Patricia Briggs: Steal the Dragon

When he returned home for the wedding, his family welcomed him and his brother introduced Laeth to his new bride—Marri. Karsten had decided to marry a local girl.

Laeth had smiled politely at his love’s unhappy face, understanding that a Darranian girl of good family could not refuse a marriage arranged by her parents. He’d even congratulated his brother. The next morning Laeth told his parents that he’d received notice of trouble at his little farm that required his immediate presence. He would have to leave before the wedding.

His family never knew why he returned to his outrageous behavior, his journey to Sianim only the most flagrant act of disgrace. Since his brother’s wedding, the only time he’d returned to Darran was to attend his father’s funeral.

One of the horses butted Laeth impatiently and he scratched its nose. “Are you going to come, Rialla?” he asked softly.

“Yes,” she replied. “The Spymaster allowed me little choice.”

“I wasn’t sure that I should give Ren your name, but knowing him I thought that he probably knew that you spoke Darranian anyway.”

She nodded and curved her lips without humor. “I know several people who can speak Darranian better than I can, and I imagine that he does too. What he needed was someone who could be a Darranian slave. I’m sure that the devious weasel knew everything about me long before he talked to you.”

“You’re probably right,” replied Laeth, visibly relaxing at Rialla’s easy tone. “He does have that reputation.” He looked around at the quiet stable and then said, “I’ll treat you to lunch.”

Rialla shot him a skeptical look, “At the Lost Pig?”

“They don’t pay mercenaries like they used to. Besides, it’s not that bad,” said Laeth. “Yesterday they only had two people get sick.”

Rialla obediently groaned at the old joke and held her hands up in mock surrender. “All right, all right. But this time I’m not going to rescue you from the waitress.”

Laeth widened his eyes. “Haven’t you heard? Letty’s decided to try for the tall blonds.”

“Who’s she after now?” inquired Rialla, getting up off her bench and following Laeth out the door.

“Afgar, you know, the lieutenant in the Fifty-seventh.”

Rialla thought a moment and came to a halt. “Not the big Southwood man, the one who used to be a tanner?” she asked incredulously.

Laeth nodded, tugging her forward with a light grip on her upper arm. “The one that hides in the corners when a woman comes by. He’s so dedicated to avoiding women that I don’t think the two women in his troop have ever seen him. Last night I thought that he was going to choke to death when Letty rubbed up against him. If I weren’t so busy being thankful that it’s not me anymore, I’d feel sorry for him.”

“Ha,” snorted Rialla. “You enjoyed it almost as much as she did. You didn’t run away so fast she didn’t catch you a time or two.”

He sent her a meek look and said, “What can I say? I’m only a man. Besides, she’s got great”—Rialla raised her eyebrows warningly—“teeth.”

Rialla laughed and shook her head as they came within sight of the Lost Pig.

The bottom half of the bar was built from old stone blocks set one on top of the other; the top half was made of wooden planks of various sizes and ages. Rialla had heard that fifty or so years ago the Seventy-first troop of a hundred and six men, drunk on victory and alcohol, lifted the wooden half off the stone and set it in the middle of the road on a lark.

They replaced the top after extracting a bargain from the owner. The wooden half was now held down securely by thick rusted chains on all four corners of the building, and the Seventy-first still got their drinks for half what other people were charged.

Being the source of food and drink nearest to the stables and to the training ground that serviced a number of troops, the Lost Pig was usually busy. Rialla and Laeth were waved at by several acquaintances as they squeezed through in an attempt to find an empty table.

As Rialla slipped too near one of the tables, she felt a hand pat her on the hip. Without stopping to see who it was, she grabbed his wrist and caught the leg of his chair with her foot, sweeping the wooden legs forward as she pushed him back. The man and his chair made a satisfying commotion that rose over the general din that filled the tavern.

More than a little drunk, the man started up with a growl, but Laeth caught his shoulder under the pretext of helping him up. Helpfully, Laeth dusted off the man’s coat and generally distracted him, until the drunk’s initial hostility subsided into bewilderment at all the attention.

When it became obvious that the stranger was no longer a threat, Laeth said congenially, “She doesn’t like it when men touch her without an invitation. You’re lucky that she’s in a good mood or she’d have just cut your hand off—that’s what she did to the last man who tried it.”

A friend of Laeth’s leaned over from a nearby table and said sadly, “Poor Jard was never the same.”

“Remember what she did to Lothar?” added another man, shaking his head.

“Took us three days to find all the pieces so that we could bury him,” commented one of Laeth’s fellow lieutenants, a stocky, bald man with a friendly face. He leaned closer and said softly, “But then, Lothar tried to kiss her.”

Rialla was still laughing when they found a small table that was unoccupied. “Did you see his face? That poor man. If I’d known what you were going to start, I’d have let him get away with it.”

Laeth grinned cheerfully. “It’ll teach him to keep his hands to himself. Speaking of which, did you know that one of the greenies in my troop fancies you?”

“You mean the young Rethian who hides behind the fence and scares the horses I’m working with? The one who offers to take me to dinner every night and has been leaving flowers outside my door? About your height, sandy hair and brown eyes? No, I hadn’t noticed him at all,” she replied.

Laeth laughed at her disgruntled expression. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know that he was getting to be such a problem. I’ll do something about it this afternoon.”

“No,” gasped Rialla in pseudo-horror. “Not the strange disease that causes impotence with merely a touch. There are still several members of your troop who cross the street when they see me.”

“No,” agreed Laeth, “I used that one the last time. I’ll have to think up something new. It’s your fault, you know; you could gain a few pounds, or do something about your hair.”

“I’ll dye it gray tomorrow, or better yet, I’ll shave it off,” offered Rialla with a thread of seriousness in her voice. The scar didn’t seem to harm her looks as far as the mercenaries were concerned. She’d far rather have been plain, so she wouldn’t attract so much unwanted attention.

Before Laeth could reply, the barmaid, Letty, appeared from the crowded room. How she knew who had ordered and who hadn’t in the mass of people in the bar was a mystery that Rialla had never solved.

“What’s good, love?” asked Laeth.

“Afgar,” sighed Letty, expanding her sizable chest.

“To eat,” clarified Rialla, then added hastily, “for us. Food.”

“Oh.” Letty’s full lips briefly formed a half-pout for Laeth’s benefit, but she said, cheerfully enough, “The bread is fresh and Cook just pulled a honey ham out of the oven. The beef is a bit overdone and dry.”

“Sandwiches then. Two ham?” Laeth looked at Rialla and she nodded. “And two mugs of watered ale as well.”

When they were alone, Laeth said, “Ren called me in this morning. He wanted me to see if I could talk you into going.”