Oathblood (10 page)

“Safe enough for that,” Kethry acknowledged. “From all I heard they don't bestir themselves more than they can help. By the time they manage to get themselves organized into a party big enough to give us trouble, we'll have paid for our meal and gone.”

 

The dark, stone-walled common room of the inn was
much
cooler than the street outside. Bard Leslac lounged in the coolest, darkest corner, sipped his tepid ale, and congratulated himself smugly on his foresight. There was only one inn—his quarry would
have
to come here to eat and drink. He'd beaten them by nearly half a day; he'd had plenty of time to choose a comfortable, out-of-the-way corner to observe what
must
come.

For nearly two years now, he had been following the careers of a pair of freelance mercenaries, both of them women (which was unusual enough), one a sorceress, the other one of the mysterious Shin‘a'in out of the Dhorisha Plains (which was unheard of). He had created one truly masterful ballad out of the stories he'd collected about them—masterful enough that he was no longer being pelted with refuse in village squares, and was now actually welcome in taverns.

But he wanted more such ballads. And there was one cloud on his success.

Not once in all that time had he ever managed to actually catch sight of the women.

Oh, he'd
tried,
right enough—but they kept making unexpected and unexplained detours—and by the time he found out where they'd gone, it was too late to do anything but take notes from the witnesses and curse his luck for not being on the scene. No bard worth his strings would ever take secondhand accounts for the whole truth. Especially not when those secondhand accounts were so—unembellished. No impassioned speeches, no fountains of blood—in fact, by the way these stupid peasants kept telling the tales, the women seemed to go out of their way to
avoid
fights. And that was plainly not possible.

 

But
this
time he had them. There was no place for them to go now except Viden—and Viden boasted a wicked overlord.

 

Leslac was
certain
they'd head here. How could they not? Hadn't they made a career out of righting the wrongs done to helpless women? Surely some of the women in Viden had been abused by Lord Gorley. Surely Gorley's Lady was in dire need of rescue. He could just imagine it—Tarma facing down a round dozen of Gorley's men, then dispatching them easily with a triumphant laugh. Kethry taking on Lord Gorley's sorcerer (surely he had one) in a mage duel of titanic proportions. The possibilities were endless....

 

And Leslac would be on hand to record
everything.

 

Tarma sagged down onto the smooth wooden bench with a sigh.
Damn, but I wish we could overnight it. One more day in this heat and folks'll smell us coming a furlong away. Wish I just dared to take my damned boots off. My feet feel broiled.

She propped both elbows on the wooden table and knuckled the dust out of her eyes.

Footsteps approaching. Then, “What'll it be, miladies?”

The deep voice to her right sounded just a shade apprehensive. Tarma blinked up at the burly innkeeper standing a respectful distance away.

“No ladies here, Keeper,” she replied, her hoarse voice even more grating than usual because of all the dust she'd eaten today. “Just a couple of tired mercs wanting a meal and a
quiet
drink.”

The slightly worried look did not leave the innkeeper's shiny, round face. “And
that?”
he asked, nodding at Warrl, sprawled beside her on the stone floor, panting.

“All
he
wants is about two tradeweight of meat scraps and bones—more meat than bone, please, and no bird bones. A big bowl of cool water. And half a loaf of barley bread.”

:With honey,:
prompted the voice in her head.

:Yes,:
Warrl said with finality.

“With honey,” she amended. “Split the loaf and pour it down the middle.”

:I will not!:
Warrl gave her an offended glance from the floor.

The innkeeper smiled a little. Tarma grinned back. “Damn beast's got a sweet tooth. What's on the board tonight?”

“Mutton stew, chicken fried or stewed, egg‘n'onion pie. Cheese bread or barley bread. Ale or wine.”

“Which's cooler?”

The innkeeper smiled a little more. “Wine. More expensive and goes bad quicker, so we keep it deeper in cellar.”

“Egg pie, cheese bread, and wine.” Tarma looked across the tiny table at Kethry, who was trying to knot her amber hair up off her neck and having no great success. Kethry nodded shortly. “White wine, if you've got it. For two.”

“You be staying?” The apprehensive look was back.

“No,” Tarma raised an eyebrow at him. “I don't like to slander a man's homeplace, but your town's got a bad name for travelers, Keeper. I don't doubt we could take care of anyone thinking to shake us down, but it would make an almighty mess in your clean inn.”

The innkeeper heaved a visible sigh of relief. “My mind exactly, swordlady. I seen a few mercs in my time—and you two look handier than most. But you dealin' with Gorley's bullyboys would leave
me
out of pocket for things broke—more than losin' your night's lodging is gonna cost me.”

Tarma looked around the common room, and was mildly surprised to see that they were the only occupants other than a scruffy, curly-pated minstrel-type tucked up in one corner. She dismissed that one without a second thought. Too skinny to be any kind of fighter, so he wasn't one of Gorley's enforcers; dark of hair and dusky of skin, so he wasn't local. And he blinked in a way that told her he was just a tad shortsighted. No threat.

“That why you're a bit short on custom?” she asked. “Not having travelers?”

“Nah—it ain't market-day, that's all. We never was much on overnighters anyway, only got three rooms upstairs. Most folk stop at Lyavor or Grant's Hold. Always made
our
way on local custom. I bring you your wine, eh? You want that pie cold or het up?”

Tarma shuddered. “Cold, cold—I've had enough heat and dust today.”

“Then it won't be but a blink—”

The innkeeper hurried through the open door in the far wall that presumably led to the kitchen. Tarma sagged her head back down to her hands and closed her eyes.

 

Leslac frowned. This was
not
going as he'd expected.

The women—he'd expected them to be taller, somehow, especially the swordswoman. Cleaner, not so—shabby. Aristocratic. Silk for the sorceress, and shining steel armor for the swordswoman, not a dull buff homespun robe and a plain leather gambeson. And in his mental image they had always held themselves proudly, challengingly—shining Warriors of the Light—

Not two tired, dusty, slouching,
ordinary
women; not women who rubbed their red-rimmed eyes or fought with their hair.

Not women who avoided a confrontation.

He studied them despite his disappointment—surely, surely there was
some
sign of the legend they were becoming—the innkeeper had seen it. He'd been concerned that they
could
take on Lord Gorley's men and win—and wreck the inn in the process.

After long moments of study, as the innkeeper came and went with food and drink, Leslac began to smile again. No, these weren't Shining Warriors of the Light—these women were something even better.

Like angels who could put on human guise, Tarma and Kethry hid their strengths—obviously to put their targets off-guard. But the signs were there, and the innkeeper had read them before Leslac had even guessed at them. But—it showed; in the easy way they moved, in the hands that never strayed too far from a hilt, in the fact that they had not put off their weapons. In the way that
one
of them was always on guard, eyes warily surveying the room between bites. In the signs of wear that only hard usage could put on a weapon.

Undoubtedly they were
intending
to remain here—but they didn't want Lord Gorley alerted by staying in the inn.

Leslac mentally congratulated them on their subtlety.

Even as he did so, however, there was a commotion at the inn door—and red-faced and besotted with drink, Lord Gorley himself staggered through it after colliding with both of the doorposts.

Leslac nearly crowed with glee and pressed himself back into the rough stone of the corner wall.
Now
he'd have what he'd come so far to witness! There would be no way now for the women to avoid a confrontation!

 

 

Tarma was sipping the last of her wine when the drunk stumbled in through the door and tripped over Warrl's tail.

Warrl yelped and sent ou a Mindshriek that was comprised of more startlement than pain. But it left Tarma stunned and deafened for a moment—and when her eyes cleared, the sot was looming over her, enveloping her in a cloud of stale wine fumes.

Oh, Lady of the Sunrise, I do not need this
—

“Ish zhish yer dog?” The man was beefy, muscle running to fat, nose a red lacework of broken veins that told a tale of far too many nights like this one—nights spent drunk on his butt before the sun was scarcely below the horizon. His wattled face was flushed with wine and anger, his curly brown hair greasy with sweat.

Tarma sighed. “Insofar as anyone can claim him, yes, he's mine,” she said placatingly. “I'm sorry he was in your way. Now why don't you let me buy you a drink by way of apology?”

The innkeeper had inexplicably vanished, but there was a mug or three left in their bottle—

The man would not be placated. “I don' like yer dog,” he growled, “an' I don' like yer ugly face!”

He stumbled back a pace or two—then, before Tarma had a chance to blink, he'd drawn his sword and was swinging at her.

Wildly, of course. She didn't have to move but a hand's breadth to dodge out of his way—but that only served to anger him further, and he came at her, windmilling his blade fit to cut the air into ribbons.

She rolled off the bench and came up on her toes. He followed so closely on her heels that she had only time to dodge, drop to her shoulder and roll out of his way again, under the shelter of another bench.

As he kicked at her shelter, she could see that Warrl was beneath the table, grinning at her.

You mangy flea-monger, you
started
this!
she thought at him, avoiding the drunk's kick, but losing her shield. She scrambled to her feet again, dodging another swing.

:I did no such thing,:
Warrl replied coolly.
:It was purely accident—:

She got a table between herself and the sot—but the drunk swung, split the table in two, and kept coming.

Lady's teeth, I daren't use a blade on him, I'll kill him by accident,
she thought.
And then I'll have the townsfolk or his friends on our backs.

She looked about her in a breath between a duck and a dodge. In desperation she grabbed a broom that was leaning up in a corner by the kitchen door.

Since he was flailing away as much with the flat as with the edge, and since
she
could pick the angle with which she met his weapon, she was now effectively on equal footing. Mostly.

He was still drunk as a pig, and mad as a hornet's nest. And
he
wanted to kill her.

She countered, blocked, and countered again; blocked the blade high and slipped under it to end up behind him.

And swatted his ample rear with the business end of the broom.

That
was a mistake; he was angered still more, and his anger was making him sober. His swings were becoming more controlled, and with a lot more force behind them—

Tarma looked around for assistance. Kethry was standing over in the sheltered corner beside the fireplace, laughing her head off.

“You might
help!”
Tarma snapped, dodging another blow, and poking the drunk in the belly with the end of the broom. Unfortunately, the straw end, or the contest would have finished right there.

“Oh, no, I wouldn't think of it!” Kethry howled, tears pouring down her face. “You're doing so well by yourself!”

Tarma blocked another stroke, then poked the sot in the belly again—but
this
time with the sharp end of the broom.

The man's eyes bulged and he folded over, dropping his sword and grabbing his ample belly.

Tarma ran around behind him and gave him a tremendous swat in the rear, sending him tumbling across the room—

—where he tripped and fell into the cold fireplace, his head meeting the andiron with a sickening
crack.

Silence fell, thick as the heat, and Tarma got a sinking feeling in her stomach.

“Oh, hell—” Tarma walked over to the fallen drunk and poked him with her toe.

No doubt about it. He was stone dead.

“Oh,
hell.
Oh,
bloody
hell.”

The innkeeper appeared at her elbow as silently and mysteriously as he'd vanished. He looked at the shambles of his inn—and took a closer look at the body.

“By the gods—” he gulped. “You've killed Lord Gorley!”

 

“Your husband may not have been much before, Lady, but I'm afraid right now he's rather less,” Tarma said wearily. Somewhat to her amazement, the innkeeper had
not
summoned what passed for the law in Viden; instead he'd locked up the inn and sent one of his boys off for Lady Gorley. Tarma was not minded to try and make a run for it—unless they
had
to. The horses were tired, and so were they. It
might
be they could talk themselves out of this one.