Archer's Sin (2 page)

He forced himself to be patient. They’d be in the tournament for three days together; he’d have plenty of opportunity to get to know her. “How do you like the city so far?”

She paused before replying, and he could tell she was thinking about her answer before she spoke.

“It’s different,” she said. “I’m not used to all the people and noise.”

“Riat’s not normally this crowded,” he said.

She smiled. “I suppose I threw myself into this head first, coming during the Triferian. Riat is a lot to take in, but it’s a beautiful city—a prosperous city. I feel a sense of optimism here that I haven’t felt in a decade.”

“I know exactly what you mean.” He’d left home long ago because there simply wasn’t anything left for him in the east. No jobs, no money. Only the remnants of his family.

Gods, that smile of hers. He couldn’t believe the other archers had jeered at her. Yes, she was a big woman, tall and strong. Yes, she looked out of place in southern Kjall. But a big, strong woman was no curiosity to him. He’d grown up around women just like her. Nalica was the first real woman he’d seen in a long time. And she was beautiful.

“You seem to have adapted well,” she said.

“I’ve been here ten years now—not just Riat, but all around the south and up as far as Riorca. Mostly lost my accent, but I kept this.” He touched his beard.

She rewarded him with that smile again.

“Nice bow you’ve got there,” he said. “It’s yew, isn’t it? Did you make it yourself?”

“Of course. What proper archer doesn’t make her own bow?”

“You’d be surprised. Lots of southern Kjallans think you’re better off finding a good bowyer.”

She shook her head. “The bow’s got to fit the archer, and only the archer herself knows exactly how she wants it. You made yours, didn’t you?”

“Certainly.” He was of the same mind. Bowyers were capable of fine work, but an expert archer needed a custom weapon with just the right width and draw strength and flexibility. For that, the archer had to make his own.

They’d arrived at the registration tent; he couldn’t delay her any longer. “The clerk’s in there.” He pointed. “See the guard insignia?”

“I savvy it. Thanks for your help.” She headed into the tent.

He wanted to follow her but forced himself to turn around and walk away. Much as he wanted to get to know her, she was competition. Probably not strong competition, but who knew? She hadn’t seemed intimidated by his claim that he was certain to win. Perhaps she was a better shot than he assumed. If so, all the more reason he should keep his distance. He needed that job in the city guard, and they could not both win. One of them or the other was going to be disappointed three days from now.

***

Inside the tent, Nalica found a thin-faced clerk sitting at a desk. He glanced at her and then returned to his paperwork.

She approached the desk. “I’m here to enter the archery tournament.”

He looked up again, brows raised, and gave a deprecating laugh. “Actually, there’s no need to register. The archery event is on Soldier’s Day, and all you have to do is show up. We provide the bows, the arrows, and the targets.” His eyes went to the bow that hung over her shoulder. “Or you can bring your own, I suppose.”

“That’s not the event I’m talking about,” she said. “I’m talking about the tournament that takes place over three days. There’s an entry fee of ten tetrals.”

“Oh, no,” said the clerk. “For that tournament, you have to be a war mage.”

“I am a war mage.” She reached into her shirt and pulled out her topaz on its steel chain.

The clerk stared, and his expression turned. He looked like a man who’d bitten into sour fruit.

Nalica leaned her six-foot longbow against her boot, stepped through, and bent the top half to effortlessly string it. “You need another demonstration?”

“No.” The clerk leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Miss, there’s something you don’t understand about this tournament. The prize is a position as an officer in the city guard.”

“I know. That’s why I’m entering.”

He looked at her as if she’d sprouted an extra head. “But you’re a woman. You can’t be in the city guard.”

“Of course I can,” said Nalica. “I used to lead a mercenary troop.”

His nose wrinkled. “While that may be customary in the rural provinces, we do things differently in the imperial city.”

Three gods. She’d come all the way to Riat and taken an overpriced room at the inn. There was no way she was letting this snooty clerk shut her out of the tournament. “The rules say nothing about the entrant having to be a man, only that the entrant be a war mage. Which I am.”

“Yes, but...some things don’t need to be said. They’re implied.”

“I didn’t think it was implied that only men could enter,” said Nalica. “Nor did the archer who showed me the way here. He seemed to think it was quite ordinary I should participate.” She would not mention that the archer in question had also been eastern, from one of those rural provinces the clerk sneered at.

A man strolled in the door, dressed in the uniform of the Riat City Guard. His epaulettes indicated he was an officer. “Almost finished, Kaden?”

“Nearly,” said the clerk. “I’m just running this woman off.”

He turned and looked at Nalica. “Running her off, why?”

“She’s trying to sign up for the archery tournament.”

“Is she a war mage?”

“I am, sir,” said Nalica, annoyed at being talked about as if she weren’t there.

The officer turned to her. “Show me the stone.”

She pulled her topaz out from under her shirt.

The officer examined it and nodded. “Let her compete,” he said to the clerk. “You know it won’t make any difference. Meet me outside when you’re done.” He strolled out of the tent.

The infuriated clerk broke two pen nibs filling out her paperwork.

2
Vagabond’s Day

The first day of the Triferian was Vagabond’s Day, and it was the favorite of most Kjallans because it involved free whiskey. Nalica would not be able to indulge as much as she’d like to, not when she had the first round of the tournament that evening. She could afford to be neither drunk nor hung over, but a single drink in the morning would be fine. She’d brought her mug along for the purpose. At the first whiskey stand she came to, she filled it.

The merchants’ tents had been erected and were now in service. In honor of the Vagabond, they’d been hung with blue streamers. Guards with the Riat insignia on their uniforms stood everywhere. Vagabond’s Day, normally celebrated with whiskey and games of chance, had a tendency to become unruly. In the east, that often meant clan brawls. But here in Riat, it appeared the officials meant to keep order.

She angled away from the merchants’ tents and passed by the fields where the games were held. All of them cost money to play, and she did not want to be tempted to spend her remaining quintetrals. Ahead was the racetrack. That seemed a safe place to wait out the day.

The festivalgoers at the rail were pressed up close, occupying nearly every bit of available space. Perhaps a race was in the offing. But when she found a gap at the rail and worked her way into it, she saw only an empty track. “What are we watching?” she asked the woman next to her.

“Vagabond’s Dart is running,” said the woman.

“That’s a horse?”

The woman gave her a look. “He won the Plate last year, and the year before.”

“Oh. So there’s to be a race?”

“Not now,” said the woman. “He’s being exercised.”

Nalica shrugged. Some fancy racehorse running on the track all by himself—sounded boring. She looked around and spotted a knot of archers gathered up at the rail not far away, the same men she’d seen yesterday evening. Caellus was there, ugh. But so was Justien, and she liked him, even if he did think he was going to beat her in the tournament.

She left her spot and went to the archers, sidling alongside Justien. He raised his whiskey mug when he saw her. “Great One, pass us by,” he intoned.

She repeated the prayer, and they each took a swallow.

“I hope you’re in top form tonight,” she said.

He smiled. “You’d better not hope for that. You know the first round is no magic?”

“I savvy it.”

“Well, then.” He shrugged and returned his gaze to the track.

“Are you here to watch Vagabond’s Dart?” she asked.

“It beats playing Knots or Knucklebones,” said Justien.

“I’d rather watch a real race,” said Nalica. “Not just one horse running around the track for exercise.”

“It’s no ordinary horse,” said Caellus, from the other side of Justien. “Vagabond’s Dart has won the Imperial Plate two years running. He’s about to make it three.”

“I hear he can’t outrun Honeycatcher,” said Justien.

“I’ve heard that too,” said Caellus. “And I don’t believe it.”

“We’ll see tomorrow night,” said Justien.

“Who’s Honeycatcher?” asked Nalica.

“New horse,” said Justien. “Chestnut stallion, imported from Sardos. Supposed to be a great runner, but I’ve never seen him in a race.”

“Dart hasn’t been running well lately,” put in a man on the rail near Nalica.

“I hope Honeycatcher wins,” said Nalica, for no particular reason except that it seemed excessive for one horse to win the same prize three years in a row.

“You shouldn’t,” said Caellus. “Vagabond’s Dart is owned by the captain of the Riat City Guard.”

“He is?” The captain of the Riat City Guard would be her boss if she won the tournament. Not if.
When
she won the tournament.

Cheers went up from the crowd across the way, and she turned to watch the track. A horse sprinted around the far side, to the oohs and aahs of the spectators. The animal was a dark bay, almost black, with a white sock on his right hind.

“The captain of the guard does not
own
Vagabond’s Dart,” said Justien. “He owns a piece of him.”

Nalica blinked. “How can someone own a piece of a horse?”

“Which piece?” asked another archer.

“The captain is part of a syndicate,” said Justien. “He’s one of seven people who own the horse jointly. Captain Felix pays a seventh of the horse’s expenses, and he receives a seventh of his earnings.”

“Oh.” She’d never heard of that, horses being owned by groups of people. She supposed it was not dissimilar from clan ownership of herds.

The horse flew past, its churning hooves spitting dust clods over the track.

Justien turned to her. “Excitement’s over. You progged? Want to get something to eat?”

She smiled—he still knew his eastern words, even if he only used them with her. In fact she was hungry, but festival food was more expensive than what she could find in the city. Her money wouldn’t last if she spent it imprudently. “Well,” she hedged, “I wasn’t planning on eating at the festival.”

“Come on now, I’ll buy,” said Justien. “We’ve already got the whiskey.”

The whole situation was awkward. This man wasn’t her friend; he was her competitor. He might feel generous toward her now, since he didn’t think she had a chance of winning. But when evening rolled around and he saw how well she could shoot, she had a feeling he might regret his earlier kindness.

“I insist,” said Justien.

“All right.” He was the only man from eastern Kjall she’d met since leaving home. It made sense that she should at least pick his brain about how to get by as an easterner in the south.

He smiled and took her hand to lead her away from the rail.

She walked beside him through the festival grounds, aware of his big hand holding hers, of his body heat and his sheer size beside her. She’d been away from home a year now, and even compared to her family members she was tall. She was not accustomed to being towered over.

He stopped at two tents in succession, buying first two bags of roasted chestnuts and then some grilled meat and vegetables on sticks. They found seats in a deserted corner of the racetrack viewing area.

“I know you’re eastern,” said Justien, settling his huge body onto the too-small seat. “Am I right in guessing you’re from the Vereth highlands?”

“Exactly right. And you?”

“Born and raised, but haven’t been back in years,” said Justien. “What clan are you from? Please don’t say Kelden.”

Nalica almost choked on the grilled pepper she was eating. She
was
from Clan Kelden. “You must be from Clan Polini.”

“I am. So you are Kelden, then.” He shook his head. “I should have known.”

“I suppose we’re enemies,” said Nalica.

Justien’s chewing slowed. “If it doesn’t bother you, it doesn’t bother me. Hardly seems to matter anymore.”

He was right; the old feuds seemed so far away. When she’d been a girl, the battles between neighboring clans had meant something. Her family had land and herds to protect. Now that land—well, it wasn’t worthless, but you couldn’t do much more than herd goats and cattle on it, and the farmers in the lowlands were producing better animals. These days hardly anyone in the mountains could turn a profit from herding. Most of her people had sold off their stock. “It doesn’t bother me.”

“You have the tattoo?”

She nodded, opening her right fist to show him. The Kelden half-moon was on the palm of her hand. It was why she kept her hands closed most of the time, or at her sides with palms turned toward her thighs. Southern Kjallans didn’t wear clan marks.

He set down his food and took her hand to examine it. “That’s the Kelden mark, all right.” He traced the tattoo with his fingers.

It tickled, but she held her hand still, not wanting him to let go.

“You’ll be Yvar’s get,” he said.

She nodded. “Yvar is my father.”

“Thought so.” He grimaced.

She swallowed. “Let’s see yours.” She took his right hand and flipped it over. There it was, the Polini double hash mark. As he had done, she ran her fingers along the black markings. She knew what Justien was probably thinking, if he could put the clan differences behind him. He hoped to seduce her, to find himself a bedmate for the duration of the festival. And she, in her foolishness, was encouraging him. She’d sleep with him in a heartbeat except that after this evening they’d be enemies, and not because of any clan marks.