by
Michael Gallant
Trilisean sat at a corner table and sipped at what could charitably be called an adequate white wine. She chose this pub because it was an area of town where people were used to minding their own business, and she had no desire to be social this night. Contract jobs were scarce, freelance work was dangerous and less lucrative. The one really juicy offer she'd heard would require an accomplice, and at the moment, she didn't trust anyone with the necessary skills.
To pass the time, she watched the two soldiers who sat at a table near the fire. They could not be anything but soldiers by the look of them. Their large, callused hands and corded muscles spoke of long hours at drill. Both wore their hair cut short, the easier to keep clean in the field. Their gear was simple, sturdy and well worn. Their speech and manner lacked the caution of commoners or tradesmen, the refinement of aristocrats, the furtive calculation of criminals or the cynicism and suspicion of policemen. They spoke with the blunt, almost careless honesty of men who reserve all their worry for the battlefield.
If all this failed to identify their trade to the casual observer, the short, heavy infantry sword which hung from the left hip and the long dirk from the right of each man was clue enough.
Their very choice of pub spoke of confidence. The Cask and Flagon was in a dangerous neighborhood. Even the city guard patrolled only in daylight and in numbers. The casualty wagons from the hospital knew the area well, as they were often summoned for those who succumbed to drink, drugs or the loving application of brute force.
The first man, tall and redhaired, with a serious expression, spoke over the rim of his mug.
"I think you're makin' a mistake, Conn."
His companion smiled back, but it was a bitter smile, "It'd be a bigger one to stay. I've no future in the Company."
"Not since you called the captain a 'doom fook', you don't."
"My only error in that statement was pronunciation. My charming accent gets thicker when I'm emotional."
"Still wasn't the polite thing to say."
"Don't get me started, Darmid. He's ruined the Company. He's stopped promoting from the ranks. He's got noblemen's brats who never saw blood drawn leading veteran soldiers to slaughter. I'm done. For Nuad's sake, we don't even pretend we're goin' back to liberate Aeran from the Jarvings any more. We just dance with their armies on the mainland, tryin' to impress the King so he can give our beloved Captain a fookin' barony. I'm not spillin' my precious blood for that bastard's glory."
"What'll you do?"
"Damned if I know," his companion smiled, "but it's got to be better than this. Maybe I'll sneak back home and lead a band of rebels. Be a good honest horrible death, anyway, instead of a pointless horrible death."
"No rebels left. Anyone with balls who hated the Jarvings died in battle or went into exile in the mercenary bands like us. Swore they'd come back, but it gets less likely every day."
"So you can see I'm right!" Conn slammed his mug down, "Leave with me. At least it'll be entertaining."
"Sorry, lad. Soldierin's all I know. What else do you know, now we think on it."
"Bugger all," Conn emptied his mug and caught the eye of the waitress again, "Killin'. Marchin'. Livin' in the back of beyond."
"So, you thinkin' of joinin' the Police? I hear you can make five silver Marks a week. Six if you count your pay."
"No bloody chance. I'll not work for this city with its dead road, its dying port and its stompin' great bloody phallic symbol hangin' over it, makin' honest men insecure about their abilities."
Darmid laughed, "Well, then, what were ye before you were a soldier? Didn't your da' have a farm?"
"I was a wee lad before I was a soldier. Fookin' Jarvings never gave me time to learn farmin'. I was a soldier at thirteen. Well, I was a rebel. I was maybe a soldier by sixteen. All's I know about farmin' is to do what my da' told me, and that with bad grace."
"You didn't pick up anything in thirteen years? You're even dumber than the average Aeransman."
"When da' said move the sheep to the south pasture, I moved 'em. I know how. I don't bloody know why. I didn't much care, and he didn't explain. All I wanted to do was play in the woods, fish, swim and waste my time. Hadn't even learned to chase girls before I was fightin'."
"So what are you goin' to do?"
Conn stared into his ale for a moment. "Drink. For tonight anyway. Then maybe make a decision. I've got a sharp sword, a thick skull, and my pay from the last campaign. Ought to be alright."
"Take care, lad," Darmid stood and clapped his companion on the shoulder.
"And you," Conn grasped his hand, "I'm tellin' ya, there's no future in that company."
"I've got my path laid out. I'll walk it." The tall man turned away. After a few steps, he turned back, "Don't worry, lad. I don't know where you went, or when I last saw you if anyone asks."
"It never crossed my mind to worry about you, lad."
"Luck be with you."
"And with you. Cheers." Conn sank his pint and once again smiled at the waitress.
As the server walked back to the bar for a fresh pint, Trilisean made a decision. This Conn was a simple fellow with a heavy purse and a good deal of ale on board. And she'd had no work in some time. This might be just the thing.
As the waitress passed her table, she caught the woman's attention.
"Another wine, miss?"
"No, actually," Trilisean forced herself to blush, "I was wondering if you'd let me bring that man his ale?"
"Who? The handsome soldier with the fat purse? Oh, sure. Why would I want to serve him?" she started to turn away.
"Wait!" Trilisean dropped her eyes, playing her part to the hilt, "I'll pay you sixpence."
The waitress stopped short. Trilisean could see the calculation behind her eyes. A pint was a penny. If the server smiled very wide and bent low enough to show some cleavage, maybe brushed the customer, the best tip she could hope for was two farthings. Three if he were very drunk. Sixpence was a lot of money.
"Fine, lass," she handed Trilisean the mug with a leer, "but he's had quite a bit. I hope ye can get sixpence worth of use out of him."
Trilisean knew she was not dressed for the part. She wore a simple shirt with a modest neckline and a jerkin of dark wool, and close fitting trousers instead of a slit skirt. Even the white skin of her throat was covered by a dark colored scarf, but she had confidence in her acting ability and charms. And she had a mug of the pub's best amber. Strange indeed would be the Aeransman who'd look past a pint to study a waitress.
Trilisean glided up behind the soldier. She reached over his shoulder to set down the ale, brushing her breasts across his back. The crowded tavern made this move plausible. Nature made it distracting.
"Your pardon, sir," she said sweetly.
"Not at all, darlin'." He handed her the penny for the ale and two farthings as a tip.
Trilisean smiled and congratulated herself on her earlier calculations. As he pulled the coins from his pouch, she leaned against him in a practiced manner which kept the purse from closing fully. She took the proffered money with her right hand while the fingers of her left lightly inspected the purse's contents. She stalled for few seconds.
"Thank you, sir," she gushed, "you're too generous." He was, but he didn't know it, she thought, as her experienced touch identified a gold Royal in amongst the silver.
"A small price for a good ale and a pretty smile," he replied gallantly. She almost regretted robbing him. Almost.
A hand suddenly closed around her wrist. She tried to pull away but the grip was like iron. He didn't squeeze or twist her arm, but it was clear she wasn't going anywhere.
"Now, what would your hand be doin' in there?" he asked, his voice low, "No offense, you've a light touch, but I've not had so much to drink that I can't see you're not showin' enough skin to be a waitress, you're too pretty for a whore, and I've not had the kind of luck in my life that attractive women should be slidin' up against me without havin' a plan."
After the initial panic, Trilisean's mind went cold. She started calculating her best chance of escape. "What are you going to do with me?" she asked, frantically working on a plan.
"I'm not goin' to do anythin' to you, lass, so long as you unhand what's mine, and don't cry 'rape'."
She dropped the Royal, "You won't call the Police?"
He shrugged, "Too much like work. I'd have to fill out a report. And I am a foreigner in a strange tavern. I like as little to do with the Police as possible."
"You swear?"
"You have my word."
She looked at him for a long moment. He still wore a twisted smile, but there was a simple honesty in his expression.
"Very well."
He released her hand.
"As we trust each other now, I'll assume you want this back," she reached over his right shoulder, handing over a dirk, hilt first.
"Hey--" he looked at the knife, then down at the empty sheath at his hip and back at the weapon. "How the blazes d'ya manage that?"
"When I realized I'd underestimated you, I had to make sure I could get away," she shrugged, "If I had to, I'd have put it in your back."
"It seems we underestimated one another," he smiled, retrieving his dagger and returning it to its sheath. "Why don't you have a seat and help me finish this plate and we'll make our acquaintance in a more civilized manner?"
She sat across from him, he waved down the waitress again and ordered a platter of bread, cheese and sliced meat.
"My name is Trilisean Ui Cuillean."
"Connhail Ui Domnhal," he replied, "At your service. But that's too much for everyday use. Call me Conn." he took up a chunk of bread, "Why so adamant about me not calling the Police? Got a long record of bloody and heinous crimes? Gallows waitin' for you?" he asked with a grin.
"They're a bunch of coarse, violent brutes," she sneered, "I'm not going to be 'searched and interrogated' by them. Not while I have my strength."
"Fair enough."
"What brings you to this particular pub?" she ventured, "It's not really a soldiers' bar."
"Beer's good. Food's adequate. People keep themselves to themselves. Except for the ones who poke about in a man's purse," he smiled to take the sting out of the comment. "I don't want a lot of people knowin' I was here."
"So you're deserting?"
"That's an ugly word, sure and it is," his smile faded, "Implies cowardice. I'm leaving because I don't believe in the company any more, and I won't kill or die for somethin' I don't believe in."
"I'm sorry," she said quickly, "I didn't--"
"Not your fault. I'm just a bit sensitive. I've spent more than half my life fightin'. I'm not afraid of dyin', just don't want to do it for the glory of a man I despise."
"How did you used to feel about it?" she asked. It surprised her, but she was genuinely interested.
He studied the depths of his ale for a moment before speaking. "I was thirteen years old when the Jarvings landed on my island. Fought my first battle then. Armed with a homemade spear. Just a staff with a broken piece of a plowshare lashed to the end. Killed one of the bastards with it. He didn't take me serious as a threat and hacked at the man standin' to my right. When he did, I jammed that spear in under his sword arm, right through the gap between breastplate and backplate. He looked at me before he died. Not in pain, but all surprised like. Gettin' killed by a wee lad like me was like seein' water flowin' uphill to that poor bugger.
"Well, they kicked our arses anyway. They were real warriors and we were just a rabble. We hid in the woods and fought back for a few years, but they hunted us down like rabbits. Or maybe like wolves, because we did bite a few. Couldn't stop 'em or throw 'em out, though. They settled on the best farms, took the livestock, enslaved the young, married the women who didn't fight too hard. Bloody island is more Jarving than Aeran today.
"Eventually, the few of us left took an offer of service with a mercenary company in service with the King of Grian. They were fightin' the Jarvings anyway, so we figured at least we'd get paid, and get decent equipment to do it with. Maybe get the training we needed and come back, push the buggers out.
"Gradually, that dream faded. More and more of the old rebels died or mustered out with wounds or age. Noble officers replaced the veteran warriors and the war became a show. Point wasn't to drive the bastards off a wee insignificant island, no. It was to win a Glorious Battle. Impress the king enough to grant titles and estates to the officers. Impress the nobles enough to send their sons to join our company. Of course, Glorious Battles cost a lot of blood. That's where us footmen come in.
"It doesn't mean anything anymore. I've killed and bled, and not lost a moment's sleep over it, but I did it for my home. I thought I was doin' it to free my people. Course, half the bloody island has Jarving blood in their veins now. Darmid was right, there's no rebels left. Hell, if we did lead an army back, we'd probably be the bloody invaders.
"All that we can do in the company is do our duty, take our pay and save up for retirement. Us common footmen don't even get promoted to officers any more,--don't have the respectable accent and all--so there'll be no titles and grants for us. So, how I figure it, if all's I'm fightin' for is my own fortune, I'll pick my own battles, not risk my skin where some Grian noble tells me to."
Trilisean listened attentively, "I understand. I think you're making the right decision. I won't let anyone make the decisions that affect my future." She smiled, "Even if my decisions lead my fingers into the wrong purse now and then."
"No shame, lass. I must've looked like an easy mark. Alone, with a loud mouth, a heavy purse and an appetite for the pints."
"At least my error in judgement didn't get me a spear in the side." She found herself warming to this man. He was decent enough, he hadn't threatened to turn her over to the Police or tried to bully her into anything. He seemed just another spirit like her who finally rejected the control of others over his life. She respected that. And he was handsome and witty, in a rough sort of way.
"And I'm pleased that I didn't taste my own dirk. Not that dying in a pub would surprise any who know me well--"
"That may yet happen, you reptile!"
Trilisean turned to see a tall, burly man standing a few feet away, dressed much the same as Conn and his companion. His meaty hand rested on the hilt of his sword and there was a clear challenge in his voice.
"Donnough!" Conn's voice was almost cheerful, "What're your lips doin' here? The captain's arse must be miles away."
"You know well I've come to bring you back. You can walk or be carried, makes no difference to me. Desertion in the face of the enemy is serious, boyo."
"Your mother named you well, lad. You dunna what your talkin' about, and you dunna grasp simple concepts. What enemy?"
"There's a war on."
"There's always a war on. I'm done. Go back to your boss. I'm sure his bed's gettin' cold without you." Conn turned back to his ale.
Trilisean saw the big man's brow wrinkle in anger, then confusion. He obviously didn't expect verbal abuse, and was unsure how to proceed against Conn's turned back. As she watched, his expression changed slowly, like snow breaking up on a mountain. She assumed it must be the heat generated by his though process.
"Alright, lad," Donnough --his name did sound like 'dunna' she realized with a chuckle--said with a leer, "I see you're with a lady," he placed enough emphasis on the word that all within earshot understood that he spelled 'lady' with a silent 'whore', "so I'll give you ten minutes upstairs. Then you can come quietly."
The pub was silent. The other patrons moved away slightly, but all eyes now fastened on the drama of the two mercenaries. This promised to be entertaining.
Conn's eyes grew cold. He began to turn. Trilisean started to object, but the Aeransman held up a hand.
"You know that Jarving who caught the spear?" he whispered.
She nodded.
"He had ten times Donnough's intellect. This is no threat."
"But you're drunk," she hissed.
"No. I'm pleasantly warm. If I were drunk, I'd be twice as witty and thrice as handsome. Damned irresistible, I'd be."
He climbed to his feet. He looked the big man in the eye, which required some tilting of his head, and addressed him as one might a slow child.
"I know your mother and the four or five chief suspects for your father didn't teach you manners, but don't insult a woman in my presence."
Trilisean looked from man to man. Donnough's face reddened, his muscles bunched and he fought for control. Conn stood seemingly relaxed, but to an experienced eye, he was perfectly balanced, slightly resting on the balls of his feet, ready to spring. She flexed her wrist slightly to check the position of her dagger anyway.
The big man finally seemed to control his anger. "Sorry, lad. I forgot how talk of whores upsets you. It must be tough havin' them charge you double. Out of repugnance, it must be. Me, I've always gotten half price," he smiled.
"Donnough," Conn looked sorrowful, "I'm so sorry. We all thought you knew. Is that why you thought-- I mean, you never knew they charge by the inch?"
The room erupted in laughter. The big man's face went crimson. He ripped his sword from it's sheath and swung at the smaller man's head, his blade a silver blur.
Trilisean's dagger was in her had, reversed for a throw, but she never got the chance. Conn flowed out of the way of the cut, slapping the big man's swordarm with his left hand. Trilisean had never seen a man move like that. He twisted sideways and leaned back gracefully. The blade sang past his face. His right arm whipped out, coiling around Donnough's wrist. He stepped in, punched the big man in the kidney with his left, and as his foe sagged, butted his forehead into the man's nose.
"Drop the blade, lad," Conn said gently, his left hand applying force to his enemy's elbow as his right held the wrist locked, bringing Donnough down on one knee.
The big man struggled, but Conn twisted imperceptibly, causing him to gasp and drop to his other knee.
"You're gonna drop it anyway when I pop your elbow loose from its moorings. Best for us all if you let it go now."
Donnough's fingers opened and the heavy blade rang on the floorboards. Conn stepped away.
The big man staggered to his feet, rubbing his right arm. He looked uncertainly at Conn.
"Go ahead. Pick it up. Then go."
Donnough tried to retrieve his sword, but his right hand wouldn't obey. He clumsily picked it up and sheathed it with his left. He glared for a moment, then turned and headed for the door.
"Donnough," Conn called.
The big man turned back.
"I'm enjoying a good drink and good company this night, so I didn't want to ruin it by spilling entrails all over the floor. Tell the captain that the next man he sends won't likely find me in so pleasant a mood."
Donnough walked out without another word.
Conn resumed his seat, "Sorry about that."
Trilisean, her hands beneath the table, returned her dagger to its sheath. "Not at all. It was a fine entertainment. Had I known you could move like that, I'd never have tried to lighten your purse."
"Then I'm glad you didn't know, or we'd not have met."
She dropped her eyes, not wanting to venture in that direction yet. "Why didn't you draw your sword?" she asked, by way of diversion, "He meant to kill you."
"If I'd drawn, somebody would have gotten killed. Probably him, but maybe me. I know Donnough. I know he favors the cut to the temple for starters, and I know he'd be overconfident facing an unarmed man. If I'd had my blade out, he'd have been more careful, and it may have come out different."
"Well, I'm glad it ended as it did."
"As am I," he took another slice of bread, "Now, why don't you tell me about yourself. You've heard and seen enough about me."
She smiled, "Not yet, I don't think. And not here."
"That's hardly fair, you know. You have me at a considerable disadvantage."
"You've had more to drink. And men are always happy to talk of themselves."
"You wound me."
"And I think we'd best be leaving. Your burly friend will tell his boss and there'll be more people looking soon enough."
"You're probably right," Conn sighed, tipping the last of his ale down his throat.
"If you really have no plans,"she ventured, thinking of his value in a brawl, "I may have some employment for you. If you'd consent to a partnership."
"Sounds better than followin' a damnfool captain. Let's leave this charming venue and discuss it."
***
Two nights later, as Conn walked through the city streets in the dead of night, he wondered if he really had made a wise career move. He wasn't risking his life for the ambitions of a petty mercenary officer with delusions of grandeur, but he was risking it at the request of an attractive woman.
He thought back to the previous evening as he silently followed the shadowy form before him..
***
"So it's perfect. Don't you see?" Trilisean smiled triumphantly. Conn didn't see. He saw how her eyes flashed with an enthusiasm he desperately wanted to share, not matter how ill founded his logical side felt it was. Her every gesture spoke of supreme confidence. He tried not to dwell on the fact that she hadn't succeeded in robbing him. "We steal the jewel, the clients get the information from it, we get a pile of cash and the slavers take the hit. It's absolutely brilliant!"
It's nuts. We're going to die, part of his mind screamed. He thought for a long moment about life and death, then drank in the look of childlike excitement in her smile, her sparkling eyes, and the stray wisps of her dark hair that escaped, catching the candlelight and making a halo around her face. We're going to die!
"Well, I'm in," he said with his most disarming smile.
***
A fresh sea breeze swept through the street. The clean air told Conn they must be in a wealthy section of the city, high on the hills overlooking the harbor. The sewers were well maintained, and carried the filth downhill. Here, the wealthy could look down on the dubious panorama that was Laimrig, high above the stink and squalor. The city was almost pretty from this vantage, above everything but the Sollych. The black spire loomed above even the loftiest residents of Laimrig, and even the mighty labored in its shadow. The Aeransman wondered what effect that would have on a city.
Conn wondered again why he was on this mission. The young thief made him feel alive just being in her presence. He hadn't been inspired in a long time. He felt like he had those first years, when he still cared what he fought for. The odds certainly weren't better then.
***
"So this employment opportunity is to rob the well guarded mansion of the biggest slaver in the city? Just the two of us? Faith, I don't know why men aren't jumpin' at the chance."
"It's a risk, yes," she persisted, "but it's a lot of money. And it's well within' our abilities. I saw how you moved tonight. You're more than a match for any three of his guards. And I know I can get through the security he has. I've gotten full details on the house from the servants. I'm not some two farthing cutpurse."
***
He was impressed with her ability to move noiselessly, to blend into the shadows of the street. She moved with the calm confidence of one who is in her own element. He had never seen someone so skilled. The rebels with whom he snuck into Jarving camps to cut the throats of sleeping foes were nothing compared to her.
***
"Why so happy to rob from the slavers?" Conn inquired, "Not that I've any love for 'em, but you seem to harbor a special hatred."
Trilisean lowered her eyes and chewed her lip for a moment, as though wondering how much to tell him. On the one hand, he understood, as they had just met. On the other, she was asking him to join her in a very dangerous undertaking. If she could trust him with her life, she should be able to trust him with this information.
She reached back and untied her scarf. She gathered her long hair and held it aside, then bent her head to reveal a small mark branded on the back of her neck.
She straightened, looked him in the eye, as though daring him to make a comment. He remained silent, his expression the same gentle, inquisitive smile as before.
***
They arrived outside a walled villa. Trilisean's stopped, held up one slender white hand, and melted into shadow. The wall around the courtyard was ten feet high, of mortared stone plastered smooth. A single gate of thick ironbound oak controlled access to the cobbled streets. A sentry stood outside, leaning against the archway in a bored manner. Conn gave him credit for being awake at all. There was a bell and a pull rope for the man to sound an alarm or announce a visitor, but Trilisean assured him the man had no key. The gate could only be opened from inside. The owner saw to it that even bribing or subduing the guard would not gain entry.
Conn himself wasn't sure how they were to get through. That fell clearly within Trilisean's duties. Like a good soldier he stood as still and silently as possible and awaited instructions.
Trilisean removed her scarf and doubled it, holding the ends in her right hand. She reached into the pouch at her belt and produced a small spherical object, which she dropped into the cup of fabric. A sling. She's been wearing a deadly weapon as a bloody fashion accessory all along, he thought.
"This should take him out. When it hits, rush up and catch the body. Don't let him hit the cobbles too hard, and by no means let him get a hand on the bell rope!" she breathed in a tone softer than a whisper.
He nodded, afraid to even try to match her silence. How she expected a sling stone to strike quietly was her affair. He assumed she knew what she was doing.
Trilisean whirled the sling and let fly. The missile arced out of the shadows and struck square on the guard's armor, two inches below his chin.
Conn started forward with a swallowed curse, expecting the clash of stone on steel and the grunt of pain from the sentry.
As the ball struck, however, it burst into powder. The soldier gasped, and inhaled a mouthful. He tried to scream, but no sound came. He staggered, reached out blindly, and then his legs were collapsing beneath him and he fell into Conn's arms.
The former mercenary eased the unconscious guard to the cobbles, placing the body carefully in the shadows, propped up against the arch so that a casual passer by would think the man had fallen asleep on duty. In some neighborhoods that might be an invitation to cut his throat and rob him, but at least the kind of people who'd do that wouldn't tell the Police they suspected a burglary.
"I have a good friend who's an apothecary," she whispered, grinning like a child at play.
"Now what?" he whispered.
She put her lips close to his ear. "The gate is barred from inside. I'll climb over and let you through. Don't worry if you hear nothing. I may have to wait for a patrol to pass."
"And if I hear something?"
"Worry," she flashed him a smile and sprang up the wall.
Conn was amazed to see a human climb like that. It was as though she skipped from foothold to foothold, her hands finding crevices that were simply not there. She was over in seconds with no more noise than the evening fog.
Conn waited. And waited. He'd had plenty of practice in the military, but was still not comfortable with it. He noticed that the guard was breathing regularly. The powder didn't seem to have done any lasting harm.
Eventually, the gate swung open a few inches. He pressed his ear to it.
"Open only as much as you need to squeeze through."
He did as he was asked. It wasn't as much as it would have been. He wore no armor this night. It made him feel vulnerable, but the creak of leather and the jingle of mail would give them away even if the glint of light on steel did not.
Once through, he eased the door closed. The yard around the manor house was planted with trees, and adorned with ornamental fountains and plantings of flowers. It was pleasant, and that was its purpose. It wasn't designed for defense, and that was fortunate. In the gloom of the courtyard Trilisean waited, crouched in the shadow of an ancient elm, scanning for patrolling guards.
***
"I was a slave. I grew up in the pens. I never knew my parents. I don't know if they were slaves, if I was captured in a raid as an infant, or if I was sold or taken to pay a debt. I grew up knowing my life was strange, but not what normal was. At around twelve, I'm not sure because I don't know the date of my birth, I found out what I was intended for. I was to be sold as a pleasure slave. All the glory of whoring without the paycheck. I wasn't having that."
***
He crouched beside Trilisean. "Move when I move. There are soldiers moving about the grounds." she breathed.
He waited, trying to steady his heartbeat, until she glided forward to another patch of cover. He followed quietly. While he was definitely less skilled than she, Conn had fought a war of ambush in the forests and hills of Aeran. He survived because he learned to move quietly and patiently.
After several more bounds punctuated by periods of waiting, the reached the wall of the house. The building was of stone, ancient and weathered. There were windows of real leaded glass, fitted within wooden latticework. It must have been costly at one time, but now the wood was beginning to show its age.
Trilisean crept to a specific window, and slid a small, supple metal pick in between the frames of the two halves. After a moment, she swung the windows carefully open and climbed through. Conn followed.
***
"I escaped. I knew how to dance, and how to move lightly, so I managed to join a group of entertainers. I learned juggling, knife throwing, acrobatics. All of which were to prove..." she paused, seeking an appropriate word, then smiled, "Useful."
***
They found themselves in a neglected sitting room. A relic of grander days, it now served as storage. Furniture stood draped in cloth, and chests were piled in haphazard stacks. The air was thick with dust.
"We will leave this room, turn right down a hallway. The third door is the stairs to the cellars. That is where our goal is," she explained, "nobody should notice this window unlocked, or scratches near the latch. Nobody comes in here."
She paused at the sound of footsteps in the hallway. They waited in silence for them to pass, but the steps stopped at the door. They heard muffled voices, and giggling as the latch was turned. With a stifled curse, Conn and Trilisean rolled under a large oaken table, the cloth over it hanging almost to the floor. Conn put his head on its side and peered under the cloth with one eye.
The door swung open. In the dim light from the hallway, he saw two pairs of feet, one large and booted and the other small, delicate and in the simple sandals of a servant girl. The newcomers made their way into the room with whispers and giggles, closing the door furtively behind them. The sounds of kissing and breathy murmurs soon replaced the giggles. The two pair of feet , now moving together, come to a halt beside the table. The table creaked as the couple leaned against it.
Conn, new to the role of voyeur, stifled a laugh and looked at Trilisean. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he saw her bite her lip to stop the laughter. Master burglar foiled by servants' illicit affair. The though was too much. He was a skilled warrior and the woman beside him was a brilliant thief, but here they lay, under a table in a dusty storeroom, trapped by the dalliance of a guard and a chambermaid, struggling not to laugh or sneeze. As they caught one another's eyes, the laughter almost burst out of them.
Above their hiding place, the couple grew more urgent. Soft moans accompanied the kissing sounds, and soon they heard the rustle of clothing sliding away. There was a grunt as the woman's feet were lifted away from the floor and the table creaked with her weight upon it.
As a pair of trousers slid down into view around the booted ankles, Conn bit his hand to keep quiet. The situation was too ridiculous.
Soon, the table began to creak rhythmically to the accompaniment of soft groans both masculine and feminine.
Conn faced Trilisean, whose eyes were watering. "You'd think a gentleman would at least take his boots off," he mouthed silently.
She convulsed with quiet laughter and punched him in the arm. Raised eyebrows cautioning him to curb his sense of humor.
"And such a romantic location."
She squeezed her eyes shut and shook for a moment. He leaned close and breathed in her ear.
"The enchanting beauty of musty dropcloths. The heady scent of dust that sets hearts alight..."
She breathed back "Never will they smell mildew again without thinking of this tender moment."
Conn bit his tongue. He feared they would make too much noise, but couldn't help himself. Fortunately, the creaking and moaning both increased in intensity and covered any tiny laughter that may have sprung out.
Eventually, the couple above reached the inevitable climax. "A round of applause?" Conn suggested. Trilisean stifled her laughter by biting her companion on the arm.
He held back his voice by sheer willpower.
The noises above changed to soft endearments, and protests that he had to return to his post before he was noticed, and she swore to keep the secret. Soon the pair dressed and left, carefully pausing at the door before exiting.
When the door closed, the thief and the warrior shook with silent laughter until tears ran down their faces.
"Alright," she gasped quietly, "that was an obstacle I hadn't foreseen."
Conn wiped his eyes. "To almost be found by the enemy because the guards were neglecting their duty. What a bitter irony that would be."
***
"I was happy, I suppose. Until the leader of the troupe told me if I wanted to go up, I'd have to go down." the sparkle in her eyes was the cold glint off a sword's point.
"I'm not a prude or an innocent. But I won't be used that way. I'll sell my skills, but not my body. If I choose to please a man, it's because I want to. Not because I want something from him. I ran again. Only this time I was prepared. My old teachers learned very soon that I would not be trifled with. I could get into places that everyone though were secure, make a knife appear from thin air, and vanish into the shadows."
***
Soon they made there way down the stairs. The door at the top was locked, but that proved no real challenge. Con began to wonder if he were necessary at all. He was happy not to have tripped over anything and brought the whole household down on them.
Trilisean walked purposefully through the wine cellar to a shelf, then motioned Conn to her. "Help me slide this section over."
He grasped the stout shelf and leaned into it. The section moved aside fairly easily, revealing a stone door cut into the wall.
***
"And you need me...why?" he asked.
"It's a two person job. I need a good man in a fight for this part right here..." she pulled a scroll and unrolled it. It was a careful floorplan of the house, with copious notes inked in various colors indicating guard routes, locks, alarms, hours or use of various rooms. Conn had to admit it was quite impressive. He followed her gesture to a central room.
"I can beat this lock," she said seriously, "but when I do, alarms will go off and bring the garrison down. I need you to hold them off and buy us the time to get through."
"How long do you need?" he asked, sipping at his tea.
She smiled her most innocent smile.
"Not a clue."
***
Conn shoved some shelves aside to make a crude defense. He set them to make a triangle, with the wall and door at his back and an opening at the point to channel their assault. The guards would only be able to come at him from one direction. Better to leave a path open and decide the enemy's approach for him than to block the whole area and let them devise a plan. The guards would rush at the opening.
He strapped his small, round leather shield to his left arm, then took his dirk in his left hand, holding it so the point jutted some inches beyond the bottom edge of the shield. He drew his sword with his right, flexed his wrists, stretched his legs and took up position just inside the makeshift fort. He turned to her and nodded.
Trilisean set her pick to the lock.
***
"I made my way as a thief. I worked small at first. My needs were modest," she smiled with the phrase, "I got to know a fence. He would filter gossip to me. Things clients wanted. When I would produce them, he cut me in for a better share than usual. That's how I found out about this job. It's not really a contract, just a statement that so and so would pay a lot of money for such and such. I took the jobs I wanted."
***
All hell broke loose. Bells rang in the house above as the thief worked at the lock. Conn waited patiently, the tightness in his throat and the racing of his pulse fading as he directed the rush of energy into a disciplined defense. He had learned early that a warrior must master his emotions, not serve them.
In battle at least.
Within moments the door at the head of the stairs was thrown open and guards boiled down the steps.
Conn saw about a half dozen in the dimly lit cellar. Most wore some armor over their heads and torsos and carried long, slashing swords and small shields. They held up for a moment, seeing the defenses the Aeransman had arranged.
One of the guards carried a short handled axe. He studied the scenario carefully. Conn didn't want him to come up with a good plan, but each moment gave Trilisean more time with the lock. The man gave directions to the others to fan out. "Take the girl alive. Kill the man if you have to."
The man hurled his axe and shouted "Now!" whipping our his sword. The guards surged forward.
Conn batted the axe aside with his shield. He didn't catch it on the face of the buckler. If it stuck, it would unbalance his left arm, and the handle would provide a grip for someone to pull his shield aside. He squared himself to face the onslaught.
The first soldier cut at the Aeransman's head. Conn deflected the cut and slashed at the man's swordarm. His heavy blade cut to the bone. The man screamed and dropped his sword, clutching the bleeding gash. Conn didn't strike again, as the wounded soldier was in the way of his comrades.
As the wounded guard staggered aside, another tried to forced his way in. Conn blocked a cut on his shield. The guardsman blocked Conn's counterattack on his own buckler and stepped in close, trying to shove him back away from the entrance so that more guards could enter and overwhelm this invader.
Conn ducked, bringing his shield down quickly at the man's knee and slicing across his foe's thigh with the point of his dirk. As the soldier's leg buckled, the former mercenary punched with his shield, shoved the man off balance and jammed the point of his sword into the guard's ribs. His enemy crumpled and fell to the floor, coughing and choking.
A comrade seized the wounded man's arm and dragged him out of the way. The remaining soldiers stood back, warily considering their next move. Hurry up with the damn lock, he thought frantically.
The next man aimed cut at his head, then switched to a low slash at his shin. Conn just managed to snap his leg up over the blade. He realized the enemy were using the greater reach of their long swords to try to wound him, cut away at him and then overwhelm him when he weakened. Conn was trained and armed for close quarters fighting, excellent in a tight infantry formation or in the narrow confines he had created, but his reach was less than his enemies. He though in a hurry. If he fell back, they'd push through the opening in the shelves and he's have to fight two or three, if he pushed forward to bring his own weapon into reach, he'd have to face their numbers. If he stayed and fought a defensive fight, sooner or later, one cut would land, then another until he weakened and died beneath their rush.
He decided on a risky tactic. As his foe slashed at him, he turned sideways as he parried and lunged forward with his right foot, driving his sword into the man's chest, just below his throat. The guard staggered back, coughing blood, but his sword glanced off the edge of Conn's shield and drew a shallow cut along his left shoulder. The Aeransman cursed. The cut was minor. He was used to fighting in armor, and even a leather jerkin would have turned that blow. His earlier feeling of vulnerability came back with a vengeance.
Although his lunge took his foes by surprise, one of them managed a thrust at his exposed right side. He wrenched his point free of the struggling guardsman and swept it down in a parry as he twisted away from his enemy's blade. He leapt back into his former defensive position.
Conn panted with exertion. Sweat ran down his forehead, stinging his eyes. His shoulder burned with pain, and bled freely every time he moved his left arm. Three of his foes were down, but another entered from the stairs to join the remaining warriors.
Now, a pair of them stood out of his reach, held their shields before them and slashed and thrust with the tips of their blades, using their reach to advantage. Another lunge would be suicide. Whichever man he attacked, the other would get him.
He cursed again. The bastards were learning. As each man fell, the next changed tactics. Sooner or later, he would die unless Trilisean got that damn door open. Even then, how was he supposed to retreat through? The four men facing him would chase him and cut him down before he could cross the distance. Even a fighting retreat would allow two or three to face him in the wider area in front of the door.
He kept his guard tight, deflecting the probing points of his enemies. He had to make a counter, though. No defense is perfect, and the enemy must fear to press or they'd get him. He studied the two facing him. A thought dawned.
As the two enemy jabbed at him, he slapped aside the blade of the man to his left with his shield, and stabbed into the attack of the man on the right-- not at the body but at the approaching wrist. His sword point slid into the man's right forearm and drove towards the elbow, grating on bone. The man dropped his blade as its point scraped across the crossguard of Conn's sword. He stumbled back, cursing. His companion hacked at the mercenary's leg, but Conn retreated a step. The single guard paused before following this skilled swordsman into close quarters.
Conn smiled through the mask of perspiration. Four down. It was a long time since he'd fought so well, since he'd seen such worried expressions on the faces of an enemy. That was the highest tribute a warrior could receive, that his enemies feared his skill. He expected to be cut down any second, but now he was fighting in a state of near perfection, sensing attacks and deflecting them before he consciously saw them.
"I'm in," he heard from behind him, "Get ready."
Suddenly, the hall was lit by a bright flash behind him. His foes were dazzled.
***
She looked Conn straight in the eye. "So, have I scared you off yet? Am I an obsessed mad woman on a suicide mission?"
"You're just a stubborn, unflinching force of nature. The world can accept you on your own terms or get ready to bleed." He smiled broadly, " I think I can learn to respect that. Partner."
***
"Now! Move!"
He paused to crack the nearest guard on the head with his sword. The man dropped. The helm probably saved his life, Conn reflected, but he wouldn't follow for a while and his body would be an obstacle for his near blinded friends. He turned and sprang through the door.
The instant he was through, Trilisean slammed the door and slid the bolt home. Conn leaned on the wall, his chest heaving.
"How much of that blood is yours?" she asked, her expression serious.
"Just a scratch on the shoulder," he panted, "I'm tired more than hurt."
She tore the ripped tunic open wider and slapped a padded cloth on the wound. It stung.
"It's treated with a powder," she explained "it will fight any fever in the wound and help the blood clot. Another useful item from my friend the apothecary. Press on it for a moment."
"My thanks," he gasped, "and the flash of light? From the same friend?"
"Yes, but that's an easy one."
Conn set down his sword and held the dressing. She tore a strip from the ruined left sleeve of his tunic and bound the cloth in place.
"Now, do you know what you're here after?"
"I do. And where it is," she smiled.
Conn studied the room as she stooped down in front of a small chest. The chamber was small, perhaps five feet on a side, and nearly empty. There were a few wooden boxes stacked in a corner, and one small locked box which his companion was examining. Besides the door, there was only a wooden trap door in the floor with an iron ring for a handle.
They heard pounding on the door behind them. Conn looked at it, but it was stone, obviously strong, and the bolt was holding. He was glad she hadn't damaged the lock when she opened it. He kept an eye on it in case the guards had a key.
"I assume we leave by the floor."
"Exactly," she said somewhat distantly, turning the small chest in her hands.
"Why not come in that way?"
"It leads out to one of the caves by the harbor. Paiesleigh is a smuggler as well as a slaver. I don't know which cave. When we follow it out, it won't be hard to find our way back to the city, but I wouldn't know where to start from on that end. Aha!" she turned to him, pulled her scarf over her nose and mouth, "cover your face."
She fiddled with the box, then slid her pick into the keyhole, turned the chest at an angle and twisted the pick.
Conn heard a faint click. A puff of dust spurted from a carving on the box's corner, toward the wall.
"Nice try," she smiled. He could see the smile in her eyes, even though the rest of her face was hidden, "But not good enough." she opened the lid and took out a large blue stone.
He whistled. "Must be worth quite a bit."
"More than you'd think," she replied, dropping it into her pouch, "If my client can be believed, there are memories sealed in this jewel. A skilled seer can read them. Or maybe not. They believe the story enough to pay more than market value. By the way, the dust should settle soon, but keep your face covered until we get out, just in case."
Conn grasped the iron ring and raised his eyebrows. She nodded.
The trapdoor lifted smoothly and they descended a ladder to a rough stone passage. Surf sounded from the far end. Trilisean lowered her scarf and smiled. "Care for a walk along the beach?"
"Delighted, my dear," he replied with a bow.
They hurried along the passage. It was fairly wide and mostly natural, although it appeared that it had been smoothed or widened in places. It descended gently. Light trickled from the far end.
After a short while, they saw the bright light of the moon reflected off the stone ahead. The entrance must be around this final turn, Conn thought gratefully.
They rounded the corner and saw the waves gently lapping the narrow strip of sand below the cliffs.
Stark against this backdrop were four men. One was tying off a boat and three strode toward them with heavy bundles.
Both parties stopped in shock for a moment.
"Get them!" bellowed the man near the boat. He was dressed in the finery of a well to do merchant. The others dropped their burdens and reached for the weapons at their belts.
Just as there is a time for defense, thought Conn, there is a time for offense. He rushed the three, tearing his sword and dirk from their sheaths as he did so, shouting a battle cry.
He drove his left shoulder into the first man before the fellow could clear steel, then ripped his dirk across the man's body. With his sword he knocked aside the hatchet the second man raised and hacked him across the skull. The third sailor had a club and a long knife ready. Conn rushed him, feigned a cut at his head, then whipped his blade around with a twist of the wrist and slashed the man's side open as he raised his club to guard his head.
Conn took three steps toward the last man, who raised an empty hand and shouted something.
Suddenly, Conn felt his muscles turn to water. His body ceased to obey him. He fell in mid stride, rolling down the passage. He felt the wound in his shoulder open on the rough stones as he slid to a halt just beyond the last man. He landed on his back, looking back up the passage. He could see the merchant's boots just a few feet away and Trilisean in the distance, her face white. Her hands were raised in plain view above her head.
"Now, then," said a voice from above him, "you keep those hands where I can see 'em. Your friend here cut three of my men pretty bad just now, and you probably weren't doing any good back the way you came. He may make a decent slave and I'll recoup some of my cost. I'll probably need to cut his tongue out to keep this night a secret, but that's no problem."
Conn tried to move, but none of his body would respond. His dirk lay just beyond his reach. It may as well have been on the moon. He couldn't even turn his head. He dreaded that this man would hurt Trilisean and he would have to watch, powerless to help.
"You, my dear," the man continued, "would fetch a pretty penny. If you don't want to suffer, you'll cooperate. If not, we have ways of breaking the rebellious."
Conn struggled, but could not even blink. He felt as if he'd burst a blood vessel in frustration.
"What do you say, lassie? The easy way, or the hard one?"
"You leave me no choice," she seemed to droop.
"Very go--"
There was a flicker of movement and a knife appeared in Trilisean's hand. Her arm snapped down and she rolled forward like an acrobat, coming up to her knees with another dagger reversed for a toss.
There was no need. Conn heard the meaty thwack as her first throw hit home. The expensive boots toppled and the owner fell first to his knees, then flopped onto his side. At the edge of his vision, Conn could see the hilt of a dagger standing out of the man's throat, just above the embroidered collar of his tunic. The slaver's expression was the same one he'd seen on the Jarving all those years ago.
Never underestimate you opponent, he thought.
"Conn! Conn!" she was on her knees beside him, cradling his head, "are you alright?"
He could feel control returning, first to his face and spreading to his body. He nodded weakly. "Ahhmaahriigh'," he managed.
"Oh, thank God," she hugged him to her chest. He wished for a moment he had just a little more command of his muscles, but it was nice just the same.
Slowly he recovered enough to sit up.
"Wha' happen'?"
"That was Paiesleigh," she said, "he's the slaver whose house we just robbed. I didn't know he knew any magic. Never seen it really used like that, just herbal powders and such. He did something that took your will away, so you couldn't even move. I guess that's one way he controls his slaves. Oh," she started, "your shoulder's bleeding again."
Conn studied the dead slaver while Trilisean rummaged for another bandage. It was an impressive throw. Right in the throat at fifty paces. He supposed that with an opponent who could do what this one could, the first shot had best be good.
Trilisean returned and saw to his wound.
"Wonder what they were smuggling," he said.
"I looked," she replied, "I don't know. Just bags of some black powder. Must be valuable. Probably a narcotic, or something for the apothecaries. There are some long heavy boxes in the boat. Must be full of something heavy and metal. You can smell packing grease."
"Odd," he muttered. His legs seemed able to hold him now. "Wonder what he was up to. I guess we could use my late friend's axe and open the crates."
"Why bother?" she insisted, "I'm usually curious, but the sooner we get out of here, the better. Besides, the best treasure comes in wee sparkley packages, not made of iron in packing grease. Whatever it is, it's heavy to lug back to town. You need to see a flesh tailor."
"I've had worse," he grinned, "but you're probably right about the chests."
They started hiking along the shore, looking for a path up the cliffs that Conn could manage. He had no doubt she could scale them at any point. She nudged his good arm.
"Thank you for your help," she said, "I couldn't have managed alone."
"Thank you for that throw. I didn't like the idea of having my tongue cut out."
She muttered something and giggled.
"What was that?"
"Maybe later." she looked away for a moment, "What do you plan to do now. Your half of this job will give you the money to travel most anywhere," she looked into his eyes, waiting for the answer.
"That depends," he answered with his most charming smile, "what's our next job, partner?"
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