She frowned as she caught sight of one she’d seen before—if he’d gone through his supply in only a couple of days, he really was a prodigious reader. But he didn’t look any more like the shopkeeper’s description than he had the other day: he was beardless, but his hair was black, and there wasn’t anything handsome about him that Marceline could see. He was sallow, scowling like a child, and he certainly didn’t have beautiful eyes.
Marceline rubbed her own eyes, which had done far too much work these past few days, and stretched with a weary yawn. And then she froze, because something very sharp was digging into the small of her back.
“Do me a favor and just stay still, all right?” someone said from behind her.
Marceline’s limbs froze, but her head turned instinctively. She caught sight of a young woman, sleek and tanned, with short black hair and a lopsided smile. She grasped Marceline’s shoulder with her free hand; the other was clearly holding some sort of weapon. “Gods, you are young, aren’t you? I wonder if this isn’t a little much, after all. But orders are orders, you know. Sorry.”
Before Marceline had sufficient time to worry about just what her orders had been, another figure slipped into the shadows next to them—it was the black-haired young man with the unbeautiful eyes. “Aye, that’s her—the little spy. Come on—grab her and let’s get moving.”
The woman looked dubious. “She’s just a child, Rask. Perhaps there’s been some mistake—”
“That’s for Mouse to decide, not you.” His scowl hardened. “People are going to notice if we don’t move. We can discuss this when we get inside.”
The woman’s mouth twisted, but she nodded. Then she shifted her grip to Marceline’s wrist and started dragging her away, moving through the streets at such a brisk pace that Marceline nearly stumbled trying to keep up with her. The man called Rask followed, keeping close behind them. When she tried to lash out with her free hand, the woman caught that one too, and paused, frowning down at her. “Don’t do that. And don’t draw attention. You want to get out of this alive, don’t you?” All Marceline could do was gulp and nod, and all she could do afterward was keep pace, try to keep track of her surroundings, and hope fervently that she wasn’t about to be murdered.
She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting, but the house the woman stopped at was just like any other. The first floor was made of stone, wider than it was long, with a second floor built of wood above it. The woman barely paused before its front door, and she certainly didn’t loosen her grip on Marceline’s wrist. With her free hand, she dug through the confusing flaps of her cloak and clothing and came up with a key. Once she’d unlocked the door, she kicked it unceremoniously open, dragging Marceline inside after her.
The house was sparsely decorated—if one could call it decorated at all—and at first Marceline thought it was deserted. But when the woman had dragged Marceline up the creaking wooden steps to the second floor, she came face-to-face with another woman at the top. Tall and dark-skinned, with long hair set in many thin braids that she’d tied off at her neck, she had a half-strung bow slung over one shoulder, though she lost interest in it when she saw them.
The woman holding Marceline smiled. “We’ve met with a bit of success, as you can see.” She jerked her chin at the closed doorway. “Is Mouse in?”
“He’s in.” But the other woman was frowning. “We’re capturing children now? Who ordered that?”
“I did,” Rask spoke up from behind them. “But Mouse supported it, so you’ve no right to speak against it.”
The woman with the bow regarded him calmly. “I intend to speak against it, to Mouse or anyone else. This might have been much better handled—though perhaps not by you.”
The woman holding Marceline’s arm interrupted before Rask could snap out a retort. “I have misgivings too, Naishe, but the thing’s been done. Why not at least hear what Mouse plans to do about it?”
The woman with the bow considered it, then nodded. “I’ll follow you.” The woman holding Marceline shoved her way through the door, and the one with the bow followed, as Rask shut it behind them.
The man sprawled on a pile of threadbare cushions at the back of the room couldn’t have been much older than the others. He had a thin, pretty face, with a small nose and pointed chin. His eyes were beautiful after all, large and gray, with an oddly wistful cast to them. He looked at the lot of them with only vague surprise, an easy smile crossing his lips. “That was fast. This is really the spy we’ve been searching for?”
“Well,” the one holding Marceline said, “she’s the one who’s been looking for you. More than that I couldn’t say.”
The man with the gray eyes turned his gaze to her, but it was amiable, less searching than the woman with the bow’s had been. “And who are you, then?”
That tied Marceline’s tongue in knots—she didn’t half want to say all about herself in front of these people, but she had to tell them something, didn’t she? “I’m … a monkey,” she said at last. “That’s what everyone says.”
She expected them to be cross with her, but the man with the gray eyes laughed as if she’d especially pleased him. “Is that so? Then I suppose it’s not so strange for you to be looking for a mouse after all.” Why wasn’t it strange? Marceline wondered. But before she could ask him, he continued, “You may well already know where you are, but I’m told one should never dispense with politeness, even in the most trying of situations. So allow me to greet you … formally, as it were.” He smiled. “Welcome to the resistance.”
* * *
Braddock heaved a sigh and sat up, throwing one arm loosely about her shoulders. “Getting to be time, I’d wager. And Nasser doesn’t half do a thing, so you can expect him to be here soon.” He grinned crookedly. “Probably best for both of us to have pants on when he does.”
“Eh, ruin my good mood, why don’t you?” Morgan rolled off the side of the bed and dropped down next to the pile of clothes. She threw Braddock’s shirt at him and picked up her own from underneath it. “You really think he knows what he’s about with this?”
Braddock laughed. “Bit late for that now, isn’t it? But aye, I think he does, at least.” He scratched his cheek. “That is, I don’t think you’re in any danger over it—wouldn’t have been so quick to agree if I did. The only thing I wonder about is whether those bandits will really be bold enough to attack this place.”
“Hmm.” Morgan glanced out the window into the courtyard. Ibb’s Rest was a far nicer establishment than she’d ever expected, a slender, two-story building that curled across the plain in an almost-completed circle. The room they’d been given was pleasant enough, clean and cool, with plenty of sunlight. She was starting to understand why the Issamiri prized these places. “Temptation can make brave men out of even the most dedicated cowards,” she said, turning back to Braddock. “I think Nasser was right—if Ibb’s Rest itself wasn’t enough of a jewel to lure them, these mysterious guests will be.”
The innkeepers and servants at Ibb’s Rest had been all aflutter with the news, and even some of the other guests had grown excited about it: it seemed that an exceedingly important person was coming to Ibb’s Rest, and had sent a message ahead to make sure there would be room. Morgan hadn’t been able to overhear precisely who was supposed to be coming, but since no one at Ibb’s Rest actually had to pay to stay there, it had to be something more than wealth that set this visitor apart. However, as Nasser had pointed out, it certainly didn’t mean the guest wasn’t wealthy—the bandits would no doubt be counting on the reverse, in fact.
Nasser had also guessed right about another matter: if they did have to fight the bandits, they wouldn’t be doing so alone. When Nasser had explained the potential danger Ibb’s Rest was in and how he hoped to make a stand against the thieves if they attacked, he found the inn’s proprietors only too willing to assist him. Ibb’s Rest did have its own guards—seasoned men, although they didn’t see much combat in their current location—and combined with Nasser and Brad
dock, they made a decent force. There were fewer than twenty of them, though, and for all they knew the bandits might have twice that number. “They might,” Nasser had admitted, “but they might not, and they definitely don’t know we’re expecting them. Given the strengths of our position, chance is on our side.”
Just then, the man himself knocked at their door. “Our mysterious guest is expected within the hour. It’s time to move.”
Morgan glanced at Braddock, but they were both as dressed as they needed to be. She opened the door. “We’re ready. As much as we can be, anyway.”
Braddock was still sitting on the edge of the bed. “Nas, where’re they putting you?”
Nasser gave a vague frown. “Up on the roof. It’s got quite the vantage, it’s true, but I would’ve preferred to be closer.”
“It’ll do.” Braddock jerked his chin at Morgan. “Take her up there with you. She’s not going to want to stay out of it, and she’ll be safer with you than down at the front with me.”
“That suits me fine. An archer never scorns another pair of eyes.” He smiled at her. “Any objections?”
She shook her head. “I’ve no eagerness to get within the reach of anyone’s blades.”
They parted outside the inn—Braddock went down the southern path with half the inn’s guardsmen to await the bandits by the side of the road, and Morgan and Nasser climbed a ladder to the roof. The traveler’s haven was built of stone, and the roof had stone panels strategically placed around its perimeter, tall enough to crouch behind.
“You’d still have more cover shooting from one of the second-story windows,” Morgan said, sitting cross-legged behind one of the panels.
“I would,” Nasser agreed, still standing, “but my range is superior from this height. And the ground is so flat that I can see as far as my eyesight allows.” He grinned. “And that is no small distance, I assure you.”
For her part, Morgan couldn’t see half so well as she would’ve liked. “How far do you think they’ll go down the road?”
He grimaced. “Too far for my tastes. I wish I could’ve gotten a position closer to them, but that’s the problem with flat ground—no hills for me to stand on, and there are hardly any trees, either. This will have to do.”
She looked up at him. “You can really shoot from this distance?”
He laughed. “And more, if I had to. Wait and see for yourself.”
So wait she did, shivering slightly, though there was hardly any wind. Nasser drew an arrow from his quiver and nocked it, testing the bow. His scowl told her he found it as inadequate as ever, but it didn’t seem to jar his confidence any.
What did stir him, finally, was the sound of shouting from the southern road—not from the spot where their men were waiting, mere shadows in the night, but from even farther away, too far for Morgan to make out.
Nasser swore under his breath. “I was afraid of this.”
“What is it?” Morgan asked. “What’s happened?”
He peered into the dark. “Their caution has outweighed their avarice. Rather than risk more on taking the whole pot, they have decided to seize the richest prize and be on their way.”
It took Morgan only a moment to grasp his meaning: the bandits had every reason to believe there were many guests worth stealing from at Ibb’s Rest, never mind the establishment itself. But this new guest was a jewel to make all the rest seem trivial—an exceptional mark in his own right, even if he was the only one they robbed. If they waited for him to get to Ibb’s Rest, they’d have the advantage of having all their targets in the same place—but they’d have to fight through the inn’s guards to get to him, and they had no way of knowing what room he’d be placed in. “They never intended to strike Ibb’s Rest,” she realized. “They’re going to attack his party before he arrives.”
Nasser smiled as if in spite of himself. “You’re a quicker wit than the ox, aren’t you? You’ve made just one error—they’re not going to attack, they are attacking.” He pointed straight ahead. “There. See the torches? That must be our guest’s convoy.”
Morgan blinked, but she could only see a faint flicker on the horizon—it could’ve been a torch or a bonfire for all she could tell. “I’ll take your word for it,” she said, and then looked down. “Our fellows must have seen it too—they’re headed that way.”
Nasser shook his head. “Even my arrows won’t reach that far—not from here.”
Morgan stood up. “Then let’s close the distance.”
He gave her another faint smile. “The ox would never forgive me if I let anything happen to you.”
“And I’d never forgive me if I let anything happen to me,” she replied. “So I’ll make sure it doesn’t.”
They would have worn themselves out if they tried to sprint all that distance, but they moved as quickly as they could, always making for the flickering lights. They’d covered half the distance before they spotted a familiar figure racing toward them.
“Had your fill of battle already?” Nasser teased. “I never took you for a coward before.”
“Hoping to find you, you idiot,” Braddock said, panting. “Hurry up—we need your eyes. We’re routing them, they’re going to start running at any moment, and if you hope to get that bow back, you’ve got to start picking them off when they do.”
Nasser raised his eyebrows. “Routing them so easily? What about our mysterious guest and his fellows?”
“That’s just it,” Braddock said, and he actually laughed. “Nas, I’d tell you, but we don’t have the time, and either way you’d have to see this to believe it.” He turned back toward the lights. “Come on.”
They followed him, and bit by bit Morgan could pick out the combatants, guardsmen and bandits chasing one another about a battlefield littered with corpses and debris. Braddock had been right—the bandits were definitely having the worst of it. “Hold on,” she said to him. “Aren’t there more men here than we started w—”
“Get back here, you rats!” someone yelled, so fervently that Morgan couldn’t help turning toward the voice. Two of the bandits were running across the field, and chasing them was a girl who couldn’t have been much older than twenty, a slender sword sheathed at her hip. She closed the distance more quickly than Morgan could have believed, hardly slowing down as she leaped over a pile of bodies in her way.
The two men she was chasing had turned to face her, and Morgan heard Nasser suck in a sharp breath. “Draw your sword, girl,” he muttered, nocking an arrow into place.
But Morgan was looking at the girl’s sword, and remembering where she’d seen its like. She frowned. “Isn’t that—”
The girl ripped her sword free of its sheath in a slash that cut down one of the men in front of her instantly. The second moved to attack her exposed side, but she wrapped her free hand around her sword hilt and moved fluidly into a second strike, driving him backward as their blades clanged. Again she cut across, scoring a shallow hit to his side, and again she used two hands to slash downward—this time the blow caught the side of his neck, half severing it.
“She fights like Lucius,” Morgan finished.
Braddock shook his head. “Not quite—Lucius strikes with more discipline, and his footwork is different. But that’s a tsunshin, to be sure, and she damn well knows how to use it.”
The girl sheathed the blade and turned to survey the battlefield again, searching for more foes. Nasser was staring at her in confusion. “There are still more of them. Why did she put it away?”
She’d seen Lucius explain it to Seth once, holding his sword before the fire. With one of your longswords, he’d said, you must begin with two movements—one to draw the sword from its sheath, and one to strike at your opponent. With a tsunshin, the two are one and the same—the draw is the first cut, with no unnecessary motion. Depending on the techniques you prefer, starting with a sheathed sword might even be preferable to starting with a drawn one.
Morgan only got as far as, “It’s so she can—” be
fore the girl struck again, this slash even faster than the one before it. Her opponent stood no chance. “It’s so she can do that,” she finished, as the girl sheathed her sword again.
“My lord!” she called. “My lord, where are you? There was one more about, did you see—”
An arrow thrummed past her ear, and then a second flew over her head. Each hit its mark with a satisfying thump, and the girl whirled toward them, startled. “There were two, actually,” Nasser said, inclining his head to her. “Now there are none.”
The girl followed the arrows’ path with her eyes; she looked almost put out. “Oh,” she said. “Sorry about that.” Then she cupped her hands around her mouth. “My lord—”
“Wait, I said!” They all turned to see a young man about her age hobbling toward her, holding his side. There was some bulky object wrapped up in a torn cloak under his other arm, but it wasn’t his sword—that was safely tucked into its sheath. “Gods be damned, Rhia, would you wait—one—second—”
She was at his side in an instant. “My lord, are you wounded?”
He waved her off. “No, no, of course not. Just a bit out of practice—all that damned bed rest…” He wrinkled his nose. “I wasn’t entirely helpless, I’ll have you know. I got two of them at least.”
She looked unimpressed. “I think I managed ten.”
He rolled his eyes. “Well, I beg your pardon if I don’t have the damned statue built yet.” They paused, and looked at each other—and then they started laughing, as if they were children on a lark, not survivors standing on a battlefield.
They were not children any longer, though, however childhood might seem to cling to them. The girl, so pale and so blond she could only be a Lanvald, might well have been called pretty were it not for the youth standing next to her. He was as handsome as anyone Morgan had ever seen, his bronze skin perfectly smooth and glowing beneath a layer of sweat, his brown hair, slightly bleached by the sun, curling into the suggestion of ringlets at the ends.
“Did you see it, though?” he asked the girl, when he could speak. “It all happened just like I said, didn’t it?”
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