When he’d first learned her secret, and she’d told him she needed this sort of stimulation to be happy, he had, in his consternation and anger, assumed she was talking nonsense. Now, however, he could see that her assertion might well be true, and sensed just how profoundly she had denied her own nature when she assumed her grand-niece’s identity.
Perhaps her love of risk was part of what made her such a superb fighter, for that she surely was. Avos was younger, stronger, had the superior reach, and possessed the substantial advantage of having trained with the odd set of weapons, yet Shamur was beating him. Thamalon was glad that, assuming the Quippers honored their pledge, she at least was likely to leave this wretched place alive.
Or so he thought until he chanced to glimpse a flicker of motion from the corner of his eye.
He turned his head to spy the galltrit flying upward toward the high ceiling. The stealthy little creature carried what appeared to be a toy crossbow in its diminutive hands.
Thamalon suspected the quarrel was poisoned. In all likelihood, no spectator would notice the tiny missile striking its target, yet the venom would be potent enough to hamper Shamur and allow the hard-pressed Avos to overcome her, win the duel by a cheat, and still maintain the respect of his underlings.
Thamalon would have liked to point out the gremlin’s obvious intent to the other Quippers, but there was no time. The rogues were focused on the duel, and by the time he managed to divert one’s attention, the galltrit would already have taken its shot and fluttered away. Nor would it be efficacious to shout and warn Shamur. The way the crowd was yelling, she likely wouldn’t hear him, and even if she did, the distraction might provide Avos with just the chance he needed to land a telling blow.
Fortunately, Thamalon’s guards were as interested in the duel as everyone else, too interested to watch him especially closely. Exploding into motion, he shoved one away, snatched the poniard from the other’s sheath, pushed him away as well, turned, and hurled the dagger.
The poniard wasn’t well balanced for throwing, but it flew true anyway, and pierced the galltrit’s breast. The bat-winged imp gave a thin, quavering cry and fell, thudding down in the combat circle.
By that time several ruffians were moving in on Thamalon with blades in their hands and murder in their eyes. Suspecting they had at best only a murky idea of what had just occurred, the noble pointed frantically at the gray, diminutive corpse.
“Look at the gremlin!” he roared in his most imperious tone. “Look at that little crossbow. The cursed thing was going to cheat on behalf of its master, and if I’m to be harmed for killing it to keep the fight fair, then by Tyr Grimjaws, you stinking Quippers have no honor at all!”
The ruffians hesitated, then black-bearded Donvan said, “His lordship’s got a point, and besides, we want to sell him, not kill him. Put up your weapons and watch the rest of the show.”
The galltrit’s body thumped down inside the dueling circle. As soon as Shamur caught sight of the little crossbow in the creature’s hand, she understood what it had been up to. She grinned at Avos. “Did you signal the gremlin somehow, or did it simply know to intervene whenever you were losing a challenge?”
An ugly muttering started through the crowd. Some of the Quippers had no doubt watched Avos slaughter their friends inside this ring. Now they had reason to doubt that he’d beaten them fairly.
For a moment, Avos looked stricken. Aghast. Then his square, ruddy face grew redder still, and pure rage blazed in his pale blue eyes. He bellowed and charged, swinging the gaff at Shamur’s face.
She parried, and the force of his blow sent a shock down her arm. Instantly, contemptuous of any attempt she might have made to riposte, he stepped through with his back foot and drove his short sword at her chest.
She parried with her blade and attempted a thrust of her own, but he was still surging forward, spoiling her aim, and instead of piercing his bowels, her point simply grazed along his ribs.
Seemingly unfazed by this new wound, Avos slammed into her and sent her staggering. He tried to hook her leg and she barely managed to bat his gaff away with her own. Instantly he sprang forward and lashed the weapon at her head.
Recovering her balance, she swayed back, and the gaff missed her nose by half an inch. Whirling the weapon over his head, he rushed her yet again.
She smiled, for she understood what he was doing. Since his tricks hadn’t worked, he was playing the big man’s game, trying to overwhelm her with sheer might and relentless aggression. It was a strategy that had won many a fight for many a strapping fellow like himself, but it was incompatible with a strong defense. If a fighter possessed the skill to withstand his onslaught for long enough—and Shamur reckoned that she did—Avos would inevitably leave himself wide open for a riposte or stop cut.
She gave ground, parrying, gritting her teeth at the appalling power in the strokes that stung her fingers and once or twice nearly bashed her weapons from her hands. Until finally Avos blundered forward with a poorly aimed attack, so poorly aimed, in fact, that she was confident he would be unable to correct and strike her if she simply sidestepped. As he plunged past her, she swept her gaff low, hooked his ankle, and pulled.
Avos crashed face down on the floor. His foot flailed free of the hook, and he tried to scramble up. Shamur swung the gaff high and slammed it down on top of his head, splitting his scalp anew. Losing his grip on his weapons, he slumped. Dropping the gaff, she sprang on top of him, wrenched him onto his back, and poised her short sword at his throat.
The spectators howled. Avos gazed up at her with astonishment and fear in his eyes. “I yield,” he said.
Shamur chuckled. “I figured you probably would.”
“So you can back off now. You’re free to go.”
“Those were the terms before the galltrit tried to cheat for you. I think it’s appropriate that we amend them. Lord Uskevren and I are both leaving.”
Avos scowled. “No.” She was surprised that he’d stick at releasing Thamalon with her blade at his neck, but perhaps he felt impelled to try to salvage a bit of his pride, or at least a scrap of his underlings’ respect. “He stays.”
Shamur raised her sword to threaten his eyes. “Tell your friends to let him go right now, or by Mask, mine is the last face you will ever see. Nor will I stop cutting after that.”
“You hurt me, the other Quippers will hurt him.”
“But you’ll still be hurt. Don’t play that game with me, Avos, you won’t like the way it turns out. You should realize by now that I’m not the sort of woman who shrinks at the sight of blood, not even her husband’s.”
“All right,” Avos growled, “let the nobleman go.”
Shamur held her breath, for she was by no means certain that the rogues would let such a lucrative prize slip through their fingers merely to save their defeated and discredited chieftain. But perhaps some of them still held Avos in some esteem. Others surely didn’t, but maybe they also felt that Shamur had fought valiantly enough to earn her husband’s liberation as well as her own. Or perhaps no one wanted to be the first to advocate allowing Avos’s mutilation, for fear that nobody else would agree with him. Whatever the reason, after a moment, Thamalon’s guards stepped away from him, and none of the other toughs objected.
“Good,” Shamur said. “Now, someone fetch the weapons, money, and jewels you took from us.”
Donvan collected the articles and handed them over to Thamalon.
“Now get out of here,” Avos said.
“Call me a cynic,” Shamur replied, “but I can’t help wondering whether you’d still consent to our departure if my blade were no longer tickling you. So here’s how it will be. You’re going to walk us out of the Scab, with our sword points at your back every step of the way. Now stand up very slowly.”
Thamalon sauntered to her side. “Nicely done,” he said.
She smiled. “It would all have been for naught if you hadn’t killed the galltrit.”
“I belie
ve we still require a name.”
“You’re right. I nearly forgot.” She prodded Avos in the kidney with her sword. “Enlighten us.”
“I don’t know who the wizard in the moon mask is,” the ruffian answered grudgingly, “but the nobleman who paid me to supply men to aid the spellcaster is Ossian Talendar.”
CHAPTER 18
Thazienne plucked her towel from its peg and wiped the perspiration from her face. Beside her, Talbot poured water from a jug and, throwing back his head, glugged it down. A stray drop escaped the corner of his mouth and trickled down his unshaven chin.
Though stiff and sore from their exertions the night before, the two of them had nonetheless felt a common urge to go to the mansion’s training hall this morning. Perhaps they’d wanted to work the kinks out, or hone their skills for battles yet to come. Tazi suspected that Tal at least had hoped some hard fencing would distract him from his guilt.
However, judging from his somber expression, it didn’t seem to have worked, and when he spoke, he proved that it hadn’t. “I still don’t understand why it happened.”
Tazi sighed. “Yes, you do, you just don’t want to let it go.”
“How can I? I feel badly enough about Jander, but Master Selwick was alive when we fled out the back of the tiring house. I never would have abandoned him if I’d known the other wizard would hold off chasing us long enough to kill him!”
“The enemy wizard was flying, and I saw a couple of our men bounce crossbow bolts off him to no effect. Even if we had lingered, we couldn’t have saved Brom.”
“Still—”
“Enough!” she cried. “Haven’t you ever listened to Father’s stories? Battles are unpredictable, and people die in them. That’s just the way it is.”
“Well, none of our friends died in mine,” Tamlin said.
Startled, Thazienne pivoted to see her foppish brother standing in the doorway. He was as exquisitely dressed as usual in a red and purple ensemble, but to her surprise, he was still carrying the woodcutter’s axe from yesterday, now slung across his back. Evidently he’d prevailed upon one of the servants to fashion some sort of scabbard for it.
Tal glowered at him. “What’s that remark supposed to mean?”
“Just that when I was attacked, I wasn’t expecting trouble,” Tamlin replied. “I only had three comrades to stand beside me, not a company of guards, and none of us were slain. I led everyone to safety. It’s a pity my brother the master swordsman can’t say the same.”
“That’s it,” Talbot said. He advanced on Tamlin with mayhem in his eyes.
Tazi had occasionally thought she’d enjoy nothing more than to see Talbot catch their supercilious brother apart from his hulking bodyguard and drub the snottiness out of him. Now, however, the prospect simply made her feel impatient.
“Stop it!” she shouted. The two males turned to look at her. “Remember what Master Selwick said. It doesn’t help to fight among ourselves.”
Tamlin grimaced. “You’re right. Brother, I apologize. I know you’re not to blame for Brom’s death. It’s just that I feel badly about it. If he hadn’t conjured away the barrier of ice, I’d most likely be dead myself, and Escevar and Vox with me.”
“I suppose that by keeping the masked mage off our backs, he saved Tazi and me as well,” Talbot said. “Now the only way to repay him is to avenge him.”
“And the same quite possibly holds true for Mother and Father,” Tazi said.
For a moment, they all stood silent, and then Talbot made a visible effort to throw off the somber mood that had overtaken them all. “What are you doing here?” he said to Tamlin. “Don’t tell me you want to train.”
“The gods forbid,” said Tamlin. “Actually, I was searching for the two of you. Cale says someone is demanding to speak to us, a factor from one of the warehouses.”
“If it’s some business thing,” Tazi said, “surely you can handle it by yourself.”
“For that matter, Erevis ought to be able to attend to it by himself,” Tamlin replied. “But he says the woman wants us, all three of us, and such being the case, I see no reason why I should go endure the boredom by myself. It’s time you two idlers understood the sort of misery I’ve been subjected to since Father disappeared.”
“Oh, all right,” Talbot groaned. “Let’s get it over with.”
As they tramped through the great house, Tazi said, “Dare I ask why you’re still dragging around the axe?”
“It brought me luck once,” Tamlin replied. “I intend to keep it by me until this affair is over.”
Tazi sighed. “Say no more.” Her older brother’s superstitious streak was yet another of his irritating foibles.
Tamlin led his sibs to the great hall, where Erevis stood tall and stiff, and a stocky woman with her graying hair pulled back in a long ponytail paced restlessly about. It was Wyla, not merely one of Father’s workers but a valued retainer who had served him since his youth, often been a guest at Stormweather Towers, and given Tazi and Tal some of their earliest fencing lessons. Surely Erevis had told Tamlin who was calling, but the younger man hadn’t relayed the name to his siblings because he had never noticed or didn’t recall who Wyla was. Weeping Ilmater, he truly was an imbecile, and Tazi gave him an irritated scowl.
Then, however, she saw how Wyla was moving, and her annoyance gave way to concern. She hurried toward the older woman. “What’s wrong with you?” she asked.
Wyla’s left hand twitched upward from her side, almost as if she had an urge to fend Tazi off, or shield herself in some way, although of course, the noblewoman knew she must simply have startled her. “What do you mean?” the factor asked.
“Your limp,” said Thazienne. “It’s much worse than usual.”
“Oh.” Wyla gave her an odd little smile. “Lately, my leg aches badly when it’s cold. I suppose I’m getting old.”
“Well, for Sune’s sake, sit down.” Tazi pulled out one of the chairs at the long, inlaid table, and the factor lowered herself into it. “Didn’t Erevis invite you to take a seat?”
“Of course not, Mistress,” the steward said sardonically. “You know I make it a rule to show visitors as little hospitality as humanly possible. That was why I didn’t bother to fetch any refreshments, either.” He gestured toward a pair of trays, one laden with a silver pitcher of mulled red wine and matching goblets, the other with bread, cheese, sliced apples, and grapes.
As Tazi might have expected, that was all the invitation Tamlin needed to pour himself a drink. “So, how may we help you?” he said to Wyla.
The factor hesitated, then said, “Master Cale, I beg your pardon, but what I have to say is for the young lords’ and lady’s ears alone.”
Erevis blinked in surprise. Talbot said, “Wyla, though I have no idea what you mean to tell us, I’m certain you can do so in front of Erevis.”
“Please, indulge me,” Wyla replied.
Tamlin shrugged. “Whatever it takes to move this along. We can always call Erevis back in a minute, or relay what we want him to know later on.”
“I suppose,” said Tal reluctantly. He turned to Erevis. “If you wouldn’t mind …”
“Of course not,” said the major-domo, “and I’ll make certain none of the other servants overhears your deliberations, either.” He turned and marched out in his herky-jerky way, the light of the brown iridescent lamps gleaming on his bald pate.
The Uskevren sat down.
“All right,” said Thazienne, “tell us.”
“I saw Lord and Lady Uskevren this morning,” Wyla said. “They sneaked into the warehouse and sent me here to talk to you. They even saw fit to give me a token to prove it, though I hope you’ve known me long enough to make that superfluous.” She set a silver and sapphire brooch on the tabletop.
Overcome with relief, Tazi slumped and closed her eyes. Though she would rather have died than admit it to anyone else, until this moment, she’d been all but certain her parents were dead.
“I gave
that brooch to Mother,” Tamlin said.
“We remember,” said Tal. He peered quizzically at Wyla. “But why didn’t Mother and Father come home and talk to us themselves?”
“They didn’t explain everything to me,” Wyla said. “I gather they were in a hurry to get away from the warehouse before anyone else spotted them. But as I understand it, the same enemy who attacked you tried to kill them as well, and for the time being, they want the villain to believe the attempt succeeded. That way, when the time comes, they can strike at him by surprise.”
“I suppose that makes a certain amount of sense,” Tazi said. “But why keep their survival a secret from members of our own household?”
“Because they suspect that one or more of your retainers are spies. How else did the enemy know when your parents would leave the city unescorted, or what route you, Master Tamlin, would take as you rode out to go hawking, or that you, Master Talbot, had warriors stationed in buildings adjacent to the Wide Realms?”
Tazi frowned. As Tamlin, dunce though he was, had observed during the conclave the day before, there were various ways in which a foe could discover what the Uskevren were up to, but a spy was certainly one plausible explanation.
“I suppose we might have a traitor in our midst,” she said, “but Wyla, you must know it couldn’t possibly be Erevis. We trust him as implicitly as we do you.”
Wyla shook her head. “I simply know Lord Uskevren insisted that only you three were to know he and your mother are still alive, just as he stressed that he wants you to inform absolutely no one else.”
“That makes sense to me,” said Tamlin. “I’ve never been as enamored of Cale as my brother and sister. Last winter that walking skeleton revealed a side of himself we’d never suspected. Perhaps he harbors other secrets.”
Thazienne flushed with anger. “He showed us that ‘side’ in the course of saving my life.”
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