by David Weber
“Bahzell,” Kaeritha said for Hurthang, “Gharnal isn’t exactly, um … how shall I say this? Not exactly the most tactful member of the order. In fact, he’s the only person I know who makes you and Hurthang look like effete, overcivilized diplomats. What in the world is Vaijon thinking of?”
“As to that, I’m not so very sure,” Bahzell acknowledged. “It was after being Gharnal’s very own idea, but Vaijon says as how it ’felt’ right when he asked. As to why Gharnal might be wanting to be sent into such as this, I’ve no least idea what maggot’s invaded his brain, and no more does he, as far as I can be telling. But let’s us be honest here, Hurthang. Vaijon’s been after making less mistakes with the Order than you or I most likely would, so I’m thinking we’d best not quibble here.” He flicked his ears and shrugged. “It just might be as how Himself is after poking a finger back into the pie. Any road, he’ll be arriving tomorrow morning, so we’d best be battening down.”
“You think Tomanak Himself might want Gharnal up here among all these hradani-hating Sothoii?” Clearly, despite her own champion’s status, Kaeritha found the possibility difficult to accept.
“And why not?” Bahzell grinned wryly. “It’s not as if we’ve not had proof enough of Himself’s sense of humor, Kerry! After all, look where Vaijon was after ending up!”
“Um.” Kaeritha closed her mouth on a fresh objection, then nodded. “You’re right,” she said after a moment. “If He can send Vaijon of Almerhas to Hurgrum, then there’s no reason He couldn’t send Gharnal here … even if the mere thought of it does send a chill down my spine. On the other hand, I’m afraid that even adding Gharnal to the mess isn’t going to make it a lot worse. In fact—”
“Milord Champion!”
Bahzell turned towards the raised voice that wasn’t quite a shout, although it seemed like one in the temple’s quiet precincts.
Brother Relath, one of Father Taraman’s acolytes, hurried up the temple nave towards them, his youthful face screwed up in an expression of deep concern … or something worse.
“Milord Champion!” he repeated as he slid to a halt before Bahzell, panting slightly. “Come quickly! There’s trouble!”
* * *
Relath, Bahzell thought sourly when he reached the temple doors, had a distinct gift for understatement.
Thalgahr Rarikson—one of the Horse Stealer warriors his father had assigned to his official bodyguard, rather than a member of the Hurgrum Order—had accompanied him to the temple as the “official” bodyguard Sothoii protocol demanded of any ambassador, be he ever so unofficial. Like most hradani, Thalgahr had little enough use for any god—of Light or Dark—and so, however much he might respect Tomanak, he’d chosen to stay outside, sheltering from the misting rain under the portico which protected the temple’s main entrance.
Prince Bahnak had handpicked the members of Bahzell’s guard. He was perfectly well aware of how delicate a balancing act Bahzell confronted, and he also knew how assiduously Sothoii who disapproved of Tellian’s initiative would attempt to provoke incidents designed to joggle Bahzell’s elbow. Which was why he’d chosen men whose discipline and ability to control their tempers he could trust.
The men he’d selected had regarded their inclusion among Bahzell’s guardsmen as a high honor, proof of their chieftain’s confidence in both their loyalty and their capacity to resist the inevitable provocations. At the moment, however, Thalgahr looked as if he was regretting the fact that his Prince’s eye had fallen upon him for this duty.
Bahzell swallowed a curse as he took in the tableau. Thalgahr stood with his back to the temple wall, and the set of his shoulders under his chain hauberk suggested that he’d put it there to keep daggers out of it. His right hand was carefully away from his sword hilt, but the way his wrist was cocked told Bahzell he was ready to draw steel instantly. Worse, the half-flattened ears and the fire burning at the backs of his eyes told any hradani that Thalgahr was fighting a bitter battle to restrain the Rage, the berserker curse of his people.
“ … back where your kind belong, you murdering, thieving bastard—away from civilized people!” someone shouted from the damp crowd of Sothoii which had assembled itself on the brightly colored pavement as if by magic in the brief time Bahzell had been inside the temple. It was still a crowd, not yet anything which might have been called a mob, but Bahzell felt it hovering on the brink and realized it could go either way with no more warning than an avalanche in snow country. Worse, several of its members seemed more than a little sympathetic to the taunts and vituperation the heckler was spouting.
Thalgahr said nothing in response to the human’s invective, but his ears flattened still further.
“Yes!” someone else shouted. “We’ve had a bellyful of you raping, horse-stealing—horse-killing—bastards! Are you really stupid enough to think you can fool us by pretending you’re not the sneaking, backstabbing cowards your kind always been, hradani?”
There were more than a few mutters of agreement from the crowd, this time, but Bahzell’s eyes narrowed with more than simple anger as they found the two bravos who were doing all the shouting. The pair of hecklers were obviously working as team, and both of them were better equipped than a typical street tough. They wore traditional Sothoii steel cuirasses, but they wore them over chain hauberks, not the usual boiled leather of the Sothoii cavalryman, and their swords were of excellent, dwarvish work. The straps which ought to have been buttoned across the quillons of those swords to keep them in their sheaths had been unbuttoned, as well, and though they tried to hide it from casual observers, their own expressions and body language were those of men poised on the brink of violence.
“I say the only good hradani is one lying in a ditch with his throat slit and his balls in his cold, dead hand! What d’you think of that, hradani?” the first heckler sneered, and Bahzell took one stride towards the broad steps leading up to the temple from the roadway below. Then he stopped as a strong, slender hand gripped his elbow.
“If you get involved in this,” Kaeritha said to him, too quietly for anyone else to hear through the fresh round of taunting obscenities being flung at Thalgahr, “you give them exactly what they want. And the same goes for Hurthang and Brandark.”
“And if I’m not after getting ’involved,’ “ he growled back, “Thalgahr will be flashing over into the Rage and carving those two idiots into short ribs and roasts in about one more minute.”
“They’re trying to make this a matter of human-versus-hradani,” she told him, hanging onto his elbow with steely fingers. “You can’t afford to play their game for them. Let me handle it.”
Bahzell began an immediate, instinctive protest. Not because he doubted her capability, but because Thalgahr was one of Prince Bahnak’s troopers, not a member of Tomanak’s Order, and he wanted to keep Kaeritha out of a mess which didn’t concern her. He opened his mouth, but the glint in her sapphire eyes closed it again with a click.
“Better, Sword Brother,” she told him as she released her grip on his elbow and turned it into an approving pat. “How wise of you not to insult me by suggesting that my brother’s problems aren’t mine.”
He glowered at her, and she strolled past him with a chuckle, carrying her quarterstaff in her left hand.
Thalgahr never noticed her presence until she’d stepped past him, but the two hecklers were another matter. One of them nudged the other, pointing at her with his chin, and their suddenly wary expressions said that they knew exactly who she was.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” she said mildly into the sudden silence. “I’m sure you wouldn’t want anyone to doubt your respect for Tomanak, but perhaps you hadn’t realized that creating this sort of an uproar on the steps of His house isn’t exactly polite.”
“I’m a free Sothoii subject,” one of the hecklers shot back. “I’ve the right to speak my mind anywhere!”
“Of course you do,” she said soothingly, and gripped her staff in both hands so that she could round her shoulders
and lean her weight on it. Her posture was eloquently nonthreatening, and she smiled. “I’m simply suggesting that this isn’t the best possible place for this, um, conversation.”
“And who are you to suggest anything to us?” The spokesman for the pair spat on the paving. “Some kind of hradani-lover? What—you couldn’t find a human to keep you warm at night?”
One or two onlookers shifted uneasily at the last remark. Kaeritha had drawn almost as much attention in Balthar as Bahzell himself. Sothoii minds seemed to have a great deal of trouble wrapping themselves about the concept of any female knight, much less one who was acknowledged as a champion of Tomanak Himself. But however outre or even disgraceful they might find the notion, all of the gossip her arrival had generated at least guaranteed that everyone in that crowd knew precisely who she was. And it would seem that even some of those who approved of hradani-baiting were less prepared to publicly insult a woman … and a champion.
“You seem to make a habit of leaping to conclusions, friend,” Kaeritha said mildly into the sudden hush. “First you assume humans are somehow better than hradani, and then you compound your initial error by making all sorts of unfounded assumptions about me.” She shook her head. “Personally, I think you should be devoting at least a little thought to all of the trouble that sort of thoughtlessness could end up dropping you into.”
“Trouble?” the man laughed scornfully. “Oh, I know who you are now. You’re that what’s-her-name—Kaeritha, wasn’t it? The woman who claims to be a knight? A champion of Tomanak? Hah! That’s almost as funny as claiming he is!”
A contemptuous thumb jerked in Bahzell’s direction, and the hradani’s eyes narrowed further. They were getting to the nub of it now, he realized, and he suddenly wondered if his own initial assumption had been in error. Was it possible these two actually were operating on their own? The anger in the heckler’s voice and face seemed completely genuine, with a degree of passion Bahzell wouldn’t have expected to see in the average paid provocateur. And the gods knew there were more than enough humans, and not simply among the Sothoii, who considered themselves true followers of Tomanak and would still find the very suggestion that the War God might welcome hradani followers rankest blasphemy. Adding that view to the traditional Sothoii antipathy for women warriors could easily produce a blind, driving anger.
Not, he reminded himself, that the fact that they truly were angry meant that they weren’t working with—or for—someone else entirely. As Brandark had said, bigots’ hatred only made them even easier to manipulate.
“Friend,” Kaeritha’s tone was still mild, but her eyes were hard, “I don’t believe Tomanak would be particularly pleased by all this shouting and carrying on outside His front door. If you have some sort of problem with me and you’d care to discuss it calmly and in private, like a sensible person, I’m at your disposal. But I’d really appreciate it if you’d stop making such a public nuisance of yourself in front of His temple. In fact, I’m going to have to insist that you do. Now.”
“ ’Public nuisance’ is it?” The heckler pushed closer to her, standing no more than four or five feet away as he looked her up and down, head to toe, with an elaborate sneer. “Better than standing here in His colors like a public whore trying to pretend she’s some kind of noblewoman, I say!”
The silence behind him was suddenly profound. Even his partner seemed taken aback by his last sentence. However unhappy the average Sothoii might be over the thought of a female champion, he would never have dreamed of addressing such language to a woman of rank in public. The second heckler looked as if he would cheerfully have strangled his friend, but it was too late to disassociate himself from him now.
“There you go, making more of those assumptions,” Kaeritha said into the quiet, in a tone compounded of equal parts weariness and resignation. She shook her head. “Me, some kind of noblewoman?” She snorted and thumped the iron-shod heel of her upright quarterstaff lightly on a paving stone. “What sort of ’noblewoman’ carries one of these?”
She chuckled, and the heckler’s expression abruptly acquired an edge of perplexity. Clearly, her reaction was unlike anything he’d anticipated.
“No,” she continued, sliding one hand thoughtfully along the staff’s use-polished shaft. “I was born a peasant, friend.” She shrugged. “There’s no point trying to pretend otherwise, and truth to tell, I don’t see any reason I ought to. One thing about Tomanak, He doesn’t seem to mind where his followers come from. The Order made me a knight, and He made me a champion, but nobody ever made me a noblewoman. Which is unfortunate for you, I’m afraid.”
She smiled thinly at him, and he frowned back uncertainly, obviously confused about where she was headed.
“You see,” she explained to him calmly, “if I were a noblewoman, I’d probably be all upset and flustered by all those nasty things you said about me. Noblewomen don’t approve of public brawls or shouting matches, so I wouldn’t have the least idea what to do about them, or how to respond to your rudeness. But if you say things like that to a peasant, she doesn’t get upset. No,” Kaeritha shook her head again, “she just gets even.”
He was still frowning at her in confusion when she took one precise step forward, the quarterstaff snapped up, and its iron end cap smashed down on the arch of his right foot in a vicious, vertical blow any piledriver might have envied.
Kaeritha Seldansdaughter might be short compared to a hradani, but she was quite tall—and very, very strong—for a human woman, and the heckler let out an unearthly screech as she brought the staff crunching down with both hands. The soft leather upper of his boot offered no protection against such a blow, and the sound it made was remarkably like the one produced by crushing a wicker basket with a hammer.
Despite himself, Bahzell winced in sympathy, but Kaeritha’s expression didn’t even flicker as her victim jerked his wounded foot up where he could clasp it in both hands. He hopped on his other foot, howling in precariously balanced anguish, and she whipped the lower end of the staff up in a perfectly timed and placed blow to his left knee. Administered with even the slightest error, that stroke could have crippled her victim for life, but Bahzell had watched Kaeritha working out with her staff too often to worry about that. He had no doubt that the heckler’s kneecap, unlike his foot, was intact, whatever it might feel like, but the hapless loudmouth went down as if he were a sapling and Kaeritha’s staff were an axe she’d just applied to his roots.
He hit the paving with a fresh bellow of agony, and even before he landed, the staff was back upright before Kaeritha, and she was leaning on it once more. He writhed and twisted on the ground, hands flashing back and forth between foot and knee, clearly unable to decide which source of anguish most required comforting, and Kaeritha shook her head. Her eyes, Bahzell noticed, never left the heckler’s companion. The object of her attention seemed as well aware of it as the hradani, and he was very careful to keep his hands away from any weapon.
“There now!” Kaeritha said scoldingly to the writhing man at her feet. “You went and made me forget how important it is for a miserable imposter like me to ape a proper noblewoman’s manners if I want to fool anyone!” She sighed and shook her head mournfully while the stunned onlookers began to laugh. “I suppose it just goes to show, you can take the girl out of the peasant village, but you can’t take the peasant out of the girl, can you?”
“And I suppose you’re thinking as how this was a tactful, diplomatic way to be handling our little problem?” Bahzell asked in a quiet voice, one eyebrow quirked and his ears half-cocked, when she turned her back on the writhing heckler and strolled casually back up the temple steps to him. He shook his head. “I’m thinking it may be you’re the one to be a mite more careful about ’local sensibilities’ and being diplomatic and all.”
“Why?” she asked innocently, while the crowd laughed harder than ever behind her. “He survived, didn’t he?”
Chapter Five
It was raining again, and no mer
e drizzle this time, either.
It seemed to do an awful lot of that on the Sothoii Wind Plain, Kaeritha thought.
She leaned one shoulder moodily against the deep-cut frame of a tower window, folded her arms across her chest, and stared out across Hill Guard Castle’s battlements at the raindrops’ falling silver spears. The sky was the color of wet charcoal, swirled by gusty wind and lumpy with the weight of rain not yet fallen, and the temperature was decidedly on the cool side. Not that it wasn’t immensely preferable to the bone-freezing winter she’d just endured.
Thunder rumbled somewhere above the cloud ceiling, and she grimaced as a harder gust of wind drove a spray of rain in through the open window. She didn’t step back, though. Instead, she inhaled deeply, drawing the wet, living scent of the rain deep into her lungs. There was a fine, stimulating feel to it, despite the chill—one that seemed to tingle in her blood—and her grimace faded into something suspiciously like a grin as she admitted the truth to herself.
It wasn’t the rain that irritated her so. Not really. As a matter of fact, Kaeritha rather liked rain. She might have preferred a little less of it than the West Riding had received over the past several weeks, but the truth was that this rain was simply part and parcel of the real cause of her frustration. She should have been on her way at least two weeks ago, and instead she’d allowed the rain to help delay her travel plans.
Not that there hadn’t been enough other reasons for that same delay. She could come up with a lengthy list of those, all of them entirely valid, without really trying. Helping Bahzell and Hurthang steer the Hurgrum Chapter safely through the rocks and shoals of Sothoii public opinion, for example … or impressing the error of their ways on the local bigots. Those had certainly been worthwhile endeavors. And so had lending her own presence as another, undeniably human, champion of Tomanak to Bahzell’s diplomatic mission. Unfortunately, she had to admit that however useful her efforts might have been, they were scarcely indispensable. No, her “reasons” for continually postponing her departure were beginning to turn into something entirely too much like “excuses” for her taste. Which meant that, rain or no rain, it was time she was on her way. Besides—