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# Chapter Fifteen

Bahzell led his new employer through the deserted streets in glum silence. He'd done it again. Poked his nose into something that was none of his affair because he simply couldn't leave well enough alone, and now look what he'd landed himself in! Of all the—!

Yet for all his self-disgust, he saw no escape. He owed Zarantha something for keeping him out of jail; no doubt this ni'Tarth would have found him easy to get to there. By the same token, ni'Tarth left him no choice but to get out of Riverside, jail or no jail. Of course, none of that would have been true if he hadn't tried to help Zarantha, but he couldn't really blame her for that. He'd known better and done it anyway, which only made him angrier with himself. The best he could hope for now was that her family truly would be able to pay a little something for getting her home . . . which didn't seem likely. Whatever she claimed, even a hradani knew you didn't find noblewomen dressed like peasants—and poor peasants, at that—creeping around the stews and alleys of a place like Riverside in the middle of the night!

He growled an oath and stalked onward. At least, he told himself morosely, it gave him someplace to go instead of squatting in this miserable city while the money ran out, but he hated to imagine Brandark's reaction.

They reached the tavern where he and Brandark lodged, and the slatternly landlady looked up from behind the bar as he led Zarantha in. Beady eyes brightened in their harridan net of wrinkles as she saw the young woman at the hradani's side, but she put what she fondly imagined was a prim look of disapproval on her face and waved a bony finger at Bahzell.

"Here, now! This here's a decent place, it is. I'll not have ye bringin' yer fancy pieces an' gods know what pox or flux back to my beds!"

The Horse Stealer's foxlike ears flattened, and the landlady paled as he glared down at her. He truly couldn't have said which infuriated him more—the insult to Zarantha, the notion that he might dally with a whore, or the leering, knowing note in her voice—but any of them would have been enough tonight.

Silence hovered for a long, fragile moment before he made his fury relax and gave her a thin smile. "You were saying?" he rumbled.

The slattern swallowed nervously, but then she straightened, and defiant spite flashed in her eyes, made even stronger by the shame of her own fear as she realized he wasn't going to attack her after all.

"No need t' take that tone wi' me, master high an' mighty! It's me as is mistress o' this house, an' ye'll bide by my rules, or out ye goes!" She sniffed with growing confidence, for she knew how long and hard the hradani had looked before they found lodging in the first place. "Maybe ye can find someplace else as'll take yer kind, but if yer minded t' bed that hussy in my house, ye'll be payin' two silver extra to futter her, me lad!"

"And what," Zarantha asked, a note of amusement in her musically accented Axeman, "makes you assume that's what he has in mind?"

"Hoo! A furriner, are ye?" The landlady cackled. "Well now, missy, just what d'ye think I'm a-thinkin'? The shame of it, spreadin' yer legs fer the likes o' him, an' him not even human!"

Bahzell's ears went flat once more, and the slattern's vicious smile vanished as he stalked wordlessly towards her. The Horse Stealer had endured enough this night, but he reminded himself sternly that his hostess was a woman—a loathsome, disgusting woman, but a woman—and so he reached out to the thirty-gallon beer keg on the bar instead of her scrawny neck. It was half full, and beer sloshed noisily as he plucked it from its chocks.

"I'm thinking," he said softly, holding the keg out straight-armed, directly over her head, "that you're after owing this lady an apology."

The landlady looked up and blanched. The keg hung motionless above her, not even quivering, and her eyes darted back to the hradani's expressionless face and then to Zarantha.

"T-T-To be sure, I meant ye no offense, and—and I humbly begs yer pardon," she gabbled, and Bahzell allowed himself another thin smile.

"Good," he said in that same, soft voice. He replaced the keg in its chocks with neat precision and waved Zarantha towards the stairs. She inclined her head to the landlady in a gracious nod and swished up them in her torn homespun skirt, and Bahzell gave the harridan one last blood-chilling smile, patted the keg lightly, and followed her.

Brandark was still up, nursing a bottle before the tiny fire on the smoky hearth, when Bahzell and Zarantha entered the cheap room. He looked up at the opening door, and his eyes widened as he saw Zarantha. But he recovered quickly and scrambled to his feet, and her lips quirked as he twitched his lacy shirt straight and bestowed a graceful bow upon her.

"Will you stop that?" Bahzell growled. Something suspiciously like a chuckle came from Zarantha, and Brandark bobbed back up with a twinkle. Bahzell saw it and growled again, but Brandark only cocked his ears in polite inquiry.

"And who might your lovely companion be?"

"I'll 'companion' you one, for half a copper kormak!" Bahzell rumbled in an overtried voice.

"Now, Bahzell!" Unholy amusement danced in Brandark's eyes as he added the dried blood on Bahzell's right hand to Zarantha's general dishevelment, and he shook his head. "I apologize for my friend," he told Zarantha in his smoothest tones. "It's his hand, I think. For some reason, his brain never works too well when his hand's bloody. It seems to make him remarkably irritable for some reason, too."

"Listen, you runty, undersized, pipsqueak excuse for a hradani, I've been having about all—!"

"Now, now! Not in front of company." Brandark smiled dazzlingly. "You can abuse me all you like later," he soothed.

Bahzell made a sound midway between a growl, a sigh, and a groan, and Brandark laughed. He waggled his ears outrageously at the Horse Stealer, and, despite himself, Bahzell's lips twitched in a weary grin.

"That's better! And now if you'd introduce us?"

"Brandark Brandarkson of Navahk, be known to—" Bahzell frowned and looked at Zarantha. "What was it you were calling yourself?"

"My name is Zarantha," she said, smiling at Brandark, and the Bloody Sword's ears perked up at her accent. "Lady Zarantha Hûrâka, of Clan Hûrâka."

"Do you know," Brandark murmured, "I think you actually may be."

"Why, thank you, sir," she said with a deeper smile, and swept him a curtsy she'd never learned in the alleys of Riverside.

"But I trust you'll forgive me," he went on, "if exactly what a Spearman lady is doing in Riverside, and how we can serve her, eludes me?"

"You didn't tell me your friend was so charming," she murmured to Bahzell, and the Horse Stealer snorted.

"Aye, isn't he just?"

"Of course I am." Brandark drew the second rickety chair back from the equally unsteady table for their guest. She seated herself with a regal air, and the Bloody Sword looked expectantly back at his friend. "I assume from the state of your hand that you've been up to your old tricks. Would you care to tell me exactly what you've landed us in this time?"

Brandark took the explanation better than Bahzell had feared, though the Horse Stealer was none too sure his gales of laughter at the description of the fight in the alley were truly preferable. He sobered—some—on hearing the sergeant's warning about ni'Tarth, but he only shrugged at the revelation that he and Bahzell were now bound for the Empire of the Spear.

"Well, you said you wanted to go east," he murmured, "and you do have a way of, ah, expediting your departures, don't you?" Bahzell snorted in his throat, and the Bloody Sword chuckled. "Yes, you do. In fact, I think I feel an inspiration coming on."

"Oh, no, you don't!" Bahzell said hastily.

"Oh, but I do!" Brandark's eyes glinted at him. "I think I'll call it . . . The Lay of Bahzell Bloody-Hand. How does that sound?"

"Like a just enough cause for murder!"

"Nonsense! Why, I'll make you famous, Bahzell! Everywhere you go, folk will know of your heroic deeds and towering nobility!"

"You'd best give the idea over while you've still two hands to write with," Bahzell growled, but his own lips twitched, and Zarantha chuckled again. Then the Horse Stealer sobered. "Aye, that's well enough, Brandark, but we've landed neck-deep in trouble again, and it's me that's put us there."

"Now don't take on so. It's my fault, too. After all, I know the sorts of things you get into when I'm not there to stop you."

"Will you be serious?" Bahzell demanded, but Brandark only laughed, and the Horse Stealer turned his back on him to frown down at Zarantha. "I'm thinking you know you've mousetrapped me fair and square," he told her, "but I've a mind to hear a bit more about you before we're off to the South Weald."

"There's not a great deal to tell," she shrugged. "My father is Caswal of Hûrâka. Hûrâka has some claim to fame, locally at least, though it's certainly not the largest sept of Shâloan, and he wanted me properly educated."

"A Spearman noble sent his daughter to the Axemen for schooling?" Brandark asked with a peculiar emphasis, and Zarantha gave him a small smile.

"I see you do know a bit about Spearmen, Lord Brandark."

"Just Brandark, since it seems we're working for you now," the Bloody Sword said, but he continued to gaze at her intently, and she shrugged.

"As I say, Hûrâka isn't the largest sept of Shâloan, and Father's always had some . . . peculiar notions and no sons. My mother is dead, and he remarried just two years ago, so that may change, but for now I'm still his oldest child and heir. Of course, my husband would inherit the title and what lands go with it, not me, but still—"

She shrugged again, and Brandark nodded, yet a flicker of unsatisfied curiosity still glowed in his eyes.

"As for sending me to the Axemen," she went on more briskly, "pray, why should he not? There's always tension between the empires, but, as you say, I'm only a daughter. Even the most patriotic Spearman has to admit Axeman schools are better, and—" a hint of bitterness tinged her voice "—no one pays much heed to where a mere daughter is educated."

She fell silent, then gave her head a little toss. "At any rate, he sent me to Axe Hallow very quietly, I assure you. Just as I assure you he will, indeed, recompense you for any expenses you may suffer and reward you well for your assistance in getting me home."

Bahzell had the distinct impression as much was left unsaid as said, but he glanced at Brandark, and the Bloody Sword shrugged. He seemed to accept Zarantha's story at face value, but it was hard to be certain. For himself, Bahzell was inclined to believe all she'd said was true, yet that wasn't to say it was all the truth . . . or that she hadn't embroidered a bit about the edges.

"Well," he said at length, "if the sergeant had the right of it, we'd best be on our way quick." He bent a dubious eye on Zarantha. "Can you be staying on a horse if we put you there . . . Lady?"

She lowered her eyes demurely, but the ghost of a smile flickered about her lips.

"I think I could," she said in a meek voice, "but if you don't mind, I'd feel more comfortable on my mule. Father sent him to me, and he's a really fine mule. I have a pack mule, too, and another for my maid, Rekah, as well."

Bahzell studied the crown of her bent head, and a corner of his mind noted that her dark, shining hair was as scrupulously clean as her shabby garments had been before ni'Tarth's thugs attacked her. The thought of a father poor enough to send his eldest daughter off to foreign lands on muleback, without even a horse, caused his heart to sink, but there were worse things than mules when it came to the road. They were tough enough, with the ability to survive on forage that could never support a horse, and if he'd seldom met a mule with a disposition he cared for, they were also smarter than horses.

"Aye, well, I've no problem with that," he rumbled, "but you were saying you've still one guardsman left. D'you have a mule for him, as well?"

"Oh, no! But Tothas has an excellent horse," she said so reassuringly he felt an instant pang of dread. Then she raised her head and met his eyes with an earnest look. "The only problem is that, as I told you, we were robbed while he was ill. I've been able to pay our board and stable fees, but when it comes to provisions for the road—"

She raised her hands, empty palms up, and Bahzell looked at Brandark in resignation. The Bloody Sword only grinned and opened his purse to spill a scant handful of coins onto the wobbly table, and Bahzell sighed and followed suit.

They pushed their total remaining assets into a single heap, and Bahzell sat back to let Brandark count it. The Bloody Sword had a better notion of the value of foreign coins, and his fingers sorted them briskly while Zarantha sat with her hands in her lap and an anxious expression. Bahzell had an odd feeling she looked more anxious than she was, and it irritated him. He'd never seen a map of the Empire of the Spear—not one he'd trust, anyway—but it was easily half again the size of the Empire of the Axe. It was also far more sparsely settled, and the thought of crossing it with scant supplies at this time of year was hardly amusing, whatever Zarantha might think.

Bahzell finished counting and scraped the coins back into his purse, then leaned back in his chair with a thoughtful frown.

"We've enough, I think," he said after a moment. "Not much more than that, mind, but enough—assuming, that is," he added with a sharp glance at Zarantha, "that you and your servants have your own trail gear."

"We do," she assured him.

"In that case," Brandark turned his eyes to Bahzell, "we should consider where to get what we require. If this ni'Tarth is as powerful as your guardsman says, he won't need long to hear what happened. Under the circumstances, I'd just as soon get on the road quickly."

"You're minded to set out and buy what we need on the way?" Bahzell asked dubiously, and Brandark nodded.

"You and I have enough trail rations to carry us all for a day or two, and we're going to have to cross the Dreamwater when we leave Riverside. If this ni'Tarth is involved in the docks, it might be smarter to get ourselves ferried across before he puts out the word he's looking for us than to take the time to go shopping. We can buy what we need once we get over into Angthyr."

"Aye, that's true enough, but I've not the least notion where we're bound." Bahzell looked at Zarantha. "This Sherhan, now. You were saying it's near what?"

"Alfroma. That's the second largest city in the South Weald," she told him proudly.

"Well it may be, but I've no idea how to get there from here."

"Oh, that's all right. I know the way."

"Do you, now?" He gave her a grim look. "If it's all the same to you, Lady, I'm not minded to set out for a place I've no notion of how to find." He looked back at Brandark. "Would you be knowing the way?"

"No, but I know roughly where the South Weald is in relation to us, and I'm sure we can find a map in Kor Keep, if not sooner. On the other hand," it was Brandark's turn to look thoughtfully at their new employer, "I can't help wondering why your father didn't send you home by ship, My Lady. If memory serves, you could have sailed up the Sword to the Darkwater from Bortalik Bay. Surely that would have been faster, not to mention more comfortable—and safer—than traveling overland from Riverside at this time of year."

"Father doesn't like Purple Lords." For the first time, there was a truly evasive note in Zarantha's voice, but she brushed it aside and went on more briskly. "Besides, it should have been safe enough if my armsmen hadn't been taken ill," she reminded him. "There was no reason to expect that."

"I see." Brandark studied her a moment longer, then shrugged and turned back to Bahzell. "At any rate, we can get maps in Angthyr, and this Tothas probably knows the roads fairly well—"

"He does," Zarantha put in.

"—so I don't think that will be that much of a problem," Brandark continued with a flick of his ears. "At any rate, I don't want to hang about hunting for maps here. Even if this ni'Tarth didn't get us while we did it, he could probably find out which maps we'd been looking for after we'd gone. That might give him a better notion where to find us while we're still close enough for him to consider sending someone after us."

"Aye, there's that." Bahzell frowned down at the table for several silent moments, then twitched his shoulders and sighed. "In that case, I'm thinking we'd best be about it. It's coming up on dawn in an hour or two, and the ferries will be running with the sun."

"Agreed," Brandark nodded.

"Then if you'll pay our shot to the harpy downstairs—I've a notion she'd sooner see you than me, just now—let's be off."

Streetlights still burned behind them, for the sun was just rising as the ferry crept across the Dreamwater towards the Kingdom of Angthyr's Grand Duchy of Korwin. Heavy mist pressed down on the river's cold water, but the eastern sky was a pale gold glory, bright enough to throw shadows . . . and to hurt Bahzell Bahnakson's weary eyes.

The ferry was crowded, and the boatmen were surly. They'd grumbled resentfully when Brandark pulled them away from their breakfasts, and not even the extra coins he'd slipped them when no one was looking had sweetened their dispositions. They might be making twice the legal ferry fee, but they'd stood aloof and left it to the two hradani and Zarantha's single remaining armsman to get three nervous horses and three resentful mules aboard their craft.

Overall, Bahzell had been pleasantly surprised by the quality of Zarantha's animals. Her own saddle mule had a wicked, roving eye, but all three were long-legged, big-boned, powerful animals who looked remarkably well cared for, given their owner's poverty and the wretched inn at which they'd been stabled. For its part, Tothas' mount, far from being the nag he'd feared, was an excellent medium warhorse, and its war training—and bond with Tothas—showed. Finding an animal easily worth several hundred kormaks in the hands of a retainer who served such a poverty-stricken mistress was one more puzzle for him to chew at unhappily, and Zarantha's sweet smile when he saw it told him she'd enjoyed leading him to assume the worst.

Tothas himself was a cause of some concern, however. The man wore the crossed mace and sword of the Church of Tomanâk on an amulet about his neck. He felt solid, somehow, yet whatever illness he'd suffered from must have been both protracted and severe. He was tall for a human, and rangy, built much along the same lines as Rianthus—indeed, but for his chestnut hair and blue eyes, he reminded Bahzell a great deal of Kilthan's captain—but his haggard face was badly wasted and his chain hauberk hung on his gaunt frame. He moved briskly, and he'd accepted his mistress' arrival with two hradani in tow with remarkable calm, but his hands trembled ever so slightly, and he'd stopped once or twice as if he were short of breath. Still, his equipment was well cared for, and he had the look of a man who knew how to use both the sword at his side and the short horsebow on his back.

The maid, Rekah, was another matter. She was taller than Zarantha, and much fairer. In fact, she was considerably prettier than her mistress, in a soft-edged sort of way. Zarantha could not be many years out of her teens, and her nose was strong and slightly hooked, her hair dark and her triangular face lively but decidedly lean, while Rekah was a bit older, with golden hair, a sweet, oval face, and a straight little nose. She was also better dressed than Zarantha, but she had a pronounced tendency to flutter, and she'd shrunk back in dismay when Bahzell followed her mistress into their poorly furnished rooms. She'd settled down when Zarantha explained, yet her initial squeak of panic seemed a poor augury. Rekah, Bahzell thought, wouldn't have produced a dagger if she'd been caught in an alley; she would have been too busy flailing about and screaming for help.

Still, it was early days yet, he told himself—then snorted at his own thought. From what little he did remember about the Empire of the Spear's geography, they'd have more than sufficient days for him to learn all the strengths and weaknesses of their small party!

The one thing that had truly bothered him was Zarantha's manner when they reached the docks. She'd been brisk and purposeful getting things organized and chivvying Rekah and Tothas through the city, but once they neared the river she'd fallen back beside her maid and become a totally different person. She'd exchanged her torn skirt and cloak for sturdy trousers, a leather cap, and an equally plain coat of Axeman cut before leaving the inn; once at dockside, she'd pulled the cap down over her ears, turned up her coat collar, and huddled down in it almost as if she were trying to hide. She'd been colorless and passive, almost timid, leaving everything in Bahzell's hands without so much as a word, and he hadn't missed how close Tothas stayed to her or the way his hand kept checking his sword hilt.

Of course, this was ni'Tarth's domain. That was certainly enough to account for Tothas' attitude, but Zarantha had seemed far less frightened of ni'Tarth earlier. Bahzell couldn't shake the notion that she was worried by something more than the wrath of a Riverside crime lord, however powerful, and he chewed his lip unhappily at the thought. Little though he cared for the situation he'd landed in, he found himself liking Zarantha, almost against his will, and his stubborn sense that there was more—or possibly less—to her than she'd chosen to admit bothered him more than he cared to admit.

Unfortunately, Brandark had found the perfect way to distract him from his worries. The Bloody Sword was following through on his threat to write his thrice-bedamned Lay of Bahzell Bloody-Hand. Worse, he'd chosen to set it to the tune of a well-known—and dismayingly memorable—drinking song, and he'd insisted on singing the first three verses under his breath while he and Bahzell struggled to get the animals aboard the ferry. Now he sat on the lip of the ferry's single, squat deckhouse, looking down through the open skylight at Rekah and Zarantha while he plucked out the melody on his balalaika and regaled them with his work to date.

Bahzell folded his arms, standing in the very prow of the ferry—as far from his friend as he could get—and gritted his teeth as the balalaika's spritely notes rippled through the creak of the sweeps and the sounds of rushing water. The fact that Brandark's voice was doing a better job than usual of staying with the music did nothing at all to sweeten his mood—and neither did the gurgle of female laughter that greeted the Bloody Sword's efforts.

Bahzell Bahnakson stared glumly ahead into the Dreamwater's drifting mist, and the unpleasant suspicion that this was going to be a very long journey filled him.

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