by Frank Miller
“Pilgrims,” Pym pointed out. “Even with our cloaks, they know we’re Fey. Why didn’t you ask them for a ride?”
Nimue frowned.
“We’ll get some bread and cheese for the road and go home while there is still light,” Pym said. She pulled Nimue along as the street opened up into the wide city square. Their mouths watered as they walked through a warm cloud of baking bread. The baker’s wife had set out a table of fresh king’s loaves beside another table of brie tarts and spice cakes. A juggler in a threadbare tunic jumped at them, as players erected a stage nearby.
As Pym applauded, Nimue’s eyes drifted across the square and landed upon two horsemen in red monks’ robes, observing the crowd with sullen faces. They were barely men, the same age as Nimue and Pym, and wore their hair in matching, bald-pated tonsures. Both were thin, though one appeared to be a good head taller than his fellow brother. Nimue’s hand squeezed around Pym’s wrist and her eyes directed Pym’s to the horsemen. “I think it’s them.”
“Who?” Pym searched the crowd.
“Red Paladins.”
Pym gasped and her hand flew to her mouth.
“Don’t make a fuss,” Nimue warned.
Pym lowered her hand, but her eyes were wide and frightened.
“I want to get closer,” Nimue said, fighting off Pym’s efforts to pull her back. She eased her way through the crowd as the Red Paladins spurred their horses into a stroll around the opposite edge of the market square, along a row of craft stalls. They paused at a table of swords. One of the monks said something to the blacksmith, who nodded, then selected a dagger among the blades on the table and handed it to the other monk. He inspected the blade, shrugged his approval, and slid it into a fold of one of his saddlebags, then nudged his horse forward to the next stall. The blacksmith called out angrily for payment. The smaller monk spun around on his horse, trotted up to the blacksmith, and stuck his boot in his chest, shoving the blacksmith into his table of swords and spilling his wares. The Red Paladin circled around, waiting to see if the blacksmith had any more words for him. He did not. He retreated into his stall. The monk snorted and looked around to see if anyone else felt brave. Merchants and peasants alike kept their heads down and walked a wide circle around the monk, who, satisfied, rejoined his brother with the stolen dagger.
“They just stole it,” Nimue said, affronted.
“So what?” Pym whispered, stooping to make herself shorter and less visible in the crowd.
Nimue’s guts twisted with anger. She pursued the paladins from fifty paces back, mindful to use the pilgrims, farmworkers, and peddlers as cover. But hiding became more of a challenge when the paladins turned onto a narrow street at the corner of the town hall and the weight master. Nimue pulled Pym into an open arcade of vaulted arches, where baskets of herbs and vegetables were for sale. Nimue could follow the bob of the monks’ heads between the columns until they rode out of view. She paused a few moments before dragging Pym to the edge of the arcade and then onto the narrow road. Packhorses clogged the street between Nimue and the paladins, who joined another pair of brothers on horseback beneath a three-story scaffold where, high above, tillers patched a weather-beaten roof. Nimue and Pym found shelter in a doorway thirty paces back as the Red Paladins conferred in low voices.
“We’ve seen them. Now let’s go,” Pym hissed in Nimue’s ear, and tugged on her sleeve.
Nimue exited the doorway, leaving Pym behind, and slid in beside another packhorse lumbering onto the street from the market square. She walked alongside the animal for several paces. A moment later the packhorse interrupted the Red Paladins’ conference, the street not being wide enough for them all. A mason atop his wagon of stones winced. “Apologies, brothers,” he called as he tried to steer around the group. The monks scowled as their horses backstepped and adjusted around the mason’s wagon. Amid this disruption, Nimue walked quickly between the Red Paladins’ horses, drew the stolen dagger from the thief’s saddlebag, and smoothly hid it within her sleeve. When the shorter monk turned in Nimue’s direction, all he saw was a flash of skirts as she swung around the corner into another alley.
Pym hurried out of the doorway and ran back into the bustle of the arcade. Her breathing had just started to settle when a long blade appeared at her throat. She froze.
“Give me all your coins!” Nimue snarled in Pym’s ear.
Pym spun around and slapped at a laughing Nimue, until she herself was laughing.
“Ow! Stop it! You’re bruising me!” Nimue covered her head.
“I won’t stop, crazy woman!” Pym kept at it until a farm woman shouted at them both for upsetting a pail of cabbages. The girls ran and shoved through the crowd back into the square. Nimue walked up to the blacksmith’s stall as a hammer rang in the tent and returned the stolen dagger to its place on the table of blades.
FOUR
THEY WANDERED TOWARD THE SOUND of music. Two young men had propped their swords against a wagon wheel and were staging an impromptu concert. Nimue took note of the number of young ladies who were swaying to the singer’s voice:
“With meadows green and skies o’ blue,
My mistress struck her arrow true,
We kissed and danced ’neath Virgo’s eye,
As the waxing moon fled from July.”
Curious, she fixed her gaze on the singer. He had a boyish face and was lean with broad shoulders and longish hair that flashed copper in the sun. His more lumpish friend played an able ruan.
“Sing high-lolly-lo say my fair summer lady,
Sing high-lolly-li-summer-hi-lolly-lo.”
The young singer’s voice was pleasing, though he struggled with the higher notes. But there was something about him that fixed Nimue to the spot. The hum of the Hidden swelled in her belly and behind her ear. She touched her cheek to make sure the Fingers of Airimid were not growing. Who is he? she wondered. He wasn’t Fey that she could tell. But the Hidden were trying to tell her something about this boy. She tried to will the hum away, push it down, but it persisted. Was it a warning? A summons? A mix of both?
Pym clucked her tongue and elbowed Nimue.
“But autumn gusts do blow cold, summer lady,
The swallows fly south from their nests in the bailey.”
The singer’s eyes fell on Nimue and the verse held on his tongue.
“And the warm wine . . .”
Nimue’s cheeks flushed. She looked away, embarrassed, then allowed herself to look the singer in his gray eyes, eyes that reminded her of the wolf cubs of the Iron Wood, alert, playful, and soon to be dangerous. He resumed his verse.
“. . . but there came a maid with blue eyes like ice on the sea,
Sing high-lolly-lo say my fair winter lady . . .”
The singer smiled at Nimue.
“He fancies you,” Pym whispered in her ear. Nimue laughed despite herself. But between the hum in her belly and the singer’s gray eyes, it was too much, and she turned back into the crowded market, where a juggler danced between a ring of children. He fumbled his balls, and one of them rolled past Nimue and was retrieved by the young singer. But rather than return the ball to the juggler, he offered it to Nimue instead. “Miss, you dropped this.”
Nimue took the ball and smirked. “Do I look like a juggler to you?”
The boy considered her. “Ah yes, I know what’s missing.”
By this time the juggler had tracked down the singer, but he didn’t get his ball. The singer stole his player’s cap and set it atop Nimue’s head. “Perfect!” he declared.
Pym snorted, the player protested, and Nimue allowed his teasing enough to brag, “I only juggle fire.”
The singer wagged a finger at her. “I suspected as much.”
Judging by his rough manners and hand-me-down tunic, Nimue pegged the boy as a sword for hire. Sky Folk were taught to avoid his type on the forest roads near Dewdenn.
The juggler was losing his sense of humor and stole his ball back from Nimue as the singer plop
ped the minstrel hat upon his own head. “No more charade. In truth, I am the great juggling master Giuseppe Fuzzini Fuzzini—two Fuzzinis—et cetera! And I am looking for a juggling apprentice to follow in my footsteps.” The singer grabbed two turnips from the barrel of a farmer’s stall and began his own juggling routine, playing keep-away from the juggler, who now competed with the children in jumping for his hat. Nimue couldn’t help but snort with laughter. The young mercenary attempted to kick his heels and juggle at the same time, which taxed his already limited talents to the breaking point. Mercenary and turnips spilled over in a heap.
“Fancy an ale?” the singer asked, leading Pym and Nimue away from the angry farmer and toward a raucous tavern named the Raven Wing.
“Sorry, we should be getting home,” Pym said.
“We have developed a thirst,” Nimue said, striding past the singer.
“Splendid.” He smiled and followed her to the tavern.
“I’m Arthur,” the singer said as he set down two mugs of ale for Pym and Nimue and pulled up a chair to a small table in the crowded Raven Wing. Pym’s eyes darted all around. The city crowd gave them suspicious looks.
“Nimue. This is Pym.” Nimue nudged Pym, who smiled fleetingly.
“That’s a lovely name, ‘Nimue,’ ” Arthur said, raising his mug to her. “I must say I like the cloaks, very mysterious. Are you sisters of the convent or something?”
“We’re hired assassins,” Nimue said.
“I suspected as much.” Arthur played along, though Nimue could tell he was still trying to pin them down.
“You live in Hawksbridge?” he asked.
“Near enough,” Nimue said, in no rush to answer Arthur’s questions. It’s one ale with a local boy, what harm can it do? She took a sip. Her lips tingled as she swallowed her first gulp. The ale was sour and warm, but she noticed its taste improved the more she drank. “And you?”
“Just passing through, really.”
“Are you a sword for hire?”
“Not at all. We’re knights,” Arthur said. He jerked his head at an unruly table nearby, where several rough fellows played bone dice. A local stood up from the table and snarled, “Bunch of cheats!” The large mercenary with the dice wore a chain-mail shirt and sported a bald pate with several battle dents to match his crooked nose. He stood up with enough menace to hurry the local away, and then his dull eyes kept glancing at Pym and Nimue.
“Bors over there commanded Lord Adelard’s host before the old fellow’s heart gave out,” Arthur said.
Bors was certainly no knight. He and his party laughed and shouted like men looking for a fight. Other locals kept their noses in their drinks. The Raven Wing was growing fuller. The sun flared through the window over the western gate. A bard was tuning his rebec as Pym’s voice reached an anxious pitch.
“. . . by nightfall! Hello? Nimue? Your mother will tan our hides!”
“Then no point carrying on about it.” Another local lost at bone dice to Bors. He handed over a pouch of coins as the “knights” jeered at him.
“Nimue, do you hear me? The woods aren’t safe at night, and we don’t have the coin to stay here. What are we going to do?”
“Don’t go just yet,” Arthur said, laying a gentle hand on Nimue’s arm.
“Arthur! What’re you hiding for?” Bors barked. “Bring those fine maids over to say hello!”
Arthur winced, caught himself, then fashioned a smile. He rose as the men at Bors’s table muttered and laughed.
Pym turned pleading eyes toward her, but Nimue finished her ale, wiped her mouth with her sleeve, and followed Arthur to the gaming table. This is what being out in the world is like, she told herself. An adventure around every corner. She imagined herself winning a sack of coins and buying herself a cushioned chair in a luxurious trader caravan headed to the southern seas. Or, more practically speaking, a few coins could buy her and Pym room and board and a chance to weigh her next steps. The ale gave her a swagger as she stepped up to the table behind Arthur.
“Gents—” Arthur started.
Bors interrupted. “Lads, Arthur’s found himself some lovely company.”
Nimue didn’t like the way the men laughed. She saw a table of Josses, a lot of empty heads and bluster.
“Come now, girls, part the robes, let’s see the goods.” Bors eyed Pym and Nimue like cattle.
“Carry on, boys,” Arthur said, starting to escort the girls away.
“I’ll have a go,” Nimue said, ignoring the laughter. Bors’s fat fingers counted coins on the table. The mercenary looked up at her.
“No. Bad idea,” Arthur warned.
“Nimue,” Pym hissed.
A wide grin broke over Bors’s stubbly cheeks. “But of course, my dear.” The other mercenaries guffawed loudly and whistled their approval.
“Does the lady have five silver?” Bors asked.
“I don’t, I’m afraid.”
“No matter, we allow different wagers.” He paused and looked her over. “How ’bout we roll for a kiss?”
Pym grabbed Nimue’s shoulder. “We were just leaving—”
Nimue pulled from her grasp. “Fine.” There was a new round of whoops from the men.
Arthur shook his head. Nimue turned back to Bors. “But if I win, I get ten silver.”
Bors chuckled. “That’s a deal.” He gathered the bone dice into his enormous hands. “Does the lady know how to play?”
“You pick a number?”
“Very close. All you need to do is roll a seven in any combination. Two and five. Three and four. Six and one. You see? The odds favor you, my sweet. It’s very easy. I’ve just had a dumb rush of luck.” Bors slid the dice across the table.
Nimue picked up the dice, felt them in her hand. They were weighted, of course. No fool would ever roll a seven with them. But Nimue was no fool. She rolled the dice on the table, and as they landed, she closed her eyes and reached out with her thoughts to the Hidden. She felt the tiniest hum in her belly and a slender thread of silver vine crept up her cheek, mostly concealed by the hood. The Hidden are answering, Nimue thought, pleased. Sometimes, in small doses, she could just barely guide the power.
But Pym saw the Fingers of Airimid, and her eyes widened with alarm.
The dice turned up three and four.
Bors stared at the bone dice. The sell-swords sat up. None of them spoke.
Bors looked up slowly at Nimue. “Roll them again.”
“Why? I won.”
Bors leaned forward and slid the dice to Nimue. “Best two out of three? Seems fair.”
“Those weren’t the rules,” Nimue said.
“Roll again, Nimue, and then let’s be off. Please,” Pym begged.
“Then it’s twenty silver if I win,” Nimue demanded.
Bors sat back, chair creaking under his weight. “Can you believe this little maid?” He shook his head and barked with laughter. “You want twenty silver? Then I’ll want my money’s worth as well.”
“Deal.”
Pym grabbed at Nimue’s arm. “Stop this.”
Nimue took the dice, shook them in her hand. Again, the Fingers of Airimid crawled up her neck and behind her ear. She threw the dice on the table. A six and a one. The sell-swords raised up their hands and roared in disbelief, falling silent when they saw the look in Bors’s eyes.
“Are you witching me?” he growled.
The Raven Wing was silent. Nimue felt many eyes upon her.
A distant voice in her mind said, Run, you fool. Nimue ignored it and smiled at Bors. “Why? Do you fear witches?” Her ears throbbed with the hum and the dam broke. The power spilled out of her and the wooden dice table blossomed with grotesque knobs and spikes and Bors’s chair grew branch-like limbs that wrapped around his throat and chest. Bors gurgled and pulled the table down on top of himself along with cups of ale and jugs of wine, and the sell-swords leaped to their feet, terrified.
“Fey witches!” one of the sell-swords yelled.
&
nbsp; “Oi! That’s it! Off with you!” Pym and Nimue turned to see the barkeep pointing at them. “We don’t want your kind in here!”
“We’re sorry,” Pym managed. Nimue was in a daze. The magic had left her feeling weak, as if her bones were empty. She felt Pym pull her toward the door, and they bumped into the Red Paladin who had stolen the dagger. Nimue broke eye contact immediately, muttered, “I’m sorry, brother,” and hurried out.
For the first time that day, a wave of fear crashed over her.
FIVE
NIMUE AND PYM HURRIED DUSK lady through the closing city gates. Most of the vendors had returned to their farms hours earlier. Visitors to Hawksbridge after nightfall would have to announce themselves to the watch guard.
A fingernail of moon shone dully through the clouds. Only a mile out from the city gates, the solitary sound on the road was the slow clop of Dusk Lady’s hooves.
“Nimue, what was that? You know you can’t do magic in town! They’ll hang us for it!”
“I didn’t mean to. I just—I’m not feeling very well.” Nimue’s head throbbed. They’d eaten very little, only a few biscuits from the village, and the ale had made her dizzy.
“Why would you pick a fight with those . . . ?”
“They don’t scare me,” Nimue muttered, still feeling weak. The Red Paladins were a different story, though. Her anger from earlier had burnt itself out, leaving her with only a sick feeling, like she had been removed from her body and was merely watching herself behave so recklessly.
“Half the village is likely searching for us.” Pym was worried.
“I’m sorry, Pym. Try to sleep on me. I’ll get us home.”
Pym grunted, giving in to fatigue, and pressed the side of her face to Nimue’s back. Nimue had no illusions about the two-hour ride ahead of them. Dusk Lady was no warhorse, and wolves could easily panic her. And it was no secret the glades were a sanctuary for thieves eager to sack the vendors fresh from market day with their pouches full of new coin.
Nimue’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a horse approaching from behind. Pym stirred. “What is that?”
