Villains by Necessity (7 page)

Perhaps the heroes were running out of heroic things to do.

Kaylana didn't like this. She didn't like trusting either the short fellow or his impertinent tall friend, especially if it led her to cities like this one. But she had no choice.

How far they trusted her, she was still not certain. They'd come this far, true, but would it be as the others had said, that they would not work, would squabble over meaningless things rather than do what must be done, whatever it was? "Come away, young one," her kinsmen had said to her, the last ones, on the day of the Victory. "You can do nothing here." The spirits of her past, dancing in the trees. She had turned away, refused, and had gone back to her woods, vowing that she must do something. With the death of the other Druids her powers had increased little by little, as their dying spirits passed strength to her that she might survive. Her body had transformed so that she hardly seemed to age from that day onward ... but she had realized long ago that she would have rather died when they did. She watched, in bitter sorrow, as the world tilted to its inevitable searing end in white light, unable to do anything but wait. Following her instincts, learning to control her strange gifts and knowledge, waiting, doing what she could, here and there. Until these two had appeared. She had met the two men and had not been surprised to hear they were of darkness. Now, she led them where her instincts led her, where strange dreams of past and future guided her. But though her voice was strong as her will, and her powers and instincts and eerie inner wisdom were those of a thousand longdead Druids, her mind sometimes shivered in fear like a young girl's-a girl who had seen all she ever knew and loved cut down in blood while she hid trembling in the hollow of an old oak tree.

Sam wandered about in the increasing twilight. He thought he glimpsed Kaylana striding past in the distance, but didn't do anything about it. Fair. was fair, they all had to earn their own money.

"What am I doing here, anyway?" he asked himself.

"I'm no hero. Let the world blow itself up. It's its own fault." But he knew. He, and he was sure Arcie felt the same, would much have preferred to hide, lay low somewhere until the problem had passed on. But when the whole world is in danger, where is there to hide? He believed Kaylana, with the inner sense that had saved his life many times before. Besides, she'd spoken of corrupting the world. Well, she was right, it needed it. He'd do it out of spite, dammit, that was a perfectly dark reason.

Spite and sheer evil nastiness, you big bad assassin, he said to himself. He skulked off among the shadows with an evil leer on his face, his golden hair somewhat spoiling the effect by shining in the torchlight every now and again.

Across town, Arcie was getting frustrated.

"Look, can ye bake me a cake with a file in it?" he asked, giving the portly man behind the roll-strewn counter his best If-you-know-what-I-mean look.

"A file, sir?" asked the baker, perplexed. Arcie tried again.

"This all looks so good, I could steal it, man," he offered, searching the man's face for some kind of acknowledgment that the baker was a fellow sneakthief. He encountered only bovine confusion.

"We've the best prices in town, sir ... "

Arcie looked around, saw there was only one other customer in the shop, who was about to leave. He glanced again at the baker, and said, "Look, I ... run the Bonny Bonnets Shoppe in Bistort." Most Thieves' Guilds knew of each other's existences and covers, simply because one needed to obtain a license to thieve in another Guild's territory anyway and it was impossible to keep out spies in the process.

"That's nice for you, sir. Now then, do you wish to buy anything or not? My shop closes soon." Arcie Stared at him.

"This really are a bakery?" he whispered. The man nodded, obviously thinking the short foreigner was quite mad. Arcie sighed. "Well enough. A dozen jelly doughnuts, please."

Arcie walked down the street, trailing powdered sugar.

The sounds of drunken singing reached his ears, and with a shrug he ducked into the shadows of an alleyway and waited. A group of three young merchants' sons staggered past, passing a skin of wine between them. Arcie paced them silently down the alley, now soft as a shadow at their side, now a silent padding behind them, now a drifting breeze on the other side, lastly a swirl of vague form that melted into the shadow of a building and was gone like a dream, leaving only a small sprinkling of white sugar behind.

The youths emerged at the other end of the alley and slowed in muddled surprise, their song of revelry drifting away. Not only was the wineskin gone, which was what

"had alerted them, but so were their belts, pouches, rings, necklaces, ornamental rapiers and lefthand Kwartan daggers, the eldest one's feathered cap, and the youngest one's brand-new silver spurs. They turned and peered down the alley, but it was empty.

Elsewhere, Kaylana sighed, and decided to take care of the unpleasant business of gathering money. She was of course not skilled in theft and had nothing to sell and no services to trade, so she would simply have to ask for the forty tellins. She was glad the Barigan had figured out the exchange and the currency used; the last time she'd seen money it was a handful of rough bronze lozenges with the face of an ancient ruler stamped into them. She knew what to ask for. The trick was asking in a certain way.

She selected a gentleman who looked very likely to have coin in excess of the worth of a single horse on his person, and enough to not miss it too much. A merchantlord, by his garb, or at least whatever passed for one these days. Bustling, well-fed, in rich clothing of velvets and silks, he was hurrying home after a good dinner with friends, lubricated with fine wine. The scruffy Druid caught his sleeve as he passed, pulling him about. He turned with a snort to give her a good telling-off... and met a pair of green eyes. expertly lit in the glow of the street-lantern.

It is doubtful if he saw anything about the woman other than the eyes, or if he even realized they belonged to a woman at all. All he knew was that they bored into his brain, as a questing root drives through the soil.

Kaylana reached through the man's mind, easier even than calming a wild animal; noting with interest the slightly over-smoothed texture of his thoughts, evidence of magical adjustment. Perhaps this fellow had been something much less than an honest trader before a mage with the skill for light-minding had found him. Her will wrapped around his easily, not forcing, just suggesting in a way that was so sensible and simple, and yet absolutely irrefutable, as she said calmly: "Sir, you wish to give me forty tellin coins as a gesture of charity." The green eyes were as unstoppable as spring.

The merchant nodded dumbly and reached into his pouch, fingers counting as his eyes never left hers. Forty thin gold coins, the size of small aspen leaves and marked with the seal of the Six Lands united under the Six Heroes were dropped into her hands. Kaylana closed her hands on the coins and stepped back. Only then did she release the man from her gaze. He shook his head, glanced around, but saw only a scruffy woman standing there. Such people were beneath his station. He didn't quite recall what he had been doing, but it was perfectly right and sensible, whatever it was. He adjusted his waistcoat and, ignoring the common woman, set off down the street again. He had important things to do. Kaylana didn't bother to watch him go, but tucked the coins into a fold of her robe and went off to find the others. She disliked having to touch the minds of humans; it was risky with anyone more willful than a lazy, half-drunk merchant, and difficult unless she had the opportunity of surprise.

And their minds ... she shook her head. So much ignorance.

Sam had seen some low dives in his time, and this wasn't one of them. The tavern was well-lit, with a warm fire burning in the huge fireplace at one end, over which some serving lads were making mulled wine and tea. Plates clattered and voices chattered. He wandered over to where a group was playing at darts and watched with an expression of shy interest on his face. At last one of the men noticed him.

"Well, hello there, lad! Fancy the darts, do you?" The man's eyes twinkled pleasantly. Sam wondered again why everyone thought he was so young ... though it was true that he looked almost ten years younger than his approximate age. That had always been a lucky mystery and might help him here by making the players think he was even more inexperienced. The man seemed patronizing and smiled out of his thick curly brown beard. Sam fought down a retch at the easiness of it all, and at the Beard Man's complacency. He made himself smile back in easygoing innocence.

"Oh, I play a bit now and then ..." he said. The man gave his cronies a wink, and they grinned and laughed and nodded. The cheerful fellow turned back to Sam.

"Well then, my black-garbed fellow, you're welcome to join the game! We play for stakes here, you know," he added, his eyes showing a joking concern. Sam returned it.

"I'm afraid I have no stakes, nor roasts, nor even chops or brisket, but..." he let the good-natured laughter at the old joke die down, then continued with a smile, "But I do have this to wager." Upon the table he set an intricate gold ring with a single red stone. If the truth were to be known, the gold was gilded brass, the stone merely colored glass, the whole having the purpose of flipping open when pressed in a certain way so that the contents of the tiny compartment within could be poured into a glass. It was empty now, of course, but still glinted richly in the warm light. It held many memories for Sam-a gift from Cata, way back when; he'd never used it professionally except once to carry willowbark and mayweed powder in, sovereign against the headaches that plagued him one year during a particularly bad pollen harvest.

Cata, Cat-a-Crags, sapphire eyes, seductive and deadly as the fey black panther she took her name from, that would call like a crying woman in mountain passes and would lead brave men to a bloody death. Cata would call the men in a different way, but the death was just the same ... Cata, beautiful dark dancer ... who had vanished one day and was never heard from, until years later when Blarin received reports of her-living in a small provincial village, a farmer's fat wife, cleaning and cooking and tending two small chubby brats. Sam had been in a vicious mood for days, feeling betrayed without knowing why, unable to understand what had happened, and why. Mizzamir, you're going to hurt for that one, he vowed. His reverie was broken as the jovial Beard roared: "A fine wager!" and clapped Sam on the back. "Come, my fellows, put up your gold, we will play at darts with Blackie here." Sam looked flushed and pleased at being allowed into their circle, and the game was on.

As the others made their tosses, Sam inspected the darts. Not everyone's weapon, to be sure, but then, an assassin was trained in just about every weapon that could easily be concealed under a suit of normal clothes.

Darts were one of Sam's favorites. Sharp needles perfect for a sticky coat of poison, with no annoying twang or puff sounds such as you got with a crossbow or blowgun.

Easier to aim than a blowgun, too. Daggers were his specialty, but darts were a good second choice. They had made some lovely darts in the Guild workshop, he remembered fondly: clear glass ones that could be filled with acid or poison or the potion of your choice, silver rune-worked ones that could be enchanted (if one could find a sorcerer to do so), ones with tiny tiny barbs in the break-off needle, so that the sharp point would continue to work its way inward with every breath of its victim until ... He shook his head. These were simple, cheap, and common darts, and had seen much use. The points were dull, the fletching tattered. He lifted them one by one, testing the balance, smoothing the feathers. His hand finally closed on a set of three, blue and white, with brass tips. Good enough for now, he decided, until I've gotten the hang of it again. Just in time, too.

"Your turn, Blackie!" crowed the bearded man, and Sam pretended to look worried as he studied the board.

Darts as a pastime was an old sport, taken from archery practice in the reign of the Mage-King Verurand, long before the Victory, even long before the War, back when the Six Lands were a mass of feudal struggles and border disputes, and the rest of the world little more than savages. Variants of the game were so numerous Sam didn't bother to brush up on the rules, but had watched this group long enough to recognize the scoring system.

They were starting with two hundred and one points and going to exactly zero. The others hadn't done too bad for their first toss, he decided. His only problem would be looking clumsy enough that they didn't get suspicious.

He selected one of his darts and managed to stick himself lightly in the finger with a small yelp, which brought good-natured laughter from his new friends. He scanned the board. Nothing too showy for a first shot, he decided, and squinted until he couldn't see and his eyebrows hurt, then threw.

The missile thwoked into an outer single score ring, subtracting a nice fifteen points from his base. He grinned myopically. He tossed his next two shots off in similar casualness and then collected his darts and inspected the pool. Not quite twenty gold, he noted, after translating the pile of gold tellins, silver lunins and copper stellins, and sighed. He'd have to show off for the rest. The game progressed. Sam watched, threw, watched, trying not to yawn, and then at last made his move.

He stepped up to throw, hefting his darts. He'd gotten to know them well over the short game. This one had a bit of a lean to the left, this one was point-heavy, and this one was the best, having only a slight downward drift.

Good enough. He took the left-leaner in fingers, and looked at the board. Thank fates his hand was healed, he thought. Fifty-five points. Might as well make it look good.

The world narrowed until all that remained was the dingy, pock-marked dartboard, and all that was clear within it was the single-score outer space labeled "2" by its rim. His hand moved. The center of the space sprouted a fletching.

His gaze shifted ever so slightly. All was silent, or at least he heard nothing, though the vibrations of voices shivered on his skin. His eyes caught the tiny wedge of yellow that was the narrow triple-score ring, held in the triangle labeled