Villains by Necessity (v1.1)

by Eve Forward

  She selected a gentleman who looked very likely to have coin in excess of the worth of a single horse on his person, and enough to not miss it too much. A merchantlord, by his garb, or at least whatever passed for one these days. Bustling, well-fed, in rich clothing of velvets and silks, he was hurrying home after a good dinner with friends, lubricated with fine wine. The scruffy Druid caught his sleeve as he passed, pulling him about. He turned with a snort to give her a good telling-off... and met a pair of green eyes. expertly lit in the glow of the street-lantern.

  It is doubtful if he saw anything about the woman other than the eyes, or if he even realized they belonged to a woman at all. All he knew was that they bored into his brain, as a questing root drives through the soil.

  Kaylana reached through the man’s mind, easier even than calming a wild animal; noting with interest the slightly over-smoothed texture of his thoughts, evidence of magical adjustment. Perhaps this fellow had been something much less than an honest trader before a mage with the skill for light-minding had found him. Her will wrapped around his easily, not forcing, just suggesting in a way that was so sensible and simple, and yet absolutely irrefutable, as she said calmly: “Sir, you wish to give me forty tellin coins as a gesture of charity.” The green eyes were as unstoppable as spring.

  The merchant nodded dumbly and reached into his pouch, fingers counting as his eyes never left hers. Forty thin gold coins, the size of small aspen leaves and marked with the seal of the Six Lands united under the Six Heroes were dropped into her hands. Kaylana closed her hands on the coins and stepped back. Only then did she release the man from her gaze. He shook his head, glanced around, but saw only a scruffy woman standing there. Such people were beneath his station. He didn’t quite recall what he had been doing, but it was perfectly right and sensible, whatever it was. He adjusted his waistcoat and, ignoring the common woman, set off down the street again. He had important things to do. Kaylana didn’t bother to watch him go, but tucked the coins into a fold of her robe and went off to find the others. She disliked having to touch the minds of humans; it was risky with anyone more willful than a lazy, half-drunk merchant, and difficult unless she had the opportunity of surprise.

  And their minds ... she shook her head. So much ignorance.

  Sam had seen some low dives in his time, and this wasn’t one of them. The tavern was well-lit, with a warm fire burning in the huge fireplace at one end, over which some serving lads were making mulled wine and tea. Plates clattered and voices chattered. He wandered over to where a group was playing at darts and watched with an expression of shy interest on his face. At last one of the men noticed him.

  “Well, hello there, lad! Fancy the darts, do you?” The man’s eyes twinkled pleasantly. Sam wondered again why everyone thought he was so young ... though it was true that he looked almost ten years younger than his approximate age. That had always been a lucky mystery and might help him here by making the players think he was even more inexperienced. The man seemed patronizing and smiled out of his thick curly brown beard. Sam fought down a retch at the easiness of it all, and at the Beard Man’s complacency. He made himself smile back in easygoing innocence.

  “Oh, I play a bit now and then ...” he said. The man gave his cronies a wink, and they grinned and laughed and nodded. The cheerful fellow turned back to Sam.

  “Well then, my black-garbed fellow, you’re welcome to join the game! We play for stakes here, you know,” he added, his eyes showing a joking concern. Sam returned it.

  “I’m afraid I have no stakes, nor roasts, nor even chops or brisket, but...” he let the good-natured laughter at the old joke die down, then continued with a smile, “But I do have this to wager.” Upon the table he set an intricate gold ring with a single red stone. If the truth were to be known, the gold was gilded brass, the stone merely colored glass, the whole having the purpose of flipping open when pressed in a certain way so that the contents of the tiny compartment within could be poured into a glass. It was empty now, of course, but still glinted richly in the warm light. It held many memories for Sam-a gift from Cata, way back when; he’d never used it professionally except once to carry willowbark and mayweed powder in, sovereign against the headaches that plagued him one year during a particularly bad pollen harvest.

  Cata, Cat-a-Crags, sapphire eyes, seductive and deadly as the fey black panther she took her name from, that would call like a crying woman in mountain passes and would lead brave men to a bloody death. Cata would call the men in a different way, but the death was just the same ... Cata, beautiful dark dancer ... who had vanished one day and was never heard from, until years later when Blarin received reports of her-living in a small provincial village, a farmer’s fat wife, cleaning and cooking and tending two small chubby brats. Sam had been in a vicious mood for days, feeling betrayed without knowing why, unable to understand what had happened, and why. Mizzamir, you’re going to hurt for that one, he vowed. His reverie was broken as the jovial Beard roared: “A fine wager!” and clapped Sam on the back. “Come, my fellows, put up your gold, we will play at darts with Blackie here.” Sam looked flushed and pleased at being allowed into their circle, and the game was on.

  As the others made their tosses, Sam inspected the darts. Not everyone’s weapon, to be sure, but then, an assassin was trained in just about every weapon that could easily be concealed under a suit of normal clothes.

  Darts were one of Sam’s favorites. Sharp needles perfect for a sticky coat of poison, with no annoying twang or puff sounds such as you got with a crossbow or blowgun.

  Easier to aim than a blowgun, too. Daggers were his specialty, but darts were a good second choice. They had made some lovely darts in the Guild workshop, he remembered fondly: clear glass ones that could be filled with acid or poison or the potion of your choice, silver rune-worked ones that could be enchanted (if one could find a sorcerer to do so), ones with tiny tiny barbs in the break-off needle, so that the sharp point would continue to work its way inward with every breath of its victim until ... He shook his head. These were simple, cheap, and common darts, and had seen much use. The points were dull, the fletching tattered. He lifted them one by one, testing the balance, smoothing the feathers. His hand finally closed on a set of three, blue and white, with brass tips. Good enough for now, he decided, until I’ve gotten the hang of it again. Just in time, too.

  “Your turn, Blackie!” crowed the bearded man, and Sam pretended to look worried as he studied the board.

  Darts as a pastime was an old sport, taken from archery practice in the reign of the Mage-King Verurand, long before the Victory, even long before the War, back when the Six Lands were a mass of feudal struggles and border disputes, and the rest of the world little more than savages. Variants of the game were so numerous Sam didn’t bother to brush up on the rules, but had watched this group long enough to recognize the scoring system.

  They were starting with two hundred and one points and going to exactly zero. The others hadn’t done too bad for their first toss, he decided. His only problem would be looking clumsy enough that they didn’t get suspicious.

  He selected one of his darts and managed to stick himself lightly in the finger with a small yelp, which brought good-natured laughter from his new friends. He scanned the board. Nothing too showy for a first shot, he decided, and squinted until he couldn’t see and his eyebrows hurt, then threw.

  The missile thwoked into an outer single score ring, subtracting a nice fifteen points from his base. He grinned myopically. He tossed his next two shots off in similar casualness and then collected his darts and inspected the pool. Not quite twenty gold, he noted, after translating the pile of gold tellins, silver lunins and copper stellins, and sighed. He’d have to show off for the rest. The game progressed. Sam watched, threw, watched, trying not to yawn, and then at last made his move.

  He stepped up to throw, hefting his darts. He’d gotten to know them well over the short game. This one had a bit of a lean to the left, this one was poin
t-heavy, and this one was the best, having only a slight downward drift.

  Good enough. He took the left-leaner in fingers, and looked at the board. Thank fates his hand was healed, he thought. Fifty-five points. Might as well make it look good.

  The world narrowed until all that remained was the dingy, pock-marked dartboard, and all that was clear within it was the single-score outer space labeled “2” by its rim. His hand moved. The center of the space sprouted a fletching.

  His gaze shifted ever so slightly. All was silent, or at least he heard nothing, though the vibrations of voices shivered on his skin. His eyes caught the tiny wedge of yellow that was the narrow triple-score ring, held in the triangle labeled “I.” A small spot, true, like the barest chink of pale flesh that shows through a man’s armor.

  Throw. Blue and white feathers obscured the square. The last one was easy. He didn’t even hesitate, but tossed, putting a bit more force on it just in case ...

  Thunk!* He came out of his self and looked around, remembering to look amazed at his “luck.” Bull’s-eye, of course. “Fifty-five!” Around him the fellows had noted the same.

  Cheers of laughter and congratulations pealed out, and his bearded buddy dropped a mug of ale in front of him.

  He looked embarrassed and modest as he shyly took the coins from the pool and slipped them into his pouch, while the others encouraged him to drink up. Two of them were over at the dartboard exclaiming over the last dart, sunk to the end of its needle in the elm-wood. Sam looked a little disconcertedly at the ale.

  “Oh no, I couldn’t...” he began, but caught the looks of puzzlement as he did so. Beard pushed the mug closer to him with a chuckle.

  “Come on, Blackie, ‘tis good for you. After you’ve beaten us at our own game the least you can do is drink with us.” He eyed Sam carefully.

  “Well, all right then,” he replied and raised the mug to the fellows. As they went back to their hearty laughter and cheers he tipped the drink down his throat with a mental sigh, keeping up appearances.

  Arcie lurked. He’d had to ditch the ungainly long rapiers in a garbage pile, after removing the gold-plated hilts with gems in them, but the rest fitted nicely into his various packs and pouches, cunningly designed and possibly even slightly magical as well. The Barigan thief had always been well-off enough to afford the best, both for business and pleasure. Sound, useful, and concealing pouches and clothing were a wise investment, as was his cloak, so drab and shadow-colored he could walk into a bar like this one and, while perhaps he might be seen, he would not be noticed.

  There was Sam all right. He was holding an empty ale mug, several others of which were scattered around the table near him, also some plates with the remains of a dinner on them. Sam was looking at a large fellow with a beard and a gold tooth. Arcie was momentarily intrigued, wondering how one might go about stealing such a gold tooth. Sam probably hadn’t even noticed it. But what was Sam up to?

  “Two tellins,” said the Beard, “says you can’t do it.”

  “F-four tellins,” replied Sam, holding up three unsteady fingers, “shays I can.” The Beard laughed and slapped four coins down on the table. Sam, after a moment to lift his head again, picked a dart up off a side table. Beard yelled merrily to a cluster of patrons and a serving maid to get out of the way. Sam turned around in his chair, looking over his shoulder, then turned back, and, keeping his dreamy weary eyes semi-focused on Beard, tossed the dart over his shoulder. Arcie whipped his head to follow it. It went thunk! into the center of the bull’s eye. Beard roared in laughter and amazement and went for more ale as Sam owlishly tried to pick up the tellins. Arcie padded over to him.

  “Sam!” he hissed.

  “Wazzat?” came the reply, and Sam peered over the edge of the table at the Barigan. “Oh, it’s you. Whasit?”

  “No thanks,” replied Arcie. “Have ye made yer quota?”

  Sam thought a moment. “Yep. Wher...’s the girl?”

  “I dinna ken,” replied Arcie. “Give it up for today, Sam. Ye’ve had a long day, and besides which this person coming over to our table looks a fearsome lot as one of your old instructors. Bye!” Arcie vanished among the crowd, just another Barigan lost in a sea of knees. Sam looked up to see a figure that made his blood shiver as past memories collided with present reality.

  “Hello, young fellow,” said the older man, pulling up a seat across from him. “I’ve been watching you. Some very nice tossing, there.”

  Sam murmured “Thanks,” trying not to stare at the fellow, with the red-brown hair all washed clean and shining, the clothes with the mark of the shipwrights on one sleeve, and-gods!-a small but promising potbelly.

  “I used to be quite good at the darts myself,” the man said conversationally, “but I lost it after awhile ... lack of practice, I guess ... kind of hard to remember.” He shrugged, smiled. “My name’s Reynardin, by the way,” he added. Sam tried not to whimper. It’s Black Fox, he thought to himself. Black Fox with the gleaming eyes, who once walked the wire between High Temple Street and the clock tower in a high wind. Who taught me seventeen different ways of breaking bones without breaking the skin.

  And now he’s probably sewing up rips in sailcloth all day.

  “Uh, they call me Blackie here,” spoke up Sam, trying not to look like an assassin. The alcohol was fizzing in his brain.

  “Fair enough,” replied Reynardin. “You don’t have relatives in Bistort, by any chance, do you? Your face seems familiar...”

  “Oh, yes, I have a brother there,” Sam lied quickly. He really doesn’t remember! Like Mizzamir said... What must it be like for them? Living in a pink fog, not knowing what you’ve lost.. “We look a lot alike.”

  “Thought so,” exclaimed the shipwright. “Well, it was a good show of darts, lad. Have a nice evening.” With a grin the ex-assassin clapped Sam on the arm and moved off into the crowd. Sam reflexively checked his arm for needle punctures; Black Fox had, like most of his teachers, taught him caution the hard way. Looking around, he saw his bearded buddy kibitzing a card game in the far corner, and thought he glimpsed Arcie over at a table of tradesmen. He got up and headed over to them.

  A moment later, the door of the tavern swung open, and Kaylana strode in, fiercely ignoring the whistles and exclamations she attracted. Locating Sam and Arcie, she approached them.

  “Well, we have met, then,” she said as soon as she was in speaking range. “I have the coins required. Now then, you may get rooms or not as you wish, I am going to stay in the relative peace and sanity of the stables away from the cluster of this town. I will see you at dawn, on the east outskirts of town.” She turned to go, but Sam tapped her on the shoulder, the drink and laughter and praise and noise dancing in his eyes. She wheeled suspiciously on him.

  “If you’re saying you can’t afford a room, lady, I’ve already rented one, you’re welcome to share mine,” Sam began with a grin, but there was a flash of furious green eyes, a blur, he jumped back too late and a heavy oak staff whapped him smartly upside the head. He dropped like a stone. Arcie laughed and raised his mug of stout to Kaylana, who was already storming out the door, to riffles of applause from giggling barmaids. The door slammed as Sam raised his head woozily. Arcie grinned down at him.

  “Och, I think that means nay, laddie,” said the thief.

  Dawn was pinking the sky outside his window when Arcie awoke. He bounded out of bed and with brisk efficiency washed, combed his hair, shaved, got dressed, checked all his equipment, counted his wealth, and padded out into the hall. He knew Sam would still be asleep, after getting so soused last night. He’d best wake him up, Down a few doors to Sam’s room-the only one with a locked door. With a happy smile he extracted a thin piece of stiff copper wire and clicked the lock open. A spurt of oil at the hinges, and he inched open the door and peered into the room.

  Sparse but tidy, with Sam’s clothes folded over a chair; a torn black tunic, black silk shirt, black leggings, black socks, tattered black cloak lined in m
ottled dark gray and black, and scuffed black boots. Sam himself was a pile of tousled blond hair on the pillow of the rumpled bed. The faint sounds of peaceful breathing drifted through the room. Just then, a draft blew the locks of blond hair, stirring them slightly.

  The bed exploded. The covers went across the room, the pillow flew out and knocked over a jug on the washstand, and in the midst of it all Sam leaped to an alert crouch, hazel eyes staring about wildly, and brandishing a sharp dagger he’d had under his pillow. His eyes found Arcie, and he sank back onto the bed with a whimper as his hangover caught up with him. Arcie bounded cheerfully over to make sure he didn’t go back to sleep.

  “Rise and shine, blondie! Interesting, I mean, I ken yer ways about assassin uniforms, but black underwears, Sam?”

  Sam was indeed wearing black cotton shorts. “Shut up, Arcie. If you must know, it’s so we don’t show a white bunnytail if we are so unfortunate to rip our seams on a mission. Now go away and let me die in peace.”

  “Sorry, laddie. The Druid said we were to meet her at dawn, recall ye?”

  Sam replied with a few choice and not terribly kind words about Kaylana, finishing with, “I’ll be dammed if I’ll follow some treewalking wench on any crazy hallucination of hers anymore. I’m going to go back and track down Mizzamir and then ... then ...”

  “Then what, Sam?” There was no answer. “If ye think of summat, let me know, and I’ll join ye. We’re men without a place, without a life, without a cause. Kaylana’s the only one as is offered us any hope for restoration of our old ways, and revenge on them what took them from us. Whether anything else she says about the world being in danger is pooka piss, it’s given us something to do, someplace to go. Ye were bored stiff hanging around that abandoned Guild in Bistort. Now, ye’re at the least doing something. Tis an adventure, as heroes used to go on all the time ... Though for us, it’s either go on and keep hoping, or go back, and either whitewash or die. And as for the being damned ... we both are already. So quit feeling sorry for yerself and get on yer feets and out.”