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  Istvhan had carried himself like that once, though it had been beaten out of him a long time ago. There was always something bigger than you, no matter how big you were.

  He wondered idly if he could take her in a fight. It seemed likely, but he wouldn’t assume. Such assumptions had also been beaten out of him a long time ago.

  “You’ll go back at once,” he said.

  “I don’t suggest that,” she said. She had a low, husky voice, and though her tone was pleasant, it did not yield an inch. “They no longer have a man of the house. Bastian’s oldest sister will swear as a son, I expect, and then he will take up the sword. But if you return me, then that means you have suggested that Bastian’s forfeit was too high.”

  Istvhan could feel the situation spiraling out of his control. He had some vague notion of the Arrals’ customs, but that had only been enough to convince him to stay out of their internal affairs completely. This dense web of forfeits and blood prices was nightmarish for an outsider to navigate, particularly an outsider who just wanted to pass through Arral territory and be on his way.

  He thought he had navigated it. The Arral thanes had been more than willing to take money to let him pass through their lands. He had learned the polite forms of address for a stranger to use, he knew who to speak to and who to studiously not look at, and he thought that had been enough.

  And now here was this woman kneeling in his tent, looking ridiculously calm, and telling him that she was part of a forfeit he didn’t need from a duel he certainly hadn’t wanted.

  “Too high?” he asked weakly.

  “Too high,” Clara agreed. “And that would mean that you said his life was not worth what they thought it was. It will fall on the men of his house—in this case, the newly sworn son—to seek revenge for that insult.”

  Istvhan put his head in his hands. “You mean I’d have to duel his sister?”

  “Well, his brother who had been his sister the day before. And as the Arral women do not handle weapons, his brother would have had about twelve hours to learn to use a sword.”

  Istvhan moaned.

  Clara reached out and patted his arm kindly. “It’s all right.”

  “But what am I supposed to do with you?”

  “Well,” she said. “You can take me with you. Or I suppose you could try to kill me.”

  He looked up, catching the emphasis. “Try?”

  “Try.” Her face was serene.

  Istvhan kept his eyes from narrowing, although not without difficulty.

  She’s either utterly mad or knows something I don’t…

  “Let us assume for the moment that I don’t kill strangers who aren’t trying to kill me,” he said.

  “You did say you were a hired killer.”

  “Yes, but no one has hired me to kill you.”

  “Then it would probably be best if you take me with you when you leave.”

  He shook his head. “No. Absolutely not. Out of the question.”

  “Don’t be obstinate,” she chided, as if she were not sitting in a stranger’s tent, entirely at his mercy. “I’m quite useful. I was with the Arral long enough to make some sense of the finer points. I can keep you from giving offense.”

  “You’re not Arral, then?” He wasn’t surprised. Her robes were definitely not of Arral make, although she wore the shapeless hide-wrapped boots they all favored. Her hair was dark blonde and caught back in a neat braid, but her eyes were brown. The Arral mostly had blue eyes.

  “No more than you.”

  He poured out more hot water, shaking his head. “I’ve no intention of staying with them for long. Only of passing through their lands. I have been hired to see a man and his goods through, that is all.”

  She smiled into her tea. “All will be well, friend Istvhan. The gods have brought us together. I was planning to escape myself.”

  “Then I’m glad to have been of service, and I wish you luck.”

  She laughed at that. “No, I’m afraid you don’t get out of this so easily. You are going east, are you not?”

  Istvhan met her eyes evenly, saying nothing.

  “The men were talking about your deal with the thane,” she said. “I’m not a mind-reader.”

  He raked his hand through his hair. Fighting a barely bearded boy had thrown him badly off his stride, and this maddening woman was not helping matters any. Although she did keep you from making the situation with the Arral worse…or so she says…

  “Very well,” he admitted. “We’re going east for a little way.”

  “I, too, am going east.” She sat back, looking as if she had resolved the situation to everyone’s possible satisfaction. “My plan was to travel by night after I escaped.”

  “Then go,” he said. “Light a candle for me when you reach your home.”

  For the first time, her smile slipped. “Ah,” she said. Her eyes dropped to the tea, but not before he caught something flat and frightening in her eyes. “That, I fear, will not be so easy. My home was the convent of St. Ursa. It was burned some weeks ago, and my sisters kidnapped. It is their trail I follow.”

  Istvhan inhaled sharply.

  “You’re a nun?”

  She made a dismissive gesture with one hand. “A lay sister, only.”

  A nun. Of course. Not a madwoman after all, although depending on who you asked, the distinction was very fine.

  Istvhan closed his eyes.

  He had to go east.

  He had not quite lied. He was indeed a killer. It was merely that he was, or had been, a paladin of the Saint of Steel, and he had killed with the blessing of his god.

  His god was dead. His order was dissolved, the paladins dead or mad. Only a few of them, like him and Galen, remained. He worked now for a temple that dealt in practicalities more than divinity, and he was on an assignment for them now, seeking the source of the strange clay men that had terrorized the city of Archon’s Glory.

  And if he did not turn aside and help a nun, his maternal relatives for nine generations would rise from their graves and come to his dreams to box his ears, with his mother at the forefront.

  And Bishop Beartongue would be waiting to smack me senseless once their shades were done.

  “Domina Clara,” he said, bowing as he knelt so that his forehead nearly touched the ground, “I am your servant.”

  Clara looked at him with mild dismay. “Sister is fine,” she said. “You don’t need to bow. I’m really only a lay sister.”

  “I have found that with nuns, it is best to show respect.” He straightened and gave her a smile that was open and charming and which Clara was certain was not half so open as it appeared to be.

  He is not lying, she thought, but there is a great deal going on behind his eyes.

  She weighed the ease of company in her travel across Arral territory against whatever might lie behind the mercenary’s eyes, and came again to the same conclusion. It was almost always better to travel in a group than alone.

  If things go south, I can leave them in enough disarray to get away. If I travel by night and avoid hunters… She grimaced. For a few hours, for a day, perhaps, but travelling that way for days on end held its own dangers. It would be so easy to get lost. My sense of urgency never lasts.

  No, it was better to travel with the mercenaries as far as she could. This group was clean and professional-looking, armor in good repair, tents neatly assembled. They had attempted to talk their way out of the encounter with Bastian, and their leader seemed to respect women of the cloth. That respect would hopefully take her at least across Arral territory, and if St. Ursa looked kindly upon her, perhaps a little farther.

  St. Ursa, I do not know if I am doing your will. You are not one to make Your wishes obvious to anyone. So I am doing my best, and if You need me to go in any particular direction, please make the arrangements as You see fit. It wasn’t much of a prayer, but St. Ursa arguably wasn’t much of a saint. A few dozen god-touched sisters and a passing mention when the locals were tha
nking every divinity that could conceivably be thanked. The nuns had gotten used to doing what they could and hoping things worked out for the best.

  “Allow me to introduce the rest of my men,” said Istvhan. He rose to his feet and held out a hand to help her up. She took it, amused by the courtesy, and then grudgingly impressed. She was not small and he took her weight with no sign of strain, barely shifting his feet at all.

  “Galen you’ve met,” said Istvhan, opening the tent flap and pointing. “My second in command.” He nodded to the red-haired man waiting outside. She inclined her head to him, and Galen bowed dramatically over her hand.

  “Domina Clara.”

  “Oh no,” she said, laughing. “Just Clara. Sister Clara, if you must. I’m not listening to Domina from all of you. I’m only a lay sister. I’ve never aspired to take vows. My parents offered me to St. Ursa when I was young.”

  Galen’s handsome face narrowed as he scowled. “Do you wish to leave, then?”

  “It’s been burned down,” said Clara. “So that’s moot, I’m afraid.”

  Galen blanched.

  She took pity on him. She had wedged everything down into the dark place under her breastbone and his question had no power to hurt her. “That’s why I’m going east. The raiders who kidnapped my sisters took them that direction. I need to find them again.”

  “And our fearless leader has graciously offered our services?” Galen raised an eyebrow at Istvhan.

  “I grant you that I am a flawed man, Galen, but the day that I do not turn aside to help rescue a group of nuns…”

  “If you say so, Boss.”

  “I do say so. Emphatically.”

  “Our business…” Galen trailed off eloquently.

  “Will keep.” Clara would have had to be very dense not to guess that there was a great deal of information being conveyed, but let it go. “This is Brindle, our mule driver,” said Istvhan, clearly changing the subject. “A job-gnole.”

  The gnole by the wagon nodded to her. Clara had met the badger-like creatures on her trading jaunts up and down the canal. As a member of the job-gnole caste, Brindle would be referred to as he. He had a broad white stripe down his face and brindled fur elsewhere, though his fur was going salt-and-pepper gray over his eyebrows and along his muzzle.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” said Clara. “Do you know the gnole clan along Slicewater Canal?”

  Brindle’s ears flicked in a smile. “A gnole knows some, yeah. A gnole has far-cousins there.”

  Clara nodded. “I knew…ah…Shedding. And Cobbleclaw. Also mule drivers.”

  “Mules,” said Brindle, with good-natured disdain. “A gnole prefers an ox.” He glanced at the trio of picketed mules. “But temple says take mules, not an ox.” He shrugged.

  “Temple?”

  “Rat-god Temple.”

  “Rat…oh!” Clara turned to Istvhan. “You’re from the Temple of the White Rat?”

  Istvhan shrugged. “We were hired there,” he said. “They arrange things. They arranged Brant’s barrels. We’re supposed to come back with herbs for their healers or something.”

  Clara was glad to hear it. The Temple of the White Rat was that rarest of religious orders, one that simply found problems and solved them and tried to make life better for everyone involved. If they had hired Istvhan’s men, then it was very unlikely that he was a murderous thug inclined to, for example, attempt to slit a nun’s throat in the night. Still… “Barrels?”

  Istvhan led her around the back of the wagon and tossed back the tarp. “Brant, this is Clara. Clara, Master Distiller Brant.”

  “You’re escorting empty barrels?” said Clara, staring at the contents of the wagon.

  “These barrels,” said the small, balding man sitting on the back of the wagon, “are Emperor Oak.”

  He looked at her as he said it, clearly expecting her to recognize the name. Clara had been well-trained by nuns to admit ignorance when she had it. “I’m afraid I don’t know what that is,” she said.

  “Emperor Oak! The greatest of trees! The greatest of all wood!” Brant waved his arms. “To age a whiskey in Emperor Oak is to confer grace upon it. These barrels are worth more than a palace.”

  “…I see.”

  “Brant’s family keeps an Emperor Oak grove,” said Galen, taking pity on her.

  “The Emperor Oak grove.” Brant’s chest puffed up. “The only stand of the great trees in all the world.”

  “As rare as that?” asked Clara.

  The little man deflated, his face almost a parody of sorrow, and yet Clara could see that it was genuine and deeply felt. “As rare as that,” he said. “They were cut recklessly, and they grow only where they will, not where we wish them to. My family is the steward of the last grove. They are healthy now, but it is not enough. A single fire could wipe them all out. In summer, during lightning season, we do not sleep.”

  He turned abruptly and darted away, pulling something from his belt. As Clara watched, bemused, he jabbed his walking stick into the dirt, loosening it, then dropped a small object into the hole.

  “Acorns,” said Clara. “He’s planting acorns?”

  “Aye,” said Galen. Brant moved ten feet away and dug another hole. “Everywhere we stop. He says that if even one in a hundred survive, it is another oak in the world.”

  Clara found that she was touched. “Now there is faith,” she murmured.

  She did not expect a mercenary to understand, but Galen nodded to her. “A faith that relies on neither gods nor priests,” he said, and sighed. “Would that all faiths were so kind.”

  “Many of them are,” she felt compelled to say, in defense of St. Ursa, who started no wars and asked for no sacrifice, and whose blessing upon her chosen was the purest kindness.

  “And many of them are not,” said Galen, his voice clipped. “Many would take all that a man is and leave him a husk.”

  Clara was still trying to think of a response when he turned and walked away.

  “Don’t mind him,” said Istvhan. “We’re about to break camp anyway, now that this…ah…unpleasantness is behind us. You may ride on the wagon, if you wish, or walk with us.”

  “I can walk.”

  He nodded and turned away, clapping his hands together, and shouting the orders to the men to break camp.

  Three

  They made rather more distance than Clara would have expected, given that they were traveling on foot with a wagon. The mules were clearly chosen for stamina rather than speed. She was impressed with the efficiency with which the mercenaries packed—eight troops, not including Galen and Istvhan, each loading up their personal gear and a tent and sliding it into one of the empty barrels lined with oilcloth. That explained the faint odor of whiskey she’d detected on Istvhan’s tent.

  Two of the troops were women. Clara confessed a certain relief about that. There was nothing about Istvhan that made her think that a woman would be in peril from men under his command, but one could never be too careful.

  St. Ursa, it seems that You have guided me to a man who can help me, at least for travel through the mountains. Thank You.

  All that said, it was still a long walk. As a matter of pride, she kept up, but her hip joints and her feet were less than pleased. Most of her travel selling goods for the convent was on foot or by barge, and she was no stranger to it, but she was also used to setting her own pace. (Arguably, she was also at the tail end of recovery from a fever so brutal that her captors had left her for dead, but Clara had gotten extremely tired of being sick and had decided a week ago that she was done with it. Her body did not necessarily agree, but Clara would be damned if she let it win.)

  I suppose the marches will get longer, trying to catch up to the raiders. Ah, well. She put one foot in front of the other and concentrated on her breathing, telling herself that she did not feel lightheaded and anyway, she was a great deal better off than her sisters. She waited for Istvhan to call a halt, but he kept going until Galen said, “Boss?
Getting too dark to see out here.”

  “I know, I know.” He ran his hand through his hair. “I know. I was hoping to be past this particular thanedom, given everything, but I suppose it’s not going to happen tonight.”

  “A mule is going to trip,” said Brindle accusingly.

  “We should be safe enough,” said Clara. “Bastian’s attempt was considered…ah…in poor taste. They’re not going to take revenge.”

  Istvhan shook his head. “You say that,” he said, “and I believe you, but if manners are the only thing stopping them…well, I’ve seen plenty of men be very rude when it suited them. Rude and stabby.”

  He stood for a moment, clearly thinking, then turned to Clara. “Do you know how far the next thanedom is?”

  Clara studied the horizon, trying to orient herself. Dark blue was creeping down the sky and black tree trunks rose to meet it. “Five miles,” she said, “give or take.”

  “Too much for a mule in the dark,” said Brindle, who apparently did not feel that respect for the chain of command applied to him.

  “Right,” said Istvhan. “No tents tonight. No fire, either. As far as we’re concerned, this is enemy territory.”

  Clara heard a sigh sweep through the mercenary ranks, but no one argued.

  The field on one side was flat enough that they could simply pull the wagon to the side of the road. Brindle slid off the wagon seat and began unhitching the mules.

  “Don’t get too comfortable, people,” Istvhan called. “We’ll be up at dawn and over the border. Then we can set up camp for a day or two while we talk to the next set of thanes.”

  “Boss,” said Galen. And then, “Come on, you lot, you heard the man. Roll out your blankets. Waybread and jerky tonight, and we’ll have something more substantial tomorrow.”

  Clara leaned against the wagon. She had neither food nor bedroll, and wondered if Istvhan had considered that, or if he simply expected her to fend for herself.

  She need not have worried. The mercenary captain vanished around back of the wagon and then returned, carrying two waxed packages. He handed her one and opened the other himself.