by J F Rivkin
To have a few first.
But whatever’s left over
He’s willing to share,
So I give you the health
Of the host of the Hare:
His brew’s never watered.
He draws a full measure,
For ale’s his profession
But also his pleasure!
The boast of the coast
Is our excellent host.
In his honor I offer
The following toast,
And fortune will favor
The one who drinks most:
Tell me, what can a taverner
Buy with his gold
That’s worth half so much
As the goods he has sold?”
Corson laughed aloud. It was an old joke, that riddle, but none the worse for wear, in her opinion, “There’s true wisdom,” she thought, “and worth three of
’Malkin’s lessons or Nyc’s lectures.” Corson knew what Steifann would say to the allegory of the drunkard-she’d heard him say it often enough, “The fault’s with the drinker, not with the drink,” was his philosophy. “Folk who’ve no stomach for drink should let it alone-and let me alone, into the bargain.”
One of Steifann’s merits as a tavern-keeper was that he could out-drink any of his customers and not be much the worse for it. But his influence on Corson, as she’d told Nyctasia, had been rather sobering than otherwise. From the first, he’d no more approved of her drunken rampages than ’Malkin had, though he was well accustomed to dealing with her sort, and had no fears for his reputation.
An ale-house was bound to attract its share of drunks and troublemakers, but to house one on the premises was bad for business, and Steifann had not gotten where he was by neglecting the good of his business. Corson was too easily bored, too ready to pick a fight with a customer or fly into a murderous rage over some harmless gibe. Steifann had found her well-nigh irresistible, but her company was a luxury he could ill afford.
He had made allowances for her many times, had even posted bond for her when she was brought before the magistrates, and had accepted her often-repeated assurances that it wouldn’t happen again. But when all else failed, finally even Steifann would lose patience with her. He’d turn her out of the Hare and they’d part with a furious argument and curses that could be heard throughout the harbor district. Steifann would assure anyone who’d listen that he was well rid of the she-demon at last, and would then spend days brooding about her, drinking too much, and finding fault with everything and everyone. Corson, for her part, would go her way alone, vowing that she’d stay free and untrammeled in future, that she needed no one-not a misbegotten student nor a bull-headed dramseller, neither of them ever satisfied with her ways, plague take the pair of them!
But during the time she’d spent with ’Malkin, Corson had grown used to having someone to talk to, someone to listen to, and she’d found Steifann an even better companion than ’Malkin had been. From the moment she’d first laid eyes on the brawny, bearded owner of The Jugged Hare, Corson had liked everything about him, from the unruly black hair falling into his face to the long, powerfully-built legs that made him fully as tall as she. He’d seemed the most desirable man Corson had met with in her young life, and she’d no sooner seen him than she started a violent fight with him.
She’d already been disgracefully drunk when she’d come into the Hare that night to get out of the rain. Wet and hungry and penniless, she’d been ripe for trouble, but the appearance of Steifann had done much to raise her spirits. He’d stood scowling down at her, hands on hips, and ordered her to get out, while Corson admired his green eyes and ignored his wrath. His fists were clenched, his sleeves pushed back to the elbow, and Corson thought she’d never seen anything so beautiful as those hard, muscled forearms, dark with wiry black hair. When threats failed, Steifann had tried to put her out by force, but though he was completely in the right, Corson had soon changed his mind, and he’d ended by urging her to stay.
And Corson had meant to stay. The better she’d come to know Steifann, the more she’d found to like about him-his good-natured grin and ready laugh, his passionate, possessive nature, and especially his way of treating her as an accepted, almost necessary member of his household. Whenever she took to the road, swearing that no pompous bastard of a tapster would tell her what to do, she’d find herself missing him sorely before the day was out. After her parting from ’Malkin she had thought of him often, but with bitterness and resentment.
She had never longed for him as she did for Steifann each time he sent her packing.
When next her travels took her to the coast, Corson would chance to pass through Chiastelm, and Steifann, against his better judgment, always took her back with hardly a show of reluctance-hardly able, indeed, to disguise his delight. “It’s the bane of my life to be cursed with this savage spitfire,” he’d declare with unmistakable satisfaction. “It’s fate and no use fighting it.” And Corson, once she’d grown accustomed to the constant exchange of insults, threats and boasts that made up friendly conversation at the Hare, had learned to laugh and answer,
“You love it, man! Without me to kick a spur into you, you’d perish of boredom in this dull town. You wouldn’t know if you were dead or alive!” Then all would go well until the next time Corson’s ungoverned temper and recklessness got the better of her.
Though she would have denied it in those days, Corson had known even then that she’d have only herself to blame if Steifann one day broke with her in earnest.
She had not been ready to face that frightening truth, or to accept the responsibility of deserving his affection. But what had at last turned the tide in their uneasy union was a misadventure that wasn’t Corson’s fault at all.
She had wisely taken work with the night watch of Chiastelm at that time, to relieve the galling restlessness that too often led to drink and a dangerously quarrelsome mood. The city guard was more like the army than Corson cared for, but at least she was free to give it up if she chose, and the work was not so tedious and dreary as the household chores at the Hare. Steifann grumbled at having her away for the greater part of the night, but still, the job kept her in Chiastelm, and kept her out of trouble.
She usually returned to the Hare just before dawn, when Steifann did the day’s marketing, and Walden filled the great oven with newly-risen loaves. When she approached the yard before sunrise one morning and was not met with the smell of freshly-baking bread, she knew at once that something was amiss, and she cloaked her lantern and drew near without a sound. The kitchen was dark and deserted.
She crossed it silently to peer through a knothole in the door that led to the taproom, and what she saw set the bloodlust raging through her like a call to battle.
Walden lay on the floor, motionless, while Annin knelt beside him trying to bind his wounds with her blood-soaked apron. Only a few of the young scullions were in sight, cowering against the far wall and staring at the three strangers who stood guard, shortswords drawn. The others, Corson realized, must have gone off to market with Steifann.
The thieves had chosen their time carefully, watching for Steifann to depart before they struck. There should have been time enough for them to overcome Steifann’s people, break open his strongbox with an axe, and make their escape in the darkness before he returned from the marketplace. They had laid their plans cleverly and well in advance. Too far in advance, as it happened.
They hadn’t known about Corson.
With surprise on her side, she fell upon the unsuspecting thieves like a sudden storm that strikes without warning, leaving uprooted trees and overturned marketstalls in its wake. She felled two of the three at one blow, with a heavy bench, before even drawing her blade, but by the time the third realized what was happening, she was ready for him, sword in hand, immediately on the attack.
Corson had the advantage of strength and skill, and the man could not have held out against her for long, had not the fourth of the intruder
s come rushing at her out of Steifann’s quarters, wielding a heavy axe. Caught between the two, Corson backed away toward the kitchen, hoping that they would draw together and come at her as one, making a single target of themselves. If one of them had the sense to circle around behind her, they might yet give her some trouble, she thought. But before they could make their move, Annin settled the matter for them by attacking the man nearest her, from behind. Experienced at tavern brawls, she handily slammed a stool into the backs of his knees, cutting his legs from under him and throwing him down with some force.
A well-trained swordsman would have thrust his weapon well away from him as he pitched forward, instead of allowing the force of his fall to drive the edge against his own throat. But a common thief is rarely a well-trained swordsman.
Annin, who’d been about to bring the stool down across his back, stopped and let it fall, seeing that there’d be no further danger from him. Instead, she gathered the weapons from the fallen thieves and herded her underlings out of harm’s way, while Corson kept the man with the axe at bay.
Shooing the scullions out through the kitchen, Annin ordered, “You, straight to Leech Street and fetch someone-you, roust folk out and tell them we’ve thieves here. Run!”
Corson could hear their yells as they sped off, and so could her opponent. He had no time to lose if he was to get away, but Corson prolonged the fight, refusing to close with him. She pressed in to harry him, drawing his blows, then danced back, easily dodging the unwieldy axe and letting him wear himself out with clumsy swings of his heavy weapon. “You should throw it, fool,” she taunted. “It’s too big for a weakling like you to wield. It’s only pulling you off balance. Soon I’ll get past your guard and gut you!” It was sound advice, and Corson offered it in hopes that he wouldn’t take her up on it.
“Are you still toying with that one?” Annin demanded, coming in from the kitchen with rags and a bucket. “Finish him, can’t you! Do I have to do everything myself?”
“Leave him to me,” Corson ordered. “He can’t aim that thing, but he might hit you by chance. Keep out of the way.”
“Oh, very well, but get on with it, then. It’s almost daylight. There’s work to be done.” She spilled some of the water over Walden, who snorted and muttered angrily to himself without opening his eyes.
“Ah, you won’t let me have my fun, Annin,” Corson complained. “I had a dull night. This town’s too quiet by half.”
(“What was so fearful,” Annin said later, “was the way she smiled.”) The desperate thief felt himself weakening with each swing of the axe, but still he dared not throw it and leave himself armed only with his shortsword and dagger against Corson’s longer reach and warrior’s broadsword. He knew that he couldn’t hold her off any longer on his own, but he took heart for a moment when one of his confederates crawled free from beneath the bench that had struck him down. The other had taken the blow to the back of her head and would be yet some time recovering, but he had only been dazed. Now he staggered to his feet and looked around him frantically for a weapon. As soon as he’d taken stock of the situation, however, he made a dash for the street-door, threw back the bolts and disappeared, ignoring the plight of his fellow robber.
The remaining combatant wisely decided to follow his example, now that the door behind him stood open. He edged toward it, flailing about with the axe, then finally flung it wildly at Corson and turned to flee.
It was a mistake to turn. Had he backed out the door, he could have seen the knife Corson threw, and perhaps avoided it. He ran on for a few paces across the threshold, after it struck him, then collapsed face downward in the street.
“Well done,” said Annin, “we’ve blood enough in here.” She wrung out another cloth and applied a fresh one to the side of Walden’s head. He groaned and cursed at her weakly.
Corson retrieved her knife and joined them. “How is he?”
“The bleeding’s stopped. He’ll come ’round-he’s just stunned. It wasn’t the wounds, it was when they hit him with a log of firewood. Here, help me get him off the floor.”
And that was how Steifann found them, just then, as he ran into the taproom, alarmed at finding the house silent and the kitchen empty. “What’s happened-where are all of you-” he called, then stopped and stared, faced with the aftermath of bloodshed and mayhem. He saw furniture overturned, blood spilled, the lifeless bodies of strangers on the floor at his feet. He saw Walden lying wounded, supported by Annin, while Corson stood over them, knife in hand, her blade still crimson.
This time, Steifann didn’t shout or curse at her. His voice was quite level, deliberate and quiet, almost soft, as he said to Corson, “The blood’s on my hands. I should have known you’d never change. Just get out of my place, you mercenary trash, and don’t come back here again, I warn you.” His face was a mask of fury and contempt.
Corson went white. She understood now that she’d never seen Steifann truly angry before, despite their many quarrels. Not trusting herself to answer him, she turned away and went into his room, without a word.
It was Annin who explained how matters stood, as between them she and Steifann got Walden to his feet. “Corson didn’t do this, Steifann, you fool! A pack of armed robbers broke in here after you left-those two are what’s left of ’em-oh, and another one out there, Walden went at them with a cleaver, but they were too many for him.”
“Rutting cowards,” Walden said thickly, and winced.
“If Corson hadn’t come along when she did, the bastards would have gotten away.
You’ve her to thank that they didn’t make off with every crescent you’ve saved, and cut all our throats, as like as not!” This was not likely, in fact, since the thieves would surely have murdered them at the outset if they’d planned to do so at all. But Annin, indignant on Corson’s behalf, was not above a little exaggeration in the interests of justice.
It took Steifann some moments to get his bearings. “Thieves…?” he said vaguely, as if he’d never heard the word before. He looked around in confusion, pushing the hair back from his forehead. “Oh… but I… Well, call for the Watch, then.”
Corson stood leaning in the doorway, her pack over her shoulder. “I am the Watch,” she said grimly. “Remember?”
“But you don’t have to go,” Steifann had protested. “Why should you? You weren’t to blame-”
“This time,” Corson interrupted, as if supplying words he’d left unsaid. “But what of next time, eh? If I try to stay pent up here forever, I’ll go mad from boredom sooner or later-and I’m dangerous when I’m bored. It’ll be better this way. I’ll come back in a month or two, and I’ll be certain of my welcome.”
Corson had made up her mind, and knew that she was right. She had seen what would happen if one day she became a threat to Steifann’s home and people, and she meant to take no chances on letting it happen. She never wanted to see that look on his face again.
It was the first time they’d parted without anger, and this became the new pattern of Corson’s life. She followed her calling wherever it led, giving free rein to her restlessness and daring, and earning a greater reputation, and larger fees, for her prowess with a sword. But now her aimless adventuring was broken by sojourns at the Hare, visits which had taken on the nature of homecomings, over time, and given her rather random existence a stability and security she had not known before. Her stays had grown longer, now sometimes lasting a season or more, but she still took care always to be on her way before there could be trouble.
“Seek to the ends
Of the earth, if you dare-
You’ll not meet the like
Of the host of the Hare!”
Corson sang lustily. When she arrived in Chiastelm, not long afterwards, she greeted Steifann with a fervent embrace hardly warranted by such a brief separation. He received her crushing hug with the deep, warm laugh Corson loved.
“Here, what’s that for?” he said, surprised and pleased by her unbridled enthusiasm.
<
br /> “I missed you, you stupid lout!” said Corson.
5
“word has reached me that you are conspiring to raise opposition to certain of my plans,” Nyctasia said quietly. “And I must protest that it would be more seemly for you to come directly to me with your views, instead of leaving me to learn of them from my court spies. You must be aware that I shall find them out in time, but apart from that, I quite frankly want your advice on these matters.”
She paused, but no one replied to her. Lady Elissa merely regarded her silently, while Lord Anseldon seemed to look through her without interest. Both were older than Nyctasia by a generation and resented her manner, which, though unfailingly courteous, did not altogether disguise her impatience. The young widow Lhejadis studied her ringed hands uneasily. She had never made a secret of the fact that she blamed Nyctasia for the death of her husband, Mescrisdan. Lord Erikasten, Nyctasia’s younger brother, sat scowling at the floor, refusing to meet her eyes.
“As you know, I intend to issue the remaining pardons as part of the festivities of celebration following the birth of Tiambria’s child,” Nyctasia continued. “As I understand that you object to this proceeding, I have taken the liberty of calling you together, that I may have the benefit of your counsel. It seems to me that we have been feeding and housing the prisoners long enough. We could put our resources to better use.”
Lord Anseldon was the first to speak. “There is a simpler way to resolve that difficulty, and husband the resources of the city.”
“That,” Nyctasia said curtly, “is not a subject for debate. You know my views.
I’ll have no further butchery in Rhostshyl. We’ve enough to answer for!”
“Commendable sentiments,” said Lady Elissa. “You’ve your reputation to consider, after all. ‘Lady Merciful’ they call you in the streets, is it not? And what need for further bloodshed, now that Mhairestri is murdered, and Emeryc’s heir removed from the succession?”
With the death of the matriarch Mhairestri, the opposition to Nyctasia’s rule had lost much of its force, but the matriarch’s followers at court were still a power to be reckoned with.