And no one had ever called Captain Idra a fool.
But that was ahead of them. For tonight, there would be a good meal and a bit of a rest. Not a bed; that single-storied country inn down there wasn't big enough for that. But there would be space on the floor once the last of the regulars cleared out for the night, and that was enough for the three of them. It was more than they'd had many times in the past.
It was an odd place for a village, though, out here in the middle of nowhere surrounded by grassy hills. "So, did Justin tell you why there's a town out here, back of beyond?" Tarma asked out of curiosity.
"Same thing as brought that slum here," Kethry replied. "Cattle. This is grazing country. There's a real Tanners' Guild House here, that's made leather for generations, and the locals produce smoked and dried beef for fighter rations."
"And sometimes it's hard to tell one from the other," Tarma chuckled.
Kethry laughed, and the sound of her merriment made heads turn toward them as they rode into the village square. Her laughter called up answering smiles from the inhabitants, who surely were no strangers to passing mercenaries.
Even Warrl caused no great alarm, though much curiosity. The dozen villagers in the square seemed to take it for granted that the women had him under control. It was a refreshing change from other villages, where not only Warrl's appearance, but even Tarma and Kethry's, was cause for distress.
In fact, no sooner had they reined in their horses, than one of the locals approached—with the caution a war-trained animal like the mares or Warrl warranted, but with no sign of fear. "The inn be closed, miladies," the young man said diffidently, pulling off his soft cloth hat, and holding it to his leather-clad chest. "Beggin' yer pardon. Old Man Murfee, he died about two weeks agone, an' we be waitin' on the justice to figger out if the place goes to the son, or the barkeep." He grinned at Tarma's expression. "Sorry, milady, but they's been arguin' an' feudin' about it since the old man died. It ain't season yet, so 'twere easier on the rest of us't' do without our beer an' save our ears."
"Easier for you, maybe," Tarma muttered. "Well, I suppose we can press on—"
"Now, that's the other thing," he continued. "If ye be members of the Merc Guild, the Tanners' Guild Hall be open to ye. Any Guild member, really. Master left word. One Guild to another, Master Lenne says."
That brightened Tarma's mood considerably. "I take it you're 'prenticed there?" she asked, dismounting with a creak of leather and a jingle of harness.
"Aye," he replied, ducking his head. "Ye'll have to tend yer own horses. We don't see much of live 'uns at the Guild. Ye can put 'em in the shed with the donkey."
As the young man turned to lead the way across the dusty, sunlit square, Tarma glanced over at her partner. "Worth our Guild dues, I'd say. Glad now that I insisted on joining?"
Kethry nodded slowly. "This is the way it's supposed to work," she said. "Cooperation between Guilds and Houses of the same Guild. Not starting trade wars with each other; not cutting common folk out of trades."
"Hmm." Tarma held her peace while they stabled the warsteeds in the sturdy half-shed beside a placid donkey, and took their packs into the Guild Hall. Like the rest of the village, it was a fairly simple structure; one-storied, with a kitchen behind a large meeting hall, and living quarters on either side of the hall, in separate wings. Built, like the rest of the village, from the yellow rock that formed these hillsides, it was a warm, welcoming building.
"Ye can sleep here in the hall, by the fireplace," said the young man. "Ye can take a meal when the rest of the 'prentices and journeymen come in, if that suits ye."
"That'll be fine," Kethry replied vaguely, her eyes inwardly-focused, her thoughts elsewhere for a moment, the faint line of a headache-frown appearing between her eyebrows.
"Where's the tannery at?" Tarma asked curiously. "I haven't caught a whiff of it—"
"And you won't, sword-lady," said a weary, if pleasant voice from the shadows of one of the doorways. A tall, sparse-haired man whose bulky scarlet-wool robe could not conceal his weight problem moved into the room.
He's sick, Tarma thought immediately. The careful way he moved, the look of discomfort about him, and a feeling of wrongness made her as uneasy as that foul tannery.
:I agree,: Warrl replied, startling her. :He has been ill for some time, I would say.:
"No, you will not smell our tannery, ladies," the man—who Tarma figured must be Master Lenne—repeated. "We keep the sheds well-ventilated, the vats sealed, and spills removed. I permit no poisoning of the land by our trade. I am happy to say that tallen-flowers bloom around our foundations—and if we find them withering or dying, we find out why."
Tarma smiled slightly at his vehemence. Master Lenne caught the smile and correctly surmised the reason.
"You think me overly reactive?" he asked.
"I think you—feel strongly," she said diplomatically.
He raised his hands, palms up. "Since the arrival of that fool, 'Master' Karden, and his plague-blotch, I find it all the more important to set the proper example." He tucked his hands back in the sleeves of his robe, as if they were cold. Tarma read the carefully suppressed anger in his voice, and wondered if the real reason was to hide the fact that his hands were trembling with that same anger. "I was not always a Tanner, ladies, I was once a herder. I love this land, and I will not poison it, nor will I poison the waters beneath it nor the air above. There has been enough of that already." He turned his penetrating brown eyes on Tarma. "Has there not, Swordlady Tarma? It is Tarma, is it not? And this is Kethry, and the valiant Warrl?"
Warrl's tail fanned the air, betraying his pleasure at being recognized, as he nodded graciously. Tarma spared him a glance of amusement. "It is," she replied. "Though I'm at a loss to know how you recognized us."
"Reputation, ladies. Songs and tales have reached even here. I know of no other partnering of Shin'a'in and sorceress." The Master chuckled at Tarma's ill-concealed wince. "Fear not, we have no women to rescue, or monsters to slay. Only a meal by a quiet hearth and a bed. If you would be seated, I would appreciate it, however. I'm afraid I am something less than well."
The four of them took seats by the fire; something about the Master's "illness" nagged at Tarma. What hair he had was glossy and healthy; at odds with the rest of his appearance. Short of breath, with pallid and oily skin, and weight that looked to have been put on since he first fell ill—his symptoms were annoyingly familiar—but of what?
It escaped her; she simply listened while Master Lenne and Kethry discussed the rivalry between the Guild and the interloper outside of the village.
"Oh, he couldn't get villagers to work there," the Master said, in answer to Kethry's question. "At least, not after the first couple of weeks. The man's methods are dangerous to his workers, as well as poisonous to the land. He doesn't do anything new, he simply takes shortcuts in the tanning processes that compromise quality and safety. That's all right, if all you want are cheaply tanned hides and don't care that they have bad spots or may crack in a few months—and you don't give a hang about sick workers."
"Well, he must be getting business," Kethry said cautiously.
Master Lenne sagged in his chair and sighed. "He is," the man said unhappily. "There are more than enough people in this world who only want cheaper goods, and don't care how they're made, or what the hidden costs are. And—much as I hate to admit it, there are those in my own Guild who would agree with him and his methods. There were some who thought he should take over all the trade here. I only hold this Hall because I've been here so long and no one wants to disturb me." He smiled wanly. "I know too many secrets, you see. But if I were gone—well, the nearest Master is the same man who erected that disaster outside of town, and no doubt that those others would have their wish."
"So who is doing the work for him?" the sorceress persisted.
"Cityfolk, I presume," Master Lenne said, with an inflection that made the word a curse. "All men, a mixture of young one
s and old men, and he works them all, from youngest to eldest. And work is all they seem to do. They never put their noses in town, and my people are stopped at the gate, so more I can't tell you." At that moment, the young man who had brought them here poked his head into the hall. "Master, can we schedule in 'bout twenty horsehides?"
"What, now?" Master Lenne exclaimed. "This close to the slaughtering season? Whose?"
The young man ducked his head, uncomfortable with something about the request. "Well… my father's. Ye know all those handsome young horses he bought without looking at their teeth? 'Twas like you warned him, within a week, they went from fat and glossy to lank and bony. Within two, they was dead."
Master Lenne shook his head. "I told him not to trust that sharper. He obviously sold your father a lot of sick horses." He heaved himself to his feet. "I'd best get myself down to the tannery, and see what we can do. At least we can see that it isn't a total loss for him. By your leave, ladies?"
Glossy and fat… glossy and fat… Tarma nodded absently and the Master hurried out, puffing a little. There was something about those words…
Then she had it; the answer. A common horse-sharper's trick—but this time it had taken a potentially deadly turn. Horses weren't the only things dying here.
"Keth," she whispered, looking around to make sure there was no one lurking within earshot. "I think Master Lenne's being poisoned."
:Poisoned?: Warrl's ears perked up. :Yes. That would explain what I scented on him. Something sick, but not an illness.:
But to her surprise, Kethry looked skeptical. "He doesn't look at all well, but what makes you think that he's being poisoned?"
"Those horses reminded me—there's a common sharper's trick, to make old horses look really young, if you don't look too closely at their mouths. You feed them arsenic; not enough to kill them, just a little at a time, a little more each time you feed them. They become quiet and eat their heads off, their coats get oily, and they put on weight, which makes them look really fat and glossy. When you get to the point where you're giving them enough to cover the blade of a knife, you sell them. They lose their appetites without the poison, drop weight immediately, and they die as the poison stored in their fat gets back into their blood. If you didn't know better, you'd think they simply caught something, sickened, and died of it."
Kethry shrugged. "That explains what happened to the horses, but what does that have to do—"
"Don't you see?" Tarma exclaimed. "That's exactly the same symptoms the Master has! He's put on weight, I'll bet he's hungry all the time, he obviously feels lethargic and vaguely ill—his skin and hair are oily—"
Kethry remained silent for a moment. "What are we supposed to do about it?" she asked slowly. "It's not our Guild. It's not our fight—"
Perversely, Tarma now found herself on the side of the argument Kethry—impelled by her bond with Need—usually took. Taking the part of the stranger. "How can you say it's not our fight?" she asked, trying to keep her voice down, and surprising herself with the ferocity of her reaction. "It's our world, isn't it? Do you want more people like Lenne in charge? Or more like that so-called 'Master' Karden out there?"
It was the poisoning of the land that had decided her; no Shin'a'in could see land ruined without reacting strongly. When Master Lenne died—as he would, probably within the year—this Karden fellow would be free to poison the entire area.
And if he succeeded in bringing high profits to the Guild, the practices he espoused would spread elsewhere.
It wasn't going to happen; not if Tarma could help it.
As she saw Kethry's indifference starting to waver, she continued. "You know who has to be behind it, too! All we have to do is find out how Lenne is being poisoned, and link it to him!"
Kethry laughed, mockingly. "All? You have a high opinion of our abilities!"
"Yes," Tarma said firmly. "I do. So you agree?"
Kethry thought for a moment, then sighed, and shook her head. "Gods help me, but yes. I do." Then she smiled. "After all, you've indulged me often enough."
Tarma returned the smile. "Thanks, she'enedra. It'll be worth it. You'll see."
By the time dinner was over, however, Tarma's certainty that the task would be an easy one was gone. For one thing, both questioning and close observation had shown no way in which poison could have been slipped to Master Lenne without also poisoning the rest of the Guild. They ate and drank in common, using common utensils, serving themselves from common dishes, like one big family. Tarma and Kethry ate with them, seated at the table in the middle of the hall, and they saw that the Master ate exactly what everyone else ate; his wine was poured from the same pitchers of rough red wine as the rest of them shared.
Each member took it in turn to cook for the rest, eliminating the possibility that the poisoning could be taking place in the kitchen. Not unless every Guild member here hated the Master—and there was no sign of that.
It could be done by magic, of course. But Kethry was adamant that there was no sign of any magic whatsoever being performed in or around the Guild House.
"In fact," she whispered, as the Guild members gathered beside the fire with their cups and the rest of the wine, to socialize before seeking their beds, "there's a spell of some kind on the Guild House that blocks magic; low-level magic, at least." The fire crackled, and the Guild members laughed at some joke, covering her words. "I've seen this before, in other Guild Houses. It's a basic precaution against stealing Guild secrets by magic. I could break it, but it would be very obvious to another mage, if that's what we're dealing with. That spell is why I've had a headache ever since we came in the door."
But Tarma hadn't been Kethry's partner all this time without learning a few things. "Maybe it blocks real magic, but what about mind-magic? Isn't there a mind-magic you can use to move things around?"
:There is, mind-mate,: Warrl confirmed before Kethry could answer, his tail sweeping the flagstones with approval. Kethry added her nod to Warrl's words.
"Ladies, gentlemen," Master Lenne said at just that moment, calling their attention to him. He stood up, winecup in hand, a lovely silver piece he had with him all through dinner. The glow of the firelight gave him a false flush of health, and he smiled as he stood, reinforcing the illusion. "I am an old man, and can't keep the late hours I used to, so I'll take my leave—and my usual nightcap."
One of the 'prentices filled his cup from the common pitcher of wine, and he moved off into the shadows, in the direction of the living quarters.
"Keep talking, and keep them from noticing we're gone," Tarma hissed to her partner, signaling Warrl to stay where he was. "I'm going to see if anything happens when he gets to his room."
Without waiting for an answer, she melted into the shadows, with Warrl taking her place right beside Kethry. There was no other light in the enormous room besides the fire in the fireplace, and Master Lenne was not paying a great deal of attention to anything that was not immediately in front of him. Still, she made herself as invisible as only a Shin'a'in could, following the Master into his quarters. Can I assume that if someone used mind-magic around here, you would know it? she thought in Warrl's direction, as she slipped through the doorway on Lenne's heels.
:Possibly,: he answered. :Possibly not. I think it will be up to your own powers of observation.:
She waited at the end of the hallway, concealed in shadows, for the Master to take his doorway so that she could see which quarters were his. When he had, she waited a little while longer, then crept soundlessly on the flagstoned floor after him, opening the same door and slipping inside. She had thought about making some pretense at wanting to talk further with the Master, but had decided against the idea. If this poisoner was using mind-magic to plant the poison, he might also be using it to tell whether or not the Master was alone.
Kethry knew more of mind-magic than she did—but Tarma had a good idea what to watch. That business about a "usual nightcap"—if the poisoner knew about this habit of Master Le
nne's, it made an excellent time and place to administer the daily doses.
Then, once he's got the Master up to a certain level, he stops. The Master loses his appetite, like the horses, stops eating, and drops all the weight he put on. And the poison that was in the fat he accumulated drops into his body all at once. He dies, but by the time he dies, there's no external evidence of poisoning.
And of course, everyone would have known that the Master was ill, so this final, fatal "sickness" would come as no surprise.
Once inside the door, she found herself in a darkened room, with furniture making vague lumps in the thick shadow, silhouetted against dim light coming from yet another doorway at the other side of the room. She eased up to the new door, feeling a little ashamed and voyeuristic, and watched the Master puttering about, taking out a dressing gown, preparing for bed. The winecup sat on a little table beside a single candle near the doorway, untasted and unwatched.
Master Lenne entered yet another room just off his bedroom, and closed the door; sounds of water splashing made it obvious what that room's function was.
Tarma did not take her eyes off the cup; and in a moment, her patience was rewarded.
The surface of the wine jumped—as if something invisible had been dropped into the cup. A moment later, it appeared as if it was being stirred by a ghostly finger.
Then Master Lenne opened the door to the bedroom, and the spectral finger withdrew, leaving the wine outwardly unchanged. His eyes lighted on his winecup, but before he could take the half-dozen steps to reach it, Tarma interposed herself, catching it up.
Master Lenne started back, his eyes as wide as if she had been a spirit herself. Before he could stammer anything, she smiled.
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