10
Karela reined in her bay mare at the edge of the tall t
rees, thick with the shadows of the setting sun, and studied the small peakroofed hut in the forest clearing. A single horse was tethered outside, a tall black warmount colorfully caprisoned for a noble, though its scarlet and black bardings bore the sign of no house. A lone man was supposed to meet her there, but she would wait to make sure.
The snap of a fallen twig announced the arrival of a man in coarse woolen tunic and breeches of nondescript brown that blended well with the shadows. The sound was deliberate, she knew, that she, being warned, would not strike with the Turanian scimitar she wore on her belt at his sudden appearance; Agorio could move in the woods as silently as the fall of a feather, did he choose. Both the man’s ears had been cropped for theft, and his narrow face bore a scar that pulled his right eye into a permanent expression of surprise. “He came alone, my lady, as you instructed,” he said.
Karela nodded. They were not so good as her hounds of the Zamoran plains, the men who followed her now. Most had been poachers, and petty thieves if the opportunity presented itself, when she found them, and they had little liking for the discipline she forced on them, but given time, she would make them as good and as feared as any band of brigands that ever rode.
She rode slowly into the clearing, sitting her saddle as proudly as any queen. She disdained to show more caution than she had already. As she dismounted she drew her curved sword, and pushed open the crude plank door of the hut with the blade.
Within was a single room with the rough furnishings to be expected in such a place, dimly lit by a fire on the hearth. Dust covered everything, and old, dried cobwebs hung from the bare, shadowed rafters. A man with a plain scarlet surcoat over his armor stood in the center of the dirt floor, his thumbs hooked casually in the wide, low-slung belt that supported his scabbarded longsword. He was almost as tall as Conan, she noted, with shoulders nearly as broad. A handsome man, with an eye for women from the smile that came to his lips when she entered.
She kicked the door shut with her heel and waited for him to speak. She did not sheath her blade.
“You are not what I expected, girl,” he said finally. His dark eyes caressed the curves beneath her snug-fitting jerkin and breeches. “You are quite beautiful.”
“And you’ve made your first mistake.” There was danger in her voice, though the man did not seem to realize it. “No man calls me girl. I’ll have the answers to some questions before we go further. Your message came to me through ways I thought known only to a trusted few. How did you come to know of them? Who are you, and why would you send me fifty golds, not knowing if I’d come or not?” For that was the amount that had accompanied the message.
“Yet you did come,” he said, radiating cool confidence. From beneath his surcoat he produced two bulging leather purses and tossed them to the table. They clinked as they landed. “And here are a hundred more pieces of gold, if you will undertake a commission for me, with as many to follow at its completion.”
Her tone hardened. “My questions.”
“Regrettably I cannot answer,” he said smoothly. “You need have no fear of being seized, my inquisitive beauty. I came alone, as I said I would. There are no men in the trees about us.”
“Except my own,” she said, and was pleased to see surprise flicker across his face.
He recovered his aplomb quickly. “But that is to be expected. When I heard of a bandit band led by a … a woman, I knew they must be very good indeed to long survive. You see, you’re becoming famous. Put up your blade. Eastern, is it not? Are you from the east, my pretty brigand? You have not the coloring of the eastern beauties I have known, though you are as lovely as all of them together.”
His smile deepened, a smile she was sure sent he expected to send tingles through every woman favored with it. And likely had his expectations met, she admitted. She also knew that only her danger at his manner—girl, indeed! My pretty brigand. Ha!—armored her against it. She held hard to that anger, prodded at it. She did, however, sheathe her sword.
“I’ll not tell you my history,” she growled, “when I get not even your name in return. At least you can tell me what I am to do for these two hundred gold pieces.”
His smoldering-eyed study of her did not end, but at least it abated. “Baron Inaros is withdrawing from his keep to his palace in Ianthe. He is not involved in the current struggles. Rather, he is afraid of them. ’Tis the reason for his move, seeking the safety of the capital. His guards will be few in number, not enough to trouble a bold band of brigands. For the two hundred you will bring me his library, which he brings with him in two carts. And of course you may keep anything else you take from his party.”
“A library!” Karela burst out. “Why would you pay two hundred pieces of gold, two hundred and fifty, in truth, for a collection of dusty scrolls?”
“Let us simply say I am a collector of rarities, and that there are works in Inaros’ possession I am willing to pay that price for.”
Karela almost laughed. This man as a collector of rare parchments was one thing she would not believe. But there was no profit in calling him liar. “Very well,” she said, “but I will have two hundred gold pieces upon delivery of these, ah, rarities.” It was her turn to smile. “Are you willing to pay that price?”
He nodded slowly, once more eyeing her up and down. “I could almost consider it cheap, though you’d best not try to press me too far, or I may take my commission to another who, if not so pretty, is also not so greedy. Now let us seal the bargain.”
“What,” she began, but before she could finish he took a quick step and seized her. Roughly he crushed her against him; she could not free an arm enough to draw her sword.
“I have a special way of sealing pacts with women,” he chuckled. “Struggle if you wish, but you will enjoy it before ’tis done.” Suddenly he froze at the sharp prick of her dagger point against his neck.
“I should slit your throat,” she hissed, “like the pig you are. Back away from me. Slowly.”
Obediently he stepped backwards, his face a frozen mask of rage. As soon as he was clear of her dagger stroke, his hand went to his sword.
She flipped the dagger, catching it by the point. “Will you wager your life that I cannot put this in your eye?” His hand fell back to his side.
Desperately Karela fought her own desire to kill him. He deserved it clearly, to her thinking, but how could she keep it secret that she had slain a man come to hire her? Such things never remained buried long. All who heard the tale would think she had done it for the coins on the table, and there would be no more offers of gold.
“You codless spawn of a diseased camel!” she spat in frustration. “But recently I saw a figure that reminds me of you. An ugly thing to curdle any woman’s blood, as you are. All horns and fangs, with twice as much manhood as any man, and like to think with that manhood, as you do, were it alive. If you have any manhood.”
He had gone very still as she spoke, anger draining from his face, and there was barely contained excitement in his voice as he spoke. “This figure? How many horns did it have? How many eyes? Was it shaped otherwise like a man?”