Matrick volunteered to stay behind and watch over Kallorek while the others hit the mud-slick streets of Conthas. Moog and Kit set out to acquire what the wizard referred to as “indispensables,” while Gabriel, despite Moog’s assurance that his magic hat could feed them all the way to Endland, went in search of rations. Clay and Ganelon were tasked with seeking news of Castia, so they picked a tavern on the strip called the Back Door, where Clay hoped they could ask after gossip in relative anonymity.
The plan went up in smoke the moment they stepped inside. Clay was still blinking in the shadows when a familiar voice piped up.
“Frost Mother fuck me, it’s Clay Cooper!”
He saw a hand waving, two pink fingers and a black silk glove. Jain and her gang of overdressed outlaws were seated at a long table littered with empty pitchers and the leftover scraps of a meal. “Have a seat, Slowhand! I owe you a beer, I’d say.”
You owe me a week’s worth of sandwiches, a dozen pair of socks, a small fortune in jewellery, and two swords, Clay thought ruefully. “I suppose you do,” he told her.
Ganelon looked dubious. “She a friend of yours?” he asked.
“We’ve met twice and she robbed me both times,” said Clay, scratching his beard. “But sure.”
The warrior said nothing, though something like amusement glittered in his green eyes.
The two of them were given a wide berth as they made their way across the tavern floor, possibly because Jain had said his name so loud, but probably because Ganelon had the look of a killer and a giant axe strapped to his back. The Silk Arrows shuffled to make room on the bench, and by the time Clay and Ganelon settled themselves across from Jain there were full tankards and heaping plates on the table before them.
Jain was dressed even finer now than she’d been in the forest east of Brycliffe. There were a few more bangles tinkling on her wrists, a few more rings twinkling on her fingers, and a familiar-looking silk scarf piled around her neck.
“You like?” she asked, mistaking his assessment of her neckwear as keen interest. “I nabbed it off some fancy Phantran lass ’bout a week back. Nice girl, actually.”
And then Clay knew where he’d seen that scarf before. “Was her name Doshi?”
Jain fingered the scarf. “You know, I believe it was. Said she was some admiral’s daughter, but she cussed like any old sailor when I relieved her of this.” She jutted her chin at Ganelon. “Who’s this now, eh? You get tired of being robbed by girls and hire some real muscle?”
Clay shook his head, using a wooden fork to scrape the peas on his plate well wide of a pile of mashed yam. Couldn’t have those two things consorting, now, could he? “Ganelon,” he said, before filling his mouth.
Jain threw a skeptic look at Ganelon and back. “Try again, Slowhand. I may be a babe compared to you, but I wasn’t born yesterday.”
“It’s true,” said Ganelon.
Jain remained unconvinced. “Then why aren’t you … ya know?”
“Old?” Clay suggested.
“Yeah, that.”
“It’s a long story,” he told her, reaching for his cup.
“Got turned to stone,” said Ganelon. “They turned me back.”
“Okay, it’s a short story,” Clay admitted.
“It’s fucking suspect, is what it is,” said Jain. “That said, they say Ganelon’s a dark-skinned southerner with a northman’s eyes, mean as a manticore with its tail up its ass—so you damn sure look the part.”
Ganelon seemed to be weighing the merits of pressing his claim versus laying into a saucy leg of lamb. He chose the lamb, and so Clay took it upon himself to steer the conversation along. “We’re looking for news out of Castia. Have you heard anything recently?”
Jain scoffed. “The only news I expect outta Castia is that there ain’t no more Castia,” she said. “I take it you’re headed that way now? Got the whole band back together?”
“We do. And yeah, we are.”
The brigand shook her head, smiling sadly. “A proper epic end it will be, then. Here’s to Saga.” She raised her mug, prompting her girls to do the same. “The second best band there ever was.” Laughter and cries of “hear, hear” followed. Jain tapped her cup once on the table and then guzzled it down.
Clay drained his cup as well, because it would have been rude not to. “Second best?” he enquired. “Don’t tell me you’re a fan of the Screeching Eagles?”
“It’s the Screaming Eagles, Grandpa. And no—I’m referring to the latest, greatest band in the land: Lady Jain and the Silk Arrows!”
“Never heard of ’em,” said Ganelon.
Jain thumbed her chest. “I’m Jain, and these lovely ladies sitting around you are the Silk Arrows. Not long ago we were merely bandits, but Clay Cooper here inspired us to make something more of ourselves.”
Clay nearly spat out a mouthful of mashed yam. “I did?”
“Well you put the seed in my head, anyway, back on the day we first met. We’ve booked our first gig, even. Seems there’s a herd of centaurs causing trouble up near Coverdale, and the good people there have hired us to drive ’em out.”
Clay remembered Pip telling him about the centaur spotted near Tassel’s farm, what seemed an age ago now. He swallowed a surge of concern for his daughter’s safety. Centaurs had a nasty habit of kidnapping children and roasting them on spits. But then again, small-town folk had a nasty habit of making a big deal out of nothing at all.
Forget about it, Clay told himself. Might just be a clutch of wild deer, or some sickly old scout who got left behind by his hunting party. Tally is fine. Ginny is safe. Rose is not, and she’s the one you’re out to save …
“After that we’re headed to Kaladar,” Jain was saying. “Kal says the War Fair’s a good place to get our name out there and rub shoulders with other bands. He—”
“Wait, Kal?” Clay interrupted. “Tell me you don’t mean Kallorek. Big fat booker? Lives up the hill?”
Jain looked annoyed. “Listen, I don’t like him, either. Reminds me a bit o’ my daddy, actually, except he’s a long shot uglier and has more ’n two coins to rub together. Still, he’s the only game in town, and …”
The brigand (or ex-brigand, Clay supposed) trailed off. She was staring over his shoulder with a look of naked awe on her face. Turning in his seat, Clay saw a pair of new arrivals. The first was a bald monk in a sleeveless red robe. Standing beside him was the most beautiful woman Clay had ever seen.
No, she’s not, a part of his mind amended. Ginny’s the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen. This woman is … is …
She was tall, her pale limbs hard with lean muscle. She wore a formfitting black breastplate that seemed to drink in the light, heavy greaves, and a pair of taloned gauntlets that reminded Clay of a falcon’s claws. The collar of her cloak was lined with sleek plumage, and a pair of swords were strapped to her back. Her hair had the blue-black sheen of a raven’s feather; it fell straight to her waist but for her bangs, which cut a razor-sharp line above her finely arched brows and large, long-lashed eyes.
Okay, Clay’s mind conceded, she’s the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen. Except for … except for …There was someone he was forgetting. Ah, yes. His wife.
Clay nearly jumped out of his seat when Jain clamped hold of his wrist. “You should go,” she hissed. “Get out of here, now. Out the back, preferably.”
“Why?”
“Why?” Jain’s eyes bulged out of her sockets. “Don’t you know who that is?”
He didn’t, of course. Unless this woman had stormed the north wall of Coverdale in the last ten years (and she hadn’t, Clay was certain), then how would he? “A mercenary?” he guessed.
“A bounty hunter,” Jain informed him.
Ganelon, intrigued, looked over his shoulder. “She’s pretty,” he grumbled.
“So what?” Clay asked.
“So you’ve got a bounty on your head, remember?”
“Sure, but you can’t—” He’d been about to say that you couldn’t claim a bounty inside city limits, but that was the law of the Courts. You’re in the Free City of Conthas, you idiot. The law of the Courts is worth less here than a copper penny dropped down a shithole.
As if to drive that point home the woman at the door spoke into the lull created by her arrival. “I’m looking for a man,” she announced.
More than half the men in the room bolted to their feet. Clay, irrationally, felt his own legs urging him to follow suit.