The Huntsman shifted on his horse, the beast dancing in place as he let out a sound not unlike a hound's growl. "The Rom
ans are a plague on this soil." He gestured to where the hounds snarled in the distance. "We took one of their damned soldiers tonight. He'd come upon a dryad in the woods, and when she could not escape, he took his time with her and has now paid. This is still our land."
"Yes, my lords. Yet as long as the Romans remain, we are subject to their tyranny. Freeing my wife would be difficult enough, but if she escapes, she brings down the wrath of the eagles on our heads. I need another solution. A magical one."
"To free your wife in such a way that her captors do not realize she's gone," the Huntsman mused. "Presumably also freeing others from your village, which will require more than simple fae compulsion. An interesting proposition."
"In return, I will do whatever you ask of me."
There was a silence so long the man began to plead, but the Huntsman raised his hand. "Would you murder Romans?"
"Gladly."
"Murder them in a way that you might find repulsive? There was a tribal camp a half day's ride from here. A dozen women and children forced to flee their homeland. While their men were away, four Romans struck. They raped, and they slaughtered, and there is nothing we can do about it, no victim having fae blood. We would like the perpetrators killed in a way that will teach others that the women and children of this land are not their playthings."
"Yes, my lords. I will do as you..."
The scene flickered again. I was in a bedroom, looking out from behind bars. The bars of a crib. I remembered the cribs in the abandoned asylum, but this was a child's bedroom, sparking some deep memory--
"Got a deal for you," a man's voice said.
I shot back through time, landing this time in a tavern thick with smoke and stinking of fish and cheap whiskey and unwashed bodies. Three men sat at a corner table. They were not dressed finely, but they were clean and well groomed, and they held themselves apart with an air of fastidiousness, like travelers who've wandered into the wrong part of town in search of a drink. A few men circled, as if thinking they might be easy marks, but cold looks from the trio sent them scuttling off. All except this one, who stood beside their table.
"I have a deal for the Huntsmen," the man said.
The oldest of the three lifted cool green eyes to the man. "And you think this is the way to bring it to us?"
"I thought it better than accosting you in an alley."
"We would prefer not to be accosted at all. Particularly when we are enjoying our ale. And hunting."
The man cast a careful glance around the bar.
"Ah, yes," the Huntsman murmured. "Perhaps that would explain why you found us here. Did you think we would frequent such an establishment by choice?"
"I do not question the ways of the fair folk."
The Huntsman's lip curled. "We are not fair folk. Now, before you insult us further, may I suggest you wait outside until we are done our ale and our other business, and then we may speak to you."
The man pulled out the fourth chair and sat. "No need. I'll be quick about it. My family used to be mhacasamhail. We no longer follow the ways. Too little profit in it."
"The vocation of the mhacasamhail is not about profit, no more than that of the Cwn Annwn. It is mutual service and--"
"I think there's a better alliance to be made. With you and your lot. I have heard that you will offer deals. We hunt the men that you cannot, send their blighted souls to purgatory, and you pay well for the deed."
"Pay?"
"Usually in favors, but I don't want favors. Twenty guineas a head. You provide the names; I'll do the rest. No need to tell me what they done to deserve it." He winked. "I trust you."
"Twenty guineas a head." The Huntsman looked at his brethren. "Is that the value of a human life these days?"
"It's negotiable," the man said.
The Huntsman turned on him, slowly. "No, John Miller, it is not negotiable. Human life cannot be weighed in pence and shillings, and any man who thinks it can has obviously done such work before."
"N-no, course not. I'm just offering--"
"I see blood on your hands, John Miller. On your hands and in your eyes. An employer who dared complain when you stole from him. A prostitute who dared expect the money you promised her. And..." He leaned over, peering into the man's eyes. "Your brother? No, tell me that's not true. You murdered your brother over an inheritance barely larger than the price you just quoted for the life of a stranger?"