Not long after dawn, Panna stepped up into a white one-horse carriage. She was attired in the finery of a young woman of great means. She wore a modestly cut but ornately embroidered dress the color of a robin’s egg; it reached to the floorboards, puffed out with satin petticoats.
Her hair had been cut and dressed, wrapped high around her head and held with silver combs. Tallanna had insisted on the styling, and had supervised it personally. Panna’s earrings and necklace were small, perfect pearls. She carried a dainty white parasol to protect her from the sun. She was perfumed and powdered and poised. She had seen herself in a mirror after the maidservants had finished with her, and she had been amazed.
Tallanna, the servant, wore a severe black dress that buttoned tightly from her throat down to her boots. She carried a black parasol, longer than Panna’s, but slimmer—except where the ribbing fanned out at the handle. This accommodation allowed the black cotton material to cover the small bell of a hand guard. Talon’s plan was to locate Senslar by noon, see him by mid-afternoon, and be back to sea by dark. She expected to be traveling quite alone by then.
Panna studied the hard features of her mistress-master. Her “lady lessons” of the previous day had not been difficult. They had worked hard, though, all day, in an elegant sitting room, under the tutelage of one of Madam Lydia’s professional consorts. Panna found it quite easy, actually, to put on a show of elegance, once she knew a few simple rules. She just needed to move slowly, smile coyly, and not be afraid of long pauses in conversation. When in doubt, she learned, she could raise her chin, keep eye contact, and wait; others would quickly move to fill the silence for her.
Tallanna had been hard to please, but she had never let Panna forget their purpose: to find Senslar Zendoda. Twice, Panna had questioned the need for so much deception. Couldn’t she simply go find Senslar as herself, and ask him to come to her aid, and the aid of a fellow native of Drammun? But Tallanna had been dismissive. They could not take the chance; Panna was an outlaw, and this would prevent even those who knew her from recognizing her and sending her straight to jail.
And Tallanna was clear that she wanted to look Master Zendoda in the eye to plead her case with him. “A Drammune warrior hidden somewhere out of sight is quite different than a fellow countryman who stands eye to eye, in need.” Panna doubted whether their approach would have the desired effect, shrouded as it was in so much illusion. But Tallanna ignored her concerns as though they were mere naiveté, and Panna was bound to accept that judgment. Besides, Panna had made her bargain. She needed to find Packer, and if this elaborate ruse failed, at least she’d have found Master Zendoda, to whom she might confess all in exchange for his help. So Panna had accepted the role, and even learned to enjoy the playacting.
But now, in the dusty and bumpy ride into the city, it all seemed too real, too dangerous. She was leading this unknown person to Senslar Zendoda, a very important man in Nearing Vast. And what if Tallanna really was a spy, sent to do him harm? She certainly was in disguise, like a spy would be. Panna wrestled with her doubts. What could go wrong, really? Tallanna was unarmed, Panna was certainly not a threat to him, and Senslar Zendoda was a great swordsman who could protect himself. Besides, they would be in and among many people, which was the whole reason for these disguises.
“You are concerned, little desperado?” Tallanna asked, startling Panna.
“A little, I guess.”
Panna looked out the window. Then she looked back at Talon. “You do, I guess.”
“Me, why?” Talon smiled, but all her instincts were immediately summoned to the potential that the girl would not go through with this, and if that was the case, this mission would need to be ended abruptly. In such a fine carriage, it would need to be a bloodless end.
“I guess I don’t really know who you are.”
There was a pause, then Talon softened. “What do you want to know?”
Panna thought a moment. “How does a woman become a warrior in your country?”
“It does not happen in Nearing Vast?”
“No, it certainly doesn’t. At least not in the fishing villages.”
“All Drammune are raised in the art of war. Those who show abilities are identified at a very young age. Boy or girl, it doesn’t matter.”
Panna blinked. It was a startling thought. “Who raises your children, then?”
“Oh, not all women are gifted as warriors. Most grow up to raise children, much as they do here. Female warriors like myself are rare. They have a name for us. In our tongue it is Mortach Demal. Warrior Woman.” She smiled.
Panna looked out the window again at the passing countryside: a rolling green field covered with corn, an ox pulling a wagon loaded with hay, a round-shouldered farmer trudging in front of it. She took a deep breath. “Here, all women are assumed to be weak.”
“You must find that a tremendous advantage.”
Panna showed her surprise. “How?”
“It is deep in your mythology. The God who became man.”
“Oh, that’s not mythology. It’s true.”
Talon smiled again. “Yes, of course. But to take on a cloak of weakness, to appear weak, even to teach weakness to others, provides rich opportunities for the strong and fearless.”
“I don’t understand.”
“This man you attacked…did he believe you were weak? I would guess you had an advantage, the advantage of surprise, because you were a woman and he did not expect strength.”
“Well, he didn’t actually know I was a woman. But I think I see what you’re saying. I was the one who surprised myself. I thought I was weak, so I attacked him really hard, like a man would, so he wouldn’t guess who I was. And he just…”
“He what?”
“He kind of crumpled.”
Talon smiled, a genuine smile now. “You see? The guise of weakness is a powerful tool. Just as your Jesus pretended to be weak, when in fact he was, as you teach, all-powerful.”
Panna blanched. “No…he didn’t pretend…”
Talon raised an eyebrow as Panna searched for some counterargument. When she found none, Talon continued. “It is all based on deception, your religion. In truth, power is power. You cannot be powerful if you are weak. You cannot be alive if you are dead. It is nonsense. Your religious leaders know this, and they use it to disguise their true intent, to cloak their drive for power.”
Panna shook her head, feeling like the ground was quaking beneath her. “No. No, that’s not it. My father is a religious leader. He doesn’t do anything like that. He prays; he trusts God. That’s what he truly believes and truly teaches.” Her eyes blazed her certainty.
“And is he a powerful man?”
“What do you mean?”
“Does he do great things? Does he have great power to direct events, to change people?”
Panna swallowed hard. “No. He trusts God for that.” She knew that God had not delivered on most of the things her father prayed for. At least, He hadn’t delivered yet.
Talon smiled. “Then perhaps your father really does believe what he teaches. And perhaps he is really not a leader of your religion, but a follower, who teaches others to follow.”
Panna turned away, looked unseeing out the window. Her heart was stabbed by these thoughts. Talon watched her. Foolish girl, she thought. This one had strength, certainly. But she was hopeless to use it, growing up as she had in the very nest of the Vast religion.
It didn’t matter, of course. Panna had no cunning, and therefore no ability to recognize it in others. Here Talon sat in the guise of a servant, telling the girl in so many words that she was hiding her strength in order to deceive, but she couldn’t see it. She couldn’t piece it together, because the myth had seeped into her, she was steeped in it, her father taught her to be weak and to trust a powerful God. She had fought once, had experienced the simple power of power, but it was not enough to shake her confidence in the muddled belief that weakness is strength.
So before sunset she would be dead. Talon relished that thought. Senslar Zendoda would be dead. Packer’s girl would be dead. No deity would protect either of them from Talon, and the religion of Nearing Vast would be shown to be the lie it was. And Talon would be free to return to Drammun. If only she could kill Packer on the way home, her mission would be perfectly fulfilled.
“Fret not, little desperado,” Talon said gently. “It is my way to question these things. You have hope in the next world, and I do not. For that, I envy you. I wish I could believe as you do.”
Panna smiled, and nodded. “But you can!”
Talon was satisfied that her lie had the desired effect. Panna would be compliant for the few hours Talon yet needed her. Of course, Talon would have to put up with Panna’s attempts at evangelism in the meantime, but that was a small price to pay.
The horseman was tired; he had ridden all night to get back to the City of Mann, but there would be no rest now. He was in danger. He slowed his horse. He had been followed at a distance for almost three blocks, and now two men in dark clothing blocked the street ahead. Their faces were in shadow, but he could see the red glow of a matchlock pistol held by one of them. As the gray horse stopped, so did the echoing footfalls of heavy boots on cobblestones behind him.
“Hello!” the little man called out, close enough now to see the faces of the two men. His gentle voice was unperturbed, even friendly. His confident air and his immaculate grooming suggested that he belonged to the upper levels of Vast society, though he dressed in a style unusual for the streets of Mann. He wore a dark crimson beret over close-cropped hair; a gray suit buttoned to the collar; a black cape; boots above the ankle, then gray woolen stockings to the knees. His face was clean-shaven except for a generous salt-and-pepper goatee. He had a dark complexion, that of a foreigner.
“We’ll be taking that pouch,” stated the man on the right. His grizzled black beard grew through a heavily scarred face. “And that sword strapped to your side, and whatever coins you carry.” The man who spoke raised his right hand into view so the horseman could clearly see the pistol aimed at his heart. The red glow came from the match, or wick, which was pinched in the pistol’s hammer mechanism. Once lit, it burned there continuously, a red ember poised to ignite the powder when the trigger was pulled. By the standards of the wheellock, or even the flintlock, the matchlock pistol was a weapon of crude design. But it was effective enough and, so long as it wasn’t raining, very reliable. It was a cheap weapon stocked by almost every street-corner merchant in the City of Mann.
“The pouch contains no valuables,” the little man said, friendly and gentle, unfazed. “I carry no coins. And the sword is something you do not want.”
The man behind him continued to move slowly closer, imagining he was undetected.
“Oh, really now,” said the grizzled one.
“Yes,” the little man answered with a smile. “Now if you’ll kindly step aside, we won’t be having any trouble.”
The two men glanced at one another, then laughed. “He’s a polite one, ain’t he?”
The footfalls behind went silent, no more than six feet away.
The other man who blocked the street, lean and bony, produced a matchlock pistol from his cloak. He bowed and spoke. “Begging your humblest pardon, but if you’ll kindly hand over the merchandise, we won’t be rammin’ a musket ball through your thick little skull.”
Both men laughed again.
Senslar Zendoda shook his head. He wished now that he had not come this way. It was the quickest route to the palace, and he was in a hurry to deliver the contents of the pouch, but he knew these streets grew dangerous after dark. He chanced it because it was so near dawn; he hoped that even highwaymen would have packed up by now and gone home to bed.
Well, shortcuts are rarely short, he mused. The swordmaster took a look behind him. The man who had been following was a huge, lumbering thing, as Senslar had already determined from the sound of his boots, and he carried a blackjack in his right hand. He was clearly not the brains of the outfit. “Yes, I believe I understand you quite clearly.” Senslar’s tone was unchanged. “However, I must repeat that the pouch contains no valuables, I have no coin, and you do not want this sword.”
The grizzled one grew impatient. “Hand ’em over, or die. Don’t matter to me which.”
“Please don’t shoot. I’m dismounting.” Senslar took half a second more to gauge their relative positions, then gripped his sword hilt. He pulled it from its sheath as he pirouetted off the horse’s left side, slashing backhanded at the first armed brigand almost before he landed on the ground. By the time that highwayman’s pistol had hit the ground, Senslar had spun under the horse’s head, slashing a forehand at the second brigand. Both pistols lay on the ground as he remounted his horse from the right side, completing his task in one fluid movement. Then he backed the gray mount one step, to the side, and held his sword in the direction of the big man behind him, eyeing him alone.
“Ow!” each gunman cried in turn, shocked more than pained, amazed by the little man’s lightning quickness, his agile movements. They looked at their bleeding hands and realized they were cut, but not badly injured. He had spun their pistols from their hands somehow, enveloped them the way a swordsman disarms another swordsman.
It took a moment to sink in. But there the weapons were, lying on the ground, and there the horseman was, back up on his horse. With a rush the two assailants picked up their weapons, aimed at him, and fired.
Both weapons clicked harmlessly. When they looked down, mystified, they saw the glow of two matches, severed and lying on the cobblestones at their feet.
“You have told me twice that you want this sword,” Senslar said, still serene. “I have argued the point in vain. Tell me again that you want it…” Now his voice grew cold, and his eyes burned. “…And you shall have it.”
The would-be robbers glanced at one another, unsure of their next move.
“What, have you changed your minds?” Senslar asked, his tone still deadly.
The grizzled one considered the glowing wick on the ground, realized a move toward it would result in the same kind of reaction from the little man, this time with no guarantee of similar mercy. He cleared his throat. “In fact, sir, we have. I believe that I was…that is, we were…mistaken. We thought you was someone else.”
Senslar looked at each man in turn. The danger passed, the horseman’s good humor returned. “Fine, it was all a misunderstanding, then.”
“That’s all it was,” the grizzled one said quickly. “A misunderstanding.”
“Then kindly step back.”
The two obliged, and Senslar maneuvered the gray horse between them.
“Good morning,” he offered with a smile, and trotted off down the street.
“A misunderstanding?” the big one asked. “Who did you think he was, Dirk?”
“Shut up,” Dirk answered.
To Mather Reynard Mason Sennett, Son of King Reynard Redcliff Odolf Sennett, the Duke of Nearingsford Alms, and the Crown Prince of Nearing Vast. The young man read the words pinned to the leather pouch and smiled. One day, and in the not too distant future, there would be a different title: King of Nearing Vast.
Mather Sennett sat on the warm stones by the fireplace near his bed, the blaze lighting the huge room, its ornate tapestries, its polished mahogany furnishings. He was up early, as was his custom, and the day as always started with mail and paperwork.
The pouch, just handed him by his valet, carried the stamp of Bench Urmand, the Sheriff of Mann. Bench was a good man. At thirty-eight he was nine years older than Mather, and one of the few people the crown prince considered competent. Most of the king’s appointees were aged, doddering, and fat, much like the king himself. When the post of minister of arms had come open recently, Bench didn’t get it, even though Mather had all but begged his father. Bench could invigorate a navy and an army that had both been in decline for a decade. But King Reynard had refused.
Mather pulled two scrolls of foolscap from the pouch. The first was a note written not in Bench Urmand’s hand, but in a familiar, precise one:
B. Urmand brought the enclosed to my attention. As yet, it has not been posted. Bench granted me but one day to investigate. I have sought answers, but in vain. Please contact me at any hour so that I might gain your wisdom in this matter. Many thanks.
S. Zendoda
Then, as though the author believed it lacked urgency, two sentences were added beneath the signature:
Your life was in his father’s hands. Now his life is in yours.
—Z.
The enclosed sheet was a likeness of Packer Throme, with these words printed below it:
PACKER THROME
of Hangman’s Cliffs
Wanted for Murder
Reward: Five Gold Coins
Prince Mather stared hard at the likeness, and at the name. He remembered the shipwreck, the cold seas, as though it were yesterday. He remembered the warmth of the Throme home, the fires that burned there, bringing him life. He’d been whisked away to the Palace very quickly once he was well enough to inform them of his identity. But how the elder Throme’s aid all those years ago had any bearing on the younger Throme’s current troubles was beyond him.
Still, this was from Senslar, and Senslar was one of the competent ones who would help him rebuild his kingdom. To the swordmaster, the teacher–student relationship was lifelong. Mather knew this well, having labored many hours himself under Senslar’s badgering. The crown prince went to his desk and dipped a quill, wrote a message back to Senslar at the bottom of the same sheaf:
Come to breakfast.
—M.
“Stebbins!” Mather called out as he sealed the document. The old valet creaked into the room.
“Sir?”
“Post this immediately to Senslar Zendoda, care of the Academy.” Packer Throme’s difficulties were undoubtedly of his own making, like so many of the supposed injustices perpetrated on the villages and their people. But he would indulge Senslar.
“Sir,” the valet said languidly. “He’s here.”
“Who’s here?” Prince Mather asked.
“Mr. Zendoda.”
“He’s here now?”
The valet pointed a bony finger silently, indicating that Senslar was positioned just outside the doorway, probably within earshot.
Mather smiled. The swordmaster was always prepared, and unfailingly persistent. A polite, careful, smiling man who locked onto a mission, or an idea, like a bulldog. “Well, send him in.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh, and…bring us our breakfast.”
“As you wish.”
Bench Urmand looked at the stack of handbills on his desk. He looked out the window, saw that the sun was on the ground, and sighed. He picked up the hammer, tucked it into his belt, and dropped the sack of nails into his pocket. Then he grabbed the handbills and headed out to the square to post the image of Packer Throme.
“Something else is afoot, Mather,” the swordmaster said matter-of-factly, ignoring the breads and pastries before him. “These two murders are not the handiwork of Packer Throme.”
“You think because you taught him to fight he’s incapable of murder?” Mather asked, a cheek full of bread and marmalade.
Senslar shook his head. “His being my student has little to do with it, other than such is how I know him.”
“The evidence seems to suggest the contrary, or the Sheriff wouldn’t post the reward. Why not let justice take its course?”
“I do not fear justice.”
“Then let the courts decide.”
“That’s a different matter. Justice is a goal to which courts aspire, Your Highness, but one they do not always attain. I have seen the two victims laid out for burial. I have visited the beach where the murders took place. I have spoken with the last man to see Packer Throme ashore. I am confident these murders were not Packer Throme’s doing, but I need more time to find the sort of proofs required by courts.”
“What makes you so sure?” Mather sat back, patting his dark hair to be sure it was still appropriately oiled and groomed. Then he sipped his tea.
“Two nights before the murders, Throme used his skills rather carefully to wound a man he could justifiably have killed. Reports are that Packer anguished over even this small act of aggression. The last man to see Packer alive was an innkeeper who sent him off to a ship, which is now at sea. The murders happened more than a day later, after the ship Packer was to board set sail. The victims were killed almost instantly, with no thought whatsoever for their lives, only for the quickest death possible.”
“How were they killed, then?” The prince heaped more marmalade on his biscuit.
“One was shot through the throat, the other killed with a thrust to the heart.”
“A sword.”
Pause. “Yes. You see, in the first incident, you have a skilled but compassionate swordsman. Packer Throme. In the second, a trained killer, with no reluctance or compunction.”
“But there was a witness to the murders on the beach.”
Senslar nodded. “The man Packer fought and let live. A man known to hate Packer Throme. On questioning, he admitted to witnessing the murders from fifty yards away through a fierce rainstorm.”
“Why does he hate Mr. Throme?”
The swordmaster grimaced, then spoke quietly. “There is speculation in Hangman’s Cliffs that he is in love with Packer’s fiancée.”
The prince lit up. “Ah, the plot thickens!”
“Uncommon skill with a sword, twice in the area of the same small town, and a witness who will swear Packer’s guilt. Our courts have convicted many on far less evidence.”
“What does Bench say?” Mather asked, knowing the answer from Senslar’s note.
“Bench is sympathetic. A day’s pause in the machinery of his justice is a great gift, which I appreciate. But a day is not enough. I have not found Packer Throme. And there is the small matter of the girl, who has now gone missing, a mystery I have as yet been unable to unravel.”
Mather’s eyebrow went up. “The plot thickens yet again. Who is she?”
“Her name is Panna Seline, at one time betrothed to Mr. Throme. She seems to have left home to follow him.”
“The lovers vanish, bodies turn up on the beach…Say, it has some drama, doesn’t it? Someone should write this down.”
Senslar shook his head, not interested at the moment in his prince’s literary aspirations. “A young man’s life is at stake.”
“As are the lives of innocent men and women. What will it hurt to have a suspect in custody? Then he and all others will be safe while the courts sort out the truth.”
“I don’t have to remind you of the debt—”
“Which has been fully repaid with his schooling,” the prince cut in. There would be no more discussion along this line. “The law is the law.”
“I have no desire to insinuate myself between Packer Throme and the law, Your Highness,” Senslar said, hiding his disappointment. “The courts are far preferable to the bounty hunters Bench will involve by posting his name and likeness. If he is at sea, as I suspect, and arrives at some obscure port without knowing that he is a wanted man, he will be easy prey for their pistols.”
Mather shrugged. “The money’s the same if he’s alive.”
Senslar looked askance at him. “You know, Your Highness, how bounty hunters work.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Delay the posting.”
The prince paused. “I must decline. I respect you greatly as a swordmaster, Senslar. But Bench Urmand is the expert in these matters. I trust his judgment, as should you.”
“I trust Bench implicitly in such matters as these. He, however, does not know Packer as I do.”
“Nor do I, I’m afraid.”
Senslar stood and bowed. “Thank you for your time, my liege. And thank you for your tea and cakes.” He had not touched the food or drink before him.
“But do keep me posted on how it turns out. It’s quite an intriguing story.”
Senslar nodded, but made no promises. He had to protect Packer from the bounty hunters.
A ragged troop gathered in the early morning light. The cool of the night was still felt in the breeze that drifted through the square. But the scent of dew and the promise of a new day were lost on this muster of half a dozen men—two Boweryton drivers with keen eyes and accurate long-rifles, and four others not much more than vagabonds and brigands. They worked the city’s violent gray netherworld between law and order. They waited for Bench Urmand to post the day’s work.
The Sheriff of Mann was a house of bricks, solid as a wall, his muscular shoulders square, his neck thick as a tree trunk. His dark eyes were crisp and full of purpose, his stride the same. He looked up the street one last time before posting the handbill. Bench knew how final an act it was likely to be. For confirmation, all he needed to do was to turn around and study the faces of the men standing behind him. He didn’t have to look, however. He knew the scarred faces, the dirty clothes, the armaments they carried. He didn’t much like the necessity of using thugs for the purpose of justice, but the royal coffers were low. If an outlaw was holed up in the city, the sheriff had enough manpower to bring him in. But a killer who roamed the villages and terrified the small towns required more resources than Bench had available. Five gold coins to bring swift justice and keep peace in the realm was a bargain.
As Bench looked, the familiar crimson beret rose up from the cobblestones. He paused, waited…but when Senslar’s face came into view, Bench knew the answer. He nodded once, then tacked the poster to the wall.
The bounty hunters gathered in, studying and memorizing. Among them was a grizzled highwayman named Dirk. “Musketeer?” he asked.
“Swordsman,” Bench answered.
“Last seen?” another queried.
“Hangman’s Cliffs. Maybe Inbenigh, depending on who you talk to.”
“To sea. Wanted to join up with Scat Wilkins and the Trophy Chase.”
This stopped the questioning for a moment. “Must be a heavin’ good swordsman,” one said.
“Don’t matter. Never knew a sword that could outduel a musket ball,” another said, and the others laughed.
Senslar approached on horseback, his horse’s shoes clipping the paving stones briskly.
“Still, if he’s Scat’s swordsman, five coins is five too light,” the first said, unconvinced.
“That’s the bounty,” Bench said matter-of-factly.
“I know how you can double that purse,” said a clear, precise voice. The horseman rode into their midst.
“How’s that?”
“Bring him in alive,” Senslar said.
“Whose money?” someone asked. Dirk slunk back, not wanting to be recognized.
“Yours if you bring him in alive, and well. From my purse to yours.” There were sighs and whispers. Senslar looked at the men, eyeing their resolve, or lack of it. Then he noticed the man with the grizzled beard. “Ah, good morning once again, sir,” Senslar said with a smile and a tap of his cap. “I see you’re a man of many talents.”
Dirk Menafee looked sour. “Who are you?”
“That’s the Swordmaster of Nearing Vast,” the sheriff said flatly. “If he says he’ll pay it, he’ll pay it.”
Dirk swallowed, wide-eyed. He bowed his head slightly. “Sorry about…I…thought you were someone else, sir.”
“Yes, I recall your mistake.”
“So what’s this Throme to you,” he asked, “that you put up your own money to keep him alive?”
Senslar smiled. “He taught me a few things about swordsmanship.”
Dirk blanched.
“Good day, gentlemen, and happy hunting.” Senslar saluted Bench Urmand, who laughed and returned the salute, and he rode away.
“What’s the story, Bench?” the others asked. “Is this Throme a pistoleer too?”
Dirk stewed. “Ten coins may be ten too light.” But in his heart, he was determined to find Packer Throme and bring him in. He would gladly take the little man’s money. But if he had to kill the man’s student, he’d take satisfaction in that too.