by Barb Hendee
All her other jibes had been callously elite, copied from the manner with which she’d seen nobles insult the lower classes and carefully played so that Corische’s ego might construe them as possibly goading instead of contemptuous. But this base comment was a lewd, open barb, the like of which had never passed her lips.
Corische’s nostrils widened and for a moment he was stricken into stillness. He struck her across the face hard enough to knock her from the hearth bench and smash her small body into the stone wall.
Teesha blinked in pain. Her head pounded, and the room appeared to grow dark. One moment, barely a blink, stretched itself to a length she couldn’t measure. All she could hear in the darkness inside her head was a ringing that played in her ears. Not a word from anyone. She had made a mistake in judging Rashed’s mood. Corische would not be played with this way ever again, not after what she’d just done.
Finally, some of the darkness cleared. Corische stood over the bench, his arm just finishing its swing. Behind him, Rashed was lunging across the center oak table. His face was twisted in rage, his mouth wide with extended fangs, and a fierce growl ripped from the back of his throat. His right hand swept down to snatch the hilt of Corische’s sheathed sword lying upon the table.
Corische turned at the cry of rage behind him. His eyes did not grow wide in surprise but narrowed like an angry dog’s, cornered down an alley. Mouth open, his voice started to issue a command Rashed would not be able to refuse.
Rashed drew back his arm and flicked his wrist in a blur. The sheath slid up the sword’s blade on his backswing, and before it even cleared the blade tip, the weapon swung forward.
Teesha heard a slight cracking sound when the blade cut through Corische’s neck. His head bounced off the hearth’s mantle, a spray of black liquid spattering the wall.
The sheath finally clattered to the floor.
Teesha crumpled down against the wall. Rashed landed on the near side of the table as Corische’s body collapsed where it stood. The head rolled across the floor to bounce off Ratboy’s boot.
Teesha blinked again. That was all the time it took.
After years of preparing moment by moment, everything changed in an instant. Teesha watched the near-black liquid, too dark for living blood, pour out of the corpse’s neck stump onto straw-covered stones. It was the only movement in the room.
Parko was the first to disturb the stillness. He giggled quietly, nervously, then leaped across the floor like a cat to crouch at the body, sniffing. He laughed hysterically.
Ratboy began stammering. “You . . . killed him.”
All the rage in Rashed was gone. He stood limply, sword dangling in his hand at his side, as he stared down at the headless body. His face looked as white as the snow. Then he looked up to find Teesha watching him.
She wasn’t about to let him slip and fall back now.
“Are you sorry?” she asked almost accusingly. “Do you regret this?”
“It’s too late for that now,” Rashed answered. He dropped the sword to clatter on the floor and lifted Teesha to her feet gently with both hands. She said nothing, but kept staring at him, waiting as if she hadn’t heard his first answer. Something of his anger came back and the muscles in his jaw tightened.
“No, I’m not sorry,” he added.
She gripped his forearms, or as much of them as her small hands could take in. In the air over Rashed’s shoulder, she thought she saw Edwan’s wispish form hovering in the rafters.
“We’re free,” she whispered.
She had not failed. Corische was dead, and they had no master. They were free. Joy rushed through her, and she wanted to laugh, but she came back to her senses as Rashed pulled away.
He reached up and took the seacoast painting off the wall. “Everyone gather what you want with you. We leave tonight.”
“Leave?” Ratboy sputtered. He was still standing dumbly as before, staring at Corische’s headless body. “What are you talking about? Where are we going?”
Teesha walked with a smile over to Ratboy, still slightly uncertain on her feet. He stared at her with wide brown eyes. With a gentle touch, she pushed him toward the stairs to their lower chambers for the last time.
“To the sea.”
Edwan jerked away from Teesha’s mind, away from memories he could no longer stand to relive. In the silence, neither of them even heard the waves collapsing onto the shore of Miiska.
“Why?” he asked, his empty voice anguished. “Why show me these ugly visions? Go back before . . . to the tavern.”
“No.”
“To the day we met, to the first time we—”
“No, my love.” She shook her head. “To understand where you are, you must see where you’ve been, and not just the sweet parts.”
“I am in torment!” Edwan cried, shaking her completely out of the past and into the present.
“My love,” she whispered, regretting his pain. “Let’s walk among the dark streets and pretend we are high in the north, children again, in distant days.”
“Yes.” He drew near, instantly appeased, and she reached out for his hand. Although she could not grasp it, the cold mist of him settled around her slender fingers.
Ratboy watched a sleeping girl through the loose window shutters of a cottage, her dark hair spread out on the pillow, her breathing light and even. She didn’t look anything like the girl he’d ripped and drained not many nights ago, but he felt the taste of blood running on his tongue with the memory. And the merchant on the road, taken so easily.
Who made these absurd rules that killing mortals would not be allowed? Did all of their kind follow such laws? Parko had not.
First there had been Corische enforcing his strict guidelines, desiring power and nobility among mortals. Now there was Rashed dominating every aspect of their existence, Rashed with his disgusting sense of honor, his obsession with safety and mortal trappings. Weren’t they Noble Dead? Wasn’t that enough? No undead in his right mind would wish to become a mortal lord, or own a warehouse and earn a mortal living. Lately, Ratboy had begun to suspect Corische and Rashed were the mad ones, the twisted ones, not him, not Parko.
The girl rolled over in her slumber and raised a lovely tanned arm above her head. The movement caused Ratboy to tense, to smell the warm blood beneath her skin.
“What are you watching, my sweet?” a quiet voice said beside him.
He did not jump or even turn to look. It was only Teesha. He pointed through the window.
“Her.”
“It’s not wise to feed in their homes. You know this.”
“I know many things. I’m not certain I agree anymore.”
Her hand rose and stroked the back of his hair.
“Shhhhh,” she whispered. “It’s not far to dawn. Come and find easier prey. You must think of our home. You must think of me.”
Closing his eyes at the feel of her touch, Ratboy slipped away from the window. Yes, he’d be cautious for her. But as they turned down the street together, he still remembered the sleeping, tan-armed girl.
Chapter Eight
Four nights later, Magiere stood behind The Sea Lion’s bar, feeling a little more comfortable in her daily schedule. Out on the road, she and Leesil had developed a type of routine involving traveling, making camp, planning, manipulating feigned battles, and then beginning the process all over again. These events were interspersed with their experiences in new towns, villages, and Leesil’s gambling. Now things were different. Her entire staff stayed up half the night serving guests, then slept late in the mornings. Leesil spent his afternoons working on the roof, while Beth-rae cooked, Caleb cleaned, and Magiere handled supplies, stocked shelves, and kept the house accounts. Chap watched over Rose. They always ate an early supper together before opening for customers. Magiere was continuously clean, warm, and slept in a bed every night.
Physical comfort and a unique sense of structure were not the only aspects of this life which brought her peace. For the first time
, she was giving back to a community instead of draining it. The sailors, fisherfolk, and shopkeepers who patronized The Sea Lion enjoyed themselves and had a space of relief from their hard work. It did bother her when Leesil would mention the hushed whispers that often reached his ears about Magiere, “Hunter of the Dead.” Perhaps she had become a local attraction. She could only guess how such rumors began, although she’d not seen either Welstiel nor the imposing nobleman again. Magiere suspected Leesil might still be drinking himself to sleep some nights, but as long as he stayed sober at the faro table and picked no pockets, she had no complaints.
Beth-rae walked up to the bar, carrying a full tray of empty mugs and looking a bit weary. A few strands of her silver, braided hair hung in loose wisps.
“Four more ales for Constable Ellinwood and his guards,” she said.
Magiere glanced at the table of loud men, but didn’t comment while drawing the ale. One customer she could often count on was Ellinwood. Her distaste for the self-important man only grew with familiarity.
She set the mugs back on Beth-rae’s tray, and the front door opened, letting in a cool breeze. No one entered, but she saw a head of brilliant red hair in the doorway with a close-trimmed beard of the same flaming color that hid his chin, cheeks, and upper lip. A burly man, perhaps in his late twenties, wearing a leather vest, he stood half in and half out, hesitating. He scanned the room and stopped upon seeing Constable Ellinwood. His jaw tightened, and Magiere knew there would be trouble.
The man stepped in, not bothering to close the door, and strode to Ellinwood’s table, glaring down while the constable’s ale mug halted in midair, almost to his mouth.
“Can I help you, Brenden?” Ellinwood asked, attempting to make his heavy body sit straighter.
“My sister is dead nearly a week, and you sit drinking with your guards? Is this how you catch a murderer?” the man spit out angrily. “If so, I could find us a better constable lying in the gutter with a bottle of swill!”
The townsfolk stopped talking, even those at the faro table, and heads turned. Leesil held up one hand toward Chap before the dog moved, motioning him to wait.
Ellinwood’s fleshy jowls grew pink. “The investigation continues, lad. I have found several important facts just today, and now, as any man, I do as I please with my own time.”
“Facts?” Brenden’s tone rose to a dangerous level.
The solid muscles of the blacksmith’s arm tightened as he leaned on the table, and Magiere judged from his build that he could break Ellinwood’s neck without trying. Perhaps his accusations were justified, but she wanted no bloodshed in her tavern. She glanced over at Chap and Leesil again, wondering if she should take action or let Leesil handle it. Her partner was more skilled at managing such situations in a quiet fashion.
“What facts have you found?” the blacksmith continued. “You slept till midday, then spent the afternoon eating cakes in Karlin’s. Now you’re here, in your finest velvets, drinking ale with your lackeys. When exactly did you find your new facts?”
Ellinwood’s pink tinge deepened, but he was saved from responding when an unshaven guard in a rumpled shirt stood up.
“That’ll be enough, blacksmith,” he said. “Go home.”
He was answered with a resounding crack as Brenden’s fist connected with his jaw, sending the man tumbling back into another table of patrons. Another guard started to rise, but Brenden grabbed his greasy black hair and slammed the man’s head twice against the table before anyone else could move. The guard slumped off the cracked table to the floor, unconscious. Leesil jumped over the faro table as Magiere unsheathed her falchion from under the bar.
“Chap, hold!” Leesil called out. If the dog leaped in, someone would end up bleeding.
Magiere slipped around the bar’s front and held her ground for the moment. Leesil could usually stop a fight with few injuries to anyone.
“Gentlemen . . .” Leesil began.
Lost in rage, Brenden swung a backhanded fist at the half-elf, but his blow met empty air. Leesil dropped, hands to the floor, and kicked into the back of Brenden’s knee. The blacksmith’s large body toppled and a breath later, he found himself pinned, facedown. Leesil sat on his back, with one forearm against the blacksmith’s neck and the other pinning his right arm. Although he was much heavier than Leesil, no amount of bucking from Brenden could throw his lithe keeper off. Every time Brenden tried to pull a leg under himself, attempting to get to his knees, Leesil kicked back with his foot in the blacksmith’s knee, as if he were spurring a horse, and Brenden flattened to the floor again.
“It’s all right,” Leesil kept saying. “It’s over.”
The first guard Brenden had hit disentanged himself from the table of patrons that he’d landed on. Blood ran down his jaw and chin from his nostrils and it was obvious Brenden had broken his nose. His hand dropped to the sheathed shortsword on his hip, but then his eyes lifted to see Magiere. Her falchion rested on his shoulder, the sharp edge next to his throat. She said nothing. The guard put his hands up in plain view and stepped slowly back.
Finally, Brenden stopped struggling and lay in a smoldering, panting heap.
“My friend’s going to let you up,” Magiere said to him, not taking her eyes off Ellinwood’s guards. “Then you leave my place, understand?”
“Leave?” Ellinwood puffed. “He is under arrest for attacking the very men who protect Miiska. He is a criminal.”
While Magiere disagreed, this was none of her concern. She just wanted them all to take it outside.
“He’s not a criminal,” Leesil protested. “Have some pity, you whale!”
One of the guards—not the one with the broken nose—pulled a rope from his belt and crouched down to begin tying Brenden’s hands. Leesil reached out to stop him, but Magiere grabbed him by the shoulder. Cursing under his breath, the half-elf stood up and stepped out of the way. When Brenden was roughly jerked to his feet, he glared at Magiere as if she were to blame.
“Don’t come back,” she said. “This is a peaceful tavern.”
“Peace?” Brenden spit out, sorrow outweighing the anger in his voice now. “How can you talk of peace when you’re the one who can stop this killing? No, you hide away, serving ale to the likes of him.” He motioned with his head toward Ellinwood.
“I can’t stop anything,” she said, tensing.
The guards dragged Brenden from the tavern.
Leesil walked away without a word and went back to his faro table, but Magiere could see he didn’t feel like dealing cards anymore.
Late the next morning, Leesil stood outside Miiska’s guardhouse, which also served as a jail, and checked his purse again, somehow hoping the coins within had miraculously multiplied. It had been hard enough to keep his distance from passersby who could have unwittingly aided him with that need, but he’d promised not to lift any more purses now that they had to stay in one place. Upon rising that day, he’d asked Magiere for his month’s share of profits in advance. She’d given it to him with some apprehension, probably believing he needed it for a gambling debt. He didn’t care what she thought. She’d never understand the truth. He wasn’t sure he understood what he was doing anyway.
When he entered the guardhouse, Leesil paused in surprise. He’d hoped to handle things with one of the witless deputy guards, but there was Ellinwood’s massive body behind the small table that served as a desk, tucked into the right corner of the room near the front barred window. He was staring intently down at some scribble on a parchment.
Leesil had seen his share of jails, from both sides of a cell door, and this one appeared no different. A few “wanted” posters were tacked to the walls—those offering a reward or other profit from an arrest—and three cell doors lined the back wall, which was more than enough confinement for a town the size of Miiska.
He swung the front door shut as he stepped over to the cells. At the noise, Ellinwood finally looked up.
“Oh, it’s you,” he said with thinl
y hidden impatience, most likely expecting a formal request for payment regarding the broken tavern table. “What do you want?”
Leesil peered into the eye-level slots of each door and found Brenden crouched on the bottom bunk of the center cell.
“I’m here to pay the blacksmith’s fine,” he answered. “How much?”
“You want to . . . why would you do that?” The constable looked suspicious.
Leesil shrugged. “It was either come down here or stay home and work on the roof. Which would you choose?” He paused briefly and repeated, “How much?”
Ellinwood sat for a moment before answering. “Six silver pennies, no foreign coin.”
Leesil suppressed the urge to wince. It was an absurd amount for the offense. He only had five and that was a month’s estimated share, and well more than a month’s wage for many in a small town like Miiska. It seemed the constable made good money by charging outrageous fines—or carried a grudge against the young smith and would make it difficult for anyone to interfere. But Leesil wasn’t going to give up so quickly, and he doubted Ellinwood was willing to ignore such easily obtained profit.
“What if I pay you five now and sign a voucher on the other one?” he asked. “I can pay the balance at the first of next month.”
“I’ve got the rest,” Brenden said quietly from his cell.
Leesil’s head turned to find Brenden’s large eyes staring out of the cell’s peep slot, his red mane of hair sticking out wild and unkempt around his face. Leesil walked over to the cell door, nodding.
“At least I did,” Brenden continued, “when I came in.” His gaze shifted to Ellinwood with an accusing glare.
“Well, that should cover it then, eh, Constable?” Leesil added, leaning against the door with his arms crossed.
The constable stared back at them, as if considering some weighty decision. Then he turned around and picked up a small chest on the floor. Fiddling out a set of keys from under his tunic, he unlocked the chest and took from it a small, char-stained coin pouch. He walked over, unlocked the cell door, and handed the pouch to the blacksmith.
