At last, Fetch understood. “You want to unite the hoofs.”
Father gave her a look both shocked and relieved, as if he dared not say it, feared she would not see it, but now that it was voiced, worried about the consequences. He gave a wet grunt and shook his coarse, white head.
“Not me. Too fucking old. Never see it through. Hells, it will take years, if it’s even possible.”
Again the old mongrel’s lips drew tight, but he had more to say, and this time, Fetch waited without agitation until his words again began to flow.
“Some would say we were simply fortunate last year. But if even half the rumors are true about the Claymaster, what he planned…that doesn’t get foiled by luck alone. Repelling the thicks took more than that. We all fought, but only because we were all warned. If the Lots have a hope of enduring any coming threat, we need the one who did that. We need the leader of the Grey Bastards.”
Fetching’s throat constricted. “You mean Jackal.”
Father nodded. “That’s why I’ve come. To find out where he is, when he will return.”
“I don’t know,” Fetch said, her voice coming out a whisper. It didn’t matter. Father was too busy talking to hear.
“I had hoped to see him at Strava. It’s said Zirko favors him. Duster—that’s one of my boys—fought with Jackal during the Betrayer. Says he saved his life and that the Unyars damn near worship him. Claims he’s the keenest fighter he has ever seen, and I always take what my Sons tell me as truth. I need to know when he will come back, so he can start knitting us together.”
Fetching pushed away from the fence and began walking away.
“You refuse to tell me?”
“I can’t tell you what I don’t know,” Fetch declared, spinning around. “He may never come back, old man. Understand? That’s why he is not chief of the Bastards, the True Bastards. I am! I was voted to the seat.”
Father’s face soured. “Would you have been? Can you tell me I would not be speaking to Jackal now had he not gone fuck-knows-where?”
“Take your boys and get off my fucking lot.”
She made to leave again, but Father reached out, stalling her with a firm but unaggressive hand upon the wrist.
“My boys follow me out of love. I’ve striven to make that true, so I know of what I say. Your riders love you, girl. It’s the root of their loyalty. For some hoofmasters it’s strength or cunning or fear. Not us. But the love for a father, something no mongrels know, is a vastly different thing from the stirring in their breeches they feel when looking at you, something all mongrels know.”
Fetch snatched her arm free. “That’s not why they follow me.”
“Maybe not all,” Father conceded, “but tell me that hatchet-faced lech and the lackhand don’t want to bed you. Could smell it on them the moment I asked after you.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Fetch seethed.
“It does matter! Lust won’t keep a hoof together. What I’ve built with the Sons won’t last past my death, but what you have here won’t last another season. Jackal needs to return if the Bastards have any chance. He needs to return if the Lots have any chance.”
“He is not coming back.”
She didn’t know if that was a lie, and did not care. The conviction in her words made it true for Father.
The old mongrel slumped. “Then show your brethren their love isn’t wasted. Don’t let them rot here for a lost cause. Disband the Bastards. I will take them all into the Sons. Your townsfolk too. We can all ride out of here together, stronger than we were. Once you’ve seen them safely installed at Mongrel’s Cradle, you can go nomad, perhaps find Jackal and bring him home.”
Fetch felt her brows draw together. “Nomad? You would take my brothers and not allow me to stay with them?”
“Girl,” Father huffed, “I am old, but not yet mad. Not like the Claymaster. Ain’t blind either. You think I didn’t see those two training with your slops? We half-breed men may be sterile, but I swear to you the day will come when I sire children before the Sons of Perdition allow daughters within its ranks.”
Fetch leaned close, spoke through clenched teeth. “I hope you can still straddle a razor and ride hard with your creaking joints, because if you and your boys are even a dust smudge on my horizon by the time I come back from taking a piss, there will be one less hoof in the Lots and I swear it won’t be mine.”
Leaving the incensed old mongrel, she pushed through the paddock gate to make sure the slops on stable duty turned the Sons’ hogs out quick as they could. Little Tel was in the main pen, pushing a heaping wheelbarrow to the gong pile. The ten additional hogs were spewing almost as much shit as Father.
“Tel!” Fetch called as she stalked across the pen. “The Sons are leaving. Who else is with you?”
The small mongrel halted, jaw falling at the sight of the chief.
“Yes, I’m fucking back. Now, where’s the other hand? I’ll help. The three of us are getting this done. Who else has this duty?”
“A-Ahlamra. Chief.”
“Why isn’t she with you, then?”
Little Tel pointed to the stable. “She’s, uh, she’s in there.”
“She not helping you? Did the pretty frailing not deign to soil herself with hogshit?”
Without waiting for an answer Fetch made her way over. Entering the stable, she didn’t immediately see Ahlamra, but even the low walls separating the stalls could have hidden her if she was bent behind a shovel. The piles of manure outside the first few stalls gave testament that the girl had not shirked the labor, unless all this was Tel’s doing. As Fetch made her way down the aisle she was startled when a figure stood up within the last stall on the left, issuing a satisfied sigh as it stretched.
It was one of the Sons. The tattoos on his bare back made that plain.
Fetch’s steps quickened, cold fingers kneading her gut. Her hand went to the grip of her sword as she reached the open stall door.
The Son turned at her arrival. He was surprised to find her standing there, but masked it quickly with a small grin. His breeches were around his knees, his erect cock only just beginning to soften.
“Chief,” the mongrel said, drawing the word out. “Just came to check on my hog, found I could be of some use here.”
He was blocking most of her view, but Fetch could see someone behind him. She could also see his weapons propped in the corner, well out of his reach. She shoved him aside to reveal Ahlamra just beginning to stand, naked to the skin.
But unharmed.
Fetch’s eyes searched desperately for the signs. The blemishes left by rough hands. The tears and snot running down a begrimed face. The blood.
They weren’t there.
Ahlamra had smudges on her knees, a piece of straw in her hair. Nothing more.
But it was her stare that proved it. There was no fear, no pain, just the surprise of being discovered, and even that was scant.
“Get out,” Fetch commanded the Son.
He pulled his breeches up, still smiling, retrieved the rest of his kit, and withdrew.
Ahlamra made no move to dress. She stood, making no apologies, seeking no pardons. It was the first time her traditionally demure stare did not seek the ground.
Fetch grit her teeth and stared back.
The beauty of this woman’s face had been undeniable from the first, but Fetch had not suspected her to have a figure, save that of a boy. Standing there now, Ahlamra was revealed as no waif. Small, yes, but far from delicate. There was nothing fragile in the flatness of her stomach, the hard set of her shoulders. The curve of hips and breasts, so easy to miss when clothed, were a soft complement to the compact strength of her form. The blood of the orc had not diluted within Ahlamra, it had distilled, producing a veneer of human softness over flawless steel.
“You’re not raped,” Fetch s
aid.
“No. He was comely. I sought comfort.”
“Comfort,” Fetch scoffed. “Life in a hoof contains little comfort, girl. Hells certain not for a damn slop! Was that the ploy? Convince him to finish these last stalls for you?”
“Earnest labor is not in his nature. Likely he would have been slow and careless. I did not need him for the mucking. I got from him what I wished.”
“In defiance of my command!”
Ahlamra’s calm demeanor faltered slightly. “He was not of this hoof. I did not think it was a defiance.”
“I told you no whoring!”
“There was no coin involved. I desired him. Forgive me. I did not know this was a trespass.”
“A trespass? You were assigned to mucking the stables. You had a fucking task. And that task wasn’t fucking!”
“You are right, of course. This life is new. I am finding habits of the old difficult to shed, it appears.”
Fetch sneered at her. She could just imagine what the old life had been for this woman who spoke more confidently naked than clothed, whose idea of comfort was muddy knees and a mouthful of spend.
“The Sons are riding on. Put your damn clothes on and leave with them.”
To her credit, Ahlamra did not panic. She did not plead. “May I ask a question?”
Fetch gave no reply, waited.
“Do you recall I come from Sardiz?”
Fetch could only shake her head.
“It was swallowed by Tyrkania long before I was born, yet we kept some of our ways. Those we were allowed to keep. The sultans certainly kept the House of Lustrous Gaze. Hearing the name of this house, what do you think it was?”
“A brothel,” Fetch admitted.
Ahlamra’s words did not waver, her stare remained even. “Nothing so vulgar. To begin, it is an orphanage, though only for girls. It is also a school. From childhood I learned to dance, sing, read and write in more languages than you can name, compose poetry in those same languages, play instruments with perfection. All this and more was my daily tutelage in a rich house of flowing fountains and shaded gardens and screened balconies that overlooked a street crawling with lice-ridden beggar children of similar age to myself. And yes, age brought training in seduction and men’s pleasure. This was no source of shame, for the women of my house were celebrated and I knew little else. I know much more of the world beyond that house now and still I am not ashamed. The skills I attained with time and training and dedication provided advantage. Tell me, chief, are you shamed by your skill with a blade, your accuracy with a stockbow, your prowess astride a hog? Are you ashamed of the advantages you strived for to survive in your homeland?”
The answer was simple, yet the question caused Fetch to hesitate. “No.”
“No. Here you would die swiftly without them. You would die swiftly in my city even with them. Sardiz is prosperous and peaceful and you would starve because your skills would mean little, and where they could be used is the province of men. I could have lived my days in comfort and splendor, yet I came here, to Ul-wundulas to find the mongrel woman who spat at the provinces of men. I wished to master new skills. Your skills. I found you. Yet you are casting me out. Not for defying you, nor for the dalliance while I should have been at work, which I regret. No. You are casting me out because you judge me to be nothing but a useless whore.”
Slowly, Ahlamra recovered her garments. Fetch found the calm fury in the movements of this delicate, smaller, weaker woman difficult to look upon. Soon she was dressed and made to leave the stall.
Fetch caught her arm, rougher than she’d intended. “You’ll never be a rider.”
Ahlamra’s chin dipped as her gaze sought the ground. “I know you think so.”
“No…” Fetch released her. “That was what I was told. By a girl I was raised with. A friend. We never could understand the other’s desires. Turned us hateful in the end. Because I proved her wrong. And she…proved me right. She wanted nothing but to be a bedwarmer and ended up without the grit for even that.”
“And you think me the same.”
Fetch took a breath. “Perhaps you’re stronger than she was. I’m seeing that. But you’ll never ride a hog, Ahlamra. Never rack a thrum. There’s not enough mongrel muscle in you. Just too damn small. With time maybe we could make you passable with a tulwar, but the Bastards ain’t in a place to coddle you. So we won’t. Instead, I reckon it best to wager on the skills you already have. The ones we don’t.”
Ahlamra’s eyes raised. “Meaning?”
“Meaning there’s a way you can serve this hoof. Just not here. And it’s going to require a thrice-blood’s weight in grit.”
“Tell me.”
TWENTY-ONE
AS SOON AS THE GATE CLOSED on the Sons of Perdition, the Bastards gathered. Within the cooper’s shop, six faces regarded Fetching from around the big rectangular table that dominated the center of the room. Oats was opposite her at the foot, Mead at her right.
No more secrets.
“There is a heap to discuss,” Fetch began. “Mead’s told you most, but there’s more you need to hear from me. But I hate repeating myself, so first let’s see if there is going to be another brother to sit in on this meet.”
Pleased smiles grew on the faces of Polecat, Mead, and Dumb Door.
“Some of you believe Abril is ready to leave the slops,” Fetch continued. “Who is putting his name forward?”
“Me,” Mead said.
Across from him, Dumb Door knocked twice on the table.
“There’s the required two,” Fetch said. “So let’s ride this pig and see where we are. Abril came up at the orphanage here in Winsome, began as a slophead at the Kiln, endured Grocer…” The name of the Grey Bastards’ fallen quartermaster added some grim reflection to most of the faces around the table. “…returned to Winsome after fostering with the Tusked Tide—it should be said not all the slops did—and has worked hard for this hoof since. But it takes more than being a strong worker to become a sworn brother. So, since I did not put his name forward, I want to hear from you. Mead?”
“His orcish is good, chief. He’s never shirked a duty that I know of, and he’s tireless on watch.”
Fetch nodded and turned to Polecat.
“Abril is solid on patrol,” he said. “Doesn’t get distracted, despite his antics. Keeps his bearings. And digs a ditch like I lick quim, with vigor and very little wandering.”
“That ditch is also dry and resistant,” Shed Snake muttered, coaxing a snort from Oats.
Fetch moved on. “Dumb Door? How is he with the hogs?”
A meaty thumb went up.
“His hand-fighting needs work,” Hoodwink said without waiting for a prompt. “Passable with the tulwar, but with a knife he’s weak.”
Mead came to the hopeful’s defense. “Weak compared to whom, Hood? You? That’s like saying he’s not as good a shot as the chief. Some walls can’t be scaled.”
“How is he with a thrum?” Fetching asked. She had her own opinion, but wanted to see the hoof’s response.
“Better than me now,” Mead said with a forced laugh.
“Good enough,” Polecat said.
Shed Snake was less certain. “He hasn’t had much chance with targets on the move.”
Hoodwink dipped his chin in agreement.
“I also have some concerns there,” Fetch said.
Mead scrubbed at his Tine mane in frustration. “He brought that deer down and I’m sure it didn’t stand still to let him. Fed the town too.”
“Oats?” Fetch prodded.
The thrice had been quiet, but that was understandable, having been away. He took a deep breath. “He wasn’t ready when I left. Bit of a jester from what I recall, not that it discounts him. But I trust what I’ve heard and can weigh it. I can vote.”
“Ho
od, Warbler left you his vote, yes?”
A nod.
“I have Jackal’s,” Oats said.
“All right, brothers,” Fetch said. “Raise your hand if you believe Abril is ready to join the True Bastards.”
Mead, Dumb Door, and Polecat gave their votes readily. Neither Oats nor Hoodwink raised a hand. Shed Snake was reluctant. This was his first vote, clearly torn between his friendship with Mead, his own doubts, and a desire to please his chief. He was eyeing Fetch, trying to discern which way she was leaning, scratching at his scarred arm. Fetch kept her face blank, her palms on the table. Snake needed to become confident with his place at this table, vote his own mind. It was common for fresh-sworns to behave with deference to their chief, but the heart of a hoof should not be made up of bootlickers.
No one pressured him, honoring the tradition.
At last, with only a small, rueful glance at Mead, Shed Snake shook his head.
Fetch looked to Oats.
“Jack would like him,” the thrice decided. “Yes.”
“Warbler is a no,” Hood said.
That left Fetching the deciding vote. The hoof watched her, waiting.
Any other day, she would have made her mind in a heartbeat. Abril needed more time. But Father’s words were nibbling at her mind, damn him. The Bastards—hells, all the hoofs—were dwindling. They needed sworn brothers. Slopheads were not bound to a hoof. They could leave at any moment. Several had not returned after the Kiln fell, solid hopefuls, and still more in the time since. Fetch did not think Abril was about to abandon Winsome, but the days ahead were likely to reap fresh crops of hardship, enough to test the loyalty of even the staunchest among them. Admitting him into the ranks would solidify not only his loyalty, but that of the other hopefuls as well. It was important the other slops saw that it was possible to earn a place among the brethren, give them a reason to keep toiling and training.
Burying her reservations, Fetch put up her hand.
There was back-slapping and table-thumping from Abril’s supporters, immediately taken up by those who did not cast votes in his favor. This was a mongrel hoof, they did not waste time sulking over a difference in opinion. A new brother was a cause to celebrate. There was a second vote that needed to be called for Marrow, but it would have to wait for another day. Abril deserved to have his own initiation.
The True Bastards Page 27
