Too Many Bad Days (Raxillene's Rogues Book 3)

by Max Keith

  “Nice horses,” he allowed at last. “Where’d you get them?”

  “From a stable.” Franx’ gaze was impenetrable; he liked to keep his secrets. In truth, he mostly just enjoyed people thinking he could do things they could not. As far as Drinn knew, the man had cast a spell that turned dogs into horses; he could just as easily have found a farmstead, burnt it to the ground, and stolen the mounts. No way of knowing.

  And in the end, did it matter?

  The horses bore cheap saddles and threadbare blankets most unsuited to the escort for a noblewoman, but according to their passes they’d come all the way from the Red Castle, having arrived there by sea. So that could be explained. They were bony and smelly, but that could be explained as well: the best horses were all gone off to war, so travelers were lucky to get any at all.

  “We should start as soon as we can,” Franx pointed out, “or wait until tomorrow. It’s two days through the Pass, and even if everything works out this afternoon we’ll need to camp on the road to the summit. I’d still rather leave now; whoever the Princess sent to be Errin’s auntie is waiting for us now at this end of the Pass, and it would be nice to have some friends sooner rather than later.”

  “Especially if one of them is the valkyrie,” Drinn added sourly. Alorin was good at nearly everything; she was always useful to have around, and Drinn was infatuated with her as well. Chiara heard the note in his voice and looked up suspiciously, but she simply frowned and pulled her dress carefully from its branch. He crossed over to the horses and chose the spirited one for himself; Drinn had always had a way with horses.

  “Calm and steady, friends,” Franx called as he mounted the worst of the horses, a bay of former glory, its ribs showing clearly. “We can talk our way through this.”

  “And your charm will help change the girl,” Drinn said meaningfully.

  “Ah! Of course.” The mage frowned and looked down at the girl. “Uh, the change will not be obvious to you,” he announced airily, “but to the rest of the world, you’ll look like a fat ugly hag.”

  “I’m not sure I like that,” Chiara tittered, but her face radiated curiosity; she’d never been enchanted before, and was visibly excited as she wriggled into the dress. It was looser now than it had been at the water temple; the road had been long and the rations short. And while Franx muttered a few nonsense words, Drinn helped her onto a flatulent yellow beast, her dress awkward as she swung her legs astride. “Ughh,” she said nervously. “I’ve never ridden before.”

  “You’d best pretend well,” the warrior told her grimly. He glanced sideways at Franx and lowered his voice. “I know you can keep your legs well spread, so you should be fine.” She kicked him as her feet found the stirrup.

  And then they were off. Drinn could tell at once that wherever the mage had picked up the horses had been close by; they knew the land well, loping off with an easy confidence that spoke of long familiarity. The mage’s even strayed, despite everything Franx could do to kick it back into line, to dip its head gratefully toward a salt lick half buried in a tuft of grass.

  Before them the entire time loomed the peaks, dark and jagged against the deep blue eastern sky; the Claring showed as a great rent between the Tangles to the north and the Black Mountains to the south, cleft as if by an axe-stroke on its near side. “Should start seeing sentries any moment now,” Franx muttered, adjusting the silk band on his helmet. “I wonder what’s keeping them, actually.”

  “They’d not need to be too far out on this side of their outposts,” Drinn replied calmly. “Anything coming from this direction is meant to be friendly, after all.” He glanced around. “Like us.”

  “Sure.” The mage looked uncharacteristically worried. “Like us.” Only the girl, plunged to the hilt into her role, seemed unconcerned, riding as high and tight as she could. Her nose was firmly in the air, her dark eyes dancing with excitement still rather than fear. A large pavilion soon materialized out of the brushy folds in the countryside, the Emperor’s Pole jutting between it and a series of low huts and tents surrounded by an earthwork. “Best have your papers ready, everyone,” he added out of the side of his mouth.

  They were hailed soon enough, a horn braying from a little gap in the berm near the pavilion, and a pair of soldiers could be spotted there mounting up. “Time to see how well the Princess planned this,” Drinn sighed. There was nothing to do now but grip the reins tightly and pretend to be on normal, official business.

  “If she didn’t,” the mage replied softly as the two riders trotted out, “there’s nothing we can do about it now.” Certainly he didn't sound worried yet; two men riding calmly did not augur an immediate painful death, so at least they were off to a decent start.

  The two proved to be officers, a captain and a major, both staring with open and intense interest at Chiara as they rode up. Drinn watched the captain’s eyes; the major’s never twitched away from the girl’s breasts, but the captain soon enough noticed the silk band around his helmet. He frowned. “What is this?” he demanded, though not too gruffly. “Who are you?”

  “Travelers,” Chiara replied airily, tossing back her hair. “I’m crossing into the Realm to continue my studies, and these are the men sent to guard me.” She paused meaningfully, then lifted the little gold bauble from inside her dress, right between her tits. “Sent, that is, by my father’s friend the Emperor.”

  That made the major start, furrowing his brow at the bright gold, and his brow took on the wrinkles of a man trying to do math. “Your father?” the captain asked. He was a wealthy-looking man, they now saw, his uniform better-made than most. “Perhaps I know him.”

  “He is the Lord Earl of Fensburgh,” she recited calmly, as though she’d been saying it all her life. “I’m certain you don’t know him, captain; I live in the Realm. But he studied with your Emperor at the University, and surely there are still men of goodwill on both sides who can manage to remain friends despite the unfortunate animosity between our nations.”

  The major’s brow deepened; he plainly did not know what animosity meant. But the captain merely nodded his head very slightly. “You are correct, madam, and I’ve no doubt you’ve got papers that will explain your presence, and your companions’.”

  Chiara returned the nod, then made an airy and very languid gesture. “My man Nikobar here will satisfy you.”

  “Sir.” Franx had no idea what rank his uniform said he was, but he didn’t suspect he was senior to either of these two. “I beg your patience.” He climbed down to the ground, his horse clearly confused, and began rummaging in his pack for their letters. Drinn merely sat glumly on his skittish horse, his hand well away from his sword, and tried to look subservient. He sensed he wasn’t doing a very good job.

  Franx, hidden behind his horse, was taking longer than he should have with the papers. When he brought them very respectfully to the two mounted officers, he kept a few sheets back. One of them he pressed into Drinn’s hand as he passed back toward his mount. Drinn read the scrawled note behind the distraction of his restive horse.

  The Captain is the Firemage. Disguise spell.

  Well. Drinn made a strong effort to avoid looking at the captain, who was staring at all of them with a cold smile while the major fussed with the papers. Chiara was beginning to get vaguely fidgety, though more with impatience than with fear. “I wonder, gentlemen,” she ventured, “if my aunt has yet arrived. She was to come escort me home.”

  “Hmph,” the major grunted, and his companion shrugged; he clearly neither knew nor cared. Instead, he focused intently on Franx as the lanky Shadowmage struggled to mount. Drinn wondered how they would survive. At last, the paper-rustling ceased and the major looked up with the awed respect of a man now convinced he has held papers signed personally by his Emperor. At last, in a high and wavering voice, he wheezed a reply.

  “M’lady,” he began, and all of them could hear his voice tremble, “my company and I are at your service, now and always. I am pleased to tell you
that your aunt and her escorts arrived just last night, and that they are encamped outside the berm. But now that we know of your status, with my apologies we will have tents prepared for them in the camp.”

  “Oh no, sir, that is entirely unnecessary,” Chiara said at once, as smoothly as she could. The false captain’s eyes narrowed. “We are in haste, sir, and shall be moving into the pass at once. My thanks, though, and the Emperor’s I’m sure…” She was already nudging the horse forth, brazening it out, and if she noticed the Firemage’s cold smile as she rode past him she gave no sign.

  No telling, Drinn reminded himself, how Franx knew the captain was the Firemage. He’d long since accepted a harsh but obvious truth: Poildrin Franx was smarter than Drinn of Fiveoaks, and it was wise to listen to his words. Maybe there was some sort of magical calling-card that told other mages who you were. If so, Drinn hoped it was a secret that only Shadowmages knew. Otherwise, the false captain would know who the false Imperials were, too.

  Not that it mattered, he reflected gloomily. If this man in the well-made captain’s uniform was a Firemage named Akker Mim, he surely knew he’d found his quarry even without magical aid. His cold smile said so. The two locked eyes as they waited for Chiara to get moving, and then Mim spurred his horse to pull alongside her. “I hope you’ll not object, m’lady,” he said mildly, “if I accompany you up the Pass. I would see you home safely.”

  “No need, sir.” Franx spoke quickly from the opposite side. “The Emperor charged us to escort her; we’ve done so til now, as I’m sure her ladyship will tell you.”

  “Indeed, captain.” Chiara smiled beatifically down her nose at Mim. “I would never wish for my two stalwart companions to leave me now, not after so many miles and weeks.” She was starting to suspect, Drinn realized; her eyes held a new caution as she faced down the bogus officer. “Myself, my two soldiers, my aunt, and whomever she brought; we shall be fine on the Pass.”

  “As you wish.” Mim smiled unctuously, a strange light in his eyes, and fell back before Drinn’s mistrustful eyes and the bitter tossing of his horse’s head.

  They were passing a wide gap in the earthwork now, with shining sentries either side, and heading for a large cluster of tents and hovels just outside. Every Imperial camp was like this; every Royal one, too. The camp followers - the wives, horse dealers, medicine salesmen, leatherworkers, whores, and blacksmiths - accompanied every army wherever it went. The place stank of woodsmoke and dung from the communal latrines, and Chiara allowed Mim to see her nose wrinkle. “Yes, captain, we’ll be moving on at once.”

  “Certainly.” The major, still gawking at the gold badge and the silken helmet-bands, was already slipping away to enter his camp again; he plainly had more important things to do.

  Two tents stood on the outskirts of the camp, clean and white and new, with four splendid-looking horses outside. Drinn felt his spirits soar, for one of the beasts was his own Daisy and another belonged to Franx. Mim was still with them, still smiling strangely, and Drinn hoped the horses wouldn’t respond too happily to their masters. They were, after all, meant to be humble Imperial soldiers, not the kind of men who’d own expensive horses brought by visitors on safe-conduct out of the Realm.

  The other two horses, side-saddled, told them who Errin’s aunt was supposed to be, and who her companion was. In confirmation, out of the tent stepped a tall, gaunt woman with her auburn hair pulled back into a severe braid. Her sweeping gown was plain but well made, showing a practical figure underneath. The face was long, the cheekbones prominent. Vaguely sloping blue eyes started when they caught sight of Drinn and Franx, then passed with interest over Chiara before stopping, narrowed, on Mim. “M’lady,” she said in a deep, slow voice. “Your Aunt Lyria will be so pleased to see you.”

  This was Aimee, a healer the Princess had found in service to the Duke of Albers, looking for a new job after she’d lost the Duchess in sickbed. The Duke had wanted Aimee’s head for that, but Raxillene had needed a healer and it was common knowledge in the Realm that the Duke’s wife had been sick with a bloody flux that no healer could cure. She leaned back into the tent to make sure Auntie had heard her greeting. “M’lady,” they heard her say, “Errin’s arrived. I’m for the latrines.”

  “Thank you, Ree. You may strike the tents and ready the horses when you return.” The voice was rich and plummy, so different from the one Drinn usually associated with that horse, but then Alorin was an excellent actress. He felt his pulse quicken as the valkyrie’s shapely head emerged from the tent-flap, her silver hair dyed brown but her gorgeous eyes still grey. “My darling Errin!”

  She made at once for Chiara’s waiting horse, under the close eye of Mim, a broad smile on her lovely face. Drinn, always obsessed with the valkyrie, noticed the mole she’d pasted beside her nose. “Thank the gods! Your father will be most happy to see you!”

  “Auntie!” Chiara slid awkwardly from her horse, Franx leaning hastily forward to grab the bridle, and as the women embraced, Drinn, his sense of danger submerged at once beneath a storm of lust, imagined them both naked and waiting for him. Which is to say, he almost always imagined Alorin Kaye naked and waiting for him; such a fine afternoon those two women could make! He swallowed in a dry throat, but sat stiffly as, he knew, a simple soldier should.

  “Well.” The false captain cleared a meaningful throat. “I shall leave you. M’lady.” Nobody seemed to pay any attention as he rode off into the camp, but an attentive eye would have marked Drinn and Franx following him out of the corners of their eyes.

  Alorin, too. Her grey eyes in a face still holding Chiara drifted across Mim’s back; as soon as he was out of earshot, she broke the embrace, her body as always quick and supple, and pursed her thin lips. “Who the fuck was that?”

  “What do your instincts tell you, Alorin?” Franx descended from his saddle and put a friendly hand on the valkyrie’s shoulder. “They’re usually correct.”

  “Danger,” she answered simply, still watching the retreating Firemage. She flicked a quick glance at Franx. “I’m pleased to see you, mage. We were worried you’d been sold into slavery.”

  “And me?” Drinn was fighting his horse. “You pleased to see me too?” She favored him with a cool glance.

  “Hello, Drinn.” She made sure he saw her glance at Chiara. “Been keeping your cock busy?” He colored. “We weren’t worried about how slavery would affect you, of course. The word was that the Duke and a quarter of his men were put to death, another half sold.” She passed an unreadable look over Drinn. “You’d have been killed.”

  “And you’d have been happier.” The warrior finally slid from his horse, landing hard. Alorin clucked.

  “I didn’t say that. You’re too sensitive, Drinn.” She finally turned her attention back to Chiara, still held close by the valkyrie’s strong arm. “What’s your name, girl?” The grey eyes were not unkind.

  “I’m Chiara. Chiara of… of Ormold.” The girl was plainly awed by Alorin; most other women were, but then most people felt threatened by her anyway.

  “A quarter killed?” Franx frowned. “It seems I might have done some good there, after all,” he speculated. “I had no idea the Duke would lose so badly.”

  “He paid for it,” Chiara told him simply. “His head was sent to the King with his cock in his mouth.” The men winced. “Well, to the Regent anyway; the King wouldn’t have known what the fuck he was looking at.”

  “Truth.” Aimee had returned, wiping her hands on her dress. “The man is quite insane.” She looked cautiously around to make sure Mim was gone before she gave Drinn and Franx a hug. “Who was that asshole you came in with?”

  Chiara was listening to the answer no less attentively than the other women. “That’s a Firemage named Akker Mim. He’s been hunting us.” He looked into the camp. “He’s not through with us.”

  “Secret attack in the Pass?” Alorin was nodding. “It’s what I would do.”

  The mage looked worried, though only faintly
. “We must be cautious.” He looked around at the tents. “We should leave most of this shit behind. The tents, certainly. People might think we’re still here.”

  “I’ve already figured that out.” Alorin lifted her gown slightly to show black leather trousers beneath. “We're ready as soon as your horses have been watered.”

  “Good,” Franx said grimly. “See to that, Glump.”

  “Fuck off.” Drinn stumped off with the horses, his helmet-band forging a path through the crowds. Everyone knew what the Emperor’s Band meant.

  * * *

  The road beyond the camp rose at once, just past a small river. Alorin was in front, scanning both sides of the road; sheer cliffs were everywhere, the entire world gone vertical in an instant. She turned back, her body effortlessly tall in the threadbare saddle she’d taken from Franx's stolen horse; she detested riding sidesaddle. “How exhausted are you?” she asked Franx.

  He didn’t bother turning around. “Moving through the night is an excellent idea,” he replied, unasked. “I’m not sure about the extra horses.” Chiara had kept her beast, but the other two Franx had found now followed meekly behind. Drinn and Franx hadn’t needed to ask each other what should be done with them: releasing them into the wild would have made sense, or selling them quickly to a camp-follower, but they’d get a better price in the Realm. Those two horses could pay a fair chunk of Chiara’s wage, they both knew.

  “They’ll manage.” Aimee was good with horses. She’d taken a quick look at Drinn’s wound just before they’d left. “Who sewed this? If Poildrin did, he must have been concentrating.” She slathered the scar with a foul-smelling mixture of grasses and herbs. “It’s neater than he usually does.”

  “I did.” Chiara had been hanging back in a corner of the tent, unsure what she should do; the others had sprung into action with the well-practiced moves of long experience. The healer had looked blankly over at the girl, then grunted.