Bloodsongs (13 page)

“Feel,” she told him, low-voiced. She guided his hand to the wire. He ran it gently over the razor-sharp barbs that spiked its length. It stretched completely across the alley at just a height to rip out a man's throat.

“Now bend down,” she said, showing him a similar trip wire at a level meant for ankles and shins. At the ends of both wires small bells dangled.

“No strangers come to the Rathole alone,” she warned. “And nobody comes here in a hurry. It's no place to elude a pursuit.”

“Not much of a trap,” he whispered with veiled contempt.

She smiled secretly but said nothing. Perhaps he didn't understand what barbed wire could do to a running man. She hoped he never round out the hard way, or even by witnessing the result, as she had when a particularly stupid thief had tried to rob the Rathole, run away, and forgotten about the wire. Stupid, and very messy.

She stepped between the strands and waited for Telric to follow. Down the alley she made a last turn. It looked like a dead end in the darkness. Only someone familiar with the alley, as she was, knew that between the two buildings that appeared to block the way there was space for a man to squeeze through sideways. Of course, there was a wire there as well.

The way was dark except for the faint gleam of light that leaked under an old wooden door. She rapped lightly with her knuckles and waited. The door opened a crack, spilling a shaft of amber brightness into the narrow street, causing her to blink. A grizzled face peered out at them, then threw the door wide.

A big voice bellowed across the tavern, “Captain! Welcome, welcome, welcome! An' ye brung us a friend. Got a good purse, has he?”

The door closed softly behind them. Frost lifted the hems of her skirts and sheathed her dagger. These were acquaintances—if not friends—of hers, and she trusted them as much as she trusted any in Kyr. She straightened and faced the grinning, whiskered old rascal who had called to her. He had a mug in one hand and a dirty but very buxom wench in the other. He sprawled drunkenly over a massive, wood-carved chair that might once have belonged to a wealthier nobleman.

“Dromen Illstar,” she said, her voice gruff, “take your hands off that sweet piece of baggage and come give a real woman a kiss.”

Illstar grabbed his stomach and convulsed with giggles. Then he swatted the wench's rump and sent her off to a corner, leaped up, and clapped his hands. “Now, Captain,” he moaned, clearly putting on a show for Telric's benefit, “ye know it jus' wouldn't be right to kiss my superior officer, me bein' of lower rank an' all.”

She braced her hands on her hips, gave him a hard look as if scrutinizing a soldier whose uniform was awry. He promptly snapped to attention—or a vague semblance of it—and looked appropriately terrified.

She rubbed her chin. “Well, seeing as how you smell like you haven't bathed in a month, we'll forgo the kiss this time.”

They regarded each other for a long moment. Then both broke into a bout of laughter, flung arms about each other, and traded kisses on the tips of their noses.

“Woman, it's damn good t' see ye!” Illstar wheezed, freeing himself from the embrace. He caught his chest, looking for a moment as if breath would not come. Then he straightened and smiled, and all seemed well again. “I missed ye!” he added.

Some illness was wasting the old man away, she knew, but Illstar refused to speak of it. She remembered him strong and vigorous as he had been years ago when she'd first met him. She kept that image in her mind. It helped her to smile and laugh with him.

“I missed you, too, Dromen,” she allowed. “You were gone far longer than expected.”

“All in the service o' my captain.” He bowed grandly, sighed, and returned to his chair. The wench returned to his side again, and he took a sip from the mug he had never put aside. “But first, something to drink for ye.” He wagged a finger. “And you've been damn rude not t' introduce yer comrade.”

Frost turned to Telric and compressed her lips into a crooked grin. The Rholarothan's hand was clamped to the hilt of his sword. His eyes swept continuously around the tavern. The look on his face was both challenge and warning. She followed his gaze.

The Rathole was the closest thing to a private club the city's known criminals could claim. For some, it was simply too dangerous to venture into the public places where the lamplight might reveal them to the soldiers. They were creatures of the shadows, to whom the light was a sure enemy. When they needed wine or a woman, or when the need for a friendly human voice grew too great, they came here or to one of the two other Ratholes to be with their own kind.

And a scruffy-looking lot they were, too. It wasn't nearly as crowded as the Broken Sword, but the air of menace was far more palpable. She counted only nine other men at tables pushed back against the walls. They regarded Telric with hungry gleams in their eyes and caressed their blades, but because she was with him they kept their distance. She had Dromen's tales to thank for that. There were three other women as well, besides the one in the old man's arms. They served the beer and wine and saw to any other need, too.

It had been a lucky day when Dromen had found her. In the descroiyo disguise, she had angered some of the local beggars who thought she was cutting in on their territory. They had complained to Dromen. The old man pretty much ran Kyr's criminal elements. What a surprise when he had confronted her on the street with two of his thugs!

One of the serving women pressed a cup of wine into her hands. Another served Telric. Frost tasted it and nodded. “A good vintage. Where did you steal it?”

Illstar giggled drunkenly and winked. “From the garrison cellars, o' course. Rotten officers get all the best wine.” He winked again. “Then I get it from them.”

“Of course,” she agreed, raising her cup to him in salute. She pulled Telric up beside her as she took another drink. “My friend's name is Telric, Lord Rholf, formerly of Shazad. He's Rholarothan, but you must promise to forgive him for that. It was the luck of birth and no fault of his own.” She nudged the embarrassed nobleman in the ribs. “He's also an old friend.”

Telric declined to bow, but he did at last remove his hand from his weapon.

“And this,” Frost continued, waving her arm in a grandiose manner, “is the Sun of the Underworld, the Lord of Liars and the Prince of Thieves . . . “

Illstar stamped his foot indignantly. “Only the prince?” His roar was quickly smothered in another fit of giggles.

“Sorry,” she said. “The King of Thieves. No coin leaves the city but by his generous mercy.” She tossed down a gulp of wine and smacked her lips noisily. “This is the Emperor Rat who rules the Rathole.” She raised her cup again, then lowered it and added with mock contempt, “This is my former supply sergeant, Dromen Illstar.” She drained the last of the wine and tossed the empty cup at the old man's feet, grinning.

Illstar blew her a kiss.

“Why do they call you Illstar?” Telric inquired rudely.

“‘Cause it's bad luck for you to cross him, bub.”

Frost turned to the fellow who had answered, a rather handsome lad who sat in the corner between two lamps. A couple of days ago, he'd skewered two guards in a street brawl. “Evening, Raul,” she hailed him politely. “How are the wives?”

He grinned over the rim of an earthen wine bowl, showing one broken tooth. “Gone,” he answered slowly. “I divorced ‘em.” He lifted his bowl, and the sound of his slurping reached across the room.

“All?” Frost let go a long sigh. “A sign of the times. No fidelity left in the world.”

Telric touched her shoulder. He looked uncomfortable. Clearly, he was ready to get out of here. It amused her, somehow. Telric was a warrior, but he was also a rich man, a lord in his own land. Unless he was a very dishonest one as well, he probably had never seen such a place as this in his entire privileged life. Still, she thought as she cast another glance around the tavern, she could understand his disgust. She wondered why it was that such places no longer bothered her.

“Did the captain tell ye how we served t'gether in the army back in Korkyra?” Illstar said conversationally to Telric. “She was my captain before she went to guard the young queen. Slept right along with us in the barracks, she did. A meaner fighter ye never saw. I tell ye, the things she could do with a blade!”

“Dromen was my supply sergeant,” Frost repeated. “Anything our company needed he could supply. Didn't matter who he had to swindle.” She made another mock bow. “You were a master even then, Dromen. If there was a sheep to fleece, you had the shears in your pocket.”

“I never saw a man who could match her!” Illstar exclaimed. “Like a demon she was, or a witch!” He leaned forward suddenly, spilling his wine. Breath rattled in his throat; his eyes bulged with fearful consternation and the knowledge that death made a slow, creeping approach.

But it was not yet the old man's time. At last, withering lungs responded; life-giving air swelled his chest, and he sagged back into his seat. The wench at his side tried desperately to hide her look of worry. No doubt her security hinged on Dromen's well-being. Who would look after her if he died? She stroked his brow with the tips of her fingers and tried to soothe him.

Illstar brushed the hand away and leaned forward again. Beads of sweat sheened at the corners of his eyes, but it seemed the spasm had passed. “Now you're goin' out t' fight again, aren't ye. Captain?” He pointed a finger at her, a finger that slowly traced little patterns in the air as if some message were being written there. “But we'll not ride t'gether this time, Captain.” He shot a hard look at Telric. “Ye go with her, Rholarothan, an' ye take care o' her. Hell, she'll probably take care o' you, come t' think on it. But ye mind what I say. I got a long arm if ye let anything happen t' her.”

A distant gleam lit his eyes, a gleam that misted over strangely. “You're older now, woman,” he said with a low, passionate fire. “An' ye say ye been settled for a good long time. No fightin' and no hard ridin'. But ye listen t' me.” He got to his feet, drew himself tall as he once had been. “It all comes back. It comes back easy, if ye let it.” He smiled, and the gleam returned, clear of mist. “I know. I just spent the past month out there findin' somethin' out for ye. An' it comes back, all the old habits, all the old skills. Like the taste o' meat, ye never forget it”

She went close to him, took his hands in hers. “Scafloc said you had news.”

“I'm the supply sergeant,” he reminded her with another of his sly winks. “I never let ye down, did I?” He squeezed her hands. She clung to him, waiting. “Tomorrow night the rebels will attack Soushane. Your son will lead them.” Dromen glanced sharply up and snapped, “Sit down, Raul, and have some more wine. I've already sold the information t' the garrison commanders.” Raul scowled but returned to his seat.

She pulled her hands away. “You sold my son?”

“I saw no reason not to,” he said frankly. “Turned a nice profit from it. My sources were already on their way t' do the same. I only beat them t' it.” He paused, swallowed, then went on quietly. “Soushane is a peaceful little town; farmers, mostly. No reason for the rebels t' strike it, an' they'll burn it, too, if they follow their pattern. No reason, woman, jus' meanness.”

Their gazes locked. His intensity was plain. But he had told the garrison commanders, and she didn't know if she could forgive that. For a fistful of coins, he had betrayed her son. Worse, he had betrayed her.

There was no time to waste. Tomorrow night she would meet Kel. “Is that all your news?” she asked icily.

Dromen shrugged. “They say strange things follow the rebels. Terrible things happen. They say there's a sorcerer behind it all.”

“No more?”

The old man shrugged again.

She turned to Telric. “Give him your purse,” she said.

“What?”

“Give him your purse. He's earned his gold. Pay him and let's get out of here.”

Telric frowned but loosed the strings at his belt and tossed a jingling leather bag at Illstar's feet. His wench scooped it up in a smooth, swift movement.

At the door, Frost looked back at the man she had called friend. An empty, hollow feeling spread through her. Dromen Illstar was not long for the world, and not all the gold in Kyr could buy him an extra day. She blinked and headed out into the darkness, following Telric.

“We had good times, didn't we, woman?” she heard the old man call as she tugged the door closed.

 

 

 

Chapter Seven

 

The tall, sharp grasses whispered in the fitful gusts of wind that blew over the broad steppe. Tattered clouds raced low in the darkening sky, black and threatening, stripped with rents and tears that allowed brief, tantalizing glimpses of the twinkling stars and the thin, pale moon. The air bore the peculiar sweet scent of pollen and fine dust.

In Soushane, far from Frost's vantage point on a small swell of land, lamps were beginning to shine in the windows; smoke curled upward sleepily from the chimneys. There was little else to see as night descended.

A horse whickered. Frost rose wearily on one elbow to see what disturbed the mounts. Telric's bay stood quietly beside the excellent black he'd purchased for her with coins from a second, secret purse. War-trained, neither beast required hobbles or tethering. They remained saddled, patiently waiting.

“It was nothing,” Telric assured her, and she lay back down.

To reach Soushane in time, they had ridden all night, all the long, scorching day, and into the twilight of evening. There had been no time for sleep. Now the wind lulled her, and the gentle rasp of the grasses was a potent lullaby. Stretched on the earth, which had grown warm with the heat of her body, she had trouble keeping her eyes open. Only the conversation kept her awake, and that had become a low, dangerous drone.