Kerowyn's Ride

“Because he was dead certain that she and I were shieldmates—that’s lovers, dear. He was dead wrong, but you could never have convinced him of that.” Tarma hardly moved, but there was suddenly a tiny, thin-bladed knife in one hand. She began cleaning her nails with it. “The other half of the reason he disapproved of her was because he was afraid of both of us. We didn’t know our place, and we could do just about any damned thing a man could do. But that’s a cold trail, and not worth following.”

“Are you the reason we could get Shin’a’in horses to breed?” Kero asked, suddenly putting several odd facts together.”

Tarma chuckled. “Damn, you’re quick. Dead in the black, jel’enedra. Listen, I’m sorry I was so hard on you, back on the road the other night. I was testing you, sort of.”

“I’d—figured that out,” Kero replied. The knife caught the light and flashed; it looked sharp enough to wound the wind.

The Shin’a’in nodded, a satisfied little smile at the corners of her mouth. “Good. I was hoping you might. I want you to know I think you did pretty well out there. About the only time you started to dither was after everything was over and done with. You know, you’re wasted on all this.”

“All what?” Kero asked, bewildered by the sudden change in topic.

“All this—” The Shin’a’in waved her knife vaguely, taking in the four walls of the stillroom and beyond. Kero hid her confusion by turning her attention to the salve, watching her own hands intently. “This life,” Tarma continued. “It’s not enough of a challenge for you. You’re capable of a lot more than you’ll find here. My people say, ‘You can put a hawk in a songbird’s cage, but it’s still a hawk.’ Think about it. I have to go beat some of those hired guards into shape, but I’ll be around if you need me.”

And with that, she backed out of Kero’s sight, and vanished. One moment she was there, the next, gone; leaving only the door to the stillroom swinging to mark her passing.

* * *

“All right, you meatheads, let’s see a little life in those blows!” Ten men and women—those currently off-duty—placed their blows on the ten sets of pells as if their lives depended on it.

Of course, their lives do depend on it.

Tarma roamed up and down the line of hired guards, scowling, but inwardly she was very pleased. These were all reliable, solid fighters, with good references, very much as she and Keth had been early in their careers.

The only difference was that these fighters were well into their careers. Ordinarily they had nowhere to go now but down.

Because she’d been able to offer a packhorse apiece with half pay in advance, she’d gotten the cream of the available mercenary crop. None of them were going to be the kind of fighter that legends were made of, but for Lordan’s purposes they were far better. Most of them were in their middle years, looking for a post where they could settle down, perhaps even think about a spouse and children. That’s why they weren’t with a mercenary company—going out and fighting every year was a job for the young....

And fools, she thought, which these gentlemen and ladies are not. “Put some back into it!” she shouted again, feeling a sense of deja vu. How many times had she shouted those same words, in this same courtyard?

Only then, it was into young ears, not seasoned ones. These folks are well aware of the absolute necessity for practice, every day, rain, snow or scorching heat.

Thirty seasoned fighters. That would be enough to give even Baron Reichert second thoughts. And one very special recruit....

As middle-aged as the others, without a single thing to differentiate her from the rest. Even her color and stature—golden skin, and very tall for a woman—were not particularly outstanding among mercenaries. Hired swords came from every corner of the known world, and some places outside it; Beaker had been odder-looking than this woman. She acted no differently than any of the others, not looking for special status, nor making herself conspicuous. Tarma drilled this recruit as remorselessly as the rest, and paid her no more attention, and no less.

Lyla Stormcloud was from the far south and west; past even the Dhorisha Plains. She was half Shin’a’in, with the gold complexion of her father and the black eyes and wandering foot of her mother, a Full Bard who had double the normal wanderlust of that roaming profession. Life with a nomadic Clan had suited her perfectly, and Tale’sedrin, made up as it was of orphans and adoptees, made her welcome there as she might not have been in a “pure” Clan. How they’d gloried in having a Full Bard with them.

A Full Bard with another profession as well, the one she had trained in as a child—the skills and training of which she passed in turn to her daughter.

Assassin.