by Neil McGarry
Gant nodded. “We’ve already got our pay, so now we turn over these wagons to the lady here” —he indicated Duchess— “and we go on our way.”
“The Whites will hang us for this, you fools!” Rulen cried, red-faced. “Don’t you see?” At that a few of the Oddfellows looked nervous, and Rulen’s eyes brightened, seeing his chance. “They know who had charge of these wagons, and unless we all turn up dead on this road, they’ll chase us down and drag us back to Her Majesty’s justice. We’ll get hanged if we’re lucky.” Two of the men who had been with the wagons exchanged a glance, and Toby took a nervous step backward. Duchess felt as if she’d swallowed ice; Gant’s hold on the company was tenuous, and if it failed...
She stepped forward. “If these wagons were full of gold, and if we stole them from the Whites, well then the empress might see us hanged.” she said more confidently than she felt. “However, since you’re a bunch of no-account sellswords guarding a bunch of bric-a-brac...well, what with the Evangelism in the city, the empress has more important things to worry about. No one will make a fuss over a few wagons of junk from a failed House.” She summoned her best impression of Minette’s poised assurance and waited, barely able to breathe.
Finally, the white-haired man grunted. “Sounds about right to me. I’ve had enough talk. Come on, lads.” At this, all resistance crumbled, and two of the Oddfellows moved to restrain Rulen while the others retrieved their gear from the wagons. Toby, Aaron and Lidda moved to help, and the Brutes stood aside, speaking in low voices. Castor kept a wary eye on them.
Gant strolled over to Duchess. “That was a good bit of bluff,” he said through a smile. “Is any of it true?” Through his casual demeanor she could see how tense he, too, had been.
She returned a grin of her own. “True enough to keep blood off the ground.” She wiped rain from her face. “I doubt anyone at court is going to lose sleep over this matter.” She frowned. “That said, I rather think the Oddfellows’ name and reputation will suffer for this.”
“It’s true, but I doubt it’ll be much worse than what Rulen did to it.” He grinned. “Time heals all wounds, they say.”
Duchess thought on her own mark and name. “I hope you’re right. All the same, you may want to stay away from the city for awhile.”
Gant nodded. “Your warning’s heard. Seems I owe you a favor.” He gave her an appraising look. “I’d offer to take you on if I thought you’d accept.” He shook his head and laughed. “You certainly know how to take a risk.”
She shrugged. “I’m just a city girl. I’ve no taste for a sellsword’s life.” Still, Gant’s mention of a favor gave her pause. The tale he’d told had nagged at her all night, and she’d learned to trust her instincts. “Tell me something and we’re quits.”
“Name it.”
She leaned close. “Tell me who hired you for your last job. The one that cost Rulen his company.”
Gant regarded her warily. “Rulen made the contract, not I.”
She smiled. “He did, but you know anyway.” The look in Gant’s eyes told her she was right.
For a long moment the new captain did not answer. He glanced around to make sure the others were out of earshot, then stepped in until they were close enough to kiss. “I didn’t overthrow Rulen just because we were ordered to kill a child,” he whispered, his pale blue eyes fixed on hers. “I did it because of the man who ordered it. He wore plain leathers, but he paid Rulen in gold and spoke like a man from the very top of the hill. Bastard-born, but with imperial blood. I’d seen him before and I recognized him that night. His name is Attys.”
Duchess gaped at him. Everyone in Rodaas knew the name of the Empress Violana’s own grandson and Duchess had seen the man himself at the Fall of Ventaris. If what Gant was saying were true, the man poised to become the next emperor had no problem in ordering the death of a child. “You’re sure of this?”
“Sure as I am of anything.” He stepped away from her and watched as the Oddfellows carried out his orders. “Best get us settled and moving before Rulen or the Brutes decide to do something stupid. Things have gone well enough so far, but I’ve no hopes in our luck holding out.” He glanced back at her and sighed. “Sure you won’t come with us?”
* * *
Despite her worries, it had turned out to be a good day.
Gant and most of the Oddfellows had departed, taking their deposed captain but leaving Lidda, Aaron, and Toby to help shepherd the wagons back to Wayns. “Julius made the arrangements,” the sellsword had told her before they’d parted. “Besides, I think you’d do well to have a bit of company on the road.” He’d nodded at the Brutes. Duchess was grateful for the assistance; even Malleus and Kakios, terrifying as they were, would think twice about moving alone against the five of them.
The rain dwindled to a light drizzle and between the change in the weather and the continued company of the remaining Oddfellows, she felt her spirits lighten. Aaron and Lidda were each leading a wagon, and the Brutes had the third, leaving Duchess, Castor and Toby to walk alongside. The view on the way back on the Coast Road was exactly as it had been on the way out, only wetter.
After two hours of endless rows of trees, Duchess decided she needed to do something before her wits left her entirely. Her pack had been steadily growing heavier through the walk and it seemed a shame not to make use of the wagons while they had them. Besides, she’d negotiated with Julius for a share of the take, and knowing him, it was best to have some notion of its value before they got back to Rodaas.
Each wagon had a canvas roof that was closed at either end, but it was easy enough to unlace an opening and slip inside. The first two wagons contained mostly furniture: bed frames, chests of drawers, an elegant dining room table inlaid with small amounts of gold. The third contained the personal possessions of the dispossessed Leverings.
She decided to make use of the last wagon to stow her gear, and once she’d eased off her pack she began searching among the loot. She sorted through boxes of clothing in silk, satin, velvet and fine linen. She poked among books and scrolls tied with musty ribbons and found an entire sewing set that had obviously belonged to the lady of the House, as well as a felt-lined box of the lady’s jewelry. The Whites had taken anything of real value, but had left behind rings set with cut glass and necklaces hung with glass paste. They were pretty but she cringed to think of what Lysander would say if she returned with a handful of costume jewelry.
Closing the box, she caught motion out of the corner of her eye and looked over to see a rectangular shape, leaning against the wagon cover. It was perhaps three hand-breadths across and five high, covered with a white sheet. A corner of the sheet had pulled away and it was from underneath that the movement had come. She carefully pulled it back to reveal a mirror, though unlike any she had ever seen.
Glassworking was a well known art in Rodaas, but even so, most mirrors Duchess had seen were of beaten brass. The one beneath the cloth was far superior, but neither glass nor silver. It was if someone had beaten crystal into a rough, rectangular shape, then stretched it flat across a wooden frame. She’d never seen its like. The frame was lovely, walnut carved into whorls and curls, but there were gaps here and there about the edge, as if the mirror had been shaped first and the frame jammed on later.
She held up the mirror and it cast back her reflection, dim in the interior of the wagon. The surface felt like both glass and metal and yet was neither, and it was cold to the touch. She shivered and her reflection did the same, caught in a mist of silver. The air seemed to thicken and she felt as if she were moving through honey. There was something deeply familiar here...
She snatched up the sheet and wrapped it around the mirror, and the strangeness ceased as soon as she could no longer see its surface. She made her way out of the wagon, but it wasn’t until she’d climbed through the piles and was fumbling at the flap that she realized she was still holding the mirror. A part of her wanted to look into its depths once more; instead, she turned it
over and carefully tied the sheet in place. She was due some of the take, after all. Julius would hardly object to her claiming this as a part of her share.
She slid the mirror into her pack and climbed out of the wagon to find Castor walking ahead. “Everything going well?” she asked him, if for no other reason than to hear a human voice. He nodded sparsely, and she found herself longing for Lysander. Castor was a good man and loyal, but a terrible conversationalist.
“We’re going to have a time sorting through all of that,” she remarked, “but I imagine there’s enough to make this trip worthwhile for all of us. Now, what I’d like to know is—” She broke off as Castor stopped dead in his tracks. “What are you—”
It was as far as she got before Castor slammed into her, hurling her painfully to the ground. Before she could even think to protest, a twang sounded and there was a loud knocking, like rapping on a wooden door. She saw something sprout suddenly from the side of the wagon, right where she’d been walking. Something else sprouted from Toby’s leg, and he went down hard, crying out.
She might have lay there gaping if Castor had not seized her and dragged her roughly around to the other side of the wagon. Lidda and Aaron quickly took cover behind their own wagons, and the Brutes behind the third. Another twang sounded, and there came the sound of tearing cloth. Toby, breathing harshly, was trying to claw his way towards shelter with one hand, holding the other over where his leg was pumping blood onto the muddy earth.
Castor was the first to recover. “Lidda, Aaron, drag him to cover. Now!” He peered cautiously around a corner of the wagon. “Crossbowmen,” he told Duchess, ducking back. “By the rate of fire I’d guess no more than three, probably two. Lousy shots.”
She glanced around where the bolt that had nearly hit them. She’d take his word for it. “What do we do?” Her heart had caught on to the fact that she was in deadly danger and was hammering away like a carpenter in Trades.
He looked at the woods behind them. “If I were them, I’d have footmen on their way to flank us from the rear, but I’ve seen nothing.” Another twang, and a quarrel skittered along the ground, coming to rest near Duchess’ feet. “We have to take them out before they spook the horses and send our cover running down the road.” He drew his sword.
She swallowed hard against the fear that knotted in her throat. “Then I’m coming with you.” Before he could protest, she added, “It’s either that or I stay behind with them.” She jerked a thumb towards the Brutes, who had drawn their swords and were looking in their direction.
He nodded. “Move fast, stay close and keep your blades to hand.” Then he was off, breaking cover and running hard for the woods, weaving back and forth to present a more difficult target. Duchess followed suit, her heart pounding more from fear than exertion. With every step she expected to feel a quarrel lance through her body, and she even heard another twang, but either the crossbowmen were as bad as Castor had predicted or she was not their target.
It couldn’t have been sixty feet to the tree line, but it seemed like they’d run sixty miles before they plunged into the cover of the pines. Castor turned left and she trailed after him, suddenly remembering what he had said. Take them out. Gods damn but her reputation was going to be true whether she wanted it or not. “No killing!” she gasped. “We can’t have any killing!” If he heard he gave no sign.
The ambushers were standing only fifteen feet from the tree line, on a small rise that afforded them a decent view of the wagons and their attendants, but when Duchess and Castor came crashing through the trees they turned, crossbows in hand. The first man dropped his bow, clawed a short sword from his belt, and ran to meet Castor’s charge, while the other fumbled to load another quarrel. They were both wearing livery, but none she recognized.
Time seemed to slow, and her focus narrowed until the man with the crossbow was all she could see. Her fear evaporated as she drew one of the throwing knives from her belt and, with one smooth motion, let fly. As the blade whirled across the fifteen feet that separated her from her target, she threw herself to the ground to avoid the quarrel that twanged from the bow. She did not have even a chance to pray that her aim was true before her thrown blade struck home directly in the man’s right arm, just below the shoulder. His cry of pain tore through the woods as she scrambled back to her feet, drawing her second knife. He was grasping at his sword and she raised her arm, her blade in throwing position. “Don’t,” she told him, closing in with the knife still poised and he froze, his sword forgotten.
Castor, in the meantime, was dealing with the first man. Although his own sword was drawn he had not used it, dodging the clumsy swings of his attacker. Finally, the man lunged too far forward and Castor stepped nimbly aside and brought his sword down hard, hitting the man on the knee with the flat of his blade. Bone snapped and the man shrieked horribly, dropping his sword and crumpling to the ground. “No killing,” Castor said dryly as he kicked the man’s weapon into a tangle of undergrowth.
The man she had her knife to tried pulling away while her attention was divided. “Stop moving!” she growled, lunging at him. He turned, too quickly, and her blade nicked his ear. The man shrieked and grabbed at the side of his head, all the fight going out of him. Duchess pulled in close and placed the knife at his throat, anger running hot like the blood in her veins.
By every god of the Walk, she wanted to murder the lot of them and be done with it. Reputation or no.
“This livery’s false,” Castor said flatly. She risked a look away from her captive, and saw him standing beside his own, pointing to colors she now recognized as House Levering.
She turned back to the man she’d caught. His eyes followed her, both scared and defiant. His clothing was leather and roughspun, but under his chin she noticed what she first thought was blood. Looking more closely she saw a brand in red, running across his throat from ear to ear.
“You’re a Red Smile,” she said slowly. “What’s a Deeps gang doing out on the Coast Road in false livery?”
That was when the screaming began.
She was running, the Red Smile forgotten. She plunged back into the trees toward the road, only barely aware of Castor close behind. Branches lashed at her arms, her face, and the screams continued from the direction of the road. By the time they’d reached the wagons, Lidda lay face down on the muddy ground, in a pool of spreading blood, not far from Toby. The quarrel in his leg had not had the chance to kill him; the dagger still in his broad chest had taken care of that. His sweet, hapless, basset-hound eyes were open, staring emptily at the cloudy sky.
The horses, maddened by the scent of death, must have tried to bolt, but they had gotten tangled in the wagon’s traces when they’d tried to turn too sharply. With the road blocked, the other two pairs had tried to back away, and had gotten tangled in their traces. They all screamed impotently as Aaron, whey-faced, was slowly retreating, sword in hand, as Malleus and Kakios stalked towards him.
The Brutes turned as Castor and Duchess emerged from the trees. “Hello, little doll,” Malleus said, smiling a little smile. “We were just finishing up. We were worried we’d get bored, but now here you are.”
“Yes, Malleus,” Kakios murmured. “Let’s skin the wolf, shall we? Then the doll is all ours to do with as we please.”
Duchess found her rage exactly where she’d left it. “What did you do?” Five minutes ago Lidda and Toby were only hours from a hot meal and a good night’s rest, and now they were sprawled in the mud, blood still leaking from the wounds that had killed them. “You’re done in Rodaas,” she told them through numb lips. “This was Pete’s job, Pete the Pearl. Once Ophion finds out what you’ve done, you’ll never wear a black armband again.”
Malleus shrugged. “Don’t need it, little doll. Once we finish with you, we’re taking these wagons and heading south. Off to the Duchies, and new lives for us both. We’re done with the city. Once we’re done with you.”
“Oh but that won’t be for ages,” Kakios p
ut in, feinting towards Aaron and laughing when the poor boy cried out and nearly dropped his sword. “To make up for the rabbit.” He turned back to Duchess, his smile gone and his voice shriller with every word. “Didn’t let us play with it. Never get to play!” His last word vanished in a mad shriek, his eyes bulging, his face red.
“Peace,” Malleus whispered, placing a hand on Kakios’ arm. “We’ll play well enough.” His face took on a crafty look. “What do you think, sheep?” He turned slightly towards Aaron. “We’ve no further quarrel with you. The Oddfellows are done, but you can make the best of the bad. Three on one and the wolf doesn’t stand a chance. Then you leave us with the doll and you can take a bit of what we’ve got and go on your merry way.”
Aaron looked between her and the Brutes, frightened. “You’d let me live?” he asked in a quavering voice.
“Aaron!” she snarled. “Don’t listen to them—”
“Shhh,” Kakios raised a bloody hand to his lips. “Enough talk, little doll. We’ll start with you soon.”
“Start with me,” Castor said, taking a position in front of Duchess, sword at the ready.
Malleus smiled. “Oh, that’s a brave man, Kakios. Far too brave to live.”
Kakios was nearly drooling with anticipation. “Oh, indeed.”
Before any of them could move, however, Aaron struck out wildly with his own blade. Kakios must have sensed the movement from the corner of his eye, for he jerked back just in time. Castor needed no urging; he launched himself at Malleus, who did not fall back. Kakios struck back at Aaron, who stumbled over Lidda’s corpse and fell to the ground, his sword gone. He screamed in terror as Kakios loomed over him for the killing blow...