The imminence of a general melee jolted Bez’s thinking into a belated clarity. Once someone spilled blood, there’d be no stopping it; he and his crewmen were outnumbered, and even had it been otherwise, he had nothing to gain and much to lose by falling out with his hosts.
“Stop!” he bellowed. “This is between this lad and me!” Then he removed his rapier and main gauche and laid them on the table amid the tankards, goblets, pitchers, and bottles.
The fellow he’d evidently insulted-a typical Rashemi warrior, dark-haired, scarred, burly, and of no more than medium height-set his hand-axe and dirk aside as well. Then the two of them moved to a clear space while other people turned to watch.
Bez started to circle, but the berserker apparently wasn’t a believer in taking one’s time and feeling out the opponent before attacking in earnest. No doubt hoping to overwhelm Bez in an instant, he bellowed and rushed in.
That kind of explosive aggression could be effective, but it couldn’t startle a seasoned sellsword into passivity. Bez twisted out of the way and drove a fist into the Rashemi’s kidney as he blundered past.
The berserker grunted, spun, and flung out his arm. The backhand blow clipped Bez in the temple but not quite hard enough to make him falter. He stepped in close and whipped his elbow into the Rashemi’s face. The man stumbled back a step.
Bez then punched him in the jaw, and that stung worse than the blow he’d taken to the head. His knuckles throbbed. But the Rashemi went down.
Bez almost succumbed to the urge to kick and stamp on him, but that too, might have had unfortunate consequences. Instead, he waited for the berserker to shake off his daze, then offered him a hand up.
The Rashemi smiled ruefully and accepted the gesture of renewed good fellowship, and the spectators cheered. Bez acknowledged their approval by grinning, waving, and clapping his erstwhile adversary on the shoulder.
Then the door at the end of the lodge hall opened, and as the assembled warriors noticed the figure framed in the opening, they fell quiet.
The new arrival was a hathran with staff in hand and layers of robe and mantle shrouding her form. Her polished wooden mask was a bland abstraction of the female face, expressionless except, perhaps, for the hint of an ambiguous smile at the corners of the mouth.
Which was to say, she looked little different than the other witches Bez had seen since landing in Rashemen. He couldn’t make out why, as he regarded her, he felt a chill. Maybe just because of the cold night air blowing in around her.
She met his gaze and crooked her finger.
Still uneasy, wondering what this portended, he grabbed his weapons and buckled them on. Melemer and Olthe looked up at him, asking without words if he wanted them to accompany him or do anything in his absence. He shook his head and then followed the masked woman out the door.
It was late, and a whistling wind tumbled fresh snow out of the north. As he and his companion strolled south toward the little river that wound through the center of town, they appeared to have the night to themselves.
“You blundered your way into that predicament back there,” the witch said after a while, “but you extricated yourself deftly too.”
He snorted. “Were you peeking in the window?”
“I see that despite the excitement,” she said, “you’re still a little drunk. Otherwise, I trust, you wouldn’t speak to a hathran disrespectfully. Give me your hand.”
Wondering if she intended to rap his knuckles like he was a naughty child, he obeyed, and she clasped his hand in her own. Her touch was so cold, it startled him, though once again, he supposed he could attribute that to the general chill in the air. Her skin was nearly as white as the snow spilling from the heavens and blanketing the town.
She murmured a charm, and his thoughts quickened, while a hint of numbness fell away from his limbs. He hadstill been a little tipsy, even if he hadn’t realized.
Releasing his hand, she asked, “Better?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Then we can confer like intelligent folk.”
“About what? Who are you?”
“Someone who hates seeing the champion of Rashemen cheated of his just reward.” They rounded a huddle of trees, sacred, in all likelihood, to some spirit or fey, and one of the old wooden bridges arching over the river came into view. She pointed with her staff and said, “Let’s talk in the center of that. The view is so pretty.”
And nobody, thought Bez, would be able to sneak up on them and eavesdrop.
The butt of her staff clicked on the planks, and the frozen river gleamed gray with Selune’s light. They stood at the railing and looked west, toward the point where the watercourse emptied into the lake, although Bez couldn’t quite see that far in the dark.
“Now you can introduce yourself properly,” he said.
“Unfortunately, no,” she replied. “That would be unwise.”
He cocked his head. “You’ll pardon a soldier’s bluntness if I say secrecy doesn’t inspire trust.”
“How much do you know about the history of Rashemen, Captain? The last time the learned sisterhood split into factions, the consequences were grim. No witch would want to be accused of fomenting another such schism.”
“And yet you are?”
The masked woman hesitated in the manner of one choosing her words judiciously. “You’ll have heard tell that Yhelbruna is well over a hundred years old.”
“Yes, although not the reason for it.”
“A gift from some fey, I believe. She doesn’t talk about it. But all you need to know is that long-lived isn’t the same as immortal. Her powers and judgment are finally failing.”
“What a shame. But how can you tell?”
“You know the Iron Lord told her to perform divinations to establish the truth of your report. Has she reported back?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“Because she can’t make the rituals work. In fact, when she tried in the Urlingwood, the magic went horribly wrong, and another hathran died as a result.”
“Again, I offer my regrets.”
“As far as her judgment is concerned,” the priestess continued, “surely you don’t need me to convince you she’s grown peculiar and obdurate, as old people sometimes do. There was no sane reason to hold up your reward.”
Bez turned toward her, brushed snow off the railing, and rested one elbow on the spot he’d cleared. “If others think the way you do, then why not divest the old girl of her responsibilities-gently and respectfully, of course-and pack her off to enjoy a well-earned retirement?”
“Some would not agree with me. Yhelbruna’s past achievements blind them to the current sad reality. And even if everyone did …” The hathran sighed. “An outlander like you once told me we Rashemi are slaves to our traditions, and I see now there’s truth in that. Yet it’s dangerous for the land to have a failing mind in charge. And you, Captain, will never have your due now that, by whatever perverse, suspicious reasoning, she has decided you don’t deserve it. Whereas if the ‘old girl’ no longer stood in your way …”
Bez shook his head in amazement. “You’re asking me to kill her?”
“It’s your trade, isn’t it?”
“War is my trade, and as a general rule, it’s neither good for business nor particularly safe for sellswords to turn on their employers. Besides, mightn’t Mangan and the other hathrans take Yhelbruna’s bloody corpse as evidence the undead aren’t really gone?”
“Then don’t bloody it. Make it look like her tired old heart simply stopped beating, or she broke her neck in a fall. Or make sure the body’s never found. My friends and I can put about the suggestion that, upset over what happened in the Urlingwood, she went into seclusion to pray. The point is that when she’s no longer around to object, Mangan will give you the griffons.”