Bonds of Vengeance (32 page)

“Thank you. I promise you that I’ll sing my best. Whatever my feelings about the courts, they won’t hurt our performance.”

“They’d better not,” she said, pulling him down to her again. “You may not have an appetite for gold, but I do.”

Two mornings hence, they set out southward for the marquess’s castle. It was a bright, mild morning, a fine day for a journey. It seemed the planting winds had come to Wethyrn at last. The innkeeper had given them leave to miss their early performance in the tavern, but had made it clear that he expected them back in Ailwyck for the later one. From what he told them, it seemed a simple journey. Fanshyre Castle stood less than two leagues away, nestled in the northern reaches of the Grey Hills near the source of the Ailwyck River.

“If you leave early enough, you can be there before midday,” the innkeeper said. “And if you leave Fanshyre with the prior’s bells, you should have plenty of time to get back here, change your clothes, and earn your keep.”

He wasn’t a subtle man, but he knew the countryside. The company reached Fanshyre just as the midday bells tolled from the gates of the small village. They were greeted by the marquess himself, a short, rotund man with a broad grin and round face. His wife might well have been his sister, so alike did they look, and she welcomed them heartily before leading them to the castle’s hall. There, true to his word, the marquess made them honored guests at a simple but ample feast. Afterward, they sang for him, performing every song they knew, and, at the marquess’s request, repeating several pieces, including the
Paean
and, much to Jaan’s delight, the new piece the lutenist had just written. Usually Cadel did not like to perform the same piece more than once for the same audience, but Fanshyre had been kind enough to feed them, and, as Kalida reminded him once again on their walk to the castle, he was paying them handsomely for their music.

They left Fanshyre just after the ringing of the prior’s bells, gold jingling in their pockets, their spirits high. There had been only one Qirsi in the castle, the marquess’s lone minister, a frail old woman who appeared to nod off in the middle of their performance. Cadel felt confident in assuming that she wasn’t with the conspiracy and that his fears of this journey had been unfounded. As they made their way through
the hills, he found himself joking with the others and singing along with Jaan to the bawdy Mettai folk songs the lutenist was playing.

He didn’t even notice the three men in the road ahead of them until the company had almost reached them. And by then it was too late.

They were still in the hills, though they couldn’t have been more than a hundred strides from more open land. Just here, however, the road narrowed and the rocky hills formed a steep canyon. The company halted and Cadel glanced behind them. Already there were two more men there, leering at them.

“I could hear the coins in your pockets from up there,” one of the thieves said, pointing toward the top of the nearest hill.

Jaan stepped in front of Anesse and Cadel did the same with Kalida. He had a dagger on his belt—Jaan and Dunstan did as well—and a second strapped to his calf inside his boot.

The thieves all carried blades, and the one who had spoken, their leader no doubt, carried a short sword as well, stolen from a noble by the look of it. He nodded at the others and they began to advance on the company.

Jaan reached for his belt, but Cadel held out a hand, stopping him.

“Don’t, Jaan. They’ll kill us.” Actually Cadel felt fairly certain that he could fight them off with just a bit of help from the others. But he was a musician now, not a killer, and he was willing to trade a bit of gold to keep all of them alive and preserve the secret of his past.

“We can’t just let them take the gold,” the lutenist said.

“Better the gold than our lives. We can always earn more.”

The leader stopped in front of Jaan, a smirk on his begrimed face. He was about Cadel’s size and he walked with the swagger of a man who had killed before and would do so again without hesitation. One of the others appeared far younger than he, and a bit unsure of himself, but the other three seemed just as confident as their leader. Two of them planted themselves in front of Cadel, their daggers drawn, and another stood beside Dunstan.

“Yer gold, old man,” the leader said to Jaan. “An’ that o’ yer friends.”

“Shouldn’ we take their blades?” asked one of the men by Cadel.

The leader shrugged laconically. “Sure, take ’em. They migh’ be worth something.”

The man who had spoken laid his blade against Cadel’s throat with one hand, and took the weapon from his belt with the other. In a moment they also had Jaan and Dunstan’s blades.

“Now, give us yer gold.”

Cadel, Dunstan, and the two women handed over their money, but Jaan, who carried his in a small leather pouch, took out his gold rounds and threw them over the man’s head into the brush on the slope of the hill.

“You want it, you bastard?” he said. “Get it yourself.”

The leader gave a short harsh laugh, glancing at his friends, but making no move to retrieve the coins. “Did ye see tha’?” he asked. “Th’ old man has some darin’.” He faced Jaan again. “No brains, though.”

And with a motion so swift that his hand was but a blur, the thief hammered the hilt of his sword into Jaan’s face.

The lutenist crumpled to the ground, blood pouring from his nose and mouth. Anesse screamed out his name, but before she could even drop to her knees beside him, the man kicked him in the stomach.

Cadel made a motion toward the leader, but the two thieves beside him brandished their daggers, forcing him to stop.

Seeing this, the leader walked to where the singer stood, the same cruel grin on his lips. “Ye want t’ try too?” he asked, as if daring Cadel to hit him. “Ye want t’ end up like yer friend?”

“Just take the gold and go,” Cadel said, holding the man’s gaze.

“Well, ye know, I would ha’. But now I don’ think so.” He looked at the women, and with a quick glance back at Cadel, stepped back to where Anesse now knelt. She was sobbing and cradling Jaan’s head in her lap, trying to stanch the blood with a kerchief. The thief sheathed his sword, pushed Jaan away from her with his foot, and forced her to stand, stepping around behind her, one hand gripping her by the hair and the other grasping her breast. “How “bout it, boys?” he called to the others. “Feel like a bit o’ mutton?”

One of the men guarding Cadel walked over to Kalida, grabbing her by the arm, and tearing the front of her dress.

The man who remained with Cadel was looking past him at what his friends were doing, grinning with amusement. Cadel threw the punch so quickly, with such force, that the man never even had time to look at him. He merely dropped to the ground, his larynx shattered by the blow. The man by Dunstan cried out and bounded toward Cadel, but by that time the singer had his second blade in hand. The man swung at him wildly with his own weapon, but Cadel ducked under the attack and plunged his dagger into the man’s chest.

Shoving the thief off his blade, he spun toward the two who had Anesse and Kalida. The one with Kalida, pushed her to the ground,
and held his weapon ready, dropping into a fighter’s crouch. Cadel didn’t falter. Striding toward the man, he lifted his weapon as if to attack. The thief lunged at him, just as Cadel knew he would. His kick caught the man just under the chin. The thief fell, rolled, tried to stand, but Cadel was on him too quickly, slashing at the brigand’s throat.

“Corbin!”

He just had time to dive away from the leader’s sword as it whistled past his head. He rolled as the other man had, and came up in his crouch, his dagger ready.

The leader advanced on him warily, the grin gone from his face, though his teeth were still bared.

“Watch behind you!” Dunstan called.

The young one had finally thrown off his fear and joined the fray. He was approaching slowly as well, dagger drawn. But Cadel had no doubt that the leader was the dangerous one. He saw Dunstan go to retrieve a dropped blade.

“Stay where you are, Dunstan! Leave them to me!”

“Ye think ye can take us, eh?” the leader said.

Even as he spoke the words though, he was already launching his next assault. He leaped at Cadel, lashing out with the short sword and holding his dagger ready. The singer danced away, seeing no opening for a counter.

“Fight, ye coward!” the leader roared at the other brigand. “Or when I’m done with “im, ye’ll be next!”

It would be a clumsy attack, born of fear and desperation. Under most circumstances, Cadel would have had no trouble defending himself. But he didn’t dare turn his back on the leader. The singer opened his stance slightly, so that he could look as easily to the rear as to the front, and he held his dagger ready.

He heard a footfall behind him, close. Dunstan cried out again.

Glancing quickly at the younger man, Cadel saw that he had already raised his weapon to strike. The leader was moving as well, closing the distance between them with a quick lunge and chopping down with his sword. Ducking wouldn’t work this time.

Instead, he swung himself down and backwards, swinging his blade arm at the younger man’s leg as he went down. He felt his blade embed itself in flesh, heard the man cry out. But rather than rolling as he had intended, he landed awkwardly, his wrist buckling under his weight.

Pain shot up his arm, white hot, like lightning in the heat of the planting turns.

The leader, who had missed with his first blow, pounced a second time, hammering down with his sword.

Cadel kicked out blindly—his only chance—and his boot glanced off the man’s forearm, deflecting the blow just enough to save him. For the moment.

The man struck at him again. Cadel rolled away and scrambled to his feet, only to find the leader leveling yet another blow at him. But this time he didn’t chop down at the singer. Instead he swung the blade, as if to take off Cadel’s head.

Cadel spun away from him, avoiding the sword. And allowing the momentum of his turn to carry him all the way around, switching his grip on his own dagger in midmotion, he tried to slam his blade into the man’s back. He misjudged the distance, however, slicing through the leader’s shirt and drawing blood from his shoulder, but doing no real damage.

Both of them backed away for just an instant, breathing hard. Cadel chanced a quick look at the other man. He was on the ground still, clutching his leg, which was bloodied just below his crotch. The leader put a hand to his shoulder, looked at the blood on his fingers, and gave a fierce grin.

“Yer no musician,” he said, his voice low.

Before Cadel could think of anything to say, the man rushed him again, raising his sword.

It was a clumsy attack. Too clumsy. At the last moment, Cadel looked not at the short sword but at the dagger, nearly forgotten, in the man’s other hand. It was swinging at his side in a wide, powerful arc, the steel glinting in the sun’s dying light.

Rather than ducking or retreating, Cadel stepped toward the attack, raising his injured arm to block the man’s dagger hand, and with the other arm pounding his own blade into the man’s stomach.

The leader let out a short, harsh gasp, his eyes widening. His dagger dropped to the ground and he grasped the hilt of his sword with both hands. But he was trembling, his legs failing him. Cadel pulled his blade from the man’s gut and thrust it into his chest. The thief sagged to his knees, blood spouting from his mouth. A moment later he toppled sideways to the dirt.

Cadel retrieved his dagger and advanced on the last man, who still lay on the ground, whimpering like a child.

“Corbin, no!” Kalida’s voice. “It’s enough!”

He halted, glaring at her. After a moment he nodded.

“Can you walk?” he asked the young thief.

“I—I don’t know.”

“Well, you’re going to have to. It’ll be dark soon, and the nights get cold here this time of year, even on a warm day.”

Dunstan began to reclaim their gold, including the coins Jaan had thrown. Cadel wanted to tell him to forget the money, but he didn’t. Instead he walked to where Anesse and Kalida were tending to Jaan. The bleeding had slowed from his nose and mouth, though his face looked a mess. His breathing seemed labored.

“I think he has a broken rib,” Anesse said, her voice tight.

“Can we get him back to Ailwyck?”

She shook her head. “I think we’d be better off returning to Fanshyre.”

“The distance is roughly the same. And the terrain’s easier to the north.”

“Ailwyck,” Jaan said weakly. “I don’t want to go back to Fanshyre like this.”

Dunstan joined them. “I found most of it. Not all.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Cadel said. “We need to get Jaan back to the tavern. Can you help me carry him?”

“Of course.”

“Are you all right?” Kalida asked him, looking closely at his face.

“I’m fine.”

“It looked like you hurt—”

“I’m fine,” he said again, his voice rising.

Her face colored and she looked away.

“Let’s get him on his feet,” he said to the piper.

Dunstan nodded toward the injured man. “What about him?”

“Leave him. He’s no threat, and he’s not worth helping.” He turned to Anesse. “Find our daggers,” he said. “And theirs as well.”

“What about the sword?”

He stared at the body of the leader. “That, too.”

His wrist was screaming, and he wondered if he had broken the bone. Not that it would slow him. He’d been injured before, far worse than this. Back when he was an assassin. He nearly laughed aloud.
You’ll always be an assassin
. His father’s voice. He would have liked to curse the old man’s name aloud.

It was a slow, painful walk back to Ailwyck, and before they were
done it turned dark and chill as well. The tavern was already full when they arrived—they could hear laughter and raucous singing coining from within. When they opened the door, however, and the tavern patrons saw the blood on Jaan’s face, silence spread through the great room like the pestilence.

“What happened?” the innkeeper said, hurrying through the parting crowd.