Bahzell heard them go and opened his left hand. The man he’d been punching with his bleeding right fist sagged bonelessly to the pavement, and he looked around quickly for the whore.
No, he corrected himself, not a whore. The woman with her back to the greasy alley wall was too plainly dressed for that. A whore would have shown more flesh, even on a night this cold, and she wore none of the cheap trinkets of the prostitute. He heard her fearful breathing and saw the gleam of her wide eyes, but she held a short dagger as if she knew which end was sharp. More to the point, there was blood on the blade and two dead men at her feet.
His own chest heaved, and his ears pricked in surprise as he studied her. Her clothing was drab, and her heavy skirt was badly ripped under her cheap cloak, yet it was also painfully clean. She was a small thing, even for a human, and young, but there was a lean, poised readiness about her. She looked like a peasant, but she didn’t stand like one, and she was neither a half-starved waif of the streets nor a fine lady.
He frowned as he tried to decide just what it was she was , and then she lowered the dagger with a taut smile and nodded to him.
“My thanks, friend,” she said in accented Axeman. “Lillinara knows I never expected anyone to come running in a place like this-and a hradani to boot!-but . . . many thanks.”
“Aye, well, I couldn’t just be walking on by,” he said uncomfortably in the same language.
“Most people around here could have, and would.” She gave him another flickering smile and stooped to clean her dagger on a cloak. Then the blade vanished somewhere about her clothing, and she tugged at her torn skirt in a futile effort to straighten it.
“My name is Zarantha,” she said, abandoning her efforts. Her accent gave her Axeman a strange, musical lilt, and she held out her hand.
“Bahzell,” Bahzell muttered, bemused by her composure, and his eyebrows rose as he felt his forearm gripped in a warrior’s clasp. “Bahzell Bahnakson, of the Horse Stealers.”
“Horse Stealers?” It was Zarantha’s turn to raise her eyebrows. “You’re a long way from home, Bahzell Bahnakson.”
“That I am,” Bahzell agreed. She released his arm and he stood back, ankle-deep in bodies-unconscious and otherwise-and his mouth twitched in wry amusement. “And so, I’m thinking, are you, from your accent.”
“True enough. I’m from Sherhan, near Alfroma in the South Weald.”
“A Spearman, are you? Or should I be saying a Spearwoman?” Bahzell asked in Spearman, and she laughed out loud.
“Spearmen is what they call us, man, woman, and child,” she replied in the same language. “And what does a Horse Stealer hradani know of us? You’re-what, from up near Sothōii lands?”
“Well, as to that, we’re thinking the Sothōii are from up near Horse Stealer lands,” he said, and she laughed again.
“Good for you! But what, if you’ll pardon my asking, are you doing in Riverside? Not that I’m ungrateful for whatever it is!”
“Naught but traveling through. And yourself?”
“I’m trying to get home.”
“Home, is it?” Bahzell looked down at her, and something in the way she’d said “get home” urged him to bid her a courteous good evening and vanish. The racket they’d raised might bring the Guard down on them, even in this part of town, and even if it didn’t, this Zarantha and her problems were none of his affair. But something else had control of his voice, and he cocked his head and frowned at her. “And what’s to stop you from getting there, then?”
“One thing after another,” she said tartly. “My family’s well enough off, in a modest sort of way-we’re connected to the Shâloans, one way or another-and my father sent me off to school in the Empire of the Axe. But when I started home again-”
She broke off as one of the thugs groaned and pushed up on his hands. He wavered there, then struggled to his knees, and Bahzell brought a fist down on the top of his head without even thinking about it. The man grunted and thudded back to the paving, and the hradani nodded politely to Zarantha.
“You were saying you’re after being connected to the Shâloans?” She nodded back, and he frowned. “And what might a Shâloan be?”
“What?!” Zarantha blinked at him, then laughed again. It was a nice laugh, Bahzell thought, throaty and almost purring. “That’s right, you wouldn’t know. Well, Grand Duke Shâloan is Warden of the South Weald.”
“Ah.” He eyed her plain, cheap clothing again and cleared his throat. “And would the Duke know you’re in difficulties?”
“I didn’t say it was a close connection,” she said wryly. “Not but what my family isn’t better off than appearances might suggest. I was on my way home when my armsmen came down with a fever here in Riverside.” Her face tightened, and her voice fell. “Two of them died,” she said more softly, “and poor Tothas was too sick to defend even himself when my maid and I were robbed. We barely had enough left to put a roof over our heads-not that it’s much of one-while we nursed him back to health.”
Bahzell nodded again, slowly, tempted, despite the absurdity of what she claimed to be, to believe her. He also felt a stir of sympathy and stepped on it hard. The last thing he and Brandark needed was to get involved with an indigent noblewoman, however minor. Especially a foreign one.
“Well, it’s happy I am to have been of service, Lady Zarantha,” he said, “but I’ve a friend waiting for me, and I’d best be going, so-”
“Wait!” She held out her hand again, and Bahzell felt a sharper stab of foreboding. “If you’re just traveling through, won’t you help us? Tothas is still weak, and I’m sure if you-and your friend, if he’s willing-help us get home, my father will see you rewarded for it!”
Bahzell’s jaw clenched, and he swore at himself for not having made his escape in time.
“I’ve no doubt he would,” he began, “but I’m thinking there’s better than such as us to be helping you home. It’s like enough he’d be none too happy to see you trailing a pair of hradani with you, and-”
Another thug raised a bleary head, peered about him, and began crawling down the alley, and Bahzell reached down and caught him by the cloak. He jerked the unfortunate up and bounced his head off the wall-harder than was strictly necessary in his frustration-and let him slither back.
“As I was saying-” he began again, when a loud voice spoke from behind him.
“Here, now!” it said sharply. “What’s all this, then?”
Bahzell shut his mouth and turned slowly. He wore no sword-the Riverside Guard frowned on them-but he was careful to keep his hand well away from his dagger hilt, as well.
It was, perhaps, as well he had, for ten of the Guard stood in the alley mouth with torches, peering at the carnage. The sergeant at their head removed his steel cap and tucked it under his left arm to scratch his head, and more steel rasped quietly behind him as someone loosened a sword in its sheath.
“Well?” the sergeant said after a moment, gazing up at Bahzell, and the hradani opened his mouth, but Zarantha stepped past him before he could speak.
“I,” she said, and Bahzell blinked at her suddenly regal tone, “am the Lady Zarantha Hûrâka, of Clan Hûrâka, sept to Shâloan of the South Weald.”
“Ah?” The sergeant rocked back on his heels with a smile, but the smile faded as Zarantha faced him. She should have looked ridiculous in her cheap, drab garments, torn and streaked with the alley’s filth, but she didn’t. Bahzell could see only her back, but there was a dangerous tilt to her head, and the sergeant cleared his throat.
“I, uh, I see . . . My Lady,” he said finally. “Ah, I don’t suppose you could, um, explain what’s happened here?”