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 Tomanāk’s service.
Tomanāk 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 Tomanāk, Bahzell was certainly a fit mate for a Sothōii 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 tavern 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 strong room, 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.
“Tomanāk 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 strong room. 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 earthquake 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 red-haired 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 knuckle-bow 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 Tomanāk’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 expression 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 wi
th 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 Leeana 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 red-haired 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 Tomanāk,” 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 Scarthū 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!”
“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 you’ll 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 Scarthū, 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,” Leeana put in quietly. “Not entirely. Wulfra can charm an adder out of its hole when she chooses to. Faltho trul
y 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 emphasis. “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.”