Johan frowned. The voice was still a tiger's, a droning purr in a queer antique accent. "Don't talk. The spell will cling until I disenchant you. It shan't be for long. Now come."
Yet the new man's first step made Johan curse under his breath. Jedit's natural tread was the lithe loping glide of a tiger, not the brutish stumping of a barbarian. Still, night should cloak the flaw, and the tiger was just a tool to be used and discarded anyway. Though Johan was plagued by superstition, he nonetheless possessed the keen mind of a general who always planned conquests at two levels. Thus, while Johan hatched long-range plans with a thousand tiny components, he could still diverge from a plan to snap up promising opportunities that popped up.
He muttered, "He who thinks both longest and quickest prospers first and last."
"Eh?" The barbarian turned beady dark eyes on the mage.
"Nothing. Don't talk."
Leaving desert and corrals behind, the pair took the dusty road that led to twin watchtowers and the city wall of Palmyra.
For four centuries since the Ice Age glaciers vanished overnight, Palmyra had occupied an oxbow bend in the River Toloron. Originally tiny, the village clung to a shelf of bedrock the river could not erode so instead partly circled. The hostile Sukurvia resented permanent dwellings, but Palmyra stuck because the river protected and nourished it. It was the only real town within the vast desert. Far to the north, where the river rushed from the mountains, crouched a craggy city like a condor. Tirras was the dark heart of rich and fertile northlands where wealth and populace had exploded of late. Its iron-fisted ruler was Johan, Tyrant of Tirras and Emperor of the Northern Realms. Far to the south, where the river lost itself in the Sea of Serenity, sat the seaport Bryce. The River Toloron spanned the desert and linked the two cities, and it was down this river that Johan had launched his invasion of the southlands.
His invasion foundered on the rock called Palmyra. Adira Strongheart, erstwhile mayor of Palmyra and leader of the cutthroat Robaran Mercenaries, called Palmyra home and defended it tooth and nail. To Palmyra's defense had come an alliance of southern city-states led by the governor of Bryce, Hazezon Tamar. Johan's invasion ran square into a new-built dam blocking the river, then a newly fortified village, then a nimble and unflagging patchwork army, and finally hearty doses of magic. The river itself had been magically spirited away by merfolk. Weeks of thirsty fighting ground Johan's forces down. Finally had come phalanxes of ensorcelled sandmen and a withering sandstorm that smothered the invading army. Only remnants had escaped to crawl back to Tirras.
Thus Johan's face was slashed by a frown deep as a knife wound as he padded into Palmyra with a hulking barbarian alongside. Everything in Palmyra seemed calculated to gall the would-be conqueror. Palmyra's town wall was again strong, showing no traces of the Tirran siege. The twin towers were manned by militia soldiers with spears and horns ready to sound an alert. Guards demanded the strangers state their business, but Johan's powers of persuasion got them past. The town had never been much more than adobe huts, dusty wells, and a few scraggly trees, but the citizens had taken new pride in digging out from under the fabulous sandstorm six months past. Though some cellar holes were still choked with sand, many flat-roofed houses were freshly painted. Wells were dredged and dressed with stone, for suffering without water for weeks had reminded townsfolk of the precious commodity's worth.
Sleeping away the afternoon heat, Palmyra came awake at night. The swirling populace sang and laughed and called to friends. The town felt festive, the air still sweet with victory. A chain of giggling girls danced and wove through columns framing one street. A man played a flute, and his dog yipped along. Two women shared gossip and grapes leaning from the second stories of their homes. Young lovers cooed and kissed in shadows where starlight didn't fall.
Fuming, Johan strode along, the only busy man in the village, but time and again he had to catch Jedit's hand and tow him along. Wearing the barbarian mask, the tiger-man gawked at every sight and smell as they mounted ancient steps cut in stone. Palmyrans seemed as varied as birds in the jungle. As they reached the highest point, the town square where people drifted, the visitors saw dark-bearded nomads, gaudy pirates, soldiers from Yerkoy and Enez, plump Brycer merchants, lean desert elves like knives in black robes, Keepers of the Faith, red-rouged prostitutes, elephant handlers, Aisling leprechauns, and doughty dwarves clutching foaming tankards. Mixed in, Johan noted coldly, were many north-blood Tirrans, likely deserters from his shattered army.
The strangers slowed as the crowd piled up. Johan jerked to a halt, hooked like a trout by a hated name.
"Adira said this lad could join us?" bawled a lusty voice in mock horror. "What's the Circle of Seven sunk to that we need a beardless youth to keep us hale and hearty?"
"I told you, Badger," corrected a woman primly. "Murdoch was a sergeant in Yerkoy. That's a rank of responsibility-"
"He's rank, I'll warrant," interrupted the rogue named Badger. "His fighting style stinks-Avast!"
The towering Jedit pushed forward to see, and the crowd parted like tall grass. Johan slipped behind to peek, seeing but not seen.
Sword practice in the cool of evening had become a spectacle for townsfolk. One side of the square was formed by the town hall, a long adobe building that served as headquarters for Adira Strongheart when not at sea. Adira's personal bodyguard were the infamous Circle of Seven, the quickest, most canny, and most loyal fighters, thieves, and pirates culled from her three hundred-odd Robaran Mercenaries. Members of the Circle were popular and famous as the mayor herself, and their wild antics were often the talk of the tables. Tonight would add to their reputation.
Johan wished them all dead and rotten in their graves.
Inside a circle ringed by four torches on poles stood the older sailor named Badger for his white-striped hair and beard, and opposite him stood a new recruit to the Circle, a sturdy sergeant still in the green and gold tabard of Yerkoy. Watching were several of the Seven, especially Sister Wilemina in blonde braids and blue cowl, a Calerian archer, skinny but with arms like rawhide. Johan hissed, for her arrow had once nicked his ear.
Sister Wilemina chirped, "You must give Murdoch a chance! Please, Badger! It's only fair!"
"Fair's a funny word from a pirate, pretty thing." Playing to the crowd, Badger made them laugh. "Even a fair wind's nothing to bank on. Come on, Murdoch, pick up that pigsticker! A cask of Brycer stout goes to the winner, and it's thirsty work watching you fall down!"
Though Murdoch was in his prime, barely past twenty and sturdy as an ox, and Badger's best days had ended three decades back, it was the older man who skipped and dodged while the younger man charged like a blind bull, panting with his tongue out. Murdoch lugged a spear with a wicked barbed head. Badger had only a small round shield and a cutlass. The sergeant should have stabbed the sailor a dozen times, but Badger was only dusty while Murdoch was bloody.
Sucking wind, Murdoch lowered the spear and rushed. The old pirate seemed to stumble, and the crowd gasped, then Badger kicked backward with one foot. Suddenly he was side-on as Murdoch blundered past too fast to stop. Badger could have split his spine with the cutlass but settled for spanking the sergeant's bum. The crowd roared. Still game, Murdoch dropped the spear point to dig in dirt and whirl half-round. He whipped the spear butt back to ram Badger's gut. The pirate was gone. Gasping, Murdoch snapped his head to one side — and slammed his face flat into Badger's upright shield.
Stunned, Murdoch grabbed his aching forehead. Grinning, Badger blew a mighty puff and, with one finger, shoved the sergeant over. Murdoch raised dust when he flopped, and the crowd cheered with delight as he was dragged from the circle.