by Sam Sykes
Not that there was ever an acceptable number of bloodthirsty centaurs.
But regardless of how many were present, I still had a job to do. The centaurs were strategizing and plotting, just as suspected. If I were a gambling woman—or a better one, anyway—I’d have laid odds that I’d find whoever was behind it here.
My eyes drifted to the edge of the camp. Situated farthest away from the uncivilized contingent, the largest cabin stood imposing and dark. Unlike the other cabins here, whose doors had been shattered to make way for centaur girth, this one still had a door on it. This one had something to hide.
Good enough place to start, I thought. But getting there would be an issue.
Would be, that is, if I were bad at my job.
I slipped to the edge of the cabin’s roof, slid down the walls, and took off. The night was dark enough already that the tree branches that leaned down to smother the scant moonlight were just another little present for me. By the light of that half-masked moon, and the distant glow of the centaurs’ fires, I picked my way around the edges of the camp.
I darted quietly from cover to cover: through underbrush, behind cabin walls, toward a nearby barrel. And it was behind this last that I froze. Because it was behind it that I heard footsteps approaching.
Moving now would be too risky. I slowed my breathing, stilled my body, closed my eyes.
“What’d those ugly things bring us, anyway?”
“Weapons, finally. Just like Halamox said they would.”
Centaurs. Clean ones. Two of them. They came up to the barrel, fumbled around in the dark. I heard liquid sloshing into cups. Even through the short breaths I took, I damn near passed out from the reek of alcohol that flooded into my nose.
So I was hiding behind a cask. Full of whiskey, by the smell of it, and strong, at that. Made sense; it must take a lot to get a centaur drunk.
“’Bout time, you ask me,” one of the centaurs said. “I tire of letting those barbarians do the fighting. I want a fight.”
“Halamox says it’s coming,” the other said between gulps of the brew.
“Yeah, Halamox says a lot of stuff.”
They wandered off, muttering to each other. I didn’t wait for them to come back. It had been just luck that had made them more concerned with liquor than security. I might not get that again.
I swept out, picking my way deeper into the camp. A wide gap of space between the two sides allowed me to slip toward the uncivilized end. I moved quickly from the shadow of one tent to another, giving their dying fires a wide berth.
I couldn’t help but feel a little insulted. The tribal centaurs were so embroiled in their own complaints that I felt like I could have started playing a trumpet and not been noticed.
“See Kjoda tonight?” Around a nearby campfire, a pair of them muttered to each other between strokes of whetstones on their blades. “Looks pissed. Not gonna take crap from the stabled much longer.”
“Good,” the other grunted. “I say we should’ve killed them before they got so many. More of these things keep showing up each day. Not gonna be able to take ’em for much longer.”
“Weakling,” the first snarled. “I could kill three in my sleep, at least.”
“I could kill four. Kjoda just needs to give the word.”
“If he don’t? Then we get rowdy.”
“Yeah,” the other chuckled. “Rowdy.”
Charming.
The discourse of centaur politics seemed enough to keep them distracted as I crept through their camp until I could get to the wooden cages at its edge.
I could hear the heavy sounds of animal breathing around me. Apparently, whatever was in these cages was not interested enough in centaur affairs to wake up. Still, that didn’t mean I could be less careful. I’d had my share of dealing with guard animals before. I moved slowly, trying not to disturb anything that might make a new scent.
A low growling reached me from nearby. I glanced over, saw a pair of yellow eyes peering out from a large cage. Behind the lone watcher, five more wolves slumbered blissfully—presumably the ones the centaurs had used to find their weapons.
Fortunately, trained wolves weren’t as suspicious as their feral kin. The one looking at me quickly lost interest and returned to sleeping with its pack.
Unfortunately, they could still be a pain in my ass if I had to get out of here quickly. I slipped toward the door of the cage and grinned at the sight of a metal lock.
Now, picking a lock is no mean feat: it takes years of practice to do it right. But jamming up a lock? That’s easy.
I slid Whisper out of his sheath and into the lock, gave it a few twists until I heard something grind. Anyone wanted these wolves out now, they’d have to work for it.
I slipped away from the door before anyone could notice me and almost backed up into the largest of the wooden cages.
This one, massive as it was, was dead silent. I peered between its bars, looking into the darkness.
Luck had given me the night. Skill had got me this far. But it was pure instinct that made me jerk my head back just in time to avoid it being taken off by a massive, ursine claw.
Big as my skull, the hairy brown paw groped around the bars for a moment. When it found nothing, a pair of wide, yellow eyes peered out, crowned by a feathery scowl. The creature within made a short, rasping trill of frustration.
Paws. Feathers.
Some kind of bear … owl … thing?
Fantastic.
You sometimes hear of these things: insane unions between two beasts that ought not, by natural means, be able to crossbreed without a lot of liquor and a lot of regrets. Some say they’re a god’s disfavor made manifest. Others say it’s evolution in action. Personally, I suspected it had a more logical explanation, such as a union of wizards and the aforementioned copious amounts of liquor.
It was a rare occasion that I actually didn’t disapprove of crazy magic, but this was one of them. In the cage, another great shape stirred as a second of the creatures rose from its slumber. I crept to the front of their cage, saw the door secured by a lock no more sophisticated than the chain it held.
Not that I was expecting much from centaurs.
I slipped a hand to my belt, pulled free the tiny leather roll of lockpicks I carried inside it. With a quick glance around to make sure no eyes were upon me, I plucked out two picks and went to work.
I wouldn’t have told you I was great at picking locks. No more than I would have told you I was good at understanding men or women. Truth was, I just knew what they all had in common.
Find the right spot, give it a flick, and watch them open.
The padlock clicked open, fell to the ground. I scrambled around the cage, scaled up its bars to its top, and simply waited.
It didn’t take long for the curious creatures to realize what had changed. They nudged the door, watched it creak open, and came creeping ponderously out.
In the shadows, I hadn’t realized just how gods-damned big they were. But as they came lumbering out on four meaty limbs, avian faces taking everything in, I guessed they both weighed a ton, at least.
Curiosity turned to exhilaration in a few short seconds. The creatures came loping out into the camp, silently making for the nearest cluster of centaurs.
I closed my eyes. And began to count to ten.
“HOLY HELL, THEY’RE LOOSE!”
I had gotten to four when the screaming began.
“Whose job was it to look after ’em?”
“IT’S GOT ME! HELP! HELP!”
“You gods-damned savages, get those things under control!”
“Stuff it under your tail, stabled!”
“SOMEONE, PLEASE!”
There were a lot of voices, a lot of screams, a lot of curses, a lot of terrified wailing. And none of them were louder or prouder than the blood-hungry screeches of the bird-bears.
Had I the time, I would have gladly stayed to hear how it all ended.
But time is money.<
br />
I leapt off the cage, broke into a run for the big cabin. The centaurs were all rushing for the center of the camp, content to ignore me in favor of the monsters currently making a scene. None of them so much as looked my way as I slipped around the side of the cabin. Peering into a window, I saw the dim glow of a lantern and nothing else. I took a breath, then hauled myself up and over the sill.
The room was quiet inside—quiet as it could be, considering the chaos outside. Bare but for the large tables set at either wall, a few barrels of whiskey stacked in the corner, and paper.
Loads and loads of paper.
By the light of the lantern hanging overhead, I could see them: maps pinned to the walls charting out caravan routes and guard patrols; various notes upon the tables, scribbled in a language I couldn’t understand; books on military treatises and Taldan history.
If I was going to find anything, it would be here.
From outside came a scream, followed by an agonized screech from one of the bear-things. I cringed.
An amateur thief might have heard that sound, realized they likely only had a few precious minutes left before the camp got itself in order, and started getting sloppy. Overwhelmed by the fear that they would be discovered and subsequently mutilated, they would search too hastily, leaving things out of order, making evidence of their passage all too obvious. Then, realizing their looming fate, they would sit down and cry and wait for death.
Fortunately, I was a professional.
So while I was certainly aware of the possibility of being discovered and mutilated, I definitely did not cry.
I’d save that for when I had to beg for mercy.
I slipped over to the table, let my eyes wander over the papers instead of my fingers. Stories may tell of burglars who slip in and leave a bare treasure vault behind, but the reality is that the best burglars are the ones that no one even knows were there. As I liked to think of myself as at least fairly good, I wasn’t about to touch anything until I was damn sure I could—
Aha.
I picked out a sentence I could read on one of the papers. Careful not to move the papers atop it, I gently pulled it out and looked it over. Written in common Taldane, dark ink, fantastic penmanship. But I was more concerned with what it said.
H—
I grow concerned by your brazenness. The assurances you offered that your alliance with the savage tribes would be to our mutual benefit has yet to manifest. Instead, I very nearly saw everything ruined by their raid. They didn’t kill enough people for it to look convincing. The target was only narrowly eliminated. I remind you that subtlety is the price you pay for protection.
I have enclosed, with this week’s missive, a dictionary, that you might learn the meaning of that word. In addition, the caravans have altered their routes. The maps I sent will tell you where to strike next. As usual, avoid the ones marked in red if you want your supplies to keep coming.
No signature, naturally.
Pity. But then, that would just have been too easy, wouldn’t it?
Protection. Target. Eliminate.
These words, and the rather detailed map of caravan routes that only someone directing said routes would be able to pen, were merely suspicious. But it was the ink on the page that sealed it.
Granted, I’ve never been a noble myself, but I’ve known enough of them to know that it’s fierce training they go through to prepare them for the rigors of being stupidly wealthy: there are manners to learn, languages to decipher, and penmanship so precise you could cut yourself on it.
I supposed whatever training the noble who wrote this letter underwent, it was too much to break even for the sake of sending a covert message.
A noble was behind it. All of it: the centaurs, the raids, Gerowan’s death.
Dalaris would be very interested to hear this.
“Don’t you walk away from me, stabled.”
I really hoped I’d be able to share it with her.
Voices. Footsteps. Outside. Getting closer.
I darted to the corner of the room, leapt behind the casks of whiskey, pressed myself deep into the shadows, and held my breath.
Through the gap between the barrels, I saw the door open. A great shape bent low to enter. And when he righted himself, I could see the centaur in all his glory.
His big, giant, kill-me-with-one-hoof glory.
Funny, but from the waist up, he wasn’t actually that bad to look at. His torso was broad and lean, his arms, corded with muscle, left bare by the breastplate and pauldron he wore. Beneath elegantly braided black hair and neatly trimmed beard, a rather regal face with a square jaw looked out.
Indeed, had he not been a freaky abomination of nature intent on slaughter, I might very well be tempted to introduce myself.
But as I mentioned, the horse-bit looked a little less inviting. Below, he was a massive destrier: black hair, thick legs, heavy hooves that could split my skull with a flick. A heavy sword belt with a heavier sword hung around his waist—human waist, not the horse waist.
“I’m hardly walking away from you, savage,” the big centaur said as he walked toward a table. “That would imply I cared about you at all. I started walking back and you simply followed me.”
“You know damn well what Kjoda meant.” Kjoda, shorter and leaner, pushed his way in after the big one. “Two of my beasts are dead now, thanks to your kind.”
“And five of my compatriots are dead thanks to your animals,” the new centaur replied, sneering over his shoulder. “I’m being generous in calling it even, considering that your shoddy locks are to blame.”
“Warriors say they locked them tight,” Kjoda growled. “They aren’t liars. No one lies to Kjoda. Without big muscle, we aren’t gonna make it far when we start raiding big towns.”
My eyebrow quirked at that. Centaurs were bad enough without ambitions.
“I lament your loss, truly,” the civilized centaur replied. “We may discuss renegotiations in the morning, if you so choose.”
“You said that last night. And the night before. And the night before that. And you never been here come the morning.”
The centaur glanced briefly at his desk, then back to Kjoda.
“And what have we learned?” he asked.
My other eyebrow quirked at that. Handsome and witty was rare. But I suppose it was true what they said: the good ones are either married or horrific horse-beasts.
Kjoda turned and stalked away, muttering something about glue. He slammed the door shut with such force as to send the lantern swaying overhead. The big centaur stared at the door, arms folded, for a long time. Upon the floor, his monstrous shadow was painted even more twisted by the swaying lantern.
I mentally ran over the numbers in my head: about two hours since I had entered the camp had passed. That left about three left until I gave Dalaris permission to come after me—give or take one, depending on how antsy she got. I assumed the centaur came back to consult some charts, but he’d have to leave again, eventually, to get a drink or to take a piss or—
“Would you care to come out?” he asked.
Or he could just find me right away. That’d be fine, too.
“Mind you, I’m not adverse to searching for you,” he said out loud. “But if I have to tear my command room apart, I’m going to be cross when I find you.” He stamped a hoof upon the floorboards, making the tables quake on their legs. “Very cross.”
Damn it.
You got sloppy, Shy. Amateurish. You left the papers misplaced. Of course he noticed.
I held my breath, closed my eyes, ran over my options in my head. I could stay hidden, make him work for it. I could try to run for the window, maybe make it out … before he sicced his two-hundred-odd exceedingly mobile army of horse-people after me, each of which could run twice as fast as—
Yeah, no, maybe not that.
“Well?” he asked the room. “Keep me waiting much longer and I’ll start to think you’re a touch rude, thief.”
�
��Now, sir.” My words came as slowly as I did as I rose up behind the casks, my hands in the air. “I should accuse you of the same.”
He whirled around, a scowl etched across his proud brow. I met him with what I hoped was an adequately-sheepish-yet-not-completely-spineless grin.
“After all, I have taken nothing from you yet,” I said. “I am not quite a thief, and resent the implication.”
No chance for retreat. I had to stall for time until I could think of something.
His face slowly softened as he took me in. I had to bite back my surprise as he swept low in a modest bow—not so much that I could have stabbed him, but far more gracious than one would typically expect in these circumstances.
“My apologies, lady,” he said, straightening himself again. “Though I would hope that my state of mind would be understandable, given that you clearly intruded upon my camp without proper introduction.” He tapped his chest. “Who does Halamox have the pleasure of meeting?”
“Anna, Sir Halamox. Anna Nimm.” If I wasn’t going to give a guardsman my real name, I sure as hell wasn’t going to offer one to this guy. I managed a low bow of my own, careful to keep my hands visible.
“Anna Nimm.” He spoke the false name slowly, as if he could taste it for a lie. “I won’t humor you by saying you’re welcome here. But I will forestall taking your life, for the moment.”
“How generous of you,” I replied. “I can see why your soldiers trust you.” My lips curled in the slightest of smirks. “The clean ones, anyway.”
Halamox eyed me coolly. “I take it, then, that you’ve overheard quite a bit. Speak plainly, human. What are you here for?”
“Merely lost, sir,” I replied. “I stumbled into your camp and—”
“I’ll not presume to insult your honor, madame, if you’ll not presume to insult my intelligence.” He stalked forward, making sure each hoof landed firmly to remind me just how big he was. “You were clever enough to recognize my command room. You are no hapless traveler.”
I met his cool gaze with one of my own, slowly lowering my hands. Obviously, I hadn’t expected him to buy that. But sometimes little lies are required to sell the big ones.