The girl sneered at Erika. “What do you care?”
Erika smiled at her. “What’s your name?”
“You tell me yours first.”
“My name is Erika ja Leora.” Erika pulled the collar of her shirt down to reveal a brand-identical to the one that the girl wore, but smaller and more easily concealed-just above her left breast. “And I’m a powder mage too.”
The girl followed them back to the road. She kept her distance, as if unsure as to whether she’d have to run at any moment. When they reached the road she remained in the shadow of the trees and clutched her penknife. The girl hid it well, but she walked with a slight limp. Every step must have been painful for her.
“I’ve heard of you,” the girl said.
Erika would have been surprised if the girl hadn’t. Powder mages amongst the nobility were rare enough. “Good things, I hope.”
“Just that you’re Forsworn,” the girl sniffed. “You can hide your brand.”
“Yes. Because I’m the heir to a duchy,” Erika said. She realized after the words had left her mouth how incredibly unfair that must sound-that a noble could live unmolested as a powder mage, while the commoners were hunted and executed for it. “That’s why I have this,” she hefted her bow. “I’m not allowed to touch a musket, by law.” Or black powder, for that matter.
Powder mages could manipulate the energy of black powder with their minds or ingest it to enhance their senses and increase their strength and speed. They were considered incredibly dangerous, and no one hated them more than the king’s Privileged cabal of elemental sorcerers and his personal cadre of Longdogs.
Erika realized that her statement about the powder couldn’t have been very consoling. This girl was running for her life, for a crime she had no choice in committing.
“Come with us,” Erika said. “You can ride with me.”
The girl shook her head. “I…no. I can’t go on the roads.”
“I’ll protect you.”
“That’s what my brother said. And they killed him.”
Erika couldn’t put words to a response.
“Riders on the road,” Santiole said, taking her musket off her shoulder.
Erika turned to the girl to tell her to hide, but she had already disappeared into the trees. She swore quietly under her breath and turned to watch as a pair of horses rounded a bend further up the road to the south and came toward them.
As they drew closer, she made out that both men were armed with small swords but neither pistol nor musket. One was paunchy, broad across the shoulders, while the other was whip thin and slouched in his saddle. They wore the green on tan of the king’s Grand Army but with white sashes across their chests that spoke of special commission. The sashes were emblazoned with images of thin, narrow-headed hounds from which the Longdogs got their nickname.
Erika felt her stomach turn.
“You, woman,” the paunchy one said to Santiole. “What business have you on the king’s highway?”
“We’re hunting,” Santiole said. Her thumb brushed the hammer of her musket, but she kept the weapon pointed at the ground.
“On whose permission?”
“The duke of Leora.”
“Do you have papers?”
Santiole took papers from her jacket pocket and gave them over. The thin Longdog looked at the papers, speaking quietly to himself as he read, and then handed them back to Santiole. He nodded to his partner.
“Seems to be in order,” the paunchy man said regretfully. “Have you seen any strangers in the area?”
“No,” Erika said. “Why?”
“I wasn’t talking to you, girl,” the paunchy man said. “Let your betters speak.” The thin Longdog leaned over and smacked his partner on the shoulder, to which the man swore loudly.
Santiole said, “You shouldn’t talk that way to the duchess-heir of Leora. I’d be within my right to knock your teeth in.”
“Ah,” the fat man said, muttering his apology. He scowled at his partner.
“Who are you looking for?” Erika asked.
“A dangerous fugitive, my lady. A powder mage.”
“Sweet Kresimir, I hope you find him,” Erika said.
The thin man cleared his throat. “My lady, would you excuse us for a moment?”
The two drew away to confer between themselves some distance off. Santiole scowled at them, her musket still lazily cradled beneath one arm, thumb resting gently on the hammer.
Erika turned herself away from the two men and reached in her pocket. She surreptitiously drew out a snuff box and flicked open the lid with her thumb.
“What are you doing?” Santiole whispered. “If they see you….”
Erika took a pinch of the black powder and held it up to her nose, sniffing. She shuddered as a warm feeling flooded her body, an equal mix of euphoria and nausea. The world became a torrent of noises, scents, and sights as the black powder took effect, sharpening her senses, and the voices of the two Longdogs reached her ears.
“…that is?”
“No idea.”
“The heir of the Leora duchy? It’s that powder mage brat that the duke is always going on about.”
“You think she’s hiding the girl?”
“Pit, we don’t even know if the girl is within twenty miles of here. She could have gone northwest, for all we know.”
“So what?”
“So what? We put down this girl and the duke will throw us a bloody parade, you twit. He hates it when nobles get off just because they’re nobles.”
“Now that’s damned risky. Her chaperone looks like a handful.”
Erika’s eavesdropping was interrupted by Santiole. The mistress-at-arms had stepped closer and said quietly, “Let’s just mount up and go. With them searching we can’t risk helping the girl.”
“And if they find her and she tells them we offered to help?”
“We deny everything. There’s no evidence.”
“They’re talking about killing me, by the way.”
Santiole blinked back at her.
“The thin one just suggested they make it look like an accident. The fat one thinks they could plant some black powder on me and make it look like they were defending themselves.”
Santiole let out a sigh. “Pit and damnation. You better take the fat one.”
“What do you mean?”
“Shoot him in the chest.”
Erika hadn’t actually thought of killing anyone. “But I….”
“But nothing. You’re going to be a Kez duchess. It won’t be the first time you get your hands bloody.” Santiole brushed a strand of hair behind one ear and stepped into the middle of the road. She pointed into the forest. “A squirrel up in the tree. There!”
Erika slipped the bow from her shoulder and drew an arrow.
“What do you think you’re doing?” the thin Longdog asked.
“Teaching my mistress to kill vermin,” Santiole said.
Erika sighted at an imaginary squirrel in the forest, then turned toward the paunchy man and let her shaft fly.
The arrow sunk into the man’s chest just below his heart. He stared at it in shock. The crack of a musket shot broke the air and smoke rose above Santiole. The thin man slumped forward in his saddle, his sword half-drawn, and Santiole dashed forward to snatch the reins before the horses could bolt.
She pulled both bodies from their saddles, setting the horses free to gallop back down the road. She yanked the arrow from the fat man’s chest and handed it to Erika. “Clean this off.”
While the thin man was most definitely dead, the paunchy one was not. Erika watched in fascination as his round stomach rose and fell and blood gurgled from his mouth and nose. Santiole drew her pistol and checked to see that it was primed, then aimed it at the arrow wound and pulled the trigger. The fat man jerked once and let out a moan of anguish, his arms flailing. She bent over to finish the job with her knife.
Santiole wiped the blade off on the dead man’s pants. “And that’s how you put down a dog.”
“Why’d you shoot him?”