room buzzed and went dark. When Panna struggled up a few moments later, the room was spinning. She saw that swordplay had begun, the little ma
n and the lean, dark woman both moving with a speed and agility, and with a fury, she had never witnessed before.

  “Enochti rifal aziz,” Talon growled. You shall die. She struck, again and again, lightning-quick thrusts and cuts, parried just as quickly by Senslar, his blade singing against hers.

  “Nochtu rifala tremunsula,” Senslar replied easily. We shall all die. He moved very little, letting the aggressor strike, and focused his mind on her swordsmanship. He paid no attention to where her blade was at any given moment; conscious action was useless at this level. He trusted his training, his experience, his own swordplay, entirely. When she pressed, his sword was there, when she feinted, his sword was not. He was pleased to find that he was her equal, alarmed by the fact that she was his.

  It took only a few moments before Senslar knew his adversary. He knew who she was, though he had never before seen her. Her skill identified her. The scar confirmed it. He had heard of only one woman with this level of skill, had heard the stories of a Drammune woman with both this ferocity and this felicity in battle. This was Talon, the chief security officer of the Trophy Chase, who sailed with Scatter Wilkins. But why was she here, attacking him, attacking deputies? What had she to do with Packer Throme, and Panna? And then he realized that this woman solved the puzzle of the two bodies on the beach. Here was the murderer.

  When she disengaged, his blade went silent, poised to meet hers instantly. She didn’t speak again, but attacked, engaged, disengaged again. Whatever line she chose to attack, he had the defense. While he acted and reacted, he studied her swordplay. Her position, her balance, even her conditioning were flawless. More impressive yet, he knew she was searching for weaknesses as she fought. She was studying him every bit as thoroughly as he studied her.

  Finding no weaknesses, she began the most subtle of feints, inviting him to attack, leaving a slight target now, and the same target just slightly more obvious a moment later, a ruse handled so skillfully and with such subtlety that Senslar Zendoda was required to test it. But when he did, he was assaulted from it, a thrust from nowhere, from within the weakness, revealing the cunning that lay behind it.