Paladin's Strength Page 3

  The waybread was much the same as every travel bread ever baked: tough, faintly sour, and impervious to mold. The jerky was actually a pressed bar of meat with some kind of dried berries, and a great deal better than Clara was expecting.

  “I know, right?” said Istvhan. “It’s not half bad. I’ve had dried meat that was just on the edge of rancid and you had to wipe the mold off, but this stuff holds up remarkably well.” He bit off half the bar and chewed, then swallowed. “Mind you, I won’t cry if we can convince the next set of thanes to trade us some eggs.”

  Brindle walked past them, leading the two mules and talking softly to them in gnolespeech. Clara heard the wagon creak as the gnole climbed inside, and then rustling as he rummaged for something.

  “Horses too much trouble?” she asked.

  Istvhan nodded. “We’re limited by the speed of the wagon anyway. Unless we wanted to use a dozen mules and change them out in teams, they won’t go much faster than we’ll walk. And this way we’re only carrying a little extra grain for the mules, not a great load of food for a half dozen horses.” He shrugged. “It’s slower than I’d like, but no one’s in a great hurry.”

  Clara was in a hurry, but not so much of one that she would seek a mount. Horses generally did not like her and she returned the favor.

  “Lot of guards for some barrels,” she said, testing the waters.

  And now is the point where a lesser man would tense up, and then hurry to cover it up…

  “Tell me about it,” said Istvhan easily. “I told them we didn’t need more than Galen and me, and maybe a third. This many people makes us look like a much richer target than we are.” He shook his head. “But Brant’s family has money, and they wanted half a regiment to guard their precious barrels, so here we are.”

  He trailed off. Clara looked over at him. The light had faded and the first stars were coming out. She could not make out his expression.

  It all rang true and Clara had no reason to doubt anything he was saying. And yet…and yet…

  She didn’t press the issue. “Where are you going after you’re out of the mountains?”

  “The barrels are going to Morstone.”

  Morstone. Hmm. It was the largest city for a long way in any direction, an ancient trading hub along the sea coast. You could buy anything in Morstone, if you paid the right price. Clara had never been there, but she had heard all the stories…slave pits, charnel houses, pirate fleets.

  “I’ve heard that’s a very dangerous place.”

  “It is.” His voice held nothing beyond the bare fact.

  “Well. I do not know where my sisters have been taken, but perhaps you’ll be rid of me before then.”

  “Mmm.” Istvhan pushed away from the wagon. “There’s a spare set of blankets,” he said. “We’ll be sleeping cold tonight, but if you want to sleep in the wagon, we can probably convince Brant to share.”

  “No need,” said Clara. “I’ve slept on the ground many times. I thank you for your hospitality.”

  “It is the least we can do.”

  It was Galen who found her blankets and a spare mess kit—tin cup, fork, metal plate. “I’m grateful,” said Clara, accepting them, “but I don’t want to put any of your people out.”

  Galen shook his head. “You aren’t,” he said. “A long trip, somebody always loses part of their kit, or one of the blankets gets soaked and mildews, or someone falls in a river. It’s just easier to keep a few spare sets so that no one spends half the trip having to share gear.”

  She had a long drink of water—the wagon held a water barrel as well, although not made of Imperial oak—and wandered off to relieve herself. When she returned, Istvhan gestured to the space under the wagon.

  “A place of honor,” she said, amused. The spot under the wagon would keep frost off and hold heat better than the open air.

  “As befits your station, Domina,” he said, and though she couldn’t see his face, she could definitely hear the smile.

  Clara rolled herself into the blankets. The ground was cold, but no harder than the floor of Bastian’s house had been. She closed her eyes, extracted a rock from under her head, and was asleep before the rest of the camp had settled.

  It was a cold morning. Frost coated the grass. Istvhan allowed a fire just long enough to heat water. They shared out tea so strong that it was bitter on the tongue, but it shocked everyone awake.

  “A mule behaves,” muttered Brindle to his charges. “A mule does what a mule is told, and a mule gets warm mash later.” He rolled one dark eye at Captain Istvhan, as if daring the man to make a liar of him.

  “As soon as we’re across the border,” agreed Istvhan. “Then we’ll make a decent camp and see what the thanes have to say.”

  The thanes, as it turned out, were pleased to see them. They charged outrageously for passage through their territory—“I want to buy passage, not the entire town!”—and haggling it down was enjoyable for everyone.

  “You could have gotten it for less,” murmured Clara.

  “Yes, but this way they think they’ve gotten one over on me, and it puts them in a good mood.” Istvhan counted out coin and handed it to the thane’s representative. The tall blonde man eyed the rest of the pouch and invited them all to the market the next day. Somewhat to Clara’s surprise, Istvhan accepted.

  “Is it safe, boss?” asked Galen, as the representative rode away.

  “Markets are under truce,” said Clara. “No one will challenge you to a duel. Otherwise people would get too fidgety and it would cut into profits for everyone.”

  “Good to know,” said Istvhan. “And I’d like to ask around about a few things.” He gave Clara a weighing look. “Would you be able to ask questions among the women for me? It’s not a culture that looks kindly on strange men talking too closely with women.”

  “Certainly. What do you want to know?”

  He and Galen exchanged a look. Galen murmured “Is this wise, boss?” in the language that Clara was still pretending not to know.

  “Unexplained deaths,” said Istvhan, ignoring him. “We were hearing some very unsettling rumors as we came north. I’d like to follow up on them.”

  Now that is interesting. “It’s a hard country,” said Clara. “People die all the time.”

  “The rumors were about decapitations, specifically. Which isn’t normal, no matter how hard the country is.”

  Clara whistled. “Hadn’t heard anything like that with Bastian’s people.”

  “And if we’re lucky, we won’t hear anything here. I’d rather not have severed heads turning up in the soup.” Istvhan folded his arms. “Nevertheless, the people we talked to were very concerned.”

  “I would be too, if people were turning up without heads.”

  Istvhan and Galen shared another brief glance. Clara wondered what they weren’t telling her. Had she fallen in with a band of roving killers who were chopping off people’s heads at random? It seemed unlikely, but you never knew. And it would be depressing. She rather liked Istvhan and Galen and would hate to have to kill them in self-defense. St. Ursa, if you have sent me to be an instrument of Your vengeance, I wish that you would have waited until after I’d found my sisters…

  Fortunately, no one offered to cut her head off in the next few hours. They reached the agreed upon camping spot and Istvhan signaled a halt. “We’ll be here for two days,” he said. “If you’ve got any gear that needs mending, now’s a good time to work on it.”

  Brant climbed out of the wagon and began planting acorns. Brindle unhitched the mules and tethered them in a line. Clara turned back to Istvhan. He had a slight frown on his face, dark eyebrows pulled together. “I am sorry for the delay, Domina. I know that you are eager to reunite with your sisters.”

  Clara snorted. “It’s been nearly a month, half of which I spent at death’s door. You need not apologize. I have already accepted that there is no hope of catching up to them before they reach their destination. I only wish to learn what tha
t destination is.”

  “And then?”

  “And then I will find a way to get them back,” said Clara. She cracked her knuckles. Istvhan’s eyes widened just slightly, then he laughed.

  “I pity the men who stand against you.” He shook his head. “More immediately, I should ask if you mind sharing the command tent. I give you my word I will treat your honor as my own, but I will not be offended if your people do not let unwed men and women share sleeping quarters.”

  “Bah,” said Clara. “I’m not so rude as to kick you out in the cold when you’re being so gracious as to escort me across the mountains.”

  “It wouldn’t be the cold,” said Istvhan. “I’d make someone else share. They’d whine, but they’d live.”

  “Still seems unkind. And I suppose then I’d have to put the blasted thing up myself as well.”

  Istvhan laughed. “Actually two of the men are positive demons at tent building. They put all of them up and in return, they don’t stand watches. They’ll have the command tent up in ten minutes, while I’d still be laying out poles and trying to figure out which set goes where.”

  While Clara suspected that he was playing droll for her benefit, she had to admit that his men really had an uncanny knack for it. She went off to relieve herself just out of sight and when she returned, half the tents were erected and the pair was hard at work on the remainder. Istvhan held back the command tent flap and gestured. “Your palace, Domina.”

  “So kind.”

  He had already laid out his bedroll, which was a subtle bit of kindness. It let her place hers as far away as she liked, without making it awkward. She chose a spot halfway around the tent where nothing lay between her and the door. And I wonder if he did that deliberately or if it was just a happy accident…

  Hard to say. It wasn’t the sort of thing that most men ever had to think about. But there was more going on behind Istvhan’s eyes than he let on, she’d bet money on it.

  At the moment, what was going on behind his eyes appeared to be sleep. He was stretched out, using his bedroll as a bolster, eyes closed as if he was about to take an afternoon nap. Clara was reminded of the lynxes that prowled the forests near the convent—big, heavy-bodied cats with enormous paws and the same sense of lazy alertness. She’d seen pumas in the woods, which were undoubtedly larger, but they always seemed lanky to her, as if they had a hard time getting weight on. The biggest lynxes were almost spherical, with bunchy hindquarters and thick coats of fur.

  This is probably not the time to be speculating on how bunchy the gentleman’s hindquarters are. She swallowed a laugh. Nevertheless, the image stayed with her. There was a great deal of raw animal vitality to Istvhan, even when he was resting.

  The tent was warming quickly from the brazier. The bright colors of the walls made it feel like summer. Perhaps that’s what he reminds me of, a cat in a sunbeam…

  “May I trouble you for some tea?” asked Clara. “I’ll make it if you tell me where it is.”

  Istvhan opened his eyes a slit. “Metal tin on your left.”

  She was already reaching for it when she registered that he’d spoken in Harshek. She gave him a cross look and he smiled lazily.

  “Well, blast,” she said. “And here I was hoping to keep that to myself, in case you gave orders to murder me.”

  He chuckled, eyes closing again. “Clever, Domina. Do you speak any others?”

  “Several, depending on how you count the various trade-tongues along the Slicewater. They’ve all got the same basic structure, but they take words from all over, so one end sounds different than the other. My monastery spoke Dryman, but we illuminate in Harshek.”

  “Ah, that’s how you learned it.”

  “You?”

  “A few. Harshek’s my native tongue.”

  Clara let the tea leaves finish steeping and poured the tea out. She passed him a cup. He took it, rubbing his eyes with his free hand. “Dirt was a harder bed than I like, at my age,” he said. “Particularly after a very awkward duel in the morning.”

  “I’m sorry. That couldn’t have been pleasant.”

  “I don’t mind killing,” he said. “I don’t enjoy it, but it’s a thing I’m good at, so I do it as needed. But desperate young men…”

  “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “No, it wasn’t.” Istvhan gave her a wry look. “I’m not wallowing in guilt, Domina, if that’s what you fear. I was doing my best to disarm him and he practically threw himself on my sword. Truly, there was nothing I could have done. Some people are going to be killed by the world, and it appears this time I was chosen to hold the blade. It’s just such a damn waste, that’s all.”

  Clara lifted her cup in silent acknowledgement.

  She didn’t quite know where to look, so she found herself looking down at her hands, and then at his hands on the tea cup. His were thick and powerful, the backs covered in dozens of short scars, the defensive wounds of any warrior. There was a particularly nasty puckered scar on the left one, right at the web between thumb and forefinger, as if he had been stabbed in the hand.

  “It was a possessed peacock,” he said.

  She looked up, startled. “Beg pardon?”

  “The scar you’re staring at.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to stare.” And then, because she couldn’t possibly let it go, “A possessed peacock?”

  Istvhan grinned. His teeth were very white. “Not truly possessed. A wonderworker whose peculiar talent was controlling poultry. We were hired to deal with him. He’d been using flocks of geese to terrorize a nearby town and demand protection money. He could only do domestic fowl, thank the gods, or he’d probably have sent swans and eagles after us.”

  Clara thought there was an almost infinitesimal pause before ‘hired’ but it had been so slight that she might have imagined it. “So he attacked you with a peacock?”

  “Drove its beak right into my hand. I was lucky. One of my compatriots took three geese to the head and we had to carry him out on a stretcher.”

  She lifted her teacup and frowned at him over it. “I am not sure how much of that story to believe.”

  “It is the god’s own truth, Domina. I have been slightly nervous around certain shades of blue ever since.” Istvhan drained his cup. “I’m for a nap,” he said. “If you wish to wander, any of my men will accompany you if you ask.”

  “Is that an order?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “Not at all. You know as well as I do what the risks are here. You’ve lived through them.” He rearranged the bolster and slouched back against it, closing his eyes. “It is as much for the benefit of my nerves as your safety, Domina.”

  “We must save your nerves at all cost,” said Clara. “Never fear, Captain Istvhan, I could use a nap myself.” She stretched out on her bedroll, and if he said something clever in response, she fell asleep too quickly to hear it.

  Four

  Istvhan dozed, but only lightly. It was the kind of nap that wasn’t quite sleep, and he could have been on his feet with a sword in his hand in a matter of seconds.

  As no one came through the door waving weapons and shouting that he had murdered their second cousin twice removed, he got perhaps an hour of rest. Occasionally, he would glance over and see Clara sleeping on her bedroll. She had curled on her side and reminded him of a hibernating bear. A large, powerful beast, currently at rest, and yet he had a suspicion she could be dangerous if roused.

  He still didn’t know how he felt about her. They were, at the moment, going the same direction, and she had not slowed his mission at all. And certainly his mission was not so time-sensitive that he could not turn aside for a convent of kidnapped nuns.

  And yet…

  There was something reserved about her. He had no doubt that her story was true, but she was telling him only so much as he needed to know. Which was…oh, not suspicious, not at all, you didn’t fall into the lap of what appeared to be a mercenary captain and immediately blurt out your
life story. It was just that when he looked at her, watching and weighing, she looked back and he was quite certain that she was watching and weighing him the same way.

  Istvhan was pleasant and generally good-humored and because he was very large, he knew that people thought he must be stupid. They did not expect him to look any farther than his next meal or his next job or his next woman. He wondered if they thought the same of Clara, that because she was very large, she must be slow and not terribly bright.

  And I wonder if that is as dangerous a mistake to make about you as it is about me?

  She had spoken so blithely about escaping her captors and traveling by night. His first thought had been that such things were a great deal more difficult than civilians thought.

  His second thought, however, was that Sister Clara did not strike him as a fool.

  She sat up. He hadn’t known that she was awake, and that, too, was interesting. She had a complicated expression, although it didn’t seem to be directed at him.

  “Are you married?” asked Clara abruptly.

  Istvhan’s first thought was that she was somehow propositioning him. His second was that she was a nun and that was just not a thing that happened. His third thought, somewhat belatedly, was that he wouldn’t actually mind if she did. She was…interesting.

  Interesting, my ass. She’s built to the same scale you are, and that’s rare enough to be fascinating. And she was cool as ice sitting on your doorstep with a sword and a lot of angry men behind her.

  She also had great thighs. Istvhan had always quite admired women’s thighs. And her breasts were built to the same scale as the rest of her, which meant that there was enough of them to fill even Istvhan’s enormous hands.

  She’s also a nun. Bishops, yes, priests sometimes, nuns never. There are rules.

  He took refuge in amusement. “No woman’s been fool enough for that, I’m afraid.”

  Clara did not meet his eyes. She was…Saint’s blood, was she blushing?