heavy feeling in her legs. An echo of a dream. Something on a beach.
“The same Jobians,” Dugan said. “They dragged us in here to get us out of the street, but we are not hurt bad enough to need a temple. Except maybe for that guy.”
Dugan jerked a thumb toward the bar lining the back wall and Tilda started, for at a glance she had failed to notice the man sitting atop it among the inverted stools. He was a scruffy fellow with dirt caked in his bushy black hair, wearing a jerkin of ring mail so scratched up it was equal parts dull gray metal and flaking black paint. Though he was broad across the shoulders he looked to have lost a fight with someone much bigger. There were streaks of dried blood down both sides of his nose and a band of black and purple bruises that looked like an ugly kerchief around his neck. His blue eyes presently had the most hang-dog look Tilda had ever seen in her life not on the face of an actual dog, but he gamely raised a glass mug of beer in greeting and tried to smile. He managed only a pained wince and gave a choked, plaintive squeak.
“Who is that?” Tilda asked Dugan.
“I don’t know, Zebulon something. There were some other people here earlier. Matilda, stop. Listen to me.”
Tilda had slung her bow and taken an uneven step toward the front door with her buksu in her hand, but Dugan’s tone turned her around. His eyes bore into hers.
“You stopped me from killing that legionnaire.” Dugan nodded at her club. “I’ve got two welts on my head, your size.”
Tilda felt her stomach drop, as though off a ledge. “Where is he?”
“Why did you do that?”
“Where is he?”
“He got away. Tilda, talk to me. Did you or did you not come here to kill John Deskata?”
Tilda turned to face Dugan. When he was alive, Captain Block had been adamant that they speak no word of their mission to anyone on Noroth, and that had gone double once Dugan had joined them. Tilda had adhered to the dwarf’s precedent for more than a month now since his death, but she was thoroughly fed up with the whole mess.
“No. I did not come here to kill anybody.”
Dugan stared at her. From the bar, the man Zebulon watched the two of them. He took a long drink though it plainly hurt his throat.
Tilda waited, but Dugan said nothing and remained still apart from a tic moving along his jaw. She turned and made it two more steps across the room before he said her name again and she turned with a snarl.
“What? What is it?”
“There is no good way to say this,” Dugan said. “I am John Deskata.”
Tilda rolled her eyes and turned to make her third attempt for the door, thinking she should not have hit Dugan in the head so hard. Or else she should have hit him much harder.
Then Dugan said that it was the truth. He was born Jonathan Malohan Deskata, son of Umiwao Deskata, grandson of Malohi and Wahmahi Ney’ha Deskata, descendent of Oigen Dezkha’tavych, who had been second mate of the vessel Nyystrashima out of Varanch Port, when that ship was cast out of the sea and grounded in the Miilark Islands on the Fourteenth day of Twelfth Month, in the 1188 ^ year of the Norothian Calendar.
He said all of it in Miilarkian. Not in the Trade Tongue, but in the older and more formal language of the Great Houses.
Tilda had frozen in mid-step. She very carefully put both feet on the dirty plank floor. She had never crossed a frozen stream, but if she had she would have placed her feet in just the same way. Slowly and gently, lest the ground break apart and fall away beneath her.
She turned back around, one degree at a time.
“ Tizalk heh ne,” he said, the man who had been Dugan a few seconds ago, and was now someone else.
“You are sorry?” Tilda repeated, still speaking Codian though it may have been for spite.
“I thought the two of you had been sent to kill me. I thought someone at home had decided that my exile was not enough.”
Even in Codian, his voice was different. The flat accent was gone. John Deskata spoke the language of the Empire like a foreigner.
“John Deskata has green eyes!” Tilda cried, pointing a finger at the two brown ones regarding her evenly. The man sighed. He put a hand in a trouser pocket and drew out the length of plain cord that had been doubled- looped around his wrist back in Orstaf, and later around his neck to carry the strung beads of his Vod’Adia license. Now there was a great silver ring hanging from it, with a gleaming emerald set within. Even from across the room the fellow Zebulon raised his dark eyebrows at the sight of it.
“Do you know when I was born?” the man asked.
“I know when John Deskata was born,” Tilda snapped. He sighed.
“Fine. John Deskata was born in ‘61, during the last great House War in Miilark, after House Manawi had assassinated most of the Deskata bloodline.”
Tilda had learned the history of all the Houses in her school years, but she had always known the stories of the Deskata as theirs was the House to which her own people had been attached for a century. She took up the story.
“The capital was too dangerous for his mother, so she took to a ship and stayed there while Umiwao fought in the city. When Jonathan was born at sea he was given the second name Malohan, for his ancestor, who had been a great mariner in his day. More than that, the baby had emerald eyes as green as the banners of his House. Just like his ancestor, and which no Deskata had been born with for two generations. It was a good omen.”
“Except that it wasn’t true,” the man claiming to be Jonathan Malohan Deskata said. He held up the ring on the cord. “My mother had this enchanted before I was born, she never told us where. Like all magical rings in tales, it sizes itself to fit whoever wears it. Even on the wrist of an infant. Apart from that, it has the least- formidable charm of which you’ve ever heard. Turns the eyes green. Not really useful, except as propaganda.”
Tilda kept staring at the man’s dull brown eyes, but he made no other move.
“Put it on,” she said.
He looked at the ring and frowned.
“I wore this every day of my life, until I was exiled. No one had worn it since until the Sarge, that’s the man you stopped me from killing, stole it from me.”
“Very convenient,” Tilda snapped at him, trying to force a sarcastic note that came out as caustic. “Your story is rabbit-brained enough even without the magical jewelry. John Deskata could have taught you his own history along with his language, so why in the world would I believe a word of…”
The man undid the knot in the cord and slid the ring into his palm. He sighed and closed his eyes, then slipped the bright jewel on the ring finger of his right hand.
When he opened his eyes they were piercing and green. Tilda shivered when they looked at her. For the first time he was not a handsome man with unremarkable eyes, but instead his face was somehow complete.
He took the ring off after only a moment, and ran it back onto the cord.
“Block didn’t know?” Tilda asked quietly. “He said, he said he had met John Deskata.”
“We did meet, but I was ten. And I had green eyes. Block didn’t know me by sight now, though I certainly recognized him.“ The man exhaled and shook his head. “No one knew about the ring but my parents. No one.”
“Not even Rhianne?”
John Deskata’s head snapped up at his Law Sister’s name. “You know Rhianne?” he asked, and from the way he said his sister’s name, if Tilda had believed nothing else she would have known then who stood before her.
“Wait,” Tilda held out both her hands, forgetting that she still held her buksu in one. She lowered that arm back to her side. “If you are who you say, and you thought we were here to kill you, why in the hells did you join with us?”
John looked at the ring sitting in the palm of his hand. “Because though I have come to hate this thing, it is all I have left of home. Of a different life. I wanted it back. The only way I could go after it, the only way to get out
