Gannon said, “Agreed. We save the minstrel. If the curse-maker just happens to perish,” he smiled, “well, that is an added bonus.”
Sidra smiled. “Even a duke’s son can have an accident.”
She bent close to Malhari’s face. “Tell me where he is.”
“You wish more information from me, Sidra? I am a businessman.”
“You are a fool,” Gannon said.
The blade tip bit into Malhari’s neck. Blood trickled down his throat. Sidra said nothing.
The innkeeper’s breath caught in his throat. “For you, Sidra. Bardolf has a house on Silk Street.” He stared into her eyes and saw death. “Take the money, Sidra. I give you this information freely.”
She smiled then. “No, Malhari. If it was a gift, then the bonds of friendship would constrain me. This way it is only money, and I owe you nothing.”
He tried not to swallow around the point of the knife. “I don’t want you to sell this information to anyone else,” Sidra said.
Malhari was having trouble talking. “I give you my word, I will not.”
“Your word means nothing. Gannon, if you please.”
“With great pleasure.” The sorcerer smiled. There was something of fearful anticipation in that smile.
Sidra stepped back from the man, quick and careful.
“Please, Sidra, I would not tell. I swear to you.”
Gannon made a broad sweeping gesture, hands upraised to the ceiling, and brought his hands down in a fast clap, pointed at the man.
Where Malhari had sat there was a large black tomcat missing one front paw. It yowled once and fell silent. Sidra had never seen horror on a cat’s face, but she saw it now.
Gannon said, “It is a permanent shapechange, Malhari, unless I remove it.” He knelt, eye level with the cat. “It is almost a curse, but not quite.”
The big cat just stared at them, yellow eyes dazed.
Sidra said, “Come, we haven’t much time.”
Precious minutes had passed before they stood in an alley that spilled into Silk Street. They were in a wealthy part of town. It was well known that Bardolf was the duke’s favorite son, and the grand house showed it. The wealthy could afford magical guardians, things that normal steel could not touch. Sidra’s long sword was such ordinary steel. The short sword was not.
Sidra unsnapped the locks on the hilt, and the short sword sprang to her hand, rising of its own accord. The sword said, “Ah, free.” Without moving, it gave the impression of catlike stretching.
“I may have work for you tonight,” Sidra told it.
The sword hissed, “Name me.”
“You who were Blood-Letter when the world was new. You who were Wound-Maker in the hands of a king. You who were Soul-Piercer and took the life of a hero. You who were Blood-Hunger and ate your way through an army. I name thee blade mine, I name thee Leech.” For every name the sword had taken, the legend had ended with the blood blade slaying its wielder.
The sword chortled, “I am Leech, Leech. I am the bloodsucker.” The sword’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Feed me.”
Sidra pressed the naked steel against her bare forearm.
The sword felt like any steel against her flesh. Gannon assured her that, once activated, Leech gave off an aura of evil. “Feed gently, Leech, for we have much work to do.”
There was always the chance that Leech would take too much and kill her. It had happened to others, great heroes. But the sword bit once into her arm. Blood poured in a sharp painful wash down her skin. The blade said, “Sacrifice made, contract assured.”
Sidra ignored the wound. It would heal in a moment or two to join the dozens of shallow white scars that crisscrossed her hands and arms. She did not bother to clean the blade. All blood was absorbed cleanly. It truly did feed.
Gannon stepped close, and the sword struck at him.
Sidra held it two-handed, saying, “Behave.”
“You don’t frighten me, little knife,” the sorcerer said.
“Not afraid,” the sword whined. “No fun.” The sword turned in her hands as if looking for something. “Where is bard? Bard fears Leech. Baard,” the sword called, drawing the word out in a singsong, “Baard.”
“Silence, Leech.” Sometimes the blood blade seemed aware of everything that went on. It would spring from its sheath ready for action. At other times it acted as if it had been asleep until called. Sidra wondered what, if anything, the blood blade dreamed of. She doubted she would enjoy the answer, and she knew Leech would lie about it anyway. Blood blades were notorious liars.
She told the sword only that the bard was away. If the sword knew that Milon’s life was at stake, it would demand a larger blood price.
Sidra sheathed Leech but left its locks undone in case she needed it quickly. The blade did not fight being sheathed; it was strangely content tonight. It hummed one of Milon’s own tunes—Leech’s favorite—“Lord Isham and the Goose Girl.” There were two versions: one for the taverns and one for the prince’s halls. Leech, of course, preferred the bawdy version.
She persuaded the blade to stop humming and scouted the house. She was a flicker of shadow, gone before you could look directly at it.
She returned to Gannon. “Two doors: this one and another that leads into a small yard. Both doors are posted with warning signs. They’re both warded.”
It was the law in Selewin that you had to post signs for wardings. There had been too many innocent people killed.
“All windows are barred, no traps that I could see.”
She asked Gannon, “What kind of warding is on the front door?”
He concentrated a moment, staring at the door, and then said, “Fire, powerful enough to kill whatever touches it.”
Sidra gave a low hiss. “I thought death wards had to be marked as such?”
“By law they do.”
“Can you get us past it?”
“Yes, but stay well back while I’m testing it.”
Sidra knew what would happen if he failed to negate the warding. He would die, and he didn’t want to risk her life as well. But Gannon had risked himself before, as had they all.
Sidra nodded, and Gannon walked alone into the street. He pressed his hands wide and moved them toward the door. Leech began to hum a drum roll. “Brrrrrm, brrrrm.”
“Hush.”
The sword did not stop but only hissed an accompaniment as the sorcerer touched the door. Gannon’s back bowed outward, and the sword hissed a crescendo. Sidra slapped the sword’s sheath, and it made a muffled sound and fell silent.
Gannon was walking toward them, cape pulled close about him. The door looked just the same to Sidra. A sorcerous ward was always invisible until you tripped it, unless you had eyes that could see magic.
The sorcerer stepped into the alley, and Sidra said, “Let me see your hands.”
He hesitated only a moment, then drew them from inside his cloak. The palms were scorched and hung heavy with huge watery blisters.
Sidra drew a hissing breath. “Gannon, can you go on like that?”
He shrugged and grimaced. “There will be many sorceries I cannot do with injured hands. I can still levitate and teleport, but not much else.”
“Our luck is low tonight.” She touched his shoulder. “It is up to you, Gannon. I cannot ask you to go on.”
“No one asked me to come.”
She nodded. It was his choice, and she would not tell him to stay behind.
The door looked ordinary enough except for the sign next to it that read, “Warning. WARDINGS in place. Please ring bell.” A brass bell hung from a bracket by the door, its cord swinging uneasily in the night wind.
Sidra knelt beside the door and touched the rough wood. No fire, no warding—Gannon had done his job. The lock was cheap and easily picked. All that money on a sorcerous ward, then skimping on the lock itself. Bardolf wasn’t spending his money wisely.
She reached for Leech, and it leapt to her hand. Shield held close, she pu
shed open the door. They had just stepped into the inky blackness when Gannon said, “Someone teleports nearby.”
There was no time for stealth. If they hoped to trace the teleport, they had to find the point of departure quickly. Gannon said, “This way.” Against all caution, she let the wizard lead in a mad flight up the broad stairs. Two dim lanterns threw pools of shadow and light on the steps. She glimpsed her own reflection in half a dozen gilt-edged mirrors. Glass and gold were both rare and costly. Bardolf was well off indeed.
Light spilled from a room at the end of a long hallway. Dark rooms with closed doors led up to that one shining door. Sidra pushed past Gannon so she could enter the room first.
It was a bedroom. Silks and pillows were strewn over the carpet like a child’s toys, used and carelessly forgotten. A huge candelabra hung from the ceiling, and it sparkled like pure gold. A sobbing woman knelt on the carpet. Her raven-black hair was thrown over her face, and she curled naked near a pile of clothing.
Gannon strode to the middle of the room and picked up a now-blank scroll. He sniffed it as if he were a hound on the scent of a fox and said, “I have it.”
There was no time, and Sidra stood beside the sorcerer. As the woman glanced up, Sidra had a glimpse of a lovely pale face that was bruised and battered.
The world spun and Sidra caught her breath. They faced outward, back to back. Sidra crouched, sword and shield ready. Then she recognized the throne room of Duke Haydon. Bardolf had run home to his daddy. Someone shouted orders, and the room was suddenly full of the red and silver of Duke Haydon’s guards. Sidra wondered if they would have time to explain before someone died.
It was the head of the guards, Jevik, who recognized them and called, “Hold!” He strode forward through his men and stood before Sidra. He sheathed his sword, and she did likewise. Leech complained about missing such a lovely sight.
Jevik only blinked. He had fought beside her and tasted the sword’s humor before. “Why are you here like this, Sidra?”
“It is a long story, Jevik. But we give chase to an outlaw.”
“What sort of outlaw?”
“One who would kill a bard.”
“Did this bard give up his safe conduct?”
“He never had the chance. He was attacked in his room, alone.”
Jevik waved the guards back and said, “And how did you trace this outlaw here?”
“Gannon traced a teleport.”
“Come, we will talk to the duke,” Jevik said.
The guards had formed a wary but respectful line to either side of the newcomers. Lord Haydon himself sat upon his throne. His beard was still as full and gray as before. He did not shave because it was court fashion to be smooth-faced. And he did not waste sorcery on looking younger than his years. He smiled a greeting at them and extended his hands.
“Sidra Ironfist, you who saved my castle and all that I own.” She bowed and took his hands. He touched hands with Gannon and saw the sorcerer wince. The duke drew a sharp breath when he saw Gannon’s hands. “Go with one of the guards and use my own healer.”
Sidra did not like the idea of Gannon being separated from her. He looked at her a moment, smiled, and followed a guard from the room. He was right, of course. When a noble offers you hospitality, you do not refuse it.
“Now, Sidra, tell me what has brought you here so unexpectedly.”
She told the story quietly, leaving out only the name of the curse-maker.
Haydon’s eyes were a glittering icy blue when she finished. “It is against all civilized laws to harm a bard. How are we to hear of the great deeds of heroes if bards are not safe in battle?” He asked her then, “And do you have a name for this outlaw?”
“Yes, my lord. It is Bardolf the Curse-Maker.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it. An angry flush crept up his neck. “These are grave accusations, Sidra. If you leave now and say no more of this, I will let it pass.”
“It pains me to have to bring you such news, Duke Haydon, but it is the truth. I swear it.”
He took a deep breath that shook with rage and perhaps a touch of apprehension. Sidra wondered if others had come before her and told tales of evil against Bardolf. If so, they had been bullied into silence. Sidra would not be bullied. She did not want to believe that Haydon would simply kill her out of hand, but if that was the case, she would not die easily.
At last the duke said, “You will persist in this lie against my son?”
“It is not a lie, my lord.”
“Jevik, have my son sent to me now.” The guardsman half-ran from the room.
Gannon was back with his newly healed hands before Bardolf was escorted in.
Bardolf strode in just ahead of Jevik. He was short, with the soft lines of a man who has never done physical labor.
His sensual pouting mouth was set in a confident smile. He was dressed all in brown silk worked with black pearls. When he saw Sidra and Gannon, his smile vanished. Jevik led him in front of the duke, then stepped back, leaving Sidra, Gannon, and Bardolf in a semicircle around the throne.
Bardolf greeted his father first and then very correctly turned to Sidra and Gannon. “Sidra Ironfist and Gannon the Sorcerer. How good to see you again.” He stared up at his father, eyes unreadable. “Father, what is this all about?”
Haydon sat very still upon his throne and kept his face blank. He was a noble and knew how to hide his emotions. He told his son of the accusations. Confusion, then anger crossed Bardolf’s face. Sidra would almost have believed the act herself. Some people had a true talent for lying.
“Would you convict me of such a vile crime on the word of an information peddler?”
The Duke smiled. “No, Bardolf, not on that alone. I want you to take an oath for me.”
“Of course, Father.”
“Swear by the birds of Loth and the hounds of Verm that you did not harm Milon Songsmith.”
“I have never taken such an evil oath!”
“It is only evil if you have something to fear. Swear, Bardolf, swear to it.”
“If you insist.”
“I do.”
“I swear by the birds of…I swear.” He stared up at his father, a sort of pleading look upon his face.
Haydon’s noble mask slipped, showing pain in his eyes.
“Swear.” His voice held a note of begging.
“I cannot, Father.”
“If you are innocent, the oath means nothing. You are guilty, then.”
“I cannot take the oath you ask. Perhaps another to Mother Gia.”
Haydon looked down at the floor and drew a deep breath. He seemed suddenly older than he had a moment before. “Only the oath to Loth and Verm is binding enough for this. Will you swear?”
“No, Father.”
The duke’s face seemed to crumble. The tears that threatened in his eyes were chased away by anger. The same anger he had been willing to use against Sidra, to protect his child, now turned against his son. “Why, Bardolf? Have I not shared my wealth with you?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Then why?” He stood and walked the few steps to stand before his son—the son who could still look him in the eye and lie, even now.
Bardolf said, “You gave me crumbs from your table, Father. I wanted my own table. My own money. My own lands.”
“I have given you all that and more.”
Bardolf shook his head. “They are mine until I anger you. Then you take them away as a punishment, as if they were sweets and I were a child.”
“There are honest ways to make money!”
“Not enough money.”
“Not enough, not enough!” Haydon raised a hand as if to strike him. Bardolf cringed, throwing up a hand. The duke stepped back. Sidra watched the man gain control of himself. It was a painful thing to see. When he spoke again, his voice was soft and controlled. “Do you know the penalty in Meltaan for killing a bard?”
“Yes.”
“You will be executed, and you
r blood money will do you no good.”
“Father, even if I cured the bard and gave back the money, my client would see me dead.”
“Who, who will see you dead? Who ordered such a vile deed?”
“I cannot say. As your son, I beg that you do not ask me again.”
Duke Haydon said, “No! No son of mine would do such a thing.” A soundless tear trailed down his face; his voice remained firm, but he cried.
Sidra looked away.
Bardolf’s face showed fear. “Father?”
Haydon turned to Sidra. “Do with him as you see fit. Let all here be witness. Bardolf Lordson is no son of mine.” Tears flowed in silver streaks down Haydon’s cheeks. Everyone in the room was pretending not to see. Bardolf knelt before the lord, touching the hem of Haydon’s robe. A tear trailed down his face. “Father, please. If I cure the bard, I will be killed.”
Duke Haydon jerked his robe free of the man and left the room. All but two guards left with him. Sidra had wanted to call after the duke, but what could she say? “Thank you, Duke Haydon, for being just and law abiding”? The man had just signed the death warrant of his favorite son. “Thank you” did not even come close to covering that.
Bardolf stood slowly, rubbing his eyes. Sidra and Gannon moved to stand beside him. Bardolf tensed to run and found himself entangled in a spell. He could not move his arms or legs. Sidra said, “Nicely done, Gannon.”
The sorcerer shrugged. “Healed hands do wonders for a person’s magic.”
Sidra stepped near him and asked, “Do you know what a blood blade is, Bardolf?”
The younger man’s eyes flared wide, showing white. She could see the pulse in his neck jump.
Gannon hissed near his face, “Answer the question.”
“Yes,” he whispered.
Sidra said, “What is it?”
“An evil sword that can suck a man’s soul.” All the color had drained from his face.
She leaned against the cool marble throne and asked, “Have you heard the song ‘Blade Quest’?”
[Anita Blake Collection] - Strange Candy Page 11