"Please, Milady!" Vaijon protested, drawing himself up and looking down his nose at her. "Practicality if you like, and 'nasty' is fair enough. But 'peasant practicality'? My father would die of apoplexy! I am an Almerhas of Almerhas, you know."
"Don't we all?" Kaeritha returned, and he chuckled. He was about to say something more when Sir Harkon walked up behind him. Wencit and Brandark were with Harkon, and the knight-commander looked grim as he held out one hand.
"We found this on one of their dead, Milord," he told Bahzell in a flat voice, and the Horse Stealer stiffened as he saw the golden chain and pendant. He hesitated a moment, then took it gingerly, holding it up for Kaeritha to see, as well. The pendant was an icon in the shape of a scorpion, as long as a man's index finger, crouched atop an oval cut emerald a half-inch across. The creature's stinger-tipped tail was raised to strike, and its eyes were tiny rubies. It was an exquisite piece of work, and Kaeritha hissed as she saw it.
"Sharnā here?" She glared at the symbol of the god of demons and assassins.
"Why not?" Brandark demanded with mirthless humor. She looked at him, and he shrugged. "Old Demon Breath took quite a dislike to us—well, to Bahzell, to be honest, though it tended to spill over onto everyone in the vicinity—last fall. From all I've heard, he isn't one to give up grudges easily, and he doesn't seem to be particularly blessed with inventiveness, either. He spent a thousand leagues or so and several dozen dog brothers trying to ambush us. It never quite worked, but he did seem determined to keep trying until he finally got it right."
"That's not what I meant." Kaeritha reached out and took the scorpion from Bahzell. It was obvious she didn't enjoy touching it, but she turned it up and tapped the emerald on which it crouched. "This isn't something a dog brother would wear, Brandark. For all its official connection to Sharnā, the assassins' guild isn't particularly pious, and this is the emblem of one of Sharnā's priests." She glanced at Harkon. "Did you find any dog brothers among the dead?"
"None," Harkon replied, and looked at Wencit for confirmation.
"There weren't any," the wild wizard agreed. "And we looked very carefully for tattoos after we found that—" he jutted his chin at the scorpion "—too."
"I see." Bahzell leaned back on the rock upon which he sat. He took a long sip of hot tea, then rubbed the tip of his nose while his ears flattened in thought. He felt the others watching him, but he took his time considering the scanty information they had.
"I'm thinking," he said at last, "that there's naught but one possibility. Scummy as he is, Demon Breath is still a god... of sorts. Like as not, he's after knowing what we're about, and like Brandark says, he's not been shy about trying to scrag us both in the past. On the other hand, it's in my mind that himself said not even the Dark Gods dare meddle too directly." He cocked a questioning eyebrow at Kaeritha, who nodded. "Well, I suppose it's possible, then, that he's not told his lot just why he's wanting us dead. Come to that, the way these fumble wits went about it may mean as how he's not even told them who we are. I'm thinking this lot had no notion they were about to cross swords with the Order of Tomanāk until they saw our colors."
"I'd say you're right about that last bit, at least, Milord," Harkon said. "The scum who follow Sharnā have never cared to meet us in battle, and certainly not in anything like equal numbers. They only outnumbered us by three to two here, and if they'd known what we were, they would have bought a lot more swords to help them out."
"They've certainly avoided this sort of thing in the past," Kaeritha agreed.
"Aye, and Sharnā's not exactly noted for keeping faith with anyone," Bahzell pointed out. "He'll send his own worshipers to their deaths and laugh unless there's after being something of special value for him in keeping 'em alive, from all I've heard. Like as not the notion of setting them on us without warning them would actually amuse him."
"But that doesn't mean he doesn't really want to stop us—or you, or the two of you, or even the three of you, counting Wencit," Brandark said. The Bloody Sword rubbed the tip of his truncated ear for a moment, then grimaced. "Phrobus! If I were Sharnā, I'd want the whole lot of you as far away from my plots as I could keep you."
"Which only emphasizes the importance of our not letting him get away with delaying us," Wencit put in, and Bahzell nodded.
"My very own thought. But what to do with this lot in the meantime?"
He twitched his head at the miserable prisoners. The fact that Tomanāk's Code protected them from abuse by their captors didn't seem to have made them feel a great deal better, and he didn't blame them. The code wasn't binding on the Royal and Imperial courts, and brigandage was a hanging offense.
"I don't see any option, Milord," Harkon said almost apologetically. "We'll have to take them along at least until we meet one of Sir Maehryk's patrols. I don't think they'll slow us, though. We only lost three horses, and our scouts rounded up all of theirs from their camp to replace the losses. Maybe the local magistrate can get more about their employers out of them. Once they're face to face with the courts—and the hangman—they may decide to strike a deal and turn King-Emperor's evidence."
"I'm afraid Harkon's right about taking them along," Kaeritha said. "But we might be able to get just a tad more information out of them. While I would never encourage anyone to violate the Code, this—" she held up the scorpion "—puts a different color on things." Bahzell looked at her quizzically, and she shrugged. "They don't necessarily know that working for Sharnā doesn't change their status. As servants of Tomanāk it would never do for us to actually lie about that, but if they just happened to get the notion that the Code doesn't protect those who give their allegiance to the Dark Gods, well—"
She shrugged again, and Bahzell gave an evil laugh. Vaijon and Harkon looked at her as if they weren't certain they'd heard correctly, and Wencit only shook his head, but Brandark sighed. The others looked at him, and he raised one hand to wag an index finger under Kaeritha's nose.
"Bahzell is clearly a bad influence on you," he told her severely. "The very idea of a champion of Tomanāk suggesting such a subterfuge! I'm shocked—shocked!—that you could so much as think such a thing!"
"Oh?" Kaeritha's dark blue eyes glinted challengingly. "Does that mean you disapprove?"
"Of course I don't disapprove—I'm a hradani, Kerry! I just can't help wondering how Tomanāk is going to react to this."
"Oh, I've a notion he'll grow accustomed," Bahzell said, reclaiming the scorpion and dangling it in front of him while he considered it once more from all angles, then he grinned. "Now what do you suppose would be the best way to begin?" he mused almost dreamily. "Should we let Brandark be showing this little bauble to them one by one while he plays with his knife, or should old Wencit be after making sure they've seen his eyes and then give them all a lecture at once?"
Kaeritha's plan worked to perfection. Unfortunately, the surviving hired swords truly didn't know much about the people who'd hired them. No brigand in his right mind would have admitted he'd known he was working for Sharnā, yet Bahzell was inclined to believe their protestations of ignorance. Somewhat to his surprise, Kaeritha agreed, for their anger—and fear—when they discovered the truth seemed completely genuine. Any mercy they might have anticipated from the courts would evaporate instantly if they were proven to have knowingly served the Dark, and they appeared desperate to offer any information they could in an effort to buy some sort of clemency.
Only they didn't actually have any true information. The few who weren't regular out-and-out brigands were mercenaries of the sort Tomanāk did not approve of, and none had asked many questions when they hired on with their now deceased employer. Nor had they been told they were waiting for a single, specific target. They'd thought they were going to pillage anyone who happened along, and they hadn't even realized the travelers were in Tomanāk's colors until the first crossbow bolts were fired. The only thing all of them agreed on was that the man who'd hired them had been accompanied by an inner cadre of ten others, all of whom had appeared to be seasoned fighters... and none of whom had survived.