Crucible Read online

  She was lying on the forest floor, her face ground into the soil, searing pain radiating from her left side. Ever so slowly, memory ticked back, her head clearing with each shallow breath.

  The town. The caravan. The bandits. Jenny.

  She listened carefully, but she heard only birdsong and the gurgling stream at the bottom of the ledge the caravan had been following. She cracked one eye open. If there had still been any foes nearby, they would have heard her coughing and come running to finish her off by now.

  From where she lay, her field of vision encompassed only a little of the clearing where the bandits had ambushed them. She saw a booted foot, motionless, at an awkward angle, and her eye traveled up the leg, to where a second body lay draped over it, a pincushion of arrows.

  Closing her eye, she tuned her senses to the pain in her side. Had she also been shot and left for dead? Somehow she didn’t think so. The pain was broader than the piercing of an arrow. If she had to hazard a guess, she’d say cracked ribs from a blunt blow. A Healer would know for sure, but she assumed the caravan’s Healer, more herbalist than true Healer, was either among the bodies or had been taken by the bandits. Probably the latter.

  From the normal forest sounds around her and the fact that her cough hadn’t brought any change to them, she guessed that the bandits had taken whatever it was they were looking for and were long gone. Setting aside her caution, she lifted her head and turned it to survey more of the clearing, wincing as her ribs protested the movement.

  The scattering of a half-dozen bodies, all in the garb of the caravan guards, obstructed much of her view, but off to one side she saw a fold of familiar deep crimson fabric. Jenny!

  Ignoring the pain, she struggled to her feet and staggered to the prone form. Hoping against hope that the same god who had seen fit to spare her life had also somehow saved her partner’s, she gently reached out and turned the slight figure over.

  The deep gash across the body’s throat and the pool of blood soaking into the moist earth shattered her hope, and she collapsed to her knees beside her lover’s body, tenderly drawing her into her arms, tears streaming down her face.

  • • •

  Del shook herself free of the memory’s grip, closing her mind to the aching hole at her center. She shifted in her ambush position without moving the brush around her, alternately tightening and relaxing her muscles to prevent cramping. Glancing across the path to the motionless shield of scrub concealing Keegan Ghelv, she hoped the weaponsmith’s surprising skills included knowing how to do the same.

  Behind them, she could hear the rhythmic sounds of the harvesters in the Varyons’ fields, sickling the early grain. The weather-witch had predicted rain before dawn tomorrow, and all the men the Varyons could muster were in the fields. Except for the bare handful that, like Del and Keegan, monitored the forest paths that gave access to the estate. At least it would be a moonless night, too dark to try to keep working through. As dusk approached, the harvesters would bring everything in to the barns, and the watchers could simply guard the buildings, instead of being spread out in the woods.

  When she settled back to watching the path approaching their positions, unbidden memories returned.

  • • •

  At last, she lowered Jenny’s slim body back to the earth, draping the end of one of her colored scarves over her neck in a paltry attempt to conceal the ragged slash that had killed her. She leaned back against a nearby tree, taking stock of her situation.

  It was not good.

  Her weapons-belt and pouch were missing, the rest of her gear gone with the caravan wagons. A quick glance showed that the other bodies had also been looted of weapons. She twisted her right foot in her boot, then her left, and a slow, feral smile curled her lip. Reaching down, she confirmed that the bandits had missed both of her concealed daggers. They hadn’t taken her bracers either, and a quick flick of her wrist dropped one of two throwing knives into her palm. She revised her opinion of these bandits; they had made some very stupid mistakes, mistakes that would cost them. They had not made sure of her death, and though she couldn’t go after them herself, she could warn others who would.

  She glanced down at Jenny’s body. If they hadn’t found her boot-sheaths, maybe they hadn’t found Jenny’s, either. All might not be lost. Biting back the groan of pain as she moved, she knelt at Jenny’s feet, gently slipping her fingers along the edge of the right boot until she found the narrow tube within and pulled it out. Jenny had only had one sheath, and it had not carried a weapon.

  For long minutes, she stared at the tube, her eyes narrowed. She hadn’t known what was in it, only that they were to deliver it to a certain person in Mornedealth. And that they were not to travel there openly. In fact, Jenny had insisted on taking this caravan job, not another that would end closer to the city, saying that it would make them less obvious. Now Jenny was gone, and there was just her. Her and the scroll tube.

  Her jaw set stubbornly. Untwisting the cap, she tapped it on her palm until the rolled papers shifted to where she could grasp an edge and ease them out. There was no seal, and although Jenny had known its contents, she had never said anything about them.

  “The fewer who know, the fewer can be forced to talk,” was all she’d said, and Del had seen no reason to push the question at the time. But now she needed to know.

  Unrolling the two sheets of paper, she set aside their signed contract and turned to the other, her eyes skimming through the words. Her breath sharpened, and she understood now why Jenny had wanted to take this job, even though it was far different from their usual.

  Once a Green, always a Green, she thought. Years ago, long before Del had met her, Jenny had been employed by a minor noble of the Green faction in Mornedealth. Her employer had died, and his son had retained his own staff, keeping none of his father’s. Jenny had joined the Mercenary Guild and taken up the life of the traveling fighter. But her original loyalty must have made her leap at the chance this document provided: to prove some of the Blues were involved in mercantile price-fixing, and that they were blackmailing at least one of the local heads of the Mercenary Guild to do so. Which was why Del and Jenny hadn’t been going to the Council: If the Guild had been corrupted, who else might have been? The Council? The Guard itself? Anger rose in Del at the thought. A trustworthy Guard was the standard that kept a city working smoothly. If people feared their own Guardsmen, who knew what might happen next? Even in Mornedealth, where most people didn’t care what you did so long as you had the money to pay for it, folk still had limits.

  The letter told her that the Blues were colluding with certain grain merchants, planning to drive prices higher come winter. But not all the merchants were involved, so there would have to be something that would affect the others, so that those the Blues were allied with would be the only ones with a harvest to sell. If they had control of at least some of the Guild and the Guard, they could ensure that suspicion would not fall on them.

  She had to get this letter to someone who could act, before someone lost a livelihood. Or a life.

  • • •

  Del swallowed a sigh on that remembered thought, turning her head to catch the slight hint of a fresh breeze that lifted the ends of her short blonde hair away from her face. A life had already been lost because of that corruption. Jenny had insisted on taking the caravan assignment, and it had killed her. If they had gone straight to Mornedealth, would her partner still be with her? Weeks later, the question still tortured her, just as the ache of loss still gnawed at her insides. Her right hand fingered a fold of the bright red-fading-to-orange scarf neatly knotted over the bracer around her left wrist. Jenny’s colorful scarves were all she had left of her partner. Those, and the memories.

  After she had been released from the caravan guard contract, Del had been free to travel straight to Mornedealth, to report the death of Jendralatha Penetheryad to the Mercenary Guild head
quarters there. She had hated the doubts that filled her mind whenever she interacted with a member of the Guild, even if the name wasn’t one of those in the letter. So she kept her silence among them and had felt the mistrust directed at her from the ordinary folk of Mornedealth. That had angered her even more, had made her more determined to deliver the letter and help bring a just return to the ones who had sown such distrust. Instead of simply finding Nakon Dryvale and completing their contract, however, she had found herself plunged deeper into intrigue.

  “One mouth, two eyes, two ears,” Jenny had once said. “We’re meant to use the one less than the pairs.” With some lucky eavesdropping upon her arrival in Mornedealth, Del had learned that Nakon Dryvale had vanished, and no one knew for sure where. That same moment of eavesdropping had led her to Keegan Ghelv’s smithy and to one of the few in Mornedealth she found herself trusting.

  • • •

  “It’s a marvel of a blade,” she murmured, sheathing the sword with a smile. She had made only a few passes when she knew that she would give up quite a bit of what remained of her coin for this weapon. Its balance was flawless, and it felt like an extension of her arm as she swung it.

  She glanced at Keegan, who had watched her work through her sequence of training exercises, his brawny arms folded over his chest, shaved head gleaming in the morning light. “I’m almost afraid to ask—how much?”

  The price he named made her blink. “Surely not. Twice that is too little for workmanship like this!”

  Now it was his turn to smile. “To someone who understands the blade, I can afford to be generous.” He winked. “I’ll simply charge a minor noble an outrageous price for one of those lighter pieces I have that look pretty but won’t be used as this one will be.”

  “Done, then,” Del replied, reaching for her purse. The price wouldn’t quite empty it, but she would need to find some sort of work if she intended to stay in Mornedealth more than a few days.

  As if he had read her thoughts, Keegan leaned toward her. “If you’re looking for a contract, Rulijah Tavamere is in need of a private guard,” he murmured. “She has a small shop at the far corner of the Market. Tell her I sent you.”

  Del blinked, then nodded, thanking him in a carrying voice for his excellent workmanship and fair price. She doubted very much that it was coincidence that he would mention the very name she had overheard from the man at the pie cart next door. Had his sharp eyes noticed that she had paused at his shop precisely when the owners of the cart were speaking of Nakon Dryvale? If so, he had somehow judged her and found her trustworthy enough to help, despite the fact that she was clearly a Guild merc.

  • • •

  And now Del was set up in an ambush opposite him, this odd weaponsmith who must have been a damn good fighter before he turned from using weapons to making them. All to find the man to whom she and Jenny were to deliver the letter.

  On Keegan’s advice, she had sought out Rulijah Tavamere, and the dark-eyed, heavily pregnant young woman had hired her on. Her husband, like Dryvale, had gone missing, although she put it about that he was away with a trading caravan. Del had found herself listening wherever she went, more carefully than she was used to, drawing inferences from half-hints, trying to piece together the connections and think of what the Blues might attempt.

  Surprising even herself, in her free moments she had been drawn time and again to Keegan’s booth in the Trader’s Market. What had started as a chance encounter and a mutual appreciation for a fine blade had developed into a friendship of sorts. She didn’t confide in him absolutely—only Jenny had ever gained that depth of her trust—but he had a sharp sense of humor and a keen understanding. He’d lived in Mornedealth for several years, so he’d shared with her much of what he knew about the city and its customs and inhabitants.

  She thought Nakon Dryvale was in safety somewhere here on the Varyon estate. And if this was where she would find him, she presumed she would also find Rulijah’s husband, who was known to be a friend of Dryvale and had vanished at nearly the same time. But in order for Master Varyon to trust her with any answer about the two men’s whereabouts, she apparently had to prove herself by holing up in his woods to guard his harvest. Even though she was the one who had brought him the warning of a possible attack in the first place, determined to do what she could to prevent the corrupted Guild from succeeding. She could offer him no details, no proof, of course, and so she waited and watched. At least he took me seriously enough to set a guard at all, she thought.

  Del sighed, her exhalation a soft whisper below the steady shussshing of the scythes. This was the reason she avoided Mornedealth. Even for a simple merc fighter, the city was too full of intrigue, questions, and subterfuge. Give me a straight answer and a straight sword any day, she thought, her hand shifting to the hilt of her weapon, and she suddenly smiled. Well, maybe not a straight sword. She loved the gentle curve of the new blade, which made it so much easier to draw and maneuver.

  • • •

  “First harvest’s about to come in at the Varyon estate.” The words were pitched low, so low that only Del, idly handling a dagger at Keegan’s booth, and the weaponsmith himself could hear. The speaker never turned their way, but continued down the street, his attention focused on the pastry in his hands.

  Del looked up at Keegan, one brow raised in question.

  “Seydan works for a high-ranking Green, who chooses to influence others indirectly,” he replied after a moment’s consideration. “If he guesses Tavamere and Dryvale have gone to ground, the Varyon farm is the likeliest spot.”

  “And the harvest would be a time to find them there?” The letter in the tube in her boot-sheath burned in Del’s thoughts. Would this be when and where the Blues would make their move? She tamped down the slow fury that built within her every time she thought of the distrust the plotters had sown among the people of Mornedealth, the Guild, and the Guard.

  He nodded. “The Varyons have one of the first harvests in the area because they plant a special wheat in the fall. They host a large harvest fair a day or two afterward.”

  Del frowned, her thumbnail tracing the wire wrapping the dagger’s hilt as she thought. “If Tavamere is there, he’s not going to stay hidden during a fair.” Not for the first time, she wondered how much danger Rulijah’s husband and Nakon Dryvale were in.

  Keegan narrowed his eyes at her. “You know something,” he said, his voice flat, “and I can guess a little of what it might be. I won’t press you on it, but I consider Eleu Tavamere and Nakon Dryvale among my friends. If they’re in danger, I’ll be whatever help you need.” He paused, then grinned suddenly. “Besides, mercs aren’t likely to die peacefully in their beds.”

  “Even if they’ve retired and taken to smithing?” Del grinned back as a niggling piece of the puzzle that was Keegan Ghelv fell into place. Then she sighed. “I know little enough. But I need to find him first, and I’ve been trying to figure how to do so since I arrived in Mornedealth. If he’s disappeared under uncertain circumstances, what’s to say that I won’t do the same if I start asking after him?” It was the most directly she’d spoken to Keegan about her true purpose.

  “Get Rulijah to send you to the Varyons with whatever trinkets she’d like to sell at the fair,” he replied, his words so decisive she knew he must have been thinking of it for a while, even though she’d said nothing before this. “It’s a two-day travel to the manor estate, so she’s not likely to go herself, especially since she’s so near her time. I can easily pack up my shop, and we can journey together. Once there, you can ask Master Varyon directly. If they’re there, we’ll find them.”

  Del nodded slowly. Although she was surprised by Keegan’s offer, she would not refuse his assistance. Even if Master Varyon wouldn’t tell her where Nakon Dryvale would be found, she could at least warn him of her suspicions and prevent at least a part of the Blues’ plot.

  • �
� •

  The sounds behind them changed suddenly to harsh shouts and the clang of metal. She and Keegan bolted from their ambush spots, drawing their blades as they ran up the path toward the fields. The sounds drew them to one of the other wooded lanes, where a pair of the Varyons’ house guards had been concealed. A quick glance at the far end of the field showed no sign of the guards from there, maybe not yet hearing the fighting over the noise of the harvesters.

  Down the narrow lane, about a half-dozen hooded fighters were forcing the two guards back toward the fields. One of the group had shifted into the woods, slipping between the trees and pulling out an unlit torch as he approached the wagons full of the harvest.

  Del gestured to Keegan, and he nodded sharply before racing forward to aid the Varyons’ guards, while Del vanished quietly into the trees, tracking the figure with the torch. The light was fading, but she had always had good eyes for dusk, and the man was not taking great care to keep to the shadows, apparently thinking his departure had gone unnoticed.

  Just inside the edge of the forest nearest to the wagons, the man stopped, and Del expected him to pull out flint and steel. Instead, he frowned, his brow tightly furrowed, and touched his finger to the tip of the torch. A tiny spark jumped from his hand to the oil-soaked fabric, flame wavering for a moment, then flickering into sputtering life.

  Del blinked in surprise. A Firestarter, then, but not a very strong one, if he could barely light an oil torch. She needn’t worry that he could light the wagons from a distance, that was certain.

  Before he could step out of the trees and approach the wagons with the flame, Del darted out to stand between him and his target, her sword raised. “Don’t even think about it.”

  He cursed, dropping the lit torch and drawing his own weapon.

  It would have been so much easier if you’d just given up, Del thought, a curse of her own forming as the torch’s flame licked at the leaf litter of the forest floor. It was a little too damp to catch at once, but the torch would burn long enough that it eventually would. Then the man charged her, and the rhythm of her blade training took over.