The Broken Blade

Chapter Four
The ferry captain’s home was much larger than they had expected. It was a two-thousand-square-foot adobe house built around an atrium, with a walled courtyard entrance. It had been constructed to human rather than dwarven scale, as were most buildings in the central part of the village. The floors were flagstoned with attractive, pale pink slate, and throughout the house, the doors were made of beautifully figured, hand-carved pagafa wood. Inside, everything was neatly arranged. Most dwarves liked order, and the ferry captain was no exception. His home was elegant, yet simple, with well-made, functional wood furniture and few decorations save for some house plants and some exquisite black-fired dwarven pottery. He was unmarried but had two servants, an elderly dwarven couple who kept his house and cooked for him. His job was hazardous, but judging by the way he lived, his pay reflected that accordingly.

Sorak luxuriated in a heated bath while his clothes were taken to be cleaned. As he washed, Ryana relaxed by the fireplace and enjoyed some herbal tea and fresh-baked biscuits with kank honey. Soon afterward, the ferry captain arrived, bringing Sorak a change of clothing, which he had borrowed from one of the mercenaries.

“I think these should fit you,” he said, laying them out while Sorak bathed. “Your own clothes should be clean and dry by tomorrow morning.”

“That was considerate of you, Captain,” Sorak said. “Thank you.”

“It was nothing. And please, call me Tajik.” He sat on a wooden chair while Sorak bathed. “You will pardon my curiosity, but I can see you are not a full-blooded elf. Yet, you look different from most half-elves I have seen.”

“My father was a halfling,” Sorak said. “Half-elves are part human. I am an elfling.”

Tajik’s eyebrows went up. “Indeed? I had heard something of the sort, but thought it merely a fanciful embellishment.”

“Embellishment?”

“Of the song,” said Tajik. “The Ballad of the Nomad.”

Sorak rolled his eyes and shook his head. “It hardly seems possible it could have spread so quickly,” he said.

Tajik chuckled. “Bards travel widely and steal each other’s songs as readily as they compose new ones. Tell me, is it true you single-handedly saved a caravan from a host of marauders?”

“Nothing quite so spectacular, I fear,” said Sorak with a wry grimace. “I merely learned of a marauder plan to ambush a caravan from Tyr and passed on a warning to the merchant house.”

“I see. And what of the tale of your crossing the Stony Barrens and rescuing a princess of the royal house of Nibenay?”

“That one is true,” admitted Sorak.

“Really? Then the Shadow King is in your debt?”

“Hardly,” Sorak said. “The princess in question had taken preserver vows and been exiled as a result. An ambitious nobleman from Gulg had seized her and planned to force her into marriage so he could lay claim to kinship to the royal house of Nibenay. The girl asked for my help, and as a fellow preserver, I could not refuse.”

“And so you stole her from the nobleman and fled across the Barrens?” Tajik asked.

Sorak nodded.

“Incredible,” said Tajik. “They say no one has ever tried to cross the Barrens and survived.”

“It was not an experience I would care to repeat,” said Sorak.

“And what of the nobleman?”

“He died,” said Sorak simply.

“And the princess? What became of her?”

“She returned to Nibenay and joined the Veiled Alliance.”

“So that part of the story is true, then,” said Tajik. “I would never have believed it. A daughter of the Shadow King enlisted in the Veiled Alliance!” He shook his head in amazement. “That must have made the old dragon king absolutely furious.”

“He does not hold me in very high regard.”

“And this does not frighten you?”

Sorak shrugged. “There is no love lost between preserver and defiler. Simply being what I am has made me the enemy of the dragon kings. I knew that when I chose to take my vows.”

“Yes, but taking preserver vows is not the same as making a personal enemy of the Shadow King.”

“Perhaps not,” said Sorak. “But there is little use to being afraid. Nibenay has tried to kill me several times. As you can see, I am still alive, so perhaps the dragon kings are not all-powerful, as they would have everyone believe.”

“Still, being marked for death by a sorcerer king is the sort of thing that would terrify most men.”

“Perhaps, but I should think that I would find your job much more dangerous,” said Sorak. “Nibenay’s primary concern is to complete his dragon metamorphosis. I may have aroused his ire, but he will not spare much energy to snuff out the life of one insignificant preserver. You, on the other hand, face death every time you board your ferry. So which of us has more to fear?”

Tajik smiled. “I have always thought the rewards of my job justified the risks. What justifies the risk for you?”

“Well, to put it in dwarven terms,” said Sorak, “the satisfaction of staying true to my focus. Accepting the risk and living with it is a sort of compromise.”

“I suppose we all make compromises and take the good with the bad,” said Tajik, taking the hint and not pressing his inquiries. “Well, I shall let you finish your bath. I will have some more water heated for Ryana. She did not go swimming in the silt, as you did, but I am sure she would appreciate a good, hot soak. And then you shall be my guests for dinner, and afterward, I hope you will accept the hospitality of my home for the night.”

“That is very generous of you,” Sorak said. “But it is really not necessary to go to so much trouble.”

“Do not concern yourself. It is no trouble at all. I rarely have company and will enjoy showing you my village. We may not have the luxuries of a city such as Tyr or Balic, but we do know how to entertain our guests.”

After they had both bathed and dressed, Tajik took them to dinner at an eating house that boasted “the best larder in South Ledopolus.” It was a short walk from his home in the center of town, and Sorak marveled at the difference between the streets of South Ledopolus and those of Tyr or Nibenay. In most towns and cities, and even in most villages, there was no shortage of beggars. Not so South Ledopolus. Since the town was situated on a caravan route, and well isolated from any other settlements except North Ledopolus, the only transient traffic was that brought by the caravans, and beggars could not afford to book passage.

The streets of the village were also remarkably clean, reflecting a dwarven obsession with neatness and order. Even though the streets were hard-packed dirt, Tajik told Sorak with a sense of pride that they were regularly swept and graded by kank beetles pulling weighted drags through town once every two weeks and after each rain. There was a narrow ditch for runoff at the side of each street, and well-planed wooden sidewalks had been constructed on both sides of the street, shaded from the desert sun by overhangs made from wood planks or cactus ribs.

The buildings were freshly plastered, painted in muted tones of reds and pinks and tans. Tajik told them that the owners of the buildings were responsible for maintaining a clean facade. Chipped or flaking exteriors resulted in fines levied by the council. It was a remarkably pleasant looking village, with gently winding streets and well-groomed pagafa trees providing shade and color. With its tidy shops and inviting hostelries, it did not look at all like the rollicking, wide-open caravan town Sorak had expected.

On the other hand, the mercenary presence was very evident. Everywhere he looked, Sorak saw lean and muscular, hard-bitten and well-armed men mixing with the dwarven population. Some were human, some were half-elves, but all looked tough. Sorak wondered about the women. Men such as these had needs to satisfy, and they often liked to satisfy them without any encumbrances. Yet, he saw no women of easy virtue wandering the streets. It probably meant that there were pleasure houses where such things were kept discreetly out of sight.

The ferry captain was clearly respected in the community. He was were greeted effusively and given the best table in the house. The whitewashed adobe walls were painted with murals of desert scenes, and the tables were covered with clean white cloths, unusual even in cities. The dwarven staff gave them prompt and courteous attention, and Tajik suggested that they order braised erdlu steaks with herb sauce and wild rice and baked, honey-glazed gava root. He flushed and immediately apologized, realizing his error.

“Forgive me,” he said, glancing at Ryana awkwardly. “I had forgotten that villichi priestesses do not eat flesh. I did not mean to give offense.”

“None was intended, and none taken,” Ryana replied with a smile. “I am not offended by others eating flesh. For myself, I would prefer some simple vegetables. The wild rice and gava root sound perfect.”

Tajik looked relieved. “In that case, may I also suggest the spiced bread, which they do very well here, and the mulled ale, which is excellent.”

“It sounds delightful,” said Ryana.

“And what of yourself, my friend?” asked Tajik, turning to Sorak. “Do you also abstain from meat?”

Ordinary, Sorak would have answered yes.

Though elves were omnivorous and halflings were carnivorous, even to the extent that they often ate human flesh, he had been raised in the villichi convent and had always followed the villichi ways. However, his other personalities had remained true to his origins. They had craved the taste of meat, which he had forsworn. To avoid a conflict, he had reached a compromise of sorts with his more predatory personalities. Though he had refrained from eating flesh, after he went to sleep, his other personalities would assume control of his body, and would go out to hunt. They would stalk and make their kill as halflings did, consuming the flesh still raw and bloody.

Though divested of his other personalties, Sorak felt an unfamiliar craving brought on my the smells from the kitchen. Since leaving Bodach, he had eaten only wild desert plants and a mixture of nuts and dried fruits. Though he had taken vows as a preserver, those vows did not specifically prohibit him from eating meat. Ryana’s vows as a villichi priestess did, and though she had broken those vows by leaving the convent, she still kept to the spirit of them. He was neither priest nor villichi. He knew that his body had eaten meat regularly in the past, though he had no memory of it.

“I think I shall try the erdlu.”

Ryana glanced at him curiously, raising her eyebrows.

“Excellent choice,” said Tajik, beaming.

Ryana pursed her lips and said nothing.

When the meal came, it was delicious. Sorak ate ravenously. His first taste triggered a craving for more. He had never felt anything like it before.

“You must have been hungry,” Tajik said with a grin, watching him eat. “Here, try some of this ale.”

“Thank you, but I prefer water,” Sorak said.

“Water?” Tajik said with surprise. “You prefer water to ale?”

“I do not drink spirits,” Sorak said.

“Not even wine?”

Sorak shook his head. “I have no taste for it.”

“Pity,” Tajik said, shaking his head sadly. Like most dwarves, he loved to drink, and he quaffed the ale as quickly as the serving girl refilled the pitcher. Sorak had heard that dwarves could out-drink anybody, and watching Tajik swill the ale, he believed it.

“So, have you come to South Ledopolus in search of employment, or are you just passing through?”

Sorak hesitated. “I have not yet decided,” he replied after a moment.

“Ah. Well, if you choose to stay, for however long, perhaps I could be of assistance. I am not without influence here, and would be pleased to give you a recommendation.”

“Thank you. I appreciate that,” Sorak said. “But for the present, we would simply like to rest from our journey before making further plans.”

“Where were you traveling from?” asked Tajik. “Most people come to South Ledopolus by way of the caravan route, yet you came across the estuary.

Don’t tell me you walked all the way from the Mekillots?”

“That is the way we came,” said Sorak, which was the truth, though not the whole truth.

“A long, hard journey,” Tajik said. “But not really a surprising one, for two people who had crossed the Barrens. You came from Salt View then?”

Ryana nodded. “Yes, we spent some time there.” Which was also true.

“The gaming houses of Salt View are not the sort of place one would expect to find a villichi priestess,” Tajik said.

“Our pilgrimages take us all over the world,” Ryana replied. “Besides, why preach to the converted? Wherever there is hope of spreading the preserver cause, that is where you’ll find us.”

Tajik nodded, apparently satisfied, but Sorak had a feeling the ferry captain suspected they were withholding information. Without his telepathic personalities, though, Sorak could not know. He saw no reason to distrust Tajik, but prudence advised against being completely frank with him.

“What can you tell me of a mercenary named Kieran?” Sorak asked, to change the subject.

Tajik frowned and shook his head. “The name is not familiar to me.”

“He was the one who gave me his water on the boat,” said Sorak.

“Ah, the one dressed like a walking catalog of rare hides?” asked Tajik.

“That’s him,” said Sorak.

The ferry captain shook his head. “I noticed him. Who could not, with clothes like that? But I have never seen him before. His name is Kieran, you say?”

“Yes, that was the name he gave me.”

“Hmm. Well, I could ask around. Is there a particular reason for your curiosity?”

“He offered me employment,” Sorak said. “He said he was on his way to Altaruk to accept a position as captain of the guard with the House of Jhamri.”

“Indeed?” said Tajik, raising his eyebrows “That speaks highly of his capabilities. Jhamri hires nothing but the best for senior officers. If this Kieran has offered you employment, perhaps you should accept. You will not find anything in South Ledopolus that could compare with the salary you would receive working for a merchant house in Altaruk.”

“I told him I would consider it,” said Sorak. “But I should like to know something of a man’s background before I agree to work for him.”

“Quite understandable,” said Tajik, nodding. “Well, I know where we can probably find out. If he has been recruited for such a post, he must have a reputation. His fellow mercenaries would know, and since most of them have just been paid, I know where we can find a good sampling to ask. But perhaps we should escort Ryana back to my home first.”

“Why?” Ryana asked, puzzled.

“Because the Desert Damsel is not the sort of place to take a priestess,” Tajik replied.

“And why is that?” she asked again.

Tajik cleared his throat. “Well… the Damsel is a pleasure house, the most popular attraction in South Ledopolus, where women dance and, uh, artfully remove clothing. One can go there simply for the show, but there are also rooms upstairs where, for a price, one can enjoy a, uh, ‘private dance,’ if you get my meaning.”

“How very interesting,” Ryana said. “I would like to see it.”

Tajik looked scandalized. “You would?”

“Yes, very much. Can we go there after dinner?”

Tajik swallowed hard. “I… uh… really do not think it is a proper place for a lady like yourself.”

“Why not?” Ryana asked.

Tajik glanced at Sorak, helplessly.

“Don’t look at me,” said Sorak. “Ryana makes her own decisions.”

“I have never seen a pleasure house,” Ryana said. “I’m curious to know what it is like.”

“It is much like any other place where mercenaries drink, only much more so,” Tajik said. “I don’t think you would enjoy it much.”

“I should like the opportunity to judge that for myself,” Ryana said.

Tajik sighed with resignation. “Well, if you insist…”




* * *




“It is a rather rowdy crowd tonight,” said Edric as he came into the dressing room, rubbing his temple where a thrown bottle had struck him. It had shattered and cut the skin, and a thin trickle of blood ran down the side of his face. The spot was already swelling, and there would be a nasty bruise.

Cricket was up out of her chair at once. “Here, let me see,” she said.

“It’s of no consequence,” said Edric. “This is my last night.”

Cricket moistened a clean cloth and gently washed the cut. “Those brutes,” she said vehemently.

Edric winced as she cleaned the cut. “Well, they did not come to hear my ballads. I do not know why Turin even bothered hiring me.”

“To build up their anticipation,” Cricket said. “He likes a dull act to open the show.” And then she realized what she had said and bit her lower lip. “Forgive me. That came out wrong. I did not mean that I found you dull myself.”

Edric chuckled. “No, I understand. The pleasure of your company has been the only thing that has made this engagement bearable. And you have been a most appreciative audience, for which I thank you.”

“I cannot wait to leave this place,” said Cricket. “I’ve booked passage on the caravan. I only wish it would leave tonight.”

“Tomorrow will be soon enough,” said Edric. “Turin still does not suspect your plans?”

“I do not think so,” Cricket said. “If he does, he’s shown no indication of it. Still, I would not put it past him to attempt something to make me stay.”

“What could he do?”

“Hire some mercenaries to detain me while the caravan departs,” she said. “He probably wouldn’t even have to pay them. He would merely offer them inducements.”

“Mmmm, yes, I can imagine what sort of inducements he would offer,” Edric said. “Still, he can’t force you to dance.”

Cricket shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said. “I have wanted to leave here for so long, it hardly seems possible that the time has come at last. I keep thinking something will go wrong.”

Edric patted her shoulder. “Nothing will go wrong,” he said. “By this time tomorrow, we’ll be on our way to Altaruk.”

“I want it to be now,” she said anxiously.

“Try to put it out of your mind,” said Edric. “You don’t want Turin to wonder why you seem distracted. Go out there and put on a good show. It’ll be the last time they’ll ever see you in this pestilential dump. Give them something to remember.”

She smiled. “That I can do.”




* * *




Walking into the Desert Damsel was like entering another world. Outside lay the quiet, picturesque and orderly dwarven village of South Ledopolus, with its immaculate streets and well-tended shade trees and desert gardens. Inside was the raucous South Ledopolus the Wanderer had described in his journal.

Tajik, Sorak, and Ryana entered through a small antechamber where a dwarf seated at a high podium collected the cover charge of ten coppers, which included a token for one drink. He also gathered all weapons, in exchange for numbered tokens that would allow the owners to claim them on the way out. Just past the podium was an arched, curtained entry where a muscular human bouncer stood at his post, thick arms folded across his bare, barrel-shaped chest.

Tajik led them through the beaded curtain and into the interior of the Desert Damsel—a single, large, open room with booths built around the perimeter and small round tables with wooden chairs filling the space beside the long bar against the right wall. Behind the bar and in the center of the room, at the rear, were two large stages with four smaller stages on square risers on the right and left sides of the room. No matter where one looked, there was a stage in view, and atop each of those stages, including the one behind the bar, nearly naked women danced.

There was a small band playing, set up on a small stage at the right rear corner of the room, just beyond the bar, and a woman gyrated on the stage in front of the band, as well. The band consisted primarily of drummers, bell ringers, and cymbal players. The melody, what there was of it, was carried by several flutists, but the music was mostly beat and the jangle of bells and cymbals.

The place was packed, mostly by mercenaries, though there were also some dwarves and humans who came in on the caravan from Balic. The lighting was dim, provided by a few lanterns hanging from the ceiling above the stages. The tables were full, and there were stools around each stage, as well.

Men crowded the edges of the stages, staring up at the undulating dancers and shouting encouragement as they held out coins. The dancers would gyrate over to the men and take the coins in some creative way, either bending over backward and grabbing them with their teeth or allowing the men to slip them inside their girdles. Each dancer carried a small coin purse tied to her belt, and presumably at the end of each dance, she would empty the purse so it could be filled afresh.

As Tajik, Sorak, and Ryana stood at the entrance, a fight between a couple of mercenaries broke out in front of them. Before more than a few blows could be exchanged, several large human bouncers separated the combatants and promptly escorted them outside.

“Fascinating,” said Ryana, looking around. “The atmosphere seems… primitive and energetic.”

“Well, I suppose that’s one way of putting it,” said Tajik. “Come, let’s sit at the bar. From there, you can see the entire room.”

An attractive young human female wearing practically nothing came up and led them to the bar, then departed with a smile.

“Greetings, Tajik,” the burly barkeeper said, leaning over and raising his voice above the music. “It’s been a while. What’ll you have?”

“A tankard of your best ale, Stron,” said Tajik. He turned to Ryana.

“I’ll have the same,” she said.

“Some water, please,” said Sorak.

“What?” the barkeeper said, as if unsure he had heard correctly.

“Water,” Sorak repeated.

“Water?”

“Yes, please. Water.”

“I’ll have to charge you for it,” said the barkeeper.

“I will be glad to pay,” said Sorak. “How much?”

“Stron… just give my friend some water,” Tajik said.

“Well, seeing as how he’s a friend of yours…”

“Thank you, my friend,” said Tajik.

“Water,” repeated the barkeeper, shaking his head and grimacing. “Two ales and one water, coming up.”

Sorak glanced up at the stage behind the bar. The woman dancing there wore nothing save a skimpy girdle that consisted of a thong and a piece of cloth no bigger than an eye patch. Her long red hair cascaded down her shoulders, framing a large and perfectly shaped pair of breasts. She came down a short flight of wooden steps leading to the bar from the stage, moving slowly and swaying her hips.

She stepped down onto the surface of the bar and the patrons hurriedly moved their drinks to give her room. As they held out their coins, she knelt on the bartop before them, with her back to them. Most of the customers were apparently well familiar with her routine. They placed the coins between their teeth as she bent over backward, leaning back so that her face was just below theirs, then they bent their heads down so that she could take the coin from them in her own teeth. As the exchange was made, their lips barely brushed hers, then she straightened, turned around, and gently caressed each man on the cheek or ran her ringers through his hair. She would finish by looking at each man suggestively as she briefly slipped the coin inside her girdle, then dropped it into her purse before moving on.

One customer became a bit carried away and spat the coin out before she could take it from him, then crushed his mouth to hers. Instantly, two large and muscular bouncers appeared behind him and carried him away as the others cheered and shouted.

“This is what men like?” Ryana asked, raising her eyebrows.

“Some men, apparently,” said Sorak.

“Not you?” she asked.

“I would never put money in my mouth,” he said.

“Yes, one has no way of knowing where it’s been,” Ryana replied dryly.

The barkeeper brought them their drinks and then the dancer moved in front of Sorak. She stood over him atop the bar, swaying her hips in time to the music, and slowly came down to her knees before him, facing him. Sorak looked up into her eyes. She smiled, parted her lips, and ran her tongue around them. He shook his head slightly and placed a coin down on the bar. She raised her eyebrows, then glanced briefly at Ryana. She mouthed a kiss at her, glanced briefly back at Sorak, picked up the coin, dropped it in her purse, and moved on.

“I think she likes you,” Tajik said with a grin.

“I think she likes his money,” Ryana replied.

“I wasn’t speaking to him” said Tajik with a slightly mocking smile.

Ryana cleared her throat uncomfortably. “I thought we came here to find out some information.”

“I thought you came because you were curious to see a pleasure house,” said Sorak, keeping a perfectly straight face.

“Well, now I’ve seen it,” she said.

“Oh, you haven’t seen the best part yet,” said Tajik. “You haven’t seen the star attraction.”

“I can hardly wait,” Ryana said with a grimace.

The music stopped, and the dancers left the stage, then a red-haired dwarf stepped up in front of the musicians as everybody clapped and shouted. Raising his voice above the din, the dwarf called out, “Are you ready for more?”

There was a resounding chorus of assent.

“Well, more you shall have!” the dwarf shouted. “Remember, the girls dance for your enjoyment, and for your tips, so please be generous! They all have sick old mothers to care for!”

There was laughter and shouting, then the dwarf raised his hands for silence, which he didn’t get. “Don’t forget,” he shouted over the noise, “you can ask your favorite girl for an exclusive, private dance, and she will be happy to oblige! They are all very obliging!”

There was more laughter and the dwarf signaled the musicians. They started a new song, which sounded much like the previous one, and a fresh shift of dancers took the stages.

Tajik saw someone that he knew and waved him over. A mercenary joined them at the bar and greeted Tajik with a hearty back slap that made the ferry captain’s teeth rattle.

“Tajik, you old scoundrel! Why aren’t you home counting your money?”

“Because I’m here, buying you a drink,” Tajik replied.

The mercenary threw an arm around his shoulder. “That’s the kind of talk I like to hear! Barkeeper! Ale!”

The barkeeper set a drink in front of the mercenary, and Tajik paid.

“I hear you had some trouble earlier this evening,” said the mercenary.

“Yes, an encounter with some giants,” Tajik said. “It was close. They almost sank me this time.”

“So they say,” the mercenary said. “Everyone is talking about it, exaggerating as usual. I even heard some ridiculous nonsense about one of your passengers jumping overboard and killing a giant with his sword.”

“Neither ridiculous nor nonsense,” Tajik replied. He pointed to Sorak. “This is the very passenger. He saved all our lives.”

The mercenary turned to stare at Sorak. “Truly? You killed a giant, hand-to-hand?”

“I was fortunate,” said Sorak.

“Well, then let me shake your hand, stranger,” said the mercenary.

“Sorak, Drom,” said Tajik, performing the introductions, “and the lady is Ryana.”

As the somewhat inebriated mercenary focused his gaze on Ryana, his eyes grew wide. “Gith’s blood!” he said. “I’d like to see you up there on the stage!”

“Mind your manners, you great oaf!” said Tajik, sharply. “Are you so blind drunk you can’t see she is a priestess of the villichi sisterhood?”

The mercenary’s jaw dropped, then he blushed, bowed his head, and stammered an apology. “F-forgive me, my lady. I—I am a fool. Truly, it was not drink but your beauty that had blinded me.”

“Nice save,” said Sorak, lifting his goblet to his lips.

“Tajik is right, I am an oaf,” the mercenary said. “I have offended you both. How may I make amends?”

“Well, perhaps you can help with some information,” Tajik said.

“Yes,” said Sorak, “do you know of a mercenary by the name of Kieran?”

“Kieran of Draj?”

“I do not know where he hails from,” Sorak replied, “but he is a blond, good-looking man, blue eyed and clean shaven, about my height, very muscular, and dresses expensively, in rare hides.”

“That sounds like him,” said Drom, nodding. “He carries iron weapons, a sword and two stiletto daggers, the hilts wrapped with silver wire?”

“That’s the man,” said Sorak. “What do you know of him?”

“Good blade,” said Drom emphatically. “One of the very best. A seasoned campaigner. Served with the Drajian army—joined up as a boy, they say— and worked his way up through the ranks to regimental commander. Might have made general, too.”

Sorak frowned. “What happened?”

“I’m a little dry,” the mercenary said, rubbing his throat. Sorak took the hint and ordered him another ale. When it arrived, Drom was distracted for a moment by a dancer who stopped before him on the bar and reached out with her foot to brush her toes against his chest. Drom kissed her foot and tossed her a coin, which she caught adroitly. She bent down and pecked his cheek lightly, then moved on. “Where was I?”

“Why did Kieran fail to make general?” Sorak prompted.

“Ah, yes. Well, he killed a Drajian nobleman.”

“You mean he murdered him?” Ryana asked.

“No, it was a duel,” said Drom.

“Let me guess,” said Tajik. “They quarreled over a woman.”

“You might say that,” Drom replied, “but it isn’t what you think. The girl was the nobleman’s daughter.”

“Ah,” said Tajik. “And Kieran’s attentions were unwelcome?”

“They were more than welcome,” Drom replied. “They were in love and planned to marry. But the girl’s father disapproved. He refused to allow his daughter to wed a soldier, and a commoner at that. The way the story goes, she argued with her father, and he beat her. When Kieran learned of it, he publicly called the man a craven coward—and a few other names, besides—and struck him. Well, that was enough right there to put an end to his career, but the nobleman lost his temper and challenged him on the spot. Kieran killed him, for which he was arrested and sentenced to death. When the girl heard of it, she took her own life by swallowing poison.”

“How awful!” said Ryana.

“How did Kieran survive the sentence?”

“Friends interceded for him,” Drom replied. “And his regiment threatened mutiny. The death sentence was commuted to exile for life, and his estate was confiscated. When Kieran left Draj, without a copper to his name, almost a third of his regiment left with him. The rest had families and other ties, or else they might have gone as well.

They formed their own company of mercenaries and hired out to whatever kingdom needed fighting men to fill out their armies for campaigns. In time, attrition thinned their numbers until only a few were left. Eventually, the ones who survived all went their separate ways.”

“You seem to know a great deal about him,” Sorak said.

“I should,” said Drom. “I served with him in the army of Raam during the war with Urik. By then, he had only half a dozen men from the original regiment. They were fierce fighters, to a man, and intensely loyal. Where did you encounter him?”

“He met him on my boat,” said Tajik. “Kieran was there when Sorak slew the giant. He offered him employment.”

Drom looked surprised. “Kieran, here? In South Ledopolus?”

“He said he was on his way to Altaruk, to accept a post as captain of the guard for the House of Jhamri,” Sorak said.

“Ah,” said Drom. “Well, they can afford him, certainly. But it is a pity to see a top blade such as Kieran reduced to service with a merchant house guard. Truly, it is a waste of talent. Ah… it seems my goblet’s empty.”

“Another round for my friend,” said Sorak, to the barkeeper.

“Well, if Kieran offered you employment, you must have made a strong impression,” Drom said, as another drink was set before him. “You could do far worse. I would accept the job if I were you.

You will be paid well, and you will learn much in the bargain.”

“Thank you,” Sorak said. “I appreciate the advice.”

“When you see him, tell him Drom of Urik sends his regards. Most likely, he’ll not remember me. I am not a memorable man.”

“I will be sure to pass on your regards,” said Sorak.

Drom nodded, suddenly looking depressed. “Thank you for the drinks, friend,” he said. “And for the conversation. Sometimes, it is good to remember the old glory days.” He belched. “And sometimes, not so good.” He turned to Ryana and bowed, unsteadily. “My lady…”

Sorak watched him stagger off.

“He used to be a good man,” said Tajik as he watched Drom weave away into the crowd. “But drink has got the better of him. He fought in over a dozen wars, and now he guards the construction of a bridge in a small village stuck out in the middle of nowhere. Think on that, my friend. The trade of mercenary can be rewarding for a young man with some skill, but do not remain in it too long.”

The music stopped and the dwarf took the stage again, raising his arms for silence. “I know what you’ve all been waiting for!” he shouted. “The time has come! The Desert Damsel proudly presents… the lovely, the incomparable… Cricket!”

The crowd roared, and the drummers rattled off a fast tattoo, then stopped abruptly and started a slow and steady, gently rolling beat, accentuated by the bells and cymbals. The crowd fell silent as the beaded curtain at the back of the main stage parted, revealing the backlit silhouette of a tall, slender, beautifully proportioned woman in a sheer, transparent gown.

She moved sinuously in the backlight, swaying slowly to the beat, tantalizing the audience with the silhouette of her body showing through the gown, then she stepped into the light, and Sorak caught his breath. She was breathtakingly beautiful, a young half-elf girl with long, dark, silver-streaked hair almost to her waist; a heart-shaped face with slanted, dark eyes; delicately arched eyebrows; high, pronounced cheekbones; full lips and a slightly pointed chin. Her body was slender yet curvaceous, with a slim and narrow waist and long, exquisite legs. The other dancers had all been greeted with raucous shouts and cheers when they came on, but Cricket’s entrance brought utter silence as the men watched, mesmerized.

“That’s the star attraction,” Tajik said softly.

Unlike the other girls, who writhed provocatively and assumed seductive poses in time to the music, Cricket danced. Her muscular control was impressive as she undulated her upper body in time to the music, her belly rippling like the surface of a gently flowing stream and her arms stretched over her head moving languidly, like the wings of a graceful bird. Slowly, the musicians picked up the tempo and she began to whirl, bumping and twisting her hips in time to the beat, moving on tiptoe as she twirled and spun. She sank down slowly into a perfect split, her upper body swaying, bending over first to touch one leg and then the other. Then she twisted on the floor and crouched upon her knees, slowly bending backward until she touched the floor with the back of her head, her arms raised over her chest and intertwining like snakes coupling as her hips rose and fell rhythmically. It was beautiful, sensuous, and blatantly erotic.

“Worth the wait, eh?” Tajik said with a grin. Sorak glanced over at him and saw Ryana watching him curiously.

“I… uh… have never seen anyone dance like that,” said Sorak.

“Nor have I,” Ryana said in a neutral tone. “She’s very beautiful, isn’t she?”

“Yes,” said Sorak, turning back toward the stage, “she is.”

Cricket slowly raised herself up and got to her feet, and the gown fell away from her as if removed by unseen hands. Somehow, she managed to shrug free of it without ever appearing to remove it, allowing it to slowly slip down her body until it was bunched at her feet. Gracefully, she stepped out of it, now dressed only in the smallest of girdles and a halter consisting of thongs and two tiny pieces of lizardskin. She wore a thin silver chain around her waist and another around her left ankle, with a tiny silver bell hanging from it. Around her thigh, she wore a lizardskin garter with a small pouch sewn into it, only large enough for one coin at a time.

As the men crowded the stage, holding out their coins, she pirouetted toward each of them, stopping and undulating her stomach muscles as she put one leg forward, bent slightly at the knee, her bare foot arched gracefully with only the toes touching the floor, and the men would slip their coins into the garter pouch. A few of them tried to run their hands up her leg, or kiss it, but she twisted away adroitly, snatching up the coins with her hand as she spun away, then turning back toward them and smiling with a slight shake of her head.

Sorak glanced at some of the other dancers. Some of the women were gazing at her with obvious envy or resentment. Others watched her with open and undisguised lust. And those were just the women. She drove the men absolutely wild. Half a dozen were carried out as they tried to climb up on the stage, and the rest were shoving and elbowing each other, trying to get closer.

“She’s pulling out all the stops tonight,” said Tajik, shaking his head as he watched her dance. “If she doesn’t watch out, she’ll start a riot.”

The music reached a crescendo, though it was barely audible in the roar, and with a graceful flourish, Cricket finished and curtsied low, bowing to the crowd. Coins rained upon the stage. The overworked bouncers moved in to restore order, pushing the crowd back.

“A round of drinks for everyone, courtesy of the Desert Damsel!” the dwarf shouted, and he looked relived as everyone immediately surged toward the bar.

Cricket started picking up the coins. As she crouched by the lip of the stage, a hand snaked out and grabbed her by the wrist.

“How about a private dance, my lovely?” a powerfully built mercenary said.

“I do not perform private dances,” Cricket replied. “Please, let go.”

“Come on, now, I’ve already paid for the room.”

“Then ask one of the other girls,” said Cricket. “Now let me go.”

“You’re the one I want,” the mercenary insisted. “Now get down here.” And he yanked her right off the stage onto the floor.

At once, two bouncers moved in, but without letting go of Cricket’s wrist, the mercenary kicked out at the first one, breaking his knee, and smashed the second one in the jaw. Both men went down, the first one screaming with pain, the second unconscious.

Sorak started to rise from his stool, but felt Tajik’s hand on him. “Keep out of it,” the ferry captain said. “Turin pays these men well for their pains, and they know their business.”

Indeed, they seemed to, for even as Tajik spoke, Sorak saw three more bouncers move in, this time with three-foot agafari fighting sticks.

The brawny mercenary knew his business, too. He released Cricket, shoving her against the stage behind him and turned to meet the bouncers. As the first one came in with an overhanded blow of the fighting stick, the mercenary took it on crossed forearms, catching it on the muscle rather than bone, and then deftly wrenched the stick out of the bouncer’s grasp while kicking him in the groin. Without pause, he pivoted, sidestepped a blow from the second bouncer, and cracked the stick against the side of his head.

As the second bouncer went down, the mercenary quickly dropped to the floor and swept the third bouncer’s legs out from under him. He, too, fell, and the mercenary brought the heel of his booted foot down hard on the man’s throat, collapsing his larynx and trachea. The bouncer made a horrible gargling sound and thrashed several times, then choked on his own blood.

Moving swiftly and smoothly, the big mercenary got back to his feet, snatching up the third bouncer’s fighting stick as well, so that he now had one in each hand. Cricket tried to crawl away, but he saw her and hooked a stool with his foot, sending it crashing against the stage, just missing her. She cried out and stayed huddled where she was. Two more bouncers moved in, and by now the crowd had gathered round, watching and cheering the combatants.

The fighting sticks whirled in the mercenary’s hands as he met the two remaining bouncers and, moments later, both were lying senseless and bleeding on the floor.

The crowed cheered, and the mercenary dropped the sticks and turned back to Cricket. He grabbed her arm and hauled her to her feet.

Sorak got up off his stool, shaking off Tajik’s hand, and Ryana rose beside him.

“I’d say I’ve earned a lot more than just a private dance,” the big mercenary said. And as he turned to drag her upstairs, he found Kieran blocking his way, standing there with his arms folded across his chest.

Sorak paused, holding out his arm in front of Ryana. The crowd fell silent.

“You’re in my way,” the big mercenary said to Kieran.

“Yes, I suppose I am,” Kieran replied.

“Move.”

“I don’t believe I will.”

“Well, well,” the big mercenary said, derisively. “So you want to play the gallant, eh? You think the whore is worth it?”

“Oh, I’m not doing it for her,” said Kieran, casually. “I’m doing it for you.”

The big mercenary stared at him. “What?”

“It’s for the benefit of your education. You require a lesson in manners. You seem pretty good with those sticks. You want to find out just how good you are?”

The big mercenary grinned unpleasantly and shoved Cricket back to the floor, then picked up the two fighting sticks he’d dropped. “You’re the one who’s going to get a lesson,” he said with a sneer, as he twirled die fighting sticks in his hands.

Kieran bent to pick up one of the fighting sticks, but before he could grab a second one, the big mercenary moved quickly and kicked it away into the crowd.

“Kieran!” someone in the crowd shouted, and in the next instant, a fighting stick came sailing toward him.

Kieran snatched it out of the air and glanced to see who had thrown it. He spotted the man and nodded his thanks, then smiled.

“It’s been a few years,” he said. “The war with Urik, wasn’t it?”

Sorak saw Drom break out in a surprised grin.

Kieran looked down and experimentally hefted the sticks. “These really aren’t balanced very well,” he said, and in that moment, the big mercenary struck. Kieran raised his sticks, almost casually, without even seeming to look, and they moved in a rapid blur, with an accompanying rat-a-tat-tat of wood as he blocked the mercenary’s blows. The big man retreated quickly, and Kieran looked up, as if with surprise. “Oh, have we started?”

The big mercenary snarled and came back at him. The sticks moved so quickly it was almost impossible to make out the individual blows as both men struck and parried, crossing their arms in front of them as it they were batting away insects, and the clatter of the sticks against each other sounded like a rapid drum roll. Then they sprang apart as the crowd cheered in approval of the display.

“You’re good, I’ll give you that,” the big mercenary said grudgingly.

Kieran shrugged. “I’m a little out of practice.”

With a growl, the mercenary came at him again. There was a blur of sticks, a clattering tattoo of wood on wood, and then one of the mercenary’s sticks flew from his grasp. The big man sprang back, shaking his hand with pain.

“You dropped something,” Kieran said. He pointed with one of his sticks. “It’s over there. Go on, pick it up. I’ll wait.”

The mercenary stared at him with loathing, then went to pick up the dropped stick.

Kieran shrugged his shoulders several times, rolling them as if working out some kinks. “Bit stiff, but I think I’m starting to warm up.”

“You bastard,” the mercenary said, and moved in again. The sticks whirled, clattered, moving with blinding speed, and then there was the sharp crack of a stick on bone and the mercenary cried out and staggered, bringing one of his hands, still clutching the stick, up to the side of his head.

“Sorry,” Kieran said. “Clumsy of me.”

Roaring, the mercenary charged him. Kieran sidestepped the rush, simultaneously sweeping the mercenary’s legs out from under him and rapping quickly on his head as he fell.

“Watch out for that spilled ale,” he said. “It makes the floor slippery.”

Stunned, the mercenary slowly got back up to his feet, pure murder in his eyes. With a sudden motion, he hurled one of the sticks at Kieran, who raised both his sticks and, with a quick flourish, batted the missile away.

“You want to use just one?” he asked, then shrugged. “Suits me.” And he tossed one of his sticks away.

The mercenary screamed with rage and charged once again, bringing his stick down in a vicious, sweeping blow. Kieran parried with a circular motion and hooked his stick under the charging mercenary’s arm as he sidestepped and somehow the man was suddenly flipped and flying through the air. The crowd parted quickly as he landed on his back with a loud crash on a table, which broke under his weight. The crowd broke out in cheers and applause.

Kieran looked at the motionless figure of the mercenary for a moment, shrugged, and tossed his stick aside, then went over to Cricket and offered her a hand, helping her up. Turin came rushing up to them.

“Magnificent!” he said, effusively. “Truly magnificent! I have never seen anything like it! Whatever you wish, it’s on the house tonight! And I’m sure Cricket will be happy to give you a private dance in one of our comfortable rooms upstairs, won’t you, Cricket?”

“No, I won’t,” she said, firmly. “I quit!”

Turin chuckled awkwardly. “There, there, now, you’re upset, and I can certainly understand, under the circumstances, but this gentleman has just fought on your behalf and surely you wouldn’t be so ungrateful as to refuse him?”

“The lady owes me nothing,” Kieran said. “Scum like that give my profession a bad name. I acted on my own behalf.”

“Well, it is very gallant of you to say that,” Turin replied, “but I am certain once Cricket gets over her shock and has some time to think things over, she’ll want to be properly appreciative.”

“Do not misunderstand,” Cricket said to Kieran, “I am very grateful for what you did, and if there is some way I can repay you, I will try. But not… that way. I… I cannot.”

“I understand,” said Kieran. “I would never wish a woman to lie with me out of a sense of obligation. And, as I said, I did not do it for you. You owe me nothing.”

“I owe you my thanks, at the very least,” said Cricket, “but I am leaving this place tonight. The caravan is departing for Altaruk tomorrow and I am going with it.”

“Then I will look forward to the pleasure of your company. We shall be traveling together.”

“Now, Cricket, there is nothing to be served by making hasty decisions,” Turin said. “You’re upset now, and—”

“I had already booked passage before this happened,” Cricket interrupted him. “I am leaving, Turin, so don’t try to stop me. I am already packed.”

Turin’s jaw dropped. “Is this how you repay me, after all I’ve done for you?”

“After all you have done for me?” said Cricket angrily. “I have made you a great deal of money, Turin! I have earned every copper I have made in this place, and more, but at least I have done it without compromising my virtue!”

“Your virtue?” Turin said. “Oh, really! Isn’t it a bit ludicrous for you to put on the airs of an affronted virgin?”

“I am a virgin!” she shouted at him.

Everyone fell silent. Turin simply stared at her with shock.

“Damn you, Turin,” she said softly as tears flowed down her cheeks.

“May I escort you home, my lady?” Kieran asked, offering her his arm.

“I… I have to get my things,” she stammered.

“I will bring them to you,” an elven bard said, stepping up beside her. He patted her on the shoulder. “Go on, now,” he said, handing her his cloak. “It will be all right.” He smiled. “You’ve certainly given them something to remember you by.”

She smiled through her tears. “Thank you, Edric,” she said, kissing him on the cheek. “Please,” she said to Kieran, “I want to go home now.”

The crowd parted for them as they turned to leave.

Behind them, the big mercenary regained consciousness and sat up groggily. His gaze focused on Kieran, and he reached behind his neck, pulling a stiletto from a concealed sheath on his back, under his tunic. He drew his arm back…

“Kieran, look out!” Drom shouted.

Kieran spun around just in time to see a ceramic bottle come flying through the air and shatter against the big mercenary’s temple. The man grunted and collapsed, dropping the knife. Kieran looked quickly to see who had thrown it. His gaze fell on Sorak. Sorak simply nodded at him.

Kieran smiled. “That’s two I owe you, Sorak,” he said. “My thanks. I won’t forget.”

Edric turned to stare at Sorak intently.

“Well, I think I’ve had enough entertainment for one night,” Ryana said.

Sorak offered her his arm. “In that case, my lady, will you allow me to escort you home?”

She took his arm and snuggled up against him. “Would you like a private dance, as well?”

“I didn’t know you could dance,” said Sorak with surprise.

“I can’t,” she replied, batting her eyelashes.

“Tajik,” Sorak said, “we’re leaving now.”

“Well, I must say, it’s certainly been an interesting night,” said the ferry captain as he led them toward the door. Behind them, Edric continued to stare at Sorak. Then he turned to Turin. “I will return for Cricket’s things,” he said.

“Aah, do as you like, and good riddance to you both,” said Turin, sourly. But Edric was already heading for the door.