Somewhat to her surprise, she saw Jadrek stand, place his trembling, damp hand atop hers, and take up the ritual. She had never guessed that he knew it. 'Oathbreaker, I name him, and all who support him,' he said, though his voice shook. 'Oathbreaker I do name him, who am the common man of good will, making the third for Outcasting. Oathbreaker once -- by the lies of his tongue. Oathbreaker twice -- by the perversion of his heart. Oathbreaker three times -- by the giving of his soul willingly to darkness.'
Tarma slammed the dagger they all had been holding into the wood of the table with such force that it sank halfway to the hilt. 'Oathbreaker is his name;' she snarled. 'All oaths to him are null. Let every man's hand be against him; let the gods turn their faces from him; let his darkness rot him from within until he be called to a just accounting. And may the gods grant that mine be the hand!'
She brought herself back under control with an effort that was visible, and turned a face toward them that was no longer impassive, but was just as tear-streaked as Kethry's own. 'This is the end of it: he couldn't break her. She was too tough for him, right up to the last. He didn't get one word out other, not one -- and in the end, when he thought his bullyboys had her restrained, she managed to break free long enough to grab a knife and kill herself with it.'
The fire-and-candle light flared up long enough to show that the murderous rage was still burning in her, but still under control. 'I damn near killed him myself, then and there. Warrl managed to keep me from painting the room with his blood. It would have been suicide, and while it would have left the throne free for Stefan, I'd have left at least two friends behind who would have been rather unhappy that I'd gone and gotten myself killed by the rest of Char's Guard.'
' 'Unhappy' is understating the case,' Jadrek replied gently, slowly resuming his seat. 'But yes -- at least two. Good friend-sister -- please sit.' Kethry could see tears still glinting in his eyes -- but she could also see that he was thinking past his grief; something she and Tarma couldn't quite manage yet.
As Tarma lowered herself stiffly into her accustomed chair, he continued. 'Our plans have been plagued by the inability to bring a force of trained fighters whose loyalty is unswervingly ours into the city. Now I ask you, who served under Idra -- what would her Sunhawks think to hear this?'
'Gods!' Kethry brought her fist to her mouth, and bit her knuckles hard enough to break the skin. 'They'd want revenge, just like us -- and not just them, but every man or woman who ever served as a Hawk!'
Jadrek nodded. 'In short -- an army. Our army. One that won't swerve from their goal for any reason, or be stopped by anything short of the death of every last one of them.'
Now, for a brief time, they fought their battle with pen and paper. Messages, coded, in obscure dialects, or (rarely) in plain tradespeech left the city every day that there was someone that they judged was trustworthy enough to carry them. Tarma, from her position as trusted insider, was able to tell them that the few messages that were intercepted baffled Char's adherents, and were dismissed out of hand as merchant-clan Warrlng. The rest went south and east, following the trade roads, to find the men and women who wore (or had once worn) the symbol of the Sunhawk.
The answers that returned were not of paper and ink, but flesh and blood -- and of deadly anger.
The last time Justin Twoblade and his partner had entered Petras, it had been with a feeling of pleasant anticipation. Petras bad been the turn-around point for the caravan they'd been guarding, and it was well known for its wines and its wenches. He'd had quite a lively time of it, that season in Petras.
Now he entered the city a second time, again as a caravan guard. Three things differed: he would not be leaving, at least not with the traders he was guarding; his partner was not Ikan Dryvale --
And his mood was not pleasant.
He and his partner parted company with the caravan as soon as their clients had selected a hostelry, taking their pay with them in the form of the square silver coins that served as common currency among the traders of most of this part of the world. Then, looking in no way different than any other mustered-out guards, they collected their small store of belongings, loaded them on their horses, and headed for a district with a more modest selection of inns.
And if they seemed rather heavily armed and armored, well, they had been escorting jewel traders, it was only good sense to arm heavily when one escorted such tempting targets.
'What was the name of that inn we're looking for?' Justin asked his new partner, his voice pitched only just loud enough to be heard over the street noise. 'I didn't quite catch it from the contact.'
'The Fountain of Beer,' Kyra replied, just as quietly, her eyes flicking from side to side in a way that told Justin she was watching everything about her without making any great show of doing so.
'I suspect that's it ahead of us.' His hands were full; reins of his horse in the left, pack in the right, so he pointed with his chin. The sign did indeed sport a violently yellow fountain that was apparently spouting vast quantities of foam.
'If you'll take care of the lodgings, I'll take care of the stableman,' Kyra offered. 'We've both got tokens; one
