Her attacker staggered in place.
Lelia jumped forward and landed with bone-crunching force on her assailant’s foot.
A clunk followed the howl as the club dropped. Lelia crouched and came up swinging the discarded weapon; her assailant’s ribs cracked like greenwood.
The figure issued an ear- piercing shriek, turned—and ran.
“Oh, no!” Lelia yelled, brandishing her new weapon. “Get back here you ba—guh!”
Her own pack fouled her. One moment she was on her feet, the next she sprawled on the pathway, tangled in books and leather, the club bouncing merrily away. The sound of footfalls receded. By the time she regained her feet, she was alone.
“Gods damn it,” she whispered.
Somehow, she made it up to Lyle’s room and lit the hearth with shaking hands. The warm familiarity of her brother’s quarters kept her from curling up into a hysterical sobbing ball. She locked and barred every window and door, shivering despite the warmth of the fire.
Wil heard a knock early the next morning. He stumbled out of bed to find the Bard on the other side of his door. “You look—”
“Got attacked,” she said wearily. “Couldn’t sleep.”
“What?”
She told him with monosyllabic sentences and a demonstrative stomp. She showed him the short, lead-weighted stick of wood she’d turned on her attacker’s ribs. She hadn’t seen a face. But she also hadn’t told anyone.
She did, however, tell him where she’d been staying.
“The Herald’s wing?” He struggled to keep his voice level.
She blinked. “Everyone knows Lyle’s my brother.”
:I, uh, forgot to mention that’s where she was staying, didn’t I?: Vehs managed to sound sheepish.
:You’re worse than me at being sneaky,: Wil thought. “Why didn’t you come and get me?” he asked her.
“Very wary after near-death experience. Long walk. No magic horse.”
“Lelia!”
“ ’Sokay. Not hurt.” Her eyes drifted shut. “Need sleep. Just a candlemark. Here okay?” Her eyes opened again, pleading.
He pointed to the bed. “Go.”
She patted his cheek. “Good Herald.”
The Bard curled up on his bed, dragging the covers over her. Snores drifted up from her a moment later.
Wil picked up the club. His gut twisted.
“Hellfires,” he muttered.
Wil scanned the crowd, feeling a rising level of annoyance and frustration as he watched the countess dance gaily to Lelia’s composition. Not a sign of pain or a limp.
The room was packed, stifling with heat despite it being (nearly) the middle of winter. The only reason Wil spotted the countess was that she’d dressed like a peacock that had been doused in rainbow- hued pitch and set ablaze, a gesture he took to be overcompensation for Lelia stealing her glory.
Lelia gestured him over and whispered, “Time now.”
He nodded. “I’ll get you that right away, ma’am,” he said as he straightened, turned, and strode off.
“Ladies and gentlelords!” Lelia’s voice boomed over the crowd, rolling out like a banner. “Who wants to hear a story about Valdemar’s greatest king?”
Wil breathed more freely when he got into the corridor and away from the crush of people and the roaring cheers. Servants jostled past, babbling about whats- her-name and the Sendar-song. Someday, he realized, he would need to ask her to play it for him.
The wide corridor beyond the great hall and kitchens echoed, utterly deserted. He tried to be quiet, but the farther he went, the more urgently his Gift nudged him, twisting his gut into harder and tighter knots. The need to get there overwhelmed the lesser need to be silent.
He turned a corner. His destination—possibly his destiny—came into view. A terrible notion slid over him—what if the door was locked?
Then I will break it down, he thought grimly.
He touched the doorknob. It turned with a click, opening on a room lit by a single lantern. A wan, familiar face floated in the inky darkness. Something metal gleamed.
Wil’s insides gave one final, painful, all-too-familiar lurch—
Not now!
Knife. Blood. Silver settings, empty of gems. Crossbow.
Wait—crosswhat?
As Wil staggered under the weight of Foresight, he heard the snick of a quarrel being fired.
The enraptured audience stood motionless before Lelia as she stretched her Gift, her attention utterly focused on the count, the countess, and her entourage of—
Where’s Einan? Lelia thought.
Her fingers continued strumming even as her thoughts turned frantic.
Where is he?
Einan fired the crossbow cradled in his arms just as Wil’s vision drove him to his knees. The bolt slammed into the wood paneling behind him, raining splinters into his hair.
Wil drew his long-knife. Einan swore and struggled to rise from the settee he’d been reclining on. Wil tackled him to the floor and, on a wild guess, punched him in the ribs.
The bones yielded easily. Einan screamed.
Handy Gift, Foresight.
“Heyla,” Wil said, at a loss for words. “That wasn’t very nice.”
Einan’s lips pulled back, showing his teeth. “You—displease—her.” He coughed, then drew himself up, and spat at Wil.
Wil flinched and jerked back for just a second—all the time the steward needed. A dirk appeared in his hand from a holster on his wrist.
“Chantil!” he shrieked, and rammed it into his own throat.
Blood painted the walls and Wil. Einan expired, gurgling his lady’s name.
“His neck?” Lelia said, toying with a silvery pendant dangling about her own throat.
Wil nodded from the edge of his bed—the real one, in his room in the Heraldic wing.
“Einan was Chantil’s childhood friend. Low-class family. Couldn’t marry her, so became her steward.” Wil rubbed his eyes. He’d been debriefing for candlemarks since last night. Sleep had not been possible. “We found journals and . . . madness doesn’t begin to cover half of it. Pages about how much he adored Chantil, how perfect she was, how the people who served her didn’t deserve her. Including her husbands.” He pointed at her. “You, too.”
Lelia grimaced.
“He followed you home every night. Palace Guards keep records of visitors, but since he was the Tindale steward, no one questioned him being there. Einan was convinced you were a Herald in disguise.”
She gaped. “What?”
“The irony is really not lost on us.”
“What?”
“You were staying in the Heraldic wing.”
“But—everyone knows—”
“Not everyone, it seems.”
“Oh.”
Wil rubbed his face. “Found the jewelry under the floorboards of Einan’s bedroom. Empty settings. Chantil was flabbergasted.”
“Would have loved to see that.”
“Heh.”
“In retrospect, she’s not that bad a person.” Lelia shrugged. “Still a snob, but—not a murderer.”
Wil nodded. “Sometimes, people aren’t what they appear to be.”
:Oh?: Vehs said dryly. :What philosopher’s memoir did you dredge that from?:
:Hush, you.:
Wil yawned, his eyes drooping. “Tired. Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize for doing your job.” She stood. “So, what next?”
“ ’Nother Circuit, probably. Work’s never done.”
She smiled. “Valdemar first.”
“Yeah.”
She bent forward and kissed his forehead. “I spoke to Valdemar. She said to sleep. It’s her Midwinter gift to you.”
He cracked a smile. “Thanks.”
“No problem. Goodbye.”
“Good night,” he yawned back.
Before he dropped off, Wil thought it nice when she kissed him.
Lelia sang a word, the sound echoing across Companion’
s Field.
A white form broke off from the herd and trotted toward where she waited at the fence, an apple in her outstretched hand.
“Midwinter gift for you,” she said as Vehs delicately nipped the fruit from her palm. The Companion chewed, then bent and touched his nose to the pack at her feet.
“The stories call,” she said. “Evendim, if it matters. Rumors of half-hawk men there.” She stood up on tip-toe and kissed his cheek. “Keep him safe.”
Vehs shook his mane and stamped his hoof. A gesture of frustration? It didn’t matter anyway, even if it was. She had songs to sing.
The Companion watched her as she walked through the frosty grass toward the gates, whistling as she went.
Wil hummed to himself on his way to Lyle’s quarters. He lifted his fist to knock—
:She left,: Vehs interrupted.
Wil froze. :What?:
Vehs told him.
:This time of year?: Wil thought.
:Madness, I know.:
:Wait—you and the Bard—talk?:
:Of course not. She talked to me. And I’m the one who suggested her, remember?: Vehs’s mental voice danced with amusement. :Jealous?:
Wil thought that a very stupid question, and expressed as much.
:In other news,: Vehs said when he was done, :Kyril wants to meet about your next Circuit.:
:Where?: Evendim, perhaps?
:Sorrows. The barbarians. . . . : Softly, Vehs added, :I’m sorry.:
Wil shook himself. :Eh? What for?: He shrugged. :I go where the Crown wills.:
Wil walked in silence down the stairs, rubbing his forehead lightly as he went.
Wounded Bird
By Michael Z. Williamson
Michael Z. Williamson was born in the UK and raised in Canada and the US. A twenty- four-year veteran of the US Army and US Air Force combat engineers, he is married to a reserve Army combat photographer who is a civilian graphic artist. They have too many cats and two children who have learned how to fight anything, including zombies, from the age of four.
Women only wore dresses in Mirr. Riga had compromised with a knee- length tunic of wine silk with crimson and silver embroidery and beading over her trews. It stuck out in vivid contrast to the somber blacks and whites of the natives. She acceded somewhat to their law and wore a kerchief over her flaxen hair, but her warrior’s braid hung below, rather than loose under a long headdress like the locals.
Not that it mattered to anyone but her. Father and Erki knew her, and the locals would never regard her as anything other than a girl. She saw how the locals treated women: as servants.
Jesrin, for example, serving her minted tea, was lean and healthy looking and seemed rather bright. She’d never develop as anything here, though. She was unnumbered and unlettered and probably not much of a cook, just a serving girl. Riga would have liked to talk to her at least, but she’d have to go to the kitchen to do so. Women didn’t talk in front of men. Even if Riga might, Jesrin certainly wouldn’t. Riga thought about the kitchen, but that was a concession she didn’t want to make. She was not a servant. She was a trader and a warrior.
Jesrin moved on with more tea for the Amar, the local trading lord. She hesitated around his gesticulating arms, then moved to pour. He changed his motion just in time to catch the spout of the samovar and deliver a big splash of liquid to the lush woolen rug the men sat on.
“Clumsy wench!”
Riga twitched as Amar Rabas backhanded Jesrin. The blow was hard enough to stagger her, but she flailed through contortions to avoid dropping the silver tea set. Riga could only imagine the penalty if the girl did that.
A moment later she wasn’t sure she could imagine. The slight girl shrieked as her ankle twisted, but she laid the tray down carefully on the marble flagstones behind her. Not a drop spilled.
However, Rabas drew a heavy cord from somewhere and laid into her, the knotted end thunking heavily right through her thick clothes. The girl writhed and twitched, but she let out only whimpers. Presumably crying was punishable, too.
Father gave Riga a warning glance, and she nodded once, her face blank, while inside she burned with rage. It was not their business to interfere, though he obviously didn’t like it either. Riga’s brother Erki fought to keep his own temper. He was three years younger, though, only fourteen. What a lesson on foreign cultures for him.
It was worse for her because Riga was a trained warrior. Had the Amar swung at her like that, she’d have broken his arm and then sliced his throat. And, of course, been beaten to death or hanged for her trouble. It just drove home that fighting was not always the answer.
It also drove home that she despised this southern city and its culture. In the week they’d been here, the Amar had escalated his hospitality, gifts, and praise every day. He’d also escalated his brutality and rudeness to his servants and his own hires.
She knew she had to calm down, so she looked around their setting again. The walls were faced in gleaming marble. Wrought iron and bronze rails, hooks, and mountings adorned the stairs and walls. The doors, posts, and lintels were carved elaborately, some of them with scenes that made her blush. Apparently, denied other outlets for their energy, it went into suggestive figures.
While the small fleet of five ships—both of theirs and three others belonging to distant cousins—were being packed with valuable spices, silk, and teas, Riga really wasn’t sure it was morally worth it. Mirr was pretty. Mirr was also a filthy dump as far as attitudes, decency, and anything beyond decadently carved stone and flowers went.
“Amar Rabas,” Father interrupted diplomatically. When the man looked up from his flogging, he continued, “We are grateful for your hospitality. It is time to retire to our inn for the day. I hope to see you again tomorrow, as we prepare to leave.”
The Amar rose, and the girl crawled to her knees and bowed low. He glanced at her, snapped, “Get to the kitchen,” then turned back to his guests. “Of course, Gunde. May I host you for dinner tomorrow? A feast in farewell before you eat ship rations?”
“My son and I would be honored,” Father said. Of course, Riga was only a daughter and was not mentioned here, any more than a dog would be.
They bowed all around and departed, as the girl scurried limping away, taking the tray and towel with her.
Once outside and out of earshot, Riga muttered, “I think I’d prefer ship biscuits and salted meat to hospitality such as his.”
“They are not a nice people,” Father agreed. “But we need the trading stop. If we could transport only across the lake back home and stay solvent, I’d do that. We need proper trading voyages now and then, though. It’s also good learning for you two.”
“We need to learn that some people are pure evil?” Erki asked.
“The Amar is brutal even by our warrior standards,” Father said, “but he is not evil. At least their trade is honest, and tariffs fair. They’ve held off Miklamar’s encroachments so far. If you want evil, you remember the refugees fleeing that murderous thug.”
“I do,” Erki said as he rubbed his stubby thumb. So did Riga. She vividly remembered him losing half that thumb when the two youths had had to be warriors and guides for those refugees.
“Tonight is our last night in the inn,” Father said. “We’ll remain aboard ship, under tent, until we leave.”
“Oh, good,” Riga said. “I prefer our tent to their opulence. It’s friendlier.” Nothing about this city was friendly except the other traders and embassies. Of course, they weren’t of this city. Riga wore heavy clothes despite the mild weather but no sword. Erki and Father carried swords. They were her protectors. Her status: none. At home she wore her cat-jeweled sword, and no one would be silly enough to ask if she knew its use.
The feast was not a happy event. It could have been, but . . .
Riga had no complaints about the food. She didn’t like being behind a curtain at a second, remote table set up for women, where she ate with the wives and servants. She didn’t like getting wh
at were basically the leavings from the men. The entertainment would be better if she could actually see it, rather than just hear hints of it past the curtain. The food was wonderful, though, redolent with spices and rich and savory. The manner took getting used to. One formed rice into balls, or tore pieces of bread, and just reached in to scoop up the saucy mess.
Even at the women’s table, there was a hierarchy. The senior wife sat at the far end. Her two junior wives flanked her, and the wives and concubine of two other guests sat down from there. Riga guessed her position at a table end was of some status, and two daughters flanked her. Between were the servants.
A warm, sweet smell seemed to indicate dessert, or at least a dessert. There’d been two so far. Jesrin served the men, then came through to serve the women.
As she leaned past Riga to put down a platter of pastry, her layered gown slipped, revealing some shoulder.
Riga almost recoiled in horror at what she glimpsed. That delicate shoulder was a mass of blood blisters, bruises and welts. Their color indicated they were healing, but he’d laid into this girl horribly.
Steeling herself, she said nothing, made no acknowledgement—servants weren’t people here—and ate quietly. The food was good. It would have been twice as good if she’d been granted the courtesy of eating with the men. She reminded herself that her own people regarded her as a warrior. No insults here could change that.
Of course, Father had asked that she diplomatically not discuss any of her “manly” skills. While she knew weaving and a little of spinning, she knew much more of boatkeeping and lading, numbers, letters, horse care, and maneuver. The women chatted amiably about textiles and art, and Riga just nodded and smiled.
Jesrin slipped back through a few minutes later, came over, and discreetly handed Riga a slip of parchment, which Riga just as discreetly opened in her lap and read.
“We are staying here tonight. Your room will be across the hall from mine—GundeFather.”
If there was one thing Riga didn’t want to do, it was stay here, beneath her status. She momentarily raged inside.
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