The Reign Of Istar (23 page)

Toukere would pause to take a long drink of ale and wipe the thick foam from his black
beard. We were taking our meal in the Hart's Leap that day, a tavern known for the
goodness of its ale. He always liked his ale, Toukere did, and he held that no one could
talk well or wisely unless he had some in his belly.

“A heretic's a heretic, Hunter-Doune, whether it's some woman weeping over her babe or
some ugly minotaur all chained up and looking like an easy thing to kick. The only thing
you want to worry about is how much you're getting paid for 'em. Worrying about feelings -
theirs or yours - is a waste of time.”

A HERETIC'S A HERETIC.

As it happened, Toukere had found out that this simple definition worked to the
Kingpriest's advantage, too. Not long after that night the Kingpriest spun a new twist in
his religious logic: He decided that since most dwarves worshiped the gods of neutrality -
the crafter-god, Reorx of the Forge the most honored among them - then the whole race must
be evil because they would not worship the gods of good. Notice went up in the paymaster's
den that a bounty hunter could make sixty gold on a dwarf. Now, I never knew how Touk
worshiped - or even whether he did -

but the night the notice went up, he parted with more gold than I'd ever known him to, got
me and everyone in the Hart's Leap drunk enough to forget where we were - or who we were -
and sneaked out the back door.

He left Istar without me, and with no word of farewell.

Ah, yes. He robbed a minor shrine to Mishakal on the way out of Istar, getting himself
some traveling money, and likely needing it after his trick at the Hart. The cleric at the
shrine resisted, was dead of his wounds before morning. And so the bounty on Toukere
Hammerfell was larger than that on the average dwarf - one hundred gold, a sixty-forty
split between heresy and murder.

That was years before. Since then, I'd heard a few rumors that someone over Xak Tsaroth
way had finally claimed the gold on Touk. For the most part, I got over missing my
partner, but I lost my taste for ale, learned to like wine. Ale didn't taste like ale
after Touk left.

So at the end of that long, hot summer day, with sunset's gold shining on the broken
cobbles of Beggar's Alley and the air filling with hymns, I didn't kick the minotaur. I
took care of business as Toukere and I used to:

jerked the chain and got my prisoner moving again.

I hustled him down the alley, out into the wide avenues where the wealthy and the pious
live. The tall, beautiful towers of Istar rose gleaming and shining around us. I herded
the minotaur along the broad, tree-lined street where flower beds made lush and fragrant
medians, and hummingbirds danced in the air like living jewels. The street led to the
great temple, and beyond that holy place was the jail.

People on their way to prayer stopped to cheer as we passed, and in an excess of zeal, a
young man, dressed in brocades fashionably cut to imitate hunting gear, scooped up what my
horse left on the cobbles and hurled it at the heretic. But the fancy bravo didn't know
what to do about the mess on his hands after that. I laughed about it all the way to the
jail, was still laughing when I turned the minotaur over to the guards and went to the
paymaster's den to collect my gold. A small place, the den; a little wooden shack crouched
behind the jail where the Kingpriest wouldn't see it. He didn't mind that his clerics and
clerks paid bounty on heretics. He just didn't like to see it done.

The walls of the den were filled with the usual notices that reward would be paid for
those who served the gods of neutrality or the gods of evil; for kender and elves and
humans, dwarves and ogres and goblins, minotaurs, and any cleric who declined to worship
the gods of good.

The bounty had been doubled again on Kell, the infa mous outlaw-heretic who professed to
revere the gods of good, but who scorned the Kingpriest's practice of using torture and
execution to convince people that they must worship those wise and gentle gods.

(Some holy defender of good that Kell was. Ask anyone about Kell and you heard the tale of
how he robbed and murdered a whole family of pilgrims on their way to Istar to worship at
the great temple. Or the one about him looting wayside shrines and slaughtering the
clerics. A real favorite was that he liked to sneak into wakes and steal the silver
pennies off dead men's eyes. All in all, Kell didn't sound like he was much better than
the Kingpriest.)

Every bounty hunter knew that he could retire richer than an elf lord if he managed to
capture Kell, but, though everyone knew what his crimes were, no one knew where in all of
Ansalon this fellow, Kell, was hiding. No one even knew what he looked like. Was he a
dwarf or human or elf? It depended on which rumor you liked best.

I didn't do more than glance at Kell's bounty sheet that day. There was a time when I'd
been eager to hunt for Kell, but that was a while ago, and now I remembered what Toukere
used to say about him:

“When you think on it, Doune, my friend, no one really knows whether this terrible
heretic, Kell, is much more than a bad dream the Kingpriest has from time to time when his
food is too rich. I like the gold as much as the next one - maybe more, eh? - but I stick
to the easy prey. No sense wasting time chasing savannah-wind that's all the time changing
direction.”

Then he'd called for another tankard of ale. *****

There was a kender at the Hart's Leap. The race's heretical status didn't bother kender
enough to keep them out of Istar, though no few of that free-worshiping kindred had met
the heretic's fate there. Ah, but you know kender:

those light-fingered thieves don't worry about much. This one was young, a likable-looking
fellow, the way kender can be when they're not torturing you with their eternal chatter
and endless nonsense. Red-haired and slim, with a thief's long, nimble fingers, he wore
kender motley - yellow leggings, blue shirt, green cloak and purple-dyed buckskin boots.
He had six or seven pouches and wallets about him, all stuffed full with pack-rat junk.

Except for me and the kender and the barman, the tavern was empty. Careful people were
still at devotions or keeping discreetly out of sight. There were plenty of tables to
choose from, but the kender was sitting at the table by the Hart's only window, the one
with the knife-scarred top, where Toukere and I used to sit reckoning a bounty's split and
drinking ale. Chance, the barman, always kept that table clear for me, no matter how
crowded or empty the place was. Now he only shrugged when I scowled to see the table
occupied.

“He's here lookin' for you, Doune.”

That was thirty gold in kender topknot sitting at the table. Ah, life is mighty sweet, I
thought, when the bounty comes looking for the hunter. I fingered the hilt of my sword,
told Chance to get me some food, and said that I'd like to have it by the time I got back
from hauling the kender's butt to the jail.

But Chance closed his hand round my wrist, gripping hard. “Maybe you should eat first, eh,
Doune?”

The kender cocked his head, eyes alight and grinning as if he was expecting to have some
fun.

Then someone told me - a woman's voice, as soft and deadly as a steel blade cutting cold
air - that no one would be hauling kender anywhere tonight.

I turned fast on my heel, sword half drawn, and nearly spitted myself on her blade. The
tall swordswoman set the point of her steel gently against the base of my throat. Chance
never lifted voice or hand in my defense.

“How much did they pay you, Chance?” I asked bitterly.

“Just exactly enough,” he said, not even bothering to try for shame. He said no more, and
I heard him leave for the kitchen.

“Gently,” the swordswoman said, smiling and flattening out her words so that they were a
taunt. “Gently Doune, if you like living.” I like living well enough. I dropped my sword point but not the sword. She was human, like me, but dressed and geared like an elf whose family had some means. Silk and buckskin and low-heeled riding boots of the
finest cut. I'll tell you now, she was well made, long-legged and slender of waist. She
was round in all the best places, and there wasn't much need to guess about that. The cut
of her blouse showed more than the silver-and-sapphire necklace she wore.

I tried a question. “How do you know my name?”

“Who hasn't heard of Hunter-Doune?” She grinned, as cocky as a scamp bent on mischief.
“You're a legend where I come from.”

Light from an oil lamp gleamed on the steel between us, hers high, mine low and useless.
She gestured to the kender.

“Peverell,” she said, “relieve him of his weapons.”

The kender did what kender love to do. He got my dagger, found the small knife I always
kept sheathed in my boot, lifted the sword from my hand before I knew he'd reached for it.
He also took the bounty notices I'd gotten at the den and the fee I'd collected not an
hour ago. He would have taken the teeth from my head if his companion hadn't called him
off.

“Now, Hunter-Doune,” the swordswoman said, “come join Peverell and me for a drink and a
bite, eh?” She sheathed her weapon. “It could be to your profit.”

I eyed Peverell, back at the table and happily sorting through his take. “Hasn't been so
far,” I said.

“I suppose you're right. Pev! Give Doune his purse.”

The kender screwed up his face in protest, but he emptied the gold coins onto the table,
then tossed the purse to me.

“AND the gold,” the woman said firmly.

Long eyes bright, the kender cocked his head. Something needing no words passed between
the two and - for a wonder - Peverell scooped up the coins, came and gave them all to me.
I took the gold, pursed it, and stashed it in my deepest pocket, watching him trot back to
the table. He was uncannily quiet for one of his kind. I smiled sourly.

“Someone cut out his tongue?” “No,” she said, “someone slit it. Works out the same. A bounty hunter who took him and couldn't stand the chatter. Didn't keep him, though. Kender
are hard to hold. But I expect you know that. Now,“ she said, cold and no longer
pretending courtesy. ”Do you want to know where the heretic Kell is hiding, or is that
little bit of gold enough to keep you happy?”

*****

Chance brought us platters piled high with mutton and cabbage and potatoes, a jug of wine
for me, and a great pitcher of ale for the others. Fair pleased with himself, old Chance
was, and acting like I should thank him.

Outside the window, high up in the sky, I saw the two moons - the red and the silver -
shining brightly. Chance had barred the door, lighted only the few lamps we needed to see
what we were eating. The swords-woman told me that her name was Alyce. She said she was a
mercenary's daughter, that since her father's death she'd taken up the family trade, hired
her sword to merchant caravans needing to make their way through the goblin-haunted passes
of the mountains ringing the Plains of Istar.

Now some might think that mercenary work is a strange way for a woman to keep herself in
sapphire necklaces, but I had no reason to doubt that Alyce was capable of the work she
claimed to do. She'd gotten up behind me quickly enough, and that fine jeweled sword was
no stranger to her hand, but, for all that, I'd heard no reason to believe that she knew
more about Kell's whereabouts than anyone else.

“Well,” she said, tucking into a second helping of mutton with a wharf man's appetite.
“There's not much I can do to convince you that I know where Kell's hiding - except to say
that a friend of mine tracked him to his lair not longer that two weeks ago.”

“But this friend didn't kill or capture him?”

She laughed, and the kender clapped his hands in delight, his brown eyes kindling with
merriment.

“My friend's not foolish enough to go out alone after a man who's supposed to have done
all Kell is accused of.” She smiled slyly. “If Kell were an easy take, surely some bounty
hunter would have snatched him by now, eh? Pev and I were supposed to meet our friend
here, go after him together, but our friend is ... not available.”

I snorted. “Not available to make himself rich?”

“He's been jailed.” Alyce downed her ale, all business now. She nodded to Chance, who
quickly refilled the pitcher. “The barman says you know the jail well - having helped fill
it up often enough over the years. Help me break out my friend and you can come along.”

“You want me to arrange a jailbreak? Sorry. I put 'em IN jail - I don't break 'em out.”

“Exactly,” she said, “that's why you're the perfect choice. You'd have it done before
anyone even suspected what was going on.”

I thought about that for a while, and she - impatient - leaned across the table, her blue
eyes alight.

“A quarter share, Doune I Help me get my friend out of jail and we'll be on our way to
claiming a bounty so great that no place you could stash the treasure will be empty.”

Well, she wasn't much exaggerating about the bounty, and I was always tracking the gold.
But I was also careful. “Supposing I do this jailbreak? What's to keep you and your friend from getting rid of me and going after the bounty yourselves?”

Alyce's eyes grew sharp and cold. She drew her sword and I reached for where mine should
have been. She made no threat, only laid the jeweled weapon flat on the table between us.

“This is my father's sword,” she said, ignoring my own gesture. “I have never sworn an
oath on this steel that I didn't mean to keep.”

I believed her. Maybe it was the way her voice sounded, low and freighted with fierce
pride. Or maybe it was the look in her eyes, straight on and unflinching, like the light
gleaming along the blade's keen edge. Out of the comer of my eye I saw Peverell idly
tracing some old calculation Toukere or I had carved in the oaken table-top.

I'M HONEST WHEN I WANT TO BE, DOUNE, MY FRIEND. AND WHEN A MAN RECKONS THE SPLIT WITH HIS
PARTNER, HE'D BEST WANT TO BE HONEST OR HE'LL DESERVE TO BE DEAD.