Dangerous

By Stephanie Barr

Hopeful as the third moon rising on the horizon over a dying colony.
Witty as a murder of crows searching for the worst kind of soul stealer.
Desperate as a man fighting against a fate that's been already been defined.
Dangerous as a jaguar in the mist of a Louisiana night.

Sometimes a short story isn't enough to satisfy.

Dangerous. Ten big bite stories for when you need something with a little meat.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stephanie Barr
• Release date: Sep 8, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215223451

Stephanie Barr

Although Stephanie Barr is a slave to three children and a slew of cats, she actually leads a double life as a part time novelist and full time rocket scientist. People everywhere have learned to watch out for fear of becoming part of her stories. Beware! You might be next!

Book preview

Dangerous

by Stephanie Barr

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2023 Stephanie Barr

Discover other titles by Stephanie Barr

Conjuring Dreams: Learning to Write by Writing

Tarot Queen

Beast Within (First of the Bete Novels)

Nine Lives (Second of the Bete Novels)

Twice the Man (Third and final Bete Novel)

Saving Tessa

Musings of a Nascent Poet

Curse of the Jenri

Legacy

Ideal Insurgent

The Taming of Dracul Morsus

Pussycats Galore

Catalyst

The Library at Castle Herriot

Add a Cup of Chaos

Inner Worlds

Dedicated to Stephanie, Roxy and Alex, always.

To Chuck Larlham and Jen Ponce who supported these stories at every step along the way, but beta read the whole thing again without complaint. There were a number of folks that beta read stories before they were published and wish I could remember all of them, but these were over several years and I don't.

Beta readers (Jane Jago, Ivan Martins, Kathy Highstreet, Hilary Anderson and Ana Marija Meshkova) of this final compilation were much appreciated finding those pesky errors that remained.

Cover by Alex Calder

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

Epic Fantasy

Fool's Errand

The Wrong Bitch

Fate's Partner

Urban Fantasy

Must Be Murder

Dangerous

Tail of Death

Never Again

Science Fiction/Fantasy

Trial By Fire

Captain Neko

Emperor's Companion

About the Author

Epic Fantasy

I started my prose career with sword and sorcery. The stories in this section are all of that type.

Fool's Errand

Fools' Errand lives in the same world as Curse of the Jenri and involves a sword I first built in The Intemperate Sword which can be found in Conjuring Dreams. One of the main characters might still end up in a novel of her own. This story was first published in Fierce Tales: Crumbling Empires published in 2018 by Milhaven Press.

Sulvan the Sorcerer seethed as he stomped his way back toward his home. His feet, shod in soft leather shoes, pounded into the dusty thoroughfare with quite unsatisfactory thwacks. Normally, he'd be all but indistinguishable, masked in a shadow spell, and his silent shoes would ensure his finery wouldn't entice a pickpocket or cause a stir. Well, he was causing a stir now. His long silk robe in midnight blue and silver dragged the filthy cobbles, a display of wealth bound to make him noticed—and bring his wife's censure on his head—though it would take a brave cutpurse to approach a man of his height or furious mien. Honest citizens scurried out of his way.

The gaudily painted gate to his home loomed at his right. Rather than bother to dig out his key, he touched the lock and pushed his way through to the charming courtyard his wife kept festive with flowers and vines. His groom was combing down his mare, Bae, by the stable door. Sulvan was in no mood to be charmed and growled in answer to the man's friendly nod. The front door to the house, at least, slammed in a gratifying way, bringing both the cook and his wife to the front hall.

The cook, Dran, was liberally festooned with flour and began to protest at the scare but was shooed away almost at once by his wife, Meyda.

Yes, yes, Meyda said soothingly. I'll tell him. Go back to your pasties.

Dran allowed herself to be mollified and went back into the depths of the house with a slam of her own.

There! Sulvan said in throbbing accents of tremendous ill-usage. "Did you think I was so useless that I must be protected from a kitchen menial? Is that how low I have become in your esteem?"

Meyda regarded him out of eyes that, despite more than a century of life, had lost none of their sharpness. Come into the parlor and tell me what the king said.

I don't take orders from you, woman, Sulvan said, letting an edge of his temper sharpen the words.

Meyda's eyes narrowed. "Sulvan, my love, you know I sent Dran away to protect her from your bad temper, but if you think to unleash it on me instead, let me remind you of what happened last time you tried that. She gestured to the open parlor door. Are you coming?"

Sulvan towered over the emaciated matron with the kindly face and hard-as-agate eyes, then seemed to crumple onto himself. Yes, dear. When he spotted the cane in her hand and realized she was limping, he offered her his arm and helped her into the parlor and into her favorite chair. The cheery fire in the grate argued that Meyda was also suffering from chills.

And, as he disposed her carefully and fetched her the crimson blanket he found tossed on the other chair, he thought ruefully that if she thought less of him than he wished, he could hardly blame her. He had failed to stem the depravations of a mundanely acquired degenerative disease. Slowed it, certainly, but there was no escaping the fact it was winning. Are you in considerable pain? Should I make you a potion?

She smiled up at him, all the hardness gone from her lovely gray eyes, her seamed face transformed thereby into beauty that time could not touch. Thank you, no. Sit down and tell me about the king. Didn't he call you up to commend you for successful resolution of the drought in the southern counties?

Sulvan began to seat himself in the matching gold-toned chair but rose again to pace the room when she reminded him of the king's perfidy. He might have, Sulvan felt he had to concede, "in passing. Though he did not mention a bonus and surely weather control is worth a bit of extra gold. No, after decades of loyal service to three generations of kings, that whelp of a boy summons me summarily and thinks to give me some petty time-consuming, tiring task better suited to any one of the courtiers that fawn over him. I'm a sorcerer, not a diplomat. Or a spy, he said as he paced furiously around the room. He stopped to shake a finger menacingly, Which I told him, but was he listening? No."

But what did he want?

Sulvan made a fair imitation of the young king's shaky countertenor. "'Find out why my eastern towns no longer send taxes and why my envoys have not returned. It must be the work of magic! But seek it out quietly so the Lords don't start getting ideas.'"

Magic? he said in his own bass-baritone. Magic be damned! The king was just wanting someone to solve his problem for him. What would a magic-user want with a lot of peasant towns? Send a general with an army. Send a diplomat. What the hell would sorcerers care about taxes or taking over towns? It's absurd.

No, that does seem unlikely, but the circumstance surely sounds disturbing. And he's so young and inexperienced.

The boy's got a dozen advisors. Why not send one of them? Oh, well, I guess he sent one or two. Still...

What did you say?

Sulvan stopped his pacing. Well, of course, what could I do? Of course, I said I'd do it. I nixed his first idea of pretending I was some sort of government official. I'll check it out disguised as a bard.

Her brows lifted. Well, you've certainly a fine voice, but isn't that too dangerous? I mean, you're not a young man anymore.

I doubt there will be anything to worry about, Sulvan said dismissively, then paused to add, "But, he did seem concerned about that. He offered me one of his ham-handed guards, but I turned him down. No one will believe I'm a bard with one of those thugs at my heels."

He could see she wasn't happy about the situation but was smart enough not to argue. She bit her lip. When do you go?

I've some incantations I promised Sister Marl and another reducing potion for Andel. Also, I want to have some potions brewed up for you while I'm gone since I'm not entirely sure how long I'll be. He placed a gentle kiss on the back of her hand. "And you will take the medicine I leave you, won't you, dear?"

She sighed. If I must.

He placed a second kiss on her forehead. Then I will ensure you have all you need and give Dran instructions for preparing them. He frowned, counting the days and tasks before him. I should be able to leave at the end of the se'ennight but not much earlier.

Could—would you not take someone from the mercenary hall with you? I can see forgoing one of the king's soldiers, but—

His smile was gentle. You worry too much, dear. How could I take any sort of bruiser with me without someone suspecting something off? What bard has a bodyguard? Besides, I was alive nearly a century before I happened upon you and I've a century or so still in me. He couldn't quite stop himself from glancing down at her legs, wasting away beneath the blanket, and tightened his lips. I'm no soldier but a sorcerer doesn't survive so long as I have without knowing a few tricks to protect himself.

Her eyes, vague and disquieted, sharpened again and glanced up at him. But you won't be a sorcerer, will you? Instead, you'll be in disguise as a bard and a great deal of trouble you'll be in if they find out. There are many places, still, where magic users are distrusted and killed for the slightest excuse.

It's better than it once was, he assured her, stroking her hand. And I'm wiser than I once was. Good to keep my mind sharp to have to extricate myself by logic rather than sorcery. Don't worry. Shall I have Dran bring you some tea?

He turned the conversation every time she tried to go back. The real issue was that he was leaving, and he didn't want to think about what that said about himself. The spells he had used to forestall the devastation of her disease were breaking down. He'd set the strongest guards on her wonderful, amazing mind. Still, with her limbs already failing, the collapse soon after would be inevitable, more brutal for the spells that had imprisoned the degeneration, much like a dam bursting.

He needed to be here with her because he loved her so much.

He wanted to be anywhere else while she died.

You really will go, she said, dully, but so much more was in those four words. She knew he knew she would never get better. She probably knew, if she lived to wave him goodbye, she would not be here on his return. And that he knew it, too. But, as always, she wouldn't complain.

He was a wretch.

But he would give her today and spend the rest of the afternoon regaling her with gossip he'd picked up the past few days, the bits of information she used to soak up when she was still a vital member of the neighborhood instead of all but trapped in this house. How long had it been? Why hadn't he noticed?

Because he hadn't wanted to.

That night, he carried her gently up to bed, despite her protests. His leaving would hurt her, and she needed to know he still cherished her. Rather than go back to his lab as was his wont when she went to bed, he curled up beside her and took her hand so she could feel his warmth. He was surprised how easily he slipped into sleep after he'd blown out the candle.

It was a thump that woke him up. He jerked up to look and see if she had fallen off the bed, but she wasn't there. But he could feel she was near and saw a line of light under the door. What was she doing in the hallway?

His stomach suddenly sick with a fear he couldn't name, he stole into the hallway and thence to the door left open at the end of the hall, his lab, always kept locked. The doorway was suffused with the blue light that meant magic, more specifically, his magic. The fear became dread, and he ran.

His wife lay as a puddle on the floor. He felt for broken bones, but there was a large lump on the back of her head and far too much blood seeping out of it.

Meyda! Meyda! he breathed. feeling her soul already slipping away, her mind starving from loss of blood.

Do not try to save me, she said, one of her pupils already fully dilated, filling that eye with terrible darkness. I thought I could call her, summon her. You must not go alone, she said, her bloody hand touching his cheek. And I don't want to die alone.

You should have told me. Who were you calling?

I wanted it to be my last gift, she breathed, her breathing so shallow he couldn't tell at first if she breathed again until she said, Korva. And her eyes, her glorious, clever, indomitable eyes, dimmed at last.

Meyda was not a sorceress. She was a witch, mostly with herbs and simple homey spells, but she had a core of quiet power, perhaps built of nothing more than an iron will and a bountiful soul. She had saved his life once, nearly dying in the process, using everything she had. He'd vowed he'd never drive her to do so again, yet she had tried to use his instruments and the last of her life force to try to call their foster daughter. And was slain by gravity when she fell.

He could worry about that later. He had to fight the guilt, not only that his careless disregard for his own safety had pushed her to this, but also that he felt relieved, not that she was dead, but that he could be there for her...and that he didn't have to watch her waste away, which is what he should have done rather than accept the task from the king.

He'd driven her to this. Now, he wasn't sure what to do next. He was still too stunned to cry, too numb to think.

He picked up her body, so much heavier, somehow without its precious soul, carried it downstairs and to the larder behind the kitchen to take to the undertaker tomorrow. Then, with a weariness beyond anything he could recall, he climbed the stairs and fell into his bed to welcome oblivion.

***

Oblivion did not last nearly as long as he'd wanted it to, for Dran stumbled upon Meyda's corpse in the larder and started screaming. By the time he stumbled down to the ground floor and made his way to the kitchen, she was in full hysterics and immune to reason. He dumped an ewer of water on her and, when she showed what some signs of intelligence, he told her not to bother cooking today. He had to take Meyda to the undertaker, and she could indulge in a good cry in her room.

Dran, her face buried in her apron, seemed inclined to take him at his word and left running.

Sulvan took a moment to conjure a glamor to mask his nightshirt. With great gentleness, he lifted the stiffened body and carried her out. The undertaker was only a few doors away and this felt like the least he could do for her.

He'd forgotten to bring silver with him, so the undertaker had been loath to accept his pledge. In the end, he'd returned with the stubborn man and had given him the price he required...but no more.

He dropped the glamor and contemplated his next steps. He almost couldn't remember life without Meyda and, as he ruminated, he found himself reaching for her hand, turning to ask her things, and then remembering. He wondered if he should send his soul to sleep for a couple of years and hope he would feel less empty, less bereft, when he awoke. He thought of sending his inexperienced king and his request to Nether and abandoning everything, their home, his servants, his life there.

But, really, though he thought it a fool's errand, he knew he would purchase a lute and maybe a drum, finish the tasks he'd mentioned for everyone save Meyda, who no longer needed potions, and set out. And try to contact Korva to join him, Meyda's last wish.

Korva. He hadn't seen her in half a dozen years. Bastor, talk about a stubborn girl.

Korva was his foster daughter, though, of course, that was Meyda's doing. And, if he'd any idea how much trouble she'd be, he would have stood up to Meyda. He still would have lost, of course...

Korva had been tiny, just a slip of a girl, maybe eight, nine summers old, still with the awkward limbs that distinguished children of either sex at that age, and the hollowed-out face and form of a street urchin. Sulvan had found her defending her mother's dying body all but on his doorstep. She had taken up her mother's sword, a blade nearly as tall as she was, and was defending herself against half a dozen street toughs. And nearly won.

She was broken and battered at his feet when he sent the last would-be thief scurrying and he likely would have left her sword and her mother's corpse and taken her in to be treated, but she wouldn't release her hold, even unconscious, on sword or mother. The damned sword was clearly cursed, and he wanted nothing to do with it.

The mother was beyond saving, too empty of blood from half a dozen wounds to save the brain. Both Sulvan and Meyda had used their skills to treat Korva, and then Meyda had used her incredible persuasive powers—and she had needed every drop of them—to keep Korva from escaping as soon as her wounds had half-healed. Korva was belligerent, stubborn, and distrustful, but she bent under Meyda's kindness, though not enough to be cossetted. She let them feed and clothe her. She let Meyda tut-tut and comfort her, though Sulvan had never seen her cry.

When she was perhaps twelve cycles old, she disappeared with her strange sword for three days, and, when she returned, she had fresh injuries, and her sword sheath had scuffs, but she wore the first smile Sulvan had ever seen. Captain of the king's guard has agreed to let me train with them, she exulted.

Why? Sulvan had asked, confounded.

I have to be the best, she said. And when I've learned all they can teach me, I'll go to the assassin guild and then the mercenary guild.

Sulvan knew not what to say. Meyda knew, but even her persuasion could not shift Korva from her path.

Two years later, as Korva had predicted, she was training with the assassins—and Sulvan shuddered to think how she'd convinced them—while the Captain of the Guard had followed her home and beseeched her to join his guard. She'd laughed at that, patted his head, though she stood a good stride shorter than he did, and said she needed to learn more. He'd offered to wed then, but Korva spurned that, too, and Meyda and Sulvan had backed her when he tried to insist.

Sulvan had never been close to Korva, though he had a careless affection for her in a detached way. He didn't understand her, and she showed no interest in learning about him. Her contempt for magic was as profound as his disdain for brute fighting. Even so, he had been shocked when, at seventeen, she had told them she was leaving to make her way as a mercenary.

Once again, Meyda's pleas went unanswered, and Sulvan's protestations went unheeded. But she thanked them for her care and promised, when she was near, to stop by and visit.

Six years, and they'd never seen her again. Sulvan had heard some rumors of a skillful and ruthless woman mercenary, but they so often spoke of peril, he hadn't wanted to take them home to Meyda. Was she still alive? Close enough to come? Would she even care with Meyda gone?

He could only ask and wait as long as a se'ennight to see if she answered.

He left, ostensibly to visit Sister Marl to do her incantations. On the way, he slid down a side alley to the district that catered to mercenaries and solders and stopped at a particular inn that always had tales to tell of her and other talented fighters. He took a drink quietly at the end of the bar and spoke her name at the sigil Meyda had made for her when she left, mounted on the wall there. Having done what he could to fulfill Meyda's last wish, he slipped away, back to the mercantile section of the city.

Then, it was to Sister Marl where he was discommoded to have her weep all over him for Meyda's death. Dran, of course, when she'd recovered from her first wave of grief, had spread the news. Or it had been the undertaker. Either way, everyone he met commiserated or wept on his shoulder. He thanked or consoled, acutely uncomfortable, but no tears would come to him, though he felt he was full of them.

Returning from an exhausting day, he flustered Dran by thanking her for the meal she'd left out for him that he couldn't eat and went upstairs to the bed he and Meyda had shared.

And then past it, back into the laboratory and back to work late into the night for all the spells and potions he'd promised and many beyond, including some he might need for his travels. Those for others he left in wrapped in leather with the recipients' names. His own went into a bag he intended to take with him. When he found himself tired, he need only think of sleeping in the bed he had shared with her, and he found himself impelled to continue. Through the window, the moon was high when he finished his last potion, but he had hardly stoppered the bottle and slipped it into his bag when he passed out where he sat, his head among the bottles and jars on his workbench.

He woke sometime later, stiff and sore, feeling as though he had just been kissed. The sky was just starting to lighten in the window. Was it a dream?

The sound of pounding from the front door below stairs assaulted him. He tried to ignore it, but it was relentless. Where was Dran? Could she not answer it?

Frustrated, angry, exhausted, he flounced down the stairs intent on cursing anyone who would pound so mercilessly on his door so early in the morning when he was so very heartsick.

This a house in mourn— he began, then stopped.

Korva was there. One might say it was impossible to see his sullen, gangly foster-daughter in this tall, lithe beauty, but he knew it at once. She stood barely half a head shorter than he—and he was known for his height. Her long coppery red hair fell in a thick braid from her helmet. She wore a brace on both arms, a belt with knives, and the hilt of her damned cursed sword rose from its half scabbard on her back tucked beneath a round shield. All were well-oiled and scarred with use. A tunic of forest green leather reached to mid-thigh and a necklace of silver and emeralds Meyda had once given her glistened around her neck. It was a simple chain studded with small green stones, but it touched him to see it at her throat. Behind her, a horse waited, burdened with saddlebags.

He stepped out without thinking and held open his arms. Without a word or hesitation, she stepped into them. I'm so sorry, she murmured into his robe. I should have come before! I should never have— I'm so sorry!

When he felt the tears he hadn't thought she could shed—tears she had certainly never shed for herself—the embrace he thought she'd never return, the sobs he had not been able to release escaped. They racked his body as he sobbed on her shoulder. Korva! Korva! You came! he wept. Where have you been?

But she didn't answer, just cried with him, saying his name or Meyda's as they comforted each other on the doorstep of the home that was no longer quite so desolate. There was no telling how long they would have been if the stable hand hadn't looked out of the stable, roused perhaps by the noise, and clicked his tongue before disappearing again.

They were crouched on the ground, tangled up in their commiseration and dissolved in tears. As if a spell had lifted, they both lifted their heads, regarded each other's ravaged faces, and burst out laughing. She bounced to her feet with an ease he envied and offered him her hand to help him rise. He took it, wishing he was not so grateful. The weight of eighteen decades might be catching up with him after all, even if he didn't look it.

She leaned in as if to whisper something to him and a crossbow bolt embedded itself in the wall.

What in Bastet's name is—?

Korva was up and facing the courtyard, her sword in one hand, her shield in the other. Five minutes, Sulvan. Get what you need in five minutes. Make sure it includes gold so you can buy what you had to leave behind. I'll keep them back.

He wanted to argue but three more crossbow bolts came for them, two batted away with her shield, the third slicing so close it left a scratch along her cheek. Praying she could hold her own, he ran inside. He scrambled upstairs for the spells he'd made for himself. Hopefully, Dran could distribute the rest. He raided his stock box and retrieved several bags of gold and silver. He dropped one for Dran in case he never made it back. While he ran back down the stairs, he tried to shove the gold into his many pockets. Stumbling, he nearly tumbled into the parlor. He glanced through the window and saw one man down near the gate, one of Korva's knives sticking out of his neck. Another lay in a puddle of his own blood and gore at Korva's feet. There were bolts on the ground and a nick on her thigh.

The parlor shared a wall with the stable and with a murmured spell of teleportation, he was through it and face to face with his own placid mare, Bae, saddled by the ostler who looked more than a little spooked. Good thinking, Sulvan said, glad he didn't need to take more time. He dropped a small purse of silver in the man's hands and reached for smoke bombs he'd made. Korva, he called through the stable's windows. When she looked up, he threw it, knowing she'd catch on quickly and likely make her escape on his heels.

The groom opened the door for him and Sulvan murmured an illusion spell so Bae wouldn't be spooked by the smoke. Bae still hesitated but responded at last to his heels in her flank and jerked forward. As he bolted through the courtyard, he glanced behind to try to discern if Korva was coming after him but saw nothing. He turned forward just in time to see her leaning off the side of her own horse to snatch her knife from the would-be assassin's throat as she thundered past.

She half-slid through the gate to the street then galloped again on the thoroughfare, dodging the existing traffic. Sulvan urged his horse faster. Follow, Bae.

Bae was a good-natured steed but no laggard and followed close on Korva's heels. There were shouts behind him, though Sulvan didn't know if they were shouts from neighbors or assailants. A crossbow bolt whizzed by, missing him and his mount by a hand's width. Sulvan followed Korva's lead, threading through wagons and horses, carriages and pedestrians.

It wasn't far to the city's gate, but the horses were panting and sweating by the time they got there. And the assassins, if still in pursuit, were not in sight.

Sulvan used his haughtiest stare to convince the guard to pass them rather than his name. Guards were suckers for attitude. They walked the horses for perhaps the first half-league after leaving the city, before Korva dismounted, leading her horse into the woods.

Where are we going?

We can reach Tillbury cross-country in maybe another two leagues. If we walk the horses, they'll be in decent enough shape when we get there. We can stock up with none the wiser.

You think the assassins would follow us out of the city?

They weren't locals, so yes, she said, fishing something—turned out to be bread and cheese—from her saddle bag and handing it to him. Wrong fletching for the local guild and I'm not sure if they were professional assassins or something else.

What do you mean?

Someone, someone not local, wanted you taken out. That ever happen before?

No. Never. I have the king's protection, and everyone knows it. But there was this new assignment—oh!

Someone's not particularly afraid of the king—maybe even wants to scare him—but doesn't want to reveal his hand. Who knew about this assignment from the king?

I have no idea. I haven't told anyone but Meyda, though Dran and the groom might have known since servants always know everything. But I've no idea who the king might have told.

So, anyone could know. And we only need one person to be in communication with whatever the king wanted you to investigate.

Wait, you think there really is something for the king to be afraid of, something substantial to this concern he had? If it's military, what could I possibly do?

Doesn't seem like they're at all straightforward. Maybe you should tell me what led to my being called.

Sulvan dismounted and dropped to sit cross-legged, still holding the food. The trees screened the early morning sun, and they were far from the road, so secluded. The story surprised him, how easily it came. Meyda's malady that had started so small that he had thought he'd beaten it time and time again by addressing this or that symptom, while she stoically bore so much he chose not to see until it had corrupted every system. It was all he could do, with the best of his magic, to hold it at bay and spare her mind. What came harder was explaining how he welcomed jobs and distractions, so he didn't have to focus on watching her eaten up from within while he stood helpless. How, even in the end, he had embraced a stupid pointless task that would take him elsewhere rather than watch her die. I knew she needed me, but I couldn't bear to be with her as she was destroyed. He stopped. There wasn't much else to say, anyway. The rest Korva knew.

Task doesn't seem so pointless now. Did you think I'd berate you? Korva asked. She'd said nothing while he talked. How could I? Where was I? She reached out and touched his hand comfortingly. You know she understood.

That makes it worse!

Oh, by Bastor's black heart! a voice exclaimed, though the sound was muffled. Is that what sorcery has come to? I'm going to be sick. Korva shocked Sulvan by smacking the leather-wrapped hilt of her sword which was answered by a yelp of pain.

Didn't I tell you to be quiet, you stupid blade?

It's more than a man can bear, the voice answered. "In my day, sorcerers were real men, conquering the world with just their magic and their will, welcomed into the arms of women everywhere with wives who knew they were lucky if we came back at all. We weren't namby-pamby, puling babes, tied to the apron strings of their wives."

"And you see where that got you, don't you, Davyll?"

Morian was a cast iron bitch.

You got your just deserts, Korva said coldly. And now I have to explain you to Sulvan.

Sulvan felt like his head was spinning, which it might have been. He hadn't eaten much in the last two days and had had very little sleep. Am I dreaming?

See what you did? Korva slapped the hilt again.

If, the voice said stiffly, he was half the sorcerer he purports to be, he would have found out about me years since. Why don't you pay attention, you amateur?

Korva sighed. He's a sorcerer spelled into a sword hundreds, maybe thousands, of years ago and passed from mother to daughter. When I was recovering from my wounds, Meyda took it away and he began to berate her, so she spelled him silent. Lasted for a decade. A blissful, blissful decade.

That damned woman was cut from the same cloth as Morian, the sword said plaintively.

I don't doubt it, Korva said with approval. And if I find out you had anything to do with Meyda's illness, I'll put you hilt-first into the fire until your screams fill the sky.

I'd never!

Now be quiet. I'm talking to Sulvan. Now, where was I?

Sulvan had assayed the cheese and was feeling more himself than he had since finding Meyda in his lab. Blissful silence.

Right. That spell really helped me when I was training, but, though he couldn't talk, his powers were still good.

Powers?

We'll have plenty of time to go over that. Right now, we need to worry about whoever attacked you. These kind of indirect attacks, rather than an army's rebellion, are far more dangerous. For now, can you change your appearance? No one's going to forget a redhead like me with a striking fellow like yourself.

Got a mirror? he asked. I don't think a glamor will do. I'll need to really change my appearance.

She fished around for a minute and found a small one. It will have to do. I travel light.

Sulvan pulled out his own dagger and sliced off—just above the thong—the long tail of blue-black hair only slightly silvered. He shook out his shorn locks and, with concentration, enhanced the wave into a much tighter curl, then breathed a small spell that changed them from black to coppery-red, then did the same to his brows and lashes.

Sorcerers live for centuries, but he easily could have passed for forty or younger before, old enough to allow respect, but not so old as to seem infirm. With his hair poorly cut and a curly ginger, he looked half that age. He rounded his cheeks and chin, enhanced his slight overbite, and sprinkled his fair skin with numerous freckles. His haughty beak of a nose became an upturned snub. Now his excessive height looked like it belonged to an awkward overgrown teenager, not a regal sorcerer.

All right, I'm impressed. You'll have to ditch the robe, but I can buy the image. What's your cover?

Bard.

She barked out a laugh. Can you play?

Not really, but I can sing.

Works. It so happens I can play a lute. Now, work a whammy on me to change how I look. A pair of redheads is too conspicuous.

And a tall, gorgeous woman with a talking sword isn't?

Hmm. Can you make Davyll look like a lute?

One with a long neck I can.

Oh, I like that. I can play it. If anyone asks, I'll be your woman.

"My what? Sulvan asked aghast. And when did you learn to play the lute?"

Since I can't go around killing people without causing a stir, it's best that no one know I'm your muscle unless I need to save you. I'm much less likely to be accosted if men see me as 'taken.'

Surely, not all men are such animals.

Of course not, but there are still plenty that are.

He couldn't argue and it did make her presence easy to explain. Not how he thought of his daughter, still, in this way could protect her better than if she were unattached. And the lute?

Oh, well, you know how I love to learn. I've found myself in the company of a few people willing to teach me their skills including a bard. Or two.

Well, that was a line of discussion he didn't want to pursue. You'll have to take off your helmet and loosen your braid. Your hair is so lovely, too. In the end, he chose to do the opposite of what he'd done with his own locks and turned them blue-black, so the curls still caught the light.

She looked at the ends of her hair and nodded. That should work. We'll need different clothes. Maybe you could give us a glamor until we can change since your robes are apt to get noticed and I don't look like a simple warm armful. I'll get us some clothes and you see if you can get some trappings for the horses, maybe some supplies for traveling.

Are we staying there for the night? he asked, as some of his exhaustion began to hit him. When did his footsteps turn to lead?

I'd rather not. In fact, maybe I should leave you to sleep here in the woods where you're unlikely to be found while I go into town and get our supplies. The fewer places that see us together until our disguises are well in place, the better.

As if her words were a spell, he stumbled. She nodded. It's not even midmorning. I'll let you sleep, she said, pulling branches and leaves to make a bed beneath one of the elms. Fortunately, it's not cold and we haven't had rain here recently, so it's not damp.

Will you be all right?

I'm going to take my horse, but I'll leave Davyll here and tether your horse over here. There's a good patch of grass between these trees. Sleep but try not to sleep too soundly. Hopefully, I'll be back before midafternoon and we can bypass Tillbury and go to the next town, throw off their scent entirely.

Sulvan thought of setting wards, but his mind was fogging over, and he just didn't feel enough alarm to justify it.

You're going to leave me with that bleater of a sorcerer? Why not just hand-deliver me to the nearest footpad? Davyll whined.

Both of them ignored him and Sulvan, feeling like a feeble old man, sank to the ground on the bed she'd made. Korva dropped the sword next to him, with the advice to smack the hilt if Davyll disturbed him.

Davyll continued to mutter, but it wasn't hard for Sulvan to ignore him. He was curious about Davyll's story, but not quite enough to actually talk to the obnoxious sword. And he was so weary. As he was thinking this, sleep overcame him.

***

He heard a nicker and a voice, though, at first, he couldn't make what was being said.

Over here! This loser can't possibly defend himself and I'm a magical sword, the best in the world! Admittedly, Davyll wasn't that loud, still muffled in his sheath, but it was loud enough to wake Sulvan. Some instinct he couldn't name induced him to roll, snatching up the noisy sword as a crossbow bolt impacted where he just was.

Looks like he was found. He leaned on the sheathed sword and tried to restart his bleary mind and evaluate his situation.

Bae, disturbed but still tethered, was the sources of the nickers, but Davyll had seemed eager enough to change ownership to the three figures sneaking up on him in the shadows. Magic, magic, what did he have handy? His mind was a blank, but he drew the sword, hoping it might hold them off a second or two.

Don't be fools, Davyll said. He doesn't know anything about using a sword. He's just a spell-slinger. Come and take me away.

Oh, aye, Sulvan said, but this is the best sword in the world.

The tall assassin frowned. The stocky one let loose a crossbow bolt, but Sulvan had seen the movement of his finger and dodged. The wiry one crept up close, a short, curved blade in his hand. You've come to the end of the road.

Sulvan held the sword in front of him, wondering if swords always felt so awkward and unwieldy in one's hands. Davyll was right in that he'd never even held one before.

His discomfort must have been obvious for the wiry assailant's smile widened and he jumped forward, poised to slash. Sulvan managed to lift the sword but wouldn't have dodged the blow if his foot hadn't become tangled in the tree root, tripping him and knocking him to the ground. The sword nearly took off Sulvan's own foot, but the assassin's strike also missed.

Clumsy! At this rate, you'll kill yourself and save the others the trouble, Davyll complained.

Sulvan's knee was wrenched now, which was not what he wanted, but his mind was clearing. He couldn't wield the sword well at all, but the sword was a source of magical power that could augment his sleepy store. He'd done a lot of magic that day already. He hadn't used fireballs since his youth, but he found the spell on his lips, setting the sword aflame. Davyll screamed thinly. Don't you steal my power, you hack!

Before the wiry assassin could react, he'd been engulfed in a green blaze, proof it was more the sword's power than his own.

You don't look but a boy, the tall assassin said, looking uncertain. You really are the sorcerer?

Sulvan's heart felt heavy. He'd have to kill them all, or his disguise would be useless. They would likely have given him little choice anyway, but he hated to kill. The stocky one lifted his crossbow, reloaded, and Sulvan sent him and his crossbow burning with another word.

The tall one rushed in as Sulvan tried to lever himself to his feet using the fiery sword. Sulvan knew nothing about weaponry, but he had defended himself unarmed a few times. He spun out of the way, still leaning on the sword, and then swung Davyll to the side to tangle in the man's limbs, dropping him to the ground and slashing his legs based on the gushing blood. Sulvan stepped on the sword hand of the man and dropped his clumsy sword into the man's throat.

Still leaning somewhat heavily on Davyll, Sulvan turned back to the other two. The wiry one was limp, burning briskly still. The second, though he'd abandoned the crossbow, had rolled his fire away and was climbing to his feet, knives in either smoldering hand. Davyll had gone out by this time, and Sulvan tried to think of some other spell to dissuade the assassin when the hilt of a throwing knife blossomed from the man's throat.

He hadn't even collapsed to the forest floor before Korva was there, retrieving her knife, rifling the corpse. Are you all right, Sulvan?

Sulvan, breathing heavily from the forest floor, answered shakily, Not sure yet. Your sword is the most awkward thing I've ever touched.

Of course, she said, In the hands of a woman, he is the best sword in the world. In the hands of a man, he is the worst.

Sulvan tried to absorb this, but she chuckled. I'll explain in a bit. At least we've shaken our tail for now, thanks to your quick thinking. I'm sorry I didn't get back sooner.

I didn't hear you coming.

I figured it was better that you didn't when I saw the fire through the trees. Korva lifted her head and whistled and was rewarded by the pounding of hooves as her horse trotted into sight. A moment later, she grinned as she cut a heavy purse from the corpse. Perfect. Oh, wait, what's this?

What's what? he asked, pulling himself to the nearest dead assassin. He cut off a portion of his assailant's cloak with his long knife to wrap his knee with. Wrapped, he used Korva's horse to pull himself back to his feet.

Looks like orders from whoever hired them.

Sulvan lifted his brows as he tested his knee. Not a hundred percent, but he could walk on it now. He stepped on Davyll's haft and dug his heel in, enjoying the sword's squealing. You were totally worthless and tried to get me killed.

He really is a total ass, Korva agreed, moving to the assassin Sulvan had killed with Davyll. He's also dumb as dirt. Not sure how he became a sorcerer.

Oh, forgive me for wanting to be released at last from my enchantment, Davyll said.

Korva was having none of it. "Why can't you seem to remember that these vile creatures you keep trying to talk into stealing you can never free you? It takes a man of honor to wield you successfully to get you free. Sulvan already used you to kill two. You could have really been free, but here you were trying to get him killed, and I'll make sure he doesn't get his hands on you again."

Bitch.

She slid him into his sheath then dropped him on the still smoldering assassin and ignored his muffled screams.

His blade is impervious, but his haft is sensitive, she told Sulvan and handed him the folded sheets of parchment she'd retrieved. What do you make of that?

This is the sigil of the Haftsbury Assassin Guild.

"Yes, that I recognized. Is that one of the towns you were supposed to investigate?"

No, though it's near the closest one. Apparently, they're spreading. Their orders were to kill me and leave a letter blaming the king. Perfidy!

Never mind that. If you can ride for a bit, let's get out of here. When we stop for the night, I'll explain about Davyll, and you can tell me what we need to do. But first, change into those. She was adding supplies to Bae's saddle bags as she spoke, but there was a packet at his feet, bound with twine. When he cut the twine, he found a shapeless oversized tunic in faded red with rough trousers and peasant boots. He sighed and shucked his silk robe. Hoping she wasn't watching, he slipped into the trousers that rode up on his long legs and then slipped the rough shirt over his head.

You look like you inherited your clothes from someone, which is about as ideal as we can get. It makes you look even more gawky. She ruffled his unruly curls. Love the nose, too.

I'm not planning to change your face. You're already pretty, he said, noticing she was in a linen dress with an apron over it, as could be found on damn near any peasant. But you're not quite filling that out. The dress hung on her slim form.

Yes, you'd best make me appear to do so. Makes me look less dangerous, too.

He touched her shoulder and tried his best not to look at his own handiwork. Meyda's own form from her youth had rushed into his mind and now Korva was all but bursting from her dress, a plump, voluptuous beauty. Are—are you going to be comfortable?

She sighed. Enough. Needs must. Now, let's get on the road.

What about that last guy? Going to search for largess?

Nah. Not worth it, but I'd better fish the whiner out of there. You get enough rest you can ride for a few hours?

Aye.

As if she knew exactly where she was and where the next town or road or whatever her goal was in relation to her, she began trotting her horse in that direction. He followed along, blindly, his robe in his bag the only sign of who and what he was on him. That and the purses and potions he had transferred to his capacious tunic.

***

When the sun was nearly setting somewhere beyond the trees, she stopped them for the night in the midst of yet another wood that looked just like the leagues of forest they'd gone through before. They'd crossed a couple of roads, but he didn't recognize them and had no idea where they were.

He was bone weary, but she'd kept a good eye on his mount and made sure the pace was never too much for Bae. How far did we go? he said, dropping gingerly from Bae. It had been a long time since the last time he's spent so many hours in a saddle.

Perhaps eighteen, maybe twenty leagues, but we've saved ourselves that again by going cross country.

Are you never lost?

Very rarely, she said while she tethered the horses. But I know these forests pretty well. She waggled her eyebrows at him. I've been on the run a few times so it's best to know the out of the way places.

Sulvan cleared a spot for the fire. Long time since I've roughed it like this, he said. I'm out of the habit of sleeping under the stars or the trees.

You'll be in inns soon enough, though you have to change how you walk and talk. You sound like a cultured man of learning, not an apprentice bard on his first assignment.

Right, right, he said, I'll have to work on that, but, please, not tonight.

Tell me again about your task, she said, dumping an armful of branches in the cleared area. She pulled out a flint.

He crooked his wrist with a mutter and the branches burst into blue flame. There's nothing more to tell, but I'll go over it again.

Maybe we should eat first. Does blue flame cook rabbits the same?

A little faster, that's all.

In amazingly little time, she'd killed and skinned three rabbits that she set roasting over the fire while Sulvan went over all he knew again, wishing he knew more, or that, perhaps, he had paid more attention when the king was talking.

And no one the king's sent to any of these towns has returned?

No.

Suspicious. I haven't heard anything about it in my travels and I find that disturbing, too.

Tell me about your cursed sword.

Korva rolled her eyes in the fire light. That's a long story, but here's the short version. This little knave was once a sorcerer of great renown, wandering the countryside and bedding whores and peasants alike as his wife bided her time.

That's a malicious lie, Davyll protested.

It's the same thing you said yourself, Sulvan said. Go on, Korva.

It seems that his wife, Morian, was less than thrilled with the situation and began to study Davyll's library.

She had no right, Davyll said.

Shut up. She began experimenting and discovered she'd quite the magical talent herself, though no one had bothered to tell her or foster it.

Naturally, I knew, Davyll said. Need to breed with the magically inclined if you want exceptional children.

Sulvan didn't wait for Korva's gesture to smack Davyll's hilt.

Ow, but she had no right to try magic on her own, Davyll said, not appreciably silenced. Women are forbidden to perform magic.

By men, Korva said. Not by nature.

And for good reason, Davyll said. Look what happened to me!

Exactly. She commissioned a sword from the best sword maker in the land, a sword with reach, but something a woman could handle effectively. That's a much larger sword than many suspect. Then, when her errant husband stumbled in, planted his seed in her, and collapsed in a drunken stupor, she used what she'd learned of the black arts and bound his spirit and power into the sword using her blood and his. The spell was successful and so was that seed, resulting in my many times grandmother—or so my mother told me before she died. But she didn't have time to train me before the plague took her. When someone tried to steal her sword—killing her in the process—she was too weak to use Davyll.

And you said he was a fantastic sword in the hands of a woman? Sulvan asked.

And all but useless in the hands of a man. That's how Davyll can be disenchanted, if a man of good character manages to kill ten lowlifes—like Davyll himself—with this useless sword, he'll be free. Which is why I must ask you not to wield him again. You already managed to kill two and he's much more useful to me as a sword.

No problem. He's worthless, Sulvan assured her.

Hey! Davyll protested.

That's a damn thorough spell. She must have really hated him.

Having spent so many years in his company while he implores every enemy or friend to kill me and take him away, I have to say I can empathize.

I want to cut a real staff I can put my weight on and that I can halfway defend myself with.

Excellent. I can also further that training whenever there's no one to see. What will your name be?

Sulvan thought for a moment. Call me Fegan. How many songs do you know? he asked, feigning a less educated accent.

'Nuff, I'm thinkin', she said, outdoing his accent with a drawl that sounded very authentic, but I can strum along if I don't know the one you be singin'.

Can someone please throw me into a volcano, Davyll asked.

Happen we'll do it whether you jest or not, Sulvan told him, and readied himself for sleep.

***

They passed through half a dozen towns on the way to Haftsbury. Sulvan had to curtail his impatience as he needed the practice acting like an inept teenager again. He also learned that Korva was every bit as willful and sharp-tongued as Meyda had been when warranted.

Korva wore her bedmate persona, Ella, as if she was born to it and he'd yet to catch her in a misstep. It was beyond irksome. Sulvan had Davyll spelled as a long-necked lute that couldn't talk when in lute form but could return to his sword form with a word from Korva or himself. Pernicious was a word unique enough that, so far, no one else had chanced upon it while in their company.

One thing Korva didn't criticize was Sulvan's singing voice, and the response from the locals was sufficiently effusive to make his bard persona quite plausible despite his lack of musical ability otherwise. Sulvan, having lived nearly two centuries, had an extensive repertoire of songs and a memory that collected them with a single hearing. More importantly, he had a voice that had never fallen out of practice since singing to Meyda had been one of her delights and, for that reason, his own. It added a special poignancy to love ballads he sang, imagining her listening to them, and, though he had managed not to get weepy during a performance, he could admit to a few tears shed into his bed at night, most likely in the loft of a barn where they were often housed.

What they didn't find, despite both of them questioning locals boldly—for news and gossip were a bard's trade—was any hint of the troubles that started at Haftsbury if not closer. There was not a single rumor spread about. No one talked of a grandmother they could not visit or a tradesman who had come from there. In fact, perhaps more ominously, no one mentioned any travelers from that direction.

Which was also a bit disturbing. When a grandmother, wracked with rheumatism and barely able to move around her home without her son and daughter-in-law to help her, seemed unconcerned despite her children's protracted visit to an aunt in Haftsbury, even Sulvan had to admit there was likely only one explanation: some sort of magical meddling.

When they were on the well-traveled road to Haftsbury at last, neither Korva nor Sulvan were pleased to see that the traffic was all toward Haftsbury with no one heading back. And that no one else on the road seemed the least bit disturbed.

They camped under the trees, deciding it was better to get to Haftsbury early in the day rather than to be locked in overnight. Sulvan was tired, not only from the lumpy ground and the long hours of traveling—which he had fallen out of the way of recently—but from the hour of staff training Korva gave him every night. But he worried even more that his daughter was at risk and was tempted to suggest she wait out here and go for more help if he didn't return. He didn't expect she'd agree but was irked when she made the reverse suggestion in the morning which led to an argument which no one won but did leave them both determined to enter Haftsbury. So, they went in together.

Sulvan had half expected big burly guards at the gate keeping people in. There was a guard, no more or less alert or frightening than most city guards. What he didn't see was a single soul interested in leaving.

Haftsbury was a sizeable city situated well on a river, so waterpower was abundant, and the city was easy to defend, nestled in a small mountain range. Since there was another city across the river—the one the king had told him to investigate—it was also a trade hub for much of the eastern portion of the king's land. That generally argued prosperity. But, with no carts or caravans laden with goods starting out for the rest of the kingdom, it was surreal. Sulvan saw goods ready for travels, piled in stacks, but no sign of anyone eager to take them on their way.

People did not appear to be oppressed. There were no gangs of armed soldiers tramping through the busy streets, strong-arming citizens. If anything, everyone they met was unnaturally happy, friendly, or content. Even the innkeeper Fegan met up with treated Sulvan with an affability that made him acutely uncomfortable. Innkeepers were not known for their friendliness to the help. They spent a day trying to find the source of the happiness, but instead found several problems that one would think would be a source of great distress.

The lower part of the docks, for instance, had been devastated by a fire, destroying several warehouses, docks and ships, and some dozens of people. No one was upset. Nor was there any work on rebuilding or recovery. Everyone acted as if the burnt-out husks of buildings and floundered boat skeletons didn't exist.

What was more, there was the start of a dangerous infestation of red plague. The corpses were piled against the burned-out section of dock in tidy fly-infested piles, but no one wailed over a fallen daughter or a father who had succumbed. More disturbing was someone, his skin red with fever, his feet tottering, walking along the street, a smile on his beatific face, red sores