Villains by Necessity (8 page)

"I." A small spot, true, like the barest chink of pale flesh that shows through a man's armor.

Throw. Blue and white feathers obscured the square. The last one was easy. He didn't even hesitate, but tossed, putting a bit more force on it just in case ...

Thunk!* He came out of his self and looked around, remembering to look amazed at his "luck." Bull's-eye, of course. "Fifty-five!" Around him the fellows had noted the same.

Cheers of laughter and congratulations pealed out, and his bearded buddy dropped a mug of ale in front of him.

He looked embarrassed and modest as he shyly took the coins from the pool and slipped them into his pouch, while the others encouraged him to drink up. Two of them were over at the dartboard exclaiming over the last dart, sunk to the end of its needle in the elm-wood. Sam looked a little disconcertedly at the ale.

"Oh no, I couldn't..." he began, but caught the looks of puzzlement as he did so. Beard pushed the mug closer to him with a chuckle.

"Come on, Blackie, 'tis good for you. After you've beaten us at our own game the least you can do is drink with us." He eyed Sam carefully.

"Well, all right then," he replied and raised the mug to the fellows. As they went back to their hearty laughter and cheers he tipped the drink down his throat with a mental sigh, keeping up appearances.

Arcie lurked. He'd had to ditch the ungainly long rapiers in a garbage pile, after removing the gold-plated hilts with gems in them, but the rest fitted nicely into his various packs and pouches, cunningly designed and possibly even slightly magical as well. The Barigan thief had always been well-off enough to afford the best, both for business and pleasure. Sound, useful, and concealing pouches and clothing were a wise investment, as was his cloak, so drab and shadow-colored he could walk into a bar like this one and, while perhaps he might be seen, he would not be noticed.

There was Sam all right. He was holding an empty ale mug, several others of which were scattered around the table near him, also some plates with the remains of a dinner on them. Sam was looking at a large fellow with a beard and a gold tooth. Arcie was momentarily intrigued, wondering how one might go about stealing such a gold tooth. Sam probably hadn't even noticed it. But what was Sam up to?

"Two tellins," said the Beard, "says you can't do it."

"F-four tellins," replied Sam, holding up three unsteady fingers, "shays I can." The Beard laughed and slapped four coins down on the table. Sam, after a moment to lift his head again, picked a dart up off a side table. Beard yelled merrily to a cluster of patrons and a serving maid to get out of the way. Sam turned around in his chair, looking over his shoulder, then turned back, and, keeping his dreamy weary eyes semi-focused on Beard, tossed the dart over his shoulder. Arcie whipped his head to follow it. It went
thunk!
into the center of the bull's eye. Beard roared in laughter and amazement and went for more ale as Sam owlishly tried to pick up the tellins. Arcie padded over to him.

"Sam!" he hissed.

"Wazzat?" came the reply, and Sam peered over the edge of the table at the Barigan. "Oh, it's you. Whasit?"

"No thanks," replied Arcie. "Have ye made yer quota?"

Sam thought a moment. "Yep. Wher...'s the girl?"

"I dinna ken," replied Arcie. "Give it up for today, Sam. Ye've had a long day, and besides which this person coming over to our table looks a fearsome lot as one of your old instructors. Bye!" Arcie vanished among the crowd, just another Barigan lost in a sea of knees. Sam looked up to see a figure that made his blood shiver as past memories collided with present reality.

"Hello, young fellow," said the older man, pulling up a seat across from him. "I've been watching you. Some very nice tossing, there."

Sam murmured

"Thanks," trying not to stare at the fellow, with the red-brown hair all washed clean and shining, the clothes with the mark of the shipwrights on one sleeve, and-gods!-a small but promising potbelly.

"I used to be quite good at the darts myself," the man said conversationally, "but I lost it after awhile ... lack of practice, I guess ... kind of hard to remember." He shrugged, smiled. "My name's Reynardin, by the way," he added. Sam tried not to whimper. It's Black Fox, he thought to himself. Black Fox with the gleaming eyes, who once walked the wire between High Temple Street and the clock tower in a high wind. Who taught me seventeen different ways of breaking bones without breaking the skin.

And now he's probably sewing up rips in sailcloth all day.

"Uh, they call me Blackie here," spoke up Sam, trying not to look like an assassin. The alcohol was fizzing in his brain.

"Fair enough," replied Reynardin. "You don't have relatives in Bistort, by any chance, do you? Your face seems familiar..."

"Oh, yes, I have a brother there," Sam lied quickly. He really doesn't remember! Like Mizzamir said... What must it be like for them? Living in a pink fog, not knowing what you've lost.. "We look a lot alike."

"Thought so," exclaimed the shipwright. "Well, it was a good show of darts, lad. Have a nice evening." With a grin the ex-assassin clapped Sam on the arm and moved off into the crowd. Sam reflexively checked his arm for needle punctures; Black Fox had, like most of his teachers, taught him caution the hard way. Looking around, he saw his bearded buddy kibitzing a card game in the far corner, and thought he glimpsed Arcie over at a table of tradesmen. He got up and headed over to them.

A moment later, the door of the tavern swung open, and Kaylana strode in, fiercely ignoring the whistles and exclamations she attracted. Locating Sam and Arcie, she approached them.

"Well, we have met, then," she said as soon as she was in speaking range. "I have the coins required. Now then, you may get rooms or not as you wish, I am going to stay in the relative peace and sanity of the stables away from the cluster of this town. I will see you at dawn, on the east outskirts of town." She turned to go, but Sam tapped her on the shoulder, the drink and laughter and praise and noise dancing in his eyes. She wheeled suspiciously on him.

"If you're saying you can't afford a room, lady, I've already rented one, you're welcome to share mine," Sam began with a grin, but there was a flash of furious green eyes, a blur, he jumped back too late and a heavy oak staff whapped him smartly upside the head. He dropped like a stone. Arcie laughed and raised his mug of stout to Kaylana, who was already storming out the door, to riffles of applause from giggling barmaids. The door slammed as Sam raised his head woozily. Arcie grinned down at him.

"Och, I think that means nay, laddie," said the thief.

Dawn was pinking the sky outside his window when Arcie awoke. He bounded out of bed and with brisk efficiency washed, combed his hair, shaved, got dressed, checked all his equipment, counted his wealth, and padded out into the hall. He knew Sam would still be asleep, after getting so soused last night. He'd best wake him up, Down a few doors to Sam's room-the only one with a locked door. With a happy smile he extracted a thin piece of stiff copper wire and clicked the lock open. A spurt of oil at the hinges, and he inched open the door and peered into the room.

Sparse but tidy, with Sam's clothes folded over a chair; a torn black tunic, black silk shirt, black leggings, black socks, tattered black cloak lined in mottled dark gray and black, and scuffed black boots. Sam himself was a pile of tousled blond hair on the pillow of the rumpled bed. The faint sounds of peaceful breathing drifted through the room. Just then, a draft blew the locks of blond hair, stirring them slightly.

The bed exploded. The covers went across the room, the pillow flew out and knocked over a jug on the washstand, and in the midst of it all Sam leaped to an alert crouch, hazel eyes staring about wildly, and brandishing a sharp dagger he'd had under his pillow. His eyes found

Arcie, and he sank back onto the bed with a whimper as his hangover caught up with him. Arcie bounded cheerfully over to make sure he didn't go back to sleep.

"Rise and shine, blondie! Interesting, I mean, I ken yer ways about assassin uniforms, but black underwears, Sam?"

Sam was indeed wearing black cotton shorts. "Shut up, Arcie. If you must know, it's so we don't show a white bunnytail if we are so unfortunate to rip our seams on a mission. Now go away and let me die in peace."

"Sorry, laddie. The Druid said we were to meet her at dawn, recall ye?"

Sam replied with a few choice and not terribly kind words about Kaylana, finishing with, "I'll be dammed if I'll follow some treewalking wench on any crazy hallucination of hers anymore. I'm going to go back and track down Mizzamir and then ... then ..."

"Then what, Sam?" There was no answer. "If ye think of summat, let me know, and I'll join ye. We're men without a place, without a life, without a cause. Kaylana's the only one as is offered us any hope for restoration of our old ways, and revenge on them what took them from us.

Whether anything else she says about the world being in danger is pooka piss, it's given us something to do, someplace to go. Ye were bored stiff hanging around that abandoned Guild in Bistort. Now, ye're at the least doing something. Tis an adventure, as heroes used to go on all the time ... Though for us, it's either go on and keep hoping, or go back, and either whitewash or die. And as for the being damned ... we both are already. So quit feeling sorry for yerself and get on yer feets and out."

A muffled groan escaped as Sam tried to scrape some of the fluff off his tongue, then a sigh.

"Arcie, one of these days I'm going to throttle you.

Luckily for you, I'm already on an assignment. All right.

I'll meet you downstairs."

Arcie padded out, shaking his head.

It was well after dawn when the three mismatched persons assembled at the eastern wall of the city. Kaylana was waiting with barely disguised impatience, reminding Arcie of a wren, as the two rogues walked up. Kaylana greeted Arcie coolly and did not even look at Sam.

"We must not delay any longer," she said. "The Gypsies even now prepare to move on. We must speak with them before they go." She turned and strode briskly down the dirt road toward the Gypsy encampment, her oak staff tap-tapping on the hard ground as she went.

Arcie nudged Sam as they followed.

"Secure your pouches, Sammy," he cautioned. The Barigan had already tucked his main coin pouch down inside his shirt. Sam began carefully transferring his few pouches to inner loops inside his tunic and cloak. He looked ahead at the marching figure of the Druid.

"Should we tell her as well?" he wondered. Arcie shook his head.

"She's the one as suggested it, she must know what she's about."

Out of curiosity, Sam left one of his pouches, empty, on the outside of his clothes, hung snugly from his belt in a way that would have been normal and safe in any city.

Arcie shook his head. The assassin would find out, soon enough.

And, in fact, Kaylana knew very well what she was doing. The Gypsies were one of the few groups of people she'd had any contact with in her long self-imposed hermitage.

They would sometimes stop by her forest, and she would emerge to speak with them. Their ancestors had known the power of the Druids, and they did not wish to cross her.

They walked into the Gypsy encampment-the two men warily, Kaylana with her usual cool confidence. All around them were the exotic wooden wagons, with their painted trim and windows, and fringes of tiny bells along the edges that tinkled in the early morning breeze. Horses and ponies, fat and well cared-for, cropped the sparse grass of the hollow that sheltered the encampment or nickered at the sense of excitement in the air. The Gypsies themselves moved among the wagons and horses; handsome, fox-faced people, with brilliant white teeth that flashed in smiles across their dark skin. They chattered in a strange language among themselves, with a rich, rhythmic cadence. The children, swift and nimble as swallows, ran about with bundles of packing, or chased each other, laughing. The adults watched the newcomers with bright eyes that learned all and told nothing.

Kaylana moved on, and spoke in the strange language to an old man who sat on the tail of his wagon smoking a long curved pipe. He flashed his teeth at her, then at Sam and Arcie. Sam had decided he liked the Gypsies. They were as happy as the whitewashed townsfolk, but they were not whitewashed ... he could see that in the sharpness of their eyes, the quick restlessness of their children, and the fact that Arcie had told him to secure his pouches. As if hearing his thoughts, Arcie spoke to him in a low voice.

"They move around so much, and are so wary ... they've escaped the fate that our comrades met with.

Aren't it fine?"

Sam agreed silently. He watched the children playing in the light of a new day and felt a thrill in his heart to see them so wild and free, growing up to follow their spirits, free of the shackles of law and other people's standards of right and wrong. But if Kaylana spoke truth, these youngsters might not live to adulthood ... At that moment one of the grinning children, a little boy, surely not more than five summers old, tugged on his cloak. Sam looked down into the mischievous face and was surprised to be handed his own leather pouch back. He took it, with a look of surprise, and murmured a confused thanks. The boy's smile flashed, and he gave a low bow before springing off on some other pursuit. Sam watched him go, and no longer questioned why he was trying to undo the imbalance of the Victory; it was for the sake of that boy, and others like him, including a young assassin who once had to fight for his life and his living every waking moment. Darkness, he realized, takes courage, whether you fight it or live it.

Meanwhile Arcie had moved ahead and was beckoning him.

"Come along, laddie! We're to talk with their wisewoman."

Sam glanced at the lettering on the side of the wagon Arcie indicated and stifled a groan.

"A fortune teller?"

Inside the wagon was cramped and dim, but scrupulously clean and tidy. Tapestries and rugs covered the walls and floor, a bead curtain separating this half of the wagon from the other, which, Sam assumed, probably was the sleeping quarters of the ancient woman who sat before them now. She seemed lost in her embroidered robes and hiding in her black and gray hair, which was braided and plaited over and around a pair of polished black cow's horns, holding the odd decoration in place.