Brimstone Angels

“Was the road north always that bad?” he said. “It felt like we’d never make it to Waterdeep.”

Tam shrugged. “It was a long time ago. I left on the road east.”

Brin shrugged and looked back at the road again, a bad feeling creeping through his thoughts. If Tam didn’t mention Athkatla because of the road, then why? Was he just looking for something they had vaguely in common? Or was he trying to catch Brin in a lie? He looked at the odd priest out of the corner of his eye.

He’d felt sure that no one who knew he’d left would be willing to send out hunters or postings. He’d assumed they would just send Constancia and her warrior-priests …

He’s not a bounty hunter, Brin told himself. And if he were, he couldn’t be sure Brin was who he was looking for: There were no portraits to show a hunter, and besides, Brin had stained his blond hair regularly since leaving Cormyr. A hunter would be told he was seventeen, but Brin had been relying on his short height and scrawny build to pass for younger-the wagon master thought he was fourteen, which would have mortified Brin a few months ago but now felt like a special triumph. And the hunter would be looking for someone to answer to another name.

Still Brin was sure of none of these things, and his stomach pulled with the familiar unease that puzzling out someone else’s motives always gave him.

“Where are you coming from?” Brin asked the strange priest.

Tam smiled again, but there was still that look in his eye. As if he knew they were playing a game. As if he could manipulate and maneuver all day long against a little turncoat Cormyrian. As if he knew exactly how Brin’s stomach felt, and how weak that made him.

“Westgate,” he said.

“Did you flee Neverwinter then?”

“No, just lending a hand.” Tam seemed to consider Brin a moment, and he was a little less certain of his assessment-Brin’s mother used to give him a similar look. “Are you sure nothing’s weighing on you?”

“It’s weighing on me that you keep asking that,” Brin said as lightly as he could. “I must look wretched. How soon will we reach Neverwinter, do you think?”

Tam began to answer, but a ululating cry out of the forest startled both of them, and no amount of maneuvering or manipulating would have made any difference then.

“Come on,” Havilar said, stomping her foot. “Hurry up. A good hard sprint and we’ll catch them.”

It was too hot to be sprinting after anyone. Farideh shifted her haversack to her right shoulder. Her scar itched where the strap had rubbed against it for the last few miles. The sweat that trickled over her skin made the itch sting in places.

“Do that,” Mehen said, coming to stand beside her on the crest of the road, “and you’ll spook our bounty.” He raised a spyglass to one eye.

“You don’t even know the bounty’s on the caravan,” Havilar protested. “Because you won’t let us catch up!”

“What do you think is going to happen if we wait?” Farideh asked, joining them. “We’re miles from anywhere.” Ahead on the road, the caravan that had been slipping in and out of sight for the past day was close enough to make out the black dog hanging its head over the edge of the last cart, the bright pink of its tongue.

“This one might … I don’t know … run into the woods and join up with bandits,” Havilar said, “and then what will we do? Hmm? Creep through a bandit fortress for another three bloody tendays?”

Mehen collapsed the spyglass. “Havi, calm down. Let them get ahead. Let them get to the next waystation if they need to. Then at least we’ll have a room and someone we can buy passage to the next Tormish temple from. We’ll catch up. Go practice with your glaive.”

Farideh watched the last wagon hobble over a stone in the roadway. Three tendays had passed since Mehen had taken on the bounty in Proskur, and more and more Farideh suspected they were on the wrong track altogether.

Not that she was an expert; Mehen had done such work in the time between leaving his clan and settling in Arush Vayem, and returned to it quickly enough when they left there. But none of the bounties they’d had in the last six months had been this difficult-

Her scar suddenly flared, hotter than the baked road. She drew a sharp breath and clapped a hand to her shoulder. The pain faded, but Farideh knew it would come again. It came when the cambion was watching her, and it meant he was angry or annoyed or just wanting her attention. It meant he would come. Farideh tensed.

She had no idea why Lorcan was stirred-up-the gods probably didn’t know why he was stirred-up. If he came … Oh Hells, if he came with the caravan so near, they would all be in so much danger. And Mehen would never let her forget it. She rubbed her arm, as if she could rub away the lingering sensation of Lorcan’s pique.

Calm, she told herself. She shut her eyes and tried to breathe more slowly. None of that’s happened.

The burn flared again.

She opened her eyes and cursed. She’d told the cambion-repeatedly-that he couldn’t just appear in front of Mehen and not expect to get them both into trouble. At least Lorcan had stopped appearing as if he were merely coming by to borrow some butter. Now, he needled at her brand until she removed herself from any company. It was only a matter of time before Mehen noticed that, too, not that Lorcan cared.

Bastard, she thought, then wished she hadn’t. She wondered what he wanted.

Farideh looked back at Havilar and at Mehen, who was watching her grimly.

“Fari, come spar with your sister.”

Farideh watched her sister’s fluid sweeps of the wicked-looking blade, her quick jabs with its sharp end.

“Why?”

“Because you need practice,” Mehen said. “And it will help … It will give you something to distract yourself with.”

Farideh pursed her lips, but drew her short sword. She turned the hilt in her hand to get the proper grip, the leather wrappings slick and still uncomfortable in her damp palms. Havilar gave her a skeptical look.

“So are we doing basic passes, then?”

Farideh sighed. “Whatever you’d like.”

“You can’t do what I’d like,” Havilar said. “But it’s not going to help me to go easy on you with Kidney Carver.”

“Kidney Carver?”

“My glaive,” Havilar said. “It needs a name. Every warrior worth talking about has a weapon with a name.”

“Kidney Carver?”

“It’s … carved kidneys,” she said. “Or close enough.”

“Girls,” Mehen warned.

Havilar rolled her eyes. “Come on,” she said to Farideh, “get your guard up. You start defensive.”

Farideh readjusted her grip and brought the sword up in front of her. The glaive swung down in a careful arc, and she caught it on the flat of the blade, shoving it aside. Havi tried again, sweeping the glaive up under Farideh’s sword this time, and Farideh stepped out of its reach, knocking Havilar’s guard open.

Farideh went through the motions like the steps in a dance she only half knew. Parry, dodge, parry, reverse … She counted on the fact that Havilar would go through the passes as rote as possible, if only because she thought Farideh couldn’t handle anything more. It gave Farideh a chance to think about other things-about the bounty, about Mehen’s disappointed expression, about the searing pain that laced her shoulder-so she didn’t bother giving Havilar any other impression.

Farideh’s brand stung so sharply she gasped. At the same moment, Havilar’s glaive came up hard into Farideh’s sword.

Farideh yelped and loosed her grip. The glaive locked under her guard, and sent her sword sailing over Havilar’s head and into the brambles beyond. Mehen heaved a great sigh and covered his face with one hand.

“Gods,” Havilar said. “Did you throw that?”

“You know I didn’t,” Farideh snapped. She wiped the sweat from her hand on her skirt. Her shoulder was on fire. “Go get it, would you?” she begged.

“Hells, no,” Havilar said. “I don’t want to dig through brambles. You lost it. You get it.”

“Fari, go get your damned sword,” Mehen said. “A few brambles won’t hurt you.”