Juliet McKenna: The Assassin's Edge

I lifted the bucket and cupped myself a drink of water. Halcarion save me but I’d hand over that whole coffer of coin for a decent cask of wine. Mind you, I thought wryly, I wasn’t the only one fed up with water and ale. Whatever fruit Zigrida’s canes might produce after my untutored ministrations wasn’t destined for pies; she’d told me as much. But fruit cordials would never match the velvety seduction of Angovese red or the aromatic coolness of Ferl River whites.

That idle thought prompted another that stopped me in my tracks. Aft-Spring’s winds would soon bring ships and it was a safe bet they’d carry trifles and trinkets to tempt the colonists as well as the necessities of life we couldn’t yet make for ourselves. Traders from Tormalin would be wanting coin on the barrelhead, not unquantifiable promises of bartered labour. If I found some opportunity to set people like Midda fretting about that, I might get more takers for my money staked against their sweat. Come to that, traders in an anchorage without any of the usual amusements would probably be only too eager for a casual game of runes. It would take more than a winter’s idleness to leave my fingers too stiff to lighten some Zyoutessela merchant’s purse.

My spirits rose as a new notion occurred to me. Those ships would surely be carrying wine. If I bought up as much as I could, I’d have something better to trade for goods and services than the donkey work I’d been taking on, just so I wasn’t sitting on my hands and living off Ryshad’s efforts. I wasn’t about to do that here in Kellarin, any more than I’d have taken his coin to be called his whore back home.

Those same ships could take letters back to Tormalin for me. I considered how I might have them carried to the more distant trading centres of Relshaz and Peorle. As sworn man to D’Olbriot, Ryshad had had the right to use the Imperial Despatch and I wondered if they ever carried any unofficial correspondence from men who’d left their Prince’s service. In the right places, I had friends who could ship an entire cargo of wines and liquors across the ocean with my name branded on every barrel. If I became the woman the colony turned to for its wine, where might that lead me?

Feet marching in ragged step behind me interrupted such speculations. Midda and her friends scattered like hens in a farmyard, white aprons fluttering, sweeping skirts aside lest some heedless soldier tread on their hems. Not that Ryshad would have called this rabble soldiers and even Halice would have admitted they were barely worth a mercenary’s hire. I picked up my pace a little as the unshaven mob passed me to halt milling around outside Deglain’s door with the usual unfocused malice of a gang of drunks.

“Deg! Hey, Deg, we didn’t finish our game!”

That was a voice I recognised and one I didn’t like. Peyt hadn’t taken the hint when Halice had offered to pay him off the previous autumn, suggesting he head back for more profitable wars, as so many other mercenaries had done once the colony had thrived unmolested for a full year.

Most of those warriors who’d stayed had taken up old trades like Deglain or turned unskilled hands to hunting and foraging in the woods, stripping bark from felled trees for the tanners, hauling cut lumber to wherever the next house was being built. There was more than enough work to go around, after all. But I couldn’t recall Peyt and his cronies lifting a finger, not beyond grudgingly using cudgels on fleeing rats when the sheaves stooked in the new fields won from the forest had been taken for threshing. For all their supposed skill with blades, they’d shirked Aft-Autumn’s gory cull of the pigs, sheep and cattle we had no fodder to see through the winter. Ryshad had been scathing in his contempt for Peyt more than once, likening him to one of the fat black leeches lurking in the swampy stretch of land to the east. The only work I’d seen the idle bastard do since the turn of the year was drowning the few hound pups too sickly to find takers, once Ryshad had pointed out to Temar that Vithrancel could do without any pack of masterless dogs.

I reached my own gate and, once inside, latched it carefully, alert to the swelling murmurs, picking out accents from gutters all the way from Toremal clear across to the Great Forest. The door across the way burst open.

“You shut your mouth before I shut it for you!” Deglain’s bellow rang out before his voice was lost beneath a flurry of voices, some calming, some goading.

“No one’s looking for trouble here,” said one unlikely optimist.

“Peyt only says it like he sees it.” That interruption was larded with malicious expectation. “She looks a well-thumbed lass to me.”

The ragged ring of men spread out to corral two figures now circling each other.

“I’d carve a slice off her ham,” someone agreed with the misplaced earnestness of the truly drunk.

I moved to lean against the fence as a growing number of people from nearby houses emerged to do the same.

“Her thighs open like a gate on a windy day.” The speaker squared up to Deglain, smiling nastily as he made an ostentatious adjustment to his groin. He was a rangy man with a few days’ growth of beard shadowing a hatchet face beneath slicked back, oily black locks. His red, embroidered clothes had once been expensive but rough living and worse table manners had left them bagged and stained. “I’m not the only one who’s combed her quiff.”

A cackling laugh at the back raised the old mercenaries’ toast. “Here’s to loose women and well-fitting boots!”

“You’re a lying bastard, Peyt.” Deglain took a step closer and Peyt backed away. Deglain was a few fingers shorter but broader across the shoulder and with plenty of muscle beneath the fat that a winter of leisure had left padding him. He was wearing no more than a shirt and tan breeches and the slight breeze flattened the fine linen to outline his solid bulk. His blunt face was twisted in a scowl, thick brows all but lost in his unruly brown hair.

“She’s the one carrying the bastard and you’re the fool letting her father it on you,” taunted Peyt. “But you’re welcome to my leavings, if you can stomach them.”

“I’ll make you eat horseshit for spreading such lies!” One of Catrice’s brothers forced his way through the crowd, face scarlet with rage, all youthful long limbs like a heron on stilts. One of Peyt’s cronies tripped him and the youth went sprawling to unsympathetic laughter. But Glane hadn’t come alone and an angry lad punched the man with a deft fist brutal in his kidneys. Some colonists were picking up mercenary tricks.

“Saedrin’s stones!” The man buckled at the knees and was surprisingly slow to get up. Seeing Peyt distracted, Deglain stepped in with an uppercut solid enough to rattle the mercenary’s teeth. But it wasn’t enough to fell him. Clean living among the colonists had made Deglain forget how hard and fast a mercenary fights and he was a breath too slow in stepping back. Peyt drove a swift, instinctive punch into his belly and with a noise half groan, half curse, Deglain doubled over.

“Go back to your little hammers,” Peyt sneered. “You fight like a cat with gloves on.”

He looked for the adulation of his hangers-on but he was celebrating too soon. Deglain rammed a shoulder like a bullock’s rump into Peyt’s skinny ribs, dumping him on his arse.

“If I had a dog as worthless as you, I’d hang him.” He pinned his tormentor long enough for a few good blows then two others dragged him off, their boots and fists going in brutally.

“I’ll kick your arse so hard your gums’ll bleed!” Peyt was back on his feet, resilience being one mercenary quality he did possess. Blood pouring from a gashed eyebrow, he swore foully as he headed for Deglain.