Amourgin faced the questioner. The man wore a field sergeant's badge on his arm, and a field sergeants no-nonsense expression.
"Name?" he asked.
"Amourgin Thurdhad."
The sergeant's metal-tipped pen stopped scritching across the page. "Turvahad?"
"Thurdhad T-H-U-R-D-H-A-D."
"Ah. Right" The pen resumed its scritching. "County?"
"Briar." The one that held Olmya, capital of the New Empire.
"Aw, shit. Another city boy." The sergeant gave Amourgin a narrow-eyed once-over, noting the glasses, the book held in one hand, and the fashionable clothing, and returned his gaze to the log in front of him with a deep sigh.
"Next of kin?" Mostly under his breath, he added, "Reckon we'll need it."
"None."
"Makes it simple, anyway. Got yer own mounts? Any idea how to ride 'em, city boy?"
"Yes. Two, in the stables—I've just taken up riding—"
The sergeant stared up at him with an expression of clear disgust on his face. "Aw-w-w-w, fer godssakes—just taken it up? Like it was embroidering or somesuch? How'd y'ever get from place to place?"
"That's what carriages are for," Amourgin said.
"Shit. What's yer occupation—librarian?"
"Law-speaker."
"Wonderful. We'll take you out and shoot you now—save ourselves a load of grief."
Amourgin leaned forward and rested one hand on the field desk. "I know I'm not much. I'm afraid I'll be of no benefit to a unit—I never had the skill for weapons, nor the courage to deal with large animals. If you could see your way clear to send me on my way… I could make it worth your while."
The pen froze in mid scritch. The sergeant kept his head down, and sat perfectly still. "Worth my while?" he asked in a low voice. "How so?"
"I have sealed vouchers of credit in my possession. I could sign a goodly number of them over to you—say… ten crowns?"
The sergeant's pen began to move again.
"Twenty?"
The pen slowed, then resumed its pace.
"Thirty?"
The pen stopped dead and the sergeant stared up. "Thirty crowns? That's the best offer I've had tonight. Actually, that's the best offer I've had in many a night."
Good, Amourgin thought "I could make them out to you now," he said softly.
"In fact, that's such a big offer, I can't ignore it. I usually ignore those offers," he added. "But thirty crowns—"
Amourgin reached for his pouch to pull out a voucher.
"Leave 'em where they are," the sergeant said "Mercele!" he bawled "Front and center."
A man larger than many houses presented himself in front of the master sergeant. "Sir?"
"This gentleman appears to be entirely unsuitable for military service. You are to help him through this rabble to get his horses, and then you are to provide him with a personal escort. Where did you wish to go?" the sergeant asked the law-speaker.
"Any reasonable hostel would be fine," Amourgin said. He couldn't believe his luck. He'd been ready to go to fifty crowns—and could, if forced, have covered a draft of as much as sixty.
"You hear that, Mercele? Any reasonable hostel."
"Yes, sir." Mercele stood impassively in the darkness, watching his sergeant.
"Any reasonable hostel," the sergeant repeated, and chuckled. "He thinks he can buy his way out of service to Emperor Shemro an' the Three. Offered me thirty crowns to let him run. So take him to get his horses, and then you take him to the fort, and stick him in the stockade, and if he gives you any trouble, you beat him 'til he can't move." The sergeant grinned at Amourgin. "And if he tries to bribe you, take the money, and then beat him 'til he can't move."
The corners of Mercele's mouth twitched in the smallest of smiles. "Yes, SIR!" he said with considerable enthusiasm.
Amourgin stared at the sergeant, feeling he'd been hit between the eyes by an ax. "But—but…" he sputtered. "You yourself said I wasn't suitable to be a soldier."
"Oh," the sergeant said, and flashed Amourgin one final genial smile. "We'll fix that. Or kill you trying."
"Move," Mercele the mountain whispered.
Amourgin moved.
First Captain Sir Bren Morkaarin looked over Sergeant Ddrad's roster at the unlikely additions the XIXth Imperial Foot had just acquired, and thought if he weren't standing in the courtyard with the best of the XIXth watching him right then, he would weep.
Lord Colonel Gonstad looked down his nose at the First Captain and said, "These are your charges, then, Morkaarin. Get them back to the fort. I've other things to do." The Lord Colonel flicked his leopard skin back over his shoulder and snapped his fingers. His personal guard leapt to attention, brought his horse to him, and followed him out.
Leaving Bren with the mess. Nothing new there.
So what did he have? A pimp; five whores; a two-hand complement of water-spined merchants and overweight traders; from the earlier part of the nights work, not one, but two chicken farmers; four bank clerks; a handful of assorted potscrubbers and street cleaners, beggars, shopkeepers, and thieves. One sheep of a law-speaker, and a horse wrangler. He noted the horse wranglers name and pursed his lips. A true horsemaster would be a valuable commodity. Of gentle birth, so technically she shouldn't be a common soldier—but time pressed, and technicalities could wait. The rest of the recruits looked dismal.
He rubbed his temples and sighed before he replaced his helmet. Time to round them up and move them out, he thought.
"Ignore him," he heard a feminine voice say from somewhere in the midst of the mob of recruits.
"I'll rif his t'roat out!" another voice snarled.
A man laughed. "Y'whore. H'I'll make as much money off yer ass here as h'ever I did before. H'I can still sell you, y'stupid bitch, even h'if we are in t' army. H'and there'll be plenty of takers."
Bren heard a low, terrible growl, and a shriek. Sounds of a scuffle broke out, and suddenly several voices were yelling at once, "Don't kill him! Don't kill him, Eowlie!"
Bren ran into the midst of the recruits.
"Clear!" he bellowed. "Get clear! Back off! Make way!"
The recruits scurried out of his path, until only two were left. The fat pimp, and one of his former whores with her teeth sunk into his neck and murder in her eyes.
"Don't bite down!" one of the young piebald whores screamed. She tugged at the gauzy back of the fanged whore's see-through tunic, trying to pull her off the pimp. "Oh, mercy, don't kill him or they'll hang you!"
The pimp's eyes had rolled back in his head. Bren wasn't sure whether the man was dead or saved his life when he fainted. The man himself would be no great loss if he were dead, Bren thought. The woman who'd downed him was another matter, however.
She looked up at him out of cold yellow eyes, her teeth still in the pimp's throat.
"Let him go," Bren said. Their gazes locked. He kept his voice low—and kept his hands away from his sword. He didn't want to panic her into killing the bastard if he wasn't dead already. She looked like she might have some potential as a soldier. It would be a shame to have to hang her over such a sorry specimen as the pimp.
She let up and backed off very slowly. And then she grinned at him, the sort of wolfish grin from which nightmares were made. "Mayve the war kill him for me, hey?"
Bren did not allow himself to respond to her comment. He knelt next to the downed man and felt for a pulse and breathing. The pimp was still alive. Good. He gave her a cold look and said, "You'll spend the next two days in the stockade, recruit. This ever happens again, it'll be lashes."
She nodded slowly. "It von't haffen again."
"It won't happen again, sir."
She grinned "It von't haffen again, SIR."
He stood, brushed off the knees of his breeches. The rest of the recruits were watching him. He beckoned over one of the musketeers. "Take her to the stockade."
The musketeer looked from the pimp to the weird fanged woman, and then back at the ranks
of musketeers who stood along the wall. Bren saw him swallow hard. "Me, sir? I mean—you will want several of us to take her together, won't you? Sir?"
"You can handle it." Bren kept his face impassive as he looked from the musketeer to the woman. "I believe I could trust her to go to the stockade by herself. After all, she volunteered. But I need somebody along with her to give my orders to the watchman to put her inside. You're going to ride along peacefully, isn't that right, recruit?"
Those yellow-gold eyes fixed on him, and the smile became something other than wolfish. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."
Bren nodded. "Right, then. She has a horse. Get it, and let her ride it."
This should make an interesting object lesson for the troops, Bren thought, as the musketeer and the woman walked toward the stables. Don't push her, because you might end up alone with her. The musketeer taking her to the stockade was a good man—not one given to abusing women, not one likely to do anything to set her off. Not, he thought, a man like the several men behind him who were muttering, thinking themselves unnoticed.
"Wish he'd a sent me. I'd a shown her a thing or two 'tween here and the camp."
"Don't you know it. Girl wouldna' of sat down t' whole time in the stockade."
They chuckled. Bren sighed. That isn't what would have happened, he thought. I'd have ended up burying one soldier and hanging another.
At his feet, the pimp opened his eyes. "I want to press charges," he said "I want that bitch court-martialled."
Bren glanced down at the man and permitted himself a slow, gentle smile. "You're lucky I don't stick you in the stockade with her, recruit, and then forget to check on you. You don't own her—or any of them—anymore. And if you try to act like you do again, I'll have you up on charges. The XIXth hangs panderers, too, you know."
The recruits who had horses took them out of the stables under heavy guard and saddled up.
Bren watched them. The majority of the horses were candidates for the renderer. The riders mostly sat like bags full of tubers, round-backed and sprawled all along their cantles. There were exceptions. He saw a few good mounts—and two he would have given his own eyeteeth and his lord colonels right arm for.
Grendaarin horses, he thought, watching the Grenlaarin girl vault into her saddle as if gravity had no meaning. The Grenlaarin horses were a good two hands taller than the largest of the other horses, deep-chested, heavy-boned and well-muscled, with the characteristic arched necks and shortish backs of the breed. Top Grenlaarins were the ultimate utility horses—good jumpers, good trail mounts, smart enough for advanced schooling, sturdy enough to work as light draft beasts. And unflappable.
And she had two of them, matched black-point dapples.
He gritted his teeth, envious. He wondered, briefly, how much she'd want for one, and decided as quickly that he wasn't likely to have that kind of money any time soon—and she wouldn't trade for what he had.
"Line up the foot recruits," he yelled. "Halberds to either side! Riders behind, recruits to center, musketeers lead off."
The milling mob shifted, re-formed, took on shape and order. Bren's aide brought him his horse, and he swung into his own saddle, feeling the eyes of the Grenlaarin girl on him as he did. He wished for some of her grace right then—wished for a nobler horse with which to impress her. He hated to know there were people better than him at the things he thought important. Worse, he hated having those people watch him, he told himself. That was the only reason he wanted to impress her. Certainly it was nothing more.
He shifted in the saddle, cued his mount to move to one side with the pressure of a knee and the faintest twitch of reins. He waved a hand. "Move out."
CHAPTER III
"Morkaarin," the man said. "Bren Morkaarin…" He snapped his fingers. "The bastard!"
"You know him personally?" Willek said.
"No, no, my liege. Literally a bastard. His mother was careless, although she insisted under geas-oath that his father was noble."
Willek raised an eyebrow. A noblewoman had access to the best contraceptive spells available, and even the common-or-garden variety issued to the troops was virtually foolproof. Bastardy was not much of a disgrace, but it was a severe social handicap, since the child had only one set of parents and kin-folk for backing.
"Find him," she said. "Find him and kill him."
"Shouldn't be difficult," her cousin said.
Willek looked him over critically. He had the family looks, tall and slender and quick; his black boots, fitted trousers and shirt, and short-sleeved jacket showed off his build to advantage. He had less of the family wealth, though a stranger couldn't have guessed that by the gold at his belt and swordhilt and on the clasp of his peacock-plumed hat. He tended to vanity, and pomaded his hair with too much lavender, but he was competent. She'd taken him on as liegeman and guard captain because he was a relation, needed the job, and seemed both able and unencumbered with an excess of scruple.
"Don't try it alone, Valwer," she said. At his frown: "That's an order. No fuss, no formal challenges, just dead. Take as many as you need."
There was no need to mention the magical complications. Cousin Valwer had the psychic sensitivity of a turnip. If he ran into difficulties, well, that would give her valuable information too.
The aide peeked his nose around Willek's door. "Lieutenant Coado to see you."
Willek made a flicking gesture with one hand. "Go." Her cousin bowed with an ironic flourish of hat and cloak, and left. She took a deep breath and settled into her high-backed chair, and rested her baton of office across her knees. "Send him in."
The aide showed a whippet-lean man in the elegant grey tunic of the special troops into her headquarters. The man bowed slightly. Willek inclined her head fractionally. Both waited, unspeaking.
The aide stood in the door, waiting.
"I'll call you when I need you again, Ketos."
The aide pursed his lips and backed woodenly out of the room.
"Ketos doesn't like me," the lieutenant said. "Neither does that blond beanpole… what's his name?"
"Valwer Tornsaarin," Willek said. "I don't like you either," she added flatly. "But you're… useful. So, Chevays, how are you finding life in the special division?"
"Very bloody." The man smiled his thin-lipped smile and leaned casually against Willek's desk. "I like being an official interrogator. It suits me."
"I'm sure." She crossed her legs and tapped her baton against her knee. "Please remember you are now official, and show the appropriate respect."
"Being the Tornsaarin family assassin doesn't confer special privileges, hey?" He smiled his thin, humorless smile and stood in front of her desk, his at-rest position just across the line of insolence.
Willek raised an eyebrow. She waved him into the chair across from her. "I want you to do me a favor."
He grinned. "No one ever asks to see me because they enjoy my company."
"That's because no one enjoys your company." She opened a drawer, and pulled out a small box. She checked the latch—it was firmly in place. She tossed the box to Chevays, and smiled tightly when he gave her a questioning look. "Open it."
He fiddled with the latch, opened the box—then nearly dropped it as ghostly forms sprang out at him. He slammed the lid shut and glared at her.
"Very funny."
She almost laughed. He wasn't completely without nerves, then. "Open it back up. They can't hurt you."
He did what she asked, and the forms flew out again, and gathered coherence and opacity. The lieutenant studied them and frowned, his expression puzzled.
Three ghostly people shimmered in the dim light of the office. One was a bland-looking blond man of medium height—he wore a first captain's sash. The second was a stocky, ruddy girl; almost as dark as a Derkinoi, but with Tykissian lodge-marks on her face. The third was a tall, lean woman whose lower face stretched into a deadly-looking muzzle—she was no breed of human or near-human Willek had ever seen. Her slanted yellow eyes s
eemed to look through Willek with vicious intensity. The Grand Admiral was pleased with the quality of the images she'd managed to capture from the blood-demon.
"Dull, except for the beast-girl," Chevays offered at last.
Willek leaned back and slapped the palm of her hand with her baton. She imagined Chevays the sort who'd find the wolf-muzzled woman appealing, but then, she suspected him of all sorts of nasty perversions. "I want you to find them all. The man is Bren Morkaarin; he's First Captain in the XIXth Foot. I don't know what their connection to each other is—but they have some strange link to me. The other two I don't know at all. Find them. Once you do, let me know who and where they are. One or more of them is likely to be God-Touched."
Chevays raised an eyebrow. "Could be dangerous. Luck takes bizarre twists around the gods' playthings." He didn't ask how she knew. Willek suspected he was aware that she dabbled in unpriestly, forbidden magic. He knew better than to ask for further details.
She leaned back in her chair and templed her fingers in front of her face. "I'll tell you what to do next after you've located them."
"If you think you're going to want me to kill them, let me know now. I'll have to make special preparations."
Willek closed her eyes and saw, once again, her head falling to the executioner's sword. She saw the expression on her face—horror and disbelief and pain in that instant when the blade sliced through her neck but when life had not yet left her. She squeezed her eyes tightly closed and said:
"I'll most likely want you to kill them. But it may not be that simple. If Fate's taking a hand the timing may be critical. In any case, find them, find out their connection to each other. Then we'll think about killing them."
Konzin patted his bedroll and heard the reassuring crinkle of the bank draft. It was secure—but he had a hard time feeling comfortable while carrying that much money. Something he'd have to get used to, he decided.
He shifted in the saddle. He and the rest of the ranch hands had started out for the Grenlaarin ranch long before first light. They were already well into the scraggy open fells and broken bluffs that ran from the sea to Olmya, following the river's eastern bank. The open lowlands on the west were barely visible, a checkerboard of small fields and orchards protected by levees along the waterfront.
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