Pathfinder Tales - Shy Knives

by Sam Sykes

  Over the crate I was hiding behind. Dagger flipping in my hand. Feet moving as I swept up behind the closest thug. Arm around his waist, pull him close, bring the dagger up.

  Like I said, I’m no good in a fight.

  But killing?

  Yeah, I know a thing or two about that.

  The thug started to say something as I grabbed him, but whatever it was came leaking out of him on a crimson torrent as I drew Whisper’s edge across his neck. He started squirming as the life bled out of his throat, his blood spattering my arm.

  Messy death. But I needed it messy.

  His companion whirled around, didn’t even get a chance to comprehend what was happening before I shoved his bleeding friend at him. They went down in a heap, one of them screaming, the other trying his damnedest to scream.

  And I was already running.

  Up on top of a crate, then another, and another until I was up high. I felt the wind split, wood shudder as a dagger sank into the wood where I had just been.

  But I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t turn. I couldn’t let Chariel see my face.

  I kept running, leapt up to the shelf, darted to the window. I grabbed the frame, swung my legs through. The wind shrieked past my ear. I felt a metal kiss upon my cheek. The narrowest sliver of blood wept down to my jaw.

  The last favor any god was going to do for me today.

  I couldn’t stop now. I slipped out the window, darted down the alley, stuck close to the edge of the wall as I ran for the gate.

  Keep moving, Shy, I told myself. Just keep moving. Chariel had two corpses to deal with. I was out of there quick. She might have guessed I was a woman, but she wouldn’t know who I was.

  She couldn’t. She didn’t see my face. She didn’t see my face. She didn’t see my face.

  I kept repeating that. As I ran through a cluster of merchants, as I ran past a pair of inattentive guards, as I ran out of First Solace, blood still on my hands.

  6

  Hoofbeats

  “Impossible!”

  It’s not that I blamed Dalaris for her disbelief.

  “Simply unbelievable!”

  This couldn’t be easy, after all. It’s one thing to suspect a plot around one’s murdered husband, another thing entirely to have it confirmed. And to have his own brother implicated in it had to have been upsetting.

  “You’re surely mistaken!”

  So, like I said, I didn’t blame her for not believing me.

  “That’s just … just…”

  But after two hours of her expressions of incredulity, my sympathy, patience, and restraint were all wearing thin.

  “You seem to have run out of synonyms, darling,” I said. “Should I take that to mean you’re ready to listen to me, or shall I fetch you a thesaurus?”

  From across the carriage’s cabin, Dalaris fixed me with a glower. That, at least, was an improvement from the scowl she had first given me when I told her everything. And though she was still the same shade of incensed red, she at least seemed to be receptive to listening.

  “Look, here’s what I know.” I leaned forward, elbows on my knees. “The centaur raids are connected. There’s no way they launched two perfectly timed raids by coincidence. Someone sent them there to get crates of weapons out. Gerowan was killed in the process.”

  “I don’t doubt that,” Dalaris said. “But to suspect Alarin, his own brother…”

  I rolled my eyes. If the idea of one noble murdering another was unthinkable to the heir of Sidara, it was little wonder their house was in decline.

  “I know what I saw,” I said. “There were sigils on the crates they took: Herevard’s sigil, and a long scepter on a gold field.”

  “That’s House Stelvan’s sigil,” she said. “But they’re arms dealers. It’s simply unthinkable that they’d set weapons up to be taken.”

  “Which leaves the last sigil I saw: two crossed rapiers.”

  Dalaris’s face sank. Her head followed, drooping down as she rubbed her temples. “That’s … that’s the sigil of Amalien. Two swords, two siblings.”

  “Makes sense to me,” I replied, leaning back in my seat. “Amalien smuggles someone else’s weapons to the centaurs. That’s a loss in profit for the other nobles and he secures the gratitude of a bunch of murderous and armed horse-folk.”

  “That’s where it all falls apart,” Dalaris shot back. “The nobles of Yanmass are forever waiting for the day Taldor collapses. They hold onto their gold like a dwarf in rigor. For what reason would they give arms to centaurs?”

  I sniffed. “I guess that’s what you’re paying me to find out.”

  Dalaris fell silent at that, dropping back in her seat with such vigor that she seemed to think she could just sink into it. I had seen that face before—on the faces of wives discovering faithless husbands and children discovering that heroes don’t win.

  Life’s rough. Rougher still if you spend time thinking it’s not.

  She needed time to process this. I was inclined to give it to her. I eased the door open, stepped onto the carriage’s railing. She glanced at me with concern, but the day I couldn’t handle myself on a moving carriage was the day I found a more boring profession.

  I made my way to the front of the carriage, where Harges sat. If he had any objections to me joining him, he didn’t voice them.

  Rather rude of him. I could have used the distraction.

  Because every time I closed my eyes, all I could see was Sandan. Sandan’s wide eyes, Sandan’s honest smile, Sandan’s blood weeping out onto the floorboards as he choked on Chariel’s dagger.

  Don’t get me wrong, I was no fool. I knew people died—good people or bad—and I knew a few who had died because of me. But Sandan was an honest boy. The deaths of honest people have never sat well with me.

  And every time I saw his body hit the floor in my mind, I saw Chariel standing over him. And the cut on my cheek started to burn. Had she recognized me? I was dressed differently, wore my hair shorter, but she had those eyes that seemed like they could see right through any lie.

  I wanted not to think about it. Any of it: Sandan’s death, Chariel … But I’d been in this business too damn long to believe trouble went away just because you didn’t think about it.

  So instead, I stared out over the horses. The plains rolled away beneath us, slowly giving way to rising underbrush and trees. The guards at First Solace had said the centaurs came out of the woods nearby. Seemed to make sense to me—centaurs could traverse the difficult terrain easily; a full mounted guard, perhaps not so much.

  It wasn’t exactly easy for a horse-drawn carriage, either. But an unanticipated benefit of Sidara’s declining fortunes was an upgrade in functionality. In Yanmass, the sturdy carriage with its wagon wheels and its two farm horses would be considered positively unfashionable. But here on the plains, the carriage and the horses handled the terrain without complaint.

  “Dalaris says you know these woods,” I said, glancing at Harges.

  “Mm-hm,” he grunted, not bothering to glance back.

  “Says you grew up playing in them.”

  “Mm-hm.”

  “I’m not crazy for thinking that we’ll find the centaurs here, am I?”

  “Mm-hm.”

  Harges didn’t say anything else. Harges didn’t even look at me.

  I liked Harges.

  At any rate, I assumed either he or Dalaris would voice an objection to my plan if they had one. It seemed to me that, if the centaurs were the only lead I could point to, finding them would lead, one way or another, to Gerowan’s murderer.

  Harges had heard the plan. He hadn’t said anything.

  He took the reins in one hand, then reached down into his boot. He pulled out a dented flask, unscrewed it, and took a long sip. He smacked his lips, then handed it over to me.

  I really liked Harges.

  I was well on my way to enjoying his offering—it smelled like whiskey, about as old as he was—when the carriage came to a sudden sto
p. The horses whinnied, but didn’t protest further as Harges drew back on the reins, causing me to spill the liquor over my leathers.

  “If I was drinking too much, you could have just grunted,” I muttered at him, vainly trying to brush the liquor from my clothes.

  Harges didn’t reply. He didn’t seem to be listening. He hopped off the seat and stalked to the nearby underbrush, eyes on the ground.

  Brush and scrub grass rose up densely here, the vanguard to the forest proper, which loomed tall not a mile away. The evening cloaked the sky in pale purple as the crown of the sun slipped over the horizon. But there was more than enough light for me to see absolutely nothing that would have caused such a sudden stop.

  “Harges?” The carriage’s door opened and Dalaris stepped out. “Why have we stopped?”

  I hopped down to join her, keen to know as well, as we walked to him. He knelt down, gestured over a patch of scrub.

  “Flat,” he grunted. He glanced up, pointed over the plains. “Flat all over.”

  I blinked. “Well, consider any doubts I had about your expertise banished. I can see it’s flat, you imbecile.”

  “Too flat,” he said. “Should be full of bushes ’n’ saplings here. Scrub got trampled down.”

  “Why?” Dalaris asked.

  Harges grunted. He stalked off and returned with a heavy rock. With another grunt, he heaved it forward. It struck the earth and then, suddenly, disappeared.

  “Pits,” he said. “Dug up all over here ’n’ covered.”

  “Just in case someone were being pursued by horses,” I said, realization dawning on me. “Centaurs would be nimble enough to dart around them.”

  “Horses, not so much.” He shook his head at Dalaris. “Can’t go no further, m’lady. Can’t get no carriage ’round no pits.”

  “Just as well,” I said, checking my dagger. “If there are traps here, the centaurs can’t be too far away. I’ll head out by myself.”

  “But…” Dalaris began. “That could be dangerous.”

  “Yes,” I replied. “I would expect so.”

  “I should come with you.”

  “Excellent idea.” I nodded at her. “My original idea was to sneak in, uncover evidence as to what they’ve been doing, and sneak out. But with your help, I think we can go in and deliver a stirring, strongly worded lecture on the impropriety of their raids. With any luck, they’ll be shamed into confessing and vow to bring their raids up to standard.”

  Dalaris stared at me. I stared back.

  “I’m being sarcas—”

  “I know what you’re being,” Dalaris snapped. She sighed and rubbed her temples. “It’s just … he was my husband. I feel so … so useless, standing here and letting you put yourself in danger.”

  I shrugged. “I assumed you paid me for that reason.”

  “Well, yes, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

  Maybe it was something in her voice—that soft, frustrated tone. Or maybe the way she seemed to shrink into herself, crossing her arms tightly. Or it could have been the way she pointedly looked away from me.

  At that moment, I didn’t care exactly what it was she was doing that made me smile so. There was just something so novel about someone who gave a damn for someone else.

  Norgorber help me, I was starting to like this puppy of a woman.

  But on the list of places I would not want to bring a puppy, a camp full of bloodthirsty centaurs ranked pretty high.

  “Four hours,” I said, holding up four fingers. “If I’m not back by then, you have my full permission to come after me, leave me, hate me, whatever. Agreed?”

  Dalaris nodded, grudgingly. I glanced to Harges, who shook his head violently.

  He took a step forward, thrust his hand out, made a beckoning gesture.

  I glared at him for a moment before slapping the dented flask into his palm. He grunted.

  “Just for that,” I said, turning on my heel, “make it five hours.”

  * * *

  “It isn’t a matter of payment, stabled, it’s a matter of practicality. We lost three warriors to the damn guards so we could carry your crap back here.”

  A voice. Thick, burly, bestial; like someone had been swallowing gravel.

  “If you’re saying you’d rather not be paid, then we’ll be happy to shovel the gold we’ve been feeding you somewhere else, barbarian. Until then, you get paid to carry out orders, not second-guess them.”

  A voice. Deep, bellowing, rolling; distant thunder over a low hill.

  “Gold won’t do crap for us if we keep losing warriors doing these petty raids.”

  “Pettiness, you half-wit coward, is what the plan calls for. Have faith in Halamox’s ideas.”

  “Kjoda pisses on Halamox’s ideas, and if you want to bend down a little lower, he’ll gladly piss on you, too.”

  “Keep talking and we’ll see how well you piss after I put my hoof straight up your ass.”

  Isn’t Taldane just the most beautiful language?

  They’d been at this for the better part of half an hour now: grunting, snarling, throwing complaints, insults, and the occasional punch. And still, neither of them seemed to be at all interested in stopping.

  I had to admit, the centaur reputation for tenacity was well earned, if this was any indication. And it was interesting to see how well that trait crossed cultural boundaries.

  As I understood it, the majority of centaurs out there in the big wide world were clannish and wild, barely a step removed from the orcs, goblins, and other tribal humanoids that plagued humanity. Hunters, gatherers, raiders—most of them didn’t aspire to be much more than that.

  But occasionally, a few did. Now and again, a centaur put his mind to social mobility. He cut his hair, trimmed his beard, stopped pissing wherever he stood, and joined civil society. Valued as a strong warrior, he occasionally got as far as a four-legged humanoid could expect to get in many human-dominated societies—that is, occasionally he got invited into the house and not the stable.

  I had always wondered what happened when the two breeds met.

  And now, I was finding out.

  One of the savages, a big, shaggy son of a mare wearing nothing but war paint and a truly impressive number of tattoos, squared off at the center of the camp. Behind him stood a number of other similarly half-nude clansmen and women, stamping irately. I assumed he was the leader—at least, he was the only one who talked about himself in the third person, so I guessed he must be pretty important.

  He was the one voicing grievances, pounding a thick fist to his chest, snarling out his painted mouth, scowling out of beady eyes beneath a shaggy mane of hair. And every threat he made was backed up by snarls from the six savages behind him.

  Not that this seemed to impress the other, cleaner centaurs any.

  There were three of them: two males, one female, each about seven feet tall, burly humanoid torsos rising out of burly horse bodies. Their arms were crossed defiantly across their chests. Unlike their other kin, their hair was clean, and they wore polished armor and barding. One might have thought them completely civilized, were it not for the fact that they, too, pawed the ground aggressively with their hooves in anticipation of a fight.

  “We’ve got gold enough to pay you for one more raid,” the female centaur said to the savage. “You want it or not?”

  “Kjoda doesn’t mind taking your gold,” the big one, Kjoda, said. “But it’s not worth crap if we keep losing warriors because of your stupid ideas. You tell Halamox that, stabled.”

  I saw the female’s face contort in fury at that. My knowledge of centaurs was limited, but I knew enough to know the more civilized, city-dwelling ones—like her—found the term “stabled” to be something of a slur.

  Which was doubtless why Kjoda had called her it. And which was doubtless why he was fondling the hilt of the greataxe strapped to his back like it was his lover.

  Whatever the savage wanted to happen, it didn’t. The centaur woman tilted her
nose up and turned away, taking her cleaner cousins with her. The shaggier ones did likewise, skulking back to their side of the camp.

  Neither of them noticed me, of course.

  Funny thing about humans and humanoids alike is that they don’t really look up unless they feel they’re in trouble—usually to spew off a quick prayer to one god or another. Even if they had, they probably wouldn’t have seen me, lying on my belly and peering out over the edge of the cabin’s roof. But then, I hadn’t moved since I got there.

  Navigating my way through the traps and forest had proved not too difficult. Slipping past the sentries and into the shallow valley the camp was situated in was slightly tougher, but still, nothing I couldn’t handle. The challenge came only now, when I realized just how big the camp was.

  This had once been a hunting camp, if the various cabins were any indication. Whatever humans had been here had long since left, and the centaurs had moved in—the stabled ones, anyway. Their shaggier, barbaric kin still preferred sleeping out of doors.

  The savages preferred to dwell on the far side of the camp, keeping to their bonfires, spending their time sharpening weapons and whispering to whatever noisome creatures they had in those big wooden cages they held at the edge of the camp.

  Even if I hadn’t just heard that little exchange, I could have told hostilities between the two groups were running high. Ordinarily, that’d be a good thing; if they weren’t watching each other’s backs, it meant they wouldn’t be watching me slipping behind both of theirs.

  Now, if only there weren’t so gods-damned many of them.

  At a quick count, I had guessed there to be maybe two hundred centaurs present. But after I found myself lingering up there awhile, I had been able to count closer to two hundred and seventy—eighty or so had been the clean kind. Combine that with however many were doubtless out raiding right now, then combine that with the six big wooden cages and whatever creatures they held, and …

  I’m sure you can figure out why I was reluctant to move.

  Night wore on. And as it did, more centaurs retired to sleep standing up, letting their bonfires dim. But there were still too damn many up, alert, and active for my tastes.