Masques s-1

by Patricia Briggs

  She laughed and spun around to face them, her dagger tucked invisibly back into her sleeve sheath. “You’re getting better, though. This time I honestly thought that you were just a couple of outsiders looking for prey.”

  The second one pushed the first sideways with a playful punch. “See, Kai? I told you that we’d do better blending in with the environment. Who pays attention to a couple of hog lovers in this place?”

  Kai twitched one eyebrow upward, managing, despite the dirt on his clothes, to look aristocratic. “However, if you had worn the shoes I told you to . . .” He let his voice trail off and flashed the wicked grin he shared with his twin brother.

  With practiced ease, he slipped out of his assumed character and flung an arm around Aralorn’s neck. “Well, my dear, it looks like I have you at my mercy.” Or at least that’s what he meant to say. Actually, thought Aralorn, the last word sounded more like “eyah” than “mercy.”

  She turned to Talor, and said, “I need to bathe in muck more often. It seems to work better than throwing him on the ground and making him look silly like I did the last time he tried to kiss me, don’t you think?”

  Old friends—the perfect answer to the frightening feeling that she was all alone. She’d served with both of them right up until the Spymaster had pulled her to his office and informed her she was changing jobs. Her gift of manipulating her superior officers had been noted as well as her ability to act without direct orders. Ren had been right—she was far better suited to spying than to warfare. Still, it was a lonely profession and she treasured her friends from the old days. Especially the ones smart enough that she didn’t have to lie. Talor and Kai were sharp and knew how not to ask questions.

  Talor assumed a serious demeanor, but before he could say whatever he intended to, Kai broke in. “Tell me, Lady, what villain gave you that perfume? Surely it must be cursed. Let me slay him for you that you may once again be your sweet-smelling self.”

  “I’d almost gotten used to smelling like this,” she said truthfully. She’d slept like this on her bed, she remembered. She’d have to pull off all the bedding and take it to the laundry for cleaning. “I was going to go to the practice ring, but I think that I’ll head to the baths first. Interested in a little fun?” Kai brightened comically until she added, “In the ring.”

  Kai bowed low. “To my sorrow, I have a previous engagement.” He slanted her a grin. “Do you remember that redhead in the Thirty-second?”

  “Uhm-hmm.” She raised an eyebrow, shook her head, and in an exaggeratedly sorrowful tone said, “Poor girl, doomed to a broken heart.” She grinned, and added, “Have a good time, Kai.” He waved and sauntered away.

  Aralorn looked at Talor, and inquired, “Does he really have a date with Sera?”

  He laughed. “Probably not, but he will. Mostly, I think, his skin is still too thin from the last time you put him down. The whole squad ribbed him about being beaten by a woman for weeks. I, on the other hand, have no pride and, after you rid yourself of the unfair advantage you now hold”—he grabbed his nose with a hand to show her what he meant—“I will be awaiting you at the Hawk and Hound.”

  “Done.” She gave him a mock salute and headed for the baths.

  * * *

  In one of the sparring rings that, like many of the taverns around town, the Hawk and Hound provided, Aralorn faced Talor warily with a single body-length staff held lightly in her hands.

  Normally, they were evenly matched with the long staff, Talor being a better fighter than his brother, but Aralorn was still stiff. They fought together often because no one else wanted to face either of them with staves, long or short, in serious sparring.

  As a warm-up, they played with variations on the training dances, and rather than aiming for body shots, the object was to hit a small metal plate, which dangled from a belt. Normally, there would be a third to call shots fair or foul and award points at the sound of wood striking metal, but she and Talor were veterans and cared more for the sport than for the winning or losing.

  The ring that they had chosen was in the basement of the tavern rather than the one on the main floor, so they had no spectators. By mutual consent, they stopped for a bit to rest before they proceeded out of the standard patterns for some real sparring.

  “So, what was that smell anyway? It seems somewhat familiar, but I just can’t place it. Something like a cross between an outhouse and a pig barn.” Talor’s voice was a bit unsteady because he was stretching out as he talked.

  Breathing ridiculously hard from such light exertion, Aralorn leaned unashamedly against one of the waist-high walls that surrounded the ring. She was paying for her confinement and the long ride home with her lack of stamina.

  She started to think up a reason for the moat smell but decided that there was no harm in letting him know what she’d been doing. Kai and Talor didn’t ask questions, and they also knew when to keep their mouths shut. There was nothing secret about what she had done, now that she was out of there. And it would be good to talk to Talor about what she’d found. She wouldn’t go so far as to tell him about Ren, though. She needed to think about what had happened.

  “Unless you’ve been visiting the ae’Magi’s castle lately,” she said, “it probably wouldn’t be too familiar. I only wish the ae’Magi was half as honest and sweet-smelling as his moat . . .” Conditioned reflexes were the only thing that brought her staff up to deflect his from her face. The sheer force of the blow numbed her hands, as she hadn’t been holding the staff in a proper grip.

  She ducked underneath his arm to come to the center of the arena and give herself some room for maneuvering. The move also gave her a chance to talk. “What are you doing?”

  Talor’s face twisted with wrath as he came after her. “How dare you, worthless bitch? How dare you sharpen your tongue on the ae’Magi?”

  It was his rage that saved her, interfering with the timing and precision of his attacks. Time and time again, she was able to block or turn aside his furious blows.

  This unchecked anger was unlike him: A good warrior strives above all for control. She knew something was terribly wrong, but his ruthless barrage left no more time for speculation or analysis. She cleared her mind and concentrated on staying alive.

  Finally, one of his swings caught her hard behind the back of her knees and she fell backward, letting his staff carry her legs up with it. She turned the fall into a roll, going over onto her shoulders and coming up on her feet. As soon as she was upright, she raised her staff to guard position, trying to protect her face and torso.

  The roll had forced her to take her eyes from her opponent, and she barely saw the flicker of movement as his staff came under her defenses. Rather than the standard sweep-strike, Talor had chosen to thrust. The end of the staff caught her low in the chest and drove the breath out of her body. Without the protective padding she wore, it would have broken ribs. Had his staff struck just a few finger-widths higher, it would have been fatal, padding or not.

  She twisted frantically to the side, trying to dive out of striking range. It was a desperate maneuver, exposing her vulnerable back to her opponent, and after the blow she’d just received, she knew she was moving far too slowly. Even as she moved, she waited for his strike—knowing that there was no way for her to evade the impact of the metal-shod staff.

  The blow didn’t come. She completed the diving roll and snapped to her feet, staff poised and lungs working desperately for air.

  Talor stood in the middle of the ring, leaning against his staff. He shook his head like a wet dog, then looked up at her in dazed bewilderment. “I don’t know what came over . . . Are you all right, Aralorn?”

  “Fine.” She gasped the word out, her diaphragm not operating quite correctly yet. “Don’t . . . worry about it. No harm done, and I . . . needed a workout. Your stick work has improved, but you’re still a little slow on your returns . . . Watch your hands. You hold on too tightly when you’re mad, and it makes it easier for your oppone
nt to force you to drop your staff.”

  As she got her breath back, she made her tone more baiting, trying to get him to forget what had happened. If she was correct about the cause, then it would do him more harm than good to worry about it. It scared her that the ae’Magi’s magic was able to do what it was doing. It was just possible that he would have chosen to turn Ren into one of his puppets—but Talor had no political power. If he was affected, then she had to believe that most people in Sianim would be touched by the ae’Magi’s magic: They all belonged to him. The thought of how much power that would take terrified her.

  Talor took the refuge she offered. “You need to pay more attention to your opponent’s eyes. You watch the body too much, and that doesn’t give you much advance warning. If you’d been watching more closely, you could have avoided that last hit.”

  She dropped her staff and waved her hands out in the traditional surrender, and said, “Okay, you beat me. My reputation is in tatters. Just do me one favor and don’t tell your brother about it. Last time you beat me, he challenged me, then I had to put up with his sulks for a week.” It was important to act naturally.

  “You only got it for a week because we had to go out on maneuvers. He sulked for almost a month. Okay, I won’t tell him. Besides”—here he struck up an obviously false pose and looked down his nose at her—“it ill becomes a man to brag about beating a woman.”

  For all of his humor, Aralorn could tell that he was feeling uncomfortable. She wished she was only uncomfortable. She wasn’t surprised when Talor excused himself though they generally would have drunk a couple of rounds before they left. When she turned to watch him leave, she noticed the wolf lying just inside the doorway, his head on his front paws. Talor stooped and patted him on the back, which Wolf answered with a small movement of his tail, but his clear yellow eyes never wavered from Aralorn’s face.

  Aralorn waited until Talor was gone before dropping exhausted to the floor, her back against the barrier. She patted the space beside her in invitation. The wolf obligingly got up, trotted over, and resumed his relaxed pose, substituting Aralorn’s shins as his chin rest.

  They sat like that for a while, Aralorn running her hand through the thick fur—separating the coarse dark hair from the softer, lighter-colored undercoat. When her breathing had returned almost to normal, she broke the silence.

  “It’s good to have you back,” she commented. “I take it that they didn’t kill you.”

  “I think that is a safe assumption to make.” His voice was more noncommittal than it usually was.

  She gave him a halfhearted grin.

  “How long had you been watching?”

  “Long enough to see you put your foot in it and almost let that clumsy young fool remove you from this life.”

  She obligingly rose to his bait. “Clumsy? I’ll have you know that he is the second-best staffsman in Sianim.”

  “You being the first?” Amusement touched his voice.

  She cuffed him lightly. “And you know it, too.”

  “It looked to me as if he had you beaten. You might have to step into second place.” He paused, and said in a quieter voice, “Finally noticed that people are a bit touchy concerning the ae’Magi, have you?”

  She gave him an assessing look. “Has it been going on for a long time?”

  He grunted an affirmative. “I first saw it about a year ago, but recently it has gotten much more intense.”

  “It seems to be some sort of variation of the spells that he had at his castle, but I didn’t think that anyone could create a spell of this magnitude alone.” Aralorn’s tone was questioning.

  “He’s not doing it alone,” replied the wolf. “He started small. The villages near the ae’Magi’s castle have quite a few inhabitants who are strong in magic. The side effect of having so many young virile magicians apprenticing at the castle for several hundred generations.” His tone was ironic. “The adults that he couldn’t subdue he killed because their deaths provide more of a kick to his power than people with no magic at all. But the ones he craves are the children, who have raw power and no training . . .”

  Aralorn shuddered and rubbed her arms as if chilled.

  “You’ve seen what he does with the children.” Wolf’s tone gentled. “Fifteen years ago, if you made a negative remark about the ae’Magi, only the reaction of the villagers just outside the castle would be as strong as Talor’s. Now the streets of that village are empty of all but old men and women because the rest are dead. He has taken them and used them. As far away as Sianim, people are affected by the ae’Magi’s spell. He needs still more prey to continue to increase the strength of his magic, so he’s looking elsewhere. Sianim, I think, is merely getting the backlash of the main focus.”

  “What is the main focus?” she asked.

  “Where is magic at its strongest? Where do many of the common villagers have the ability to work charms? Where has magic flourished, protected by strong rulers from the persecution that magic-users were subject to after the great wars?”

  “Reth,” she answered.

  “Reth,” he agreed.

  “Crud,” she said with feeling.

  THREE

  The inn lay about halfway between the small village of Torin and the smaller village of Kestral. It had been built snugly to keep out the bitter cold of the northern winters. When the snow lay thick on the ground, the inn would have been picturesque, nestled cozily in a small valley between the impressive mountains of northern Reth. Without the masking snow, the building showed the onset of neglect.

  The inn had had many prosperous years because the trappers of the Northlands were bringing down the thick pelts of the various animals that inhabited the northern mountain wilds. For many years, merchants from all over flocked to Kestral each summer because it was as far south as the reclusive trappers would travel. However, over the last several years, the trappers had gradually grown fewer, and what furs they now brought to trade were hardly worth owning—and the inn, like the villages, suffered.

  The Northlands had always been uncanny: the kind of place that a sensible person stayed away from. The trappers who came to stay at the inn had always brought with them stories of the Howlaas that screamed unseen in front of the winter winds to drive men mad. They told of the Old Man of the Mountain, a being who was not a man, no matter what he was called, who could make a man rich or turn him into a beast with no more than a whisper.

  But now there were new stories, though the storytellers were fewer. One man’s partner disappeared one night, leaving his bedding and clothes behind although the snow lay thick and trackless on the ground. A giant bird hovered over a campsite where four frozen bodies sat in front of a blazing fire. One trapper swore that he’d seen a dragon, though everyone knew that the dragons had been gone since the last of the Wizard Wars.

  Without the trappers or the merchants who came to buy the furs, the inn depended more heavily on the local farmers’ night out and less on overnight guests. The once-tidy yard was overgrown and covered with muck from horses and other beasts, some of them two-legged.

  Inside, greasy tallow candles sputtered fitfully, illuminating rough-hewn walls that would have lent a soiled air to a far-more-presentable crowd than the one that occupied the inn. The chipped, wooden pitchers adorning the tables were filled with some unidentifiable but highly alcoholic brew. The tabletops themselves were black with grease and other less savory substances.

  Rushing here and there amid the customers, a woman trotted blithely between tables refilling pitchers and obviously enjoying the fondles that were part of any good barmaid’s job. She wasn’t as clean as she could have been, but then neither was anyone else. She also wasn’t as young as she claimed to be, but the dim light was kind to her graying hair, and much was forgiven because of her wholehearted approval of the male species.

  The only other woman in the room was wielding a mop across the uneven floor. It might have done more good if both the water and the rag mop she used wer
en’t dirtier than the floor. The wet bottom of her skirt did as much to remove the accumulated muck as the mop.

  As she passed close to the tables, she deftly avoided the casual hands that came her way. Not that many did. Most of the customers were regulars and were aware that if someone got too pushy, he was liable to end up with the bucket over his head for his troubles.

  Dishwater blond hair was pulled into an irregular bun at the back of her neck. Her plain face was not improved by the discontented expression that held sway on her thin lips as she swung the mop. “Discontented” was a mild word for how Aralorn was feeling.

  A month after she’d returned from the ae’Magi’s castle, Ren had called her into his office and told her that he was sending her to the middle of nowhere to keep an eye on the local inhabitants. The only reason that she’d been able to think of for her demotion to this kind of assignment was that Ren no longer trusted her; something that he had in common with most of the rest of Sianim. The story of what she had said to Talor had somehow become common knowledge, and even her closest friends avoided her as if she had a case of the pox. Ren hadn’t been interested in discussing it one way or the other.

  She had spent almost a full month cleaning floors, scrubbing tables, and serving poor man’s ale. Profits might be down, but business at the inn was still fairly brisk because of a high rate of alcoholism and infidelity among the people of both villages. If the tavern had been located in the middle of a busy town, she might have picked up some useful bits of information for Ren. However, the inn was mostly frequented by tinkers, drunken “family men,” and occasionally by one very impoverished highwayman—the more skilled and ruthless of his kind having left for richer pastures.