The Silver Bracers (Lady Blade, Lord Fighter Book 1)

by Sharon Green

  He flicked his point at me casually, more interested in frightening me than in scoring, but when I simply leaned aside to cause the miss and that not-laughter rippled through the patrons again, his rage returned. I was supposed to have frantically tried to beat his weapon away instead of all but ignoring it, and he was beginning to realize how idiotic he looked. Women were supposed to tremble back from men and their weapons, not thumb their noses and stick their tongues out, and he and his rage weren't going to let me get away with it. He growled again, deep in his throat, then started to swing in earnest.

  His first blow chipped splinters of wood out of the counter as I jumped back, my dagger blade sliding the backswing on its way safely past me when it came. Those two moves hadn't been particularly difficult, not after all the training I’d had, but that was scarcely the end of it. Even as I ducked a wild swing at my head I cursed the lack of a proper weapon, knowing beyond doubt that I could have taken the mercenary if I'd had a sword in my fist. If he'd been any good he would have been a Blade or a Fighter, and as more of the counter exploded in chips I cursed at the thought of being ended by someone this unskilled. Not only was it unfair it was wrong, my own life being the very least of it. My father…My sisters… What would become of them?

  It may have been desperation that fired through me then, or maybe it was stubbornness and the knowledge that I had very little to lose. The mercenary had his lips peeled back from his teeth as he stopped and drew an X in the air in front of me with his point, no attempt to reach me in the gesture. The movement was the beginning of an exercise taught to the very young, a way of regaining the control of calm in the middle of a fight without leaving yourself unprotected or off-balance. The man had paused in his attack to gather himself for a more precise effort, and I knew in an instant that I had to use that pause or his next attack would end it all.

  I've heard people say how time slowed for them when they were forced to a final, desperate move, how it had almost seemed like a dream they moved through rather than reality. I had just enough time to wish it would happen the same for me, but then the second X came and after it the third, and then it all went so fast I would have missed it if I'd blinked.

  The mercenary, strengthened by the calm he'd captured, swung out of the bottom of the last leg of his exercise and into a slash starting high on his right, not the least pause or hesitation as he rolled into the downstroke. So fast was the movement that it was nearly a blur, difficult to follow and impossible to avoid. If I hadn’t already begun my own movement I would have been caught staring, doing nothing to keep from being cut down where I stood.

  But I had started my own movement, a counter I would have considered insane if I'd had the time to think about it. Instead of moving back again up an aisle I was rapidly running short of, my counter took me toward the mercenary and his descending blade, my left arm raising up as though I wore a shield on it. I had enough time to catch a blinding flare of silver and then I felt the crashing jar against my arm, the staggering blow that would have knocked me flying if I hadn't been braced for it. Left leg forward and body set, the weight crashing into my left arm triggered the movement of my right, bringing the dagger forward fast with all the strength I had in me.

  Slashing into the body in front of me, the body now close enough to reach, my blade sliding through leather to find nothing of mail beneath, nothing but flesh and sinew to slice through. Deep, deep the weapon went in an instant's timeless time, rushing in and in until stopped by the slam of metal hilt to leather.

  He screamed. How he stayed alive long enough to scream and stagger backward I have no idea, but the mercenary screamed and backed, pulling the dagger hilt out of my grip. His face contorted, his sword in his fist and my dagger in his belly, blood running down his leathers and from his mouth, he screamed and backed away from the woman who had killed him, his dying eyes filled with horror. I felt a good measure of horror of my own, seeing my only weapon backing away with him, forcing myself into motion despite the pain washing over me. My left arm flared so wildly I thought it might be broken, and I hadn't any time at all to wonder how I could have forgotten about the bracer I wore. Veslin's bracer that he hadn't asked to have back, still wrapped tight around my arm, forgotten about and unnoticed until it had kept a sword from slicing into me.

  The mercenary kept staggering back and screaming until his left hand ran out of counter to move along, and then, as though only that contact had kept him erect, he fell backward to sprawl among the tables. The scream had ended with a choking, bubbling sound lost in the crash of his fall, and the sudden silence worked against rather than for me. The other mercenaries had seemed frozen in place all the while, held where they were by the scream, but as soon as it ended their paralysis went with it. I had time for two more steps forward, nearly to the dagger and sword that lay there waiting for me, and then the knot of them were in front of me instead, faces twisted in rage and hands reaching for weapons.

  My lips went dry as my heart thudded madly, the knot inside adding its burning twist to the rest. There was no way those five were going to let me live now, and even as I shifted to backing from their snarling fury I regretted that the last things I would be aware of would be stale brew and vomit-clotted sawdust, the silence of fear and the snarling of hatred. I had won an unfair fight and now was going to die for it, but couldn't find an ounce of regret anywhere in me, at least for what I had done. I died trying, Father, not running or on my knees, I thought as I backed slowly and reluctantly from the pack who wanted my blood. I know you'd never ask more of me than that, but I do so wish I could have helped you and my sisters…

  "That's far enough,'' a sudden, harsh voice came from behind me, nearly stopping my life as it stopped the mercenaries in their advance up the aisle. ''This is the man who sent for you, but one step more and he'll need to send for replacements. If I swear to nothing else in my life, that I certainly swear to.''

  The mercenaries stared behind me with sullen, muttering uneasiness, unwilling to give up my blood but finding themselves faced with no other choice. I thought I knew exactly why they had no other choice, but I’d never make myself believe it unless I turned to look. It took something of an effort to make that turn, and once it was completed I still couldn't quite believe it. The man Oeran, the one I'd come to contact, stood there with a cold scowl on his face for the knot of mercenaries, his fingers toying with his hilt as though he had an intolerable itch, and beside and behind him…

  Black leather, black swordbelts. Silver medallions with the gleam of a small jewel. Four faces with blazing eyes begging the least of movements from the mercenaries now behind me. The most beautiful of sights I'd thought I'd never see again. And the one who had spoken was -

  "Rull," I whispered, actually feeling light-headed, and then I was rushing forward to try hugging four bodies at once in so limited an amount of body space.

  * * *

  "Do you believe they're actually annoyed?" the man Oeran said as he sat himself behind the very plain desk, having just returned to the room a moment earlier. ''They seem to feel it's unfair for a female Blade to walk around dressed like an ordinary woman; it causes too many misunderstandings and difficulties."

  "Poor things, now they'll be uneasy the next time one of them gets in the mood for rape," I commented, swirling the brew in the goblet I held. "Another innocent pastime ruined by the unthinking actions of a woman who refuses to be a quiet, reasonable victim.''

  ''What in Evon's name made you send for them in the first place, Oeran?" Rull asked from the chair to my right, a straight-backed wooden chair he'd moved as close as possible to the raggedy old leather one I sat in. Foist stood to my left, arms folded as he leaned one shoulder on the plain stone wall, Jak sprawled in his own rickety chair to Foist's left, Ham squatted to Rull's right, his dark eyes still smoldering. To someone who didn't know them the four were completely at ease, but I wasn't someone who didn't know them.

  ''I sent for the mercenaries because I had no choice," Oer
an answered, his sourness clear as he poured wine into a goblet of his own. "Every Blade and Fighter still in one piece is committed either in the north or the west, and that leaves only mercenaries for hire. If I wait to fight back against what's happening, ignoring it while hoping it'll go away, I won't have to worry about any of it because I won't be around to hire anybody. I usually prefer better quality workers, but even your Fistmate gave me the impression she had other things to do with her time. What else was I supposed to do?"

  "You still haven't told us what your problem is," Foist pointed out, his very light eyes on the small man he spoke to. "And if you offered hire to Softy here, why didn't you do the same with us? You have a thing about liking women better?"

  "My friend, I'd like women better even if that wasn't part of my line of work,'' Oeran answered, his grin wide and full of amusement. "I don't really understand why, it must it one of those strange urges some men get from time to time."

  With Rull and Ham and Jak chuckling, Foist admitted he'd asked a foolish question by showing a faint but real smile of amusement. Oeran saw it as he sipped his wine, silently accepting the point he'd won, then shook his head.

  "To answer your question more seriously, I tried to snap up you four even before Rullin and I were through greeting one another after all this time, but he told me you were here for another reason. If I'd known it was your Fistmate there you were after, or even that she was the one waiting for me in the tavern, all this unpleasantness could have been avoided."

  "Do you mean you knew I was out there?" I interrupted, sitting up a bit straighter in the chair. "Then why didn't you come out and say something?''

  "Now, don't get mad at me,'' the man protested, looking the least bit uncomfortable. ''When I got here with your Fistmates, I was told there was a girl in the tavern I’d offered a place to, one a little better than the ordinary run of workers who come through here looking to accept my offer. I was interested, of course, but frankly I had other, more important things on my mind right then. If I don't do something to get my problems solved, I won't need any more workers because I'll be out of business.''

  ''Wait a minute,'' I said, knowing I was missing something in his explanation. ''I don't understand what you mean by 'workers.' How many female Blades can there be around here that you offer hire to?''

  "My dear young thing, there aren't any other female Blades around for me to offer hire to," he said, trying to hide his amusement behind his wine cup. "If you'd come into the tavern wearing black leathers and a swordbelt, the message given me would have been completely different. As it was… Can you blame my people for believing an unarmed girl in a dress was after anything but a place as a worker in one of my night houses?"

  ''A worker where?" I demanded, totally outraged but finally able to understand the odd look I'd gotten from the tavern keeper - and the reason he hadn't asked me to pay for the brew. Either Oeran owned the tavern as well, and as a prospective worker I was entitled to a free drink, or the tavern keeper had decided to take it out in trade at some later time. Whichever the reason I didn't particularly care for it, and the laughter all around me was just making it worse. Oeran might have been trying to hide his amusement, but my Fistmates weren't that shy.

  "Come to think of it, she might not be too bad as a night house worker," Jak remarked, his grin clear where he still sprawled in the old chair to my left. "She can't say she doesn't like the surroundings, or what she'd be paid for doing. And the four of us could help by being her first clients."

  ''I think she needs to work on her friendly smile a bit more first,'' Foist said, this time showing almost as much of a grin as Jak. "It's only Evon keeping that glare from killing you, Jak, and I've seen her looking like that before. By the time she was done back then, there was enough free-running blood to paint this room with. I'd rather keep my blood right where it is, and I'd guess her other clients would feel the same."

  ''Oh, I don't know, it might be worth the risk,'' Rull added his own oar, chuckling when my eyes left Foist to come to him. "I never thought she'd look that good in a dress, but now I can see I was wrong. It makes me wonder what she'd look like in a night house outfit."

  "A night house outfit while she's riding fifth in the Fist?" Ham asked, not about to miss his turn. ''That may not be such a bad idea. While the enemy's busy gawking at her, we can just trot on up to them and knock them out of their saddles. It could save us a lot of trouble - if she can stay awake long enough to work the house and the Fist both."

  ''I think I now understand what it takes to be a member of a Fist,'' Oeran said, closing the circle he'd opened without giving me the chance to say anything of my own to those four peabrains. ''It takes an absolute disregard for personal danger, almost a conscious desire for suicide. You four act as though you've never seen her fight."

  "Oh, we know what she can do," Rull said, his tone, unlike his sudden stare, suggesting he was completely unconcerned. "We're the ones she usually does it with, which means we know she'd never do it to us. When was it that you saw her fight?"

  Oeran had been enjoying himself, but Rull's quiet question pulled the amusement out of the situation for the small man, especially when he saw that my other Fistmates were just as sobered. I took a swallow of my brew in an attempt to cool my temper, trying to decide if I really was more annoyed at that than I'd been over the teasing. Those four had always hated to hear I’d gotten into a fight without them, just as though they protected me when we fought together - which they'd never done. Their attitude simply didn't make any sense, and I'd never been able to understand it.

  ''She turned up at a time when I wasn't free to do my own fighting,'' Oeran answered, looking at Rull but aware of the others. "She took that garbage out neat as you please, and that's how we met. What's the matter, wasn't she supposed to?"

  He glanced from face to face with the question, seriously concerned, then discovered he wasn't being stared at any longer. The way he'd phrased his question had suddenly reminded my Fistmates how I felt about that particular attitude, and they were all just as suddenly talking to me at once. I let it go on for no more than a matter of seconds, then held up my hand for silence.

  "The man asked you a question, bondmates," I said into the quiet I was given, inspecting my cup with extreme attention. "Why don't one or more of you answer him?''

  "Damn it, Softy, you know we didn't mean it like that," Rull protested, apparently speaking for all of them. ''You always get so wild, when all we’re trying to say is - Oeran, there's no 'supposed to' about it. We know she can handle herself alone, if she couldn't she wouldn't be in our Fist. But how are we supposed to explain what it feels like inside for us when she does do a solo? She's never been able to understand that part of us, and sometimes I get the feeling she doesn't even want to. Like now, for instance…"

  ''I really doubt she's being thick or stubborn on purpose, Rull,'' the man Oeran answered with what sounded like sympathy while I found myself giving Rull a very cold stare. "Women are built different from men on the inside as well as the outside, that's why we have such trouble getting along with them. It's not that they don’t want to see things our way, they usually can't. Are you and the others able to see it her way?''

  Rull had been more or less returning my glare, almost as annoyed as I was, but when Oeran asked his question our Fist leader turned his head to look at the smaller man, and then he nodded.

  ''You may be right,'' he admitted, seeing Jak's faint smile and duplicating it. ''Looking at things from a woman's point of view makes very little sense to us, but it must make sense of some kind to them or they'd spend less time insisting on it. So Soft and Gentle pulled your backside out of the flames, and that’s how you two met. You were about to tell us how it got into the flames in the first place when we were interrupted by that little girl from the tavern."

  ''Having hysterics," Oeran agreed with a grimace, leaning back in his chair. "All right, let's see if I can find some sort of beginning for you. It isn't as easy as it sounds
, not when this thing sort of crept up from behind and was all over me before I knew it."

  A brief knock at the door brought a woman with a tray into the room, the tray holding a good selection of meat and pastry nibbles. Oeran interrupted himself to gesture the woman into taking the tray around to his guests, but although the food was considerably more appetizing than what had come past me in the tavern, when she approached me I simply shook my head. I was using my right hand to hold my cup of brew, my left arm still hurting a little too much for me to want to move it unnecessarily. I no longer thought the arm was broken, but it would save a good deal of argument and fussing if my Fistmates knew nothing about the pain in the first place.

  "This could get to be a long story, so help yourselves as you like," Oeran said once the woman had put the tray down on his desk and left. "As at least you know, Rull, I retired from being a Blade about a decade ago, when my parents died and my little sister needed someone to look after her. She and I are all that's left in the way of family, and I wasn't about to leave her with strangers who cared more about her wealth than about her.

  "I came back home to the south and used some of my share of the estate left us to buy a night house here in Gensea, and that was the start of it. The house prospered, I used my profits to buy a second and then a third, and even found myself with enough left over for other, quiet investments, like that tavern out there and a warehouse or two. Things aren't the same here as they are in the north, but in some ways it's more relaxed and life was sweet and full.

  ''Then, about a year ago, small changes started cropping up," he went on, a frown on his face, his eyes seeing something other than that large, undecorated room. "Some of my houses' regular clients stopped coming by, but it took a few months before the number of them grew large enough to notice. I bought a few drinks for those still coming in who were friends of the missing, but the most I could learn was that the men, or in some instances their wives, had 'gone religious.' They were all villagers or farmers, living within a couple or three days' ride from the city, so I naturally couldn't understand what the problem was. They were followers of Grail, and Grail, like Evon, had always recognized natural needs rather than try to deny them. There's no harm in a little relaxation, and often there's even some good. You'd never believe how many villagers get sent to a night house by their wives, because one of them picked up some technique and brought it home to his woman. The woman is surprised and delighted, tells her friends all about it, and the next thing you know half the village is here, needing something to take home to their own wives. Before I started in this business, I wouldn't have believed it."