The Warlord's legacy

Chapter Sixteen

She marched the city's outermost streets, oblivious to the muttering and joking of the men in loose formation behind. She knew she could count on them to watch her back if trouble appeared, and that was all she asked. Beyond that, she cared as little for what they had to say as they did for her.

Nobody who'd ever met or even heard of this woman would have mistaken her, for she looked very much today as she had for over a decade of violence and carnage. Her blond hair was perhaps longer in back than once it was, tied in twin braids that reached to her shoulder blades, but it hung unevenly at the sides. She remained gaunt, almost to the point of appearing ill, yet more than strong enough to outmuscle enemies who outweighed her twice over. A pair of short-handled hatchets hung at her waist, and over her chain hauberk she wore, not the tabard of a true Cephiran soldier, but a simple crimson sash crossing her chest from the left shoulder. Clasped with a cheap tin gryphon, it was the standard "uniform" of all non-Cephiran mercenaries who served the invaders.

The mark of a traitor to Imphallion, some would say-a few had said, to her face-but if she cared, it never showed. What had Imphallion done for her?

Emdimir itself, in fact, had changed more in weeks than she herself had in years. The streets, recently so crowded with refugees that the dirt had practically been compacted into stone beneath uncounted feet, now hosted only sporadic traffic. Nowhere in Cephiran-occupied Imphallion did the populace enjoy those freedoms that the invaders had initially permitted their early conquests, such as Rahariem. No longer did citizens go about their business in greater numbers than their occupiers, living daily lives as though little untoward had occurred. No longer did Guildsmen and nobles of the region govern with only occasional nudges and directives from Cephiran officers.

No, the destruction of Rahariem's western gates, and the rise of the abortive insurgency, had shown the occupiers the error of mercy and kindness. Men- and women-at-arms-both Royal Soldiers of the Black Gryphon, and mercenaries of varying nationalities and scruples-patrolled the occupied cities in overwhelming numbers. Gatherings of Imphallian citizens were restricted to five or fewer, with violators immediately relocated to the constantly inflating work gangs, whether or not they were of proper age or health for heavy labor. Shops providing basic goods and services were permitted to remain open, but between the restrictions on public assembly and the fact that Cephiran soldiers took what they needed for whatever price (if any) they felt like paying, most merchants found it more cost-effective to keep their doors shut.

She'd heard rumors that a few stubborn pockets of resistance remained back in Rahariem, but they were little more than outlets for angry youths to hurl waste and scrawl defiant slogans. The fools seemed incapable of understanding, the mercenary mused, that far from doing any good or inspiring others to rise up, they were merely providing the invaders with the excuse and motivation to crack down all the harder.

The people in Emdimir and other more recently conquered communities were more pliable. But still, their movements were restricted, their curfews enforced.

Her patrol route took her along the impoverished and half-ruined neighborhoods, near the outer wall that, when faced by the Black Gryphon, had served as no defense at all. Most of the citizens had been moved away from the gates, either deeper into the city or out into temporary camps meant to ease Emdimir's overcrowding. Those few who remained worked daily, beneath the watchful eyes of Cephiran taskmasters, to reinforce those walls against possible Imphallian counterattack. Choked with the dust and sweat of ongoing construction, this was a particularly unpleasant part of town.

Which was precisely why she'd received this assignment. The Cephirans might use Imphallian mercenaries, but they weren't about to trust them with anything important. She scowled, swallowing a surge of resentful bile so familiar in flavor that it might have been a favorite meal. After everything I did for them…

"Captain Ellowaine!"

She spun on her heel, expression neutral. Even in those two simple words, she could hear the man's disdain-none of the Cephiran soldiers appreciated being assigned to a "filthy mercenary"-but at least she'd finally beaten it into their heads that they'd damn well better call her by rank.

"What is it, Corporal?"

Corporal Quinran pointed toward a dilapidated building farther along the packed dirt road, one scheduled to be torn down for raw materials in a week or two. It was a sad, sunken facade, the frowning windows and cracked wood forming the face of a tired old grandfather. She'd passed it any number of times on any number of patrols, and couldn't easily imagine what made it worthy of attention this time.

"What of it?" she asked.

"Just saw a man in rags slip through the front door, Captain."

"And?" Those poor souls still dwelling here were miserable enough; no reason to begrudge one whatever shelter he might find.

"I can't swear to it, Captain, but I think I saw a sword under his cloak. It was certainly jutting out like one, at any rate."

That brought a frown. Traveling under arms was another prohibition the Cephirans had heaped upon their conquered territories. Any citizen caught with a blade larger than an eating utensil was risking far worse than assignment to the work gangs.

"All right," she said. "It could be anything, but we'll check it out." Then, in the probably futile hope of thawing out some of their working relationship, "Nicely spotted, Corporal."

"Thanks, Captain."

She and Quinran hit the door shoulders-first, practically ripping the rotting wood from its hinges. Without waiting for their vision to adjust they darted aside, one each way, leaving the doorway clear for the crossbows of the soldiers behind. When they saw no one on whom to loose their bolts, Lieutenant Arkur and Corporal Ischina entered, carefully stowing their arbalests and drawing broadswords in their stead.

Ellowaine appeared briefly in the doorway and raised a hand toward the last man, Corporal Rephiran, still lingering outside. Palm, fingers upright, followed swiftly by a single finger pointing downward, then two pointing directly at him.

Stay here, watch for anyone who gets past us.

He nodded and stepped back, keeping his weapon trained on the doorway.

Rear guard established, vision adjusting to the gloom, Ellowaine took a moment to orient herself. A large entry chamber, coated in paint so faded that she couldn't guess at its original color, offered only a single exit other than the front door and an empty coatroom. What remained of a desk, its legs long since scavenged for firewood, slumped atop rat-eaten carpet. The air was pungent with old dust and older mildew, spiced just a bit by fresh urine.

Ischina sidled up to the far door and peered cautiously around the corner for just an instant before jerking her head back. Spotting no danger, she dropped into a half crouch and darted through for a closer look. Ellowaine moved toward the door, while the others gathered on either side.

"Hallway," Ischina whispered as she reemerged into the chamber. "Lots of doors, staircase at the far end. I'm guessing a cheap hostel, maybe a flophouse."

Ellowaine nodded. She'd seen the like before, and in her experience, it probably hadn't been much nicer before being abandoned.

"Whistles," she said simply. Instantly, the others produced, from within pouches or on thongs around their necks, plain tin tubes that produced a surprisingly sharp tone. She drew her own from a pocket on her belt and wrapped the thong around her wrist.

"Two by two. Quinran and I are upstairs. You do not, under any circumstances, let your partner out of your sight."

Three quick nods were all the acknowledgment she received, or required.

Slightly more gently-but only slightly-she continued. "Judging by the smell, more than a few vagabonds have been using this place. Try not to kill anyone unless you're certain they're a threat-but don't risk your skins for it."

More nods, and then she was off toward the stairs, Quinran falling into step behind. Even as they reached the steps, she heard the first door being kicked open back down the hall.

The stairs creaked and screeched like a cat under a rocking chair, and the entire structure quivered beneath their weight. Ellowaine, a hatchet now in each hand, winced with every step, but no amount of care could silence the rickety wooden banshees, so she'd little choice but to bear it. Gaps in the dust suggesting that someone else had come this way might have been days or even weeks old, but the broken spiderwebs hanging between the banister and the inner wall had to be more recent. Keeping silent, despite the stairs heralding their approach to all and sundry, she gestured at the webs with a blade. Quinran nodded his understanding and shifted his grip on his broadsword.

Below, Arkur and Ischina kicked in a second door.

The light faded as the captain and the corporal climbed higher. Presumably, most of the second floor's windows were shuttered or boarded. They slowed, hoping to give their eyes time to adjust, and scowled darkly at each other. They were a daytime patrol; none of them carried lamp or torch.

"If this was just some vagrant carrying a stick that you saw," she breathed at him in a voice below even a whisper, "you'll be digging latrine ditches for a week."

"If this is the other option," he whispered back, flinching away as another step screamed in the near darkness, "I might just volunteer."

A third door clattered open on the floor beneath them.

And something moved in the shadows above.

It was nothing Ellowaine had seen, or could put a name to. Just a sensation, a touch of breeze without benefit of an open window, a flicker of movement in the dangling cobweb. She froze, listening, halting her companion as he tensed to take another step.

Nothing. Nothing at all…

Except, just maybe, the faintest creak. It could have been the building itself, sighing and settling its aching joints. But so, too, could it have been the muffled protest of a floorboard buried beneath old carpet.

Weapons at the ready, Ellowaine and Quinran increased their pace, hoping now not for the stealth that the stairs had rendered impossible, but to reach the top before anyone could intercept them partway.

Nobody tried. They found themselves in a hall very much like the one below. Doors occupied the walls to either side. A few hung open, the wood dangling loosely from the hinges like hanged convicts, but most were firmly shut.

Again they looked at each other, then at the nearest door. Quinran shrugged, and Ellowaine made a flicking motion toward it. Hatchets in hand, she stood back, ready to strike as the corporal kicked.

Rotted wood gave way so easily he stumbled. A cloud of foul splinters wafted into the air, and the stench of mildew grew nigh overpowering, but the room was empty save for a splotched mattress and soiled sheets.

The same across the hall, and again in the room neighboring that. They were just turning toward the fourth door when Ellowaine drew abruptly to a halt.

"What is it, Captain?"

"Listen!"

A moment. "I hear nothing."

"That's just it!" She tilted her head, indicating the stairway, and Quinran understood.

Where were the sounds of Ischina and Arkur opening doors downstairs?

The corporal opened his mouth, but no answer crawled its way onto his tongue. They couldn't be taking a break, not so early in the process. Could they have run into trouble? What could have silenced them both before either could sound a whistle?

Ellowaine stood, undecided, but only for a span of heartbeats. Absently spinning her hatchets in small circles beside her, she stepped once more toward the stairs. "Watch my back."

She'd moved only a couple of paces before she realized that no sounds of footsteps followed her. Behind her, the door to a room they'd already searched slammed shut, hiding whatever lay beyond.

Of Quinran, or any life at all, the hallway offered no sign.

Ellowaine hit the door at a full tilt and dropped into a roll as it fragmented. Across the moldy carpet she tumbled, then back to her feet, blades at the ready.

Quinran crouched on the floor, holding one hand to the back of his head. A thin trickle of blood-not enough, Ellowaine noted with no small relief, to suggest a dangerous wound-welled up between his fingers.

For just an instant, she couldn't understand how the room could be empty. Someone had grabbed the corporal, struck him across the head to keep him silent, but where-?

To her right, nigh invisible in the artificial twilight, a low hole in the wall provided egress to the next chamber. She listened, but neither the thump of a footfall nor the creak of a board suggested any movement.

"Can you stand?" she asked softly.

"I can bloody do more than that." Quinran rose, lifting his sword from the floor beside him. "Where are the bastards?"

"Later. First, we're checking on the others."

The corporal frowned, but when Ellowaine headed for the stairs, he followed.

They bounded downward, at speeds one notch shy of reckless, and the steps unleashed a chorus of wails. It was easy enough to see where their companions' efforts had ceased: Just look for the last open door. Once they were off the shrieking stairs they slowed, progressing with weapons at the ready.

Only as they neared could they see the crimson smears leading into the nearest open room. They gagged as the swirling dust of neglect pasted the acrid and metallic tang of recent slaughter to their tongues, their teeth, their throats.

Ellowaine darted past the door, crouched low, and rose with her back to the wall. Quinran mirrored her posture on the opposite side.

One… two…

She spun through the doorway, hatchets whirling, the corporal at her back.

And all but slipped in the puddled gore. "Good gods…"

The mercenary was certainly no stranger to violent death. It was the swiftness of it all, the fact that they'd heard nothing, that gave her pause.

Arkur lay just inside, apparently slain by a single blow that cleaved him cleanly from right shoulder to left hip-a hideous, jagged mirror of Ellowaine's own sash of rank. To judge by the drag marks, he'd been attacked in the passageway and hauled messily into the chamber.

Across the room, Ischina sprawled beside the decomposing mattress. Her blade lay beside her, shattered into steel splinters, and little remained of face and skull save a dripping ruin of mangled flesh. Largely hidden by the carnage, a tiny weed grew through the buckling floorboards. It wore an array of needle-like thorns as a crown, several of which appeared to be missing. Ellowaine knelt and found them protruding through the leather sole of Ischina's left boot.

And Ellowaine damn well knew witchcraft when she saw it.

She opened her mouth to bark an order at Quinran, but froze at the gaping shock on his face. His pupils flickered wildly from side to side, and then he was gone from the doorway.

Ellowaine followed at a run, rounding the corner just in time to see him reach the building's front door. He hauled it open, and she clearly heard his cry of "Get in here!"

"Corporal Quinran!" Then, when he reacted not all, "Gods damn it, Corporal!" She reached his side and hurled him against the wall by his shoulders. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Need help," he wheezed, even as Corporal Rephiran pounded up the steps and into the building, seeking targets for his crossbow.

"My call!" Ellowaine growled, shoving him once more into the wall for good measure before releasing him. "Don't you ever countermand my orders without checking with me first!"

"Understood," Quinran whimpered.

"Arkur and Ischina are down," she told Rephiran. "Enemies still unknown. We-"

She whirled at the sudden thump, watched one of the open doors drifting on its single remaining hinge-and allowed herself to breathe once more. It was just a feral cat, tortoise-haired. It stood in the hallway, hissing at them, back arched and tail bushy.

From what was now behind her, where the last survivors of her squad waited, came a burbling, stomach-turning crunch. Again she spun, just in time to see Rephiran slide to the floor, brains spilling from his shattered skull. Quinran just shrugged, shook the worst of the gore from his sword, and lunged.

Ellowaine's hatchets rose in a perfect parry, catching the blade between them and shrugging it to one side. With the rightmost she lashed out, and the treacherous corporal sucked in his breath as he leapt back, dodging the hatchet with nothing to spare.

Furious at the loss of her men, shamed that she'd never suspected the traitor in their midst, Ellowaine shrieked, leaping at her foe over Rephiran's mangled body. Her hatchets buzzed from all directions, a swarm of enraged hornets with lethal stings. Quinran backpedaled, and only the unnatural speed of his desperate parries kept his limbs attached. His body and face flickered as his concentration lapsed, and Ellowaine realized that poor Quinran, the real Quinran, probably lay dead upstairs. Well, she'd see who she fought soon enough…

And then she could only scream, leg buckling beneath her. With a strength and accuracy impossible in any normal animal, the alley cat had come up behind and sunk its teeth through the leather of her boot, into the flesh and tendon of her ankle.

She toppled, caught herself against the wall, and looked up just in time for the haft of her foe's weapon-revealed, now that the illusion was fading, as an axe, not a sword-to completely fill her vision. She felt the skull at her temple flex beneath the impact of the heavy shaft, and then the pain, along with the rest of the world, went away.

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.

It didn't slow her much, just made her shiver uncomfortably in those few seconds when she wasn't actively moving.

She came to the end of the Thicket and finished in a swift spin, dropping to one knee in the snow and striking up and back, sinking both hatchets into what would have been the lower backs of two enemy "warriors." And only then did she notice the man standing just beyond the array of posts, watching intently.

He was a burly fellow, wearing a thick black beard. In his youth, he might have resembled a bear clad in armor, but much of his bulk-not all, she could see that immediately, but much-had run to fat as age sank its claws into him. His hands, rough and callused, were crossed over a barrel chest that bore the crimson tabard of the Royal Soldiers of the Black Gryphon. Unlike the others Ellowaine had seen, however, his was trimmed in gold, both around the edges and surrounding the iconic gryphon.

"Good afternoon," he said without preamble. "I'm General Rhykus."

Ellowaine rose, offered a shallow bow, and sheathed the hatchets at her side. "I'm honored." She knew nothing of Rhykus, save that she'd heard the name and that he was one of only three soldiers to carry that rank in the royal Cephiran military.

Which, for the moment, made him her employer.

"Walk with me." He turned away, clearly accustomed to instant obedience.

For the sake of her coin purse, that's what she offered, falling into step beside him, her long legs easily keeping pace. She wasn't certain if he was gathering his thoughts or waiting for her to open the conversation, but after a few moments of crunching through shallow snow toward no apparent destination, she decided to take the initiative.

"I'm assuming you're not here to critique my performance in the Thicket. Sir," she added quickly. That's going to take some getting used to.

"Do you feel it needs critiquing?"

Ellowaine swallowed a flash of annoyance. "Not really. And I'm assuming if you did, you'd have said something."

"Just so." A few more steps. "You're the same Ellowaine who served under Rebaine during your nation's so-called Serpent's War?"

Her blood ran cold as the surrounding snows. Surely the Cephirans wouldn't hold that against her?

"I am," she said carefully.

General Rhykus nodded. "I normally have little personal interaction with our mercenaries," he told her.

"Should I be honored again? Or worried?"

The coal-dark beard split in a grin. "I see you're accustomed to speaking your mind. Few of my soldiers will. Not to my face, anyway.

"No, Ellowaine, you needn't worry. In fact, I require your assistance."

They crested a small rise, and Ellowaine saw a great pavilion before them. Even from here, she could feel the radiating warmth of a fire.

"Join me for a meal," the general invited. "There's much I would discuss with you."

"Such as?" she asked, still vaguely suspicious.

"Why, such as everything you can possibly remember about Corvis Rebaine." "AND OF COURSE, YOU TOLD HIM everything," Corvis said disgustedly.

"Why not?" Despite her bonds, she matched him glare for glare. "You hardly provided me any reason for loyalty or affection."

'She's not wrong, Corvis. When it comes to loyalty, you pretty much fall somewhere between a scorpion and, well, an even more unfaithful scorpion.'

He shrugged, so far as the cat in his arms permitted. It wasn't as though he was about to argue the point-not with her, and certainly not with himself. He saw Ellowaine's eyes dart past him as Irrial entered the room, saw them widen briefly in recognition. They'd never met, that much he knew, but doubtless the Cephirans had spread her description far and wide.

"Was it necessary," Ellowaine asked abruptly, voice hard, "to kill my men?"

Again, Corvis shrugged. "We needed to ensure that we'd have time alone to talk with you. And anyway, this is war."

"Oh, I see," she scoffed. "Now you're a patriot, are you?"

Corvis dropped to one knee so that he could look the bound prisoner in the face. "I've always been a patriot, Ellowaine. Don't ever think otherwise."

The cat, perhaps for no better reason than to break the silence, leapt from his arms to the floor between them.

"How did that thing bite through my boot, anyway?" the mercenary demanded.

"Magic," the cat said. Corvis was morbidly amused to see Ellowaine jump, but her shock didn't last.

"Ah, I see. Seilloah?"

"Ellowaine." The witch didn't offer an explanation for her current form, and Ellowaine obviously knew better than to ask.

"So tell me," Corvis began, "why did…?" He paused, watching carefully as the prisoner shifted in the chair. She might have just been repositioning herself after the sudden start, but then again…

Scowling, he moved behind her, saw a swift glint of metal that she couldn't quite hide in her fist. He reached out and yanked the sharp-edged needle from her fingers, ignoring the profanity she spit his way.

"Where the hell were you hiding that?" he demanded. He didn't really expect an answer, which was a good thing, since she clearly wasn't about to offer any. He leaned in, examining the ropes, and decided with a soft grunt that she hadn't cut through enough of the thick hemp to matter. He casually flicked the steel shard into a distant corner and stood before her once more.

She raised her face to the ceiling, chewing on the inside of her cheek and mumbling a few more curses, before looking his way once more.

"Tell me," he said again, "why General Rhykus wanted to know about me. And Ellowaine, please don't waste my time, or yours, by lying."

"If you think you could tell, you're kidding yourself," she said. "But I've no need to lie. The truth is, I really don't know. He obviously had his reasons, given how thoroughly he pressed me on it. He got me to remember details I hadn't even realized I'd ever known. But he never once told me why."

"And you didn't ask?" Irrial asked incredulously.

"Wouldn't have mattered. If he'd wanted me to know, he'd have told me. Besides, I'm used to following people without knowing the whole story. It's what I get paid to do." She stopped and glowered at Corvis. "What I usually get paid to do."

Corvis turned, first toward Seilloah at his feet, then Irrial behind him. The baroness shrugged, while the cat merely flicked her tail.

'You've really got a way with women, haven't you? No wonder you can't seem to keep one.' Corvis would, in that moment, have gladly drilled an awl through his own temple if it meant digging out that damn voice.

"So what are we thinking, then?" Irrial asked. "Is the whole thing a Cephiran operation? To what end?"

"Distraction," Seilloah suggested. "Something to keep the Guilds and the nobles from countering their invasion?"

"Maybe." Corvis didn't sound convinced. "It seems awfully convoluted, if that's all it is, though."

Ellowaine leaned forward, so much as the ropes would allow. "You're talking about the murders. It wasn't you, was it?"

Again they glanced at one another, then Corvis nodded.

"I thought so. I couldn't imagine what you'd have to gain. Now I understand."

"And does it bother you?" the baroness demanded. "Knowing that you provided information that led to the murder of innocents?"

"Why would it?" the mercenary asked, her tone philosophical. "I'm a soldier; I kill. The Cephirans offered me work when nobody else would-thanks to him." She actually smiled at Irrial. "Whatever he's promised you for your help, lady, I'd suggest you count it in advance."

"No," Corvis said, only half listening. "Think of where the murders occurred, the fact that they targeted so many of the people connected to me."

Seilloah nodded, her whiskered snout wrinkling. "If the Cephirans could get into the Hall of Meeting like that, they wouldn't need this sort of deception. They could just take the government down and be done with it."

"They'd have to have Imphallian operatives, then."

"No," Irrial said slowly. "Not operatives. Co-conspirators. This feels very much like a political maneuver, albeit a bloody one."

And then she and Corvis turned to each other, the understanding that dawned on their features enough to light up the room.

"Yarrick," they both said at once.

"He wasn't just a collaborator," Corvis continued. "He was a part of this-whatever this is."

Even Ellowaine appeared to have gotten sucked into the discussion. "If you're right," she said, "if there is some sort of cross-border conspiracy, it couldn't just be a local Guildsman, no matter how potent. It'd have to go a lot higher."

"So what would the Guilds have to gain," Seilloah mused, "by cooperating with a Cephiran invasion?"

"Not all the Guilds," Corvis interjected. "I'm starting to think that's what some of these murders were about: Silence anyone who knows about what's going on but isn't willing to go along with it."

"And in the process," Ellowaine said, "provide a distraction in the form of the vicious 'Terror of the East.' Actually pretty neat, when you think about it." Then, at their expressions, "I know less about this than you do. I'm just speculating."

"And why," Corvis said, dark, suddenly suspicious, "might that be?"

The chair creaked as she shrugged. "Something to do while you've got me stuck here."

"I don't think so." Fists and jaw clenched as one. "You're stalling."

Seilloah bounded to the window, peering between the uneven boards. "There's a squad of soldiers clearing people off the street!" she hissed.

Ellowaine smiled brightly beneath their withering glares. "Oops," she said.

"I can see the spell," Seilloah whispered, studying their prisoner, "now that I know to look. Someone's been watching us through her, Corvis. They've known we were here since she opened her eyes. Arhylla damn it all, I thought I felt something! I should've made sure…"

Corvis nodded bleakly. "Let's get the hell out of here before they've finished assembling, then."

"We're not just going to leave her, are we?" Irrial demanded. Corvis actually flinched, startled at the bloodlust in the baroness's tone-until it struck him just how she must feel about an Imphallian siding with Rahariem's oppressors.

It was, however, a moot point. Even as he considered Ellowaine, still uncertain as to what he'd do with her, she rose from the chair. Shredded ropes fell from about her chafed wrists, and Corvis saw just a glimpse of a second needle clutched in one fist.

And as clearly as if she'd explained it to him, he understood. Of course. One in each braid.

He lunged, but she was already moving. Blood welled up beneath the ropes that wrapped her calves, but the chair legs snapped as she twisted. With her captors mere inches behind, she hit the boarded window at a dead sprint. Corvis was certain that some of the snapping he heard must have been bone as well as wood, but it didn't stop her. He watched, his lopsided expression settling somewhere between enraged and impressed, as she landed in a shower of splinters, rolled awkwardly across the street, and limped into the nearest alley, dragging a clearly broken leg behind. Just before vanishing into the shadows, she paused long enough to cast an obscene gesture back at the shattered window.

"Can we go after her?" Irrial asked.

"Not unless you want to face the entire Cephiran invasion force on our way out of here. If we leave now," he added with a sickly grin, "we'll probably only have to dodge about half of it."

"Where are we going?" Seilloah asked, leaping into Corvis's arms as he headed for the flimsy stairs.

"For now, anywhere that's not here. After that?" He shrugged, checking his headlong dash just enough to prevent the stairs from collapsing beneath him. "If this conspiracy really does involve some of the Guilds, we'll have to go to them to find out, won't we?"

"Not Mecepheum again!" Irrial protested.

"Unless we come up with a better idea." He hit the ground floor and began to run, hoping they could clear the street, hoping they could reach the horses, and the gate…

Hoping against hope that they could, indeed, come up with a better idea.