FIERCE: Sixteen Authors of Fantasy

by Mercedes Lackey

  “Staff.” Brea’s eyes narrowed. “You mean slaves?”

  “I mean staff,” Kozog said. Together they began walking away, down the street. “We pay them. They are free to leave. Staff. Slavery is legal in Valamar but my family keep none.”

  That seemed to mollify her. “Why not?” she asked.

  Kozog shuffled uncomfortably. “It is…inefficient.”

  Brea’s elven features became a storm. “In…efficient? This is an issue of morals! Of keeping innocent women and men in bondage!”

  “What if they’re not innocent?” It was a simple question. “What if they are criminals, working to pay off their debts? Do civilised nations not have prisons, and in prisons, is forced labour not commonly a part of a criminal’s punishment? How is this different from state sponsored slavery?”

  “The difference is in how,” said Brea. “Forced labour is a legal punishment for crimes. Slavery is taking people who have committed no crime.”

  “So we can make slaves of the guilty?”

  Brea shook her head, stepping daintily over a pothole as though sensing it with some magical power. “We can have a system of laws and governments that punish people for their transgressions as part of the social fabric of any society, but we cannot have the strong preying upon the weak.”

  “The state—and not just Valamar, but all states—have ultimate authority and, despite all appearances, rule through might. If a person disobeys the state’s commands, they are punished, and if they refuse to submit to the punishment, force is employed. The same principle is applied in the Freelands, where the militia protect the people.”

  “So really,” said Brea, “all we truly disagree on are the rules of the state.”

  Now she was beginning to see. He liked it when he was able to convince Brea of something, it happened so irregularly. Kozog smiled. “Can I get that in writing?”

  Brea playfully pushed his shoulder. “Never in three hundred years.”

  “I’ll mark my calendar.”

  They walked on. The sun fell and the shadows of the city grew long. The first house they arrived at, a tall, narrow suburban structure made of wood and stone decorated with gold filigree, was securely locked and similarly marked with a notice of seizure. As was the second. By the time the third was visited, the city watch were lighting the torches that lined the streets.

  “How many houses does your family own?” asked Brea, shaking her head. “And what’s with the gold?”

  “Many,” said Kozog. “Property is a stable investment. Many of these have been in my family’s hands since they were built; a hundred years, or more. The filigree is just a way to inflate the value of the property; it makes them seem more ostentatious than they really are. The commensurate increase in value more than makes up for the cost.”

  Brea snorted playfully. “Hearing orcs talk of investment and property returns is certainly an odd thing.”

  “The population of Valamar contains a number of orcs,” said Kozog. “As well as half-orcs such as myself. It is a city of structure and order; one of the benefits of order is that those who display talent and aptitude may rise through the ranks, acquire wealth, and prosper. Regardless of their race or disposition.”

  “As long as they follow the church of Tyranus,” Brea said, a little snappiness creeping into her voice. “And tolerate slavery.”

  “Tolerance is accepting the things we do not like.” Kozog sighed, running his hand through his dark hair. His chest ached from all the walking. “I’m tired. There’s one more house in the quarter we could visit, but it is some walk away. We may wish to consider rest.”

  “Oh,” said Brea, the ghost of a smile crossing her features. “I’m sure we could bed down together, but all we’ve got is camping equipment. It’d be too intense.”

  Kozog stifled a yawn, shrugging off his pack and dropping it down on the street. “If that is your wish, there is a park nearby. It is zoned for public use.” He checked his bedroll, and verified that his tent was bound and wrapped in the centre. “We could sleep there.”

  A red tinge developed around Brea’s cheeks. They were far from alone in the crowded city and Brea had left her mule at the docks. Only Kozog had his sleeping gear. “Together? In the same tent? Intriguing.”

  “Is it?” He raised an eyebrow. Was Brea too warm in this place? Pinkskins were odd. “Where else would we sleep?”

  “Oh, I’m sure we could bed down, and I’d certainly welcome such a thing. However…” A playful smile danced over her lips. “I’m afraid you and me together would be too intense.”

  Kozog had absolutely no idea what she was going on about. “What?”

  “Yeah.” She sounded it out. “Two-in-tents.”

  “I…I don’t get it.”

  “Urgh. Of course you don’t.” She leaned forward, her mouth close to his ear. “Listen, I’m wearing my special Freelander undergarmets. If we were going to sleep together…well, mmm. Let’s just say you might like them.”

  “I’m not sure that they’ll fit me.”

  She threw her hands in the air and whirled away from him, folding her arms. “You’re impossible! Never mind. I’m not going to go to sleep in some filthy city park. Kozog, where is this house of yours?”

  Confused, and with no idea of what just happened, Kozog pointed. Brea stomped off down the road in that vague direction.

  “Freelanders are crazy,” he muttered to himself, picking up his pack with a soft groan.

  Brea

  That big green idiot.

  Brea stomped on the pavement with each step. She had a vague idea where she was going—every single house stupid Kozog and his stupid family owned was exactly the same—and the vague pointing Kozog had made would be enough.

  She’d let her emotions get the better of her, as they so often did when she was tested. Brea did not see this as a bad thing; her passion was her power, more than her song or her steel, and she embraced the anger within, focusing it as a source of strength as she marched down the street.

  Row after row of houses only subtly different. Row after row of mostly-human Valamarian citizens, walking the streets by torchlight, all subtly different but fundamentally identical.

  What a horrible place; a world of same-ness where individuality was crushed and the symbol of Tyranus adorned every door, every sign, every uniform of the city guard. Expressions of individuality were rare and almost shameful, a dollop of colour here, a twist of architectural styling there. All too oppressive for her elven side. Why would Kozog choose to live here?

  The glint of gold at the end of the street quelled her bubbling anger. Elven eyes could see just fine by torchlight; a human might never have been able to pick out the gold from that distance, but to Brea, it might as well have been made of the stuff.

  She stormed up to the door and bashed her fist on the door. “Hey!” she shouted. “Kozog’s parents! You in there?” Thump-thump-thump.

  To her surprise, the door swung open and suddenly Brea was staring down the length of a wickedly sharp longsword, held by a middle-aged orc woman with a dark scowl on her face.

  “Elf,” said the woman, “you have ten words to explain why you’re here before I run you through.”

  “Kozog sent me,” said Brea, turning her palms up.

  The orc scowled, and then after a moment, sheathed her sword. “You have seven words left,” she said, beckoning inside. “Consider them carefully as I make you some tea.”

  Cautiously, Brea stepped into the foyer and through to the main room. The house was modest, with cheap wooden floors and walls, sparsely furnished. Every inch of it was covered in dust. Boxes of goods, some open to reveal lockboxes, weapon sheaths, and spell component pouches packed in woodchips, lay in every room. The wood had been doused in some kind of perfume, making an overpowering scent that gave her a headache.

  “You live here?” Brea asked, wrinkling her nose. “Why?”

  “You’re spending a lot of words to retrieve a precious little information.” T
he orc stepped into the kitchen, disappearing from sight, but Brea could hear her moving around, pulling out drawers and taking items off shelves. “Are you one of those degenerates who ruins perfectly good tea by adding things to it that are not tea?”

  Was the orc trying to trick her into using more of her words? By her count she had three left. “No,” Brea answered.

  “Good,” said the orc from the kitchen. “So you have two words left, so I suppose I’ll get your name.”

  Brea rolled her eyes. “Brea Fleethand.”

  “And I am Sheyra. In case you have not deduced it, I am Kozog’s mother.”

  Brea said nothing and ground her teeth, pondering idly if that counted as words.

  Soon, Sheyra returned with a tray, carrying a steaming pot with two silver cups. She folded her legs to sit, laying the tray out on the ground, and gestured for Brea to sit as well. “Accommodations are sparse,” Sheyra apologised. “So the floor shall be our dining table.”

  Brea pulled a face, waving her arms around in wide, looping circles.

  “Oh, elf, you can speak.”

  “Half-elf,” Brea corrected.

  Sheyra sipped at her cup, red eyes watching her with curiosity. “Interesting. Half-elves I’ve known tended to emphasise either their elven side or their human side. Rarely do they accept the duality of their existence, as children of two proud people, rarely accepted as equals by either.”

  Brea’s temper smouldered. Discussing her nature with a stranger seemed inappropriate. “Thank you for…commenting on my linage in such an eloquent manner.”

  “Oh, I mean no offence by it, merely an observation.” Sheyra sipped some more. “And so, Brea Fleethand, proud half-elf, why are you here?”

  “Kozog sent me, like I said.”

  “And where is my son, mmm?”

  Brea shrugged helplessly. “He annoyed me, so I left him behind. He’ll be along presently.”

  “I hope so,” said Sheyra, idly sipping on her tea. Brea noticed, for the first time, that Sheyra’s other hand was resting remarkably close to her sword hilt. “After all, anyone can claim to know anyone.”

  Brea half-lidded her eyes. “Is everyone in this city as paranoid as you?”

  “You’d be paranoid if you had your assets seized, your life threatened, and old enemies reappearing to strike you from the shadows years after you thought them dead.” Sheyra set down her glass and folded her hands in her lap. “So, Brea. How do you know Kozog?”

  “We’ve been working as sellswords in the Freelands for the past year, year and a bit. We make an excellent team. We used to have a bigger party—our most recent contract was with the Army of the Open Fist—but these days it’s just me and history’s most oblivious orc.”

  Sheyra smiled. “Well, that’s a bit unkind. History isn’t over yet.”

  She was like Kozog, but knew how to tell a joke. Fascinating. Brea laughed despite herself. “True enough.” She hesitated, levity fading. “Kozog showed me a nice house, pretty gardens, nice fence. Why is it foreclosed? What’s all this about enemies?”

  “It is a complicated matter,” said Sheyra. “I shall start at the beginning. Kozog is a half-orc. I am full-blooded orc, as you can see. There are no prizes for guessing his father’s race.”

  “Well,” said Brea, tapping her knee. “Technically, he only told me he’s a half-orc. Not necessarily what the other half is.”

  “If it was not human, you would have known after a day, let alone a year. A half-human, half-orc produces a strange temperament; strength with control. Ambition with cunning. All four are neither uniquely human or orc; speaking personally, I have learnt these things through constant exposure to humans, to making mistakes—painful mistakes—and having my behaviour corrected. Kozog will be spared those lessons, as he is born with what I was forced to learn.”

  Brea considered. “I understand what you mean,” she said. “Half-elves are often conflicted, drawn between their elven and human sides, but nothing like that. The way you say being a half-orc is…I could not imagine.”

  “I would expect you know more than you imagine,” said Sheyra, “or more than you pretend to know. There are many differences between the elves and orcs; but to the chagrin of both, there are similarities, too.”

  Brea squinted, thinking of her earlier exchange with Kozog in the street and his complete inability to…anything. “Are you quite sure?”

  “Of course,” Sheyra said. “Both orcs and elves prefer to dwell in the wilds. Both claim a sacred connection to the land; both draw their magic from primal energies simultaneously too complex and too simple for most humans to understand. Both excel at the art of war.”

  “I suppose,” said Brea. “But we have many differences.”

  “Of course. Take how we quarrel, for example. The fair folk never forget, but they do forgive, if the wrongs have been righted and the proper apologies made. Orcs on the other hand; they never forgive but do, sometimes, forget.” Sheyra smiled. “Unfortunately, I have a very good memory.”

  “Another thing Tyranus has taught you?”

  “Amongst other things,” Sheyra admitted. She inclined her head. “So.”

  Brea blinked. “So-ooo?”

  “So, you mentioned you were working as a sellsword. I am in need of a such a person. My current lodgings should not deceive you; we are a wealthy family, with connections, but I have a problem. I was going to have Kozog deal with it, however I sense you have a certain…moral flexibility that he, sadly, is not burdened with.”

  “It’s hardly a burden.”

  Sheyra smiled knowingly. “Everything is a burden, my dear.”

  Brea tossed that thought around in her mind for a moment, then stretched her back. “My purse is full, so the fee will be steep.”

  “I am more than happy to pay for quality.”

  Brea considered, folding her hands in her lap. “What is it you need?”

  “My family manor has been confiscated by the Lords of Valamar, amongst other assets. I require them to be un-confiscated.”

  Brea didn’t want to have to admit it but her immediate conclusion was that paperwork was boring. “That honestly sounds like a job for a barrister. Such as your son.” She shrugged helplessly. “What do you want me to do? Break into the place and loot everything of value?”

  “Not everything of value,” said Sheyra. “Although feel free to borrow anything you need. As it happens, you’re more correct than you know. I need you to get something from that home.”

  A playful titter escaped. “Oh, Kozog is going to love this. He’ll probably pop a tusk if he could hear us talking about this.”

  Sheyra smiled. “Oh, probably.” She cleared her throat. “But yes. The Lords of Valamar have presented ‘evidence’—fabricated evidence, mind—that my recent business deals have been far too lucrative to be legitimate, and that my fortune comes from consorting with demons. I require something from within the manor; a ledger of financial transactions, stored in the basement, below a loose stone in the southeast corner. This should show that there is nothing untoward taking place and should explain the…discrepancies that they claim they have found.”

  “Steal a book,” said Brea, flicking back her fringe. “Should be pretty easy.”

  “The house is locked down,” warned Sheyra. “And I am not aware of the precise method. The Lords regularly vary their methods to prevent underhanded meddling.”

  “Underhanded meddling is something I’m good at,” said Brea. Her tone turned serious. “The fee will be four thousand gold pieces, and a thousand gold pieces of slaves purchased and freed. Freelanders, if you have the option.”

  “Slavery has always left a sour taste in my mouth,” said Sheyra. “Consider it done.”

  “Then we have a deal.” Brea paused. “But I’m not signing anything to that effect.”

  “A shame, I had such a long contract prepared.” Sheyra stood, and then extended a muscled, orcish hand to Brea. “Thank you for your discretion with this. Now, you kid
s go have fun.” Her expression turned playful. “Try not to break him.”

  Brea took it, squeezing firmly. Kozog’s mother certainly had a warrior’s grip. “How did someone like you have such a…Kozog for a child?”

  “Oh,” said Sheyra. “The apple never falls far from the tree. My son is strong but rigid minded, a weakness I fear. Perhaps you can cure him of…his father’s influence.”

  Never one for subtlety, Brea tapped her foot on the floor. “Who’s his father?”

  “Oh, that’s a mystery for another day.” Sheyra smiled a wide orc smile. “Goodnight, Brea Fleethand. Take care of my son.”

  “Well, he’s not exactly my responsibility.”

  Sheyra examined Brea with a curious stare. “You two are not—.” Realisation dawned. “Oh. Kozog mentioned, in his letters, a batty half-elf struggling to contain her various needs. He neglected to mention she was so comely. I was not sure you were she.”

  Unless he was hiding another half-elf under his cot. Brea bristled. “That would be me, yes. I can only assume.”

  “Well, he rarely speaks kindly of non-Tyrantians. His tone was confused, but genuinely kind. I think you have inspired something within him. It’s sweet, in a demented kind of way.”

  Brea felt her face warm. “Thank you?”

  “It’s a compliment. Tyranus is many things but he tends to inspire a steely heart. Our Lord teaches caution, guarded emotions, and concealed strength. To break that open is certainly…” her eyes shone. “Well, sufficient enough to say, you are so far unique in his life, as far as I’m aware.”

  “Okay,” said Brea, uncertain as to what that could mean exactly. “I suppose.”

  Sheyra gestured to the door. Brea followed, mulling over what the two had discussed.

  As they arrived, Brea could hear ragged breathing on the other side. She pulled open the door to reveal a sweaty Kozog, his face pale.

  “You left me,” he said, hunching over, trying to fill his lungs with air.