Paladin's Strength

by T. Kingfisher

Istvhan watched the old woman totter away on her cane. His expression resembled nothing so much as a poleaxed steer. “What…just…happened?” he asked.

  Clara coughed a few times until she had herself under control. “Ah…I’ll explain later?”

  “Will you?”

  “…maybe?”

  Galen let out one loud, explosive laugh and immediately tried to look as if it had been someone else.

  Istvhan’s eyes narrowed. “Something funny, Galen?”

  “Yes, Boss.”

  The two of them glared at each other for a few seconds, and then Istvhan’s face cracked in an enormous grin. “Surprised you lasted that long,” he admitted. “Saint’s blood, what a woman! I wonder if she’s single.” Galen snickered.

  “Anything more we need here?” asked Clara. “I did learn something you might be interested in.”

  “Galen, is the food situation handled?”

  Galen nodded. “They’re overcharging us terribly for food that won’t keep through winter. About what I expected.”

  “No surprise there. All right. Round everyone up—I don’t want to leave people to get in trouble, market truce or no market truce.”

  It took a bit longer to get back to their camp, even with the assistance of the extra mule. Galen, who was acting as quartermaster, had loaded up on potatoes. Brindle grumbled when he saw them.

  “You don’t like potatoes?”

  “A gnole likes potatoes just fine. A mule doesn’t like hauling so many of them.”

  “They’re cheap and they last forever. Be grateful I didn’t get us fifty squash to go along with them.”

  “A mule would tell a human where to put his squash…”

  Istvhan waved Galen over, leaving Brant and Brindle to rearrange the wagon. “Now then, Domina, can you explain what just happened, other than the bit where I’m being scolded like a depraved monster in the middle of the market?”

  “Arral don’t keep slaves,” said Clara. “They adopt them. I am ‘forever youngest sister’ to Bastian, meaning that I have the lowest rank of any women in his house. Of course, in a society where women can’t hold property and can be sold, it’s functionally identical to slavery, but the Arral would get extremely offended if you called it that.” She rolled her eyes.

  Istvhan gazed up at the sky, as if seeking strength. Either he found it or he gave up, because he looked back down and put his hand over his heart. “Please tell me if I am making you carry any loads too heavy for you, Domina.”

  “Of course,” said Clara sweetly. “As long as you let me sleep afterward.”

  Galen bit the side of his hand and made a noise like an injured goose.

  Istvhan thumped him, grinning. “All right, all right. Did you learn anything else?”

  “Oh yes. Your killer has been here. A month ago. Left a severed head but no body, and a different body, with no head.”

  The two men’s amusement stopped instantly. They traded looks.

  “That doesn’t surprise you,” said Clara. “Which is interesting, because most people would be very surprised by a headless body turning up alongside the wrong head.” She folded her arms and leaned back.

  Istvhan had a remarkably good poker face. Galen didn’t. Green eyes flicked to Istvhan, then to Clara, then to the floor.

  “Is there something you’d like to share with me?” The trick was to use the same voice the abbess used. The nun voice. The one that assumed that you had done something wrong and you knew it and everyone knew you knew it and you just had to spit it out and get it over with.

  Istvhan was made of stern stuff, she’d give him that. His eyelid twitched, but nothing else. Galen, however, snapped like a twig.

  “Ist…Boss…ah…maybe we should tell her.” He spoke Harshek, so apparently Istvhan hadn’t mentioned the language issue.

  Istvhan sighed heavily. “If we’re ever being tortured, I’m making you go last.”

  “Only if they use nuns, boss.”

  “Also, she understands every word you’re saying.”

  Galen swore. Clara inclined her head and said, “I can read and write it, too.”

  Istvhan gave up. “We’ve heard about it,” he said. “It’s not just the chopping off heads. Something very weird is going on, obviously. Someone is leaving bodies behind, and sometimes heads. Sometimes they carry one from one place to another.”

  “Do you know who it is?”

  Galen stared at the ground. Istvhan shook his head. “Not specifically, no. We think it may be more than one person, perhaps some kind of cult. Whoever they are, we seem to be behind them, and I suspect they could make a great deal of trouble for us. If we get blamed for their crimes…well. I would like to know everything I can about what I may be walking into.”

  He said it smoothly, evenly, plausibly. He met her eyes. His hands were relaxed and his gaze was direct. And Clara was quite certain that he was lying through his teeth.

  “You seem well-traveled for a nun,” said Istvhan the next day, as they walked ahead of the mules. The air was crisp and cool and though they had set a brisk pace, the day was mostly downhill and easier going.

  “I’m a lay sister, not an anchorite.” Clara rolled her eyes at him. “Don’t you have nuns where you’re from?”

  “We have lots of nuns,” said Istvhan. “That’s why I’m scared of you.”

  Clara laughed. She laughed often, and Istvhan was glad of it. “All right, fair enough. Well, my convent sells truffles, rare herbs, and embroidery. Except that my embroidery is not terribly good, so my primary job was to travel up and down the Slicewater Canal, selling our goods.”

  Istvhan nodded. “Well, that explains it, then.”

  “Explains what?”

  “How you learned about the Arral so quickly. How you knew a gnole clan.” He grinned. “How you took Brant and his acorns in stride.”

  “I think the acorns are quite touching. I hope his trees grow very strong.”

  Istvhan thought, privately, that it also might explain why Sister Clara had not aspired to take any more restrictive vows. Depending on her background, the life of a trader might not have been available to her, except through the convent.

  “Have you ever traveled this way before?” he asked.

  She shook her head, looking at the windswept landscape, cut with narrow, tree-filled pockets. “A lonely place,” she said. “The Arral clans are spread out and not particularly interested in truffles. And they do their own embroidery.” She rubbed the back of her neck. “I was always telling Sister Narzil that we needed to expand further and sell our wares farther afield than just the canal, but I would have gone south, not east.”

  “Truffles are not so easy to find,” said Galen, coming up alongside them.

  “And what do you know about it?” asked Istvhan, amused. Galen was a good man, but not above pretending to far more expertise than he actually possessed.

  “Ye of little faith. My grandmother was a healer. But there’s no money in healing, so she sold herbs. A truffle was a rare thing when she could find one, and it kept her in firewood and lamp oil for a season.”

  Istvhan held up his hands. “I yield, I yield. Very well, you are a master of truffles.”

  “Nothing like it.” Galen grinned at Sister Clara, and although Istvhan knew that smile meant absolutely nothing but friendship—Galen had definite tastes and they did not run to women—he felt a twinge of…concern. Definitely concern. Not jealousy, because that would be foolish. I simply don’t want the good sister to be led astray.

  She’s a nun. People like Galen do not lead nuns astray.

  And what about people like you?

  He missed the next sentence or two, but was pulled out of his thoughts when Clara laughed again. “No, we keep no truffle pigs,” she said. “Pigs are entirely too intelligent and I do not trust them. The young ones are well enough, but they all seem to go a bit mad when they grow into their balls.”

  “A common enough affliction,” said Istvhan blandly.

&n
bsp; “Yes, it seems to be.” She gave him a wry look. He gave it right back to her. “Other people can keep them and I will eat ham and bacon with a glad heart. And trade truffles for them.”

  “So how do you find them, then?” asked Galen. “No hounds, no pigs? Even my grandmother had a truffle hound, though he was half-blind and snored like the end of the world.”

  “We have our ways,” said Clara. “You cannot expect me to give up the secrets of my order so easily.”

  Galen clapped a hand to his chest. “A nun has found me untrustworthy.”

  “Lay sister.”

  “Either way. My life is blighted.” He cast a tragic look at Istvhan. “Have you ever heard such a thing?”

  “A very wise nun, clearly.”

  “Lay sister.”

  “You keep saying that.”

  “It’s true.” Her lips twitched. “I am not a nun, not in the sense that you mean.”

  “You live in a convent and serve your goddess, do you not?”

  “Saint, but yes.”

  “Then I fear, sister, that by his standards you will forever be a nun.” Galen leaned over and patted her arm sympathetically. “It’s all right. You learn to bear up under our fearless leader’s assumptions.”

  “I haven’t taken any of the major vows, beyond serving the convent and…” She waved her hand, presumably indicating whatever other vows came alongside that. “I’m not sworn to poverty or penitence or celibacy. Granted, poverty has mostly found me, but that’s more a matter of life than oaths.”

  The word celibacy hit Istvhan square in the chest and settled…somewhat lower.

  “And celibacy?” asked Galen, giving her an exaggerated eyebrow wiggle. “Has it found you, too?”

  She aimed a mock-swat at him. “I suspect, Ser Galen, that my celibacy or lack thereof is a matter of purely academic interest for you.”

  He ducked, laughing. “Well, you’re not wrong. Though if you know any handsome lay brothers of your order, I wouldn’t say no to an introduction.”

  “I fear we’re an exclusively female order, but I’ll keep an eye out.”

  Galen gave Istvhan a brief, smug look behind Clara’s back. A you-can-thank-me-later look. Istvhan grunted.

  “Ignore him,” said Galen. “He’s from around the southern border of Charlock. They can’t grow a truffle to save their lives there.”

  “Desert country, isn’t it?”

  “Hills and desert,” Istvhan said. “Similar to the Arral in some ways, although we are much more flexible about our women and our honor.”

  “I thought you came from the south, not the west.”

  “I did. I left my homeland years ago, when I…when I was twenty. My sisters mostly stayed. They run things now. I go back every few years so that my nieces don’t forget my face.”

  “His people are all bandits,” said Galen. “Don’t let him convince you otherwise.”

  “And yours are all madmen who paint themselves blue and fight naked.”

  Galen looked affronted. “My grandmother would never.” He paused, sliding Clara a sly look. “Now, my great-grandmother…”

  “I am certain she struck terror in the hearts of all who beheld her,” said Clara.

  “Most definitely. My grandfather didn’t stop running until he’d reached the southern coast, and he took my grandmother with him.”

  Clara laughed. She was not classically beautiful by any stretch, but she had a marvelous laugh and an air of vitality that painted pictures in his head about what that laugh would sound like in his ear.

  Stop. A nun is a nun is a nun is still a nun.

  A nun not sworn to celibacy is…probably someone’s fetish. Istvhan wasn’t sure if it was one of his, but part of him seemed very interested in finding out, which made no sense at all. He’d taken this trip north because he needed time to recuperate from the Bishop. He’d been worn to a shadow. Human flesh could only take so much.

  Galen said something he didn’t quite catch that made Clara laugh so hard she had to stop and put her hands on her knees. Istvhan thought dark thoughts and looked away, over the hills, wondering what was wrong with him.

  Six

  Days passed, and absolutely nothing bad happened.

  Clara did not want to be frustrated by this. It was a good thing. You didn’t hope for fights, because fights too often led to someone’s death. It was just…well…

  Even an awkward standoff! Even a difficult bit of negotiation! Something to prove that I’m useful and don’t need to be dropped off at the first safe convent along the way!

  But they drove through the territory held by the Arral thanes and everyone was polite and no one attacked. Even the weather was fine. The sky was cloudy every day, but that only served to hold the last of the autumn warmth. The mornings were crisp and bright and there was no scent of snow on the wind. Clara tried not to take it personally.

  Why is it so important to me to prove myself to Istvhan and his men? It’s not as if I’d stay at a convent anyway. If they decide to leave me, I’ll just go back to my first plan.

  And yet…and yet. It was important to her, for reasons Clara couldn’t quite clarify to herself. She was used to traveling alone. Most of the time, she preferred it. She had taken over the job of selling the convent’s wares along the canal precisely because she favored it over life in the convent. She could spend days alone with her thoughts, and then be around people without having to be deeply involved in their lives. Her encounters were necessarily shallow ones, good-natured, friendly without making close friends. She never stayed anywhere long enough to overstay her welcome, never long enough to become anyone’s confidant or anyone’s lover for more than a night or two. At most, she might spend a week on a barge, navigating through the long, lonely stretch two-thirds down the canal. There were one or two barge families that she was always glad to see, and they were glad to see her, and they would travel together for that week, and then part ways for another two or three seasons without a pang.

  Days with Istvhan and Galen and Brindle and the others were different. She tried all of her usual methods for being a pleasant travel companion. She laughed at jokes and shared gossip, she did her share of digging latrines and assisting with mules—the mules didn’t care for her, but the mules didn’t care for anyone, so no one remarked on it—she cooked when it was her turn, and she kept up the pace even when exhausted. She helped Galen haggle and got the prices down to something that was merely egregious rather than obscene. And yet some part of her brain kept whispering that these seasoned warriors must hold her in, at best, good-natured contempt. That all their kindness was because she was a nun in distress, not because she was worthy in her own right.

  Stranger yet, she cared.

  It is easier to travel together in hard country. That’s all. That must be all. And I was lonely because I felt so alone and helpless without my sisters, even in Bastian’s house. It is only hope and camaraderie that makes me feel less lonely with these people. That’s the only reason I am reluctant to part ways, and why I keep hoping something will happen to prove that I am useful.

  But nothing did.

  The most interesting thing to happen for nearly a week was a mouse getting into the sacks of grain kept for the mules. Brant was extremely upset by this, fearing that his barrels would be violated in some fashion, whether by gnawing or little puddles of mouse pee, Clara wasn’t quite clear.

  Istvhan listened diplomatically for nearly a quarter of an hour, delaying their start, before he finally said, “Master Brant, I do not know what I can do about this. I do not have a cat or a terrier stashed in my tent. I could put their little heads on pikes as a warning to others, but this is beyond me. Tell me what you need.”

  Brant wanted every piece of food and gear checked immediately for mice. This would have taken hours and Istvhan had a set look on his face, when Brindle leaned in and said, “Don’t smell mouse anywhere else.”

  “You can smell them?” asked Brant, startled.

  “
A human can’t?”

  Istvhan and Brant both shook their heads.

  “God’s stripes. Humans can’t smell. Smells strong. Smells mousy.” Confronted with their apparent ignorance, he grabbed handfuls of whiskers in apparent despair. “A gnole sniffs the food, lets a human know if mouse smells, eh?”

  “Will that work for you?” asked Istvhan.

  Brant nodded. “I should like to at least inspect the barrels,” he said.

  “As you wish, Master Distiller.”

  Clara, seeing an opportunity to be useful, stepped in. “Tell me what you need lifted,” she said. Istvhan cast her a grateful look and fled the scene.

  There was no damage. Her tea went cold while she was helping Brant restack the barrels, and he saw her grimace when she picked up the mug.

  “Here,” the little man said. “My fault. Let me fix it.” He laid a finger on the side of the mug and a moment later, warmth began to seep through the metal and into Clara’s fingers.

  “What did you do?” she asked, astonished, as steam rose from the tea.

  “Nothing much.” Brant glanced around as if embarrassed. “It’s a fairly useless talent. I can heat up liquids. Small amounts, anyway. It would take me an hour to boil a tea kettle.”

  He seemed anxious about how she’d react. The world was full of minor wonderworkers, most of them with very minor talents, but Clara knew that they still made people nervous sometimes. She smiled at him. “As the one with cold tea, it seems pretty useful to me.”

  Brant sighed. “Better I should be able to sprout acorns.”

  “Few of us have such blessed talents. Thank you.”

  “My pleasure, Sister.”

  She walked away, sipping her newly warmed tea. Did Istvhan know about the man’s talent? Did the others? Perhaps he kept it quiet. She could understand that very well. People often became very panicky about things they didn’t understand. She went out of her way to talk to Brant a few more times that day, just so that he didn’t think she was troubled by his gift.

  In truth, she was far more unsettled by something far more mundane. The locals kept watching the wagon. It wasn’t anything as overt as being followed. It was just that they would come around a hill and someone would be at the top of the hill, looking over. They would pass between rocks and someone would be on the far side, watching them pass. Never anything you could put your finger on. Never anything warlike or dangerous. Just watching.