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The Sword of the South: Chapter Two

       Last updated: Sunday, March 15, 2015 18:06 EDT

 

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    The redhaired man blinked, but his green eyes had lost their glaze of shock. He rubbed his scarred chest absently, considering Wencit’s words. Then he surprised himself by smiling suddenly.

    “Well, you’re plainspoken — in some things — for a wizard,” he chuckled. “Basically, I’m damned if I trust you, but doomed if I don’t!”

    “Not a pleasant choice,” Wencit conceded. He fished out a battered pipe and filled it, his fiery eyes watching the younger man unreadably. Then he kindled a splinter at the fire and lit the pipe with care.

    “If you can’t tell me who I am,” the redhaired man said in a strangely dignified voice, “can you at least tell me what I’m supposed to do?”

    “Not entirely.” Wencit blew blue smoke at the waxed cheeses hanging from the kitchen rafters, yet his voice was compassionate. “I can only repeat what I said before. You’re a fighting man, and fighting men are always useful. But you’re much more than that, as well — potentially, at least — and there are things within you which I dare not disturb. Things which may make you of incalculable importance.”

    Gwynna delivered two mugs of hot tea, and the redhaired man thanked her and sniffed the steam, grateful for the interruption while he grappled with the wizard’s words and his maimed memory. He couldn’t believe anything special was hidden within himself, yet with only an empty void for a past, neither could he refute Wencit’s statements.

    He watched the grim figure of legend solemnly produce a silver whistle from one of Gwynna’s tufted ears, and he smiled as the girl clapped her hands in delight. She hugged the wizard’s neck tightly, whispering into his ear before she took her new treasure to show her mother.

    Leeana paused to admire the whistle properly and then touched the red-gold hair gently as she released Gwynna from her tasks. The girl curled down with the direcat, and the huge beast lifted his head from his paws to let her perch comfortably upon his forelegs and lean casually back against his chest. Blanchrach’s head was almost the size of her entire torso, but he rumbled with a powerful purr and rested his chin on her slight shoulder, amber eyes half-slitted.

    Wencit’s glowing eyes followed Gwynna, and the redhaired man recognized the fierce tenderness in the wizard’s momentarily unguarded expression. It did more than any words to win his heart, that tenderness, but he wasn’t prepared to surrender his doubt just yet.

    “Suppose,” he said quietly, leaning forward, “suppose I accept you’re who you say you are and that, impossible as it seems, I really am important. Let’s even say I have to trust you. If I do, though, what — if it doesn’t sound self-serving — is in it for me?”

    “A reasonable question,” Wencit said gently. “And a simple one. But I have no simple answer. I can’t even promise you your life, only the meaning of it.”

    “Riddles within riddles,” the redhaired man sighed.

    “Of course!” Wencit chuckled suddenly. “I’m a wizard, after all.” Then he fixed the younger man with a kinder gaze. “But I will promise you this. I swear by my art that someday, if we both live, you’ll know your own name and the reason for all my actions. For now, I can’t tell you any more than that. Not won’t tell you, but can’t tell you.”

    “I’m afraid I believe that,” the redhaired man said unwillingly.

    “And, believing it, will you let me guide you?”

    “What other choice do I have?”

    “Only those I’ve described to you,” Wencit said softly.

    “Then what can’t be cured must be endured, mustn’t it?”

    “I’m pleased you take it so well.” The wizard’s tone was desert dry

    “I wouldn’t if I could help it!”

    “I expect not.”

    Wencit fell silent and sipped tea while the redhaired man slowly digested what had been said and tried to envision the implications of his own agreement. Wencit’s pipe smoke curled in strange swirls and patterned clouds that seemed to hold secret meanings just beyond comprehension, and it was the wizard who finally broke the silence.

    “I suppose you need a name, don’t you?”

    “It might be useful,” the redhaired man said tartly, stretching his arms high in a spine-arching yawn. He held the stretch for a heartbeat or two, then settled back on his bench. “I can’t go on being ‘my friend’ forever. But a man’s name should say something about his life. So would you care to suggest one?”

    Unveiled irony glittered in his tone, but Wencit declined to rise to the bait.

    “Names are very personal,” he demurred. “I suggest you pick one for yourself.”

    “All right,” the redhaired man agreed, concealing any trace of disappointment as his probe bounced off the armor of the wizard’s silence. “How does ‘Kenhodan’ strike you?” he asked finally, green eyes glinting with bitter humor.

    “So you remember the Old Tongue,” Wencit said.

    “Some of it.”

    “A good choice, then,” the wizard agreed calmly, and silence fell once more, emphasized by the crackle of the fire and the hiss of raindrops dying in its flame. Both men knew the name was both acceptance and challenge, for in the Old Tongue of High Kontovaran, “Kenhodan” meant “born out of silence.”

 

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    A conspiracy of thunder, wind, and lightning-shot rain ruled Belhadan as the night dragged towards a stormy climax. Even the most optimistic finally abandoned hope of a lull, and one by one the Iron Axe’s patrons paid their scores and made their unhappy ways out into the blustering dark. In the end, only a handful of diehards remained, and Bahzell gave up the bar to an assistant and joined his guests in the kitchen.

    The staff had withdrawn, leaving their mistress with her daughter and guests. Gwynna’s bedtime had been extended in honor of the visitors, and she half lay across the direcat’s forelegs with the fanged head laid gently but watchfully across her lap. She drowsed sleepily, but her mother sat in deep conversation with Wencit and the man now called Kenhodan.

    Leeana’s distrust had been conquered by Wencit’s acceptance of the stranger, and now she sat across the table from Kenhodan, beside Wencit with her head propped against the wizard’s shoulder as she sipped tea and sought to help Kenhodan come to terms with his maimed memory. She couldn’t be many years older than he was himself, yet she approached the mystery of his amnesia with a calm far beyond her years. Her lively sense of humor was never far from the surface, but her verbal jabs were reserved for Wencit, not Kenhodan, and there was something almost . . . maternal about her. That wasn’t the right word, but it came closer than any of the others he could think of, for there was a wisdom behind her compassion which seemed oddly out of place in someone who couldn’t possibly be a day over thirty — thirty-five at the most. Whatever the “right” word might have been, however, he certainly wasn’t about to complain. He found her quiet sympathy and acceptance, now that Wencit had vouched for him, soothing to the raw wound in his mind, and the little group floated in the warm comfort of people who hear violent weather rage beyond a snug roof.

    And then Bahzell burst upon the quiet like a jovial thunderbolt, his deep voice echoing until Gwynna roused enough to demand her father’s lap while Leeana shushed them both. Bahzell lifted his daughter from her perch on the direcat, and Blanchrach’s deep purr rumbled as his head butted the hradani’s knee affectionately. Gwynna snuggled her arms about her father’s thick neck as he swung a mighty leg over Wencit’s bench and cuddled her close. Leeana poured tea for him, and their eyes met warmly.

    “And would it happen you’ve been and unraveled our mystery, love?” Bahzell asked, bussing her heartily and pressing another kiss to his daughter’s hair.

    “Bits and pieces of it,” Leeana replied serenely. “At least our guest has a name and he and Wencit have reached an understanding.”

    “As far as we may in a single night,” Wencit threw in, rotating his head slowly to stretch stiff muscles.

    “And who could be asking more? By the Sword, though, it’s enough to make a man come all over nervous to hear Wencit of Rum admit a limitation!”

    “I’ve never claimed omnipotence,” Wencit said mildly.

    “Just acted the part!” the hradani snorted. “I’m not complaining, mind. It’s more than one scrape you’ve gotten me out of with my hide in one piece — more or less — over the years.”

    “But it’s such a large hide,” Wencit said wistfully. “Surely you don’t begrudge a little piece of it every so often?”

    “It’s in my mind Tomanak never promised I’d not bleed a bit now and again,” Bahzell replied cheerfully. “It’s welcome enough any foe of mine is to my blood, if it should so happen he can get it.”

    “A hazardous undertaking,” Wencit murmured. “But enough pleasantry. Bahzell, this is Kenhodan, another servant of the Sword God. Kenhodan, I realize it may seem unlikely, but this lump of muscle is both a champion of Tomanak and swordmaster of the Belhadan Chapter of the Order of Tomanak. He had too little wit to choose a safe god, so don’t ask his advice about anything important. But if you need counsel on the shedding of blood, you couldn’t find a better advisor.”

    Wencit’s warning about the nature of this peculiar household stood Kenhodan in good stead. So did the fact that he’d encountered sufficient impossibilities already for his preconceptions to have acquired a certain punchdrunk elasticity. None of which was enough to keep his eyes from widening in an echo of his astonishment. A Sothoii war maid might have no business in the Empire of the Axe, especially wed to a hradani, yet that was a mere bagatelle beside the notion of a hradani champion of Tomanak! Of any God of Light, to be fair, but of Tomanak?

    Yet as he met the sharp, estimating gaze the hradani turned upon him, he discovered he wasn’t even tempted to doubt Wencit’s cheerful introduction. Those brown eyes were sharp as daggers, looking out from behind the façade of boisterous laughter and the tavernkeeper mask Bahzell had chosen to assume for some reason, and there was nothing in them of the barbarian brigand which was the hradani stereotype among the other Races of Man. There was intelligence, humor, confidence, and a mind as sharp and as straight as Tomanak’s own sword. They were the farthest thing imaginable from a barbarian’s, those eyes, and yet deep within them, beyond the humor and part of the compassion, lurked something more implacable than steel and merciless as the war god’s mace. Something that told him that, preposterous though the very notion must be, Bahzell Bloody Hand truly was a champion of Tomanak.

    Kenhodan had no idea how that might have come about. If anyone had asked him, he would have sworn it couldn’t have come about, yet as his mind adjusted itself to the fresh shock, he realized he could actually see how a hradani — especially one like the giant seated across the table from him — might have been drawn to Tomanak’s service.

    Tomanak was a stern god, the keeper of the soldier’s code, yet that was but one of his duties, and far from the most important. The third child of Orr and Kontifrio and second only to Orr himself in power, he was Captain General of the Gods of Light, the god whose hand had cast down Phrobus himself when he rebelled against Orr’s authority. Beyond that, he was also the patron of justice, the Judge of Princes and the Sword of Light, entrusted by his father with the task of overseeing the balance of the Scales of Orr. And just as he himself was more than a simple patron of warriors, so were his champions. True, they were famed for their battle craft, but their true function was to be his Swords in the world of mortals, weapons ready to his hand for the protection of the weak and the administration of justice.

    As a champion of Tomanak, Bahzell was certainly a fit mate for a Sothoii war maid, and he also held rank equal to that of a Knight Grand Cross of the Legion of the Axe. More to the point, he was entitled to a lucrative income from the Order’s coffers, which only deepened the mystery of why he kept a tavern.

    Of course, that last was a minor, virtually insignificant question compared to all of the other mysteries chasing themselves about under the taven in question’s roof.

    “A warrior, are you?” the hradani mused. “Aye, you’ve the thews for hard knocks, but is it the skill you have?”

    “Wencit says I do, but I’m afraid I have to take his word for it.” Kenhodan shrugged. “I’ve no memory to judge by.”

    “Faugh!” Bahzell thumped his tea mug down. “It’s naught I know of lost memories, and little more of wizardry — and that too much for comfort — even allowing as I’ve questionable taste in friends! But this I do know. Take no man’s word for your own sword skill, Kenhodan. It’s advice or opinions you can ask on a ship, a house, or an investment, but know your own worth with a blade or expect a short life! Have you a sword?”

    “I’ve nothing but what you see. Not even a past.”

    “Well, as to that, it’s not so very much I can do about pasts.” Bahzell waved a callused, oddly compassionate hand against the bitter self-deprecation of Kenhodan’s words. “But if it’s a sword that’s wanted, we might be doing a mite about such as that.” His bright eyes flickered to Wencit, alive with surmise, and then to his wife. “And where was it you were after storing Brandark’s old sword, love?”

    “In that rusting collection of ironmongery in your strongroom, along with every other weapon you’ve ever collected,” Leeana replied with a certain degree of asperity.

    “Well, be a good lass and fetch it out! Here’s a man of deeds without a blade, and I’m thinking it’d please the little man right down to the ground if we used his sword to set that right.”

    “All right, but don’t let your tea cool while you wait. You keep that place in such a state it may take me hours to find it.”

    She rose gracefully and swept off, the light of battle in her eyes, and Bahzell threw a glance after her before he leaned closer to his guests. He grinned and spoke in a lowered voice.

    “Tomanak knows what I’d do without her, and whatever it is you might be seeking in this tavern, she can find it in a dark room with her eyes closed. But she does like to prod me now and again. And she’s cause enough, truth to tell, for she’s the only person can ever find aught in that strongroom. Still, she’s after enjoying the game as much as I do. . . I think.”

    “And the fact that you’d have to get your own swords if the game ever ended never enters your head?” Wencit asked innocently.

    “Of course not!” Bahzell took another long pull from his cup and chuckled deep in his chest, ears half-flattened in amusement, It was a resonant, rumbling chuckle — an earthqake sort of a chuckle — but Kenhodan noticed that Gwynna drowsed right through it with the ease of long practice. She merely shifted to one side of her father’s neck to avoid jostling, and her lips curved in a sleepy smile as she curled more tightly against him. Yet another deathblow to the hradani stereotype, the redhaired man thought dryly.

    “Here.” Leeana returned with a long scabbard tucked under her arm. Its black leather was clasped with silver bands overlaid with a patina of vast age, and despite her comments about “rusting ironmongery,” the leather was well oiled and the silver gleamed without a trace of tarnish. “Miracles still happen. It is where it was supposed to be!”

    “You see?” Bahzell beamed at her. “The serving wenches and I, we’re after keeping this place in neat-pin order and all you need do is lord over it like a noblewoman born.” His deep voice teased her gently, and his eyes glinted as if they shared some hidden joke.

    Leeana made a face and handed him the sword. He gripped the basket hilt and drew six inches of shining steel, examining it critically before he slammed it back. He looped an index finger through the baldric ring to hold the scabbard in place and then flicked his wrist idly, and the sheathed weapon hissed as it cut the air.

    “A nice balance,” he observed idly, balancing it easily in the crook of one finger. “An ancient blade, Kontovaran work and made for the Gryphon Guard, or I’m a Purple Lord.”

    Kenhodan blinked as light reflected from the silver bands. The runes etched into them were far too worn and faint for any eye to read, yet they teased him with an elusive familiarity. The openwork of the basket was a finely fretted steel cage, affixed to the cross guard and knucklebow rather than directly to the hilt, as was the more common Norfressan practice, and the pommel knob was a plain steel ball. It also seemed younger than the rest of the weapon, which made sense if Bahzell was correct about its origins. If the hradani’s guess was accurate, that pommel knob had once been a stylized gryphon’s head, beak gaping in challenge.

    “See how your hand likes its weight, Kenhodan.”

    Bahzell tossed the sheathed blade across the table with absolutely no other warning, and Kenhodan’s right hand shot up like a striking snake. His fingers slipped into the basket to grip the ridged wire of the hilt in sheer, automatic reflex as he plucked the weapon from the air. Only then did he realize he’d gone for the difficult hilt catch rather than reaching for the scabbard, and Bahzell nodded, ears pricked forward in approval.

    “A swordsman’s speed right enough, by the Mace.”

    “And a risky way to prove it,” Kenhodan said tartly. “I’d be missing teeth if I’d missed that catch!”

    “Truer words were never spoken,” Bahzell acknowledged. “But I’m thinking Wencit might’ve been wrong, you see, though that’s rare enough to be worth the noting. Any swordsman’s after needing speed of hand and quickness of eye, and it’s in my mind you’d best be finding out if you’ve both of them early rather than late.”

    “And I’m sure one of Tomanak’s champions wouldn’t have minded healing you if you hadn’t caught it,” Wencit said a bit repressively.

    “Oh, aye, no doubt at all,” Bahzell agreed, flipping his ears impudently at the wizard. Then he turned back to Kenhodan, and his experession was more serious.

    “Best be drawing it to see what you think, lad,” he said. “Brandark and I had it off a Shith Kiri corsair the best part of forty years back, and it’s served him well it did, until he found one as pleased him even more.”

    Once again, Kenhodan had the sense of tales yet untold eddying under the surface, but he only cocked an eyebrow and rose, and thirty-eight inches of steel licked from the sheath with a soft, competent whine. It glittered in the lamplight and shadows like blue winter ice, and a strange, distant light kindled in his eyes. His face lost all expression as his nerves and muscles felt out the weight of the blade, and a sudden thrill ran through him as the steel melted into an extension of his hand and arm.

    The double-edged blade was worn with use and honing, but the burnished, lovingly cared for metal was bright. The lancet tip shot back the fire glow like the crimson heart of a star, and his grip was light, as natural as instinct, as he moved slowly to the center of the kitchen. He fell into a guard position that raised Bahzell’s eyebrows, but before the hradani could speak, Kenhodan lashed out in a lightning lunge and recovery so swift he seemed hardly to have moved.

    Bahzell and Leanna eyed one another speculatively.

    “Good,” the hradani said quietly. “Very good.”

    He glanced at Wencit’s impassive face, but the wizard seemed not to notice, and Bahzell returned his critical gaze to Kenhodan.

    Steel flickered as the redhaired man flashed through a dazzling series of mock cuts, thrusts, parries, and feints. The blade hissed, and his movements flowed so quickly and deftly that only a highly trained eye could follow the glittering blade or the supple smoothness, speed, and perfect balance of his footwork.

    “Excellent,” Bahzell murmured. “Clean and sharp . . . and controlled. He’s one as could lunge against a grape without breaking the skin, by the Sword! And I’m thinking —” he shot another glance at the wizard “— that it’s somewhere else I’ve seen a similar style before this.”

    Wencit showed him a raised eyebrow, and Bahzell hid a smile as Kenhodan finished with a whirring parry and blinding backhand cut to the side. Then the blade whipped up, sketched a salute, and snicked into the scabbard in a single, flowing motion, and he returned to the table, breathing slightly faster.

    “It’s no more I know of your past than you do,” Bahzell said quietly “but it’s in my mind you’ve handled steel before.”

    “Yes.” Kenhodan’s voice was distant, as if he found it difficult to recover a focus on the present. “It came alive in my hand . . . .”

    “Aye,” Bahzell said. “It’s a master you were taught by, and I’m thinking such as that could lead to your past. Find the hand as trained you, remember whose it was, and it’s not so very far from him you’ll find your past, as well.”

    “I don’t remember,” Kenhodan said hesitantly. “Maybe no one taught me. It felt so . . . so much like a part of me . . . .”

    “And so it should,” Bahzell rumbled, “but I’m thinking someone taught you, and taught you well. The fingers remember, whatever it is the mind may do, and sword skill runs in the muscles and the bone. A master swordsman’s arm —” he eyed Kenhodan with that same measuring gaze “— is one as knows an art no other can imitate.”

    “High praise from a champion of Tomanak,” Wencit said quietly.

    “That’s as may be.” Bahzell shrugged. “I’ve yet to see him in action, you understand, but I’d make no wagers against him.”

    “In so little you see so much?” Wencit teased, and Bahzell snorted.

    “Laugh if you’ve a mind to, but I’m thinking you, of all people, know how much swordplay I’ve seen, both in practice and in earnest.” Bahzell’s voice hinted at more than his words said, but this time Kenhodan was too bemused to notice.

    “I do.” Wencit’s nod seemed to respond to Bahzell’s tone as much as to his words. “But I told you he was a warrior, didn’t I?”

    “So you did, and it’s not a term you’re in the way of using lightly.” Bahzell leaned back, cradling his sleeping daughter, and regarded the wizard. “I’ve a mind to see the man in action, Wencit. So could you be so very kind as to be telling me your plans?”

    “Actually, that sounds like an excellent idea to me, as well,” Kenhodan said pointedly, laying the sheathed sword gently on the table. “How does this puzzle piece —” he smiled mockingly “— fit into your plans, O Wizard?”

    “I need you close to me,” Wencit replied. “Most pressingly, at the moment, to fend off attacks directed at you through the art. But the time will come when I need your aid every bit as much as you need mine. In a sense, you and I are part of the same puzzle piece. Neither can succeed without the other, and I’ll soon need a strong swordarm. I hope you’ll provide it.”

    “What choice do I have? You seem to know who I am — I’d be a fool to let you out of my sight. But why does a wizard need a swordsman?”

    “I have an errand to the south,” Wencit said easily. “Another puzzle piece to recover, so to speak. I know where it is, but laying hold of it may be a little . . . difficult.”

    “‘Difficult’ is it?” Bahzell’s ears pricked at the wizard. “That’s a word you use too seldom for me to rest all easy when I hear it, Wencit. It’s nothing I know about this puzzle, but the south I do know. Of course, it’s most of the Empire lies south of Belhadan, not to mention the Border Kingdoms and the Empire of the Spear. Aye, and let’s not be forgetting the Purple Lords, come to that! So just where would it be, if you don’t mind me asking, as you have in mind to be going?”

    Wencit eyed him expressionlessly, clearly weighing his answer, and Bahzell’s lip curled knowingly. He waved his free hand.

    “And don’t you be turning that sour face on me, Wizard! I’ve the cost of a good meal and a better sword in our friend here. I’m thinking as how I might just find myself needing to protect my investment.”

    “Perhaps,” Wencit said tonelessly.

    “No perhaps, Wencit. Spit it out — and none of your evasions! You’d not be beating about the bush so unless no one with sense would be so very happy about your destination, now would you?”

    “I’m afraid I can’t deny that.” Wencit’s face crinkled in an answering grin and he gave up. “I’m bound for Angthyr. The Scarthu Hills, to be precise.”

    “Angthyr!” Bahzell sat back on the bench. “And just what sort of ‘puzzle’ might it be as takes you into that vipers’ nest? It’s more than enough I’ve heard — from Chanharsa and Barodahn’s factors, and not just the Order — to know Prince Altho’ll be at open blows with Ranalf of Carchon and Wulfra of Torfo by high summer. Aye, and past time he was about it, come to that!”

 

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    “I don’t doubt it. Despite which, I have to go. I’ll stay well clear of Carchon, though. I’m afraid the Duke remembers our last encounter, and I don’t have time to waste avoiding his guards.”

    “As to that, no doubt youll know your own business best.” Another grin tugged at Bahzell’s lips and flattened his ears ever so slightly. “But it’s in my mind you and Brandark are too much alike under the skin. I’m sure I’ve no least idea who it was went around enchanting every harp in the Duchy to sing about the Duke’s bastardy. And I’m not so very sure his guardsmen would find themselves happy at all, at all, if it happened they were so unlucky as to lay you by the heels, come to that. But it’s in my mind Wulfra’s twice the man Ranalf is, and her barony lies right along the West Scarthu, Wencit! Just how was it you were thinking to avoid her?”

    “I don’t intend to avoid the lady. In point of fact, my business lies with her.”

    “Wencit, you’re mad!” Leeana’s arm circled the free side of Bahzell’s neck as she leaned against him. Sitting, he was almost as tall as she was standing. “The Baroness is no enemy to take lightly!”

    “Aye.” Bahzell eyed the wizard intently. “I’d not go calling on her without an army at my back — not if it so happened I had the choice. And don’t you be telling me as you don’t know as well as I do what she’s been about these past twenty years! If it should happen you don’t, then you’d best drop by the Academy for a wee chat with Master Lentos. It’s happy the Order of Semkirk would be to fill in those tiny gaps for you.”

    “I’m perfectly well aware that the Baroness is a practitioner of the art, Bahzell,” Wencit said calmly. “And that she was . . . rather less than honest when she convinced King Faltho she and that whole little circle of hers honor the Strictures.” His expression was bleak. “I warned him allowing her to practice the art openly in Angthyr would be unwise, and so did the magi. Unfortunately, he chose to listen to the Purple Lords, instead.”

    “It wasn’t just the money, Wencit,” Leanna put in quietly. “Not entirely. Wulfra can charm an adder out of its hole when she chooses to. Faltho truly believed she was loyal to the throne. And so did Fallona after her father died.”

    “At least until the magi started looking into exactly how that ‘mysterious illness’ of his might have come about,” Wencit pointed out.

    “Aye, and that’s one reason — one among many, I’m thinking — Prince Altho’s after wanting her head on a pike!” Bahzell flattened his ears in emnphasis. “But she’s still one of the kingdom’s great nobles, the law’s still the law, and Ranalf’s daft enough to support her still. Whatever it might be as Altho wants, it’s careful he’ll have to be, at least until he’s proof of treason or blood sorcery, and Carnadosa only knows what deviltry she’ll be hatching in that tower of hers until he finds it. Don’t you go taking her for a lackweight, Wencit! She’s one to walk wary of.”

    “And I’m not?” Wencit’s multi-hued eyes flamed. “I’ll admit she commands a portion of the art, but she’s not my equal yet!”

    “You’ve no need to be someone’s equal for your henchmen to be putting an arrow in his back if he’s daft enough to go riding past your front gate,” Bahzell said succinctly.

    “Granted.” Wencit raised a pacific hand. “But more rides on this than you know, Bahzell, and Wulfra’s mocked the Strictures too long. Besides, she has something of mine, and I want it back. “

    “Ha!” Bahzell’s face lit. “I’m thinking you’ve always been a busy man, Wencit, but truth to tell, it’s in my mind you’ve waited overlong to deal with her. Is it a formal duel you’ll challenge her to, then?”

    “And get that arrow you were just talking about in my back when I ride up to her gate to call her to account?” Wencit laughed derisively. “No, I’ve no desire to let the Baroness see me coming. And while I don’t doubt the time will come to settle that account of hers in full, that’s not the reason for this little jaunt.” There was no amusement in Wencit’s expression now, and he shook his head grimly. “Truth to tell, it’s an account badly in need of settling — you’re right enough about that, Bahzell — and I’ve had to wait too long to see to that, for a lot of reasons. I won’t pretend I’m not looking forward to . . . repairing that omission, but this is rather more important than showing her the error of her ways. To be honest, I’d prefer to be in and out again before she even knows I’ve been there.”

    “But where do I fit in?” Kenhodan demanded. “What use is a sword in a confrontation between wizards?”

    “The objective is to avoid an arcane confrontation, if possible,” Wencit answered. “I doubt we can avoid the art entirely, but the Barony of Torfo is two thousand leagues and more south of here. Even if I can reach it without open sorcery, the sheer length of the journey gives an enemy too many chances to arrange misadventures along the way. I don’t doubt will meet opposition in the art — after all, several weaker wizards run at Wulfra’s heels these days; she’d gladly risk them, and despite all her protests, I’ve caught the scent of Kontovar wafting north from time to time, as well — but most of what we encounter will be mortal enough for cold steel.”

    “That’s your whole reason for taking me?” Kenhodan sounded skeptical.

    “Wizards always have many reasons,” Wencit said gently. “Don’t ask for all of them. You wouldn’t like what you might hear. In fact, I don’t like knowing them all myself.”

    “It’s a kormak or two I’d give to see the Baroness brought down a peg,” Bahzell said thoughtfully.

    “Bahzell . . . !” Leeana’s tone was sharp.

    “Now, lass. It’s not as if the Order hasn’t heard the same sorts of tales as Wencit and the magi, and well you know it. And as Wencit says, it’s time and past time she was seen to.” The big hradani’s expression had turned grim. “It’s in my mind it’s no coincidence he and Kenhodan were after washing up on our doorstep tonight.”

    “And have you heard a single word from Him about it?” she demanded.

    “No, that I haven’t. But himself’s not the sort as leads people about by the hand, now is he, lass? It’s a mind of my own I have, and I’m thinking he expects me to be using my head for more than a hatrack, time to time.”

    Leeana glared at him for a long, still moment, then turned an even more sulfurous glare on the wizard.

    “Wencit, if you encourage this great idiot to wander off without me and get himself killed just now —!”

    Leeana’s eyes seemed to stray to Gwynna for a moment before she caught them and returned her gaze to the wizard.

    “Leeana, talking sense to either of you is like trying to swim the Western Sea. I don’t even try anymore. After all these years, you’d think at least one of you would have gotten a little less stubborn, but no! And don’t even get me started on champions of Tomanak and how unreasonable they can be. Even the ones who aren’t hradani on top of everything else!”

    “Wizards! You dangle the carrot in front of the ox, but it’s never your fault when the poor beast follows after it!”

    “Very well.” Wencit turned to Bahzell. “Comforting as your sword and your presence have been in their time, I believe I can safely dispense with them. Kenhodan and I can see to our own safety, thank you. You and the Order have done more than enough for me in the past, Bahzell. And Leeana’s right that this is no time for you to be away from Belhadan.”

    “Spoilsport!” Bahzell’s tone was wry, but his brown eyes were warm as they met Leeana’s worried green gaze.

    “Perhaps, but I’d sooner have neither you nor Leeana in this. No, hear me out!” Wencit raised his voice, overriding Bahzell’s attempt to interrupt. “You’ve been good friends, among the best I’ve ever had, but too many pay for my friendship with their lives. I won’t have you do so when there’s no need. Kenhodan and I have to go, but you don’t. Not this time. The time may come when I have to ask you to risk your lives again — yes, and lose them, too — but not yet, Bahzell. Not yet! Gwynna needs both parents now, more than ever, and I tell you that if you mix in this venture, you’ll take a step you can never untake. The time will come when you curse the day you heard my name, Bahzell Bloody Hand.”

    “Ominous words!” the hradani laughed, but then he shook his head, and his eyes were very serious. “It’s not so very many of himself’s champions as die in bed, Wencit. It might be you’ll recall a time or two we’ve had that selfsame discussion. And it’s in my mind there’s a risk or three you’ve run for other folk your own self over the last thirteen hundred years or so. You’ll not be frightening me — no, nor Leeana come to that — with warnings such as that.”

    “Perhaps not, but don’t expect me not to try, you overgrown lummox!”

    “Sure and life would come all over boring if you didn’t,” Bahzell replied with a slow smile, ears cocked in amusement.

    “I’m so happy I’ve been able to keep you entertained. But that doesn’t change anything I just said about Gwynna needing both of you. Nor do I have any intention of exposing her to any sort of danger. In fact,” Wencit raised his head and sniffed, “we should leave now. I’ve lingered too long already. Farewell.”

    He started to rise, but Bahzell’s palm slammed the table like a hammer. Kenhodan flinched as bowls and mugs jumped, and the towering hradani’s ears lay half flattened, his big, square teeth bared in something no one would ever mistake for a smile.

    “Now that you’ll not do!” he rumbled. “My house is yours, and has been these sixty years! D’you think Leeana and I are after forgetting all you’ve done for us and ours? Who was it brought Tellian and me face-to-face and laid the truth about the hate betwixt hradani and Sothoii out for anyone with eyes to be seeing? And who was it saved my arse — aye, and Master Trayn’s, come to that — time and again? Who was it warned us of the mage power? No, Wencit of Rum! I’m thinking it’s one thing to leave me out of your journeyings, but you’ll not be leaving my roof under threat! Not if I have to knock you senseless myself!”

    “We’re entering a time of great peril, Bahzell,” Wencit said tensely. “Great evil may come to this house and all in it if we linger under your roof. I know you’re a champion of Tomanak. I know what that means – none better. But great evil is coming to us all, more than enough for a dozen champions. Yet this is no demon, no devil — nothing that . . . simple and above board, and I tell you this now. You may meet your sorrow sooner if we stay, Bahzell. Believe me.”

    “I do,” Bahzell said simply but unyieldingly. “What evil?”

    “Bahzell, can’t you just take my word and let me go?” Wencit was half-pleading now. “Just this once, please. I will not involve you in this!”

    “And you’ll not leave until you tell me,” Bahzell said inflexibly. “What evil would be after threatening this house if you stay?”

    “An attempt was made on my life earlier tonight,” Wencit said unwillingly. “I expect another shortly, and Kenhodan’s presence may increase the probability.”

    “All the more reason to stay,” Bahzell insisted. “It’s little liking I have for assassins, and it’s cold welcome dog brothers will find in my house!”

    “Assassins, yes. If that were my only fear, then no place could be safer, and I wouldn’t worry about you. But my enemies command the art, as well. They won’t rely on mortal killers.”

    “And whatever it happens they do rely on, it’s in my mind it won’t be so very happy to be meeting with a champion of Tomanak. Best you be meeting it here, under a roof with extra eyes to guard and the entire Order ready to hand, come to that. I’m thinking there’s little even such as she could be getting past that!”

    “I can’t involve the Order at this time, Bahzell,” Wencit said flatly. Bahzell’s mobile ears flattened in obvious surprise and the wizard sighed. “There are too many factors in play,” he said. “I can’t explain all of them to you, for a lot of reasons, but if the Order’s drawn into this — if it’s given proof someone is openly using the art against subjects of the King Emperor — you’ll have no choice but to move openly against Wulfra. And if you move openly against her, my only chance to retrieve what I need from her will disappear. You’re right that I do know even better than the Order of Semkirk just how vile she is, how much damage she’s already done. I know that, but believe me when I tell you that getting into Torfo and back out again is far more important than punishing her crimes. It’s even more important than preventing future crimes.”

    “I’ve no need to involve the entire Order,” Bahzell said in that same unyielding tone. “But I’m himself’s champion, Wencit. And do you think it’s so very happy he’d be with me if it should happen I went and left you and Kenhodan to deal with this attack on your own?”

    “I don’t want your protection!” Wencit snapped. “And I’ve been protecting myself quite handily since before the Fall! I know you’re a champion of Tomanak, and I know your skull is thicker than the East Walls, but d’you think I want to expose Gwynna and Leeana to black sorcery?! Give me enough credit —”

    He stopped suddenly, as if aware he’d made a grave tactical error, and so he had.

    “Leeana is the daughter of Tellian and Hanatha of Balthar,” Leeana said proudly, “and Gwynna is the daughter of Bahzell Bahnakson and Leeana Hanathafressa. Will you have it said we turned away guests and friends in time of danger? Would you dishonor us so, Wencit?”

    “Some things are more dangerous than others.” Wencit picked his words with care. “Believe me. Any attack on this house will be . . . extreme. Possibly extreme enough to require the rest of Bahzell’s chapter when I can’t afford – I literally cannot afford — to risk involving the Order of Tomanak or the Order of Semkirk. Honor doesn’t require you to accept such risks for your daughter, Leeana. Especially not when the guest prefers to leave before his enemies strike.”

    “Honor requires what we believe it requires.” Leeana sounded as if she were reciting a creed. “You were our friend even before we ever met. You were the person who helped Bahzell, Prince Bahanak, and Father put an end to almost a thousand years of slaughter between Sothoii and hradani. You hammered those diehard idiots in the Kraithâlyr when they tried to fight King Markhos’ decision to revise the war maids’ charter. You warned us about Sharlassa’s mage gift, and you held my hand when Gwynna was born and Bahzell couldn’t come. You’ve always been our friend, you’re our friend now, and we do not desert our friends, Wencit of Rum! We offer you the protection of our roof, and you will offend and dishonor us if you refuse.”

    Wind roared around the eaves as Wencit stared at her determined face. When he spoke again, he was through arguing. He was pleading.

    “Leeana, listen to me. A time is coming when those dear to me will pay for their love and courage. I know they will, and I thought I could accept it. I was wrong. Some things are more important than all a wizard’s schemes. I should never have let you come so close to me, but I was . . . lonely. Now I want this danger away from you. From Gwynna.” He sounded hesitant, almost beaten, as if tormented by something the others couldn’t see. “I’ve risked you both before, and I’d back you against a hundred assassins. You know that. But I don’t choose to involve you in this. What’s begun tonight is worse than assassins could ever be, Leeana. As bad as anything Bahzell has ever faced in Tomanak’s service and, yes, worse even than that. Believe me, please.”

    Leeana rested her hand on her husband’s shoulder and listened to Wencit’s words. Then she looked into Bahzell’s face, eyebrows lifted. Brown eyes met green and reached silent agreement.

    “Then I’d best get my sword,” Bahzell said simply.