Liar's Blade

by Tim Pratt

  "Ah, but then you wouldn't go with them, would you? If you saw them simply murder me, that is. I mean, they could try to pick you up, but you'd fight them. Wouldn't you?"

  "If I had eyes, Rodrick, I would roll them at you now. Yes, I would fight them as best I could if they killed you. We're partners. I won't willingly serve one who slays you."

  "So perhaps they're contriving to have me slain, so they can pretend they had no hand in my death, and convince you to work for them after that. What if you're the artifact they're after?"

  "I suspect you're being paranoid," Hrym said. "I think I'd know if I were sacred to Gozreh, for one thing. But if you'd like to proceed with that as your working theory, I don't see any harm. A little paranoia is good for you."

  The horse and camel halted, and Zaqen wheeled her beast around and clopped toward Rodrick. "You're forgiven," she said. "I pointed out how promptly you killed the bandit who was menacing him, thus demonstrating your skill. I also explained to the master that your refusal to murder defenseless strangers means you're less likely to attempt to murder us at some point—I told him a bit of conscience in a mercenary is a rare thing, to be treasured."

  Rodrick let himself smile. "Do you believe that?"

  "I believe we need you to get where we're going," Zaqen said. "And if the master hates you, we won't get far. I think soon he'll behave just as warmly toward you as he has previously."

  "And you?" Rodrick said. "It really was a ruse. I would have killed the man if he hadn't backed down—"

  "Ahem," Hrym said.

  "I would have used Hrym to slay the man, yes," Rodrick said. "Or frozen his dagger so it shattered."

  "Actually," Hrym said, "to be cold enough to shatter tempered steel, I'd have to make it so cold that his flesh would basically crystallize, so the dagger would be the least of his problems."

  Zaqen laughed. "I wasn't worried for my life, Rodrick. My master told me to let you fight, but if you'd fallen to the ground and begged the thieves for mercy, I wouldn't have let myself die just to prove Obed's point. I am not without resources. Worry less about my hurt feelings and more about keeping us from being held at knifepoint in the first place."

  They proceeded north along the riverbank, with Rodrick casting glances across the water to the green fields and forests of Sevenarches. They drew near a bridge, and Obed halted his horse to stare at it. The bridge arched high over the river, presumably to allow boats to pass beneath it, and it was the strangest construction Rodrick had ever seen. On the Tymon side of the river, the bridge was a practical object of timbers and lashed ropes, well made but far from beautiful. Halfway across its span, however, the bridge changed: the bare boards gave way to clearly living wood, growing branches in full green leaf and wrapped in vines and bobbing flowers, abuzz with bees and alive with the fluttering of small birds. It might as well have been a bridge into another world. One could hardly imagine a more perfect image for the transition from the blood-sport-fueled brutality of Tymon to the fey sensibility of Sevenarches.

  "Can't convince you to cross that bridge, then?" Rodrick said.

  "Far too many fey," Zaqen said. "Look at the far side! What kind of toll must they charge to keep up the magics on a bridge like that?"

  Rodrick shook his head. "I haven't been in the River Kingdoms for long, but I know that's one of their fundamental commandments, one of their ‘River Freedoms'—walk any road, float any river. No tolls, and no contested border crossings. Anyone can go anywhere. And anyone who tries to change that is swiftly taught the error of their ways."

  "Freedom," Hrym said. "Freedom to go anywhere. It sounds nice, until you realize it also means the freedom to have your legs chopped off and your boots stolen. I thank—oh, say, Gozreh—every day that I don't have legs, by the way."

  "That policy makes it easier for us," Zaqen said. "Explaining our business at a border checkpoint for each of these little pocket fiefdoms would be difficult."

  "I don't even entirely understand our business myself," Rodrick said. "Bound for Brevoy, you say, to seek an artifact, but details ..."

  "One day at a time, O noble warrior. You'll know what you need to know when you need to know it." Zaqen nudged her camel forward.

  After she was gone, Hrym said, "We really should—"

  "Yes," Rodrick said. "Yes, I know."

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  That night they made camp, still in Tymon but not far from Daggermark. Obed did his river ritual again, and brought out four fat fish. Rodrick roasted his share gratefully, sure to thank Obed in a sincere and non-obsequious fashion, not that the priest appeared to hear him at all. After sucking the last bits of fat from his fingers, Rodrick rose. "I'll go fetch some more firewood. It looks likely to be a cold night."

  Zaqen yawned and shrugged, and Obed ignored him entirely, so Rodrick walked off with Hrym toward a stand of trees.

  "Any observations to report?" Rodrick said, once they were far enough from the campsite that he thought they were safe from being overheard, barring magical spells of clairaudience.

  "Of course," Hrym replied. "Let's see. For a student of the arcane, Zaqen doesn't appear to study anything at all. I've known wizards, and they always had their noses in books or scrolls. Zaqen doesn't even have a callus on her finger from writing, nor are her hands indelibly ink-stained."

  "What," Rodrick said, "you think she's faking it? Pretending to be a wizard, using magical items of some kind to conjure her tentacles and spray her acid? I'd hate to think there's another pretender in our company. You and I are quite enough."

  "I merely make observations," Hrym said. "I'll leave drawing conclusions to you. Though I resent being called a pretender. You pretend to be a mercenary when you're really a thief and opportunistic plunderer, but I actually am a fantastically rare intelligent magical sword of ice."

  "And also a thief and opportunistic plunderer."

  "People are complicated," Hrym said. "Magical swords even more so."

  "How about their sleeping patterns?"

  "Zaqen sleeps for a few hours, though she's up in the middle of the night, staring into the fire, talking to herself—"

  "What does she say?"

  "She says, ‘Oh, Rodrick, when will you come and warm my bedroll?' Ha, no, I've no idea. She mutters. I'm not sure it's even in a real language. There's a lot of low giggling. Obed is far quieter, but he doesn't sleep as much as we'd like, either. He rises so early in the mornings that it's practically still yesterday. When he gets up he meditates, or prays, or what have you, but it's hard to tell how aware he is of his surroundings in that state."

  "Probably too aware to miss us stealing the horses and everything they carry, I'd guess," Rodrick said.

  "It seems likely. If we do decide to proceed with a simple snatch and grab, I'd say around midnight is our best bet, though I'd prefer to watch for a while longer to fully establish the pattern—a few nights is hardly enough time to draw definite conclusions. They may be unusually wakeful because we're new to the group and they don't trust us yet, after all."

  "It's far easier to steal from people once they no longer expect you to do so," Rodrick mused. "What's the downside in sticking with them for a while, though? The work is hardly arduous so far."

  "Agreed," Hrym said. "And there's the matter of this artifact we're supposedly searching for. I'd like to know a lot more about this artifact."

  "Like, is it an enormous statue of a fish or something made entirely of gold and precious gems?" Rodrick said. "I'd like to know that, too."

  "It would be distressing to stay with them for the entire journey only to find that they're bent on recovering the finger bone of some ancient avatar, or something with similar, merely sentimental value."

  "Oh, I don't know about that," Rodrick said. "The whole notion of dismissing items of sentimental value has always seemed wrong-headed to me. Anything with great sentimental value also has great real value—because you can ransom it back to the people who feel sentimental about it."

  "Do y
ou really want to be at the center of a holy crusade?" Hrym said.

  "On the whole, no. Far better if it's the golden fish instead." Rodrick bent to pick up a few sticks, just for the sake of plausibility when they returned.

  "Then you should find out," Hrym said. "Talk to Obed. Be charming. Find out what we're after."

  "Why don't you do it? He's actually spoken more than five words in a row to you."

  "Just about dragons," Hrym said. "The man has an obsession with them, and wants to know everything I know, which I keep telling him isn't really that much."

  Rodrick tucked another length of wood under his arm, then gazed back at the flickering light of the distant campfire. "You don't think there's going to be a dragon, do you? Guarding whatever this artifact is? I'm not sure my weight in gold is worth facing a dragon."

  "It wouldn't be so bad," Hrym said. "If we lost the battle, I'd probably end up in a hoard again, resting on heaps of gold."

  "I won't have such a happy outcome."

  "It's not my fault you decided to be human instead of something sensible like a sword," Hrym said.

  Chapter Seven

  Sword Against Tedium

  The next day they crossed the border into Daggermark before midday, fording a branch of the great river Sellen just past the point where it became known locally as the Dagger. The change of locality was apparent fairly soon, when an actual road appeared, and they made better time after that, to Obed's delight.

  There were people on the road, too, peasants driving their animals here and there or just plodding dustily along, but none of them attempted to assassinate or poison anyone, to Rodrick's vague disappointment. The whole time he'd been in Tymon, he'd heard how conniving and cowardly the people of Daggermark were, favoring poison to solve their problems, as opposed to giving their enemies a good honest bashing over the head with a spiked club. (The only people the folk of Tymon hated more than the citizens of Daggermark were the citizens of Razmiran; they were equally horrible, but they weren't even part of the River Kingdoms.)

  The group stopped in a fair-sized village to water their horses and replenish some of their supplies, and Rodrick and Hrym (sheathed, lest he elicit too much comment) took an opportunity to stroll around. The place seemed like any reasonably prosperous market town, though the apothecary was suspiciously well stocked with things like hemlock and deadly nightshade, and the blacksmith seemed to have a thriving sideline in forging very small, very sharp daggers.

  Rodrick was scrupulously polite to everyone he met. Life was cheap in Daggermark—literally. You could reportedly hire a student assassin to kill anyone you wanted for a shockingly small quantity of gold, and he had no reason to think outsiders just passing through were immune to being targeted.

  He met up with the rest of his party as they were preparing to leave. Rodrick cast a longing glance at a tavern, then climbed onto his horse, wincing as he sat down in the saddle. At least the roads here were better. The path wouldn't be so bouncy for a while.

  As they traveled along a well-marked, rutted dirt road, Rodrick nudged his horse closer to Obed until he was riding alongside the robed priest. "I never said thank you for inviting me along on this journey," he said. "I'm sorry for our ...little disagreement earlier. I understand that you wanted to test my capabilities."

  Obed gave him nothing. It was like talking to a fence post, or an unusually stupid cow. Rodrick soldiered on. "Rest assured, I'll fight for the party when called upon to do so. Safeguarding our passage is foremost on my mind. I was curious, if you don't mind me asking, about your faith. I confess, I've never been a particularly religious man, but it's more from ignorance than lack of interest. I'd be interested to hear more about your god Gozreh—"

  Obed's voice was as flat as a basalt plain. "You have no interest in Gozreh."

  Rodrick blinked. Obed was a priest. Who knew what powers he had? Could he recognize lies just by the sound of your voice?

  "Tell me what you really want to know," Obed said, turning his hooded head toward Rodrick.

  I want to know what this artifact we're searching for might be, Rodrick thought, and how much I can sell it for. That answer would hardly go over well. To be safe, Rodrick felt he should ask a real question, something he really did want to know, in case Obed could sense dishonesty. "I'd like to know whether or not we're likely to face a dragon at some point on this journey."

  Silence from Obed.

  "It's just, Hrym told me you'd asked him about dragons, and if we're facing something like that, I'd like to be prepared, so ..."

  "No dragons." Did the priest sound amused? "The artifact we seek may have guardians, but nothing in my research leads me to believe they will be draconic. But I understand you rescued Hrym from the hoard of a linnorm. Surely you have experience conquering monstrous reptilian creatures? A linnorm is not a dragon, but they are similar."

  "Ah, well, as to that—" Rodrick began.

  "The linnorm was sleeping," Hrym said, voice muted by the sheath but still audible. "They hibernate, you know, sometimes for centuries. Rodrick crept in and snatched me away. The only reason I didn't scream and wake the beast was because Rodrick promised me untold riches." Hrym paused. "When can I expect to receive those, by the way?"

  "You will both receive ample riches when this quest is complete," Obed said, and he still sounded a little amused. "I hope that will please you, sword."

  "It's a start, anyway," Hrym said.

  "Leave me now, Rodrick. I have much to think about. I am sure Zaqen can allay any further concerns you have, or answer any additional questions."

  "Of course," Rodrick said. "Sorry to have bothered you." He slowed his horse, letting Obed pull away, and fell back closer to Zaqen. "You're right," he told her. "Obed is being just as warm and companionable with me as always."

  Zaqen giggled. "A dragon? Really? That's what you were worried about?"

  "Perhaps if you'd tell me what to expect, I wouldn't have to indulge in wild speculations."

  She shrugged. "We'll ride forever and a day, and then we'll reach Brevoy. Then we'll go as far north as we can, we'll recover the artifact, you'll get paid, and we'll all go our separate ways."

  "A plan admirable in its simplicity," Rodrick said. "Though it seems to conceal a wealth of mysteries."

  "Mysteries are good," the wizard—or whatever she was—said. "I'd hate to see you lose interest."

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Their progress through Daggermark was steady and uneventful. The kingdom was one of the largest and safest in the region, despite having an essentially anarchic form of government that might best be described as a ‘murderocracy.' Some of the towns they passed were miniature military dictatorships or overgrown armed forts, while others had mayors or even town councils. The locals eyed them with cold, polite suspicion, gouged them on the prices of everything the party bought, and sent them on their way with no goodbyes. After several days in the country, Rodrick realized that if a stranger greeted him warmly or offered even a casual courtesy, Rodrick would start looking around for the dagger in his own back or the garrote around his throat.

  They avoided the capital itself, the so-called city of assassins, following the path of the river almost directly northward. The one night they stayed in an inn, Obed took a room of his own and had a bath made ready. Rodrick wondered whether the man actually slept in the tub. It wouldn't surprise him. He loved water the way Rodrick loved women and wine.

  Most days they made camp and slept out under the stars, even as the nights grew colder—just a hint of the weather they'd have to endure in Brevoy. Zaqen had said they were going to the edge of the map, and the edge of most maps Rodrick had seen were limned in ice. Hrym didn't mind, but Hrym was incapable of freezing to death.

  Unfortunately, speculating about the future with minimal information to fuel that speculation didn't occupy the mind for long. After several days in Daggermark, Rodrick was sufficiently bored to wish for assassins in the night, just to break up the monotony. He barely eve
n noticed anymore when Zaqen ate her fish raw and Obed ate nothing, or thought it peculiar that the priest submerged himself somehow nightly, or felt his flesh crawl when Zaqen tittered at nothing, or felt vaguely nervous just at the sight of the camel. They were settling dangerously into routine, and routine was death.

  "We're settling dangerously into routine," he said to Hrym while trailing far behind Zaqen's camel on the road. "And routine is—"

  "Wonderful stuff," Hrym said. "We get paid the same whether we expend any effort or not. It's glorious."

  "It's boring. Being bored is one thing I can't abide. Worse, from a practical standpoint, it makes me lose my edge. I become lulled, complacent, and lose the eternal vigilance that makes me so effective as a warrior."

  "You're not a warrior," Hrym scoffed. "You're a thief and swindler and fortune hunter who has, on occasion, gotten into a fight."

  "And you're a lazy hedonist who just happens to be trapped in the form of a weapon of terrible power. Sometimes we have to pretend to be what we appear to be."

  "So you're wishing bandits would descend on us, then?" Hrym said.

  "Not necessarily. But I'd go for seeing something interesting. Meeting an immortal peddler selling artifacts from beyond the Windswept Wastes. Discovering a ruin filled with comely nymphs. Camping beneath a tree that weeps ruby tears. I'd even settle for a talking fish that grants wishes. Instead it's nothing but sullen peasants, passing military patrols, picked-bare fruit trees, and ordinary river trout."

  "You carry with you a sword of living ice," Hrym said, "and you complain that your life is lacking in wonder?"

  "You're nice enough," Rodrick said, "but we've been together for years now. I know you too well to feel much in the way of wonder anymore."

  "It's almost as bad as being married," Hrym said. "Just be patient. We're near the border, such as it is, between Daggermark and Loric Fells. Which, judging by the conversations I overheard back in Tymon, is a land lacking in even the rudiments of civilization, infested with goblin camps and troll caverns and will-o'-wisps and all the hideous beasts that nature in her wisdom has chosen to bestow upon the north."