She looked over at The Masked, who was wearing one of his concealing masks once again, and was terse indeed this morning. Beneath his fine new clothes-leather vest over fine tunic, and leather foresters' jerkin over that-yellow-blue bruises covered his skin. His night had obviously been far worse night than hers.
They were briskly marching, three abreast-The Masked on Tantaerra's left, and the man who was calling himself Orivin Ahrkholm on her right-because the wedge of more than forty Telcanor guards surrounding them was marching briskly, and the once-more-armored mountain Onstal Zreem was marching right behind the trio. Behind him were six Telcanor guards with spears ready to jab any prisoner who wanted to change the pace, or head in any independent direction. Tantaerra, thanks to a genuine stumble, already had a still-smarting reminder that those spears were sharp.
Onstal Zreem was marching them out of the city in obedience to Lord Krzonstal Telcanor's orders, and if there'd been any doubt in anyone's mind as to the power of House Telcanor in Braganza, it would have been swept away in an instant as Watchguard patrol after Watchguard patrol silently gave way before the marching Telcanors.
It was all rather eerie. No one was jeering, and no one was throwing things. In fact, citizens seemed to literally turn away at the sight of all the armored Telcanor marchers.
In a surprisingly short time they were through still-awakening Braganza and its westernmost gate, then along a cart-road until they were well out of bowshot of the walls, and then off the cart-road to a grassy knoll where a ring of Telcanor warriors were guarding some hardy-looking and securely hobbled saddle-horses.
"Your mounts," Zreem said flatly, removing his helm and hanging it on a hook jutting from his belt, high on one hip. "Provided by the Telcanor stables, of course. A waste of good horseflesh."
He looked down at Tantaerra. "You can ride, I suppose?"
She looked right back up at him, and managed an almost perfect mimicry of his tone. "You can walk, I suppose?"
Without a word, his unreadable expression as unchanging as the metal plates of his armor, the huge bodyguard turned away to pluck a bundle from the arms of a waiting warrior and toss it to Ahrkholm. It clanked when caught; a cloak wrapped around the self-proclaimed High Investigator's short sword and daggers.
Zreem promptly took a second bundle from a second warrior and hurled it at The Masked, who caught it rather stiffly. The huge Telcanor warrior jerked his head in a silent order as he took Tantaerra's much smaller bundle into his hands, and suddenly the Telcanor host was on the move, heading briskly down off the knoll and back toward Braganza.
Leaving the three prisoners and the bodyguard alone on the knoll with three hobbled horses, as a wind started to rise and stir the open grasslands all around.
Tantaerra's bundle caught her squarely in the face. Payback from a man who obviously didn't bother waiting long to take his little revenges.
She clawed at her knives, not waiting for her eyes to stop smarting and streaming from the blow. Around The Masked, not to mention this "Ahrkholm," things had a habit of happening fast.
Already Zreem was standing in front of Ahrkholm and proffering a small roll of parchment. "A map to the Shattered Tomb."
Ahrkholm accepted it with a half-smile. When Lord Telcanor's bodyguard turned to march over to The Masked, another map in his hand, the brown-eyed man drew one of the daggers that had just been returned to him and threw it hard at the exposed back of the bodyguard's neck.
Zreem ducked and sidestepped smoothly as if he'd expected the throw, letting the dagger sail past his shoulder and on.
He said nothing, and the almost smiling, slightly contemptuous expression on his face didn't change. He held forth The Masked's copy and announced, "A map to the Shattered Tomb."
When The Masked wasn't quite quick enough to take the parchment, Zreem let it fall through the air and strode on to Tantaerra, who had all her weapons back in place-even the picks back to exactly where in her hair she preferred to let them ride-and her cloak around her shoulders.
"Details of the route to what will become my tomb?" she asked lightly.
"A map to the Shattered Tomb," he replied flatly. The moment she took the parchment from him, he turned, deftly struck a second hurled dagger from Ahrkholm out of the air with his forearm, and announced to them all, "You are hereby ordered, in the name of Lord Krzonstal Telcanor, to set forth immediately on your mission, tarrying not near Braganza nor returning to it this day. So go, now. Go to your deaths."
The bodyguard turned to face Ahrkholm fully-just as two more daggers came whirling at his face, one right behind the other. With contemptuous ease, he plucked them both out of the air and tossed them over his shoulder into the trampled grass.
"If you're pondering the wisdom of abandoning this task and just fleeing, be aware that you'll die about a month from now. A long, slow, agonizing death, as the spells that were covertly cast on all three of you as you slept will really take hold in your innards. My master can end those spells in an instant, of course, when you return to him. Or rather, if you return, bearing the gauntlet, and freely surrender it to him."
"What?!" Choked with rising fear and terror, Tantaerra entirely lost control of her temper. "You heartless, treacherous mothershun! You thrice-poxed cur! You wormspine!"
Zreem smiled at her almost fondly. "Life," he observed, "is so unfair."
Then he put his helm back on and strode away, ignoring the last dagger Ahrkholm threw. It clanged off the crested back of his magnificent helm without apparent effect.
Tantaerra continued to shout curses at the towering bodyguard as he dwindled into the distance, returning to the city, until The Masked sighed in exasperation and came to stand beside her. "Calm yourself, little one. He's lying."
"Oh? And how can you be sure?" she snapped at him.
"He's lying," Ahrkholm agreed flatly, from where he was bent over searching for the two daggers Zreem had tossed away together. "There's a spell at work on that advisor of his, probably a disguise, but no one worked magic on us while we were in the Telcanor mansion. I would know."
"Oh?" Tantaerra asked, making the word a challenge. "How, exactly?"
He shrugged, then smiled. "Some secrets, I keep."
∗ ∗ ∗
"So why did you try to kill him?" The Masked asked, as the sun sank low and their saddles creaked under them.
"Zreem?" Ahrkholm asked, then shrugged. "I didn't like him. Still don't."
"You know him, don't you?" Tantaerra asked, letting the suspicion she felt show clearly as she peered up at the brown-eyed man. "From before yesterday."
The only answer he gave her, before he spurred away, was a smirk. He guided his mount well off to one side of The Masked and Tantaerra, to within shouting distance but too far for casual conversation to be overheard.
It was the same response he'd made earlier, when Tantaerra had asked him who he really was and why he'd followed them from Halidon.
They were an unlikely trio, riding across the rolling hills toward Nirmathas. Somewhere ahead was the Inkwater River, and all around them were farms and open ranchland, crisscrossed by winding cart tracks.
Their horses were experienced war-mounts: tough, stolid, and swift when urged with spurs, easily up to the tasks of dodging suspicious Molthuni patrols and keeping clear of the dustraisers-army units marching to participate in the latest invasion of Nirmathas. On maps, this part of Molthune was almost empty-"a whole lot of nothing," as one of Hroalund's clients back in Canorate had put it-but it was becoming clear to Tantaerra just how much that "lot" was. As in, days of riding, not a long afternoon.