by Kenton and Rebecca Whitman
Lashaea smiled her full-lipped smile at the gentleman who opened the door and folded down the polished wooden steps.
"Thank you," she said.
"Of course, m'lady."
She stepped easily down from the carriage and took in the manor home.
It was tall on either side, rising to towers, with three full stories set before her, each marked by wide windows and balconies balustraded in gold and white. The lawn was well kept, with neatly trimmed hedges and a small orchard of apple trees that lined the drive.
Lovely, she thought. And richer than I had supposed.
"This way, m'lady."
She nodded and followed the driver up marbled steps to the round-topped doors.
He opened the door and she stepped through, taking in her breath.
"You are impressed?"
"I am," she laughed, and noted how her voice echoed in the wide open space. A mirror stood on the far end of the foyer, and for a moment she gazed at her reflection.
She looked upon a lithe, svelte body dressed in soft leather pants that lay tight against her hips. The blouse was made more for a man than a woman, but none would doubt her sex, for her features were undeniably female. How oft, she thought to herself, has the taunting shape of my lips given me the extra moment I needed to make myself mistress of the situation?
"Taraven," she said.
The man raised his eyebrows. "I'm sorry?"
She gestured over to the marble statue that stood just to their left, its body curved as it looked over its shoulder between half folded wings, gazing toward the front door.
"Oh yes," he smiled. "Taraven indeed. He carved it not three years ago for Lord Takai. A private commission."
"He must have the wealth of a king."
This time the man's smile was curiously curved.
"Oh, he does, m'lady. But he is also a personal friend of Master Taraven. I believe he paid only for the weight of the marble."
It was Lashaea's turn to raise her eyebrows, this time in surprise.
The driver placed a hand upon her arm and leaned closer. "The lord is expecting you. Please, let me show you to the conservatory."
Her interest renewed, Lashaea followed after.
When she stepped into the conservatory a Jeddan man stood, his eyes lingering over her form.
The typical evaluation, she thought, and smiled privately to herself. She took the moment to survey him. Taller and broader than most Jeddans, she noted. But the softly browned flesh, the silky gloss of jet-black hair, the finely sculpted features and long, dark eyes -- these left no doubt as to his province of origin. But she had known as much before she came. It was his bearing that surprised her, for he held himself like a king, with an unmistakable air of sure and quiet power that bespoke a strength beyond that of mere gold.
Unusual for a merchant.
"Mistress Lashaea," he spoke, his voice a rich and soothing sound untouched by accent. "A pleasure."
He stepped forward and she took the proffered hand, shaking firmly.
"The pleasure is mine, Lord Takai. I'm honored that you have considered me."
With an almost negligent gesture he motioned to the bench, and Lashaea took her seat. He sat in a similar bench across from her and carefully folded his hands.
"You come with the highest of recommendations, Mistress Lashaea . . ."
"Lashaea is fine."
"Good. As I said, you come with high acclaim, but I must admit that I am a bit taken with your appearance. Forgive me, but you seem young. And you bear not the marks of the mercenary -- you arrive unarmed, dressed as a commoner, and bear the manners of a noblewoman. I noted your surprise when I offered my hand."
"I came prepared for Jeddan customs, my lord. And as to the rest, I find that if I don't look like a mercenary, it aids much in my success at being one. I can assure you," she said with a smile, "that when I am performing my duty, I can take on whatever appearance is necessary."
He frowned and gave a small nod. "I'm told that you are skilled in martial arts, that you know locksmithing and poisons. You sail, are a proficient driver and rider, and can mark a gold coin from fifty paces with a longbow."
"Those are a few of my talents."
"And I think that none of them would aid you in accomplishing what I need done."
"Truly? This grows more interesting by the moment."
She eyed him as he took long breath and let it out in a sigh. For the first time she saw his shoulders sag, an almost imperceptible motion, as he reclined on the bench.
"I was hunting outside of Liramelle," he began, "a moon past. There was a forest drake in the woodlands, and an outfitting company, by name of Malin and Jael, was offering a hunt for it. An avid huntsman, I signed on as soon as I learned.
"I traveled north with my new bride." He smiled a half-smile. "My third, I fear, but this one a lovely young woman of Jeddan blood, not eighteen years old."
Lashaea didn't find herself particularly surprised, though she would guess Lord Takai at fifty years, at least. It was hardly unknown for younger women to wed themselves to older, powerful men. And Lord Takai was hardly unattractive . . .
"She prided herself in her skill with the shortbow, and was clearly the highlight of the hunt, for the outfitters, eight in all, found her engaging to the extreme. I began to grow suspicious almost immediately, for she would sometimes slip away at night when she thought me asleep."
Lashaea nodded, hiding her bemusement.
"On the fourth night out, I caught her in the tent of one of the leaders of the outfitters - Malin - a tall, powerfully built man of Northern descent."
"And what did you do?"
"I challenged him to a duel, of course. He accepted, much at the urging of my new wife, who doubtless thought she could have me dead and a good part of my fortune to herself. Unfortunately, a few moments later Malin lay dead on the forest floor, and I packed up my bags and rode back to Liramelle alone."
"Let me guess. Some of the huntsmen are seeking revenge for their dead friend. And you want them off your scent."
He smiled a broad, genuine smile full of half-twisted mirth.
"Partially correct, my dear. Except that it is Malin himself who seeks revenge."
Lashaea knit her brows and frowned. "Malin? But you killed him."
"Oh, yes, my dear mercenary. But still he stalks me. He nearly slew me in Liramelle, then followed me south to Selarum. I hired two mercenaries there. Both seasoned. Both strong, powerful men. And neither returned. I sailed here in secrecy, but now have word that he is slated to arrive on the morrow on board the Morningstar. I fear he will stop at nothing."
"How is it," she said, still confused, "that he hunts you if you slew him in the forest?"
"I feel sure it was Jael," said Lord Takai. "His partner. He wore strange amulets and I remember him whispering over Malin’s fallen body. I’m sure that he was a necromancer."
-------------
Lashaea turned the small knob on the oil lamp's base, raising the flame. A soft light flooded over the books, creasing the space between each into a sharp line and sending shadows skittering away down the library aisles.
She sighed. I am weary of reading, she thought. Weary of searching after nothing. Do none of these books speak in anything but the language of mages?
Her eyes fixed on a title, and she slipped the book from the shelf, blowing a thin coating of dust off the top pages.
Maelstrom
A Treatise on the Animation of Corpses
And the Nature of Undeath
She flipped it open, not expecting much.
"Selection of corpses," she read softly to herself, "preparation of the body, the psychology of the undead . . . " Then her eyes ceased, for there at the top of a page was scribed - Combating the Undead.
She stuck her finger into the book to mark the page, and made her way to the reading table.
A corpse is potent by virtue of the length of time between the extinguishing of the life and the reintroduction of necromantic life-force. A corpse raised soon after death will retain much of its intellect and even its former personality, though in truth nothing is left of the dead person but the patterns of behavior and thinking left over from its days of living. The true person may seem to be there, but they are not. So feel no remorse in the slaying of undead, for they are but spells encased in flesh.
If you have no recourse to magic, the undead must be killed by the same means used to kill a living man, save that your opponent will be much more powerful than a living man.
The undead have no use for their organs - brain, heart, or liver - and mortal wounds will do little to slow them.
As well, they are possessed of an uncanny strength, limited only by the breaking point of their bones. They will not tire, nor will they sleep. Poison, of course, is useless. And expect them not to feel pain.
The key to defeating them is to remember that they, too, are dependent upon the contraction of muscle and the tightening of tendons to move their bodies. One must think as a butcher, not a warrior, and place cuts with precision if the undead creature is to be slain.
Not an easy task when they, perhaps, are trying to kill you.
I have seen fights won by living men over the undead. I have seen them, but not often. The thing often seen is for the undead to wade through the living like a servant of Ursula, Mistress of Death.
Your best tactic? Choose other battles.
Great, she thought. How encouraging.
She sat back and flipped the book shut.
I've been doing this for eight years, she mused. I've retrieved stolen goods, guarded caravans and businesses, spied on husbands for their wives. I've taught the city guard of Jalpa their fighting tactics and even been fried by a mage's lightning spell. But I never thought I'd be fighting the undead.
She shivered and ran a hand through her long, dark hair.
Something about it didn't feel right.
Ah. Yes. That was it. She would be killing.
But will I? I think not, for is he not already dead? Did the book not say that there was only the presence of a spell, and no traces left of life?
No, I am not killing. But I'm going to have to take care if I'm to keep my own life.
She sighed. Sleep. I should get some sleep, for the ship is to arrive early.
She took up the book, returned it to its shelf, and stood for a moment, staring at the title.
Maelstrom.
She closed her eyes and said a soft prayer to Sorcha, her goddess.
"Let my life not be that," she asked quietly. "At least not tomorrow. I pray it be."
For a moment she was still, and then she turned and made her way home.
----------------
Drizzle matted her hair and ran down her face to chill her neck. She shivered and wiped one hand across her eyes, clearing their view.
The docks were quiet. She could barely make out the rocking hulks of moored ships as they lifted and fell to the slow, thick drone of ocean swells.
By dawn, Takai had said.
Lashaea squatted down next to the front door of the Pelican and removed her pack, setting it against the stone wall. She reached in and took out an empty bottle, her disguise against the city guard. She set it next to her and sat against the wall, taking in a deep breath. Now the wait.
She smiled at the feel of the chainmail she wore beneath her shirt. It broke her weight over the sharp stone exterior, made the rock seem soft and round.
But will it stop a blade powered by preternatural strength? She shook her head and sighed.
I'm scared, she thought. Just a little, but it's there. This is beyond my skills. I know it is. So why am I here?
Gold. Reputation. For had Lord Takai not offered her twenty thousand silver coins for the slaying of the creature? And had he not promised to make sure that word of her deed reached the right people?
She smiled. And perhaps, she admitted, I like him a bit.
She had learned her martial arts from a Jeddan. From a man who reminded her much of Lord Takai. Calm and good humored, handsome and a bit austere. They were such a different breed, those old-school Jeddans. It seems, she thought, that the younger generations are losing sight of their tradition, of their history.
Like Lord Takai's wife.
A movement lured her gaze to the sea. A darkness emerging from darkness, a soft winking of light fighting its way through the rain.
Lashaea stood, leaving the bottle where it lay. So soon!
She slipped around the edge of the building and tried to catch the breath which had suddenly left her.
There was a chill creeping in from the sea, and it had little to do with the rain or wind.
The men seemed cheery enough. They laughed heartily as they slipped down onto the docks and lowered the stairs. Ropes were cast about and lanterns lit the gloom as the captain spoke to the dockhands.
The Morningstar was a passenger ship, Takai had said, ferrying from Selarum around the northern shore of the Old World, and then south to Aranor.
She watched. The men helped down a woman, carrying her trunk for her. She wore a wide hat and full skirts, her face scrunched up against the cold.
Already carriages were rolling in, looking for customers, their horses lank of mane and darkened with the wet. The woman in the hat gestured toward one of them and a dockhand scurried to open its door for her.
A tall, broad gentleman with two children in tow, his hair tied back in a short tail.
A rather portly fellow, loud and obnoxious, joking with the sailors as if he were one of their own, even though his fingers sparkled with jewels.
Malin.
She was sure of it. He stepped up to the stairs carrying a long leather satchel slung over his shoulder. There was the long, dark hair Takai had spoken of, and the broad, powerful form. The rugged features shined pale as a lamp's aura fell upon them.
He stepped down with smooth, easy strides, and took little time on the dock. The captain nodded at him, and Lashaea saw him nod back. Then he was moving toward her.
"My lord," called out a carriage-driver. "Where can I take you?"
"I've no gold for it," she heard Malin say. "My legs will do well enough."
She saw the driver shrug.
He passed the carriages and stepped onto Palace Boulevard, walking with purpose. Could he intend to go straight to Lord Takai's?
Quietly she slipped out from her hiding place and followed him at a distance.
She could read little from him.
Near-silent splashes through shallow puddles as shadows loomed on either side. The smooth, steady gate. The slight turning of his head as he noticed a sound to his left.
She slung her backpack to one side, worked at the wet leather strap. And took a pair of chain-reinforced gloves from inside, slipping them on. It was important to do this quickly, so as not to alert the city guard.
A belt with two scabbarded blades attached. She pulled them free and strapped them about her waist.
The street was alone, empty. Nothing but fading night and rains falling from the sky, just as they had long before this was ever a city, long before this street was ever here.
Lashaea shuddered. Why are such thoughts going through my head?
He glanced back and stopped.
She froze, looking at him across the glistening expanse of cobblestone.
"We’re alone," he said, his voice cold, rich. It seemed very much alive.
He gestured to his right. "The woods," he spoke, "seem as good as place as any to conduct our business. I want witnesses no more than you."
It wasn’t right. She felt her muscles tighten, her breath go shallow in her lungs. How did he know?
"Come," he said, and he stepped toward the side of the road, his footfalls leaving dark marks where the water was pushed away into deep, moist cracks.
She saw him sling the satchel from his shoulder and undo ties. As he stepped into the forest, he let the satchel fall, and she saw the smooth glint of a scabbarded sword emerge.
Slowly she stepped forward, collecting her emotions. Almost woodenly she stepped up to where he had moved away into the darkness of the trees.
There was nothing. No movement, no sound.
It is here, she suddenly thought, where I shall die. Cold and leaking my lifeblood among the wet leaves scattered on the autumn winds.
I’ve never felt like this, she thought. So aware of my mortality. So close to death.
"I am here," he said, and she saw him move, shifting from where he stood next to a tree. "Come to me, huntress."
Huntress. Am I not the prey?
Huntress . . .
A bow pulled back, her sister shouting in a frenzy of excitement. "There! There! Next to the blackberries!"
The release, the sleek whisper of the shaft, the strange cry as cruel, relentless steel sliced through down-soft fur and tender flesh . . .
She shook her head, clearing it of memories. Am I going mad?
"Come to me, huntress. I have other business to attend to when I am finished with you."
"Malin," she whispered into the night.
"Come."
Her hands fell to the handles of her two blades.
"Come."
Her body wooden and cold, she stepped forward.
There was a slow, hard sound, steel on wood, and she realized it was her own blades, free now of their sheathes and glinting in the faint light shed by the streetlight.
His features emerged from the dark, a soft smile on the thick lips.
His blade was already free, she saw – long and already wet with the rain.
She froze once again, staring at him, sensing the power that lurked here in the forest, contained in the shell of what had once been a man. And then, from far away, she realized that he was upon her, springing with feral passion, his long blade held back for a strike.
She ducked low, heard the blade hiss overhead, felt the wind of his proximity. Her blades were alive, sudden power surging into her limbs, and she lashed out, felt them cut into leather and flesh as she rose back to her feet.
He caught himself against a tree, stopping his charge, and she pressed her advantage, swinging her blade in a vicious cut that took him full in the back of the skull.
A killing blow.
He pushed off from the tree and thrust his sword point at her belly.
A twist and she was clear, both her blades scraping against his as a guard. He was overextended, unbalanced.
A cut across the face, another deep into his shoulder, and then she spun free, backing away from his return stroke.
It did not come. His face was turned down, and one hand came up to touch it.
She closed her eyes as his fingers probed at torn flesh.
"You are ruining me," he said.
She opened her eyes again. No blood flowed from his wounds.
"Do you not know what I am?" he asked. "I am immortal. Undead. Now I must live with this forever."
Her eyes rested on the dark puncture where her blade had cut through his leather shirt and into his shoulder. He seemed not to notice the wound.
"I shall not be kind to you now, my huntress."
He looked up, and she saw that one of his eyes had been rent asunder by her blade. The other held fire.
The long, thick blade hit the leaves as he tossed it down, and she followed it with her eyes. He was done?
And then she saw. With a roar he came toward her, wild black hair whipping behind him, leaves crushed underfoot.
She screamed. He came with terrible speed, bearing down upon her, and she stabbed out, deeply, instinctively, into the body as he came. One blade sunk deep, the other glanced along ribs and caught in his leather shirt. Hands clamped with the force of vices upon her arms. She felt his weight coming upon her, felt her feet lose their footing on a slick root.
But she did not fall. She felt herself lifted, her right arm clamped so tightly that her fingers spasmed and the blade fell from her hand. Then she was thrown to the side, feeling the air about her, until the ground came up hard, pummeling her body as she skidded into wet leaves.
She lay for a moment, trying to catch her breath, trying to find her bearings. And then hands were in her shirt, grasping her once again, and she felt herself lifted as easily as if she were a child.
A mangled face came close to hers, and she smelled a strange, cloying scent.
"Look what you have done to me," he hissed, pulling her close.
Her eyes widened, staring back into the one looking out at her.
And suddenly she was aware of the blade still held in her left hand.
She stabbed deeply, with vengeance, into his belly, and twisted the blade to destroy whatever was inside.
He growled and threw her backward.
She broke free of the trees, seeing the open, clouded sky for a brief flash before she hit the cobblestones, the air wrenched from her lungs and her head bouncing with a white burst upon the stones.
When consciousness returned, a moment later, she could see her body lying out before her, stretched and covered in dirt and leaves. He was standing over her. One hand reached down, and she felt herself lifted again, limply. The feeling seemed to have left her body. He walked across the roadway, and she hung lifeless from his grip, staring up into the darkened sky. A flash lit the clouds from deep within, lightning in the black.
He paused, and she raised her head to look at him.
"Do not fear," he said softly, his eye gazing out with an eerie hatred. "Death is but the gateway to a higher life."
He thrust out his arm, and she felt the power he wielded, felt her body thrown backward, lifting into the air. Then a smooth, elastic feel met her back and suddenly exploded into shattering, glittering glass, cascading about her as she hit the ground again and felt her body explode in pain. She closed her eyes, felt the glass rain over her body, cutting the exposed flesh of her face.
All was still.
I am not dead, she thought. She looked to the left, looked to the right. Empty, gauntleted hands, her blades gone. And over the length of her body, Malin stepped into the shoppe, his feet making the glass crack and snap with sharp needles of sound.
"Resilient, aren’t you?" he said. He smiled again as he bent over her on one knee. His hand closed over her throat. "Goodnight."
Her eyes widened. His hand closed with sure, unearthly power, and she felt the air cut from her lungs. She stared out at his powerful arm, the shoulder with its black puncture hole, his bare wrist tight with taut muscle and sinew.
Fear is making me wage this war by instinct, she thought. My blows have been wasted. She knew what she must do.
She closed one gauntleted hand over a shard of glass, and brought it slicing across those tight, flexed tendons.
The fingers opened spasmodically, and she took in breath even as darkness loomed at the edges of her vision. His eye was filled with rage again, and she cut out at it, slicing with the glass.
He stood and let out a sound like an animal, a sound of horror. But life, weak and trembling, was back in her limbs, and she used it, used it against this bringer of death.
She rolled forward and grasped at his leg, wrapping her arm around it. Behind the knee she felt the two thick tendons, and she brought the glass to them, cutting deep until she heard them snap with a slick, sudden whip up into his leg.
A blow came down upon her back, hard enough to crack a rib. She cried out and rolled to the side, gasping for air.
With an effort she rolled to her feet, scattering glass, one hand coming up to steady herself against a rack hanging with clothes.
He was down. He had fallen to one knee, his leg useless. One hand was held open in a strange, flexed posture.
She steadied herself, then made a dash for the street.
He lunged more quickly than she thought he could, reaching out with his good hand, and she felt it close on her pants, bringing her to one knee. His teeth were bared under a tangled mass of hair, and she still saw one eye raging out at her from the tattered flesh that had once been a face.
She cut down with the glass, slicing fingers, but he hauled her in, and she watched in horror as his face fell to her thigh.
Teeth clenched over her flesh, trying to tear through her leather pants to the soft skin below.
She took the back of his neck, cutting with long strokes, slicing the muscle beneath. Her other hand she closed in his hair, hauling upward as she cut again and again.
The head lolled, and she pulled hard, cutting now at the jaws which had closed over her thigh. They, too, went loose, and she pushed him away, sliding back against the wall.
"Gods," she swore. "Will you never die?"
He was trying to stand, the head rolling in a sick, loose motion, his flesh torn to ragged shreds.
And then, with a sudden lurch, he collapsed. Glass scattered, and he lay still.
Lashaea stared out at him from strands of her drenched hair, breathing hard. A long rivulet of icy water trickled down her back, and she drank in the sensation as if it were the finest of wines. It meant she was still alive.
Alive.
She watched his still form, waiting for it to move again. But he lay there - silent, cold, and lifeless.
Why had he suddenly ceased? What had stopped him?
And then there was a movement in the stillness. A smooth, graceful movement, and Lashaea's eyes fell upon a young woman as she moved in from the street. Glass shifted with sharp little sounds under small feet.
"The bride of Lord Takai," Lashaea whispered.
The fine Jeddan features formed into a smile. She was small, Lashaea saw, and quite beautiful, with skin of glossy porcelain, and rounded rose lips. It was the crossbow, however, that most drew Lashaea's gaze. The Jeddan leveled it at Lashaea's heart.
"How observant," the woman said, her accented voice touched with amusement. "Natisha, if we are to be less formal. You seem to have destroyed my pet."
Lashaea's eyes flickered down to the torn and silent form of Malin.
"He's going to have trouble killing my husband now, isn't he?"
"I'd wager so."
Natisha smiled even more widely, and Lashaea felt a cold feeling settle over her.
"What is wrong, my dear mercenary?" Natisha asked. "Are you beginning to realize something?"
"It was not one of Malin's men who was the necromancer," Lashaea spoke softly. "You are."
"Oh indeed. I must admit that I have underestimated my dear husband. He does not die as easily as I would have liked."
"No?" Lashaea judged the distance between them.
"All I desire is my husband's fortune, you see? Without, of course, having to deal with his possessiveness. Do I look like a woman who could possibly be satisfied with a single man?"
Lashaea said nothing.
"Do I?"
"No," Lashaea said softly.
"But he did not die in the forest, because that fool there," and she gestured down, "could not win a duel against a man nearly twice his age. Can you imagine?"
"Hardly," Lashaea said.
"Now you've ruined my Malin, and I've no one to kill my husband for me. Whatever shall I do?"
"Seek other prey, perhaps," Lashaea said. "He's told many of what happened by now, of course. Even if you kill him, you shaln't have his fortune."
"That is a bother, isn't it? But nothing that can't be solved if I just animate him, as well. Everyone will think him quite alive, and I can simply shut him up in a closet when I don't wish to see him."
"Sounds convenient."
"It is. Except that I've no one to kill him now. Now that my Malin is destroyed. I need a new pet. Do you have any suggestions?"
"No," Lashaea whispered, and her eyes went wide.
"I do," Natisha said, and Lashaea saw the crossbow jerk.
-----------------
Lord Takai reclined in his chair and looked over the latest edition of the Oracle. He took up his glass of wine and sipped. It was growing late.
A sound touched at the edge of his hearing. The barest whisper of a sound. But it was quite enough. His put the wine glass down and set his hand to the hilt of his sword. He had kept it near him all day.
Quietly a form appeared around the corner, and he started up. Then he relaxed, smiled, and took his hand from the sword.
"Lashaea," he said. "Dispensing with knocking now that we're on more familiar terms?" He frowned. "You look beaten."
"I am," she said. She shifted her stance in the doorway, one hand held behind her back. She wore clean clothes once again, the old ones discarded. But her face held bruises and cuts that betrayed a fight.
"Well," he said. "Is he dead?"
"He is dead," she spoke. "Though he did not go easily."
"I imagine not. I . . . how did you do it?"
"Let's just say that I had to be selective in my methods. The undead do not die like mortal foes."
His frown deepened. "Are you alright? You seem . . . reserved. You are not injured, are you?"
She smiled. "Aren't you going to offer me some of that wine?"
"Oh yes. I apologize. Where are my manners? Here, let me fetch you a glass."
Lashaea's eyes watched him as he moved across the floor, opened a cabinet, and took forth a glass. He went back to where he had been sitting and took up the bottle of wine sitting there. She watched him pour.
"Takai."
He looked up.
"I am going to reveal something to you. I'm not sure how you're going to take it."
He froze, looking at her from across the room.
Lashaea took a step forward, her hand still held behind her back.
"Lashaea," he said. "What . . ."
She kept walking, closing the distance. She saw his eyes flicker, and something fearful crept into them. He set down her glass.
"Prepare yourself," she said.
He moved suddenly, his hand going to his sword and drawing it forth in one smooth motion. At the same time, Lashaea took her hand from behind her back.
"What . . ." he stammered, his eyes fixed on Lashaea's hand. It was a thick, leather bag that she held out before her, heavy with some weight.
"You needn't draw your sword, Takai. As I said, you must prepare yourself. And not for this. This is just Malin's head."
"His . . . head?"
She chuckled to herself and set it on the table. "Yes. Malin's head. Proof that I dealt with him. I'd advise burying it when you're done looking."
Lord Takai stood quietly, his sword still drawn, glancing at the bag which lay still on the wood.
"Come this way," Lashaea said. "And you can put your sword away."
He nodded, his eyes glassy. For a moment he did not move. And then, abruptly, he took up the sheath and set his blade back.
"Good," Lashaea said. "Come."
He followed her out into the hall, walking without his usual grace.
"You seem to have lost some of your composure, my lord."
"I thought," he said, "just for a moment, that perhaps they had gotten you too. That you were undead."
Lashaea smiled. "And they almost did, my dear Lord Takai. Only it wasn't 'they'. It was 'she'."
They rounded the corner, and Lashaea gestured to the front door. Beside it, neatly bound and gagged, was a small Jeddan woman.
"Natisha!" Lord Takai gasped.
"I fear that your wife is the necromancer, my lord. And a fine deceitress. I think she found her match, however."
Takai walked over to her, looking down, his eyes wider than ever.
"She thought to kill me and have me hunt you down after I finished with Malin, but she wasn't quite good enough with a crossbow to make her plan work. She should have stuck to her shortbow. After her first shot it was easy enough to subdue her. She's not quite as strong as Malin was. But I wouldn't argue if you paid me an extra five hundred for healer's costs. She put a quarrel pretty deep into my shoulder."
Takai nodded, his face set in a daze. "Whatever you like," he whispered.
Lashaea walked over and set her hand on his back. "Lord Takai?"
He looked over.
"Let's go back to your sitting room, and I'll tell you the whole tale. Then I'll take my gold and leave the two of you to work things out."
Takai swallowed and followed her gentle push.
Lashaea looked back once to Natisha's furious gaze. She gave the Jeddan a wink.
Job well done, she thought to herself, and set her mind to dreaming of what she'd do with the gold.