Oathblood (15 page)

Well, that certainly accounted for the unease the place was giving her. All Shin‘a'in had a touch of earth-sense; it helped them avoid the few dangerous places left on the Plains, the places where dangerous things of magic were buried that were best left undisturbed.

“If this is change, progress, I don't like it,” Tarma said. “I know you sometimes think the Shin‘a'in are a little backward, because we don't like change, but this is one reason why we prefer to stay the way we are.”

The sorceress shifted in her saddle and shrugged. “Well, that isn't the only thing the man's changed,” Kethry continued. “And until just now, I didn't know if it was a good change, or a bad one.”

Her partner's troubled tone made Tarma glance sharply at the sorceress. “What change was that?”

“There're no Tanners' Guild members down there except the owner,” Kethry replied. “And I thought that might be a good thing, when I first heard of it. Sometimes I think the Guilds have too much power. You can't get into an apprenticeship if you haven't any money to buy your way into the Guild, unless you can find a Master willing to waive the fee. I thought that something like this might open the trades, give employment to people who desperately need it. But that—” she waved at the cluster of shacks around the tannery building, “—that mess—”

“That doesn't look as if he's doing much for the poor,” Tarma finished for her. “But there isn't much that we can do about it. We're just a couple of freelance mercs on the way to interview for a Company.” At Kethry's continued silence, she added sharply, “We are, aren't we?”

Kethry smiled a little from behind a wisp of windblown, amber hair. “Need isn't complaining, if that's what you're worried about. By which, I assume, Master Karden isn't interested in providing females with employment.”

“Possibly.” Tarma shrugged leather-clad shoulders. “Whatever the reason, at least we aren't going to have to fight your sword and its stupid compulsion to rescue women whether or not they deserve rescue—or even want rescue.”

Kethry didn't even answer; she simply touched her heels to Hellsbane's sides and gave the mare her head. The warsteed, sister to Tarma's Ironheart, threw up her head and moved readily into a canter, all too pleased to be getting out of there. Ironheart was after her a fraction of a heartbeat later.

The stench proved to be confined to the valley. Once they were on the opposite side of the next hill, the air was fresh and clean again. Tarma could not imagine what it must be like to live in that squalid little town.

:Presumably, their noses are numb,:
Warrl supplied, running easily alongside the road, his lupine head even with Tarma's calf. His head and shaggy coat were the only wolflike things about him; if Tarma squinted, she would have sworn there was a giant grass-cat running at her stirrup, not a wolf. In reality, Warrl was neither; he was a
kyree,
a Pelagir Hills creature, and bonded with Tarma as Kethry's spell-sword Need was bonded to the sorceress.

Once out of the reach of the stench, the horses slowed of their own accord. Warrl looked pleased with the change of pace. He looked even happier with the village built of the yellowish stone of these hills that appeared below them, as they topped yet another rise.

This would be their last stop before Hawksnest, the home of the mercenary company called “Idra's Sunhawks.” Tarma had no doubts that between the letters of introduction they carried, letters from two of Idra's former men, and their own abilities, Idra would sign them on despite their lack of training with a Company. After all, it wasn't every day that a Captain could acquire both a Shin‘a'in Swordsworn and a Journeyman White Winds sorceress for her ranks. When you added the formidable Warrl to the bargain, Tarma reckoned that Idra would be a fool to turn them down.

And no one had ever called Captain Idra a fool.

But that was ahead of them. For tonight, there would be a good meal and a bit of a rest. Not a bed; that single-storied country inn down there wasn't big enough for that. But there would be space on the floor once the last of the regulars cleared out for the night, and that was enough for the three of them. It was more than they'd had many times in the past.

It was an odd place for a village, though, out here in the middle of nowhere surrounded by grassy hills.

“So, did Justin tell you why there's a town out here, back of beyond?” Tarma asked out of curiosity.

“Same thing as brought that slum here,” Kethry replied. “Cattle. This is grazing country. There's a real Tanners' Guild House here, that's made leather for generations, and the locals produce smoked and dried beef for fighter rations.”

“And sometimes it's hard to tell one from the other,” Tarma chuckled.

Kethry laughed, and the sound of her merriment made heads turn toward them as they rode into the village square. Her laughter called up answering smiles from the inhabitants, who surely were no strangers to passing mercenaries.

Even Warrl caused no great alarm, though much curiosity. The dozen villagers in the square seemed to take it for granted that the women had him under control. It was a refreshing change from other villages, where not only Warrl's appearance, but even Tarma and Kethry‘s, was cause for distress.

In fact, no sooner had they reined in their horses, than one of the locals approached—with the caution a war-trained animal like the mares or Warrl warranted, but with no sign of fear. “The inn be closed, miladies,” the young man said diffidently, pulling off his soft cloth hat, and holding it to his leather-clad chest. “Beggin' yer pardon. Old Man Murfee, he died ‘bout two weeks agone, an' we be waitin' on the justice to figger out if the place goes to the son, or the barkeep.” He grinned at Tarma's expression.

“Sorry, milady, but they's been arguin' an' feudin' about it since the old man died. It ain't season yet, so ‘twere easier on the rest of us t' do without our beer an' save our ears.”

“Easier for you, maybe,” Tarma muttered. “Well, I suppose we can press on—”

“Now, that's the other thing,” he continued. “If ye be members of the Merc Guild, the Tanners' Guild Hall be open to ye. Any Guild member, really. Master left word. One Guild to another, Master Lenne says.”

That brightened Tarma's mood considerably. “I take it you're ‘prenticed there?” she asked, dismounting with a creak of leather and a jingle of harness.

“Aye,” he replied, ducking his head. “Ye'll have to tend yer own horses. We don't see much of live ‘uns at the Guild. Ye can put 'em in the shed with the donkey.”

As the young man turned to lead the way across the dusty, sunlit square, Tarma glanced over at her partner. “Worth our Guild dues, I'd say. Glad now that I insisted on joining?”

Kethry nodded slowly. “This is the way it's supposed to work,” she said. “Cooperation between Guilds and Houses of the same Guild. Not starting trade wars with each other; not cutting common folk out of trades.”

“Hmm.” Tarma held her peace while they stabled the warsteeds in the sturdy half-shed beside a placid donkey, and took their packs into the Guild Hall. Like the rest of the village, it was a fairly simple structure; one-storied, with a kitchen behind a large meeting hall, and living quarters on either side of the hall, in separate wings. Built, like the rest of the village, from the yellow rock that formed these hillsides, it was a warm, welcoming building.

“Ye can sleep here in the hall, by the fireplace,” said the young man. “Ye can take a meal when the rest of the ‘prentices and journeymen come in, if that suits ye.”

“That'll be fine,” Kethry replied vaguely, her eyes inwardly-focused, her thoughts elsewhere for a moment, the faint line of a headache-frown appearing between her eyebrows.

“Where's the tannery at?” Tarma asked curiously. “I haven't caught a whiff of it—”

“And you won‘t, sword-lady,” said a weary, if pleasant voice from the shadows of one of the doorways. A tall, sparse-haired man whose bulky scarlet-wool robe could not conceal his weight problem moved into the room.

He's sick,
Tarma thought immediately. The careful way he moved, the look of discomfort about him, and a feeling of wrongness made her as uneasy as that foul tannery.

“I agree,:
Warrl replied, startling
her. :He has been ill for some time, I would say.:

“No, you will not smell our tannery, ladies,” the man—who Tarma figured must be Master Lenne—repeated. “We keep the sheds well-ventilated, the vats sealed, and spills removed. I permit no poisoning of the land by our trade. I am happy to say that tallen-flowers bloom around our foundations-and if we find them withering or dying, we find out
why.”

Tarma smiled slightly at his vehemence. Master Lenne caught the smile and correctly surmised the reason.

“You think me overly reactive?” he asked.

“I think you—feel strongly,” she said diplomatically.

He raised his hands, palms up. “Since the arrival of that fool, ‘Master' Karden, and his plague-blotch, I find it all the more important to set the proper example.” He tucked his hands back in the sleeves of his robe, as if they were cold. Tarma read the carefully suppressed anger in his voice, and wondered if the real reason was to hide the fact that his hands were trembling with that same anger. “I was not always a Tanner, ladies, I was once a herder. I love this land, and I will not poison it, nor will I poison the waters beneath it nor the air above. There has been enough of that already.” He turned his penetrating brown eyes on Tarma. “Has there not, Swordlady Tarma? It is Tarma, is it not? And this is Kethry, and the valiant Warrl?”

Warrl's tail fanned the air, betraying his pleasure at being recognized, as he nodded graciously. Tarma spared him a glance of amusement. “It is,” she replied. “Though I'm at a loss to know how you recognized us.”

“Reputation, ladies. Songs and tales have reached even here. I know of no other partnering of Shin‘a'in and sorceress.” The Master chuckled at Tarma's ill-concealed wince. “Fear not, we have no women to rescue, or monsters to slay. Only a meal by a quiet hearth and a bed. If you would be seated, I would appreciate it, however. I'm afraid I am something less than well.”

The four of them took seats by the fire; something about the Master's “illness” nagged at Tarma. What hair he had was glossy and healthy; at odds with the rest of his appearance. Short of breath, with pallid and oily skin, and weight that looked to have been put on since he first fell ill—his symptoms were annoyingly familiar—but of what?

It escaped her; she simply listened while Master Lenne and Kethry discussed the rivalry between the Guild and the interloper outside of the village.

“Oh, he couldn't get villagers to work there,” the Master said, in answer to Kethry's question. “At least, not after the first couple of weeks. The man's methods are dangerous to his workers, as well as poisonous to the land. He doesn't do anything new, he simply takes shortcuts in the tanning processes that compromise quality and safety. That's all right, if all you want are cheaply tanned hides and don't care that they have bad spots or may crack in a few months—and you don't give a hang about sick workers.”

“Well, he must be getting business,” Kethry said cautiously.

Master Lenne sagged in his chair and sighed. “He is,” the man said unhappily. “There are more than enough people in this world who only want cheaper goods, and don't care how they're made, or what the hidden costs are. And—much as I hate to admit it, there are those in my own Guild who would agree with him and his methods. There were some who thought he should take over all the trade here. I only hold this Hall because I've been here so long and no one wants to disturb me.” He smiled wanly. “I know too many secrets, you see. But if I were gone—well, the nearest Master is the same man who erected that disaster outside of town, and no doubt that those others would have their wish.”

“So who is doing the work for him?” the sorceress persisted.

“Cityfolk, I presume,” Master Lenne said, with an inflection that made the word a curse. “All men, a mixture of young ones and old men, and he works them all, from youngest to eldest. And work is all they seem to do. They never put their noses in town, and my people are stopped at the gate, so more I can't tell you.”

At that moment, the young man who had brought them here poked his head into the hall. “Master, can we schedule in ‘bout twenty horsehides?”

“What, now?” Master Lenne exclaimed. “This close to the slaughtering season? Whose?”

The young man ducked his head, uncomfortable with something about the request. Well . . . my father's. Ye know all those handsome young horses he bought without looking at their teeth? ‘Twas like you warned him, within a week, they went from fat and glossy to lank and bony. Within two, they was dead.“

Master Lenne shook his head. “I told him not to trust that sharper. He obviously sold your father a lot of sick horses.” He heaved himself to his feet.

“I'd best get myself down to the tannery, and see what we can do. At least we can see that it isn't a total loss for him. By your leave, ladies?”

Glossy and fat ...
glossy
and fat ...
Tarma nodded absently and the Master hurried out, puffing a little. There was something about those words....

Then she had it; the answer. A common horse-sharper's trick—but this time it had taken a potentially deadly turn. Horses weren't the only things dying here.

“Keth,” she whispered, looking around to make sure there was no one lurking within earshot. “I think Master Lenne's being poisoned.”