by Tim Pratt
"I am no bandit!" Skell shouted. "I am a bloodied gladiator of Tymon—"
"You think you're bloodied now," Zaqen said, and giggled again. The other tentacles crept toward him, wrapping around his limbs, but to his credit, the gladiator kept gamely slashing away with his knives until both his arms were pinned down.
"Marvelous work protecting the group," Hrym said from behind Rodrick.
"Quiet, you. If swordplay had seemed appropriate, I would have fought with a will." He sighed. "So you're a wizard, then, Zaqen? Or were the tentacles Obed's doing too? I suppose they're a bit ...oceanic."
The woman shook her head. "No, the tentacles are mine. I am a devotee of the mystic arts. They'll squeeze the life out of this thief in a moment."
"I know him," Rodrick said. "A gladiator from Tymon, as he says. A bit crap as an archer, but then, gladiators don't often have the chance to use ranged weapons. I suppose he's fallen on hard times, and turned to banditry."
"You ...scum ..." the bandit sputtered, but the tentacles tightened around his chest, squeezing the air out of him.
"I advised him against following this path," Rodrick said, which was true. "Skell, would you like me to kill you cleanly? I can strike off your head, if you like."
Skell's eyes bulged, though whether that was due to rage or because of the squeezing tentacles, Rodrick couldn't have said.
"No need," Zaqen said. "He's gone." The tentacles unwrapped from Skell's limp form and drew back down into the earth, leaving only a few scraped patches of dirt to mark their passing.
Obed was already continuing on his way, but Rodrick paused to look over Skell's body and make sure he was really dead. Such a stupid thing to die for, honor—and not even his own honor, but his sister's, which hadn't even truly been sullied! (Because Rodrick hadn't been given the chance.) What a waste. Rodrick helped himself to a few of the better knives from the man's harness and then hurried back to his horse.
"Looting the corpse," Zaqen said. "Good idea." She went to the dead man and leaned over him, obscuring his upper body from view. "Mmm," she said. "He has such pretty eyes."
Rodrick frowned as he mounted his horse, and a moment later Zaqen returned and climbed onto her camel. He glanced back at the dead man. Was that blood on his face? He wanted to ask Zaqen what she'd taken ...but he was afraid she would answer.
As they set off after Obed, he said, "Your master hardly seems to need me along. The two of you seem quite capable on your own."
"I'm sure you'll be useful for lifting heavy things," Zaqen said. Was she flirting, now? Rodrick had been involved in his share of romances on the road, but he wasn't really open to the idea of such a dalliance with Zaqen. She was just too ...odd, both in appearance and personality. Though after enough lonely nights on the trail ...
No. Not even then. Probably.
"There are situations where magic is less useful than a mighty blow to the head," she went on. "For one thing, magic requires study or prayer, and once our spells are used up, we are but mere mortals, and not particularly adept with weapons. You can swing a sword all day long, though."
"True," Rodrick said. "Though I like to take a break from swinging my sword for lunch, and a light snack in the afternoon."
They continued riding vaguely eastward, setting a not terribly punishing pace. At this rate, it would take weeks to ride to Brevoy. "Just so I know what to expect," Rodrick said, "are we going to travel through Sevenarches?" Rodrick hadn't been to that kingdom yet, though he understood it was a pleasure for those who had an affection for nature—the sky was bluer, and the air was sweeter, among other things, because druids ran the place and valued such things.
"No, we'll veer north and go through Daggermark," Zaqen replied. "Then Loric Fells, Pitax, and the contested territory called the Stolen Lands, and then on to Brevoy proper." She shook her head. "That's assuming none of those kingdoms collapse and fracture into a dozen smaller countries while we're on the road, which is never a certainty in the River Kingdoms. Of course, Loric Fells is fairly stable, since it's nothing but a troll-infested wilderness."
"Daggermark doesn't have a nice reputation." Rodrick tried to be diplomatic. "A lot of paranoid poisoners, aren't they? But Sevenarches is the closest thing this area has to a safe country. If we went through there and swung north later, at least we wouldn't have to worry about being attacked by bandits again for a few days. Too many druids in Sevenarches for my taste, personally, but I'd think the priest of a nature deity like your man Obed would like the company, and it would certainly make the start of our journey more pleasant. And if we go that way we could probably avoid Loric Fells entirely and go through Gralton, which I'm told is safe enough if you don't talk about politics—"
"Too many fey in Sevenarches," Zaqen said. "I feel about fey the way horses feel about me. You don't need to worry about us being poisoned or assassinated in Daggermark. No one in this part of the world has any reason to want us dead. And the fact that everyone has a knife dipped in some sort of horrid venom makes the people of Daggermark polite, I've heard. As for Loric Fells, my master looks forward to the opportunity to revel in its natural splendor. You're not afraid of a few hags and trolls, are you?"
"Not afraid, as such, I merely prefer the company of druids to the company of such unpleasant creatures—"
"He just lusts after forest nymphs," Hrym said.
"That's not true. That is, I have lusted after nymphs, some particular nymphs, sometimes, but it's hardly as if my lust is limited specifically to nymphs—"
"If you're ever trying to figure out why Rodrick wants to do something," Hrym went on, undiscouraged, "just ask yourself: does it help him get money, or a woman? The answer will be one of the two."
"As if you're any better!" Rodrick said.
"I am better," Hrym said. "Women don't interest me at all. Only gold. That makes me much more focused and reliable than you are."
"The two of you enjoy talking," Zaqen said. "That's nice. My master tends to keep his own counsel, and things are often too quiet between us for my taste. Your talk will help to pass the time on the road, between people trying to rob and kill us."
∗ ∗ ∗
At twilight, Obed called a halt near a rushing stream that fed a pool above a small waterfall. Rodrick wasn't fond of camping so close to running water—you couldn't hear people creeping into camp with knives in their hands with the rush of a creek in your ears all night—but Zaqen dismissed his concern. "My master will set up wards. Don't worry—if anyone tries to ambush us, we'll know. The sound of their bodies exploding should be quite audible. Though if you'd like, we can organize watches between us. I don't sleep much anyway. I could take half the night, and you—"
"I'll do the watching," Hrym said. "I don't sleep. Just jam me point-down in the center of camp. I can see in all directions."
Rodrick obliged, plunging the sword into the soft ground. Hrym emitted a bit of ice around his point to freeze himself more steadily upright in the soil, then declared himself satisfied. Rodrick helped Zaqen set up camp, which she did quickly and efficiently, gathering wood for a fire and filling a pot with water from the stream. "You've done this before," he said. "Do you do a lot of sleeping rough where you're from?"
The wizard snorted. "Rough? This isn't rough. Sleeping in a black cave full of giant albino spiders is rough, though I do love the sound of the lullabies they sing to their thousands of babies."
"You're an odd one, Zaqen."
"I have heard that before, ever since I was a child, often accompanied by an attempt to strike me, or a thrown boot. No one else seems to see the world quite the way I do. They find beauty in the ugliest things, and ugliness in the most beautiful. It's you lot who are odd." She squatted by the fire and began crumbling some herbs from a pouch into the pot.
"Making stew?" he said. "Horribly impractical stuff, stew. Takes forever."
"No. This is my ...medicine, you could say. I'd offer to share, but if you don't have the illness it treats, the effects can be u
npredictable, and seldom pleasant."
"Ah. Shall I see to my own dinner, then?"
"My master generally provides the evening meal," she said. "He enjoys it. But he has to tend to a certain ritual first—"
"The priest is naked," Hrym said. "Not that I care—you're all just blobby collections of limbs in varying hues to me. But it seemed worth mentioning, from a tactical standpoint."
Rodrick squinted in the gloom. Beyond the tethered mounts, he caught a glimpse of pale flesh as Obed slipped into the pool. "A ritual?" he said. "I've always just heard them called ‘baths.'"
"Cleansing is part of it," Zaqen said. "He is a devotee of the sea, my master. This river flows down to the sea, eventually, as do all rivers, and so he likes to submerge himself in water every day, to renew his connection and listen for distant whispers from the goddess."
"Distant whispers from the goddess flow upstream, do they?" Rodrick said. "I'll be sure to remember that. What is he doing in there, exactly."
"Meditation. Prayer. Centering his mind." Zaqen shrugged, ladling up a measure of the pungent medicinal water and pouring it into a wooden cup. "Holy men." She inhaled the steam, then drank back the contents of the cup, grimacing.
It was full dark by the time Obed emerged from the pool, rising from the water with stately dignity and dressing swiftly in his long robes before he approached the circle of firelight. He tossed a pair of fat salmon onto the ground at Zaqen's feet, startling Rodrick, who drew back. "Did you just catch those?"
"He's a priest of the sea goddess," Zaqen said. "Bounty of the waters, and all that."
"Clean them," Obed said. "I will eat the smaller. The two of you may split the larger."
"Very generous of you," Zaqen said, but Obed had already withdrawn to the far side of the fire, sitting on a flat stone just beyond the light. The wizard produced a thin-bladed knife from somewhere. "I'll clean his, you clean ours?"
"Fair enough."
"We generally eat our fish raw," Zaqen said. "It's better when it's actually alive when you start eating, but this will do. How about you?"
"Ah." Rodrick blinked. "I prefer it cooked, ideally with a bit of lemon, perhaps some roasted potatoes—"
"Please yourself." Zaqen shuddered, apparently disgusted at the thought of cooked fish. "We all have our own customs. It's not for me to judge." She set about gutting the fish with rather more gusto than precision, and Rodrick drew his own blade and found a flat stone to serve as a cutting board.
"All eating is repulsive," Hrym said. "Consuming other living things to survive? It's barbaric, really. It would make me sick, if I were capable of getting sick. Plants aren't so bad, I suppose, but meat—"
"You once told me one of your favorite sensations was being plunged to the hilt in the warm guts of a large animal," Rodrick said. "And now you scorn me for being carnivorous?"
"Plunging into the guts of a large animal isn't anything at all like eating," Hrym said. "It's about the feeling, you see, it's sensual—"
"So it's less like eating and more like sex," Zaqen said.
After a long pause, Rodrick said, "Remind me never to have sex with you, Zaqen."
The wizard tittered.
∗ ∗ ∗
Rodrick had difficulty sleeping, even though his belly was full, the fire was warm, and his sword—probably the most dangerous thing for leagues—was keeping watch over him. He'd been part of a few adventuring parties over the years, and it always took a while to get used to sleeping with strangers. Rodrick wasn't above stealing everything and slipping away in the night, after all, so he was always keen to the possibility of similar betrayals.
Eventually he drifted into a thin and meager sleep, his unquiet dreams full of strange murmurings, and when he woke near dawn, Obed was crouched near the center of camp, speaking to Hrym in a low voice. When the priest noticed Rodrick stirring, he rose and went to the packhorse and began preparing for their departure.
Rodrick stretched, and after tending to his morning necessities, he drew Hrym from the dirt—the ice melting instantly to let Hrym slide free—and gave him a couple of swings through the air. "What were you and the holy man chatting about?"
"Dragons," Hrym said. "The man is interested in dragons, as many men are, and of course I am an authority on dragons—"
"A dragon used to sit on top of you for a while," Rodrick said. "Or so you claim. I'm not sure being underneath something a lot makes you an authority. By that logic, I'm an authority on ceilings."
"And poxy whores," Hrym said. "Oh, wait, you are an authority on those."
"I'm glad the man is talking to one of us, anyway." Rodrick let Hrym re-freeze himself to the scabbard on his back. "Actually, I'm not. I'd assumed he was just naturally taciturn, or too concerned with spiritual matters to engage in trivia like friendly conversation, but if he's willing to talk to you—"
"Can you blame him? I'm remarkable," Hrym said. "There aren't many intelligent swords of living ice, while mercenaries like you are common as mud."
"Not as common as that." Zaqen bustled around camp and efficiently stowed away their supplies. "He's unusually pretty, for one thing. Most mercenaries are a bit more battered about the face."
"Give him time," Hrym said. "The day is young."
Chapter Five
The Bleak Shores
They traveled the rest of that day at a fairly steady pace, using roads when they were handy, heading north and east through the damp forests. By noon, Rodrick's stomach was rumbling. "Any chance we could call a halt for something to eat?"
Zaqen shook her head. "The master wishes to reach a tributary of the river by nightfall. We'll be eating in our saddles today."
Rodrick groaned. "That's inhuman. All day in the saddle? I won't be much good in a fight if I can't feel my ass."
"Just wave your magical sword around, and I'm sure all the villains will run away." She fished in her saddlebags and brought out a wad of some kind of pale, mottled jerky. "Care for a bite?"
"What is it?"
"Meat."
"Yes, I'd gathered, but what kind of meat?"
"If you have to ask," Zaqen said, "you aren't hungry enough." She tore off a piece of the jerky, grinned at him around the mouthful, and then turned away.
"Listen, you have to at least talk to me," Rodrick said. "My mind will go as numb as my hindquarters without conversation."
Zaqen mumbled something, but her mouth was full, so Rodrick couldn't make it out. The tone hadn't been encouraging, though. Rodrick sighed and let his horse fall some distance back from the wizard and her strange mount, to his gelding's evident relief.
"You can talk to me," Hrym said. "I'm not good enough to talk to anymore?"
"All right, let's talk. Did you see what she did to Skell yesterday?"
"Of course I did. I see all. When I'm not crammed in that sheath, anyway."
"Do you care to share your observations, O all-seeing one?"
"She cut out Black Skell's eyes and put them in a little pouch," Hrym said.
Rodrick stared at Zaqen's back. Had her humped shoulder switched sides? He would have sworn it was on the left before. Was she truly misshapen, or did she just have particularly ruinous posture? "His eyes," Rodrick repeated. "Why would she do that?"
"She said they were pretty eyes. Perhaps she collects pretty things."
"I am aware that humans are not your area of expertise, as you've never spent a century sleeping underneath one of us, but cutting out someone's eyes and putting them in a little bag is not typical human behavior."
"She's a wizard," Hrym said. "They're a strange lot, aren't they? Maybe she needs the eyes to cast some spell. Maybe she can fling burning spectral eyeballs at people, if she has the right material to work with."
"Or they could be used for some kind of long-distance seeing spell," Rodrick said thoughtfully.
"Or that," Hrym conceded.
"Still, it's a grisly way to collect spell components."
"I'm sure she's just being practical
. How likely are we to pass a shop devoted to supplying adepts of the arcane? She has to take her ingredients while she can. And, what, if she bought eyes pickled in brine from a shop, that would be better? They have to come from somewhere. Honestly, you're too suspicious."
Rodrick shook his head. "I can't get a handle on her. Most people are obvious. Her master is standoffish, but that's fine, I've known plenty of men who thought they were better than everyone else and didn't like mixing with the lower orders—"
"He talks to me. Recognizes quality when he sees it."
"—but Zaqen is just peculiar."
"Oh, I see your point," Hrym said. "Very good. Carry on."
"You see what point?"
"You're trying to understand their psychology so we can—"
"Shh," Rodrick said. "For all we know she steals ears off corpses so she can cast spells of long-distance hearing."
"You'll talk about how peculiar she is without worrying about being overheard, but you won't talk about our—"
"Quiet! Let's keep some secrets to ourselves, all right? Thinking someone's peculiar is just an opinion, and one I'm sure she's heard before. I daresay she knows she's peculiar—she's obviously not stupid."
Hrym didn't answer.
"I just think we should keep our own counsel regarding ...more delicate matters, that's all."
Still no reply.
"It's going to be like this, then?" Rodrick said. "The silent treatment?"
"I'm just a sword," Hrym said. "Just a weapon for you to wield, your personal property, so when you tell me to be quiet, of course I obey, O great Rodrick, wielder of mighty Hrym the Frostblade, Bringer of Winter—"
"Never mind! I'll take the silent treatment."
∗ ∗ ∗
They did stop eventually, to water and rest the horses—leading Zaqen to comment on the relative uselessness of horses as compared to her tireless camel—but then pressed on, never galloping, but proceeding as close to a trot as the landscape would allow. The River Kingdoms had a lot of trees, at least in Tymon, where the woodcutters weren't out in force, and it wasn't long before Rodrick was well and truly sick of trees. He almost wished for a bandit attack just to break the monotony.