Mia was still rigorous about her exercises and her running, but she also begged for some regular training in defense that might be useful, and Joe stopped at least once every day in a relatively uninhabited spot to help her out. She was really good with a knife, and could handle a bow at relatively short distances, but what surprised him was her karatelike kicks, which, with her powerful legs, dancer’s agility, and toughened feet, managed to break a small log in half.
“Where’d you learn those moves?” he asked her, genuinely impressed.
“Irving taught them to me, Master,” she responded. “It was a new kind of fighting, perfect for me to defend myself.”
“Huh! And I thought he was just play-acting out Kung-Fu movies. I’ll be damned!”
Mia was pretty good as it was, but much was improvised. If she could only have taken classes in it, he thought, she’d shoot to black belt in no time.
They stopped at a roadhouse just before the Valisandran border. By now Joe’s facial hair had developed into a full, thick beard, and it so dramatically altered his looks while retaining his image that he was willing to overlook the few gray streaks. It gave the beard character, aged him gracefully, and spoke of hard-won experience. Although he never got used to getting stuff in a mustache, or found a way short of regular trims not to eat some hair, he wasn’t about to get rid of it, particularly after the roadhouse.
Mia came up to him quietly while he relaxed outside. She had a paper in her hand, and said, “Master, I think you better look at this.”
He took it and immediately saw what she meant. He couldn’t read a word of it—in fact, none of them could—but the two woodcuts, while somewhat crude, were unmistakable. Lean, hard face, high cheekbones, long black hair… It wasn’t very flattering, but, when taken with what was probably a physical description, it was recognizable. The other cut wasn’t nearly as much help; he knew it was supposed to be Mia, but it could have been about every fifth girl in Marquewood, and the picture certainly had no slave ring, the one thing about her face that everyone focused on almost immediately.
At the bottom was a symbol that resembled a nasty, black falcon’s head, only a falcon out of the dark side of faerie, superimposed over the outline of a crest that appeared to be a cyclops on one side and a dwarf on the other. “The Hypboreyan imperial seal, I’d bet,” he commented. “I wonder if I can find anybody inside to read it to me?”
“Oh, no, Master! You can’t!”
He grinned. “Sure I can. Just remember, those aren’t pictures of us! Who knows, we might come across this pair and collect a fat reward. Don’t worry. I want to know whom you deliver them to if you capture them. Who, and where.”
The barman looked at the flyer and frowned. “Says this pair are fugitives from a treason charge in Hypboreya—not that that’s unusual. Seems like most anything over there’s treason now. They must want them pretty bad, though. The usual’s ten gold pieces a head. These are ten thousand a head!” He whistled. “And twenty-five thousand for both! Man, I’ll settle for just one of ’em, guilty or innocent. With ten thousand I’d walk away from this place, get myself a yacht, and just sail the river and loaf.”
“That’s why I wanted the details. What happens if you catch one or both? What do you do then?”
“Bring ’em here and I’ll split with you!” the innkeeper responded. “No, seriously, it says they must be alive, but condition’s not important, and to notify any Hypboreyan legation or trade representative, or to notify the Witches’ Guild!”
“Surely all witches and warlocks aren’t working for Hypboreya,” Joe responded. He knew some pretty nice folks who were witches—and, of course, a ton that made the fairy-tale ones look like saints.
The barman shrugged. “Who knows? You figure they got somebody in almost all the locals. Probably got some kind of magical reward for them as a processing fee the likes of this cash so that few witches could turn it down. Most any of ’em around here are in league with the Dark One anyway. It was real creepy when this was occupied territory, you know, but they pretty well left us alone. Too busy pushing south then. They’re still around, though. Just kind of low key, if you know what I mean.”
“You do business with them?”
He shrugged. “I ain’t never.been very political. Besides, it’s a long ways to the nearest Marquewood army, and, with Ruddy-gore off the Council, we ain’t got the privileged position we once did. I guess we got enough strength to protect the big cities, which is why they ain’t done nothin’ more and made the truce, but that don’t cut beans around here. Where you heading?”
“Valisandra for now,” he replied. “Still, I figured there might be some work coming up for somebody in my profession.”
“Yeah? How come them instead of south?”
Joe tapped the paper. “Because they pay better, for one thing. And because I’ve seen the south and tested the winds, and I like to be on the side,of the winner. Winners pay. Losers run or hang.”
“Yeah, well, there’s something to that, I guess. Still, this bunch could stab you through the heart and then you’d still fight for ’em—for free!”
“Those zombies are formidable,” he agreed, “but you can’t win a war or even a major battle with them alone. There’s no substitute for thinkers; men who can hold their own in the midst of battle and instantly size up the situation and the move and countermove. They’re okay as infantry, but a good fire line could destroy them and have them marching in to be consumed before they could get the order to turn. Then your cavalry could leap right through and behind them and get at the ones who direct them. Remove the controllers and the zombies are just so much rubble.”
“You sound like you know your business, all right, Mister ah-”
“Cochise.”
“Interesting name.”
“All barbarian mercenaries have interesting names,” Joe responded lightly. “Book Fourteen, page one hundred and sixty-one.”
“Well, you just watch your back, Mister Cochise, when you cross that border, ’cause over there the blackest sort of magic rules unchecked.”
“I fought with the Baron at Sorrow’s Gorge,” Joe responded menacingly. “It’ll be just like coming home.”
He only wished he’d meant that.
“You get many going north these days?” Joe asked him, curious.
“Some. Salesmen, tradespeople, officials, that kind of thing, and some I’d rather not discuss. Been a ton of real mean fairies headin’ in, too, I hear, but most don’t come near here. A few nuts, too. Had one guy through, not long ago, crazy as a loon. Said he was on some kind of epic quest. Little guy. Just kept singin’ this dumb song in some foreign tongue. Claimed he was lookin’ for some desert island. Desert island! In Valisandra! Can you beat that?”
Joe grew suddenly interested. “How long ago did that little fellow come through? ”
The innkeeper shrugged. “Couple weeks back, I think. Glad to get rid of him. Gave me the creeps, he did.”
Marge, like all faerie, recognized no human borders and particularly not their formalities. She flew over to Valisandra that night, arranging to catch up with the other two when they cleared and were well inside the country.
The border crossing looked pretty standard, if a bit more elaborate than most; the uniforms were different, the accent on the border guards was a bit off, but it hardly seemed the gateway to Hell. They were a lot more officious, though, and they did more touching of Mia than a border guard should.