Sword Play (13 page)

“Why?”

The elf slowed in carving meat with her dagger. Sunbright liked the way her slim hands worked, capable and strong but delicate. Now she sighed again. “I must journey to the court of the One King. I carry a missive for him from the court of the High Elves of Cormanthyr, who are distant cousins. My own fool’s errand.”

“Hunh.” Sunbright munched, talking with his mouth full. “What does the missive say?”

She pointed her slim dagger. Her eyes were gray-green by candlelight, like deep-hued animate jewels. “I’ll tell you what I told the council. My missive directs the One King to cease his empire-building, or else.”

The barbarian didn’t ask, Or else what? Instead, he swallowed and pronounced, “I’ll go with you.”

“You will?” Greenwillow was so surprised she dropped a chunk of meat. It landed in her bowl and splashed gravy on her chest. “Why should you? It’ll be dangerous enough for me, but I’m an appointed emissary of a high court. You’re just a freebooter. You might end up a … target.”

Sunbright shrugged. His life was dangerous and had always been so. Distant threats didn’t worry him. “We’ve fought together as comrades-in-arms. I can hardly let you continue alone after we’ve shared blood.”

The elven warrior sat, hands poised, a softening expression on her exotic face until she looked almost like any simple woman alone in the world and far from home. “Well… That’s very generous of you.”

Missing her change of voice, Sunbright waved a hand. “It’s nothing. A point of honor. Besides, I must journey to the One King’s court myself, to gain information for Chandler back in Augerbend.”

“Oh. Oh, I see.” Greenwillow ducked her head and sawed her meat.

Finally, with typical male denseness, Sunbright sensed the frost in her voice. But of course it was too late to mend it, so they finished their meal in silence.

By the time they left the Bursting Book, the sky was fully dark. There were stars but no moon. Sunbright traced constellations with his finger. “There. The Panther rises. The time is right.” He marched back toward the center of town.

Despite her coolness, Greenwillow fell in beside him. “For what?”

“I need to retrieve Dorlas’s body before the wolves get it. Though I’ll admit I don’t know how to treat his carcass, whether to bury or burn it.”

“You needn’t do everything yourself, you know.” In the darkness, he could see the pale shine of her face, but couldn’t read her emotions. And too, they both had to watch their footing on the sometimes slimy cobblestones. “A city this size will have a fighters’ guild. Part of their function is to see freebooters buried, their goods returned to their families if possible. They’ll probably ask other dwarves to handle the funeral.”

Sunbright mulled that over. If he’d died today, who would have buried him properly, who would have sent his effects home to his tribe wandering the tundra? He’d be lucky if anyone prayed his name as flames turned his muscle to smoke.

At the great locked gates leading to the farmlands, the guards were dubious about opening the night door. It existed to admit after-hours travelers, who were forced to walk a tight, long corridor where they would be subject to a rain of stones and quarrels. They feared the lone Netherese hunter on the golden dragon machine might still lurk in the woods. A group of Neth huntsmen had flown in earlier and retrieved the dead hunter and metal mount.

Greenwillow said, “They’ll be gone. They have their own twisted honor. Once the quarry reaches the city, the game is over.”

The guards waffled, for it was known that the city wanted to retrieve the gallant dwarf’s body for a hero’s funeral—once the coast was clear and the sun well up in the sky.

“We’ll go now and save you the trip,” Sunbright told them, and that clinched the argument.

By starlight and the ghostly glow of the dusty road, the two crept forth. Sunbright trod silently awhile, wary of ambush, but the elf, who had cat’s eyes, told him there was no one about. So they talked.

Greenwillow asked, “What did you call that constellation you steered by?”

The barbarian pointed. “The Panther. There’s her head, and there’s her tail.”

“My people call it the Bell.”

“Ah.” Having quarreled earlier, albeit silently, they were now overly formal. “I suppose it matters not, as long as we can see it. I doubt the stars care what mortals name them.”

A sniff sounded, but the elf added, “That’s poetic for a barbarian.”

“Who better to know poetry?” Sunbright returned. “I know lowlanders call us savages because we don’t read. We carry our tribe’s lore in our heads. Give me enough liquor, and I could recite stories and sing songs the night long, and never repeat one. And I’m no storyteller, just a warrior. Our storytellers could talk you deaf with weeks of lore and song!”

Greenwillow said nothing, only marched along the road they’d run during the day. His boasting was pointless, in a way, for even in her short years, thrice those of any human, she’d learned thousands of stories and songs and forgotten more of them than a mere man or woman could know. But Sunbright paid himself a compliment by valuing his people’s history and glory. Neither his head nor his heart were empty, she had to admit.

A grumbling snarl sounded ahead. Sunbright hissed, “Scat!” and two fat shapes waddled away. A short, dark outline in the road marked the dead dwarf, and the two were glad they couldn’t see his face after raccoons had worried it.

The barbarian gave a short epitaph like a prayer. “Come, friend. Your work is done and the day gone. Let us hie you home, where many will sing your praises.” Neither spoke as Sunbright hoisted the stocky body to his shoulder. It was surprisingly light from having lost so much blood. “Get his warhammer. We don’t want…”

“I’ve got it.”

They turned back toward the gates. To distract them from what he carried, Sunbright mused, “I wonder how the farm folk and harvesters knew to flee inside the walls. How could they know the Neth would come hunting?”

“Probably some other Neth sent the city elders a warning. I’d like to think that not all Netherese approve of hunting humans. But with their penchant for intrigue, it could merely have been a spoilsport scaring off a rival’s game.”

The young man stumped along with his burden, shifting it to the other shoulder. “How do you know so much about the Hunt?”

The silence was long. “The hunting rules the Neth abide by were adopted from my cousins, the High Elves of Cormanthyr, who have hunted humans for centuries.” She added in defense, “As usual, the human mages have perverted the original purpose, which is lost in ancient times. Believe it or not, the High Elves hunting humans was a compliment, for it marked the ascendancy of mankind and the eventual decline of elves.”

Silence implied the human didn’t consider being hunted a compliment, so Greenwillow tossed out her own question. “How did you turn that great cave bear from attacking us?”

Sunbright waved his free hand, realized she couldn’t see it—though she could—and said, “Oh, I just told him we were friends. I work to be a—” He stopped the word “shaman” before it escaped. “A friend to animals. Which reminds me. We’ll buy a goat and tether it near the bear’s den. You should thank anyone who gives you a gift, and my life is my most prized possession.”

“Mine too.”

For a second, the barbarian thought Greenwillow meant his life was precious to her. Then he realized that, of course, she meant her own.

So the three companions, two living, one dead, trudged silently back to the city they’d spent almost two seasons trying to reach.

In the end, Dorlas was neither buried nor burned. Three dwarves had taken custody of the body and worked the night through to plane and hammer a coffin that was only partly watertight. At dawn, as the sun rose rimmed in blood, the three carried the short coffin on their shoulders to the edge of the river. A quiet word had passed to the city elders that there would be no ornate state funeral. The only observers to the ceremony were Sunbright and Greenwillow, who argued they had been friends of the dead man, or at least comrades.

The dwarves eased the coffin down on the pebbly shingle. Each bent to pluck a handful of gravel that was then sprinkled over the wooden box. The rattling was loud enough to startle sleeping ducks from the cattails on the other side of the river. When invited, Sunbright and Dorlas also stepped forward and sprinkled handfuls of soil on the coffin.

The dwarf in charge of the funeral, Mondar, explained, “These stones will cover him as he begins his journey to his homeland.” Dorlas, they’d been told, was originally from a tribe called the Sons of Baltar in the Iron Mountains far to the south. Since the river wended that way, the leaky coffin would be consigned to it. Somewhere along the way it would surely sink, but the idea was that the dead Dorlas could travel the rest of the way underground once he reached the riverbed. Together, the five participants pushed the coffin into the quiet water. It bobbed and tipped, then straightened side-on to the current and sailed southward. Mondar called, “Go, brother, and lead the way!”

Dorlas’s warrior tackle had been stripped from his body, for it was thought there was no fighting in the afterlife, only simple pleasures and fulfilling work. Solemnly, Mondar held up the dead man’s knife, and asked, “Who will take this knife, that it might work well and honor its master’s name?” A dwarf held out his hand and received it. So went the crossbow and quarrels, baldric, even his file and fishhooks and compass. The dwarves were all workmen in the city and could find a use for the tools. At the last, Mondar held up the fearsome warhammer, frowning at it, for with its long narrow head and sharp parrot’s beak on the back face, it would make a poor tool for blacksmith or cobbler or silversmith. At the ritual question “Who will take this warhammer, that it might work well and honor its master’s name?” no one extended his hand.

In the awkward silence, Sunbright surprised himself and everyone else by saying, “I will.”

The dwarves squinted in the bright light of dawn. Needing to explain, Sunbright said, “I have more battles ahead, and can do honor to Dorlas’s name. But I promise that someday I will return the hammer to his family in the Iron Mountains. I’ll tell them how he died and saved our lives.”

“It is not necessary.” Mondar frowned. “We know of his dying. Word will pass to his relatives.”

“Good. For if I’m killed, I won’t be able to relate the tale. But if I live, I will make that journey. I owe him that much.” Behind him Greenwillow sniffed, but this time to hold back tears.

Without a word, Mondar laid the cold, heavy warhammer in the young man’s hand. Sunbright slid it in his belt, felt it nestle beneath his ribs. He wasn’t sure why he’d taken it or made that vow. Perhaps he was only being selfish, and hoped that when he was killed, someone would make an effort to see that his family knew. But whatever the reason, he was glad.

Barbarian and elf had slept for a few short hours in a soldiers’ hostel where the women were separated from the men. Over a breakfast of bread and ale and cheese served at long tables in a surprisingly quiet throng, Sunbright suggested, “Since this is my first time in a city, you’d best lead the way. What do we do?”

Greenwillow used her crust to sop up the last of her ale and stuffed it in her mouth. “First we collect our wages, before anyone forgets they owe us. Let’s go.” Getting up from the table, she dropped her mug in a tub by the door and strode into the sunshine.

Unerringly, she marched to the left and up the center of the street. Sunbright had no idea where they were bound, or what their destination was, so he simply trotted along at her side like a child. Housewives and masons and fishmongers and schoolchildren watched them curiously as they passed.

Thinking aloud, Greenwillow said, “We bodyguarded them for six months, give or take. One hundred eighty days … at two silver crowns a day … with two of us … is seven hundred twenty crowns. The traders who survived were fourteen, so that’s … fifty-odd apiece they owe us. Cheap enough for saving their lives, and they don’t have to pay Dorlas or the other dead bodyguards. Still, I imagine they’ll squeal like trapped pigs. We could go to the piepowder court for our wages, but that would take forever. There’s one!”

Sunbright was flummoxed by her ciphering. He’d been fuzzy on the whole idea of being paid in coins, anyway. In his tribe, you bargained for the completion of a job, usually for supplies. So what she was doing was a mystery. But he recognized the flag over the shop door. It was a bluebird on a yellow circle, symbol of the house of Sunadram, a middle-aged trader with a yellow beard.

Sunadram was in his shop, which was heaped high on all sides with fabrics in every color. He held an account book, jabbing a finger repeatedly, demanding of his cringing clerks why the figures didn’t add up. Greenwillow had to shout his name several times to get his attention.

When she did, Sunadram slammed the book shut and rubbed his face. “Oh, you two. What do you want?”

Sunbright didn’t like his tone of voice, and would have punched the man for his insolence, but Greenwillow only spread her feet, planted her hands on her hips, and stated simply, “Our wages for bodyguarding. We kept you alive, so we’ll take fifty silver crowns, if you please.”

Already the fabric seller was shaking his head. “No, no, no. I pay no bills without a proper invoice. You’ll need to write up your request, then have it notarized by the city clerk. I’ll consider it then, but you’ll have to wait. My shop is in chaos because of my long absence. These idiots can’t add two and two without slipping three into their pockets. Now, I’m busy, so good day.”

Greenwillow only nodded, which Sunbright found astonishing. The man, who’d bargained fairly at the beginning of the journey, now reneged. By barbarian code, the two fighters could cut him down, chop off his head, then take their pay in money or goods, or else enslave some of these clerks, though they were puny specimens. But Greenwillow only turned for the door.

“Wait!” Sunbright whirled after her, tackle jingling. “What about our—”

“Hush!” She stepped through the door into the morning bustle, then pointed to the doorjamb. “Stand there and be quiet. And sharpen your sword; it must need it.”