This one was of the first type; her head barely reached Walegrin's chest. In a way she reminded him of Illyra and the resemblence was almost enough for him to order her out on the spot.
She was shaking out her short kilt; repairing a knot at the shoulder of her tunic which tried to conceal a small breast as grimy as the rest of her. Walegrin judged she hadn't eaten for two or three days. A half-healed slash stiffened her face; another wound ran down her hard, bare arm. Someone had tried to kill this woman and failed. She tugged wide-spread fingers through her matted, dark hair, doing nothing to improve it.
"Name," he demanded when she stood still again.
"Cythen." Her voice was remarkably pleasant for one so callused.
"You use a sword?"
"Well enough."
"A lad's sword, not a man's, I suppose."
Cythen's eyes flashed from the insult. "I learned the sword from my father and my brothers, my uncles and cousins. They gave me theirs when the time came."
"And Jubal?"
"And you," she stated defiantly.
Walegrin was impressed by her spirit-and wished he could hire her relatives instead. "How have you survived since Jubal's death-or don't you think he's dead?"
"There's not enough of us left for it to make a difference. We always had more enemies than friends. The hawkmask days are over. Jubal was our leader and no one could take his place, even for a few weeks. Myself, I went to the Street of Red Lanterns-but it's not to my taste. I was not always like this.
"I saw your man face down a Stepson-so I've come to see you and what you're worth."
A man shouldn't look at his prospective officer that way-not that she was flirting. Walegrin felt she was trying to reverse their roles.
"Jubal was smart and strong-maybe not as smart and strong as he thought he was; Temp us got him in the end. I put a high price on my loyalty and who I give it to. What are your plans? It's rumored you have hard steel. Who do you use it for?"
Walegrin did not reveal his surprise; he just stared back at her. He had far less experience than the slaver, fewer men and far less gold. Ranke, in the form of Tempus, had brought Jubal down-what chance, truly, did he have? "I have the steel of Enlibar forged into swords. The Nisibisi do not fight in neat ranks and files; they ambush and we will ambush them in turn until we've made our names. Then with more swords-"
She sighed loudly. For one raging moment Walegrin thought she would turn on her heels and leave. Had she honestly expected him to scrabble for Jubal's lost domain? Or did she sense the hollowness of his confidence?
"I doubt it-but at least I'll be out of Sanctuary," she offered him her hand as she spoke.
A mercenary captain welcomed his men with a hand-shake and a comrade's embrace. Wale-grin did not embrace women as comrades. When he needed to he found some ordinary slut, laid her on her back and, with her skirts up to hide her face, took what he needed. He had seen women, ladies, that he would not treat in such a manner-but they had never seen him.
Cythen was no slut, and she'd hurt him if he treated her that way. She was no lady, either- not with her clothes half-gone and covered with dirt. Still, he wasn't about to set her back on the streets-at least not until she had a good meal. After quickly wiping his hand on his hip, Wale-grin took hers.
She had a firm grip, not man-strong but strong enough to wield a sword. Trying to make it seem natural, Walegrin raised his other arm for the embrace and was saved from the deed itself by a thumping, shouting commotion on the stairs outside.
Thrusher was flat against the wall. Walegrin had a knife out of its forearm sheath and just enough time to see Cythen remove a nasty assassin's blade from somewhere in her skirt before the door burst open.
"They've taken her!"
The light from the torch on the landing blinded Walegrin to the details of the scene before him. There was a central figure, huge and yelling; writhing attachments to it, also yelling and presumably his guards, and finally Thrusher, leaping out of the darkness to wrap lethal arms around the neck of the unsubdued invader. The dark hulk groaned. It fell back, squeezing Thrusher against the wall. It twisted, freeing its right arm, then calmly peeled someone off its left side and threw him into the eaves.
"Walegrin!" it bellowed. "They've taken her!"
Cythen was crouched on the balls of her feet, beneath the giant's notice but not Walegrin's. She was ready to strike when he laid a hand on her shoulder. She relaxed.
"Dubro?" Walegrin asked cautiously.
"They've taken her!" The smith's pain was not physical, but it was real nonetheless. Walegrin did not need to ask who had been taken, though he could not imagine how they had gotten past the smith in the first place.
"Tell me slowly: Who took her? How long ago? Why?"
The smith drew a shuddering breath and mastered himself. "It was just past sundown, a beggar-lad came up. He said there'd been an accident on the wharf. 'Lyra bid me help if I could, so I followed the lad. I lost him almost at once^ there was nothing on the wharf-" he paused, taking Walegrin's wrist in a bone crushing grip.
"It was a trap?" Walegrin suggested, grateful for the gauntlet that protected his wrists from the full power of Dubro's despair.
The smith nodded slowly. "She was gone!"
"She hadn't simply followed you and gotten lost-or gone to visit the other S'danzo?"
A deep-pitched groan forced its way out of Dubro's throat. "No-no. T'was all torn about. She fought, but she was gone-without her shawl. Walegrin, she goes nowhere without her shawl."
"She might have escaped to hide somewhere?"
"I've searched-else I'd have been here sooner," the smith explained, shifting his grip from Walegrin's wrist to his less-protected shoulder. "I roused all the S'danzo-and they searched with me. We found her shoe behind the farmer's stall by the river, but nothing else. I went home to look for signs." Dubro shook Walegrin for emphasis. "I found this!"
He withdrew an object from his pouch and held it so close that Walegrin couldn't see it. A measure of calm returned to the smith, he released Walegrin and let him study the object. It was a metal gauntlet boss, engraved and distinctive enough to identify its wearer, should he be found. But Walegrin did not recognize it. He handed it to Thrusher.
"Do you recognize it?" he asked.
"No-"
Cythen took the boss from Thrusher's hands. "Stepson-" she said with both fear and anger. "See here, the lightning emerging from the clouds? Only they wear such designs."
"You have a plan?" Dubro demanded.
It wasn't only Dubro waiting for a plan. With the mention of the Stepsons, Cubert had re-entered the room, and Cythen was warm for blood; the hawkmasks all had reasons for vengeance. Even Thrusher, still rubbing his sore head, acted as if this were a challenge that must be answered. Walegrin tucked the boss in his belt-pouch.
"We know it was a Stepson, but we don't know who," Walegrin said, though he suspected the one who had overturned Illyra's table earlier. "We don't have time to run them all to ground, and I don't think Tempus would let us. Still, if we had a Stepson hostage or two ourselves, it would be easier-"
"I'll go with Thrusher. I know where they're at at this hour," Cubert asserted. Cythen nodded agreement.
"Remember, a dead Stepson won't do us any good. So if you must kill one, hide the body well-dammit."