I knew many Mystics in my day. Some were good, like Jordel of the family Adair, about whom I have told you. A few were cruel. Most were somewhere in the middle. But for the most part, I rarely wished to get involved with Mystics if I could help it. If they were present in any situation, it was because things had gotten much worse than they should have. And with some exceptions, I knew them for a suspicious lot, willing to go to any length to solve a crime they were investigating. They were only too ready to eliminate anything—or anyone—they perceived as a threat to the High King’s order.
So you can understand it was with some trepidation that we submitted ourselves to inspection by the redcloaks. More than their scrutiny, I feared that word of our coming might reach unwanted ears. The Shades had agents in many places, and I did not doubt that at least some of them had infiltrated the redcloaks. Yet there was nothing we could do, other than turn and ride from Taitou with all possible speed—and that would have been suspicious, to say the least. Then the Mystics would have sent out word to their order that three riders of our description had refused to submit to inspection, and that news would have reached Kaita in time.
So I fixed a smile on my face as I stood a few paces off from Foolhoof, my gelding. “Is there anything I can help you with, friend? If you tell me what you are looking for, mayhap I can tell you where to find it.”
The Mystic, a stout man with dark hair and a heavy scar on his left cheek, frowned at me. It was his second time going through my things.
“If you were carrying what I am looking for, you would not tell me.”
“Contraband, is it?” said Mag. “Or mayhap you seek a blue cloak?”
I winced. Dark take Mag. She almost seemed to enjoy taunting the King’s law and those who served it.
Both Mystics gave her sharp looks. “An odd thing to say,” growled the second one, a strong-armed twixt with impressive scars on their bare arms. I wondered how they were not shivering with cold. “What makes you think of blue cloaks?”
“Come, my friends.” Dryleaf was as polite as ever. “Do you imagine we are ignorant of the rumors about these Shades? Sky above, they attacked the Seat. It does no one any good to pretend at secrecy—not us, and not you, with your mission from the High King.”
“Our mission is our own, and we will see to it,” said the man. “But as for you three, what exactly do you know of the Shades?”
“Only what everyone knows,” I said, shrugging. “They attacked the Seat, and then they vanished. All else is rumors.”
The twixt glared hard. “What rumors, exactly?”
“Zhen! Lo!” said a new voice. “I hope you are not being rude to Taitou’s newest guests.”
Both Mystics yanked their hands from our saddles, smoothed their cloaks, and stood at attention, as another approached through the gate. As he came to a stop before us, the others saluted with fists over their hearts.
The first thing I noticed about the new arrival was his smile, for it seemed ever-present, and it flashed with well-kept white teeth. After that, I noticed that he was short—or a bit shorter than me, anyway—with several layers of fat beneath his clothing. He wore a red cloak, like most of those in his order, and the Mystic badge—three rods bound by a circle, with three-sectioned wings behind. But he also bore an arrow insignia on his tunic that told me he was a captain, the same as Jordel had been. My fingers played with a small bag at my belt holding one of Jordel’s clasps, which I had taken from his body in token of memory. I was glad the Mystics had not wanted to search our every pocket and pouch.
As the captain came to a clipped halt, I found myself straightening as the Mystics had. It was the long-honed habit of drawing up before an officer about to inspect you. (Mag, if anything, slouched a bit more).
Dryleaf bowed his head as he heard the captain come to a halt. “Your fine warriors were doing only their duty, I am sure.” He stepped forwards and offered his hand.
The Mystic captain stepped forwards and took his wrist gently to shake it. “They are dutiful, no doubt,” he said. “Though they often inconvenience new arrivals more than turns out to be necessary. But what can one do? These are dangerous times. I am certain ones such as yourselves understand.”
Mag cocked her head. “Ones such as ourselves?”
“Well, you understand me,” said the captain. “Warriors.”
Mag paused, appraising him for a moment. To cover the sudden silence, I stepped towards the captain and extended my hand as Dryleaf had done. “Of course we understand, Captain …?”
His eyes flashed as he took my wrist and shook. “You recognize the symbol. Few do. I am Captain Kun, of the family Zhou.”
I managed to keep my expression neutral, but inside I winced. Recognizing a captain’s arrow was nothing a simple traveler would be able to do. He suspected we were fighters, and I had just confirmed it.
But I said only, “I am Kanohari. And my friend here is Chao. Our elderly friend is Dryleaf.” Mag and I were using false names, you will remember.
“I may be blind, but I say again that I think you overstate things,” said Dryleaf, cheerfully snippy. “If I could see, I do not doubt I would find you almost of an age with me.”
The joke was well rehearsed, and I chuckled. Dryleaf smiled. But Captain Zhou’s eyes were on Mag. She was staring around as if in boredom, waiting for us to sort out the pleasantries. Kun saw it, and he pointed to her as he laughed.
“Do you see that? Her manner reassures me more than any words the three of you could speak.” Still holding my right hand in his, he clapped his left hand over them both and turned to the Mystic behind him. “Look at her—Chao, they say. Not a care in the world. Not afraid of you two searching through her things. You would expect a little nervousness from an enemy warrior—pardon me; you did say you were warriors, did you not?”
“We did not,” I said. “But I can answer you now and tell you that we were. Both of us served as mercenaries in our youth.”
Interest sparked in Kun’s eyes. “Sellswords? How utterly fascinating. The High King needs soldiers now, with Underrealm threatened by war. Who knows when the armies of Dulmun will strike next? Or indeed, these Shades you were speaking about with such authority. I am certain Her Majesty would rather have you on her side than let the enemy snap you up.”
This line of conversation seemed to be drawing into perilous territory. Mag’s attention was fully back on the exchange, but I spoke before she could. “Our fighting days are long past us,” I told him. “We are merely looking for a friend—another former mercenary who had gone to the coast to visit family. When we heard the Seat had been attacked, we grew concerned. We have journeyed long to seek her, for as you said, these are uncertain times. Fear not on our account. We are true citizens of Underrealm, and we would never lend our blades to vile traitors and rebels.” I gave an easy smile. “But we are old citizens as well, and too weary of fighting to pledge ourselves to the High King’s armies, even for coin.”
Kun did not look disappointed, but only smiled broader and shook his head. “That is a pity. You seem as though you would be good to have in a fight. But I might have guessed that you had left your fighting days behind you, what with your companion. Meaning no offense, of course, Grandfather.” He chuckled.
“Oh, that is quite all right, young man,” said Dryleaf, matching the man’s laugh. “Who could look at me and see a great champion?”
Oku padded forwards to sniff at Kun’s boot, and the captain stooped to scratch his shoulder. “Well then,” said Kun. “You are free to go on about your business, of course. But be careful. The Shades emerged from the Birchwood in strength, and seemingly from thin air. One wonders where they could be lurking now.”
“One wonders indeed.” I shook his hand once more and then helped Dryleaf into his saddle before gaining my own. “Thank you for your kindness. It is good to see that even in suspicious times, some have not forgotten the value of courtesy. Sky bless you.”
“And may the moons shine upon your
path,” said Kun. He smiled as we left, and even gave a little wave just before we passed through the gate.
“That could have gone worse,” remarked Mag as we passed into the streets of Taitou. “But I think that captain paid more attention to us than he appeared to.”
“You are being paranoid,” I said. “My only worry about him is that he might be too friendly for his own good. A trusting manner is welcome to travelers, but it might let more sinister folk slip through a net that should be tight.”
“I hear your concern,” said Dryleaf with a smile. “Yet it is better to find out one was too kind than to find that one has been too cruel and made others miserable for foolish reasons. I, for one, liked Captain Zhou immensely.”
As we rode off, Kun watched us go. The constables at the gate, who had watched our exchange nervously, settled back into positions of rest. Zhen and Lo, the two Mystics posted there, remained standing at rigid attention.
“Well, Captain,” said Zhen at last, “we shall continue our vigilance.”
“Of course you will,” said Kun, still smiling. “Nephew, follow these new arrivals.”
Lo looked at Zhen in confusion. But Zhen’s expression bent towards a frown. His face darkened, making the heavy scar on his left cheek stand out all the more.
“I prefer not to be referred to that way, Captain.”
Kun’s smile widened. My little sister-son, he thought. So eager to be seen as a man, when it seems only yesterday I had to help his mother dress him in the morning.
“I am truly sorry,” he said. “I keep forgetting. Lieutenant Zhen of the family Zhou—take another from your unit and follow them. Keep track of everything they do.”
“But Captain,” said Lo, “with the way you acted towards them … that is, do you think they are suspicious?”
“You think them above question because I was friendly?” said Kun, chuckling. “Of course I was polite. What possible benefit could result from rudeness? Even the darkest circumstances do not demand ill manners. But they are liars, all three of them. Retired warriors? Both of them have bloodstains on their boots and clothes—old stains, but not old enough. They are fighters, and they have fought recently. Within weeks. Follow them, and send any information directly to me.”
“Are they Shades, Captain?” ventured Zhen.
“That is precisely what I mean to find out. The enemy surprised us once. I vow beneath the sky that they will not do so again if I can prevent it.”
Now, you will recall that Mag said she used to live near Taitou. She did not explain further at that time. But later, I learned something of the place that she had called home before we met, and I shall tell you something of it now.
Shuiniu was a small village, as she had said. The people there mostly lived on their own merits. They farmed or hunted for sustenance, and they had a smith, a cobbler, and other crafters to see to the people’s needs. They had some small trade with what they saw as “outsiders”; Taitou lay not far to the south, and the Dorsean city of Bianje stood on the border a few days to the northwest. Due west was the River Marsden, with many towns along its length. But Shuiniu was too small a place to receive great caravans from any larger settlement. Only small, modest traders came to visit the village, so that it was rare to meet more than a dozen outsiders in a year.
Mag apprenticed under a brewer in the town. The brewer’s name was Duana, and she was as good a master to Mag as could have been hoped. Mag took to the craft with great zeal and exceptional skill. Under Duana, she learned the little tricks that would one day make her so renowned as a brewer. But she told me more than once that Duana’s ale was much better, and I have often lamented that I never had the chance to taste it.
Now, at that time, there was a man in town named Ciaran. He was a Heddan, but he had moved to Dorsea in his youth. Being from so far away made him feel like an outsider, and deep in his heart was a desire for others to feel the same. He had a caustic manner and a cruel streak, and he was wont to create division between people where none had been before.
Naturally, he did not get on well with Mag, who tried to avoid him where she could. But her master owned the town’s tavern as well as the brewery, and so it was impossible to avoid Ciaran entirely. Whenever she was around, he would barb and jab at her in subtle, veiled ways. I am sure you know what I mean—jibes which hide insults, but which he could always claim had been meant to be innocent.
I only heard of two times that Mag rose to the bait. The first was in the tavern, while Ciaran was downing a mug of her latest brew. He slurped at it and gave deep gasping breaths between each swig, a habit he knew she hated.
(That was a bugbear of Mag’s, by the way. If I ever wished to annoy her, all I had to do was eat with my mouth open or smack my lips and tongue as I drank. Before long, she would pitch me into the nearest body of water she could find. I usually considered it worth it. I had to take my victories where I could, you understand.)
“This is fair stuff,” said Ciaran, slamming his mug on the table a little too hard. “One day, someone might call you skilled at your craft, child.”
Mag kept her gaze on the bar as she scrubbed it with a washcloth. “I thank you, of course.”
“Then again,” said Ciaran, “mayhap you have reached the pinnacle of your skill already. It can be that way. You reach a peak early on, and then you grow worse with time. If you find that to be the case, you must not be too disappointed.”
Mag had very nearly scrubbed through the bar’s varnish by this point. Her washcloth stopped, and a close observer would have seen her jaw muscles were like iron. She spoke before she could moderate either her words or her tone.
“Well, if I have already reached my peak, at least I can say I have one skill. Mayhap in the future, you will be able to say the same, though I doubt it.”
Ciaran’s face grew as ugly as his heart. He was a large man, with arms thick and hairy, and a great barrel chest packed with muscle from his work at the anvil. He pushed back his chair with a jerk, the tavern filling with the screech of wood on wood. Most conversations around them hushed, unless the speakers were too drunk to notice the sudden tension in the air.
“I do not take kindly to insults,” said Ciaran.
Mag looked quizzically at him. “No one does. That is why they are insults, you steer.”
His face went beet red. “Enough. I would have accepted an apology if you had groveled. But not now. Come outside, and I will beat remorse out of you.”
Mag’s blood was up. Duana was nowhere to be seen. So she gave him a fierce smile. “I am no bard, and so I cannot describe how amusing such a threat is, coming from you.”
Now the people around them were getting nervous, that curious tension that always surrounds a bar fight. They did not wish to see anyone get hurt—at least, not too badly—but there is still something thrilling about seeing two foes knock the stuffing out of each other. And never is that more true than when a grudge has long been fomenting.
“Outside,” growled Ciaran. “Now.” And he strode out the front door.
Mag lifted the hinged panel that locked off the bar and began to follow him. But just then, Duana came out from the tavern’s back room. She saw Mag heading off, and then she noticed that Ciaran was no longer in his chair.
“Where are you going?” she asked Mag sharply.
Mag glanced back at her. “One of our customers asked for my services.”
“Mag!” said Duana. “Let it go. You have better ways to spend your time.”
But customers were hurrying out after Ciaran, eager to see the fray. Mag gestured at them, and then at the emptying tables in the room. “Do I? There are no customers to serve. I will not be a moment.”
She stepped through the front door. Ciaran waited in the street for her, hands clenched to fists at his side. He had rolled up his sleeves, revealing hairy forearms. His face was an ugly squint. Mag stepped up to him, and the contrast was striking: this smallish young woman before a hulking brute of a man. Some of the crowd’
s enthusiasm died.
“I shall give you one last chance to apologize,” said Ciaran.
“And I will let you swing first,” said Mag.
Then her face went dead. The light faded from her eyes. It was her battle-trance, and it chilled the villagers of Shuiniu to see it. Even Ciaran seemed stricken for a moment, and he hesitated.
But then he glanced around, seeing the villagers, knowing they were witnessing his doubt.
He swung for her face.
Mag grabbed his wrist and twisted. Her hand drove into his armpit like a knife. Ciaran cried out in pain as he doubled over.
Mag’s fist pummeled his cheeks, his nose, his chin. She did not strike his barrel chest. Why bother, when thick muscle guarded him like armor? Only when he bent and twisted, trying to escape, did she hit his kidneys with punishing savagery. She knew where to strike to hurt him the most, all the places that can break someone no matter their size.
Ciaran cried out again and again, more plaintive each time. It was not long before he sounded more like a child than a hale and hearty smith.
She did not draw out his suffering. After beating him nearly into submission, she caught his wrist once more. Pinching the nerves, she sent him reeling off balance. With a sweep of her leg she tripped him. Even as he fell, she levered him over her shoulder. Screaming, he flew three paces to land in a heap among the crowd. He struck a few of the onlookers, but they did not seem to mind.
The crowd had murmured before the fight. When Ciaran had thrown his first punch, a few had cried out in excitement. But during the beating, everything had fallen to deathly silence. Now that silence reigned for a moment longer.
And then, all at once, the crowd burst into shouts and cheers. Some gathered around Ciaran’s fallen form, trying to help him back to his feet. Others clustered around Mag, talking all at once.
Such was their excitement that not one of them noticed as her battle-trance fell away. For a moment, her eyes flickered with something like fear: the deep uncertainty of one who finds themself in a strange place, disoriented and alone.
The Tales of the Wanderer Volume One: A Book of Underrealm (The Underrealm Volumes 4) Page 60