A Sellsword's Will Read online

  “Pay them?” Leomin asked, his tone genuinely curious. “Why would I do that? After all, we were all enjoying our time together. It doesn’t seem fair that I should have to pay for the privilege unless they must do the same, which begs the question of who we would be paying.”

  Wendell grunted in annoyance, and Aaron laughed. “You do understand that most people have to pay for the privilege of making use of a brothel’s wares, don’t you?”

  Leomin opened his mouth to speak then glanced at the angry look on Wendell’s face and thought better of it. “Besides,” Aaron went on, “Kevlane already wants to kill us, and he already knows where we are. It’s not as if the man can kill us twice.” His smile faded. “Also…I’ve got a bad feeling.”

  “Yeah, me too,” Wendell mumbled, “on account of I did pay.”

  “Not about that,” Aaron said. “It’s…I get the feeling that we’re running out of time.” He turned to Leomin. “Will you do it?”

  Leomin sighed. “Very well, Mr. Envelar. If you say so then so it shall be. Still, I think I must point out that it will take some time. Convincing the general will be hard enough, bond or not, and the two crime bosses will be even worse.”

  Aaron nodded. “I guess it’s a good thing that you don’t have to convince them.”

  “Oh?” Leomin said, the relief clear in his voice.

  “Just the queen,” Aaron said, “that should be enough. Do you think you can handle it?”

  “I believe so. She is well…not to be crass, but a bit larger than I generally prefer but, still, there are many men out there who search for just such a—” He cut off as Wendell burst into laughter, and Aaron sighed.

  “Gods, Leomin, I don’t want you to sleep with her, only convince her that attacking Baresh is our only option.”

  “Ah,” Leomin said, clearing his throat. “Right.”

  Wendell shook his head, studying the Parnen. “Gods, Leomin, are there any women you haven’t bedded?”

  “Of course,” Leomin said, “several, and a pity it is too. I am a man full of love, overflowing with it, in fact, and I have no choice but to let it out, from time to time, lest I should burst. Still, there are plenty of women that have not had the opportunity to experience it. Princess Adina for exa—” He cut off, his eyes going wide as he realized what he’d been about to say, and he turned to Aaron. The sellsword was studying him with a hard stare, and Leomin coughed. “Not that I would ever think of doing anything with her. Much too fine for one such as I, of course.” He glanced back at Aaron, saw that his expression hadn’t changed, and tried again, “That is…I could never hope to compete—”

  “Leave it, Leomin,” Aaron said, “just leave it. All I need from you is to see what you can do about making the queen see reason. I can kick your ass later, if we live through this. Now, come on,” he said, rising, “there’s no time to waste.”

  Chapter

  Seven

  The night was dark and moonless. The lanterns that hung at regular intervals along the street did little to penetrate the gloom, providing only enough illumination to breathe life into the shadows, to give them form and substance. The three men walking down the street had their minds on their own thoughts, their own worries, and so they did not notice the shadow that was slightly different from the rest, hunkered down on the roof of the brothel they’d just left.

  Only one shadow among thousands, that was all. Still, it would not be a discredit to the three men to imagine that, even had they been looking, they might not have seen the figure crouching on the rooftop on the balls of its feet. And even if they had noticed, even had they somehow managed to pick that one figure out of the tapestry of darkness, they might well have thought it no more than some trick of their vision, for the figure was still and unmoving. Not unmoving in the way a man is, for a man is never truly still. Instead, his arms and his legs are only ever waiting to move, yearning for it; his mind, too, has its own momentum, not easily stopped or even slowed.

  The figure crouched on the roof, however, had little in common with a mortal man, and it existed within that darkness as if it were a part of it, shadow given substance, night given form, and not even so much as its breath pluming in the cool night air could be seen. A man, had he been standing even within a few feet, might have been forgiven for believing the figure to be dead or, perhaps, some strange, alien statue commissioned by the brothel’s owner. But the figure crouched on the edge of the roof was not dead, and he watched in silence as the three men moved further down the street until, finally, they passed beyond his view. When they were gone, he rose and turned to look at a nearby roof where another figure rose from its own crouch. The two seemed to study each other across the gap in the buildings in silence for a moment then, without a word, they turned and started to descend to the streets, their movements confident and sure.

  Chapter

  Eight

  They lay in Thom’s bed on Captain Festa’s ship, both panting for air. “Well,” May said, pushing a hand through her long red hair as she turned on her side, “that was something.”

  “Yes,” the first mate managed through his heaving breaths, “it was something.”

  She smiled down at him, running a finger over his naked chest. Thom was in his early fifties if he was a day, but he didn’t look it. His body was packed with thin, corded muscle from a life spent working on one ship or the other, his skin tanned. Besides, he was only a few years older than May herself, never mind the lie that she often told whenever the subject of her age came up. The thought made her sad. Fifty years and nothing to show for it. Oh, she had her club back in the Downs, had men and women who relied on her, but no family. No husband or kids. Children were far beyond her reach now, and that was alright, she thought. After all, she had plenty enough people to look after without a squealing baby. A husband though…

  “What was it?” she asked abruptly.

  The first mate rubbed a hand across his face. “Sorry, what?”

  “You said it was something,” she answered. “What was it?”

  He grinned. “It was fun, May. That’s what. It’s always fun.”

  She frowned at that and rose from the bed, pulling the quilt off of him and covering herself as she began to pick up her clothes from where they lay scattered across the room. “May?” he asked. She didn’t answer, and he sat up on the side of the bed, watching her. “May, did I do something wrong?”

  “No, of course you didn’t,” she snapped, hating herself for the hurt that came through in her voice. You’re too old for this, woman. Too damned old, and you should know better by now. Never get attached. Nothing good can come of it. “We had fun. Oh, we could have gone on a hike, maybe, or went to a tavern and gotten so drunk we couldn’t stand up, but we decided on this, and that’s alright because it was fun.”

  She turned back to the bed to see the first mate staring at her, a look of confusion on his face, “May…I didn’t…it wasn’t just fun. It was incredible. It’s always incredible with you. You’re incredible.”

  She snorted as she gathered up her dress. Then she stepped behind a small divider that afforded privacy. “Incredible, am I? Well, that’s something, I suppose. It will look nice enough on my tombstone, won’t it? Oh, no ‘beloved mother’ or ‘beloved wife’ for me. Still, ‘she was incredible’ will do.” She knew that she wasn’t being fair, that she was taking out her worries on the first mate, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself. Since Aaron had returned with that thing, she’d found herself, for the first time in a very, very long time, considering failure. She had survived in the Downs in large part because she was cleverer than most those around her—not saying much, given the population of the Downs—and because she made it her point to know as much as it was possible to know, not just about her enemies, but about her friends too. But when you were up against things that weren’t even human, when you were up against monsters that belonged in some fairy tale book instead of lying dead in a queen’s audience chamber, what good were cleverness and knowledge?

  “May,” Thom said, “I don’t understand. What is it?”

  “Never mind, Thom,” she said, realizing she didn’t have the energy to argue, that she didn’t want to even if she had. Just be satisfied with what you have, woman. A man to keep you warm at night, and that’s no small thing. She knew as well as any that such things never lasted even in the best of times, and these were far from the best of times. No, not the best of times but, quite possibly, the last of them, and here she was snapping at the one man that made them bearable. “I’m just irritable, that’s all,” she said, sighing, “I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”

  She looked over the partition to see the first mate nodding, a troubled expression on his face. “Will you come back to bed then? We don’t have to…I mean…”

  “No, thank you,” she said, her ire rising despite herself, “I don’t need any charity from you, Thom Gustain, not you or any man. I have things to be about.”

  “Oh?” he asked. “What things?”

  “You just never mind,” she said, frowning as she bent to slide on one of her shoes. “I’m not your wife, and I’ve no need to go explaining my comings and goings to you whenever you’ve a mind to listen.” She saw the hurt in his eyes as she rose, and sighed. “It’s nothing really. I just thought I’d go and check on Silent.”

  “He’s lucky to have you.”

  May snorted. “I think he’d probably argue that. Still, I know he’s been trying to convince the queen and the others to change their vote for attacking, and I want to check and see how everything’s going.”

  Thom frowned. “Do you really think he’s right, May? I’m no soldier, but it seems to me that attacking a stronger enemy that is entrenched in their defenses is an easy way to get a lot of good
men killed.”

  May laughed, and the bitterness in it surprised her. “Oh, Thom. I’m not sure that such a thing as a good man exists.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  May slipped on her other shoe and stepped from behind the dressing partition. “I don’t know what I think, Thom. I’m no general to go moving pieces on a game board and watch people die for it. But Silent is one of the cleverest people I know, and I trust him. He believes it’s the only way, and I believe in him, so that’s enough for me.”

  The first mate nodded, and he rose, throwing on a pair of sailor trousers, the cuffs of which stopped mid-calf. Angry or not she couldn’t help but notice that the man did have nice calves. “And after?” he said. “Will you come back to see me?”

  Yes, she thought, I’d like that. But what came out of her mouth was, “Probably not tonight. There’s a dance being held at The Bottomless Cup tonight in Perennia. I thought I’d go to that.”

  “A…a dance? Do you really think you should go to such a thing?”

  “Why wouldn’t I?” May demanded, and the first mate winced as if she’d struck him.

  “Uh…no reason, May,” he said, “I just wondered, that’s all. I mean…is it safe?”

  May scowled. “What are you saying, Thom? That I need a man to keep me safe, is that it? I’ll have you know that I’ve spent the majority of my life leading an organization in the Downs, spent my days outmaneuvering and outthinking men far more dangerous than any I might happen to see at some dance. Besides,” she said, turning and starting for the door, “it isn’t as if I have a husband or a boyfriend to bring along, is it?”

  “May, wait,” he said, and she spun on him.

  “What?”

  The first mate fidgeted, obviously uncomfortable. “I…that is…be careful.”

  She studied him for a moment then walked out the door. And if she slammed it on her way out, so what? Sometimes, a woman just needed to slam a door, that was all.

  ***

  The first mate stared at the closed door for several seconds, replaying the conversation in his mind and trying to figure out what he’d done and how a day that had started so well had soured so quickly. Sighing, he pulled his shirt on and started up toward the deck. Maybe Balen or Captain Festa would be able to shed some light on what the woman was on about.

  Chapter

  Nine

  “P-please, g-gods, please.” Words that were little more than a gasp, so quiet that he might not have even known what they were at all, if not for the fact that he’d heard them so often of late. Over his long life, Boyce Kevlane had found that all men, in their final moments, were the same. Their gasps, their moans and pleas, all indistinguishable from one to the next. Even the words they used, the promises they made, all the same, all tediously, exhaustingly the same.

  Men, at the end, were much as they were at the beginning—little more than animals, scared, confused animals who knew nothing and thought nothing beyond the shocking, jarring sensation of being pulled away from all that they’ve known, of being jerked away from the familiar into a place of shadows and uncertainty, a place in which they have no part and wish none.

  Kevlane knew this better than most, for he had seen hundreds, thousands meet their ends in his time and no matter how brave or strong they were thought in life, they all did so in much the same way. They screamed, and they begged, and they died. Sometimes they soiled themselves and sometimes they did not; beyond that, there was little variety in the manner with which they began their journey to Salen’s Fields. “Easy now,” he whispered as the man struggled against his bonds, “it’s alright.” It wasn’t, of course, at least not for the man, but if his unnaturally long life had taught Kevlane anything it was that men and women would hang on to any false hope, any empty comfort they could find, in order to assure themselves that everything would be alright, in the end.

  Kevlane closed his eyes as he dug the knife in deeper, his hand guided by experience and by the Art instead of his sight. He felt it, then, the pressure of the Art building within the mewling thing before him, felt it digging in, trying to find within the man a place to hold its power. It was not, Kevlane knew, a pleasant feeling, and the man’s screams were sharp and terrible as the magic tried to take hold. If it did, the man before him would become faster than he’d ever been before, would move with a speed greater than even the finest horse. But first, there was the pain. In the mage’s experience, pain was the barrier to most of life’s greatest treasures.

  “P-please,” the man gasped in choked sobs, “k…kill me.”

  “I am not killing you,” Kevlane said, offended, “I am making you better, don’t you see that? You will be a force to be reckoned with a—” He cut off as the man’s eyes rolled slowly up into their sockets. “No,” Kevlane said, “don’t you even think of it.” He sent a fresh wave of the Art into the man, straining with the effort, but the man didn’t seem aware of it. His old, too-thin chest gave one deep shudder and then grew still.

  “No,” Kevlane hissed, “no! I am not finished with you yet, damn you.” He strained, reaching for more of the Art, and he felt a great pressure build inside his head, as if it would burst apart at any moment. Still, he pressed on, hissing spittle out onto the bloody form lying on the stone slab beneath him and, finally, he gathered enough power and forced it into the man once more.

  The old man’s back arched so abruptly and sharply that Kevlane thought he heard something crack, and he heaved out a breath before collapsing once more onto the slab. Kevlane watched him for several moments, waiting to see the rise and fall of his chest, but there was nothing but the stillness and the smell of blood and worse. Dead then. Hours wasted. Screaming with rage, he spun and hurtled the bloody knife against the earthen wall of the chamber.

  He stood there, panting for breath, exhausted by the energy he’d expended only to have the fool die anyway. Then he heard the sound of the door opening and turned to see Caldwell entering the room. The two hulking figures that kept watch on either side of the door started toward him, obviously meaning violence, but stopped when they saw it was the advisor. Caldwell must have seen something in Kevlane’s face because he seemed to shrink within himself, and his face grew pale and sickly. “M-master. I’m…sorry. To disturb you, I mean.”

  Kevlane stared at the man, his rage churning in him like a gathering storm. For a brief moment, he considered killing the advisor out of hand, of tearing him apart in a fit of anger, but he took a slow, deep breath to steady himself. As he did, he watched the thin man glance past him at the table where the dead man lay, his ankles and wrists manacled to the stone surface. “Forgive me, Master,” the advisor said, dropping to his knees and bowing his head, “I did not mean to disturb you when you are about your work.”

  “What work?” Kevlane hissed. “That is seven in a row, Caldwell. Seven you have brought me that are too weak to survive the shaping. Seven over which I have worked and toiled, at no small amount of pain to myself, only to have them demonstrate a will insufficient to keep them alive. Oh yes,” he said, as if the advisor had asked, “there is great pain, Caldwell. Not only for he who is shaped but for the one doing the shaping as well. What is left of the Art is much like a knife with no handle, only blade, and it cuts he who wields it as deeply as it does he upon whom it is used.”

  He stepped closer to the advisor, wiping his bloody hands on a robe that was already covered with crimson stains. “I wonder if it would help you to understand, Caldwell, if I should visit some part of that pain upon you. Perhaps then, you would not send me weaklings.”

  “P-please, Master,” the thin man said, his body visibly shaking as he knelt on the dirt floor, “I beg of you…I live only to serve you.”

  “So do they,” Kevlane said, a cruel smile rising on his face as he motioned to the two hulking figures standing near the door, “yet they do not fail me, Caldwell. They would not even consider such a thing as failure. And while I sit here wasting my time and my efforts on the old and the infirm, that bastard, Aaron Envelar, works to unite the whole of Telrear against me.”