Pathfinder Tales - Shy Knives

by Sam Sykes

“I’m an adventurer,” I replied. “Heard there was trouble in the woods after your raid on First Solace. Came to see if there was loot to be made.”

  The tension left Halamox in a great, snorting breath. While his eyes were still narrowed on me, he didn’t seem quite as ready to kill me as he had been a moment ago.

  “As you can see, we’ve not much here, madame,” he said. “The Rockhoof Clan are a proud, simple folk. We take only what we need from the land.”

  “And what you want from the humans,” I added, perhaps a bit hastier than was wise. “I’ll thank you not to insult my intelligence, either, sir. I saw what your clan did in First Solace.”

  One of the barbaric centaurs would have gutted me for the insolence creeping into my voice. But Halamox, though he cringed, did not raise a hoof against me.

  I knew his type. Observed the airs of city life from the outside, adopted their codes and mannerisms to fit in, found that it wasn’t enough and tried all the harder. Whether human or centaur, people were all the same. He wouldn’t kill me right now.

  It just wouldn’t be proper.

  Like I said, I knew his type. And, as the lantern steadied overhead and bathed him in a consistent glow, I realized that I knew him.

  “Unless I miss my mark, sir,” I said, “I’ve seen you before.”

  “Have you, madame?”

  “In the courtyards of the nobles of Yanmass, outside in their yards.” But never in their homes, I refrained from adding. “You’re from the city, are you not?”

  “Your memory is apt or my reputation precedes me.” Halamox inclined his head. “I and certain members of my company were popular choices for the instruction and training of the guards of the noble houses of Yanmass. Their coin afforded their guardsmen the fruits of my expertise.”

  “And doubtless, you learned a thing or two from them, yourself,” I said. “Such as how to avoid their guard patrols.”

  “You are observant, Madame Nimm. I commend you.”

  “Not observant enough to understand, apparently. Why give up the noble life of a mercenary to become a common bandit?”

  “Noble.” He scoffed, an ugly sound tearing out of his throat. “Indeed, at times, I was left to wonder which aspect of my life was more noble: peddling my honor like a tramp or desperately attempting to ignore the whispers of ‘monster’ behind my back.” He glowered at me, through me, hatred plain on his face. “No, madame. I was all too happy to give up that noble life for the fate of a centaur nation.”

  “A centaur … nation?”

  I caught the incredulity in my voice just a moment too late and his glower intensified. But I could hardly help it; whoever heard of such a thing as a centaur nation?

  “We are but tribes now,” Halamox said. “Tribes pushed out of our own lands by human incursion. Tribes disunited and easy pickings for the savages of this world. Tribes forever wandering in search of a place to call our own.” He gestured those big brawny arms out wide. “Taldor is a nation with too much land and too few citizens to use it. They will not miss what we carve out for own.”

  “Hence your need for weapons,” I said. “Hence your raids.”

  “I have spent enough time among humans to know that all they respect is force. Like my savage kin, save the savages don’t hide their lust for violence behind airs of superiority.”

  I furrowed my brow. “And what part of this demanded—”

  “No.”

  His voice was followed by the hiss of steel as his tremendous sword came flashing from his scabbard. He swung it about, as if to decapitate me in one fell blow. To my credit, I managed not to piss myself before the edge of that blade came to rest just an inch from my throat.

  “I don’t fancy myself a savage, madame,” he said. “I am loathe to spill blood unnecessarily, but I have humored you enough. You are clearly no common adventurer out for coin. Your mind is too inquisitive and your tongue too refined. And unless I miss my guess, I have you to thank for the release of the beasts that killed my kin tonight.”

  I smiled at him, sheepish as I dared. “Would it soothe you to know, sir, that the locks were faulty?”

  “It would,” he replied. “But not nearly as much as it would soothe me to know my people had been avenged.” He drew back his blade. “Pity. I was so hoping you’d give me a reason to spare you.”

  He swung.

  “Would my employer do, sir?”

  I know it’s terribly gauche to be impressed with oneself, but you would be, too, if you could speak faster than a blade could swing.

  And if it halted Halamox’s sword, once more, from tearing my head off, so much the better.

  “What?” He scowled down the length of his blade at me.

  “My employer, sir,” I replied, eyeing the blade without moving my head, lest it cut me. “As you say, I am no mere adventurer.”

  “I do not like liars, madame,” he growled.

  “There is not enough room between your blade and my neck for lies, sir,” I said. “I was sent here at the behest of a noble whose trade you have disrupted.”

  Halamox glowered. “Which noble?”

  Of course, there was room for lies here. Some of my best lying I’ve done with a blade at my throat, even. But occasionally, even someone as resourceful as me can’t afford to speak anything but the truth.

  “Sidara,” I said. “House Sidara.”

  “They are of no concern to me. Nor are you.”

  “But we both will be, sir,” I said, “if I don’t return. The other nobles are already quite suspicious of your activities. If I don’t return to my lady, she’ll have no problem convincing them to rally a force to come rout you out.” I glanced up at him. “You’ve been in their homes. You know how many guards they have.”

  Halamox furrowed his brow. Grit his jaw. He didn’t quite buy my story, I could tell. But he hadn’t hacked my head off, either, so I was happy.

  And his hesitation told me more than he thought. Whatever noble was supporting him, he was not confident in their ability to protect him from the rest of them. Whatever hand was holding his leash, I guessed it was just one instead of many.

  “Ah, curse my gentlemanly ways.” Slowly, Halamox lowered his sword. “But I would hate for the nobles to think me a savage.”

  “Of course, sir,” I said, allowing myself a breath of air. “And once I return to them, I will be happy to tell them whatever you—”

  “When you return to them,” he interrupted me, “it will be after I am paid.”

  I blinked, my facade slipping. Uh, what?

  “I don’t like liars, madame. But you seem like an honest sort. If you say you are a friend of nobles, I believe you.”

  His sword rose slowly, its tip pressing against my chin to raise my eyes into his smiling, haughty face.

  “Just as I believe they will pay handsomely for your return.”

  7

  Centaur Politics

  Good rogues get away.

  Bad rogues get killed.

  But even the best rogues find themselves tied up every now and again.

  The first time it happens, it’s terrifying. The second time, it’s embarrassing. But eventually, you learn how to deal with it.

  It’s just part of the job, really. And depending on who’s holding the rope, it’s not always that bad.

  Not that having my hands jerked behind me, drawn around a stake, and tied together with some crude hemp was a high mark of my evening, but this wasn’t the worst way it could have gone.

  The worst way it could have gone was currently standing in front of me, grabbing my throat with one hand while the other pressed a jagged piece of metal masquerading as a knife against my cheek.

  “Two-Toe and the Colonel.” Kjoda’s breath, hot and rank, washed over me as he snarled through a mouthful of yellow teeth.

  “What?” I asked, and instantly regretted it.

  “Their names.” The centaur’s hand tightened around my throat, slammed my head against the stake. “I raised those bea
sts from cubs. Fed them meat, taught them to hunt, taught them to kill.” His knife’s jagged teeth pressed divots in my skin. “And you killed them like you didn’t even care.”

  “Well,” I replied softly, “you trained them well. They killed quite a few of your own people, didn’t they?”

  He snarled, pounded a fist into the wood above my head. The shock of the impact ran through my entire body. Had he gone for my actual body, I’d be dead from that one blow.

  I imagined most people would be screaming right now—after all, the idea of a sentimental centaur is shocking enough even without a blade ready to carve off one’s face.

  But if you could have seen me, at that moment, you would have seen nothing. You would have seen an expressionless face, a closed mouth, and a pair of unblinking eyes locked right on his.

  Sometimes it’s easy to forget what I do, the murderers and assassins and dealers I run with. Sometimes it’s easy to forget how quickly blood gets spilled, how a little twitch with a little knife can end everything. But I never once forgot how to handle brutes like Kjoda.

  Show no emotion. Say nothing. Don’t let them look away from you.

  Show them too much, they think of a reason to kill you. Turn away from them, they can’t think of a reason to keep you alive. And if they’re going to kill you, you make them look you dead in the eye when they do it.

  Sem taught me that.

  That lesson was about men rather than monsters, of course, but it’s a gods-damned fine line between the two. And Kjoda had just enough of a glint in his eye to tell me the same rules applied to him.

  And he turned that eye over my shoulder to the centaur standing behind me.

  “Tighter,” he growled. “I want to see her hands turning blue for what she did to me.”

  The centaur, one of the clean ones, snorted as she secured my wrists together. “The more damaged she is, the less we get for her return.” She jerked the rope harshly. I winced as a shock of pain ran up my arms. “But if she causes trouble, Halamox says we only need her mostly alive.”

  “Gold.” Kjoda spat on the ground. “You stabled would make me laugh if you weren’t so damn sad. Ask them for gold, you only play by their rules.” He looked back to me, brought his blade up under my chin. “Send them a corpse, you tell them they play by yours. And then they’re the ones doing the asking.”

  I tilted my head up as the blade rose, felt a lump in my throat pass over its tip as I swallowed hard. Kjoda’s eyes trembled, his jaw clenched and hand shaking. He looked over my face, searching for a reason.

  He really loved those bird-bears.

  This would almost be adorable if it weren’t for the fact that my head was as high as it could go and his blade kept going.

  A hand reached out, took him by the forearm, and forcibly lowered the blade. I held my sigh of relief as the centaur—the stabled one I saw before—walked up beside me and fixed Kjoda with a stern look.

  “Gold brings food. Supplies. Corpses are something we have enough of and will have so many more of in the days to come.”

  There was something solemn in her voice, almost sad. She was right, of course; Halamox might want to carve out part of Taldor for his centaur nation, but carving was always messy, no matter how dead the goose was. A lot of people would die in the process, and she was doubtless certain that some of them would be her friends. I almost felt bad for her.

  Of course, I’d feel worse if she weren’t wearing my dagger around her waist like a trophy.

  Kjoda sneered at her, then at me, then snorted and stalked off to rejoin a band of his fellows holding an impromptu funeral for the smoldering monster carcass at the center of the camp.

  I glanced sidelong at the centaur, decided to try my luck. “Thank you,” I said.

  She returned a cold look. “I’d not see you gutted like a swine.” She leaned down low, her nose inches from mine. “I’d prefer to see you trampled under a hundred hooves until we pulverized your corpse to fertilizer.” She sneered as she stalked to a nearby barrel of whiskey and drew herself a hefty tankard. “You can thank Halamox that we’ve decided to do neither, though.”

  “I’d be happy to, if he’d come out.”

  There was a bit more venom in those words than I would have preferred. I counted it as a small blessing that the centaur only gave me a black laugh as she tossed back her whiskey and drew another cup.

  “Halamox has greater things on his mind,” she said. “Things I might not always agree with, but he takes the longer view. He dreams of a nation for us, of our own laws, our own rules, so that we don’t have to bow and scrape for your coin.” She raised her tankard high above her head. “I trust him. I salute him.”

  She tossed her head back, drained the tankard in one long drink. She let loose a belch and hurled it at my head. I narrowly ducked, letting it bounce off the stake and land at my feet.

  “But I still would have killed you.”

  She snorted and stomped off to attend some other business.

  I leaned back against the stake, tested my bonds, and found them appropriately tight. Quietly, I surveyed the camp.

  The chaos the two beasts had caused was still being repaired. The civilized centaurs seemed concerned with the material loss as much as the death of their own. Tents had been ruined, food stores raided, and whiskey casks overturned, drenching various tents and cabins.

  The barbarians’ thoughts, however, were for their dead. Small clusters of them gathered around the blazing pyres that had been erected for the dead bird-bears.

  Centaurs being a step above more monstrous humanoids, their ways were slightly more known to humans than your average orc or goblin, though still hopelessly alien. Respect was afforded those who proved an asset to the tribe. Hence why hulking, murderous beasts were given funerals and those who had died before they could do anything were given to the pile.

  I found that interesting.

  But not half as interesting as the mood pervading the camp.

  The two centaur clans might have come physically closer in the wake of the chaos, venturing out of their respective areas of the camp to repair the damage, but this only seemed to increase their hostilities. The more civil ones contented themselves with casting accusing stares at each other. The rowdier ones made boisterous threats. The unstable ones continued to sharpen weapons while looking intently at their “allies.”

  Occasionally, one would venture close enough to hurl a curse at me. I said nothing. Looked straight ahead. Stood perfectly still.

  It’s a layman who believes stealth is all about sneaking in shadows and creeping up behind people. That’s a big part of it, true. But so many rogues have met their ends by ignoring the first rule.

  Sometimes, stealth is just about not drawing attention to yourself.

  I reminded myself of this as I stood, stock-still, as a civil centaur came approaching from my left and a savage centaur from my right.

  The former, a burly armored fellow carrying a lance over his shoulder, came wandering past toward the whiskey barrel nearby. The latter was dragging one of his dead comrades toward a nearby fire. They shot each other glowers as they passed one another, but said nothing.

  And, more importantly, didn’t spare so much as a glance for me.

  I eyed the ground. The tankard the centaur had hurled at me lay by my feet. With as much movement as I dared, I reached out with one foot and hooked the toe of my boot into the tankard’s handle.

  I glanced at the barbarian’s back as he walked away from me. I drew my breath and, with a prayer and a kick, sent the tankard flying.

  Norgorber isn’t the sort of god to do things out of the kindness of his heart. He’s a selfish god for selfish people, a trickster and a thug with a mean streak long as most gods’ patiences. Pray to him, you’re bound to be disappointed.

  But do something he finds funny enough, you just might be surprised what he gives you.

  The tankard sailed through the air, caroming off the back of the savage’s head. He whi
rled, a roar in his throat and a sword in his hand. Red-rimmed eyes swept from the tankard rolling on the ground to the centaur at the whiskey barrel drawing another cup, chuckling.

  It was an awful lot to take in.

  One could hardly blame him for not noticing the girl tied to a stake, standing perfectly still.

  I certainly wasn’t about to.

  “YOU!” he snarled, stalking over his comrade’s dead body. “You lookin’ for a fight, stabled?”

  The centaur peered lazily over the rim of his tankard as he slugged his whiskey. “I’m looking for quiet and a place that doesn’t stink like shit. Since you can’t give me one of those, maybe you can give me the other?”

  “You’re a clever grunt, aren’t you?” The savage growled and raised his blade. “So clever you gotta hit me when my back’s turned.” He smiled. “Or is that cowardice? I always get them two mixed up.”

  The clean centaur snorted, tossing aside his tankard and stepping up to the savage. “When I want to hit you, you turd with legs, I’ll do it to your face. Assuming I don’t get it mixed up with your ass.”

  “Clever it is, then,” the savage replied, thumping his chest. “Show me you aren’t a coward!”

  Completely still, I watched.

  I watched as heads turned toward the commotion. I watched as the nomads drew their blades and came sauntering up behind their posturing comrade. I watched as the armored centaurs from the city filed in to back up their own boisterous friend. I watched insults turn to threats, threats turn to weapons, weapons turn to fury.

  I watched this all, completely silent.

  Really, at this point, they seemed to have everything well in hand.

  “You human-loving, perfumed bastards better think hard about what you’re doing,” the barbarian growled as he stalked closer. “You’ve been making us do the heavy lifting, waiting for us to die. But it made us strong while you got soft.”

  “Lifting is all your breed is good for,” the city centaur spat back, hooves pawing at the earth as he scowled at his rival. “You might want to recant while you still have your teeth.”

  A hush fell over the crowd, each side of the crowd trembling with restrained anger as it sized up the other. The civil ones saw a force that outnumbered them. The savages saw a small army that was, pound for pound, tougher than they were. Any fight here would end with a lot of bloodshed, they both knew, no matter how badly they wanted it.