Pathfinder Tales - Shy Knives

by Sam Sykes

  Not the most helpful individual.

  But I didn’t need him to be. I edged my way to the eastern wall, peered out over its ledge. I saw it immediately: a denser cluster of centaurs here, running in a smaller circle. They were protecting something. And as I peered past them, to a nearby hill bathed by moonlight, I could guess what.

  I reached down to check that my knife was still with me. Then I took a deep breath and started heading toward First Solace’s gate.

  You might, like most sane folk, wonder what I was planning on doing. And like most sane folk, if I told you, you probably would have called me insane. And I would have told you that I didn’t have the time to debate sanity when Dalaris’s life was at stake. I would have told you that I wasn’t insane.

  I would have, anyway, if I didn’t kind of agree with you already.

  * * *

  You ask a warrior, they’ll tell you that every one of their weapons tells a different story. You ask a wizard, they’ll say that every spell is its own song with its own sorrow.

  But if you ask someone in my line of work if sneaking ever gets complicated, they’ll tell you what I’d tell you.

  Same shit, different shadow.

  Head down. Knife close. Short, quick, decisive movements. I slipped across the battlefield just as I slipped through Vishera’s house, just as I slipped through the alleys of Katapesh.

  I kept low to the ground, picked my way between fallen trees, high scrub grass, bramble patches—any terrain that looked too rough for centaurs to bother trampling. I had just crept behind a fallen log when I heard the sound of thunder and felt the earth shaking under me.

  I froze, forced my breath shallow. There was an animal urge in me to run, but I forced it down; I was in defensible terrain, I told myself. I was safe.

  And I was really close to believing it until I felt the log shudder and four hooves went flying over me.

  I was too breathless to scream out. Fortunate for me. The centaur that leapt over the log had enough air to clear my head and land in front of me. He didn’t bother looking back, merely let out a whooping cry as he drew his bow and shot another flaming arrow toward First Solace.

  He was followed by a dozen more of his shirtless, hairy kin—who, thankfully, opted to go around my log rather than over it. They ran in a long circle, one of three, firing haphazardly into the caravan-rest.

  From here, I could see their run curving inward. With each circle they ran around the camp, they drew a little closer to First Solace. I could see the other centaur groups doing likewise, inching closer and closer to the caravan-rest. I supposed once they got within range, they’d make use of those big spears strapped to their backs.

  Clever tactic, I had to admit. Whittle down the human defenders bit by bit before closing in for the kill, all the while being harder to hit than if they simply charged straight at the camp.

  I wondered when Halamox came up with this strategy.

  I’d have to remember to ask him, if he didn’t cut my head off.

  Once the centaurs had cleared me by another mile, I got up and started moving again. From log to scrub grass to stone, I picked my way across the field toward the nearby hill. The moon shone brightly, revealing a hulking, four-legged figure atop its crest, watching the carnage below.

  Like a proper general. Hoofed bastard probably thought he was one, too.

  I circled around to the far side of the hill, came up quietly behind him. It had been a few days, but Halamox looked no less intimidating. His hair was groomed and pulled back, his armor polished and his greatsword gleaming brightly in the moonlight.

  Halamox had wasted no time in indulging his fantasies of being the leader of a great liberating army. He had a nearby table full of maps, charts, strategies—all the hallmarks of a war-weary general, right down to the tastefully placed mug of ale.

  Admittedly, I might have thought this was kind of cute if he weren’t, you know, killing a lot of people.

  I hid beneath the ridge of the hill, peering over as I saw him conversing with another centaur—this one armored and groomed, like him. They exchanged a few words before the other one saluted and galloped off, likely to deliver whatever orders Halamox had just given him.

  I worked quickly, slipping up onto the hill and creeping toward his table. I seized his mug and gave it just a bit of a spill, enough to put a few drops on the table. By the time he turned around, I was already slipping back beneath the hill and circling around. I kept an eye on him as he drank deeply from his mug and smiled broadly. Then I came up behind him, cleared my throat noisily.

  “Nice night for a raid, isn’t it?”

  I tensed, ready to leap away should he whirl on me with that big sword of his. But to my surprise, he merely glanced up at me with weary resignation, as though I were more annoyance than anything else.

  Considering what I had done to his camp, I felt a little insulted.

  “Madame Nimm,” he muttered. “Still alive, I see.”

  “You must have known I would be when you found Kjoda’s corpse cooling in the forest.” I shot him a rather daring wink. “You’re welcome for that, by the way.”

  He sneered, letting his hand slide to the hilt of his sword. “Kjoda was a kinsman to me.”

  “Save the drama for your victory speech,” I said, waving him off. “You and I both know that Kjoda was a rival preventing you from assuming control of the tribal centaurs.” I glanced over my shoulder at the raid as the lines drew nearer to First Solace. “Looks like you’re enjoying the fruits of my labors.”

  “Kjoda was a powerful warrior and you cut him down like a dog.” There was a distinct lack of accusation in Halamox’s voice—if I wasn’t quite so tired, I’d have said it sounded like a compliment. “Still, I cannot deny your contribution.”

  He trotted past me, to the edge of the hill, and gestured out over the carnage below.

  “It’s only fair that you see the future you helped carve.” He raised his arms high, as though the flames below were a work of art he was proud of. “This is our first step. The tribes need evidence of my leadership, of the victories I can give them. This is the second caravan-rest we’ve hit. A few more and Yanmass will be starving and weak. With the centaurs I attract from these victories, we will be in a position to burn the city to the ground.”

  “Uh-huh.” I folded my arms, shot him a glance. “And you think Taldor won’t respond in force?”

  He smiled at me. “They would have to catch us first. We will burn, take what we need, and move on. Over and over, striking where they are weak—and there are many weaknesses in Taldor. Sooner or later, Oppara’s senate will give us what we want. We shall have land of our own to settle, thanks to you.” He sniffed. “Perhaps I’ll name a village after you.” Then he waved a hand and went back to his table. “Or perhaps I’ll just do you the favor of not skewering you where you stand. I can’t say my warriors will be as forgiving.” He plucked up his mug and took a deep drink. “So I suggest you be on your way.”

  “Well, hell, since you’re in such a generous mood, maybe you want to do me another favor?” I gestured over to First Solace. “Call off the raid.”

  He chuckled. “I like you, two-legs. You’re funny.”

  “I’m not joking,” I said. “I need a horse to get to Yanmass and I can’t get there unless you pull back.” I held up my hands. “And I’m not going to say I don’t have an offer, either. Do right by me, I’ll do right by you.”

  “I stand at the precipice of destiny,” Halamox said. “A hundred warriors will soon be thousands, and I will stand at their fore as their king.” He smirked as he brought his mug to his lips. “What could you possibly offer me?”

  I smiled back as he took a long, deep drink, and spoke softly.

  “The antidote.”

  His eyes went wide—good sign. He looked at his mug, then back to his table, and saw it: the spill, the splash of ale on the table. I knew the look in his eyes. Every man who fancied himself powerful had the same look: dartin
g and fervent, piecing together paranoia as they realized how many enemies they had.

  That’s when I knew he believed me.

  And why wouldn’t he? The creeping sneak thief that had set fire to his camp? That had cut down his rival in cold blood? Why wouldn’t she be able to poison him?

  It didn’t matter that I hadn’t, of course—I certainly wasn’t going to tell him. I just needed him scared and uncertain.

  “You vile little—” Whatever he was going to call me was buried under the sound of his sword being torn free from its sheath as he stepped toward me. “Give it to me. Give it to me or I will cut you—”

  “Go nuts.” I held my arms open wide, gestured to my middle. “Run me through. Cut my head off. Whatever. Enjoy the next two days before the norgroot coursing through your veins finally kills you.” I winked at him. “The nobles of Yanmass requested norgroot specifically. They wanted you to suffer.”

  Halamox’s mouth hung open for a moment before he roared and swung his sword at me. A frantic, clumsy blow—I sidestepped it easily.

  “Lying!” he roared, whirling on me. I slid beneath the arc of his blade as he cleaved empty air. “You’re lying!”

  “Yeah, sure. I’m lying.”

  I danced out of reach of his blade. I fought to keep a grin off my face as I saw the weariness in his. He was weighing everything now—was that ache in his arm just a cramp or part of the poison? Was the headache he had just from staying up too late?

  The ugliest part of what people like me do isn’t the knives in the back or the poisons in drinks. It’s the picking locks, the springing traps, the pulling levers that make the gears grind. Because it’s not long before you start seeing the whole world like that. Governments, businesses, people: they’re all just machines. Twist them the right way, they’ll do what you want.

  Just like Halamox was doing when he turned that big, panicked face to me.

  “Pretend I’m lying,” I said. “Comfort yourself with that knowledge. Cling to it as you die over the next two days.” I let my grin seep through, ugly and dark. “Tell it to yourself when your ghost watches your tribes crumble and the remnants of your great centaur ‘nation’ get mopped up by a handful of adventurers looking to get paid from the rich turds in Yanmass. I’ll be there, laughing from Hell.”

  His sword fell, along with his face. They both suddenly seemed too heavy for him. His steel bit into the earth, hung limp from two big, weak hands. And his mouth hung open, eyes big and pale enough to see a future where all his work was for nothing.

  Like I said, twist them the right way …

  “Alternately,” I said, “we could make a trade.”

  … and they’ll do what you want.

  He regained at least a little of the composure he had, forcing his mouth closed and raising his head high. He thrust his sword into the earth, folded his arms over his massive chest, and glowered at me.

  “I don’t care if you burn down First Solace or all of Yanmass,” I said. “You just chose a night to do it that was personally inconvenient to me. Call off your horses. Let me hitch a ride to Yanmass. If I reach it before midnight, I’ll have the antidote sent to this hill.”

  “Midnight?” He gawped. “That’s only two hours from now.”

  I shrugged. “Guess you better act fast, then.”

  He stalked toward me. I stood my ground. He glared down at me. I looked back up, impassive. However civilized he claimed to be, he was still part animal. And he was trying to use that animal part of him to trigger an animal panic in me.

  And to be fair, it almost worked. I could see all the ways I could die: those massive hands that could strangle me effortlessly, those giant hooves that could stomp me into the earth, that huge sword that could hack me in two. My body screamed at me to run, to cower, to betray my lie and give it all up.

  But there were lots of things scarier than animals. I was about to see a few of them that night, I was certain.

  And so I stood my ground, met his eyes, and sniffed.

  “A horse will never get you there fast enough,” he muttered. “I’ll take you. And you’ll give me the antidote personally.”

  I shrugged. As compromises went, I’d heard of worse. I was certain I could think of some bullcrap to give him before we got to Yanmass.

  He stalked to the edge of the hill, trotted down it to go reach his warriors. I glanced over at First Solace and frowned. There were more bodies, more fires, more carnage in the caravan-rest than when I had come out here. Part of me wondered if, had I acted a little faster, been a little cleverer, some good people might still be alive now.

  But sorrow’s a heady liquor. Drink too deep of all the good you could have done, you wind up dead.

  At the moment, I had only enough worry in me for one woman. And as I looked to Yanmass in the distance, I could only hope that Halamox was as fast as he said he was.

  20

  Skulkers

  When I was young—too young to be where I was—I once saw a dead body lying in the alley next to the alley I called home. Old woman, no visible wounds, might have been mugged, might have just been unlucky.

  I was fresh, then. Never held a blade, never had a dose of pesh, never had a sip of wine. Death was still something scary, something bad that happened to good people. I remember I got scared, started to cry, started to panic.

  And Sem had taken me by the shoulders and said: “Cry over every corpse, you’ll run out of tears. Don’t worry about why she’s dead, worry about whether or not what killed her is still here.”

  Sem wasn’t a sage. But there was wisdom in those words.

  In this business, foresight’s good, but hindsight will get you killed. The people you’ve burned, the lies you’ve spun; look over your shoulder too much, you’ll never see what’s ahead of you.

  That thought always brought me comfort.

  Not a lot, but enough.

  Enough comfort to leave First Solace and its many dead behind. Enough comfort to leave the centaurs running back to the woods, confused and angry. Enough comfort to have plucked a bottle of whiskey from First Solace on our way back and given it to Halamox upon our arrival, claiming it to be a cure.

  Sure, there would be more dead. Sure, the centaurs would come back. Sure, Halamox might eventually figure out he’d been deceived. But those were things I’d put behind me.

  Ahead of me were the streets of Yanmass, dark and slick and disappearing beneath my feet as I rushed down them. Ahead of me, the lights of House Sidara burned in the windows, tiny and soft fireflies in the distant darkness.

  There was something about those lights, so unlike the cold and distant brightness of the bigger manors’ lampposts and massive windows. House Sidara’s distant lamps looked gentler, softer, like the glow from hearths in the windows of cozy homes I used to peer into on the colder nights in Katapesh.

  Some nights, huddled under an awning in a dark alley, I’d dream about running into one of those homes. And for a minute there, in the darkness of Yanmass, I could almost pretend that was just what I was doing: running headlong toward a home that would welcome me.

  But as dangerous as hindsight is, dreams are worse. Dreams are an excuse not to look at reality. And as nice as it would have been to pretend that I’d go running into that warm home and its soft light and be welcomed, my reality was something darker, colder, and armed with big sharp blades.

  I saw them as I neared the yard: men and women in dark clothing, their swords painted black as they prowled the unkempt lawn of House Sidara. I slowed my stride, forced my breathing slower, ducked low as I crept up to its fences and hid behind a shrubbery. But even as my breathing slowed, my thoughts raced.

  Too late. Too gods-damned late.

  Stelvan’s thugs. They had to be. She had found out. She had discovered my presence. She knew everything. She was already out for Dalaris. She probably already had Dalaris.

  I was too late. I wasn’t fast enough. I wasn’t smart enough. All those people dead in First Solace, all for
nothing, all because I—

  Easy.

  I could almost hear Sem’s voice in my head.

  Breathe.

  The old words that had seen me through those cold nights in Katapesh.

  Look.

  Hindsight was useless. Whatever I had failed to do, pointless to dwell on. What lay ahead of me, that was what I had to focus on.

  I peered around the shrubbery, forced my mind quiet and my breath slow.

  I counted three of them: two men, one woman, all wrapped in black cloth and holding short blades in their hands. They crept low to the ground, eyes open as they scanned the walls of House Sidara, stopping to scrutinize bushes and dry patches of lawn.

  They were still searching, then. If they had found Dalaris, they’d already be gone.

  Still time, I told myself, letting out a long breath. There’s still time.

  How much time, I didn’t know. But it couldn’t be much.

  Which meant this was going to be ugly.

  My knife slid into my palm. I hopped the fence, crouched low behind a shrubbery and watched the three of them creeping across the lawn.

  Their blades looked sharp enough for dirty work, but their movements—the overexaggerated hunch, the tiptoeing creep, the slow pace—were the marks of amateurs. These were people who had an idea of what they thought stealthy business looked like, but had never seen a true professional work.

  Some lessons you learn the hard way.

  I watched them until one of them slipped farther away from the others, rounding a corner. I cast a quick glance to make sure the other two weren’t looking before I slipped away from the bush. I darted quickly to the next hedge, then one more before he was in my sights.

  A short burst of quick movement. A hand clapped over his mouth. A swift jab in the side of his neck. His body fell, he twitched briefly, his eyes glassed over. And the last thing he saw was his blood leaking out onto the lawn.

  That’s how a professional does it.

  Not quite as glamorous as black-painted blades and creeping around at night, but it gets the job done.

  I turned back, slipping back to the shrubberies. I caught a glimpse of one of them searching a nearby wall, maybe for a secret passage he thought was there. The last one, the woman, was nearby inspecting another bush. They must have been at this for a while if they were searching the gods-damned foliage.