by Tom Lloyd
‘He gets off with just a fine?’ the smaller man yelped furiously. ‘He’s mad, you said it yourself! Probably a murderer too! Just broke my damn nose!’
‘Shut up,’ the guard and Lynx said in unison.
The men exchanged looks and Lynx tried to remember what apologetic looked like. He was well aware he was still bound and in gaol. He wasn’t sure if the guard was annoyed or amused, but either way the man didn’t comment.
‘Your nose ain’t broken,’ the guard said at last, ‘’cos you’d be squealing like a pig if it were. And none of us give a damn anyway – certainly not enough to trouble the magistrate over some thieving scrote who deserved it. Frankly, compared to the chair he fell on while trying to punch old man Greyn, your nose ain’t worth anything.’
The interruption seemed to make the guard’s mind up and he drew a knife. Lynx tensed instinctively as the man approached him then lowered his eyes, feeling foolish.
‘Sorry, old habits.’
‘Soldier?’
Lynx nodded.
The guard paused. ‘What side?’
‘Not one I care to defend these days.’
The guard nodded and cut through the rope around Lynx’s hands. When the heavyset mercenary only groaned with pleasure and rubbed his wrists, he did the same for his feet and stepped back. Lynx sat up as best he could and propped himself against the wall.
‘Thanks.’
That seemed to surprise the guard. He gave Lynx a suspicious look, then shrugged and backed away to allow him to rise and leave the cell. Lynx did so without haste. The nice man was letting him leave and Lynx had no intention of startling him, even if his protesting body suddenly became capable of it. He shuffled out and stood where the guard directed, trying not to fall over, while the man locked the door again.
That done, Lynx was ushered down the corridor and up a short flight of stone steps, emerging into a square guardroom where three armed man glared at him. Thin strips of light slanted down through the narrow windows on the far wall and Lynx faltered as he blinked away the bright trails in his vision.
‘Over there,’ the guard ordered, pointing to a pair of iron-bound doors on the left. A lock-room, Lynx guessed, with a messy desk placed at one side of it. He dutifully shuffled over as a portly old guard with impressive whiskers took station there. With a self-important huff the guard sat and opened a ledger, eyeing Lynx with disdain.
‘Name?’
‘Lynx?’
The guard paused. ‘Real name.’
‘Lynx.’
The guard placed a hand flat down on the ledger page. ‘Listen, son, you’re getting off with a fine. Now’s not the time for playing silly buggers.’
‘I realise that,’ he said, adding ‘sir’ a little later than intended. ‘Name I was born with got left behind years back, along with the damn fool who was proud of it. I’ve been just Lynx for more’n five years now. Suits me better’n anything from a place I don’t care for any more.’
‘And where’s that?’
‘So Han.’ He knew it was coming, but still he felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise as the men around him tensed.
‘You’re one of them, eh?’
Lynx shook his head. ‘Not since before the war ended – place can rot for all I care. I’ve left all that behind, is why I’ve gone by Lynx ever since.’
‘Why Lynx?’ asked the guard who’d escorted him up, appearing at the older one’s side. Of all the men in the room, his was the only demeanour not affected by the place of Lynx’s birth, which presumably meant he was an easterner. So Han’s brutal campaign of conquest had gobbled up a fair chunk of the Greater Lakes, but had imploded before it could reach across the continent.
Lynx shrugged as best he could without provoking his hangover.
‘They don’t live in packs; prefer their own company and rely just on themselves, but they’re not the biggest or toughest out there. I ain’t trying to persuade the world I’m as dangerous as a mountain lion. That’ll just get a man in more trouble than his drinking is likely to land him in.’
His attempt at a self-deprecating smile got little change from his audience so he quickly continued. ‘Also, my eyes are a funny colour; folks used to say like a cat’s when I was young.’ Lynx turned to look at the man properly, blinking as he afforded him a look at his yellow-flecked brown eyes.
The older guard grunted, clearly unwilling to give too much of a damn about Lynx, even if he didn’t like his name.
‘Fine, Lynx it is, once of So Han. We’ve got a note of your marks already – if any bounty hunter comes looking for the man you once were, the description’s clear enough.’
Lynx nodded. The scars on his back were extensive, one of the many joys of his homeland’s army discipline, and he also had cat’s claws tattooed on his forearm, legacy of another night’s excess. Most obvious though was the complex character on his right cheek – a stylised script from somewhere to the south that translated to ‘honour or death’. He preferred the sentiment to the tattoo, but it was far better than the prison designation it had suborned.
‘No one’s looking for me,’ he said. ‘I’ve done nothing but bodyguard work for years and made no enemies.’
‘Well I suggest you keep on doing that – away from Janagrai too.’
Lynx winced as he suddenly remembered why he’d come to this town in the first place. ‘Got something I need to do here first. Think my last employer’s family are here.’
‘Don’t tell me you’re dumb enough to go and start making demands for payment now?’
‘Just returning what’s theirs,’ he said with a shake of the head. ‘We got hit a couple of days back by bandits and Master Simbly took an arrow in the lung. I brought his goods, came to give them to his widow and tell her where I buried the man.’
‘Master Simbly?’ the guard growled. ‘I know him, knew anyway. Where’d this happen?’
‘Out on the lake road from Tambal.’
‘Why would you be taking that route?’
Lynx shrugged. ‘Said he was late and needed to take the shorter road. He’d heard the road was safe this season and I wasn’t the only one with a mage-gun. He took passengers too, woman who said she was from somewhere down towards the ocean channel coast and her retainer. Some sort of militia officer she was, called Kelleby. Once we sent a few icers their way the bandits scarpered, but they’d already got in a lucky shot.’
The guard glanced around his fellows and someone behind Lynx spoke up. ‘I’ve seen the woman; she’s staying at the Witchlight too, waiting for passage onwards.’
Lynx nodded. The name rang a bell. He just had to hope the rest of his kit and Master Simbly’s goods were still stored there, otherwise folk might start getting an unfriendly impression.
‘Hach,’ called the whiskered guard to a younger one loitering nearby, ‘go and find her, check that out. Guess I’ll be giving the bad news to the Widow Simbly.’
‘I’ll do that,’ Lynx said. ‘I was there when he died, that’s on me.’
The guard’s lips tightened as he stood up. ‘If she wants to talk to you, I’ll fetch you, get me? Hach will take you to the Witchlight Inn and take charge o’ the goods so there’s no argument.’
His expression made it clear he didn’t want to hear anything more on the matter. Lynx kept quiet while the guard unlocked the strongroom and fetched out Lynx’s sword-belt, tricorn hat and jacket. Hanging from the sword-belt was a wooden cartridge box, slightly curved to settle comfortably at his hip. Just the sight was enough to make Lynx break out in a sweat.
‘I picked a fight wearing my cartridge case? Deepest black!’
The guard nodded. ‘Aye, we noticed that too,’ he said with a scowl. ‘Didn’t much appreciate it neither, just glad all those burners and sparkers are properly packed given the way you fell on them.’
Lynx winced at the thought. He had two fire-bolts in the pouch, alongside seven spark-bolts. The twenty-four ice-bolts – icers – could themselves have easily kille
d someone if he’d broken the seal around the magic-charged glass packed into one end, given the power of the mage-made weapons. But burners or sparkers could have set the whole building on fire and killed them all.
‘Guess that was my year’s worth of luck used up,’ Lynx said once he’d checked the cartridges were still packed securely in their individual pouches. The guard didn’t speak as he waited for Lynx to finish, though no doubt he’d done the same. There were some things you didn’t skimp on or rush.
‘Five silver fine, make your mark here.’
Lynx dug his purse out of an inner pocket and hefted it. A little lighter than he remembered but a night of drinking accounted for that. The fine made a considerable dent in what was left but he didn’t argue, just wrote his name in a neat copperplate hand that raised eyebrows. That done he ran his hands over the scabbard and falchion within to check for damage, then buckled it to his waist. It took him a little longer to wrestle his grey jacket over his aching shoulders, though, and by the time he’d succeeded he was groaning in discomfort.
The guard looked him up and down. Black boots, once-white shirt, grey trousers and jacket, black tricorn.
‘Shades of grey, eh? Some sort of mercenary statement, is it?’
Not the one you’re thinking of, friend, Lynx thought as he shook his head, just a sign to a brother that I’m wearing the ring.
‘Just doesn’t show the dust of the road so much.’
‘Aye, mebbe a bit deep for your sort, even if you write like a noblewoman. My advice is you move on smartish,’ the whiskered guard added as Lynx straightened his hat. ‘You’ve caused enough trouble in these parts.’
Lynx nodded. ‘Any suggestions?’ he said as he straightened up, determined to walk out with his head held high. ‘I’m out of a job now.’
‘Aye. I suggest you keep your head down for the rest of the day and leave in the morning, on foot if you have to.’ The guard scowled. ‘If it gets you gone, tip the landlord at the Witchlight when you reimburse him for the chair. Remind him he’ll see the back of you faster if he hears any of his evening trade needs an extra hand.’
Lynx nodded and turned to the door as the bearded young guard, Hach, beckoned him forward and opened it. Sunlight streamed through, a beautiful spring day by the looks of it. Lynx scowled as the throb in his head intensified, screwed up his eyes and followed the man out.
Chapter 2
For a two-bit backwater town, Janagrai looked pretty good to Lynx – even through the grey tint of a hangover. He stumbled down the street under Hach’s direction, squinting through the morning sun at the street of houses and shopfronts on either side. Above the sun was the hazy smear of the Skyriver, a vast striated band that encircled the world, barely visible behind a tattered curtain of cloud. Up ahead he saw a large marketplace where a handful of farmers had their wares laid out, while on the corner stood an L-shaped inn that had to be their destination.
Somewhere at the back of one of the shops a pair of dogs began to bark, the noise enough to set off some geese sat around a pond opposite the tavern. Lynx scowled – both at the unwelcome noise and the realisation of what those geese signified.
‘Knights of the Oak, eh?’ he commented to his guide. Lynx nodded towards the squat stone building behind the pond that, while not exactly fortified, wouldn’t be much fun to attack.
As they passed it, Lynx saw the small stone canopy over the door which sheltered the craggy features and jutting tusks of their patron god – Ulfer, Lord of the Earth. A heavy shroud of creeper covered half the building’s flank and a chaotic bloom of wild flowers filled the ground around it, both heavy with the hum of honeybees. Their scent drifted across the street and Lynx filled his lungs.
‘Aye, Janagrai had one of the first waystations around, so they tell me,’ Hach said. ‘Why, you got a problem with one of the Orders?’
‘None of ’em got a problem with me,’ Lynx clarified, ‘but religion and soldiers ain’t a good mix in my opinion.’
‘Thought your lot were in favour of that?’
Lynx grimaced. ‘So Han? Oh yes. Always surprised me that the first Orders didn’t come out o’ the place. Authority of the gods themselves and overwhelming military might – bloody wet dream to most o’ the Lan Esk Ren, but they don’t like foreign priests much.’
‘These ones keep to themselves mostly.’ Hach shrugged. ‘The townspeople are glad for ’em. We see a good number of wealthy travellers stop here.’
‘No doubt. But it only takes one bastard to decide his god don’t like how you’re doing things. Then they start to look like professional soldiers who outgun the rest o’ you on top of supplying most o’ the continent’s ammunition.’
‘Something tells me you’re this cheerful even without the hangover,’ Hach said with a snort.
Lynx ducked his head in acknowledgement. ‘Oh aye – Sun’s own Jester, that’s me most of the time. Mercenary work really makes a man happy and welcoming over the years.’
He tried to smile to back up the unlikely claim, but it proved difficult to muster. Quickly Lynx gave up in favour of concentrating on walking in a straight line.
They reached the inn and headed on inside to a relatively bright barroom where a man and woman were bent over a piece of paper on the bar.
‘Morning, Master Efrin,’ Hach called, his smile widening a little as he gave a half-bow to the woman. ‘Mistress Pallow, looking lovely as always.’
Lynx frowned at the room as his eyes readjusted feebly from the brightness of outside. Despite the large open windows it still seemed blessedly cool and dim inside, but the faces ahead of him were a blur to start with.
‘You’ve got some nerve coming back in here,’ the woman snapped at Lynx, who rocked back on his heels. ‘Didn’t you cause enough trouble last night?’
Lynx raised his hand. ‘I’m not here for trouble, but as your fine town’s guardsmen,’ he said, indicating Hach, ‘are more honest than most I’ve met over the years, I can pay for the damage I caused.’ He winced at the effort of thinking and speaking but made himself struggle on. ‘And I need to see the wagon to my employer’s widow. It’s in your stable; I took a room here, right?’
‘You did,’ was the curt response.
‘And I paid ahead? Just need to sleep this off, have some food and see what new work’s going here.’
‘We’ll be looking in on him,’ Hach added. ‘The wagon belongs to Mistress Simbly and we’ll need her to confirm the goods are all there before he’s free of us.’
Mistress Pallow frowned at Lynx, but Hach’s words had dampened her anger. ‘Mistress Simbly? Ornan Simbly is dead?’
‘Bandits,’ Lynx confirmed, hoping his efforts not to be sick would be taken as feelings of sympathy for his late employer.
‘I suppose you have paid ahead of time,’ she said after a moment’s pause. ‘Go on then, it’s the first attic room – top of the stairs. There’ll be fried onions and potatoes for lunch so I won’t need to wake you.’
Lunch came and went in a rather more literal fashion than Lynx was comfortable with, but the handful of hours’ sleep he managed beforehand improved the state of the world dramatically. He was still a scarred, unwanted exile from a country of bastards who’d spent years brutalising their neighbours, but he could at least walk in a straight line without feeling like the floor was going to punch him.
The afternoon passed quietly, the only break to self-indulgent wallowing being when Lynx found himself inspected by a tall and beautiful woman with red-rimmed eyes. She seemed the least likely candidate for Mistress Simbly he’d met in Janagrai, but he managed to conceal his surprise as he struggled up from his seat. Her husband had been an amiable fellow, but on the short side with something of a squint and thinning hair. His wife was of a similar age, it was true, but had she been wearing finer clothing Lynx would have thought her some local duchess.
The formalities were dealt with easily and with little input from Lynx, he was glad to discover. His account had been confirmed
by the militia officer, Kelleby, and the goods in the wagon were as Mistress Simbly had expected. Though Lynx had been careful to take his pay before arriving in town, the bereaved merchant added to it in thanks for his honesty – enough to pay for a broken chair at least. She left about her own business soon enough and Lynx found only himself and Mistress Pellow in the common room, an hour or more before the evening trade was likely to begin.
‘So you’re looking for fighting work?’ she called to him from behind the bar.
Lynx looked up. The woman hadn’t exactly warmed to him, but her manner had thawed somewhat in the face of a newcomer who could string a sentence together. In his years of wandering, Lynx had seen that often enough. Villages and towns were so small most wanted news of the outside, but many were just glad to talk to someone new.
He shook his head. ‘Not if I can help it.’
‘We don’t have many merchants looking to take on a stranger as escort,’ she warned, ‘not with the Knights’ outpost in town.’
‘If there’s labouring work, I’ll do that. Can balance books too, if you want it.’
‘You? I’ve not met many mercenaries who can write their own name.’
‘Wasn’t born a soldier,’ Lynx replied. ‘Father was a shopkeeper in a town not much bigger than this. Can’t say it’s a job I’d like for the rest of my life, but I can remember it well enough.’ He grunted and glanced at the long leather sheath beside him that contained his mage-gun. ‘Can’t say there’s any job I’d like for the rest of my life, actually, but I guess it’d be better than the alternative.’
‘From So Han, right?’ she said with a pointed look.
Lynx paused. ‘Aye, once upon a time.’
‘So you served.’
‘We all did, if you were of an age. All swallowed the same shit about the honour of our flag, defence of our people.’
‘My brothers died in the Valleys campaign.’
Lynx ducked his head in acknowledgement. ‘Lot of folk did. Glad I wasn’t there myself.’
‘So where, then?’