“Yes, well taken.” Braylar’s hand drifted down to one of the flail heads, intentionally or by reflex, I couldn’t say. “If he were hunting for ears and eyes, he might skip the ruse of three sites and fix on one, but as you say, he is not a fool, so anything is in play here. Send six men, one pair toward each hunting lodge. Have them hold for any sign of Brune’s scouts returning. If the news is accurate and not simply setting a trap, he would have dispatched men already to ascertain the truth of Henlester’s whereabouts. So, let’s determine for ourselves, yes?”
Hewspear drained his glass. “Very good, Captain.”
He started to rise when Mulldoos asked, “And if the crafty, cocksucking baron is baiting us? We leaving then?”
Braylar dropped the Deserter flail head he’d been holding and it clinked against its twin. “We don’t rise to the bait. As I told you the other day, we have sacrificed much to put things in motion here, and I won’t simply abandon it because the man has a suspicious mind. If he truly had damning information, we’d be strapped to tables in his cellar, not debating tactics here. So, if it is a trap and doesn’t spring, that will go some length to perhaps dimming his suspicion, or redirecting it. He is willing to believe his priests are plotting against him, which is exactly why we can’t allow Henlester to fall into his hands. He must be ours or eliminated. I hope I’ve made myself abundantly-”
There was a rapping on the door, but when no one called out from the other side, hands dropped to weapons around the room as everyone jumped up from the table, and I was equally relieved and distraught that I was unarmed. Vendurro whisked his sword out of the scabbard, Mulldoos drew his falchion, Hewspear pulled his mace off his belt and Braylar had Bloodsounder in hand.
Braylar looked at Vendurro and gestured toward the door, and then seeing me standing there, hissed to get my attention and motioned toward his chamber. I didn’t immediately understand the intent. I raised my shoulders, and his dark look somehow darkened, and he pointed to his chamber once more. It took me a moment to remember the crossbow in there, and I rushed in and after a panicked search found it and the quiver.
I fitted the devil’s claws to the thick string and worked the mechanism as quickly as I could, dropped a bolt in place, then rushed back into the common room, reminding myself to be careful not to trip and accidentally loose the thing. Even with all the training and drilling, it was a wonder soldiers didn’t accidentally kill or injure more men on their own side than they did.
But either I had taken longer preparing the crossbow than I thought or Vendurro had verified the person knocking more quickly than expected, because when I entered the common room again, he was already opening the door, though he still had his sword in hand.
Two women stepped through the doorway, as different as day and, well, dusk at least. The first was tall for a woman, taller than me and Mulldoos, and nearly on even height with Braylar. Two other things immediately stood out about her. First, her dress and armament were exceptional. She was wearing armor-a cuirass of silver scales, not unlike what Braylar had worn in the Green Sea, though slightly less tarnished, with a scale fauld around her hips, and scale bands encircling her upper arms as well. She had a short red cape, fringed along the bottom, and trousers ending mid-calf, her lean calves bare to the dusty sandals on her feet. While the woman was thin, there was no mistaking the muscle everywhere, even without her moving overmuch. She wore her armor well.
On her left hip, she had a suroka, seemingly standard issue of the Empire, and I assumed she must have been Syldoon, but her neck was bare, unmarked by a noose or anything else. Still, it was impossible to ignore the polearm she carried, a ranseur longer than she was tall, with a red tassel beneath the head that matched the color of her short cloak. She might not have been a Syldoon soldier, but she clearly knew how to take care of herself.
But while the arms and armament were striking, her face and expression were more so. Her auburn hair hung mostly loose, though with some seemingly random braids pulling enough away from her face to reveal it in full. A narrow nose, full lips, cheeks unmarred by scars or divots or obvious blemish. By most estimations, she would have been accounted very attractive, and in some circles, a true beauty. But those same plump lips seemed disinclined for humor or anything erotic, pursed in something between distaste and an arrogant sneer. And the eyes under the thin, dark brows weren’t pools to be stared into. In fact, I got the impression that looking at her too long or attracting her attention in return would be a very bad thing. The eyes were cold, harsh, measuring. And while she didn’t share many features with her bother, and seemed far more martial than I imagined any Memoridon being, it was clear she had to be Soffjian. The eyes gave it away.
The woman who followed her into the room, however, was radically different. Short, and if not especially pudgy, pillowy with full hips, she also wore trousers that stopped short to reveal her calves, which were thick and rounded with muscle. But besides the long-bladed suroka, she had no weapons, no armor, only the modest ash-colored tunic and coat, a burnt orange sash around her waist, and a pewter badge on her breast, a running jackal.
Her skin was darker than Soffjian’s, though not nearly as much as Hewspear’s, which was like the inside of a lantern. No, hers was the color of sandnuts. Her hair, not quite black, wasn’t long enough to be braided or pulled back into a bun or a tail, but still required a wild assortment of silver pins and clasps to keep it in some semblance of order. She reminded me of the river wrens I’d seen as a child, wild feathers sticking out in nearly every direction at once. She had silver rings on each eyebrow, and several along the rims of her ears, and at least one stud flashing on her nose. And while Soffjian’s eyes were dark and dangerous, this woman’s were so pale it was hard to tell they were blue at all, but still worlds warmer. There was something impish about her expression, as if the sight of several armed men was amusing for some reason. Dimples, bubbly cheeks, a small nose that had a fetching almost squared off tip, a hint of mischief in those peculiar eyes-if Soffjian was far more martial and imposing physically than I expected from a Memoridon, this other woman was far too puckish. Assuming she was a Memoridon.
Soffjian looked around the room, taking everything in in that all-too familiar way. When she lit on Braylar, she said, “Brother.” She laid her ranseur on her shoulder, almost lazily. “I might be offended being welcomed by so many sharp and pointy objects, but Hewspear here tells me you’ve all suffered some scratches and bruises in a recent scuffle with the locals, so you’re a bit on edge. Understandable, of course. And to be expected. But still. The lack of an embrace is a little hurtful.”
Braylar smiled, utterly humorless, and while he slowly slid Bloodsounder back on his belt, he made no move at all to approach her. “Soffjian, sweet Soffjian, I hope all of my missives these last years have found you well.”
She smiled in return, equally devoid of any warmth, and Braylar looked at Vendurro. “Sergeant, you haven’t neglected to send them, I hope?”
Vendurro looked as confused as he appeared uncomfortable. “Missives, Cap?”
Soffjian replied, “I do believe your captain is having some fun at your expense. Always baiting and berating the underlings, eh brother? Ever the bully. But I am well, thank you ever so much for the concern, feigned or not. You, however, are looking a bit peaked. Jagged cheekbones, overcast complexion, some alarming bruising around the neck there, and yes, so many new scars. I would say, if you’ll forgive me, that you look particularly unwell.”