The Sword-Edged blonde

by Alex Bledsoe

“All my life.” A guarded tone slid into her voice, probably because she thought I was about to proposition her.

  “Did you ever know a woman named Epona Gray?” To aid her memory, I put money atop my check and a sizable pile next to it for her tip.

  Trudy thought about it, her serving tray balanced on her hip. “No, I don’t think so. A lot of the old-timers left when it started getting crowded, maybe she was one of them.”

  “How about Andrew Reese?”

  “No, haven’t—” She stopped and looked puzzled. “Do you mean the children’s rhyme? ‘Andrew Reese is broken to pieces’?”

  Those words, said so casually, sent a chill through me. The only time I’d ever heard them before was from Epona Gray’s own lips. “You know that one?”

  She smiled. “Everyone here knows it. We all learned it when we were little kids in school.” She closed her eyes and softly sang:

  “Because he had no manners,

  She pounded him with hammers.

  Because he was so rude,

  She fixed his attitude.

  Because he was so mean,

  She made him scream and scream.

  And now Andrew Reese is

  Broken to pieces.”

  She laughed a little. “Wow. It must really stick in your head if I can remember it after all this time.”

  The last couplet, in Epona’s drunken voice, echoed maddeningly in my mind. “Yeah, I bet it does. So there’s no real person with that name?”

  “Oh, I’m sure there is somewhere. But not in Poy Sippi. Nobody would be cruel enough to name their kid that. That’d be just asking for him to get beaten up.”

  After she left to attend other customers, I sipped my ale and mentally kicked my own ass. I’d assumed, for no good reason, that Andrew Reese was a real person. I don’t know why, given the lunacy of everything else Epona said, that I’d seized on this one thing as an indisputable fact. Had she just been drunk, singing some nursery rhyme?

  No. I was certain she’d said Andrew Reese sent the package Cathy delivered. And whether or not she meant it symbolically—an Andrew Reese instead of the Andrew Reese—it still counted as a clue. If my trip into the mountains crapped out, I’d pursue the origins of this children’s song. It was only a slightly longer shot than my current course of action.

  I came out of the roadhouse and started down the street when a voice said, “Hey, mister.”

  I turned. A tiny young girl stood in the alley between the livery stable where I’d left my horse and a ramshackle swordsmith’s shop. I guessed she was around four, with matted hair, a dirty face and clothes that were little more than rags. You saw kids like this in every town, especially those on trade routes like Poy Sippi: orphans or junior criminals, sometimes both. When I’d first passed through town with Cathy, the gangs had been adults; now, with security to keep the grown-ups in check, the streets fell by default to the kids.

  This girl certainly looked more like a victim than a crook, but the voice that called me had belonged to an older child. As soon as I’d had time to make solid eye contact with the girl, a hand appeared behind her and yanked her out of sight down the alley.

  “Help!” the other child’s voice called.

  I looked around. None of the other passersby seemed to have heard, or else had sense enough to ignore it. I sighed, unsnapped the catch on my scabbard and strode toward the alley. I’m sure they counted on finding someone unable to just walk away from a child in danger, preferably a stupid do-gooder with a wallet full of gold and a naive belief in his own invulnerability. They’d soon find out how wrong they were—I had very little gold on me. My only advantage was that I knew exactly what I was getting into.

  I peeked around the edge of the swordsmith building. The girl now waited at the alley’s far end, and again a hand yanked her out of sight once she knew I’d seen her. I was being drawn into the wider alley at the rear of the buildings, where the garbage and other refuse, some of it human, always collected.

  I wanted to smack myself. Of course I was being suckered, and I was on an important job, but the infinitesimal chance that a child might actually be in danger made me proceed anyway. I hugged the wall down to the far end of the building, then stopped and listened. I heard nothing. I drew my sword, held it down beside my leg and stepped around the corner.

  Luckily I’d also crouched, so the wooden board slammed against the building above me instead of into my head. I used my left arm to grab the kid who swung it. He was about ten, and struggled with well-practiced panic. “Hey, help! This guy wants to bend me over a garbage barrel! Let me go, you pervert!”

  I got a good grip on his hair, yanked him back against me and raised the sword blade to his throat. He froze when the metal touched his skin.

  I faced his gang. Three grubby boys, the oldest about fifteen, watched me with wide eyes. The little girl they’d used as bait ran over and hid behind them.

  The boy in my grasp burst into renewed struggles, trying to catch me off-guard. I pressed the blade harder against his throat. I wasn’t going to kill him, but I didn’t care if he got cut a little. “Shouldn’t you kids be in school?” I said over my hostage’s head.

  “Uh . . . give us your money,” the tallest boy said, falling back on routine.

  I almost laughed. “I don’t think so. Why don’t you give me your money?”

  He blinked. “What?”

  “You heard me. On the ground, right here in front of me. Come on.”

  The kids looked at each other.

  I leaned close to my prisoner. “Better get ’em moving,” I snarled in his ear.

  “Give him the damn money!” the kid squeaked.

  The tallest boy, evidently the leader, stepped forward and said, “No. I don’t think you’ll hurt him.”

  I slid the sword just enough to slice my hostage’s neck. It was no more than a glorified shaving nick, but the nice thing about those harmless, shallow cuts is that they sting like a bitch and bleed quite freely. This one did both, and the kids gasped. The little girl began to cry.

  “Hell, Scotty!” my captive screeched. “Give him the money!”

  “All right!” the boy Scotty said. He tossed a small bag to the ground at my feet. It jingled when it hit. “There. That’s all we have.”

  “Is that the truth?” I asked the kid in my grip.

  “Yeah!” he shrieked.

  I slowly withdrew my sword. The boy was sure I was about to cut his throat all the way, but I wasn’t. When I released him his knees collapsed, and he crawled over to Scotty’s feet. He put his hand to his throat, and when he saw blood he passed out.

  I picked up the money. It was maybe enough to buy a couple of meals. I looked at the raggedy idiots, sighed and tossed the money back to Scotty. “Here. This was embarrassing for all of us.”

  Scotty caught it and stared at me. “Are you going to kill us?” he asked, his voice low but steady.

  “No, you moron. But I should, just to save some other sword jockey from having to put up with you. Do you have any idea how close you came?” I sheathed my sword. “You guys are really bad at this.”

  “You’re mean!” the bait girl said, then ducked back out of sight.

  “Yeah,” I agreed, and turned to go. And that should’ve been that. But I never saw the blow coming, since whoever struck me did so from behind. I felt only the rush into that big black pool where nothing hurts and nobody bothers you.

  THIRTEEN

  My first thought as I awoke was that my head hurt so much, if anyone spoke to me, I’d cry. The second was that the room was way too small for my head.

  This was the third time in my life I’d been knocked out. Those who make their living relaying tales of heroic deeds at fancy banquets would have you think this was no more than an inconvenience, to be shaken off as easily as raindrops. Their heroes always snap wide awake and rush off to make up for lost time. I can guarantee that the folks who come up with those stories have never been seriously whacked in the head.

/>   “Is he alive?” a woman’s voice asked. I couldn’t place it, but I’d heard it before, and recently.

  “I didn’t hit him that hard,” a boy replied with a child’s superior impatience. “He’s breathing, isn’t he?”

  “Quiet,” a new voice snapped. It was older, rougher and female. “He’s awake. Now get out.”

  Door hinges protested, wood scraped against wood and I felt that slight change in air pressure that said a heavy door had closed. I decided to open my eyes.

  The back of my skull felt like mashed potatoes. I blinked, groaned and tried to make sense of the confusing lights and shadows. Luckily the room was dark, but a table lamp provided some dim illumination. I blinked, tried to rise and found I was on my stomach, my hands tied to my ankles behind me.

  “Don’t try to move,” the older female voice said. She sat just out of the lamp’s illumination.

  “Okay,” I rasped out. The room was very small, and I lay on what felt like a blanket spread across uneven wooden crates.

  “You were asking about Epona Gray.”

  “Yeah,” I said. I didn’t know this one, but I realized where I’d heard the other woman’s voice before. “I guess I didn’t give Trudy a big enough tip, huh?”

  “She knows I’m always interested in certain things.”

  “Like Epona Gray?”

  “Always.” She leaned forward. I saw frizzy hair backlit so that her head resembled a dandelion gone to seed. “You’re a smart guy, I’d guess. So I don’t think I have to explain too much. Whether or not you leave this room depends on what you tell me about Epona Gray.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Where is she?”

  “Dead, as far as I know.”

  The frizzy head leaned back. “Then why are you asking about her?”

  I wriggled as much as I could. “This is really uncomfortable,” I groaned. “I’d feel a lot chattier if you’d untie me.”

  “And I’d feel a lot less safe,” she said. “You can answer my question just fine from where you are.”

  I squirmed some more, but couldn’t reach the knife in my boot, or even tell if it was still there. “I knew her once,” I said. “I just wondered if anyone else around here might remember her.”

  “Everyone that knew her is dead,” the woman said with deep certainty. “Except me.”

  “Not everyone,” I replied.

  “So you knew her?” she asked derisively. “When?”

  “Right before she died.”

  Again she leaned forward, and her frizzy hair caught the light. “And how is that possible?”

  “Hey, lady, I’m not trying to convince you of anything. I met her the night she died, I only spoke to her for a few minutes, but since I was back in the area I asked a waitress a harmless question. This seems a lot like an over-reaction.”

  “Nothing to do with Epona is ‘harmless.’ ” She leaned back again. “Tell me how she died.”

  I saw no reason to keep it a secret. “She was poisoned.”

  She paused for a long moment.

  I took advantage of the silence and asked, “And what the hell do you know about it? I was the only person who walked away from it.”

  The smile in her voice had no warmth. “Not the only one,” she said, imitating my tone. She reached over and turned up the lamp.

  I could not begin to guess her age. Her face was a mass of scar tissue, and her hair grew in ragged white patches. “I crawled out of a burning house. I was on fire as well, but I made it to a creek and put out the flames. Did you know that, if you’re burned badly enough, you don’t feel it?”

  “Yeah,” I said. I recalled those same flames myself, and the blood-soaked beast roaming through them.

  “My parents died. My friends died. Everyone died because of Epona. On the very day I was initiated into her mysteries.”

  I went cold. It took a moment to find my voice again. “You’re only about eighteen years old, aren’t you?”

  She crossed her legs, deliberately letting her wraparound skirt fall open. Her legs were a little hairy, but had the smooth lines of youth. “How could you tell?” she asked sarcastically.

  “Because I saw you that day,” I said. “I saw you pass your initiation.”

  “Bullshit,” she snapped.

  I rose as much as my contorted position allowed. “The horses should have killed you, but they didn’t. Your dress was too big. And you wore ribbons.”

  The silence grew heavy over the next few moments. Finally, in a voice so quiet I barely heard it, she said, “Who are you?”

  “Name’s Eddie LaCrosse. I’m from Neceda, in Muscodia.”

  “Where is that?”

  I told her.

  “And you. . . .” She took a deep, shuddering breath in the darkness. “You remember what happened?”

  I nodded. “And I tell you the truth: I killed the monster who did it that same night, too.”

  The position they had me in was really killing me by now, so when she stood and cut the ropes that tied my wrists to my ankles I let out a loud groan. She undid the rest of the bonds, and I sat up stiffly.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  I worked my numb fingers and toes. “No problem,” I said out of habit. I gently felt the back of my head. The lump, tender and hot to the touch, swelled behind my right ear, but I felt no dried blood. The little bozo that smacked me had a light touch, at least. “Who hit me?” I asked.

  “His name’s Leo,” the scarred girl said. “He always stays back to see how the robbery goes. He’s only seven, but he’s tall for his age and totally fearless.”

  “He’s got a future,” I agreed. I’d never even heard him coming. A spasm of queasiness went through me, but I blinked it away. I wiped the sweat from my face with my sleeve. “So what kind of scam do you have going here?”

  “Not many jobs for someone who looks like me, so I’ve learned to work the edges. I take in the orphans and the runaways, teach them how to survive. And when the boys get old enough, like Scotty, I teach them about women. If it’s dark enough, they can pretend I’m anyone.”

  “And you’ve been here ever since . . . ?”

  “I traveled around. Some people helped me, some didn’t. I settled here because these old mines under the town make it easy to stay in the shadows. For obvious reasons, I prefer that.”

  “Yeah.”

  She leaned forward into the light. What expression her injuries allowed was pitiful. “Why are you here? Please, tell me the truth. I deserve it.”

  “I’m trying to find a line on Andrew Reese.”

  “You mean he’s real?” she whispered.

  “Maybe. If he is, he’s the one ultimately responsible for what happened to you.”

  Her eyes were clear and bright blue, the beautiful eyes of a sad and tormented child. “Will you kill him if you find him?”

  “Yeah,” I said. Truthfully I didn’t know what I’d do, but the lie seemed a small enough reparation for the life she’d been given.

  Someone knocked on the door. “Come in,” she said.

  Trudy the waitress stepped into the light, followed by the boy Scotty. “I have to get back to work, and—” She froze when she saw I was no longer tied.

  “Relax,” I said. “We’re old friends.”

  “He’s free to go,” the scarred girl said. “Trudy, show him out, will you?”

  “He knows about me,” she said dubiously. “About all of us.”

  “And I know about him,” the scarred girl said. “He’s been honest with me. There’s no reason to hurt him.”

  Trudy scowled at me.

  I looked at the scarred girl. “Can I do anything for you?”

  “We don’t need your help,” Scotty snapped.

  “We don’t,” the scarred girl agreed more evenly. “We’ve found our niche here.”

  I started to protest further, but I sensed the futility. “Maybe I’ll check in on you again, if I’m ever in town,” I told her. “And i
f I find Andrew Reese, he’ll pay for what he did to you. To everyone.”

  “But not Epona,” she said emphatically. “Epona gets no vengeance.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Epona lied to us. She claimed to be . . . well, you were there, you know. I believed her. I believed in her. That lie was the hardest thing to accept.”

  I nodded.

  “Come on,” Trudy said impatiently and grabbed my arm. She was clearly anxious for things to get back to normal. “I’ll take you to your stuff.” Scotty stayed behind with the scarred girl, standing protectively beside her and glaring until the door closed. As I followed Trudy down the dim passageway of what had been a played-out mine, I faintly heard the scarred girl singing that damned maddening tune. “Andrew Reese is broken to pieces. . . .”

  My sword and other belongings lay in a pile near a curve in the old mine tunnel. I buckled my scabbard and counted the money in my pouch. It was all there, and it turned out they hadn’t even thought to check for the knife in my boot. Well, they were just trainees. Then I trailed the waitress some more, having to stoop in many places. At last light shone down an overhead shaft and illuminated a ladder that led to the surface. My head still throbbed like a drum at a harvest festival, and finally I had to say, “Whoa, wait a second.” I leaned against a wooden support beam and made myself breathe slowly and evenly. I was in no shape to climb a ladder until the tunnel stopped wobbling beneath me.

  Trudy impatiently put her hands on her hips. “Come on,” she snapped. “You’ve been lucky enough today.”

  I wanted to lie down right there, but I knew I needed to get out of the tunnel and back to my job. I shook my head to clear it, a move I immediately regretted. Then I realized the soft voice I heard was not, in fact, my conscience chewing me out for being an idiot. It was a child’s voice softly repeating something.

  It came from behind a tapestry hung over a crossing tunnel we’d just passed. If we hadn’t stopped, I never would’ve noticed it. I lifted the heavy fabric and peeked around. The area was just a tiny side room, originally carved to allow miners to step aside when ore carts needed to pass. Small candles illuminated it, their light hidden by the thick curtain. The little bait girl knelt before an altar, her pudgy hands clasped together in prayer. “By Epona’s white mane, I ask that my wish come true,” she said in her singsong voice. On the altar was a single horseshoe, and on the stone wall it faced someone had crudely drawn a white horse.