James West - Queen of the North

Having considered their garb rather drab, Rathe self-consciously fingered his new garments. Master Tyron saw him.

“Didn’t mean no offense, lad,” he said hastily, as if mortified by his flapping tongue. “I’d expect a man who’s walkin’ about with a lass as comely as Nesaea to dress in his finest. But, as you can see, those peacocks yonder ain’t got no women. Far as I can tell, they’re not lookin’ for any.”

“No offense taken,” Rathe answered, noting how the men in question had put their heads together over the table, and were speaking with quiet urgency. After a moment, one of them gestured sharply, and they all sat up, eyes downcast. The one who had gestured sipped from something-a tiny golden flask, Rathe thought-and his face twisted into a hellish grimace. Between scrubbing his lips with the back of one hand, and tucking the flask under his cloak with the other, he glanced toward Rathe. He froze when their eyes met, looking startled, then looked away. He must have said something, because his companions abruptly shifted their chairs about until he was almost lost from sight. Rathe swept his eyes toward Fira, as if looking at her had been his intention all along.

“How long have they been here?” Rathe tried for a casual tone, but heard an edge in his voice, felt a tightness in his posture. Whether they were wandering merchants or adventurers, these fellows might be the reason he had felt eyes on him all day.

“Since noontime, or thereabouts. Come to think on it, they’ve been nursing the same ale I give ‘em two hours gone. If they’re highborn brats, they must’ve spent all their coin.”

“No one spends so foolishly as a highborn or his brat,” Rathe agreed with a rueful smile.

“There’s the truth,” Master Tyron laughed. “S’pose if they’re still here on the morrow, I’ll warn ‘em they ought to head back to wherever they come from, afore their stones turn black with frost and drop off.”

Rathe laughed too, but there was no laughter in his heart. During the moment it took to glance at Fira and back, the stranger he had locked eyes with had vanished. He searched the common room, but the man was nowhere in sight. Rathe thought first of the Shadowman, but quickly dismissed the idea. The two men looked nothing alike. His next thought was that the stranger had left to relieve himself. Possible … even likely , Rathe considered, but how did I miss seeing him go?

After begging leave from Master Tyron, Rathe slid off his stool and made for Loro. He walked at an unhurried pace, shamming interest in Fira’s newest song, and offering greetings to a few regular customers he and Loro had gotten to know.

When he reached Loro’s side, he leaned over and whispered, “There are strangers here, and they seem too curious by half.”

“I saw them,” Loro whispered back, then laughed uproariously, as if Rathe had just told a fine joke. Wiping false tears from his eyes, he warned, “Could be King Nabar’s men.”

“They don’t have the look of common bounty hunters,” Rathe said quietly.

“Might be they’re new to the game.”

“Just so,” Rathe allowed, but didn’t quite believe it.

Loro laughed again, but this time his mirth was real. “We ought to take them out back and work the truth out of them.” Not only was the fat man clever, he took immense pleasure in cracking heads, which explained why he had made a fine soldier-at least until his penchant for causing trouble had put him on the same path as Rathe.

Rathe knew questioning the strangers was exactly what they should do, but hearing it spoken aloud, envisioning the bloody outcome of such a confrontation, gave him pause.

“For now, just keep an eye on them.”

Loro looked disappointed. “Are you sure ?”

“As much as I can be,” Rathe said, not sure of anything at the moment, especially why he resisted what instinct told him he must do.

“Good enough,” Loro said, rattling a cup of bone dice at the insistence of his opponents. They were a surly lot, clad in rank, untanned furs, but with Master Tyron about, they minded their manners.

Rathe left them to their game.

At the top of the stairs, he came face to face with the vanishing fellow. Even as Rathe’s hand tightened on the hilt of his sword, the man caught his arm and leaned in close.

“I’m Edrik, a vizien priest of the Munam A’Dett Order. You must come with me.”

Putting on an apologetic smile, Rathe extracted himself from the man’s grasp. “I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint you.”

Unbelievably, the fool drew a dagger. Its blade was clean and bright, with golden crossguards fashioned after a winged serpent.

Rathe set his feet. “Unless you intend to clean my nails, you’d best put that pretty blade away.”

“You must come with me,” Edrik insisted. Sweat beaded on his brow and upper lip. That didn’t settle Rathe’s mind a whit. The most dangerous men he had ever faced were the nervous ones. They tended to do stupid things, heedless of their own safety.

“ Why must I come with you?” Rathe asked, his tone reasonable, as if he might consent.

The dagger lowered a bit. The man licked his lips. “You’re known as the … the Scorpion , yes?”

Rathe schooled his face to calm, but his blood went to ice. It seemed this fellow was not a merchant, adventurer, or even a priest, but rather a bounty hunter. “You’re mistaken, friend. I’m only a traveler seeking to return to warmer lands before my balls freeze solid.”

Edrik gawped at him with sheeplike stupidity. “But … you must be the one I seek. The Oracle described you, foretold where you would be. Please, you must come with me.” He cut off, licked his lips. “If you do not, many thousands will perish. You are the hope of Targas.”

That set Rathe back a step, but he recovered quickly. “I do not know this Scorpion, but I ceased being the hope of anyone or anything some time ago. I suggest you tell your fellows, and this Oracle, that you should save yourselves, and leave me be.”

A stubborn look crossed the man’s face. “You will come with us.”

Rathe shrugged. “Since you put it that way….”

The instant Edrik’s face relaxed, Rathe caught his wrist and bore down with all the strength of a swordsman who had spent most of his life swinging killing steel. With a strangled whimper, Edrik’s fingers sprang open, and the dagger popped free. Rathe plucked the weapon out of the air, twirled it against his palm, and presented the hilt to the priest.

Still holding the fool’s wrist, Rathe said, “Take this knowing I could’ve buried it in your heart. As it happens, I’m feeling benevolent today-now there’s a priestly term, yes?” The man nodded, hesitantly reached for the dagger, but Rathe drew it back. “Come at me again, and you’ll learn that all the gold in the world cannot buy back your life.”

The man stared in confusion. “The Munam a’Dett has no need of gold. We only seek your help.”

Rathe decided then that the man truly was a priest, and was glad he had decided not to kill him. Helping Edrik, though, was out of the question. “Take yourself and your friends out of Iceford, and go back to Targas, or wherever it is you really came from. What you seek is not worth the price you’ll pay to have it.”

Rathe dropped the dagger and shoved Edrik aside, every muscle tensed to strike, every sense alert for a sign that the man had ignored his advice, and was coming after him.

Before he reached the door to his room, he heard clattering footsteps descending the stairs. Some fools can learn , he considered, and breathed easier for the first time in days. He had been jumping at shadows and looking for trouble that, save for Edrik and his band of idiots, had refused to show itself. Perhaps he really had escaped King Nabar’s bounty hunters and, too, the Shadowman.