The Prurient Pixie had, for Ellowaine, more unpleasant memories and restless ghosts on tap than it had any of the more traditional sorts of spirits. In her mind, overlaid across the sawdust- and dirt-caked floor of the common room, she still saw dozens of men laid out in rows, slowly dying of agonizing poison. Sitting amid the various drinkers, she saw friends long gone; over the din of conversation, she heard Teagan's boisterous laugh. The clink of every coin was a knife-thrust to her soul, a reminder of all she'd been promised, and lost.
And through every open door, she saw, for just an instant, a glimpse of that cursed helm, and the lying bastard who'd worn it.
No, given her druthers, she'd never have come back here, or to the town of Vorringar at all. But this was where he was, so if she would speak with him, here she must come.
He'd arrived at the Pixie first and had, rather predictably, chosen a booth far from, but with a clear view of, the door. (She wondered idly if it had been empty, or if he'd cowed someone into leaving.) He barely fit in the chair, and the mug of ale looked like a child's cup in his meaty fist. The razor-edged shield that made up the lower portion of his left arm rested on the table, doubtless leaving deep scores in the wood.
Their greeting had gone well enough, and they'd passed several pleasant moments in friendly reminiscence and talking shop about weapons and tactics. Unfortunately, when she'd finally steered the conversation around to her current needs, any luck Panare had bestowed upon her swiftly ran out.
"Losalis, please. You know me. You know damn well I wouldn't ask anything of you-of anyone-if I wasn't desperate."
"I know," he told her in his deep baritone. "If it was up to me, Ellowaine, I'd have already brought you on. Nobody knows better than I do just how good you are."
"But it's not up to you." It was not a question.
"No. I have to clear any new commissions with the baron, and I can already tell you what he'll say. I'll try anyway, if you want me to, but it'll be a waste of your time to wait around for his answer."
"Why me," she asked him, "and not you?" Her tone was bitter, yes, but not at him. She blamed many for her fate-and one in particular above all others-but she would not make Losalis a scapegoat just because it was a fate he'd managed to escape.
"I've wondered about that, a little," he said. "Partly, I think, it's simply that I've had my reputation longer than you. Also, my company's a lot bigger. People are less willing to go without.
"But mostly? I'd have to suggest it's because you were with him inside Mecepheum. Sure, generals and commanders saw me leading his forces, but the nobles and the Guildmasters watched you standing right beside him. I don't think they're likely to forget that anytime soon."
Ellowaine nodded sourly. "It always comes back to Rebaine, doesn't it? I think I'd willingly put up with everything that's happened if I could just get my hands on him for a few minutes in exchange."
Losalis nodded noncommittally, and for a few moments they lost themselves in drink.
"Did you know," she said softly, "that I've lost half my men in the last four years? Not on the battlefield, I mean they just left. Loyal as they've always been, they wouldn't stick with a commander who couldn't find them work, and I can't blame them."
The larger mercenary leaned back, ignoring his chair's desperate creaks of protest. He had, indeed, known Ellowaine a long time-and he knew what she was asking, even indirectly, and how hard it must be for her.
"I can take them," he said with a surprising gentleness. "Not all at once-I don't think I can convince the baron I need that many new swords. But it'll provide work for some, and the rest are welcome to join my company when we start looking for our next contract."
For the first time in years, Ellowaine smiled and meant it. "Thank you, Losalis." At least now I'm only failing myself, not them.
"There might be something else I can offer you," he said, as though reading her thoughts or her future in the swirling suds of his tankard. "Nothing I'm positive about, mind you, just some whispers through the usual channels. Someone's putting an operation together, they're looking for Imphallian mercenaries, and I don't think they're likely to care that you were part of Rebaine's campaign."
Ellowaine tilted her head. "Imphallian mercenaries?"
"Yeah, you'd need to do a bit of traveling. How do you feel about the kingdom of Cephira?"
"If they pay, I'll feel any damn way about them they want."
It was, distressingly, the throbbing in her skull that convinced her she was alive. For long moments she didn't move, even to open her eyes. Mentally she ran through weapons drills and strategic puzzles, carefully examined a few randomly chosen memories, even took the time for some quick addition and multiplication. She found herself a bit slow, occasionally not as accurate as she'd have liked, but eventually the proper answers and images swam to the fore through the churning tide of pain.
Satisfied that she'd likely sustained no permanent damage, she allowed her eyes to open. Although the light was dim, still it was nearly blinding, and she had to swallow hard to keep from vomiting.
But like her thoughts, her vision swiftly cleared.
Moving carefully, she examined what she could of her surroundings. She was inside one of the flophouse rooms-probably on the second floor, to judge by the sound sneaking in through the boarded-up window. Tiny, unseen things crawled beneath the outer layer of the mattress, causing unsightly bulges. She sat in-and, she realized as she attempted to move her arms, was bound to-one of the rickety chairs.
No, wait. Two chairs, back to back, so that she couldn't easily snap the wood. She grinned darkly. Whoever had taken her knew what they were doing.
But then, so do I.
She lifted her face to the ceiling and groaned, as though just waking up. It wasn't hard to fake the pain.
Behind her, the tip of her left braid dipped into her waiting hands. Digging swiftly with thumb and forefinger, she slid a sliver of metal from within the hair. It wasn't much, just a flattened, sharpened needle. But given sufficient time, it would do.
Even as she went to work on the ropes, she glared around the room. Distract them, whatever it takes…
"I don't know who you are," she began, "but you've made an enormous-"
And then he stepped into sight from the shadows, gently carrying that damn cat, and put the lie to her first words. She knew exactly who he was.
"It's not the way I'd have preferred for us to meet again, Ellowaine."
"Speak for yourself, Rebaine. I'll take my shot at you any way I can get it." UNNOTICED BY EITHER CAPTIVE OR CAPTOR, Seilloah abruptly tensed, her back arching slightly and her tail growing bushy as a squirrel's. Had she felt something, just then? Something in the air, or the ether? If only the pain would stop, if only she could concentrate, she'd be sure, but now…
No. Whatever it was, if it had been anything at all, was gone. Forcing herself to calm, she swiveled her ears to focus on the conversation once more.
Ellowaine darted through a forest of wooden targets called simply the Thicket, hatchets carving chunks and splinters as she passed. Some hung limp, some swung side-to-side on creaking pendulums, and some were weighted so that anything but a perfect strike would send them spinning, slamming an arm of wicker painfully into an attacker's back.
Or so she'd been told. So far, she'd not triggered a one of them.
In fact, this wasn't really training so much as it was showing off, proving herself over and over to Cephiran officers she could easily have slain on the battlefield. She'd run through the exercise twice already today, and the only difference this time was that they'd removed the canvas ceiling, allowing the snows of winter to filter down and impede her footing.