by Max Keith
“Although, I always have liked you,” she reflected, biting her lower lip. The orange glow from the brazier had cast her cleavage into deep shadow against his chest. He made himself resume stroking her hair. She continued, a bit haltingly. “I wouldn’t want to spoil your good opinion of me too much.”
“You couldn’t.” The protest was perhaps too automatic, but it was best at times like this to tell the truth.
“You’re kind.” She dribbled her hand through the hair on his chest, then began. “I went back to the Emperor’s mage school after I left your College. Had it ever occurred to you to wonder why I was there in the first place?”
He just stared. Shaking his head would have been redundant. She went on quietly. “At some point, perhaps two years before I was sent there, a letter arrived from one of your King Raxillor’s advisers. This was before your king went mad, I think. The advisor was in the pay of the Emperor, and I doubt anyone ever found out.”
“If his name was Stacefield,” Poildrin murmured, “he’s dead. Murdered on Princess Raxillene’s orders.”
“Ah.” She considered. “I never knew the man’s name; it wasn’t important that I know. But I was called in and shown the letter, which spoke of a young student at the Mage College. A student the tutors were watching closely. One of those tutors was another man in the Emperor’s service. A mage named Peewin.” She watched carefully, and he was just as careful to show her nothing. Old Torsel, an Imperial spy. Wonders, Poildrin decided again, would never cease.
It paid, as he realized for the millionth time in his life, to trust absolutely nobody. He waited patiently for her to continue.
“The letter spoke of this boy’s brilliance. He was apparently already an accomplished spell-writer, able to come up with advanced charms from scratch, off the top of his head. He’d just won a prize for it.” She paused. “In his first year.”
Poildrin saw where this was going. He forced his fingers to continue, idly, against her scalp. “I was the youngest ever to win that prize,” he agreed.
“I was sent to recruit you into the Emperor’s service.” She stared up at him, defiant now; there was no further point in beating around the bush. “I think I could have, too.”
“I think so as well,” he agreed readily enough. There was a time, he remembered, that he’d have swallowed poison for her. He paused. “Then why am I not receiving Imperial pay?”
“Would you have?” She seemed genuinely curious. “Would you have spied for your country’s enemy?”
He thought about it, then shrugged against her pillow. “Why not?” He’d never really cared much about patriotism, or the war, or the ethics of what he did. “Gold is gold,” he said vaguely.
“Huh.” She stirred a finger around one of his nipples, then sighed. “Well, I was called off. Told to stop with you. Sent home, and suddenly too.”
“I noticed.” Shit, how could he not? He’d drunk himself stuporous for a week before he’d decided he was being too dramatic. He still couldn’t stomach Northerlands brandy because of that week. “I wondered where you’d gone.”
“I asked, when I got back home, why I’d been recalled.” She gazed at him, hard now and intently. “I was told Peewin had decided you’d be more useful in other employment.”
“More useful.”
She nodded. “To the Empire.”
“The Empire.” He pretended complete unconcern, but she had to have seen through it. “I work for Princess Raxillene,” he mused.
“Indeed.” She was still staring. “On Torsel Peewin’s recommendation.”
He flicked his gaze to the rodent-chewed ceiling and sighed. “She wants the throne.” It was inconceivable, he knew, that the Princess was taking Imperial pay. “I’m guessing the Emperor would rather have Raxillene on the throne than her brother,” he concluded.
“Good boy.” Jerren patted his chest. “Raxander is a fool, and not the useful kind. He’s also cunning. Maybe even cunning enough to win the war.”
Poildrin thought that was unlikely. He chose to be diplomatic. “Your Emperor and my Princess have different opinions of the Regent.”
She smiled. “I don't care very much,” she confessed. “I don’t work for him anymore. Now I’ve got other concerns.” She was kissing his collarbone now, with lazy heat. Her hand went lower. “But I don’t think I want to tell you about those.”
“No,” he agreed. Her ass was swelling so, so sweetly beneath his hand, and he stopped worrying about anything else.
Seven
In the morning, Jerren led them back down the mountain herself. “You can take your horses and get out of here,” she said casually. “I think you know by now that I’m not in need of you lot making mischief in my mountains.”
“Seems so.” Alorin was very cool toward Jerren, but she was cool to almost everyone.
“And the fortress?” Poildrin hitched his pack up higher as they crossed the common.
“I’m already dealing with the fortress,” she explained. “One of my friends is there now, sorting everything out.”
“Who is he?”
“She,” Jerren replied pointedly, “is not a concern of yours. Anymore, that is; at one time, you knew her well. She was disguised as a dancer.” Her eyes were laughing now. “Surprised?”
Poildrin stopped short and stared. This needed to be dealt with. “Are you working with the Princess?” he demanded. It was important, and the others sensed it too. Jerren licked her lips.
“The two of us have mutual friends,” she shrugged. “And that’s all anyone needs to know. Including her.”
“Well. That’s fucking splendid,” Poildrin said sarcastically, moving abruptly on.
“If you must know,” Jerren added, moving up to walk alongside him, “it was the dancer disguise that made me realize the cloaked fellow at Lurik’s Rest was actually you. Or a mage, anyway; that charm must have been difficult to pull off. My ears were ringing as soon as I caught up to your horses.”
“Difficult.” Poildrin smiled grimly. “You’ve got no idea.”
“Oh, I do,” Jerren insisted solemnly. “I’m not the spellcaster you are, but I know how hard it is to make a disgusting fat fuck into a lovely nymph.” She winked. “Good to see your skills have not declined.” Behind them, Aimee sniggered; she’d heard him leave their little cave the night before, and she was not a fool. Poildrin decided it had been a mistake to let the healer know he and Jerren had a past, but of course the damage was done now.
They were halfway down the mountain when a young, whiplike man in grubby leather clothes came up out of a side canyon. He nodded darkly at the lot of them. “Have any of you met Parwit? He’s one of my people. He’ll be your guide past Lower Thead.”
“Florin mentioned him.” Poildrin took in the slackened bow over the lad’s shoulder, the air of hard bitter competence, the well-worn grip of his arming sword. “A pleasure,” he murmured. The kid stared hard at Aimee and Alorin before he went loping off down the hill. “Do you know if he knows about his brother yet?”
“His brother?” Jerren frowned. “What about him? He’s a thief.”
“Right, but the other night Alorin here ran him through with her shortsword.” Jerren glanced over; the valkyrie shrugged modestly. “He might well be dead now; I don’t know.”
“He’s fine.” Aimee scowled. “What, do I know nothing? Give me some credit. He’ll need stitches by daylight, but I’m sure someone has done that by now.”
Jerren listened, then shrugged toward Alorin. “Well, if he knew you’d stabbed him, it didn’t keep him from staring at your tits.”
“He was, indeed, quite taken with them,” the valkyrie nodded politely.
“Yes, Florin told me you damaged another of my people, too.” Poildrin frowned, for some reason not liking the easy way she said ‘my people.’ “An arrow? A crossbow bolt? Something, anyway.”
“Didn’t ever get a chance to treat that one,” Aimee put in spitefully. “No doubt he’ll die.”
�
��One of your people did some damage of his own last night,” Poildrin reminded her. Firkis was still sullen, though he was often like that. It was difficult to tell if the wound really troubled him, but Poildrin felt it would be disloyal not to mention it.
“Yes, he told me that too. But the man who hurt your good Firkis was also the man with the hole in his face, so surely the gods have spoken.”
“Surely,” Poildrin muttered. The valley view was hidden by a dusty haze this morning off to the right, joined now by the twists of smoke from Lower Thead’s house fires. He sighed heavily. “It seems we’re in your hands then, Jerren.”
“You certainly were,” she shot back smugly, and behind them Aimee chuckled again. “No, you lot are in Parwit’s hands. He’ll see you through, rest assured. And no detours, shadowmage,” she admonished. “I’ve got my own plans for that fortress, and you needn’t fuck them up.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“You find your army, get a whore for Parwit, and then send him back to me.” She glanced over, sidelong. “And then you go about whatever business you’ve got, and leave me to mine.” A frustrated silence followed before she tossed her curls over her shoulder and looked away. “You may visit me though, if you wish. Now that the Starkhorn will be back in Royal hands, well… the trails here should be safe enough.”
“We don’t usually travel along safe trails,” Poildrin reminded her, but he was troubled. “The Starkhorn… Royal hands? Or yours?”
Jerren showed her green eyes briefly, now enigmatic. “I’m quite comfortable in Upper Thead. Sometimes more comfortable than others, like last night.” Heedless of the snickering healer behind them, she bumped her hip against his. She paused. “You see, I need stability here. The war can go on elsewhere, but the Starkhorn needs to be firmly held. Battle hurts the people here, in these mountains. Whether your Realm or my Empire holds the fortress is unimportant to me, but the Royals are kinder. I’ll see to it they hold the Starkhorn.” She smirked quickly. “Perhaps your old friend, m’lady Traxtell, will stay on as… call her an advisor. To whatever commander your regent sends along.”
Ah. “An advisor,” Poildrin echoed flatly.
“Well, your last commander certainly needed one,” she pointed out scornfully. “That fortress fell as if its walls were made of papier-mache. The pile of hands remains outside the gates to this day.” It was the Imperial custom to remove the hands of a castle’s defenders. “I think,” she finished slowly, “that your princess can rely on Traxtell to be honest and well-meaning in her advice. She’s a repulsive toad, but her brain works well.”
“Seems to,” Poildrin allowed, but then Florin’s tavern was coming into sight around the last bend in the path, and the conversation faded uncomfortably out.
* * *
Florin housed them much more comfortably than he had the last time, at a considerable discount and with fewer arrows flying through the windows. They passed a calm night in Lower Thead, waiting while Aimee, whose pride and conscience forced her to the chore, fixed up the villagers they’d punctured. Alorin Kaye looked up as she came back into the snug attic space they’d taken. “Is he dying?” She needed to know whether Inno’s balls needed draining, one way or the other.
“None of your concern.” Aimee sat down in a huff, her apron stained. “I can’t reveal the boy’s medical information.”
“Huh.” Alorin looked down, then nodded to herself. “If he dies, I won’t be any good in a fight until the gods get somebody else’s semen,” she reminded the healer. “I know you think it’s all bunk, but it would be a shame if we were attacked or something and I had to sit there and watch.” She looked grimly up. “So, will he die?”
Aimee sighed and gnawed on a chicken bone, courtesy of an obsequious Florin. “If he does,” she said airily, “can’t you just fuck his brother? Parwit will be right there with us; you can take him any time.”
Alorin made a face. “He smells,” she said shortly.
“Your gods won’t care,” Aimee pointed out smugly. “Besides, should you not have thought about that before you gave the lad such a dangerous wound? Still, it’s nice to have a plan either way, no? Oh, and the boy I shot in the cheek is going to be disfigured, but fine. Like others I could name,” she teased, nudging the quiet Firkis. “Though, he’s a better looking man than you are, love.”
The smith blinked balefully at her, scratched at his ear through the thick bandage, and spat. “Go hang out with him, then,” he said with unaccustomed exasperation. “More room up here for the rest of us, anyway.”
A slow, mischievous grin curled beneath the healer’s nose. “I can think of another way to gain space. Poildrin!” The mage was already curled in the corner. “I’m sure you could find another bed tonight too. Say, up the mountain about a mile or so? Inside a warm little hole up there?” She cackled coarsely and threw the bone down the ladder into the taproom below, taking sadistic pleasure in Poildrin’s mortified silence. “Whatever.” She looked over at the valkyrie, who happily sat sharpening one of her blades. “That man I shot,” she said slowly. “That was the first time I did anything like that.”
Alorin paused, traded a glance with the quiet Firkis, and then her knife resumed its rasping journey along the stone. “I don’t remember the first man I shot,” she admitted. “Stabbed, yes. Absolutely. But I haven’t shot a great many people, I don’t think.”
Aimee frowned. “You don’t think?”
Alorin shrugged. “You can’t tell sometimes. If it’s a battle, or even just a really quick fight, say on horseback…” She paused, considering. “I’m not sure I’ve ever killed a man with the crossbow, if that’s what you’re asking.” She smiled then, a rare event. “I do remember shooting a rapist once. That was fun.” She stared into space, remembering, while the smile widened. “Good times,” she finished, paying attention to her blade again.
Aimee shuddered and snuck a glance at Firkis, now piling his blankets methodically in his corner. Firkis hadn’t ever been a soldier, really, but his forge had been in the way of an army once, and so he’d had to fight anyway. He’d gone home to a burnt house and a slaughtered family. “How’s your ear, love?” she asked quietly, leaning over him. Aimee was well aware of how the quiet man felt about her, and she was feeling compassionate after repairing Inno. “Shall I keep you warm tonight?”
Across the low little room, Alorin flicked her glance up from her knife as they settled in. Her smile this time was warmer. Then she put the blades away, stripped off her clothes, and blew out the lamp.
* * *
And so they came to the little hideaway ledge above the Starkhorn, far up on the mountain, floored with grass like an old man’s hair. Parwit had brought them here with silent confidence, always staring out at the world through shifty black eyes. He’d made no attempt to be friendly or, indeed, vocal. A day and a half he’d sulked around and over and through the tangled peaks at the end of the mountains, and in the end a terrifying cliff had dropped clear before them as if the gods had taken a cleaver to the mighty peak.
He’d stopped wordlessly, his four charges standing awkwardly around with half-smiles, like early arrivals to a party they weren’t sure they were invited to. Only Alorin had made any effort at striding to the edge, where she leaned out over the clouds and gave a low whistle. Dusk was falling.
“Look at that,” she marveled. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Parwit had furrowed his brow, confused; the idea that everyone in the world had not leaned off the edge of the world and seen the great Starkhorn below, torchlit as the sun sank into the east, was foreign to him. “What?” Poildrin had gotten up on tiptoe; he was tall, but not so tall that tiptoes helped him see over the edge. But he had no interest at all in getting any closer; contrary to popular opinion, mages could not fly.
The sun went lower as they shivered, its bottom rim now kissing the horizon, and at a sullen gesture from Parwit they began unloading their saddlebags. Jerren had been clear on that point.
“Your horses won’t be able to go where you’re going,” she’d told them in the soft mist of the morning as they’d set out from Lower Thead. “Parwit will bring them back to me, and I’ll send them down the road when it’s safe.”
“When it’s safe?” Alorin and her horse, Pixie, had a deep affection for each other. “I’ll need you to be more precise than that.”
Green eyes had met grey, and Jerren had produced her usual lopsided smirk. By now, they’d all learned she meant it warmly. “Trust me. Your army will take the Starkhorn, Lady Traxtell will send word to me, and I’ll bring the horses down myself.” She gazed at the valkyrie and then reached into her cleavage. “Keep this as a pledge, if you wish.”
Alorin frowned down at the little pendant in her palm. Her eyebrow arched with its usual precision, colored now with skepticism.
“It means a great deal to me,” Jerren had said softly. “I’ll be very worried until it finds its way back to me.” Alorin had followed her gaze, then, to Poildrin; the mage had stood there like a man who’s taken an arrow in the forehead, in wondrous confusion in the moments before he toppled. “Take good care of it, please.”
Alorin had not comprehended why anyone would get emotional over a brass frog on a half-rotten strip of old leather, but she knew honesty when she saw it. She‘d nodded gravely. “You’ve got my word.”
While they’d unloaded the horses, Parwit had been measuring out a rope he’d pulled from beneath a stone cairn, along with some other oddments that clinked gently. When he had his measurement correct, he’d nodded, tied the rope, and looked expectantly over at Poildrin. Knowing nothing about what he meant but unwilling to show fear, he’d stepped up to the boy near the edge of the cliff.
A bird flew. Below him.
For a moment his senses reeled. He felt himself sway, his eyes clamped tight, but then he took a deep breath and mastered himself. He opened his eyes to the swift, professional movements of Parwit, lifting his arms and passing the end of the rope around his waist just underneath his ribcage. Five times it circled him, like a tensing snake, and then the lad made a complicated knot of several loops before dragging the rope between his legs. Poildrin felt his robe ride ignominiously up beneath the rope, but Parwin kept on, pulling mercilessly tight until, with a sidewise jerk of his head, he indicated Poildrin should waddle to the very brink of the cliff.