"Heaven, in very deed," Tarma was losing no time in shedding her clothing. "I think I'm finally going to be warm again!"
One candlemark later, as they were blissfully soaking in hot mineral water -- "This is a hot spring," Kethry remarked after sniffing the faint tang of copper in the air. "That's why he can afford to give his baths away" -- a bright grin surmounted by a thatch of tousled brown hair appeared out of the steam and handed them their towels.
"Guard-shift's changin', miladies; men as stays here'll be lookin' fer their baths in a bit. You wants quiet, ye'd best come t' dinner. You wants a bit o' summat else -- you jest stays here, they'll gie' ye that!"
"No doubt," Tarma said wryly, taking the towel Laeka held out to her and emerging reluctantly from the hot tub, thinking that in some ways a child being raised in an inn grew up even faster than a child of the Clans. "We'll take the quiet, thanks. What's wrong?"
The child was staring at her torso with stricken eyes. "Lady -- you -- how did -- who did -- "
Tarma glanced down at her own hard, tawnygold body, that was liberally latticed with a network of paler scars and realized that the child had been startled and shocked by the evidence of so many old wounds on one so relatively young. She also thought about the adulation that had been in Laeka's eyes, and the concern in her father's when the man had seen it there. This might be a chance to do the man a good turn, maybe earn enough gratitude that he'd exert himself for them.
"A lot of people did that to me, child," she said quietly. "And if you've ever thought to go adventuring, think of these marks on me first. It isn't like the tales, where people go to battle one candlemark and go feast the next, with never a scratch on them. I was months healing from the last fight I had, and the best that those I fought for could give me was a mule, provisions, and a handful of coin as reward. The life of a mercenary is far from profitable most of the time."
Laeka gulped, and looked away. "I like horses," she ventured, finally. "I be good with 'em."
"Then by all means, become a horse-trainer," Tarma answered the unspoken question. "Train 'em well, and sell 'em to fools like me who earn their bread with swords instead of brains. Tell you what -- you decide to do that, you send word to the Clans in my name. I'll leave orders you're to get a better choice than we give most outlanders. Hmm?"
"Aye!" The girl's eyes lighted at the promise, and she relaxed a little as Tarma donned her closefitting breeches, shirt, and wrapped Shin'a'in jacket, covering the terrible scars. "Da says t' tell you supper be stew, bread 'n' honey, an' ale."
"Sounds fine -- Keth?"
"Wonderful."
"Tell him we'll be there right behind you."
The child scampered out, and Kethry lifted an eyebrow. "Rather overdoing it, weren't you?"
"Huh! You didn't see the hero-worship in the kid's eyes, earlier, or the worry in her Da's. Not too many female mercenaries ride through here, I'd guess; the kid's seen just enough to make it look glamorous. Well, now she knows better, and I'm thinking it's just as well."
"You knew better, but you took this road anyway."
"Aye, I did," Tarma laced her boots slowly, her harsh voice dropping down to a whisper. "And the only reason I left the Plains was to revenge my Clan. All Shin'a'in learn the sword, but that doesn't mean we plan to live by it. We -- we don't live to fight, we fight when we have to, to live. Sometimes we don't manage the last. As for me, I had no choice in taking up the blade, in becoming a mercenary; no more than did you."
Kethry winced, and touched Tarma's arm lightly. "Put my foot in it, didn't I? She'enedra, I'm sorry -- I meant no offense -- "
Tarma shook off her gloom with a shake of her head. "I know that. None taken. Let's get that food. I could eat this towel, I'm that hungry."
The whitewashed common room was quite empty, although the boy who brought them their supper (older than the other two children, darker, and quieter) told them it would be filling shortly. And so it proved; men of all ages and descriptions slowly trickling in to take their places at table and bench, being served promptly by Hadell's two sons. The room could easily hold at least fifty; the current crowd was less than half that number. Most of the men looked to be of early middle-age with a sprinkling of youngsters; all wore the unconsciously competent air of a good professional soldier. Tarma liked what she saw of them. None of these men would ever be officers, but the officers they did serve would be glad to have them.
The talk was muted; the men were plainly weary with the day's work. Listening without seeming to, the women soon gleaned the reason why.
As Tarma had already guessed, these men were foreign mercenaries, like themselves. This would be Hadell's lean season -- one reason, perhaps, that his prices were reasonable, and that he was so glad to see them. The other reason was that he was that rare creature, an honest man, and one who chose to give the men he had served beside a decent break. Right now, only those hire-swords with contracts for a year or more -- or those one or two so prosperous that they could afford to bide out the mercenary's lean season in an inn -- were staying at the Broken Sword. Normally a year-contract included room and board, but these men were a special case. All of them were hired on with the City Guard, which had no barracks for them. The result was that their pay included a stipend for board, and a good many of them stayed at inns like the Broken Sword. The job was never the easy one it might appear to the unknowing to be; and today had been the occasion of a riot over bread prices. The Guard had been ordered to put down the riot; no few of these men had been of two minds about their orders. On the one hand, they weren't suffering; but on the other, most of them were of the same lowerclasses as those that were rioting, and could remember winters when they had gone hungry. And the inflated grain prices, so rumor had it, had no basis for being so high. The harvest had been good, the granaries full. Rumor said that shortages were being created. Rumor said, by Wethes Goldmarchant. Both Tarma and her partner took to their bed with more than a bellyful of good stew to digest.
* * * "Are you certain you want to come with me, even knowing there probably won't be work for you? You deserved a chance to sleep in for a change."
Kethry, standing in the light from the window, gave her sorcerer's robe a good brushing and slipped it on over her shirt and breeches -- and belted on her blade as well.
"Eyah. I want to be lurking in the background looking protective and menacing. I want to start rumors about how it's best to approach my partner with respect. You put on whatever act you think will reinforce mine. And I don't think you should be wearing that."
Kethry glanced down at Need and pursed her lips. "You're probably right, but I feel rather naked without her."
"We don't want to attract any attention, right? You know damn well mages don't bear steel other than eating knives and ritual daggers." Tarma lounged fully-clothed -- except for her boots -- on the bed, since there wasn't enough room for two people to be standing beside it at the same time.
"Right," Kethry sighed, removing the blade and stowing it under the bed with the rest of their goods. "All right, let's go."
The Hiring Hall was no more than a short stroll from the inn; an interesting walk from Tarma's point of view. Even at this early an hour the streets were full of people, from ragged beggars to welldressed merchants, and not all from around here -- Tarma recognized the regional dress of more than a dozen other areas, and might have spotted more had she known what to look for. This might be the lean season, but it was evident that Mornedealth always had a certain amount of trade going.