The Deadliest One

Dispossessed miners thronged the street, brandishing clubs and dirty faces, sending pedestrians scurrying onto jammed boardwalks. An elbow jabbed Vic’s ribs; her nose bumped someone’s shoulder. Arms aching, she hefted a tuber-filled basket, boosting it with just a touch of wizardry. Euphoria steeped at the back of her throat, and she longed to shoot skyward, out of the crowd. Swallowing the urge, she released the power, and pain bloomed behind her temple.

“I don’t have time for this crap.” Muttering more oaths, she plowed through the onlookers and into the tide of marchers, fording the street with a glare so fierce they lowered their cudgels and wove around her. Each step was a hammer blow against her skull, and nausea twisted her belly. Hurrying down a series of alleys, she emerged onto a street adorned with flower boxes wafting with spring. The Cobblestone beckoned from the block’s end, its half-timbered, ivy-draped walls promising respite. Pain squeezing her temples, Vic gritted her teeth and slipped through the side gate.

Bed linens billowed, wafting scents of garden herbs and brewing ale. Eyes closed, she pulled the aromas into her lungs, willing the sweet air to ease her ills. Another wave of sickness bubbled up, and she groaned. She’d have to visit Elekia soon, or hole up sick in her room until the queen sent guards to fetch her. It had already happened once since Bethniel had left.

You’ve fought battles feeling worse, she reminded herself, shouldering open the kitchen door. She could at least bring in the laundry. Leaving the tubers with the cook, she took an empty basket outside. Clean sheets, clean rooms, clean reputation, Helara always said. Vic unclipped a pillowcase from the line, cracked it smartly, snapped it into a neat square and pulled down a sheet. Birdsong trilled over the wall, and in the deeper tones of a nearby creek, she heard Ashel’s baritone. A shadow crossed the edge of her vision—her heart in her throat, she peered through the billowing linens. But it was only the water, a passing cloud, and wishful thinking.

You don’t love him, she repeated her litany.

“Vic,” Helara called sharply from the kitchen door.

Swallowing pain, Vic creased the sheet. “Almost done.”

The innkeeper came and put strong hands on Vic’s shoulders, her narrow eyes and stark cheekbones set in a fierce scowl. “Shrine, you’re green as a ghost. Come inside, now.” She marched Vic into her office and slammed the door. “I won’t have any trouble, you hear me?”

Vic’s cheeks tingled as if she’d been slapped. “What is wrong?”

“This is a respectable place.”

“I know. Why do you think I’m working here?”

“I will not have rumors going round about my employees.” She swiped up a crumpled Heralds’ pamphlet and flung it at Vic.

Smoothing the parchment against the desk, Vic laughed. The Heralds framed the facts of Olmlablaire’s destruction—that Vic the Blade had used wizardry to blast a hole in the Relmlord’s mountain palace—with an elaborate plot in which Kragnashians, the Caleisbahnin, rogue steed herders, and the Heralds’ favorite villain—Queen Elekia—sought to undermine the guilds and dismantle them. “Steed rustlers? This is preposterous!”

“You’re saying it isn’t true?” Helara demanded.

Guffaws fading, Vic wiped her cheeks. “When did the Heralds ever print anything but fabrications ginned up to sell their papers?”

“I asked for the truth, not sass.”

“This pamphlet is full of lies.” Even if it wrapped the truth with them. “Why would you even think—”

“They say wizardry kills the wizard, Vic, and since you came back from the war, you haven’t been yourself. You always look hungover, and you jump whenever I walk into a room where you’re alone. I know you’re not drinking my stocks. You’re not smoking bliss, are you?”

“There are no bliss dens in Narath.”

The innkeeper raised a shrewd eyebrow. “Don’t be so sure of that, with all the miserable vagrants lurking about. I’ll bring in the linens; clean up the common room and get yourself ready for the evening rush.”

When she finished tidying, she climbed to the third-floor garret she shared with Helara’s daughter. A journeyed Tailor, Lora had gone to purchase fabrics in Erin, and Helara had allowed Wineyll to take Lora’s bed while she was away. Vic found the minstrel curled there, facing the wall, a position she occupied most of the time.

“Helara’s booked a trio for the common room tonight,” Vic said. “They said you’re welcome to play with them.”

“I’m not allowed.”

“You’re not allowed if Helara pays you. No one can stop you just joining in. Craftfolk sing along all the time.”

“I don’t sing. I played.”

Vic sighed. Pulling Wineyll out of her funk was hopeless, and as each day wore on, Vic struggled against a desire to kick the girl rather than comfort her. She wished Bethniel was here—the princess would know exactly what to say and do. “I heard you don’t have to be in a guild to perform as a minstrel in Eldanion. I’ll ask Elekia to speak to their ambassador and get you a place as a court minstrel.”

“You have to supply your own instruments, and I don’t have any money to buy them.”

Lips pressed together, Vic rubbed her temples. “You are a war hero, Wineyll. I’m sure Elekia would grant you a boon, or something.”

The girl flopped over. Her glare pierced Vic’s skull, cranking up the ache there. “I’m not a hero. As you well know.”

“Wineyll, nobody knows better than me how Lornk can wind you up and spin you into doing the last thing you’d ever want to. I know sometimes we just want to wallow in our sorrows, but eventually you have to get up and move along with your life.”

The minstrel stared at her, and Vic wondered what she Heard. She supposed some would hate the girl for what she’d done, but Vic did know all too well what had driven Wineyll that night, and the fact Wineyll had been there in the first place was Vic’s fault. Another failure. “You should come down tonight,” she said.

The girl turned back to the wall. Biting back a sigh, Vic washed and changed into the dress and apron Helara required for tavern duty.

As evening came on, craftfolk and shopkeepers arrived for ale and fish stew. Minstrels fringed the silent chatter with a fiddle and a drum. Maynon and Silla tramped in with some Potters and took a corner table. Vic cooed over Victory, snoozing in a sling round Silla’s shoulders, and asked about their cheery smiles. “What are we celebrating?”

Maynon grinned. “The Potters took me back as a journeyman and apprenticed Silla.”

“Well then,” Vic grinned, “first round’s on me.”

“I’ll get it,” Geram called as his cousin Drak guided him through the door.

“You made it!” Maynon shook Geram’s hand. Vic raised an eyebrow—the men had always butted heads when they were under her command.

“Ow!” Geram jumped, flapping his hand as if he’d touched a hot coal.

“My grip that strong, Fishlicker?” Maynon asked.

“It’s always a shock to see you,” Geram quipped and hugged Vic while Maynon’s friends roared.

“You’re not the only one who helped us keep the stove warm through the winter,” Silla confided to Vic as the men traded insults. “And one of you must have put in a word with the Kiln, since the guilds are dropping people, not taking them on.”

“That was Bethniel’s doing.” Geram’s milky eyes crinkled as he kissed Victory’s tiny forehead.

“Captain!” Vic opened her arms for Drak. His smile forced, the big man hesitated, then stepped back after a quick pat. She didn’t blame his reluctance—he’d seen her do many terrible things with the Woern—but she regretted it all the same. She used to count on Drak’s sense and sense of humor to keep her head straight.

She fetched the party’s drinks while other craftspeople filtered in. The windows grew dark and tables filled. Servers slid through the crowd, taking orders, depositing dishes, sweeping debris. Helara poured and polished, lending half an ear and snippets of advice with every mug. Vic’s headache faded, and she found it easy to jest with the patrons while bringing their ale and stew.

“I don’t think anybody expected Vic the Blade to become Vic the Maid.” Geram leaned an elbow on the bar while she stacked clean glasses on the shelves.

“I like it,” she said. “Nobody gets killed.” Years ago, she would have disdained this life of soiled laundry and drunken patrons. An odyssey of captivity and warfare could do a lot to change a woman’s goals. There was only thing missing, she thought with a wistful frown at Victory, spitting smiles from Maynon’s arms.

“Could have one of those, if you’d stop being stubborn.”

“And you’re not my shrink anymore.”

He stiffened, his head cocked, and stumbled against the railing.

“Are you all right?” Her breath stopped. “Is it Ashel?”

“He’s in trouble.”

“What’s happening?”

“Marshal Victoria of Ourtown!” There was a scuffle, and the crowd pressed back from a swaggering figure. Two silver earrings glinted from an ear. A tuft of seabird feathers, four long ones tipped with white, clustered around the hilt of his sword. Below narrow, tilting eyes, a gap between his front teeth turned his grin ghoulish. “Victoria of Ourtown?”

Vic’s blood ran cold. If it weren’t for the Caleisbahnin taking her off a beach in the distant north, she’d still be a Logkeeper, just now preparing to leave her father’s lodge, ready with the spring to make her rounds among the Oreseeker villages. The peaceful path of a teacher and scholar, not a violent journey through slavery and war.

“My name is Gustave of Sect Dameron,” the pirate answered her silence. “I represent interests who would benefit from your skills in unique situations.”

“Order something, or leave,” Helara said.

“I’ll pay for the marshal’s time.” Gustave laid a gold coin on the counter. Gasps fluttered around the bar. Silver the only metal more common than gold, both were still rare enough that few Lathans had seen either. He held up the Herald’s pamphlet. “This says you destroyed Mount Olm.”

“We used a lot of sulfa, pirate.” Drak muscled through the crowd, Maynon behind him.

“And three thousand Relmans fell at the Battle of Re, yet hardly any Lathans,” Gustave continued. “That’s an unprecedented victory, marshal.”

“You need to go,” Vic said.

Pink poked through the gap in his teeth. “We pay well, marshal, especially for someone with your tactical abilities.”

“You were told to leave.” Drak shoved him, and the pirate grasped his sword hilt. Stone, porcelain, and crystal daggers whispered out of sheaths. The pirate was tall for a Caleisbahnin, but Drak loomed over him. “Go now.”

Gustave’s eyes flicked over the weapons, and he stepped back, hands raised, his gaze landing on Vic. “The marshal stands unarmed, yet we all know she is the deadliest one in this room. We’ll meet again, Victoria of Ourtown.” His ghoulish grin widened. “The rest of you should follow me out, while you still can.”

Murmurs rippled as the door banged shut. Vic dug her fingers into Geram’s arm. “What’s happening to Ashel?”

A boom shook the inn. Glasses tipped off shelves and smashed on the floor. Shrieks and black smoke billowed from the kitchen. Helara bellowed orders while screaming patrons jammed the door.

The Potters surrounded Silla and plowed through the crowd. Victory squalled, her mother’s hand cupped around her head. “Help Vic,” Silla cried to Maynon.

“Clear the guests!” Helara cried, rushing upstairs.

“Maynon, help her,” Vic ordered. “Drak, Wineyll’s up in the garret. Geram, go with Silla.”

Maynon pushed Geram toward the Potters, then charged up the stairs after the captain and Innkeeper.

“The cook is hurt,” Geram yelled as the Potters dragged him outside.

Fire ballooned through the kitchen door. Vic threw up a shield of solid air, but the blaze shredded through it, flames scurling across the plank floor and paneled walls. The cook’s screams choked off, and scores of voices, dying in a nighttime conflagration, echoed in memory. Three hundred and twelve dead nomads. Elesendar, not here.

Shutting her eyes, she spread her awareness through the air molecules vibrating near the blaze and willed them to slow. In the kitchen, white heat roared, blasting out of the bricks. She restrained the vibrating air, and the room chilled to an icehouse. The fire shrank as she bound the air together, smothering the flames with the thing that fed them. The cook lay near the back stairs, an enormous heap. Vic could spare nothing for him. It took all her concentration to hold back the fire.

Helara burst through the door with a sodden broom. Wet straw slapped against an invisible wall. Mouth open, she stared at Vic.

“Get the cook out. I’ll put out the fire.” Sweat froze in ribbons on Vic’s cheeks and neck, her head throbbing as if a balloon were expanding behind her eyes. A puff of smoke, then a gout of flame seared toward the ceiling. “Get out,” she ordered. “Now, Helara.”

“The pamphlet—”

“Get out!” Vic screamed, shivering with the cold and the effort. Smoke and flame sparked out of a dozen cracks. Air seeped through them, feeding the fiery monster that stretched once more toward the walls. “Let me do what I can do,” she pleaded as Helara stumbled backward, her eyes wild.

“Help me with him,” Geram slipped through the door and hoisted the cook’s shoulders, groaning as he tugged. “Help me, Helara.”

“Is the house clear?” Vic asked.

“Upstairs is empty. Drak and Maynon got everyone out.” Geram grunted, and the cook’s bulk edged toward the door. “Shrine, he’s big. Help me with him, Helara.”

“My inn?”

“Vic’s taking care of it. We have to go now or your cook won’t make it.”

Together, they dragged the man out. The fire melted. Embers dimmed. Smoke clambered along the solid air mass, hissing out of cracks. Outside, the fire brigade whistled toward the house. Charcoal billows fogged, and a cough racked Vic’s throat. Her head rolled loose on her shoulders.

A trooper did what she had to. Keep fighting. Fold the sheets. Birth a baby. Smother a fire. Keep it up, she gritted at herself. Keep it up. Soot clouds twisted across the ceiling. Her concentration faltered, but the flames were only embers now. Sinking to the floor, the strength gone from her knees, Vic coughed out thanks to Elesendar, same as she did in battle. She was a heretic, but Helara wasn’t. And the inn was safe, thank Elesendar.