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  Rialla shuddered heavily against the cold granite of the stable wall, ignoring the tears that ran down her cheek. If she hoped to function as a Darranian slave, she would have to cope with the past.

  After all these years the slave trainer's face wasn't clear in her memory—a slave didn't look at a person's face often—but his voice haunted her nightmares.

  On the third day of her captivity, Rialla, huddled in the small group of women and children that were the remnants of her clan, watched as a rider entered the camp. He was greeted warmly by her captor. She couldn't understand the language they spoke to each other, but the rider's name was familiar: Geoffrey ae'Magi, the Archmage.

  Rialla heard later that the Archmage was killed shortly after this visit; she had no sorrow for his death.

  One by one the children and women had been taken to the tent where the slave trainer stayed; only Rialla and two others were spared. She didn't see what the ae'Magi and the slaver did to the remaining captives, but she heard their screams and felt their anguish in empathic detail. The horror of her knowledge ravaged her mind until it closed down to protect itself, leaving her with only a shadow of her former gift. What little empathic ability remained after the Archmage's visit was so erratic it was all but useless.

  For a slave, though, it was probably just as well.

  For two years Rialla was trained as a dancer, and she was rewarded with the tattoo at the end. Dancers were popular in Darran and she was good, very good. She was treated well and allowed more freedom than most slaves, who were intended for brothels or worse, but she was still a slave.

  For five years she danced as her master bade. Finally, there came a day when the opportunity to escape presented itself and she ran.

  She killed a man when she escaped. Even the slight remnants of her empathy had been enough to make her cry out with the pain of his death. Nevertheless, with shaking hands she searched the dead man and took his knife and what little money he had. She stole a horse from the stables and fled.

  She escaped over the border to Reth, where she used the knife, heated in her camp fire until it glowed, to rid herself of the hateful tattoo.

  At the next town she traded her horse for an unbroken gelding and a handful of coins. Eventually, she made her way to Sianim, where her skill with horses earned her a home. The mercenary city-state had offered her refuge, but now it offered even more.

  She had been given the opportunity to take something from the slavers, if she had the courage to do it.

  Safe in the stables of Sianim, Rialla let her hand rub the scar on her cheek. If she agreed to return to Reth, she would have to let them tattoo her again, over the scar. The scar would brand her as an escaped slave; as such she would be watched even closer than most. Something could go wrong and she would be forced to remain a slave; a second escape would be virtually impossible.

  The whisper of sound alerted her that she was no longer alone. She wiped her cheeks, but knew it would be obvious she'd been crying. Drawing a deep breath she turned to see who had joined her.

  The man who stood in the dim light of the stable was of average height. He had dark hair, darker eyes and skin that was tanned by many days out in the sun. His build was slight, but he moved with the trained grace of a warrior.

  Rialla raised her chin in an unconscious gesture of defiance that was not lost on the man watching her. "Laeth."

  He nodded a greeting and leaned against a stall partition across from the bench where she sat, leaving the width of the aisle between them.

  It was virtually unheard of for a Darranian lord to train at Sianim. Though the schools of warcraft at Sianim were famous, Darranians kept to themselves. When Laeth had come to Sianim for training two years ago, Rialla had avoided him until they were assigned the same instructor for hand-to-hand combat.

  The instructor didn't speak Darranian, and Laeth only knew what little of the Common tongue he'd picked up since he came. Darranians, being an insular people, had little use for learning languages other than their own.

  She watched him struggle for several days before moving next to him and interpreting. It had been a combination of the way that he'd persisted, laughing at himself and trying again, and her refusal to let herself be manipulated into hating all Darranians for what a few had done that made her help him.

  He had turned to her, ignoring the betraying scar on her cheek, and thanked her in a quiet voice. The friendship that followed was a surprise to Rialla and, she thought, to him also. She taught him Common in the evenings and he told her a little about himself.

  The younger son of a powerful Darranian lord, he'd amused himself scandalizing his family for most of his life. Then he'd discovered a shy little maid called Marri, whom he'd met at a party given at a local estate. Her family hadn't approved of her marriage to a black sheep, even of so exalted a family, so he'd settled down and persuaded his father to give him a small manor that he worked for a year, preparing it for his intended bride. When he received an invitation to his older brother Karsten's wedding, he decided that the time had come to inform his family that he'd found the girl he intended to marry.

  When he returned home for the wedding, his family welcomed him and his brother introduced Laeth to his new bride—Marri. Karsten had decided to marry a local girl.

  Laeth had smiled politely at his love's unhappy face, understanding that a Darranian girl of good family could not refuse a marriage arranged by her parents. He'd even congratulated his brother. The next morning Laeth told his parents that he'd received notice of trouble at his little farm that required his immediate presence. He would have to leave before the wedding.

  His family never knew why he returned to his outrageous behavior, his journey to Sianim only the most flagrant act of disgrace. Since his brother's wedding, the only time he'd returned to Darran was to attend his father's funeral.

  One of the horses butted Laeth impatiently and he scratched its nose. "Are you going to come, Rialla?" he asked softly.

  "Yes," she replied. "The Spymaster allowed me little choice."

  "I wasn't sure that I should give Ren your name, but knowing him I thought that he probably knew that you spoke Darranian anyway."

  She nodded and curved her lips without humor. "I know several people who can speak Darranian better than I can, and I imagine that he does too. What he needed was someone who could be a Darranian slave. I'm sure that the devious weasel knew everything about me long before he talked to you."

  "You're probably right," replied Laeth, visibly relaxing at Rialla's easy tone. "He does have that reputation." He looked around at the quiet stable and then said, "I'll treat you to lunch."

  Rialla shot him a skeptical look, "At the Lost Pig?"

  "They don't pay mercenaries like they used to. Besides, it's not that bad," said Laeth. "Yesterday they only had two people get sick."

  Rialla obediently groaned at the old joke and held her hands up in mock surrender. "All right, all right. But this time I'm not going to rescue you from the waitress."

  Laeth widened his eyes. "Haven't you heard? Letty's decided to try for the tall blonds."

  "Who's she after now?" inquired Riulia, getting up off her bench and following Laeth out the door.

  "Afgar, you know, the lieutenant in the Fifty-seventh."

  Rialla thought a moment and came to a halt. "Not the big Southwood man, the one who used to be a tanner?" she asked incredulously.

  Laeth nodded, tugging her forward with a light grip on her upper arm. "The one that hides in the corners when a woman comes by. He's so dedicated to avoiding women that I don't think the two women in his troop have ever seen him. Last night I thought that he was going to choke to death when Letty rubbed up against him. If I weren't so busy being thankful that it's not me anymore, I'd feel sorry for him."

  "Ha," snorted Rialla. "You enjoyed it almost as much as she did. You didn't run away so fast she didn't catch you a time or two."

  He sent her a meek look and said, "What can I say? I'm only a ma
n. Besides, she's got great"—Rialla raised her eyebrows warningly—"teeth."

  Rialla laughed and shook her head as they came within sight of the Lost Pig.

  The bottom half of the bar was built from old stone blocks set one on top of the other; the top half was made of wooden planks of various sizes and ages. Rialla had heard that fifty or so years ago the Seventy-first troop of a hundred and six men, drunk on victory and alcohol, lifted the wooden half off the stone and set it in the middle of the road on a lark.

  They replaced the top after extracting a bargain from the owner. The wooden half was now held down securely by thick rusted chains on all four corners of the building, and the Seventy-first still got their drinks for half what other people were charged.

  Being the source of food and drink nearest to the stables and to the training ground that serviced a number of troops, the Lost Pig was usually busy. Rialla and Laeth were waved at by several acquaintances as they squeezed through in an attempt to find an empty table.

  As Rialla slipped too near one of the tables, she felt a hand pat her on the hip. Without stopping to see who it was, she grabbed his wrist and caught the leg of his chair with her foot, sweeping the wooden legs forward as she pushed him back. The man and his chair made a satisfying commotion that rose over the general din that filled the tavern.

  More than a little drunk, the man started up with a growl, but Laeth caught his shoulder under the pretext of helping him up. Helpfully, Laeth dusted off the man's coat and generally distracted him, until the drunk's initial hostility subsided into bewilderment at all the attention.

  When it became obvious that the stranger was no longer a threat, Laeth said congenially, "She doesn't like it when men touch her without an invitation. You're lucky that she's in a good mood or she'd have just cut your hand off—that's what she did to the last man who tried it."

  A friend of Laeth's leaned over from a nearby table and said sadly, "Poor Jard was never the same."

  "Remember what she did to Lothar?" added another man, shaking his head.

  "Took us three days to find all the pieces so that we could bury him," commented one of Laeth's fellow lieutenants, a stocky, bald man with a friendly face. He leaned closer and said softly, "But then, Lothar tried to kiss her."

  Rialla was still laughing when they found a small table that was unoccupied. "Did you see his face? That poor man. If I'd known what you were going to start, I'd have let him get away with it."

  Laeth grinned cheerfully. "It'll teach him to keep his hands to himself. Speaking of which, did you know that one of the greenies in my troop fancies you?"

  "You mean the young Rethian who hides behind the fence and scares the horses I'm working with? The one who offers to take me to dinner every night and has been leaving flowers outside my door? About your height, sandy hair and brown eyes? No, I hadn't noticed him at all," she replied.

  Laeth laughed at her disgruntled expression. "I'm sorry, I didn't know that he was getting to be such a problem. I'll do something about it this afternoon."

  "No," gasped Rialla in pseudo-horror. "Not the strange disease that causes impotence with merely a touch. There are still several members of your troop who cross the street when they see me."

  "No," agreed Laeth, "I used that one the last time. I'll have to think up something new. It's your fault, you know; you could gain a few pounds, or do something about your hair."

  "I'll dye it gray tomorrow, or better yet, I'll shave it off," offered Rialla with a thread of seriousness in her voice. The scar didn't seem to harm her looks as far as the mercenaries were concerned. She'd far rather have been plain, so she wouldn't attract so much unwanted attention.

  Before Laeth could reply, the barmaid, Letty, appeared from the crowded room. How she knew who had ordered and who hadn't in the mass of people in the bar was a mystery that Rialla had never solved.

  "What's good, love?" asked Laeth.

  "Afgar," sighed Letty, expanding her sizable chest.

  "To eat," clarified Rialla, then added hastily, "for us. Food."

  "Oh." Letty's full lips briefly formed a half-pout for Laeth's benefit, but she said, cheerfully enough, "The bread is fresh and Cook just pulled a honey ham out of the oven. The beef is a bit overdone and dry."

  "Sandwiches then. Two ham?" Laeth looked at Rialla and she nodded. "And two mugs of watered ale as well."

  When they were alone, Laeth said, "Ren called me in this morning. He wanted me to see if I could talk you into going."

  Rialla shook her head. "He did a good enough job of that himself."

  "Why are you going?" asked Laeth semi-humorously. "I'm going to protect Karsten, but all that I have to face is seeing Marri as his wife, and a possible death sentence if anyone discovers that I am spying for Sianim. You have to go back to being a slave."

  "Ren says that Karsten intends to outlaw slavery in Darran," replied Rialla. "He heavily implied that my presence would help, though come to think of it, I'm not really certain how."

  "You're risking a lot for slaves that you don't even know, Ria," commented Laeth.

  She tossed him a wry smile and fingered her scar. "I'm not doing it for them. Most of them are probably quite comfortable being slaves; in Darran it's not much worse than being a wife most places, maybe even better. I'm doing it for revenge. The slavers who live in Darran stole something from me, and I'll never get it back. It's my turn to help steal something from them—from him."

  Letty brought their food and accepted several coppers and a kiss from Laeth before she left.

  "Aren't you worried?" asked Laeth quietly, fingering a slice of fresh bread.

  Rialla swallowed her bite and sipped from her glass before answering. "About being a slave?" She shrugged. "I wouldn't go with anyone else, if that's what you mean. I know that I can trust you not to leave me there. For someone not used to it, owning a slave is a heady thing; and I am a dancer—more valuable than most. I could bring you more gold than most people will see in a lifetime." As she spoke, Rialla could feel her face stiffen into its accustomed mask. Her voice went flat, losing the animation that characterized it.

  "I won't do that," said Laeth softly.

  She smiled at him, dropping her slave face. "I know that. Why do you think I wouldn't go with anyone else? You've owned both slaves and estates, and chose to relinquish them. Even if I didn't know you, I'd rather go with you than a Southwoodsman who has never thought about owning a slave in his life."

  Laeth bowed his head in acknowledgment of the compliment of her trust. They ate without speaking for a time, the silence comfortable between two old friends.

  "When you talked to Ren, did he say what he was going to do about the tattoo?" Rialla touched her cheek lightly.

  Laeth nodded and finished swallowing before saying, "He has a magician who can disguise your scar and replace the old tattoo with an illusion. Ren wants the tattoo to be the same as it was originally, in case someone recognizes you. Couldn't it be used to trace your previous owner?"

  She shook her head. "I've been gone for seven years; after five, a slave doesn't need to be returned to the original owner. Though I understand that it's considered proper to do so anyway. As long as Lord Karsten doesn't make a habit of inviting slave trainers to his birthday parties, I won't have to worry."

  "No," he answered, relaxing, "a nobleman would no more invite a slave trainer to a formal occasion than he would invite a swineherd."

  "So I thought," agreed Rialla.

  "Ren also wanted me to tell you that if something happens, he'll get you out of Darran by fair means or foul; so you don't have to worry about getting stuck as a slave," added Laeth.

  Rialla shot him a nasty grin. "After all these years of training in Sianim, I don't think that I'll have to worry much about someone keeping me as a slave." Saying it made her feel as if it were true, and some of her tension loosened.

  Laeth returned her smile with one as wicked, as he posed the favorite question of one of the combat instructors, "How many
ways are there to kill a person with a knife?"

  "It doesn't matter, it only takes one to do the job," returned Rialla.

  They finished their sandwiches in mutual good humor and left just as a new wave of mercenaries pushed through the door. Laeth stopped her just outside with a hand on her shoulder.

  "I've got some things that I have to get taken care of before we go. Ren told you that we leave in five days?"

  She nodded.

  "I'll see to the supplies for the trip, if you can make sure the horses are ready."

  "I'll find a couple," answered Rialla. "I'd better find a dancing costume or two as well."

  "If you can't find one, you might try Midge's girls. I suspect that one or two of them might have something that would work."

  "I thought you said you didn't pay for it," she teased.

  Laeth grinned. "I didn't."

  Rialla flashed him a smile. "I just bet you didn't. I'd best go see who I can find to take over my horses while I'm gone."

  "Go to it," he said. "I'll talk to you tomorrow."

  The early morning sun barely lit the sky when Rialla saddled a horse and took it out. She wasn't the only one working horses, but the other riders were using different arenas.

  Her stallion's feet thump-thumped rhythmically on the packed sawdust of the enclosure, but his attention was on the mare that was being ridden over the jumps on the other side of the fence. He gathered himself in preparation to dump his rider as he had thrown so many others—and got tapped warningly with the short crop his current rider used.

  Reminded that he had to obey this upstart who sat on his back, he continued on the path she chose, with his ears plastered as flat as he could get them. Rialla laughed at the plodding canter that replaced the stallion's normally buoyant gait.

  He really didn't need the workout. She'd found trainers for all the horses she'd been working on. Rialla had taken the stallion out for a last ride rather than wait around for Laeth and worry about things that she couldn't change— like the gold, black and green tattoo that graced her scar-less face once more.