available to the highmaster when she was in town was almost unforgivable. Rivven finally found him hiding in the orchards.
“Governor Oxoloc,” she said, emerging from nowhere and blocking out the morning sunlight. A simple spell of concealment had allowed her to get close to the scruffy, dark-haired governor. She had been standing there, watching him eat from a basket of peaches until she was sure he wasn’t actually waiting for somebody.
Oxoloc leaped to his feet, tossing his fruit to the side and trying to look aristocratic. He failed. He said, “My lady highmaster! What a … oh,
“Here I am,” she said. “Where were you?”
Oxoloc struggled to loosen the collar of his governor’s robes. “Me? Ah, well, you see, I felt like taking a little morning walk through the orchards, in the fresh air. So stuffy and uncomfortable inside. Going to be another rainstorm, though. Can you feel it?”
“Governor, it’s been over four hours since I arrived. Did you not see the enormous red dragon in the other courtyard? Whose did you think that was?”
“Ah. I confess to being a tad underinformed.”
Rivven pinched the bridge of her nose with her hand. “You are one of the least informed men in all of Nordmaar. I thought perhaps you were avoiding me.”
Oxoloc pulled on a cloak, a formal affair with gold lining and a clasp of ivory. “Ah, perhaps we should retire inside. I really do think there’s going to be a rainstorm.”
Rivven followed the governor inside the palace, through hallways she had grown quite familiar with. Sure enough, as they passed one line of stained-glass windows in a lengthy gallery, the heavy Nordmaaran rains started hammering against the glass. It was going to be another wet, humid day.
“So what may I help you with today, Lady Highmaster?” asked Oxoloc worriedly, settling into an overstuffed chair in a drawing room.
Rivven didn’t sit; instead she leaned against the garish white ivory carvings surrounding the windows. “I’m trying to protect some investments of mine. There’s somebody in this town-your town, Oxoloc-who poses a threat to those investments. Now I know I could just send in my army, but they’d get in the way of everyday business, and I like to work in smaller ways. You know that, right?”
“Yes, yes, I know. I wouldn’t want the people to be worried about armies and such. Terrible. So what would you like me to do about it?”
“You and I both know your Seaguard haven’t been working for you for months.”
Oxoloc wrung his hands. “Well now, I wouldn’t go so far as to say that, necessarily-”
“They’ve become mercenaries, Governor.”
“Ah. Mmm.”
Rivven smiled. “Exactly. So this is how you can help. Who are they working for now? Who is the biggest employer in Pentar? I have been reliably informed that the threat to my investments will be looking to hire some muscle.”
Oxoloc looked as if he had just won first prize in a kender-throwing contest. “Oh! Oh! I know of whom you’re talking! Yes! The gnome!”
Rivven squinted. “The biggest mercenary boss is a
“Yes, yes,” Oxoloc said, grinning. “He really is very clever. He beat the last boss in a duel, my people tell me. Never heard of such a thing before, but that’s Pentar for you. We get all kinds.”
Rivven smiled again. “Yes, Governor. Yes, you do. Now tell me everything you know about this clever gnome.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Vanderjack stood in the pouring rain, watching as soldiers bullied the cook.
For the past ten minutes, he had watched from across the street as six soldiers harassed, mocked, intimidated, and jostled Etharion, presumably waiting for their captain to arrive. Captain Annaud was nowhere to be seen, nor were the two remaining soldiers, which the Hunter confirmed.
“Well, are you intending on saving him pretty soon?” asked the Cavalier.
“I am sure he is merely waiting for an opportune moment,” responded the Balladeer.
“Likely so that he can miss that opportune moment and say that it wasn’t one,” added the Aristocrat.
“He’s just a hired kitchen hand,” Vanderjack said, wiping more rain from his face. “Bakes a lot of cookies.” He looked above, noting the holes in the awning he was standing under. Water puddled around his boots and found a way down the back of his neck. “What I wonder is, what’s so special about him, other than his ability to cook?”
“Answer unclear,” said the Conjuror. “Ask again later.”
“What does that mean?” Vanderjack demanded, turning to look at the ghost, hanging there, spectral and aloof. “Answer unclear?”
“He means that we can’t tell you at the moment,” said the Apothecary.
“You will have to trust our insight,” said the Philosopher.
“Trust and act,” said the Hunter, materializing from Vanderjack’s left. The ghost lifted one semitransparent finger and indicated the approaching Captain Annaud, who was picking his way through the crowd farther up the street, making his way to rejoin his men.
From that distance, Annaud looked like any other dragonarmy officer. He was dressed head to foot in black scale armor, curved steel plates protecting his shoulders, lower arms, and shins, and a half helm that kept his face visible. Only the highlords and their highmasters were allowed to wear the full helms that obscured their features.
“Ackal’s Teeth,” muttered the sellsword, pulling his hood over his head and slipping out into the rain. “Why does it always have to rain when I’m rescuing somebody?”
With the Sword Chorus circling the area, Vanderjack headed straight for the soldiers. He estimated it would be less than a minute before Annaud reached them himself, so he didn’t have much time.
The sellsword passed by a wagon filled with sacks of grain. He set a boot on the nearest wheel and used it to spring over the heads of a slow-moving cluster of onlookers. He landed on his feet, drew Lifecleaver all the way out of its scabbard, and dashed forward.
Bystanders scattered. Only Vanderjack, a half dozen heavily armored dragonarmy soldiers, and the cook remained in the courtyard. Etharion was sitting on a barrel, but as soon as he saw the sellsword charging at them, he fell backward onto the doorstep of a tea vendor. The soldiers all unsheathed their weapons, most of them armed with the curving Nerakan blades that Vanderjack knew all too well.
“By the Dark Queen!” one of them said. “That’s the guy!”
“Get him!” yelled another.
Vanderjack and the closest soldier collided, their blades coming together with a loud ringing crash. Lifecleaver, crafted from meteoric iron, or “star metal,” and further bolstered by magic, was almost impervious to harm; the dragonarmy soldier’s scimitar was Nerakese iron folded hundreds of times upon itself. It was sharp but brittle. Vanderjack’s blade shattered it, sending shards into the soldier’s unprotected face.
The sellsword spun about on his heel as the soldier clutched at his ruined features. The Cavalier and the Hunter called out the positions of the other soldiers, as they always did. There was no comment from the Conjuror, which meant no spells were being prepared for casting, which was good. He sought out the next opponent, locked eyes with him, and said, “One down.”
Etharion scrambled to a crouch and moved toward a stack of crates standing alongside the high brick walls of a scrivener’s office. Vanderjack let the ghosts keep track of where the cook was, which meant he could worry more about the soldiers and getting rid of them before their captain reached the fight.
Three of the soldiers came at him at once; the first two cut at the rain to his left and right while the third went for where his head would have been had he not ducked. They pressed the attack, Vanderjack blocking each swing with Lifecleaver. The sellsword kicked one soldier’s knee so hard he heard a sickening snap; that man was out. Slipping between the fallen soldier’s companions, he found himself pressed against the crates. Rain pounded
