By the Sword (12 page)

Instead, she saw the girl sorting through a pile of the loot that was part of one of the bandits' dice winnings, turning things over with a stick, and tossing selected items onto a tattered cloak she had spread out to one side.

“Dierna!” she shouted, and winced when the girl jumped, overbalanced, and fell. She left the horses and walked wearily to give the girl a hand up. “Sorry. But what in the name of the six hells are you
doing?”

The girl's face took on a stubborn expression. “Looking for my wedding presents,” she said.

“You're
what?”
Kero wasn't sure whether to scream, laugh or cry. She'd been kidnapped, her friends and new relations had been slaughtered, she'd very nearly gone down the gullet of some kind of monster.
She lives through all this, and she's looking for a few paltry cups?

“I'm looking for my wedding presents,” the girl repeated. “They're
mine,
they were given to
me,
and I—I'm n-n-not going to let these—b-b-beasts have them!”

Her eyes grew moist, and threatened to spill over, and Kero sensed that she
would
have hysterics if she were prevented from completing her search. “I saw most of them,” she sighed. “Some of these bastards were dicing for them. Here, let me help you—by the way, Lordan's all right, or at least he will be by the time we get back. My grandmother, the Sorceress Kethryveris, said so.”

“Did she?” the girl replied vaguely, fishing a silver plate out of a pile of trash. “That's good; I'm glad we're going to be able to have the wedding after all. Lordan's a very nice boy.”

Kero very nearly choked.
That's
good?
She's happy about the
wedding?
When my father and brother
—

For one moment Kethry had to hold very still, counting slowly, to avoid losing her temper and killing the girl she'd come to rescue.

Kero found the last of the set of silver wine cups they were looking for, dented, but still recognizable, and threw it onto the blanket. Dierna looked up then, and the threatened tears did start to fall, as she ran to Kero and threw her arms around her neck. Kerowyn held her awkwardly, as she sobbed into the older girl's shoulder.

“K-Kerowyn, I thought they were going to k-kill me!” Dierna cried. “I thought no one was going to come in time! Y-you were w-w-wonderful—”

She went on in that vein for quite a while.
Poor baby. Poor baby.
Kerowyn just patted her gingerly on the back until the flood subsided, then coaxed her to the side of the spare horse and secured the blanket full of loot to the back of the saddle. The horse was so tired it didn't even object to the noisy bundle.

“Where's the knee-rest?” Dierna asked, trying to find the kind of accoutrements she was used to on a saddle.

“There isn't one,” Kero replied, hauling herself up onto Verenna's back. “You're going to have to ride like me.”

“Like—but—” Dierna paled, then her lower lip started to quiver. “But—but—I can‘t! It isn't—my dress—it's not
womanly!
”

Kero closed her eyes, and begged Agnira for patience. “Your dress is ruined,” she pointed out. “Besides, no one expects to see you
alive,
Dierna. Nobody is going to notice that you're riding astride. Now just slit your dress and let's get out of here before one of those bastards comes back.”

And when Dierna hesitated, with the little knife Kero had handed her dangling loosely from her fingers, Kero added, “That leech-thing might not be dead, you know.”

The girl squeaked; slit the skirt of her dress so that she could swing her leg over the saddle and get her foot into the stirrup, and mounted with all the haste Kero could have wanted.

Blessed Agnira, spare me from “womanly, ” if this is what it is,
she thought, making the words an unconscious prayer as she took the reins of Dierna's horse to lead it behind her own.
Just—spare me.

:So what do you think of the girl now?:
Warrl asked conversationally, as Tarma sorted through the scattered piles of the bandits' belongings.

“I'm pretty impressed,” the Shin‘a'in admitted, as she squatted on her heels, emptying out a belt-pouch, and separating copper from silver. Not that there was much of the former, and of the latter there was even less, but Tarma was a thrifty soul, and young Lordan was going to need all the help he could get. He was going to have to pay for enough mercenaries to keep his neighbors from getting ideas about annexing his property to theirs. That took ready cash, and silver and copper spent as readily as gold.

“I think I have a fair notion how much of what went on was the damn sword's doing, and how much was the girl‘s,” she continued, pouring the coppers into a large leather pouch that had been a wineskin a few moments ago. “She's got a few brains besides the guts.”

:Unlike a certain barbarian nomad I once knew. :
Warrl chortled; Tarma simply ignored him, and moved on to a pile of looted wedding gifts the girls had overlooked. Of course, it had been
under
one of the men Tarma had shot, which might be why they'd overlooked it....

She shook her head over a blood-soaked silk cloak.
Too bad; that's one wedding present ruined past anyone using it.
She tossed it onto the fire. “I never claimed to have much in the way of brains when I was younger. Now—well, I'd rather do things with a minimum of effort, and that takes planning. That was good work with the horses, Furface.”

:Thank you. And you displayed your customary efficiency with the sentries.:
Warrl nosed something out of the dirt, and batted a shiny little gold pendant toward his mind-mate with his paw. She snatched it up adroitly and dropped it into the appropriate pouch.

“You must be planning something rude; you're com plimenting me,” she teased him, stripping the body at her feet of everything useful, and tossing various items on the appropriate piles. “I'll tell you though, I had a bad moment back there, when the mage started that blood-rite. I thought that stupid sword would take the girl over and turn her into a nice juicy target before we had a chance to start distracting them.”

:You didn't think it knew what we were doing?:
Warrl dragged a set of saddlebags over to the fire so that Tarma could rummage through them, then stood beside her, head cocked to one side, watching her work with absent curiosity.

“I've never known what that sword noticed or didn't notice,” the Shin‘a'in admitted. “I
know
the damn thing's amazing when it wants to be—but I don't think even Keth has ever figured it out, and she's Adept-class. All we know for sure is that it Heals, it gives a mage fighting mastery, and a fighter immunity from magic. And it won't work against a woman.”

“Too true,” Tarma sighed, thinking of all the times exactly that had happened. And all the trouble the sword had gotten them into as a consequence. Not to mention all the
paying
jobs it had cost them. “What did you do with the rest of the nags, anyway?”

:Herded into a blind canyon. They won't be going anywhere. I assumed you'd want them.:
Warrl sounded more than usually smug, and with good reason. By the time Tarma finished collecting everything salvageable, there was going to be enough here for at least three pack animals—and the horses themselves would be worth something, ill-used, scrubby beasts though they were. Most of the horses the bandits rode in on hadn't been stolen from the Keep.

:They'll be worth more if Lordan offers them as bonuses to any merc who signs with him than if he sells them,:
Warrl pointed out, following her train of thought with his customary ease.
:It isn't often a common merc gets a chance at even a scrubby nag like one of this lot.:

“Good point; I'll make sure he realizes that.” She straightened, and surveyed the remains of the camp. “I think I've gotten everything worth getting. The vultures are welcome to what's left.”

:No self-respecting vulture would touch one of these fools.:
Warrl sniffed disdainfully.
:Stupidity might be catching. :

Tarma snorted in agreement as she tied up a bundle of assorted silver plate. “They really weren't terribly bright, were they?”

Tarma paused with her hands on the last knot. “Now that you mention it,” she said slowly, “it does. You might think these fools had never worked together before.”

:Hired separately?:
Warrl licked his lips.
:Then thrown together—that would account for some of the laxness, the lack of coordination. They did act as if each man was following his own set of orders, and to the nether hells with whatever anyone else was doing. And once back at camp, the only thing they did as a group was to set sentries. :

“Exactly.” Tarma sat back on her heels, and stared at the dying fire without really seeing it. “Now why would someone want to throw a group of scum together that they
know
is going to fall apart the moment the job is over?”

Warrl began pacing back and forth, head swinging from side to side a little. :One
would assume that whoever hired them—wanted them caught?:

“Good notion. Let's think about this—if everything had gone wrong for these fools, what would have happened to them?” Tarma stood up, and joined Warrl in his pacing.

:If they had not been able to take the girl, Rathgar would have been faulted for not protecting her. And I would guess that in any case the mage was ordered to dispose of Rathgar, no matter what the cost. They certainly had the men to assure that.:
Warrl paused in his pacing, and looked up at her.
:Which would leave the estate in the hands of the boy.:

“Who could be gotten rid of as soon as the bride had produced an heir, or even before.” Tarma scratched an old scar on the back of her hand. “All right—if it had gone half right, and they'd killed Rathgar, but left a force of able-bodied men behind to follow, it would have taken a while to get that force organized. And even if someone had come pounding after them, they'd have had time to get rid of the girl, which would give the family an excuse for blood-feud.”

:If you assume the girl is expendable—:
Warrl sounded sour.

Tarma felt just as sour; the Shin‘a'in lived and died for their Clans, and the idea that a man could betray his own blood for the sake of gain curdled her stomach. Not that she hadn't encountered this before—but it curdled her stomach every time. “I think she is, given who's probably behind the attack in the first place. Keth already had this one figured. The uncle. Baron Reichert.”

“Aye, that. He'd put up his own daughter as an expendable, let alone a mere niece.” She frowned. “Let's get the horses. I think that once we're in place, we'd better make the Keep a lot more secure than Rathgar had it, or the bride is likely to be a widow before the year's out. Assuming
she
lives that long.”

 

The sun was approaching zenith by the time Tarma coaxed the weary, footsore horses through the gates of walls about the Keep-lands—and by the tingle on her skin as she passed under the portcullis of the Keep itself, Kethry had already put a mage-barrier about the place.

The Keep was more than a fortified manor; it was a small walled town, with a small pasture—or large paddock—within the walls for keeping horses. The quarried stone walls were “manned” by an odd assortment of women, old men, and boys, but Tarma nodded with approval as she gave them a surreptitious inspection while she dismounted and tended to the horse-herd. They were alert, they were armed with the kind of weapons they were most familiar with, and they looked determined. The boys had slings and bows; the old men, spears and crossbows; the women, knives, scythes, and threshing flails. By their weathered complexions and sturdy builds, those women and boys had been gleaned from the farms around the Keep, and Tarma knew her farmers. Every mercenary did. They could be frightened off, but if they decided to make a stand, they weren't worth moving against. Farmers like these had taken out plenty of men with those “peasant weapons.”

Evidently she was expected; the farmers around the Keep knew her, in any event, from the old days when the Keep had been a school that she'd shared with Keth. Those farmers had long memories, and several recognized her on sight. She even knew one or two, once she got within the walls and close enough to make out faces. One of those was a woman just above the gate, who waved, then turned her attention back to the road, shading her eyes with her hand while she fanned herself with her hat. Leaning on the wall beside her was a wicked, long-bladed scythe, newly-sharpened by the gleam of it, and having seen her at harvest time with that particular instrument, Tarma would not have wanted to rouse her ire.

No one came down to help her, which spoke well for discipline, and that Keth had evidently impressed the seriousness of the situation on them.