FIERCE: Sixteen Authors of Fantasy

by Mercedes Lackey

  The table itself looked as if it’d been dragged out of a tavern: polish had been applied liberally to its top, but could do nothing to hide its many stains and chips. One of its legs had been broken off and patched with a mismatched knob of pine — a knob that made the whole thing tilt slightly to the left. A few squat candles sat inside iron bowls along its length, lending their feeble light to a room that was nearly too dismal to take seriously.

  It was so plain and dark a space that Olivia would’ve been less surprised to find a company of trolls trading tales before the hearth — bracing their festering, hairless arms against the crude mantle, leaking their foul breath between their fangs.

  But as it was, there was only one troll in Pinewatch — and he stepped in directly behind her.

  “I hope you don’t mind if we have our dinner in the study. I’m afraid I don’t keep a dining room,” Garron said as he strode by.

  Of course he didn’t. That would’ve been far too simple for a man who seemed insistent upon making nearly everything needlessly difficult. “And why’s that, exactly?”

  “Because having a room dedicated entirely to eating is a waste of space, madam — especially when food can be eaten nearly anywhere.”

  “I see. And where do you normally eat?”

  He turned, brows raised over his sharp blue eyes. “In the kitchens.”

  Olivia had been about to say that she found that to be rather fitting. But at the last moment, she thought better of it: he’d probably only gaze off and say in a completely ridiculous number of words that she was being foolish. So instead, she put her mind to planning her … negotiations.

  Garron had a stout bottle of wine and two earthen cups clutched in his hands. His hair was still damp from his bath, but at least he’d changed into a tunic that wasn’t stained with gore. “Is that wine for us, or do you intend to put it in a bowl for the mice?”

  He frowned at her. “If that’s your way of telling me it’s no longer fashionable in the seas to serve wine at dinner, then I’m afraid you’re —”

  “No, that isn’t at all what I was saying.” Olivia gazed up at him, forcing herself to smile even though she would’ve liked nothing better than to carve a line across his throat. “Here … allow me.”

  She plucked the bottle and cups from his hands and set them upon the table. “Is this where you do all of your business, Mr. Shrewd?”

  “Yes. And please don’t refer to me as Mr. Shrewd,” he added as he paced behind her. “I know that’s likely the proper thing to call me, but it makes my ears ring every time I hear it.”

  “My apologies.” Olivia had to clutch the bottle very tightly to keep her hand from shaking as she poured. “I noticed some papers on that desk over there. Is that where you keep your ledger?”

  She had no idea what those papers were or if they were even important. Had she sat down and read each line, she doubted if she would’ve come away understanding a single word. But Garron didn’t know that. And if she’d learned anything from the time she’d spent negotiating with seas men, it was that they were completely desperate to protect their ledgers.

  So she waited until Garron had tromped over to the desk to stash his papers away before she drew a vial from beneath her collar. After a considerable amount of thought, she’d decided this would be the best way to deal with Garron. She wanted him to suffer … but she also wanted to use her dagger. She wanted to feel him wriggling at its end.

  This formula would give her the opportunity to do both.

  The powder hissed dryly as it slid from the vial; it struck the dark red of the wine and dissolved. There was a small chip in the mouth of Garron’s cup — a wedge that looked as if a dagger had nicked its lip. She was careful to keep it in her left hand as she turned towards the desk …

  Garron was right behind her.

  She lurched backwards as he thrust some object under her nose, convinced he’d seen her slip the poison in — convinced he meant to bludgeon her for it. But instead, his brows arched in surprise.

  “I certainly hope you haven’t been treated badly, madam,” he said after a moment. “It’s a sad comment on the state of men when our ladies feel the need to jump back each time we approach them.”

  Those were words Olivia was certain she’d never heard uttered before. There was a sincerity in Garron’s voice and in his stare that almost made her hesitant to pass his cup along …

  Almost.

  “Here,” he said, holding the object at a less intrusive length.

  It appeared to be some sort of crudely-forged tool — one with a set of sharp hooks at its end. “What is it?”

  “A device to help our carpenters harvest branches a little more easily. It’s a clever thing. I’d be honored for you to take a closer look.”

  Garron thrust the hooked object at her again, insisting she take it, and Olivia had no choice but to set the cups on the table behind her — though she was careful to keep Garron’s at the front. The hooked object was so heavy that she nearly dropped it when he plunked it into her hands. “How is this supposed to help your carpenters, exactly?”

  “Well …”

  Garron prattled for several minutes about the virtues of the tool, and how he was certain it would forever change the way trees were cut — or something of that nature. Olivia wasn’t exactly listening to the details.

  When he leaned in to point at some mechanism near the hooks’ base, she gaped in disbelief at how rough his hands were: tiny scars crisscrossed over his knuckles, and his nails looked as if they’d been chewed to the quick. One of his fingers was so badly bruised at its middle that she wondered if it might be broken.

  Yet for all the roughness of his hands appalled her, his voice moved easily through his words. He used words she’d never heard before — spouted them off like anybody else might’ve breathed the common tongue. His sentences were firm and clipped at their ends, thrust out with confidence. In fact, he spoke more passionately about this carpenter’s tool than he’d spoken all day.

  If only he’d put an ounce of that passion into learning his manners, he might’ve made for a decent lord. But as it was, Garron the Shrewd was little more than a commoner who happened to know some rather large words.

  “There would be a harness attached here, of course.” He leaned closer — bracing one rough hand against the table while he traced an iron loop with the other. “Made of a sturdy leather, I think, as chains tend to … well, pinch.”

  His chest was less than an inch from Olivia’s shoulder. She leaned against it, arching her neck away so that Garron could have a clear view down the plunging collar of her dress. “I see … and what’s this bit for?”

  She turned her chin to face him, all but certain she would have him snared. But to her annoyance, he hadn’t even glanced down her collar: he was scowling directly at where her finger pointed.

  “That’s the portion that attaches to the tree, madam. I’ve already said it.” He snatched the tool out of her hands and went tromping back to the desk. “When you asked what my papers were all about, I thought for a moment you might actually be interested. I didn’t have you figured for a woman who asks pointless questions. But apparently I was mistaken.”

  Olivia fought the urge to snarl back and instead, grabbed the cups off the table. “My apologies Mr. Shr — ah, Garron. I’m not normally so … distracted. Perhaps it’s just the hunger getting to me. Let’s have a drink and forget it, shall we?”

  He took the cup she offered him and had nearly brought it to his lips when a pair of heavy steps approached the door. “Ah, Horatio — good. I believe our guest was just about to perish from hunger.”

  Olivia had said no such thing. She glared at Garron’s back as he swept by to help the man edging his way into the study.

  He was a rather large forest man. A tuft of dark hair sat atop his head and he wore a filthy, brown-spattered apron over his tunic. His belly was so large that he likely could’ve balanced both plates across it without any trouble at all.


  “Perish, eh? Well, I’m not one of those tavern hounds who churn out pies — a meal of this magnitude takes time,” Horatio huffed. “I warned you before I began that if you want a delicate plate, then you’ve got to cook it delicately.”

  “Yes, well, I’m certain it’ll be fine,” Garron said roughly. For some reason, he seemed to walk rather more stiffly than usual as he took one of the plates from Horatio and set it upon the table.

  “I’m not used to this sort of thing, I tell you,” Horatio went on as he arranged the second plate. When he saw Garron’s scowl, he dropped his voice to a whisper: “Well — I’m not. All of these creams and sauces, the vegetables sliced just so. It’s a enough to make a man’s heart seize up, being told he suddenly has to learn to cook for a noble lady —”

  “It’ll be fine.”

  For some reason, Garron seemed angry — or at the very least, he looked strangely ruffled for a man who wore his collar buttoned to its top. Horatio met his glare for a moment before he threw up his hands and bumbled out, cursing about sauces as he went.

  Garron set his cup before his plate and stepped around to Olivia’s. “Here,” he muttered, tugging out her chair.

  He’d obviously never drawn a chair for a lady. Instead of the swift motion of pushing forward as she sat, he simply stood behind her. When he realized that she sat too far from the table, he bent and tugged the chair forward by its legs, one half at a time — dragging her into place like a child.

  By the time Garron sat across from her, he looked furious. The skin around his beard turned red, and his sharp eyes had all but disappeared beneath the furrow of his brows. “To your health, madam,” he said, raising his cup.

  Olivia sipped her wine carefully, watching as Garron took a long drink. She would only have to endure his prattling a few minutes longer — then the true negotiations would begin.

  Their dinner consisted of a large slab of boar, charred and buried in a too-sweet sauce, crowned on either side by roasted potatoes and an odd arrangement of thinly-sliced vegetables. Though it certainly wasn’t the finest meal she’d ever eaten, it was better than she expected.

  “Is this how you always serve your guests? By the plate?”

  Garron raised his brows. “Yes. I know it isn’t how the noblemen dine, but I see no point in toting out a whole dressed boar when there isn’t any chance of us finishing it. This way the servants can have their portion while we have ours.”

  Olivia’s tongue curled at the thought of eating out of the servants’ pot. Her next bite slid down slowly — and her throat itched behind it. She took another sip of wine to help force it into her stomach.

  “Now I know it’s probably rude to begin this sort of thing at dinner, but I’d much rather have it done. I’m not convinced that Tristan’s being entirely fair with his prices,” Garron said, leaning back. His eyes roved across the wall behind her while he chewed. “It’s the language of his contract that I find disturbing — he speaks as if he believes himself entitled to a portion of my profits. Normally, I would mark this off as a matter of poorly-chosen words, but in this case … are you all right?”

  His eyes flicked back to Olivia, and she realized she’d been scratching rather vigorously at her arm. It was only nerves: she’d begun to wonder why Garron hadn’t fallen out of his chair. “Yes, I’m fine. I’m listening,” she added when he raised his brows.

  “Very well. As I was saying, I would normally ignore the language — but in this case, I’m afraid the numbers echo my concern. When I studied them closely, I found them to be rather severely inflated. I might not traverse the seas as often as other merchants, but I’m still vaguely familiar with shipping price —”

  Olivia’s fork clattered onto the table, spilling the bite she’d been about to bring to her lips across its polished top. “Sor — ahem, sorry,” she said, coughing against another itch in the walls of her throat. What had that beastly cook put in his sauce?

  “Quite all right,” Garron insisted. “It’ll wipe clean. So while I might’ve been willing to forgive the language, I’m afraid the numbers don’t lie …”

  Olivia wasn’t listening. Instead, she stared down at her fork.

  She wasn’t sure how it’d happened: the fork had simply become too heavy. The whole bite had toppled out from between her fingers as her wrist had struggled to bear the weight …

  No, that wasn’t it. Even with nothing between her fingers, she could barely move them. The motions were delayed, as if she dragged herself through water. When she did finally reach the fork … she couldn’t feel it.

  Dread sank to the bottom of her stomach and for a breath, her terror chased the numbness back. She grasped for her cup. Her fingers fumbled against its lip until with one final heave, she managed to tip it over.

  Wine slapped in an arc across the tabletop. The cup came rolling towards her, moving down the uneven line of the table … and with every pass, she saw that tiny, wedged chip go rolling by.

  No. No, it wasn’t possible! She’d been so careful — she’d kept such a close watch. The poisoned cup was at the front. She remembered offering it to Garron. There was no way she could’ve possibly been mistake …

  All at once, a sudden realization froze the dread to her stomach. She forced her neck to crane upwards, forced her chin to rise against the numbing waves — and found herself caught directly against the sharp edge of Garron’s eyes.

  He watched her calmly, fingers twined and settled beneath his chin. When he spoke, his voice was at a whisper: “I’ve heard all manner of rumors about you, Olivia of Greenblood. I’ve heard that Lord Basset found you as a child, living among bandits. They raised you, didn’t they? That’s where you learned to mix your poisons.”

  Something horrible stung her eyes as Olivia fought against his words. She wanted to scream at him, to spit in his face. He knew nothing about her! How dare he even speak to her! She wanted to tear that arrogant smirk from beneath his nose. She wanted to rip his mouth away and leave a bloody, dripping hole behind —

  “I must admit that I had my doubts. But after having heard of several disturbing incidents in the High Seas, I’m beginning to understand how it was all possible. Edwards was a dear friend of mine,” he said quietly, while Olivia’s body went numb. “I was rather shocked when I heard that he’d fallen to his death in a drunken stupor — mostly because I’d never known him to take a drink in his life. And Lord Horton had been my shipping contact for years. I’d invited him to my house on numerous occasions, but as I’m sure you probably know, he rather famously refused to come ashore.”

  Little red patches sprouted up across Olivia’s arms. She watched in horror as they swelled into blisters, stinging and itching with such fury that she could hardly hear what Garron said. The blisters spread quickly. She felt as if a dagger’s tip ran down the length of her back — taunting her, making every inch of her body scream for death or relief.

  But neither would come to her. No, she knew full well that she’d be trapped inside this burning prison for hours to come … and with the numbness taking hold, there wasn’t a thing she could do to stop it.

  “Strange that two such staunchly habitual men would die in the very act of breaking their habits,” Garron mused, his eyes tightening on hers. “There are several talented negotiators in Tristan’s employ. But they must’ve found it difficult to deal subtly with a man who refused drink and another who refused to step off his ship. No, I knew at once that only a very great power could’ve convinced them to change so suddenly — and what greater power is there than that of a beautiful woman who knows how to wield a bandit’s venom?”

  Garron’s eyes flicked away as Olivia’s head sagged helplessly onto the tabletop. She could no longer feel to hold herself up. Her lungs carried on breathing, her heart carried on beating. Her eyes stayed open, but she couldn’t see anything through the waves of hair that fell across them.

  “Woman,” Garron spat, “is a term I use rather loosely, madam. By age, I suppose you’re wel
l into your womanhood. But after having spoken to you myself, I can see you lack the understanding that comes with experience. I felt you needed to taste the bite of your own venoms. That’s why when I was explaining my carpentry device to you, I took the opportunity to switch our cups.”

  He grunted as he stood. She heard the scrape of his chair and the quick thud of his boots. Then the world spun as her body tilted. For a breath, she was falling — the ceiling whooshed overhead and her stomach leapt up her throat as she toppled backwards.

  But fortunately, she stopped well short of the floor. All of her skin was numb. She felt only the slightest fluid pressure as Garron lifted her into his arms — no more present a thing than the caress of waves.

  “I hope this poison isn’t fatal,” he muttered as he carried her through the door. “There’s still much you could learn, madam … there’s much I intend to teach you.”

  Teach her? What did he mean by that?

  Don’t be a fool, Olivia — you know full well what he means, her conscience snapped. He means to do what every man you’ve slighted swore they’d do. He means to ruin you.

  Cold crusted over her middle as Garron carried her down the hall, up the stairs. She knew he meant to torture her. She’d murdered his friends, after all. So she supposed he was well within his rights to hurt her.

  But this was going to be far worse than one of Tristan’s beatings. He carried her into her chambers now because he meant to break her. He intended to hurt her in a way she could never forget. He planned to humiliate her for all the hours the poison had her bound … to force her to taste the full bitterness of her defeat.

  As he laid her upon the bed, she swore she wouldn’t be broken. Something burned beneath her skin that drove the maddening sting of her blisters away — the other woman inside of her screamed for Garron to try his best. She bared her teeth in a wild grin and convinced Olivia that she was looking forward to the pain.