Patricia Briggs: Masques

She turned to Talor, and said, “I need to bathe in muck more often. It seems to work better than throwing him on the ground and making him look silly like I did the last time he tried to kiss me, don’t you think?”

Old friends—the perfect answer to the frightening feeling that she was all alone. She’d served with both of them right up until the Spymaster had pulled her to his office and informed her she was changing jobs. Her gift of manipulating her superior officers had been noted as well as her ability to act without direct orders. Ren had been right—she was far better suited to spying than to warfare. Still, it was a lonely profession and she treasured her friends from the old days. Especially the ones smart enough that she didn’t have to lie. Talor and Kai were sharp and knew how not to ask questions.

Talor assumed a serious demeanor, but before he could say whatever he intended to, Kai broke in. “Tell me, Lady, what villain gave you that perfume? Surely it must be cursed. Let me slay him for you that you may once again be your sweet-smelling self.”

“I’d almost gotten used to smelling like this,” she said truthfully. She’d slept like this on her bed, she remembered. She’d have to pull off all the bedding and take it to the laundry for cleaning. “I was going to go to the practice ring, but I think that I’ll head to the baths first. Interested in a little fun?” Kai brightened comically until she added, “In the ring.”

Kai bowed low. “To my sorrow, I have a previous engagement.” He slanted her a grin. “Do you remember that redhead in the Thirty-second?”

“Uhm-hmm.” She raised an eyebrow, shook her head, and in an exaggeratedly sorrowful tone said, “Poor girl, doomed to a broken heart.” She grinned, and added, “Have a good time, Kai.” He waved and sauntered away.

Aralorn looked at Talor, and inquired, “Does he really have a date with Sera?”

He laughed. “Probably not, but he will. Mostly, I think, his skin is still too thin from the last time you put him down. The whole squad ribbed him about being beaten by a woman for weeks. I, on the other hand, have no pride and, after you rid yourself of the unfair advantage you now hold”—he grabbed his nose with a hand to show her what he meant—“I will be awaiting you at the Hawk and Hound.”

“Done.” She gave him a mock salute and headed for the baths.

In one of the sparring rings that, like many of the taverns around town, the Hawk and Hound provided, Aralorn faced Talor warily with a single body-length staff held lightly in her hands.

Normally, they were evenly matched with the long staff, Talor being a better fighter than his brother, but Aralorn was still stiff. They fought together often because no one else wanted to face either of them with staves, long or short, in serious sparring.

As a warm-up, they played with variations on the training dances, and rather than aiming for body shots, the object was to hit a small metal plate, which dangled from a belt. Normally, there would be a third to call shots fair or foul and award points at the sound of wood striking metal, but she and Talor were veterans and cared more for the sport than for the winning or losing.

The ring that they had chosen was in the basement of the tavern rather than the one on the main floor, so they had no spectators. By mutual consent, they stopped for a bit to rest before they proceeded out of the standard patterns for some real sparring.

“So, what was that smell anyway? It seems somewhat familiar, but I just can’t place it. Something like a cross between an outhouse and a pig barn.” Talor’s voice was a bit unsteady because he was stretching out as he talked.

Breathing ridiculously hard from such light exertion, Aralorn leaned unashamedly against one of the waist-high walls that surrounded the ring. She was paying for her confinement and the long ride home with her lack of stamina.

She started to think up a reason for the moat smell but decided that there was no harm in letting him know what she’d been doing. Kai and Talor didn’t ask questions, and they also knew when to keep their mouths shut. There was nothing secret about what she had done, now that she was out of there. And it would be good to talk to Talor about what she’d found. She wouldn’t go so far as to tell him about Ren, though. She needed to think about what had happened.

“Unless you’ve been visiting the ae’Magi’s castle lately,” she said, “it probably wouldn’t be too familiar. I only wish the ae’Magi was half as honest and sweet-smelling as his moat . . .” Conditioned reflexes were the only thing that brought her staff up to deflect his from her face. The sheer force of the blow numbed her hands, as she hadn’t been holding the staff in a proper grip.

She ducked underneath his arm to come to the center of the arena and give herself some room for maneuvering. The move also gave her a chance to talk. “What are you doing?”

Talor’s face twisted with wrath as he came after her. “How dare you, worthless bitch? How dare you sharpen your tongue on the ae’Magi?”

It was his rage that saved her, interfering with the timing and precision of his attacks. Time and time again, she was able to block or turn aside his furious blows.

This unchecked anger was unlike him: A good warrior strives above all for control. She knew something was terribly wrong, but his ruthless barrage left no more time for speculation or analysis. She cleared her mind and concentrated on staying alive.

Finally, one of his swings caught her hard behind the back of her knees and she fell backward, letting his staff carry her legs up with it. She turned the fall into a roll, going over onto her shoulders and coming up on her feet. As soon as she was upright, she raised her staff to guard position, trying to protect her face and torso.

The roll had forced her to take her eyes from her opponent, and she barely saw the flicker of movement as his staff came under her defenses. Rather than the standard sweep-strike, Talor had chosen to thrust. The end of the staff caught her low in the chest and drove the breath out of her body. Without the protective padding she wore, it would have broken ribs. Had his staff struck just a few finger-widths higher, it would have been fatal, padding or not.

She twisted frantically to the side, trying to dive out of striking range. It was a desperate maneuver, exposing her vulnerable back to her opponent, and after the blow she’d just received, she knew she was moving far too slowly. Even as she moved, she waited for his strike—knowing that there was no way for her to evade the impact of the metal-shod staff.

The blow didn’t come. She completed the diving roll and snapped to her feet, staff poised and lungs working desperately for air.

Talor stood in the middle of the ring, leaning against his staff. He shook his head like a wet dog, then looked up at her in dazed bewilderment. “I don’t know what came over . . . Are you all right, Aralorn?”

“Fine.” She gasped the word out, her diaphragm not operating quite correctly yet. “Don’t . . . worry about it. No harm done, and I . . . needed a workout. Your stick work has improved, but you’re still a little slow on your returns . . . Watch your hands. You hold on too tightly when you’re mad, and it makes it easier for your opponent to force you to drop your staff.”

As she got her breath back, she made her tone more baiting, trying to get him to forget what had happened. If she was correct about the cause, then it would do him more harm than good to worry about it. It scared her that the ae’Magi’s magic was able to do what it was doing. It was just possible that he would have chosen to turn Ren into one of his puppets—but Talor had no political power. If he was affected, then she had to believe that most people in Sianim would be touched by the ae’Magi’s magic: They all belonged to him. The thought of how much power that would take terrified her.