Oathblood

Tarma saw him make a slight movement with his left hand; when he came in with his sword in an over-and- under cut, she paid his sword hand only scant attention. It was the other she was watching for.

Under the cover of his overt attack he made a strike for her upper arm with his gloved left. She avoided it barely in time; a circumstance that made her sweat when she thought about it later, and executed a spin-and-cut that took the hand off at the wrist at the end of the move. While he stared in shock at the spurting stump, she carried her blade back along the arc to take his head as well.

The onlookers were motionless, silent with shock. What they'd seen from her up until now had not prepared them for this swift slaughter. While they remained still, she stalked to where the gloved hand lay and picked it up with great care. Embedded in the fingertips of the gloves, retracted or released by a bit of pressure to the center of the palm, were four deadly little needles. Poisoned, no doubt.

She decided to make a grandstand move out of this. She stalked to the challenger's pavilion, where more of her would-be opponents had gathered, and cast the hand down at their feet.

'Assassin's tricks, 'noble lords'?' she spat, oozing contempt. 'Is this the honor of Felwether? I'd rather fight jackals-at least they're honest in their treachery! Have you no trust in the judgment of the gods- and their champion?'

That should put a little doubt in the minds of the honest ones-and a little fear in the hearts of the ones that weren't.

Tarma stalked stiff-legged back to her own pavilion, where she threw herself down on the little cot inside it, and hoped she'd get her wind back before they got their courage up.

In the very back of one of the drawers Kethry found a very curious contrivance. It was a coil of hempen twine, two cords, really, at the end of which was tied a barbless, heavy fishhook-the kind sea-fishers used to take shark and the great sea-salmon. But the coast was weeks from here. What on earth could the seneschal have possibly wanted with such a curious souvenir?

Just then Warrl barked sharply; Kethry turned to see his tail sticking out from under the bedstead.

:There's a hidden compartment under the boards here,: he said eagerly in her mind. :I smell gold, and magic- and fresh blood.:

She tried to move the bed aside, but it was far too heavy-something the seneschal probably counted on. So she squeezed in beside Warrl, who pawed at the place on the board floor where he smelled strangeness.

Sneezing several times from the dust beneath the bed, she felt along the boards-carefully, carefully; it could be booby-trapped. She found the catch, and a whole section of the board floor lifted away. And inside-

Gold, yes; packed carefully into the bottom of it- but on top, a bloodstained, wadded-up tunic, and an empty bottle.

Now if she just had some notion how he could have gotten into a locked room without the proper key. There was no hint or residue of any kind of magic. And no key to the door with the bar across it.

How could you get into a locked room?

:Go before the door is locked,: Warrl said in her mind.

And suddenly she realized what the fishhook was for.

Kethry wriggled out from under the bed, leaving the hidden compartment untouched.

'Katran!' she called. A moment later Myria's companion appeared, quite nonplussed to see the sorceress covered with dust beside the seneschal's bed.

'Get the priest,' Kethry told her, before she had a chance to ask any questions. 'I know who the murderer is- and I know how and why.'

Tarma was facing her first real opponent of the day; a lean, saturnine fellow who used twin swords like extensions of himself. He was just as fast on his feet as she was-and he was fresher. The priest had vanished just before the beginning of this bout, and Tarma was fervently hoping this meant Kethry had found something. Otherwise, this fight bid fair to be her last.

Thank the Goddess this one was an honest warrior; if she went down, it would be to an honorable opponent. Not too bad, really, if it came to it. Not even many Swordsworn could boast of having defeated twelve opponents in a single morning.

She had a stitch in her side that she was doing her best to ignore, and her breath was coming in harsh pants. The sun was punishing-hard on someone wearing head-to-toe black; sweat was trickling down her back and sides. She danced aside, avoiding a blur of sword, only to find she was moving right into the path of his second blade. Damn!