Wartorn: Resurrection

leader didn't like her, though none in the gang had died of the wounds she'd inflicted. Radstac herself had smeared a bit of plaster on her ear, using the small aid kit that she carried. The chunk that had been torn from her lobe was gone; she didn't give it any more thought than she did her body's scars.

Anzal named a staggering sum of money. Deo nodded. She doubled the sum. He nodded still.

He shook a page of paper from a sheaf he removed from his coat pocket. It bore a dark border and much official-looking print, stamped here and there.

'Promissory note,' he said.

'To be filled in... ?' Anzal was trying to hide the hunger in her eyes.

'When you've gotten me to the Felk war commander, of course. Or'—he grunted a tiny chuckle—'just before, I suppose. Or,' he said, a sober crease appearing between his red brows, 'you could murder my bodyguard, hold a blade to my throat, and force me to sign now. And when you got to Petgrad and the Municipal Funds Office, they would read the name I had written. It would be a code word. You would never leave that city. You would never see daylight for the remainder of your lives, which wouldn't last long.'

He had not given his name to these people, Radstac realized, her scarred face remaining bland.

Shortly after the negotations, she and Deo left the tent, picked through the small camp, past the campfire, and went to where their own tent was pitched. The archer who had nicked Radstac's ear was scowling at her. So were most of the others. A guard or guards would stand outside their tent through the night.

No one would come in, though. She laid her sword alongside their blankets, leaving the glove on her hand. The tent's interior was dark. She would probably chew a bit of mansid later.

They lay together, heads touching, blankets across their legs, breathing words at each other that nobody would overhear.

'What of your ambassadorial mission to Trael?' She had been waiting some while to ask. 'Your uncle's plan to gather an alliance.'

'It's too late for Trael. The Felk are already making for it. Cultat knows so.'

'So why send you there?'

'I'm expendable.' Deo's voice was steady. 'I don't imply that Cultat wants me dead. I know he cares for me, for all of his family. But he cares—must care—for his people more. And so we of that family

must make the first sacrifices as Petgradites in this war, which is why I volunteered. He is right to have made the judgment.'

'But you won't obey it?' Radstac's voice was equally level.

'The Felk are not stoppable. I don't believe that even the alliance my uncle is hoping for will stand against their strength. They are led by a man named Weisel. He is the key. Our field intelligence indicates that he is a master war commander. If I eliminate that one ...'

She heard the eagerness now. He wanted to do this. Badly.

'The Felk will still have their mighty army and their wizards and—'

'No one to lead.'

She allowed him to cut her off. It was what she'd expected him to say.

'Cultat has sent emissaries to all the major states. To Q'ang, Ebzo, Grat, Ompellus Prime. To the smaller cities as well. Dral Blidst. Hingo. Places you've never heard of. Insane. Impossible. Petgrad has fought wars with just about every place I've mentioned. Well... not us. Not in our lifetime. But in generations past. And the rivalries persist, culturally embedded. If he waits until he's sealed an accord with all those disparate states ...' He grunted a laugh. 'By that time the Felk will possess the Isthmus.'

'Your war's hopeless, then.' Not her war. No. She wasn't even borrowing this one. She hadn't been hired as a soldier to go against the Felk, which was what she envisioned when she'd come north from the Southsoil. Instead, she was serving a single client.

'Cultat has other means,' Deo said. 'He's in highly secret contact with someone at Febretree, at the University there.'

'Highly secret. Are you your uncle's confidant?'

'Hardly.' Something dark moved behind the word. 'But his elder daughter is.'

'A pretty child.'

'Not a child,' Deo said. 'But attractive.'

Radstac sniffed a laugh. They told jokes back home about the intimacies of Isthmuser cousins.

'It's purely a flirtation. I'm her confidant. She pities me because I was so thoroughly overlooked for the post of premier—but she keeps her sympathies private from her father. I tell her I'm glad I was overlooked. I tell Uncle the same. His daughter tells me secrets.'

'Why is Cultat in contact with the University?'

'I don't know entirely. Some sort of... strategist there. He won't speak directly about it. But I suspect the intelligence he's receiving from his scouts is also going there. Maybe there's more to his plans than I know. Uncle likes decent odds.'

'Most people do.'

'Yes. Most.'

She felt the warmth of him, lying alongside her. They remained clothed. She wondered when they might be lovers again; maybe never.

'But not you,' Radstac breathed.

'Oh, I like favorable odds. That's why I've hired these bandits. They'll know this territory, know how to move through it quickly and stealthily. They're a tough bunch, I'd say.'

'I agree.' Though, she added silently, she would be surprised if any of them lived to redeem that priceless promissory note. Probably Deo'd had that in mind when he wrote it.

'I like the idea of winning,' Deo said. 'It's a fine abstract desire. Unluckily the odds have stood against me all my life. I wish to do something more than my circumstances would likely have ever allowed me to. Something worthwhile.'

'Assassinate the head of the Felk military? You won't succeed.' Hat words—not opinion; judgment. She was a mercenary of many years. She'd earned the right to judge. She would point this out if he argued.

He didn't. 'My own life hasn't succeeded. My mother chose to exclude herself—and me—from the hardships of being premier. It went to Cultat. My uncle ... who, when he was a tenwinter younger than I am now, was utterly unfit for the post. I remember his ascendancy ceremony. I was young, but I understood what was happening. I knew what was out of my reach, forever.'

Their heads were still together. She felt the tear—quite warm—sliding off his cheek onto her scarred one.

'I won't succeed. I won't manage to kill Weisel. I also won't waste any more of my life. But for this ... I think I may be remembered for trying. For making the effort, the sacrifice. If it's not a purely selfless or spotlessly noble act, it may at least seem so to those who hear of my deed. I would be satisfied with that.'

She drew the blanket up from their legs, spread it farther onto their bodies.

'You'll stay with me?' It was a tone of voice she had never heard from him—small, nearly defenseless; speaking for someone deep inside.

'I'll stay.' She kept it simple. 'Until I am told to go.'

RAVEN (3)

SHE BARELY RECOGNIZED herself, which, apparently, was the whole point.

It was a female soldier from the mess corps who was sent to 'remake Raven. She was very matter-of-fact about things. She had gotten a basin and some soap, boiled some water, and scrubbed Raven's stringy dark hair, untangling knots that had been there some long time.

She winced as the woman's tough fingers scoured her scalp, but Raven knew that General Weisel had ordered this, so she went along.

The soldier dried her hair with a cloth, then quickly and neatly braided it. Raven had never been able to