big, scarred foremen who liberally applied a sharp sword poke when one of the Fechinians acted up. I was behind a family from Ocento who appeared to be veteran travelers; between the three of them they had four bags and a wooden box slung beneath a carrying pole.
“Bowie, will you be still?” the Ocentian woman said as she fumbled for her traveling papers. The toddler squirmed in her arms like a minnow avoiding a fish-hook and whined at a pitch that could probably be heard back in Neceda. She shrugged apologetically at the rest of us. “I’m sorry, he just went through his purifying ritual and it’s got him all jumpy.”
Considering that the standard Ocentian “purifying” ritual involved male genital mutilation, I didn’t wonder. I noticed the father had the sad, haunted look I’d seen on other men from Ocento, and he made no move to help his wife. She clearly carried the mace and shield in the family.
Once their pass was stamped, they moved with the precision of a military operation. The husband picked up three of the four bags and one end of the pole, and his wife got the other end and the remaining bag. Bowie crawled up onto his mother’s shoulders like a trained monkey, and started yanking on her hair with a happy giggle. She did not react.
At last it was my turn. The little gate was manned by a fat woman with way too much face paint, and hair that towered higher than the plume on a Dromelier cavalry helmet. A bored guard stood behind her, one hand on the hilt of his sword.
“And where are you from, friend?” the woman asked me. Her tone belied the friendliness of her words.
“Neceda. Up the river.”
She propped her chin on one meaty palm. “I hear the flooding was pretty bad there.”
“Bad enough.”
She looked me over skeptically. I kept my face neutral. “And what brings you here?” she sighed, bored.
“I’m looking for a wife, and I hear the best place to meet one is right at the border.”
She started to smile, then couldn’t decide if I’d insulted her or not. “What the hell does that mean?”
“It means I’m too damned tired to barter with you,” I said in a low voice. “Tell me how much you want, and I’ll pay it and we can all get on with our lives.”
“Are you offering to bribe me?” she demanded, her voice loud with false outrage. The Fechinians behind me began to murmur, and the customs guard looked up, suddenly interested at the possibility of action.
I just looked at her. She was only the latest in a lengthy roll of corrupt minor officials I’d encountered, and I’d learned long ago that the best thing to threaten them with was a break in the routine that would mean more work and uncomfortable explanations. Finally she scratched her forehead with two fingers, and I put two coins down when I bent to sign my pass. She stamped it with a wax seal, palming the money in the same motion. “This is good for three days. If the sun rises on the fourth day and finds you here, you’ll be subject to arrest and immediate death by hanging.”
“If I’m still here in four days, I’ll hang myself,” I said, and pushed through the narrow opening past the guard. He tried to trip me, but instead I locked his ankle with my own and threw him off-balance. He didn’t fall, but he stumbled back into the fat woman who snapped in annoyance, “Harry, will you watch it, please? My hair.”
THREE
Pema was what Neceda would be if King Archibald gave a rat’s ass about anything beyond his castle walls and let real businessmen flourish. People and wagons traveled in unbroken lines in both directions on the cobblestoned main street. Every other building seemed to be a tavern, and most of those were also whorehouses; these would attract the newcomers, and if that didn’t hold them, the gaming houses waited a little further down the street. Past them, though, would be the real rough part of town, home to the folks who made their living off the weary and unguarded travelers and knew how to slip across the border without niceties like travel papers. If they were in town, this was where I’d find my princess-snatching border thugs. If they weren’t, a little money might grease someone’s memory about where they could be found.
I appeared suitably bad-assed with my sword and general scruff, so I had not bothered with a disguise. I tossed my saddlebags over my shoulder and kept my eyes resolutely ahead. I knew what a real potential victim looked like, so I didn’t look like one unless I meant to.
I passed an alley, and caught a peripheral glimpse of a mugging in progress. I considered aiding the victim, but he slammed one of the tough guys against the wall, and I heard the snick sound of a knife, followed by the wet gurgle of a cut throat. He whirled on the other mugger, dagger ready. He seemed to have it under control.
I’d gone half a block before I had the odd feeling that I knew the mugging victim from somewhere. I backtracked, but by then the whole encounter was over, and the alley was empty except for the sprawled body of one of the attackers.
The edge of town, and the businesses that catered to its denizens, was the first place to start looking for the kind of cocky border raiders who might kidnap a princess. I checked three disreputable and dangerous taverns before I reached a low-roofed building with only the words RUM and GIRLS painted on its sign. A pair of torches blazed on poles just outside the entrance. A dozen horses stood tied to the hitching posts, and from the size of their shitpiles, some of them had been there awhile. All had worn saddles and tack, but they’d been modified and personalized the way you do when you want to show off.
This rum joint had one big main room, with a small kitchen and stock area blocked off in the back. A bar ran the length of the wall to my left, and about ten small tables filled the open floor space. A bunch of those tables had been pulled together in the back corner, and were occupied by the owners of the horses. The hanging oil lamps along that stretch of the wall had been extinguished, creating a pool of relative darkness; I couldn’t see them, but I knew at least some of them would check me out as soon as I walked through the door.
I let my shoulders slump and my gut stick out (easier to do the older I got) so I would appear no more than a poor weary traveler anxious for a drink and maybe a quick roll with one of the working girls. I shuffled to the bar and took an empty stool on the end. It wasn’t the best vantage place, since it kept my back to the door, but if I’d chosen a better one, I might’ve given myself away. If I squinted, I had a pretty good view of the room in the long, smoke-stained mirror.
I counted ten big rough-looking hard boys in need of haircuts and shaves. They were armed with swords and knives, including some big two-hander blades that, if their wielders could actually lift them, would slice through a cow. A quick count of the empty mugs on the tables told me they’d been drinking a while, and that might take the edge off their skill. I wasn’t going to bet on it, though.
“What’ll you have, pal?” the bartender asked. Tattoos ran down his arms and his right eyelid drooped.
“Cheapest rum you got,” I said, sounding like I’d been on the road for weeks. “I’m on a tight budget.”
“Cheapest I got’ll take off varnish,” he said.
I shrugged. I had no intention of drinking it anyway. “Challenges make you a better person.” He nodded and went to pour the drink.
I checked out the women milling around the tough guys. Like bars, bar whores tended to be the same everywhere. If they were under twenty-five, they still had that little hint of hope that some shining knight would rescue them from their life of degradation and despair. Over that age, they were either resigned to their fate, or they actually enjoyed the job and thus were always the happiest people in the room.
Five ladies sought the attention of the men in the corner. Three of them were not young enough to be my missing princess. The fourth had a bit too much flesh spilling over her bodice.
The last one sat demurely next to a big man who, in the dimness, looked familiar. I put it down as a trick of the firelight; although it wasn’t impossible, the chances that I really knew the guy were pretty slim.
The bartender brought my drink, and I nonchalantly turned to survey the room, the way any traveler would. The demure girl’s face wasn’t any clearer from this angle, but she had the right kind of hair and looked about the right age to be my missing princess. Travelers from Gurius, Balaton’s capital, might stop in here; it was pretty ballsy of these guys to bring their prisoner into a bar where she might be recognized, even dressed like a farm girl come to town.
At that moment the girl raised her head and said something to the man next to her. Damn if it wasn’t her all right, Princess Lila of the Royal House of Balaton. She looked only slightly the worse for wear, although some kinds
