Part 3 (1/2)

”If you'll be all right,” Parno said, getting to his feet. ”I have an . . . appointment.” Dhulyn saw for the first time that he was wearing his finest clothes, which at this moment meant his cleanest.

”And what are you using for money?” She looked up, and their eyes met.

”I need none,” he said. Now she could see his smile as well as hear it in his voice. ”This one loves me.” He gave her a courtly bow.

”Your wenching will kill you one day,” she muttered.

Parno's face drained of color and he clamped his jaw tight.

”Just an expression,” she said quickly, hauling herself up on her elbow again. Still pale, he continued to look at her, eyes narrowed, likely calculating whether she might be annoyed enough about the valerian to tell him the one thing she had promised never to tell. She held out her hand to him.

”Never, my soul,” she said.

He touched the tips of her fingers with his own, brushed the back of her scarred knuckles lightly with his lips. ”In Battle,” he said. He gave her a more p.r.o.nounced bow, and was gone before she could answer.

”Or in Death,” she said to the empty room.

Ah well, she thought, settling back into the warmth of the bed. He'd believed her; all to the good since she'd told him the truth. If only she could keep her temper. Her thoughts began to float with her return to sleep.

Never wanted to have the blooded Visions, she thought sleepily, she thought sleepily, and less so now and less so now. Unless perhaps something was going to show her why Parno so badly wanted to return to the land of his birth.

”I am.” Dhulyn looked up from the loose pages in her hands and smiled her wolf's smile, the scar, normally too small to be seen in itself, pulling her lip up into a snarl. Parno did not trouble to hide his own grin as he watched the woman, already starting to seat herself on the stool across the table, unconsciously check her movement for a long minute before slowly setting herself down. She then looked Dhulyn Wolfshead sharply up and down, to show she had not been frightened.

Parno knew what the townswoman saw-knew what he had seen when he first noticed Dhulyn across a field of armored forms fighting and limp bodies fallen. A woman much taller than the average, hawk-faced, pale skin lightly damaged by the northern sun, beaded thongs tying back long hair the dark color of old blood. The hair had been permanently removed over each ear and the skin tattooed blue and green in her Mercenary badge. Tonight she was not in battle leathers, but dressed in loose wool trousers dyed a dark blue and gathered at the ankle above leather slippers. A tight vest made from sc.r.a.ps of silks and wool, and bits of leather, quilted together with ribbon and laces, left her arms bare as if she did not feel the cold. Armed, but not obviously, and not for war.

The woman would see an Outlander Mercenary. Nothing more.

”Hmph,” the townswoman nodded. ”The landlord here has put out that you're looking for work.” She looked pointedly around the tavern room. The place was almost empty. Linkon Grey was preparing for his late night by taking a nap, leaving his daughter Nikola in charge. It was early yet for drinking, though the supper hour was not so far off. The place smelled faintly of spilled ale, and not so faintly of the fish oil they used in the lamps. The townswoman's eye rested longest on a table of young persons near the staircase, too friendly to be anything but professionals waiting for trade.

”Strange place to find a scholar,” she finally said.

”I'm a Mercenary, townswoman. Not a shopgirl.”

”And that's well.” The woman placed her hands flat on the scarred tabletop. ”For it's a Brother I need. My name is Guillor Weaver.” That explained the quality of her clothes, thought Parno. ”This is my fosterling Mar.” A gesture took in the girl who stood close at her elbow. ”I need a bodyguard and guide to take Mar north, to Gotterang.”

”Gotterang?” Dhulyn drew down her brows and shook her head minutely from side to side. ”It would mean crossing through the country of the Cloud People, and according to the treaty, caravan season doesn't begin for almost another moon. Why not wait and send her then?”

Weaver shook her head. ”We cannot wait, and we haven't the coin ourselves, so early in the season, to send her round by boat. We'd take her overland ourselves, but we've no one to spare.”

”We're not a caravan, the Clouds would likely let us pa.s.s unhindered. Still,” Dhulyn lifted her shoulders ever so slightly and wrinkled her nose. ”Gotterang?”

Parno leaned back on his stool, pressing his shoulders against the wall behind him. He kept his face impa.s.sive, content to watch as his Partner did the haggling. Most people found debate with the Wolfshead's cold southern eyes disconcerting enough that they were anxious to come to terms. That he and Dhulyn were looking for an opportunity that would take them southeast to the capital would, of course, go unsaid. Parno rubbed the left side of his nose with his right thumb, and Dhulyn blinked twice.

”What will you pay?” she was saying in a disinterested tone, fingers toying with the edges of her papers.

”I have enough for the expenses of the journey, but not enough to pay you, if you see what I mean. The people you take her to will give you your fee.”

Dhulyn lifted her brows and bared her teeth again.

”Slavers?” she said.

Without being aware that she was doing so, Weaver leaned away from the table. Parno touched Dhulyn lightly on the wrist with a finger. He knew that she had been a slave herself, though she rarely spoke of it. Knew, too, what kind of people buy children and youngsters, and to what use they put them.

Knowing nothing of this, the townswoman puffed indignantly, like all those who've had no personal contact with the trade.

”She's no slave! Mar's of our own fostering, orphaned of a House. We send her to her blood kin. It's they who want her, having just learned of her, though don't ask me how. And it's they who'll pay you for her delivery, safe and sound.”

Dhulyn looked at Parno, blood-red brows arched. Parno nodded. Very possible for a House of Imrion to have a minor Holding or even a Household in Navra. Distant kin, but kin nonetheless.

”And the girl wishes to go?”

Weaver glanced at the girl standing so sedately at her side. The young girl met her foster mother's eyes steadily until the woman lowered hers and looked back across the table. ”We would have kept her and happily, for she's a fine worker-reads, writes, and is learning to clerk. But she has little of her own, and we have no wedding gift for her, not with three of our own to pay for. This is her own kin.” The Weaver seemed to be repeating a well-rehea.r.s.ed speech. Perhaps there was someone at home-a son, maybe-who had needed to be convinced. House or no, the woman was content that the girl was going. ”There may be property, there may be money for her. Caids know there should be,” the woman muttered, looking sideways at the girl.

Not by smile or change of expression did Dhulyn acknowledge how much the Weaver had unintentionally revealed. ”I only wished to know if we must take her bound.” She tossed off the mug in front of her-hot sweet cider, no alcohol after the valerian-and handed it to Parno. He sighed and got to his feet, signaling to Nikola where she stood behind the bar.

”Thirty weights,” Dhulyn said. ”In gold.” The Weaver gasped in outrage, and Parno stopped paying attention. He threaded his way between the empty tables, to where the girl was pouring out for him. Two men had come in while the Weaver had been talking and were leaning against the bar.

”I don't care how well the Sleeping G.o.d sleeps,” the shorter man said in the careful diction of one who's been drinking all afternoon. Nikola exchanged a look with Parno. ”Turchara's a good enough G.o.d for any sailing man. What I want to know is, why should they set their own prices? These are essential,” the man had some trouble with the word and had to repeat it, ”essential services. We shouldn't have to pay for them, and they shouldn't be allowed to withhold them.” The man looked over and saw Parno for the first time-sure sign, were any needed, of just how drunk he was. ”Not like they had to be Schooled, eh, Mercenary? No years hard training for them. They're born with the Mark. It's cost them nothing to get it, and look what they charge!”

”I'd lower my voice if I were you,” Nikola said, taking the cups from in front of the two men. ”There's a Jaldean at the door.”

The drunk who'd been speaking turned slowly in a great show of control, but Parno had to put out a hand to stop the man's elbow from slipping off the bar. The doorway, as he'd known all along, was empty.

”Might have gone to report you,” Nikola said as she wiped off the bar. ”Best be off home before he gets back with a Watchman.”

Parno watched as the man's friend helped him out the door, before giving Nikola a wink and carrying the cider back to where Dhulyn sat with the Weaver woman. He put the Wolfshead's cup down in front of her and turned his attention to the girl he had no doubt would be their fare to Gotterang.

Even had he not been told, her heart-shaped face made it obvious Mar was no blood of the Weaver's, and it was likely enough that she was indeed orphan of a House. She was already taller than the admittedly short towns woman, though manifestly young; she looked a marriageable age for a town girl if he was any judge-and he was. Unlikely that she would grow any taller, but she had inherited a good length of bone, regular features, good teeth, and abundant hair, though it did not s.h.i.+ne much in the taproom's lamplight. All testimony to good blood and good health. And what was more, sufficient luck to be fostered in a family which fed her well enough to let her keep these advantages.

”So we're agreed?” Weaver was saying as she pulled a pouch from the wallet at her belt.

Dhulyn was still considering. Finally, she lifted her chin from her fist and held out her hand, palm up. ”Give me your hand, girl,” she said. Parno tensed. What could Dhulyn be thinking? Better she didn't touch anyone than to actually invite a Vision. Weaver looked at the young woman and nodded, but Mar was already holding out her square, ink-stained hand, palm down, for Dhulyn to take in her long scarred fingers.

”Are you afraid?”

”I am,” the girl said in a voice little more than a whisper. ”But I will go.”

Dhulyn nodded, retaining her grip on the girl's hand. Her pale gray eyes became fixed so markedly upon something over the girl's shoulder that Mar turned around to see what it was. Dhulyn stared at nothing. Mar tried to pull her hand away. Dhulyn did not even seem to notice. Parno touched her foot with his under the table.

”She will need a pony,” Dhulyn said, finally releasing the girl's hand without comment. ”Forty silver weights and we are agreed.”

Weaver opened the small pouch, shook its contents into her hand and, coin by coin, counted out the forty weights. Most of the coins were the old minting, s.h.i.+p on one side, the old Tarkin's head on the other, and dull with tarnish, but there were six gold pieces. Parno lifted his right eyebrow.