by Tim Pratt
The mistress of the hags surged forward, lashing out with her claws, and Rodrick lifted up Hrym to block. Her reach was astonishingly long, though, and she managed to scratch his side with one of her black talons, raking down from beneath his rib cage nearly to his hip. Just a scratch, but Rodrick stumbled back, hissing at the pain and dropping his guard.
"Steady on," Hrym said, and Rodrick struggled to raise the sword again. Actually fighting with a sword wasn't exactly his strong point; he seldom needed to do more than wave Hrym around and pose dramatically. Hrym was doing his best to make up for Rodrick's failings, sending a cone of icy wind toward the hag, who adroitly dodged. Rodrick gritted his teeth and swung Hrym in her direction, flinging a spear of ice at her and slashing her arm, which trickled a thick black substance in lieu of blood. He was dimly aware of Zaqen battling another hag, flashes of greenish light appearing off to his right as she lashed out with spells. The horses and even the camel had panicked, plunging off the ice and trying to swim for shore.
Hrym was humming by then, icy vapor billowing up and down the length of his blade, working up to one of his truly impressive magics. The sword's true capabilities were not fully known to Rodrick—perhaps not even to Hrym himself—but with enough time and effort Rodrick knew the sword could summon rains of hailstones the size of grapefruit, freeze enemies in solid blocks of magical ice, and perform other freezing wonders.
Someone struck Rodrick from behind—the unattended hag, presumably—and he stumbled forward. Then the hag leader was upon him, smashing his arm aside—and Hrym flew from his nerveless fingers ...
The Pathfinder Tales Library
Novels
Prince of Wolves by Dave Gross
Winter Witch by Elaine Cunningham
Plague of Shadows by Howard Andrew Jones
The Worldwound Gambit by Robin D. Laws
Master of Devils by Dave Gross
Death's Heretic by James L. Sutter
Song of the Serpent by Hugh Mattews
City of the Fallen Sky by Tim Pratt
Nightglass by Liane Merciel
Blood of the City by Robin D. Laws
Queen of Thorns by Dave Gross
Called to Darkness by Richard Lee Byers
Liar's Blade by Tim Pratt
Pirate's Honor by Chris A. Jackson
The Wizard's Mask by Ed Greenwood
Journals
The Compass Stone: The Collected Journals of Eando Kline edited by James L. Sutter
Hell's Pawns by Dave Gross
Dark Tapestry by Elaine Cunnningham
Prodigal Sons edited by James L. Sutter
Plague of Light by Robin D. Laws
Guilty Blood by F. Wesley Schneider
Husks by Dave Gross
Short Stories
"The Lost Pathfinder" by Dave Gross
"Certainty" by Liane Merciel
"The Swamp Warden" by Amber E. Scott
"Noble Sacrifice" by Richard Ford
"Blood Crimes" by J. C. Hay
"The Secret of the Rose and Glove by Kevin Andrew Murphy
"Lord of Penance" by Richard Lee Byers
"Guns of Alkenstar" by Ed Greenwod
"The Ghosts of Broken Blades" by Monte Cook
"The Walkers from the Crypt" by Howard Andrew Jones
"A Lesson in Taxonomy" by Dave Gross
"The Illusionist" by Elaine Cunningham
"Two Pieces of Tarnished Silver by Erik Mona
"The Ironroot Deception" by Robin D. Laws
"Plow and Sword" by Robert E. Vardeman
"A Passage to Absalom" by Dave Gross
"The Seventh Execution" by Amber E. Scott
"The Box" by Bill Ward
"Blood and Money by Steven Savile
"Faithful Servants" by James L. Sutter
"Fingers of Death—No, Doom!" by Lucien Soulban
"The Perfumer's Apprentice" by Kevin Andrew Murphy
"Krunzle the Quick" by Hugh Matthews
"Mother Bears" by Wendy N. Wagner
"Hell or High Water" by Ari Marmell
Liar's Blade © 2013 Paizo Publishing, LLC. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means digital, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or conveyed via the Internet or a website without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles and reviews.
Paizo, Paizo Publishing, LLC, the Paizo golem logo, and Pathfinder are registered trademarks of Paizo Publishing, LLC; Pathfinder Roleplaying Game, Pathfinder Campaign Setting, and Pathfinder Tales are trademarks of Paizo Publishing, LLC.
Cover art by Tyler Jacobson.
Cover design by Andrew Vallas.
Map by Robert Lazzaretti.
Paizo Publishing, LLC
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paizo.com
ISBN 978-1-60125-515-0 (mass market paperback)
ISBN 978-1-60125-516-7 (ebook)
Publisher's Cataloging-In-Publication Data
(Prepared by The Donohue Group, Inc.)
Pratt, Tim, 1976-
Liar's blade / Tim Pratt.
p. : ill., map ; cm. — (Pathfinder tales)
Set in the world of the role-playing game, Pathfinder.
Issued also as an ebook.
ISBN: 978-1-60125-515-0 (mass market pbk.)
1. Swordsmen—Fiction. 2. Thieves—Fiction. 3. Quests (Expeditions)—Fiction. 4. Magic—Fiction. 5. Imaginary places—Fiction. 6. Pathfinder (Game)—Fiction. 7. Fantasy fiction. 8. Adventure fiction. I. Title. II. Series: Pathfinder tales library.
PS3616.R385 L53 2013
813/.6
First printing February 2013.
Printed in the United States of America.
For D, my favorite swordsman
Chapter One
Two Sought Employment
Why would anyone want to meet at a circle of standing stones?" Rodrick leaned against one of the mossy monoliths and gazed up at the darkening sky. "Who wants to talk business out in the woods? I prefer taverns for this sort of thing. Taverns are traditional. It's easy to get a drink in them. Also, I live above one. Very convenient."
"Our mysterious prospective employer obviously doesn't want to be seen in public with you," Hrym said from behind Rodrick, voice muffled. "I can't say I blame him."
"Possibly he doesn't want to be seen at all." Rodrick rubbed the faint scratches on his cheek where one of the tavern wenches had raked him with her fingernails yesterday. He'd only made a suggestion—and he'd even offered a fair price. How was he to know she was a newlywed who took her vows seriously? At least she was married to a milkwater shopkeeper and not one of Tymon's countless over-muscled gladiators, or Rodrick might have faced more serious injury. "Maybe he's a fugitive from justice or something. We do have some history of working with criminals."
"Besides one another, you mean?" Hrym said. "And anyway, what justice? We're in the River Kingdoms. In Tymon, no less, where most arguments are settled by the parties mutually agreeing to beat each other bloody. But suppose it is some rank villain. Would you turn down the job?"
"I might. I'm an honest man now, Hrym—at least on this side of the border. And at this point in time. As far as anyone knows. It's easier to make a profit off a dishonest man, true. But you have to admit, this is a suspicious way to organize things, luring me out here all alone. Present company excepted." Rodrick was relatively comfortable with his position, standing with his back against a great huge block of stone, with sightlines as clear as he could get in the forest. At least no one would be able to stab him in the kidneys. But there were still too many shadows gathering for his liking. "
Picking the lock and leaving a note on my pillow. Telling me to come here at dusk if I'd like to make some money. And leaving me that little bag of gold as, what, an incentive? A deposit? A retainer?"
"Lovely gold," Hrym said dreamily. "Just pile it up and let me sleep on it, I'll be happy as happy can be."
"Yes, I know. You have such simple tastes. I still say we should have just taken the bag of coin and scampered off. I'm tired of Tymon. The only reason I stayed around after we lost all those bets at the arena was because we were too poor to travel in style. But we've got a bit of money now—"
"Yes, but if we leave, we'll miss out on making more gold," Hrym said, practical as always. "It's not like we have any other prospects for gainful or illicit employment at the moment, and that little purse won't last long. Not with the way you run through money. You spent the last of our savings on the second-prettiest wench in the tavern, you may recall."
"The first prettiest was unavailable," Rodrick said absently. "But, look, don't you think anyone stupid enough to give me a bag of money in advance is, by definition, too stupid to work for? Trusting my reliability doesn't say much for their judgment."
"Or they could be stupid enough for us to make a lot of money off them," Hrym said.
Rodrick pondered. "Fair point. "
A moment later, the underbrush rustled, and a figure stepped forward from the shadows. Not quite short enough to be a halfling or dwarf, but definitely on the small side for a human, draped in a bulky cloak that seemed to hint at some concealed deformity—a hump, perhaps, or an off-center surplus head. The cloak was made of good fabric, though, dark green and richly embroidered along the edges with peculiar spiral patterns in dark blue thread.
"I am Zaqen," the figure said, voice pitched high enough that Rodrick guessed the speaker was female, though it was hard to be sure. "You are Rodrick, of Andoran?"
"I'm from all over," Rodrick said. "And I'm pleased to meet you." He gave her one of his more roguish smiles, because it never hurts to be charming.
Zaqen giggled, and Rodrick's smile slipped a notch. People who giggled for no reason worried him.
"Is it true," she said, "that those who hire you also hire ...your sword?"
"A warrior isn't much good without his sword." In truth, despite the rumors he'd caused to be spread throughout the region, Rodrick wasn't much of a fighter. He preferred to stab people from concealment if stabbing was called for—but one had to keep up appearances.
Zaqen sidled closer. "Yes, but ...you have a special sword?"
"Special is a good word for me," Hrym said. "Also ‘amazing' and ‘wonderful' and ‘amazingly wonderful'—"
"The sword talks!" Zaqen said. "How marvelous. I'd assumed that was an exaggeration." She craned her head, trying to get a glimpse of the magical weapon sheathed on Rodrick's back.
"I am no it," Hrym said. "‘He' would be better, or any honorifics you choose."
"Apologies, O mighty blade," Zaqen said, her tone deeply amused.
Rodrick sighed. Of course she'd heard about the sword. The only people who wanted Rodrick for himself alone in recent years were magistrates, city guards, and the occasional irate spouse.
"May I see it—I mean, him?" Zaqen scuttled a few steps closer, almost obscenely eager.
"Yes, let me out of this sheath," Hrym demanded. "I can't see anything."
"Your senses are magical," Rodrick said. "It's not as if you have eyes. I don't understand how a leather scabbard can possibly impede your vision." But he stepped away from the standing stone, reached over his right shoulder, grasped the hilt of the longsword, and drew Hrym smoothly from his scabbard, holding him aloft to sparkle in the ...well, twilight. Noonday sun would have been more dramatic.
Hrym was looking especially radiant tonight, though: a blade of living ice nearly four feet long, transparently crystalline at the impossibly sharp edges shading to milky white inward, and on through to a shimmering blue at the center, with steam rising in smoky tendrils from all along his length in the humid air.
"There," Rodrick said. "Meet Hrym, my partner. If this was all some elaborate ruse to lure me out here to steal my sword, you might wish to reconsider. The last person who picked up Hrym without permission lost half his arm to frostbite."
"Though if you offered me sufficient coin, say enough to fill the empty hollow of a medium-sized drained lake—" Hrym said.
"Hush, you," Rodrick said.
"No." Zaqen was suddenly businesslike. "I am not here to steal your blade. I am here to invite you to join me, and my patron, on a sacred quest."
"A quest!" Hrym said. For a sentient sword of living ice with no tongue, mouth, or even vocal cords, his voice was remarkably human. Hrym sounded like an old man who'd spent several decades running a shop that never offered credit, smoking a clay pipe on a porch and pontificating, and teaching his nephews dirty jokes. "I love quests. A sacred one, no less."
"A quest," Rodrick repeated, and sighed. "Well. It's not as if anyone's ever died horribly on one of those. Where is this patron of yours?"
"My master is busy with devotional matters. He is a very holy man."
"A holy man?" Now Rodrick did frown. "What variety of holy? The kind who disapproves of gambling and drinking, or the kind who likes sacrificing innocent virgins on altars of black stone, or ...?"
"The very wealthy kind of holy," Zaqen said. "And he has no interest in your morality, or lack thereof. As long as you can protect and aid us on our journey, he will be pleased, and you will be generously rewarded."
"And as for the other thing, you're hardly a virgin," Hrym said. "So let your mind rest easy on that point."
"Let's have a few details," Rodrick said. "Or even broad outlines. Where are we going, why are we going there, who's trying to kill us along the way, and what are you offering to pay?"
"We are going to Brevoy." Zaqen lifted her face to look at Hrym, still shining in the dusk. Her face was entirely human, though not particularly pretty: snub nose, thin lips, eyes of two different colors, one blue and one green—and the eyes looking in just slightly different directions, lending her gaze a fishlike quality. "To the very edge of any map you're likely to have seen. We seek a sacred artifact of great power, locked away for millennia. No one in particular is trying to kill us, but the River Kingdoms are dangerous places, and parts of Brevoy are little better. And, of course, where there are great treasures, there are often powerful guards, and other interested parties seeking the same prize ...My master and I are not without resources, but neither of us is particularly skilled with weapons, and simply having a strong man with a long blade in our party will act as a deterrent against many common bandits—"
"He asked about payment," Hrym said. "That's the one part I actually care about, so don't forget to address it, please."
Zaqen cocked her head, doubtless wondering—as many had before—what a magical sword could possibly want with gold. "My master is traditional. We will pay all expenses, of course. If you help us reach our goal, Rodrick, we offer your weight in gold as reward." She paused. "Or an equivalent value in gems, treasure, property, or a promissory note drawn on a leading bank of Absalom."
"His current weight in gold, or his weight at the end of the journey?" Hrym said sharply.
Zaqen blinked. "Excellent question. Astute. Forward-thinking. Let's say ...at the end of the journey?"
"Hmm," Hrym said. "I don't like it. Long overland journeys tend to cause weight loss. But he's hardly stout now, so I think we can do better. You'd better start eating richer foods, Rodrick. I want you so fat you can't sit on a horse by the time we reach Brevoy."
"Those terms are acceptable," Rodrick said calmly. His weight in treasure? That would be enough to fill a nice chest for Hrym to use as a bed, with plenty left over for Rodrick to live in the manner to which he devoutly hoped to become accustomed. And then there was the artifact she'd mentioned—surely that would be worth a bit of coin to the right buyer.
"What's the artifact?" Hrym asked. Rodrick suppr
essed a wince. Hrym had a bad habit of tipping their hand.
"It is a holy relic," Zaqen said. "Of no intrinsic value, and worthless to anyone but my master's particular sect."
Rodrick nodded. "I understand." Maybe what she said was even true. But if this holy man's cult could pay a man's weight in gold just for a chaperone, what would they pay in ransom for the relic itself?
"When do we leave?" Hrym said.
"Meet us here tomorrow," Zaqen said. "Two hours before twilight."
Rodrick frowned. "You want to travel by night?"
She shrugged, one shoulder dipping lower than the other. "My master sets the schedule. I gather there is a place to camp some two hours from here, where he wishes to spend the night."
"Who pays the coin calls the tune." Rodrick bowed. "I'll see you then."
Zaqen disappeared back into the underbrush, walking with a strange, hitching gait, but with surprising speed.
"Well then," Rodrick said. "I suppose that's settled. Let's head back to the Bloodied Flail and spend our advance money."
"You'd better keep enough gold to scatter over the bottom of a drawer in our rooms," Hrym said. "I don't intend to sleep on bare wood again."
"Sleep! As if you sleep." Rodrick slipped away from the standing stones, working his way along the old footpath in the direction of Tymon. The woods right around the city weren't especially dangerous—because of the gladiatorial arena, Tymon had the highest concentration of heavily armed warriors in the River Kingdoms, and they were all obliged to provide a certain amount of civil defense—but there were always bandits with no sense of self-preservation and skulking agents from the neighboring country of Razmiran, which coveted the wealth of Tymon. The value of caution was a lesson Rodrick had learned long ago. Though the exact lesson was more like, "Be cautious when no one is watching; if you want to impress someone, be ostentatiously bold, if the odds favor success."
Rodrick wasn't a coward, but he found that getting in too many fights tended to make his muscles hurt, which detracted from his enjoyment of sex, sleep, and other sensual pleasures.