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  The most monumental thing that had happened since Aralorn started there was when the daughter of the Head-man of Kestral ran off with somebody named Harold the Rat. When the highwayman came in next time looking more miserable than usual, accompanied by a female who was taller than he by a good six inches and harangued him from the time they sat down until they left, Aralorn concluded that he was the mysterious Harold and offered him her silent condolences.

  Normally, she’d have been relatively content with the assignment, especially since she’d added a few new tales to her collection of stories—courtesy of the few trappers she’d seen. But she had the doubtful privilege of knowing that the ae’Magi was striving to re-create the power the wizards had held before the Wizard Wars—and hold that power all by himself.

  She should be doing something, but for the life of her she couldn’t think what. If she left without orders or extreme necessity, being banished from Sianim was the very least of the punishments she was likely to suffer. It was more likely she’d be hung if they caught her.

  Tonight, her restlessness was particularly bad. It might have had something to do with the innkeeper’s wife being sick, leaving the innkeeper doing all of the cooking—rendering the food even less edible than it usually was. That led to more than the average number of customers getting sick on the floor—because the only thing left to do at the inn was drink, and the alcohol that they served was none of the best and quite probably mildly poisonous judging by the state of the poor fools who drank it.

  As the newest barmaid, the task of cleaning up fell to Aralorn. With the tools she’d been handed, this consisted mostly of moving the mess around until it blended with the rest of the grime on the floor. The lye in the water ate at the skin on her hands almost as badly as the smell of the inn ate at her nose.

  She dipped the foul-smelling mop into the fouler-smelling water in her bucket and occupied herself with the thought of what she would do to Ren the next time she saw him. As she was scrubbing—humming a merry accompaniment to her thoughts, a sudden hush fell into the room.

  Aralorn looked up to see the cause of the unusual quiet. Against the grime and darkness of the inn, the brilliant clothing of the two men in court attire was more than a little incongruous.

  Not nobles surely, but pages or messengers from the royal court. They were usually used to run messages from the court to a noble’s estate. What they were doing at this little pedestrian inn was anyone’s guess. Unobtrusively, Aralorn worked her way to a better observation post and watched the proceedings carefully.

  One of the messengers stayed near the door. The other walked to the center of the room. He spoke slowly so that his strange court accent wouldn’t keep the northerners from understanding his memorized message.

  “Greetings, people. We bring you tragic news. Two weeks ago—Myr, your king, overset by the deaths of his parents, attacked and killed several of his own palace guard. Overwrought by what he had done, His Majesty seized a horse and left the royal castle. Geoffrey ae’Magi has consented to the Assembly’s request to accept the Regency of Reth until such time as King Myr is found and restored to his senses. The ae’Magi has asked that the people of Reth look for their king so that a cure may be effected. As he is not right in his mind, it may, regrettably, be necessary to restrain the king by force. As this is a crime punishable by death, the Regent has issued a pardon. If the king can be brought to the ae’Magi, there is every possibility that he can be cured. As loyal subjects, it is your duty to find Myr.

  “It is understood that a journey to the royal castle will be a financial hardship, thus you will have just recompense for your service to your king. A thousand marks will be paid to the party that brings King Myr to the capital or restrains him and sends a message to the court. I have been authorized to repeat this message to the citizens of Reth by the Regent, Geoffrey ae’Magi.” He repeated his message twice, word for word each time, then he bowed and left the inn with his companion.

  A thousand marks was more than a farmer or innkeeper would make in a lifetime of hard work. Recompense, my aching rump, thought Aralorn, it was merely a legal way to put a bounty on Myr’s head.

  Wandering between tables, she caught bits and pieces of conversation and found that most people seemed to feel the ae’Magi had done them a great service by taking the throne. They didn’t all agree on what ought to be done for the king. She heard an old farmer announce that everything should be done to see that Myr was captured and taken to be cured, poor lad. He was answered by agreeable muttering from his table.

  Olin, the tanner from Torin (and more than slightly drunk), spoke up loudly. “Anyone who cares about Reth should kill Myr and ask for Geoffrey ae’Magi to take the kingship of us. Who needs a king what is going to attack his own folk out of the blue like that? Just think what’d be like havin’ the Archmage for a king. We’d not worry ’bout those Darranians, who’re claiming our mines over in the west borderlands.” He paused to belch. “’N with the most powerful magician in the world, we could even drive those Uriah spooks outta the wilds. We could claim the Northlands altogether. Then we could be rich again.”

  The patrons of the inn shifted uncomfortably and chose another topic to speak on; but they didn’t disagree with what he’d said.

  Proof, if she’d needed it, that what Wolf had warned her of was actually taking place. The whole of Reth had adored their handsome prince, who was promising both as a warrior and a statesman—and it didn’t hurt that he was the spitting image of his grandfather, who had been a great king by any reckoning. Two years ago, the last time Aralorn had worked a job in Reth, Olin’s words would have gotten him into a rough argument or even a beating.

  Moving unobtrusively, Aralorn took the slop bucket outside to dump it. That done, she strolled to the stables, where Sheen was.

  She received a lot of harassment from Ren when she took the warhorse with her on assignments, because he was too valuable to go unremarked. Talor carried an old coin for luck when he went into battle: It must be much more convenient than a horse.

  She did what she could to disguise his worth. He’d long ago learned to limp on command, which helped somewhat. She also left him ungroomed, but anyone with an eye for horses could see that he was no farmer’s plug.

  At the inn, she’d let it be known that he was the only legacy left to her when her elderly protector died. The innkeeper didn’t ask her too many questions—just retained the better part of her weekly salary in payment and half the stud fees Sheen had been earning.

  Aralorn scuffed her foot lightly in the dirt as she leaned against the stall door. Sheen moved over to her and shoved his head against her shoulder. Obligingly, she rubbed his jaw.

  “The last time I saw Myr, he was hardly distraught enough to go berserk,” she confided. “Convenient that the Assembly decided to place the ae’Magi as Regent. I wonder how he managed that—only in Reth would a mage of any sort be welcome to help himself to the throne. But there are some really strong mages in the Assembly. Hard to believe he could use his magic on them, and no one even noticed.”

  The stallion whickered softly, and Aralorn fed him the carrot she’d taken before it would have gone to its death in some greasy pot of stew. She tangled her hand in Sheen’s coarse gray-black mane as he munched. “I could go to Ren with this, but given his present attitude toward the ae’Magi, I don’t know what he would do—and doubtless he knows about it anyway. Probably supports it the same way those fools in the inn do—and for the same reason.” She tightened her hands in the horsehair, and whispered, “I think we should go looking for Myr, don’t you? Myr is immune to magic—he’s the ideal hero to stand against the ae’Magi. An outcast spy from Sianim isn’t enough to make a difference, but maybe I can help with strategy. At the very least, I can tell Myr why everyone is suddenly against him.”

  There was a noise—she froze for a moment, but it was only the wind rattling a broken board on one of the stall doors.

  Even so, she lowered her voice furthe
r. “I only wish I had some way of contacting Wolf. Knowing him, he probably could tell us exactly where Myr went.” Wolf was full of useful information when he chose to share it. “It could take us quite a while to find Myr.” She paused, then smiled. “But if I’m going out to engage in hopeless tasks, I’d rather look for Myr than struggle to clean that floor another day. We’ll start with those messengers and see what they know.”

  Finished with the carrot, Sheen bumped her impatiently—asking for more. “Well, Sheen, what do you say? Should we abandon our post and go missing-monarch hunting?” The gray head moved enthusiastically against her hand when she caught a particularly itchy spot: It looked for all the world as if he were nodding in agreement.

  The restlessness that had been plaguing her was gone. Like a hunting dog let off the leash, she had a purpose at last. She snuck into the kitchen and blessed her luck because no one was there—she could hear the innkeeper arguing with someone in the common room. It sounded as though he might be occupied for a long time, which suited her just fine.

  She located a large cloth that was almost clean and folded it to hold such provisions as would keep on a journey: bread, cheese, dried salt meat.

  Cautiously, she made her way upstairs without meeting anyone and snuck into the room that had belonged to the only son of the innkeeper. He’d died last winter of some disease or the other, and no one had yet had the heart to clean out his room. Everything in the room was neat and tidy—and she had the sudden thought that perhaps it hadn’t been the change in customs that caused the inn to fall on harder times. She murmured a soft explanation of what she was doing and why in case the young man’s spirit lingered nearby.

  She opened the chest at the foot of the bed and found a cloak, a pair of leather trousers, and a tunic: tough, unremarkable clothes well suited to traveling. At the bottom of the trunk, she found a pair of sturdy riding boots and a set of riding gloves. She wrapped all of her ill-gotten goods in the cloak and hurried out of the room and up the ladder to her attic room.

  She retrieved her sword from its hiding place inside the straw mattress (she generally slept on the floor, it being less likely to be infested by miscellaneous vermin). Before sliding the sheath onto her belt, she drew the sword from habit—to make sure that the blade needed neither sharpening nor cleaning. It was a sword she’d found hidden in one of the many cubbyholes of her father’s castle—the odd pinkish gold luster of the metal had intrigued her. It was also the only sword in the place that fit her, her father’s blood tending toward large and muscle-bound, which she was not. Aside from Sheen, it was the only thing she’d taken from her home when she left.

  She wasn’t a swordswoman by any means. Practice and more practice had made her competent enough to make it useful against things like the Uriah, creatures too big to be killed quickly with a dagger and not easily downed with a staff—creatures not holding swords of their own.

  She gratefully rid herself of the filthy maidservant’s dress and dropped it on the floor, donning instead the stolen garments and found that, as she expected, they were very tight in the hips and chest and ridiculously big everywhere else. The boots, in particular, were huge. If the innkeeper’s son had lived to grow up, he would have been a big man.

  Her mother’s people could switch their sex as easily as most people changed shoes, but Aralorn had never been able to take on a male’s shape. Perhaps it was her human blood, or perhaps she’d never tried hard enough. Fortunately, the boy whose clothes she’d appropriated had been slender, so that it was an easy thing to become a tall, angular, and androgynous woman—with big feet—who could pass as a man.

  Once dressed, she was satisfied she looked enough like a young man neither rich nor poor, a farmer’s son . . . or an innkeeper’s. Someone who wouldn’t seem out of place on a sturdy draft horse.

  Most of the items in the room she left behind, though she took the copper pieces that she’d earned as well as the small number of coins that she always kept with her as an emergency fund.

  She shut the door to her room and made sure that the bundle that she was carrying wasn’t awkward-looking. As she made her way down the stairs, she was met by the other barmaid. Aralorn gave the woman a healthy grin and swept past her unchallenged.

  In the stable, Aralorn saddled Sheen. The cloak and the food she packed into her copious saddlebags. She filched an empty grain sack from a stack of the same and filled it with oats, tying it to the saddle. From one of the saddlebags, she took out a small jar of white paste. Carefully, she painted the horse’s shoulders with white patches such as a heavy work collar tends to leave with time. Farmer’s plug no, but he could well pass for a squire’s prize draft horse.

  On the road, she hesitated before turning north toward Kestral. That was the direction that the messengers had been traveling. If she could find them, in the guise of a young farmer, she could question them without anyone’s taking too much notice—as the barmaid could not have. A second reason for looking north was that the mountains were the best place for someone seeking to hide from a human magician. Human magic didn’t work as well in the Northland mountains as it did elsewhere. She knew stories of places in the mountains where human magic wouldn’t function at all. Conversely, green-magic users, her mother’s brother had told her, found that magic was easier to work in the north. She’d experienced that herself.

  As Myr was from Reth, Aralorn felt that it was safe to assume that he was aware of the partial protection the Northlands offered. There were very few other places as easily accessible that offered any protection from the ae’Magi. Unfortunately, the ae’Magi would also be aware that the Northlands were the most likely place for Myr to go, hence the messengers to the otherwise-unimportant villages that dotted the border of Reth.

  Although it was still late summer, the air was brisk with the chill winds. They retained their bite this far north year-round, making Aralorn grateful for the soft leather gloves and warm cloak she wore.

  Several miles down the road, she turned off to take a trail she’d heard the highwayman describe when, half-drunk, he bragged about getting away from an angry merchant. The shortcut traversed the mountain rather than wandering around its base. With luck and the powerful animal under her, she could cut more than an hour off her travel time.

  Sheen snorted and willingly took on the climb, his powerful hindquarters easily pushing his bulk and hers up the treacherously steep grade. His weight and large hooves worked against him on the rocky, uncertain ground, though, and Aralorn held him to a slow trot that left Sheen snorting and tossing his head in impatience.

  “Easy now, sweetheart. What’s your hurry? We may have a long way to go yet this evening. Save it for later.” Always mindful that someone could overhear, she kept her voice low and boyish.

  One dark-tipped ear twitched back. After a small crow hop of protest, Sheen settled into stride, only occasionally breaking gait to bounce over an obstacle in his way.

  As evening wore on, the light began to fade, and Aralorn slowed him into a walk. In full dark, his eyesight was better than hers, but in the twilight, he couldn’t see the rocks and roots hidden by shadows. They had a few miles before the sun went down completely, then they could pick up the pace again.

  Being unable to see clearly made the seasoned campaigner nervous, and he began to snort and dance at every sound. There was a sudden burst of magic nearby—she didn’t have time to locate it because that was the last straw for Sheen, who plunged off the trail and down the steep, tree-covered side of the mountain.

  She sank her butt into the saddle and stayed with him as he dodged trees and leapt over brush. “Just you behave, you old worrywart, you. It’s all right. Nothing’s going to get us but ghosts and ghoulies and other nice things that feed on stupid people who ride in the woods after dark.”

  The dark mountainside was too treacherous to allow her to pull him up hard, especially at the pace he was going, so she crooned to him and bumped him lightly with the reins—a request rather than an o
rder.

  He sank back on his haunches to slide down a steep bit instead of charging down it, and stopped when the ground leveled some. He took advantage of the loose rein to snatch a bit of grass as if he hadn’t been snorting and charging a minute before.

  Aralorn stretched and looked around to catch her bearings. As she did so, she heard something, a murmur that she just barely caught. Sheen’s ears twitched toward the sound as well. Following the direction of the stallion’s ears, she moved him toward the sound. When she could pick up the direction herself, she dismounted and dropped his reins.

  She crept closer, moving as slowly as she could so as not to make any noise. Several yards from Sheen, she picked up the smell of a campfire and the residue of magic—it tasted flat and dull: magic shaped by human hands despite the nearness of the Northlands. Probably the remnant of the spell that had startled Sheen into charging down the hill, toward danger, just as any good warhorse would have done.

  She followed the sound of men’s voices and the smell of smoke through a thicket of bushes—she had to use a tendril of magic to keep quiet going through that—and around a huge boulder that had tumbled down from a cliff above. Peeking around the side of the boulder, she saw a cave mouth, the walls of the entrance reflecting light from a fire deeper inside.

  The voices were louder, but still too far away to be distinguishable.

  The wonderful thing about mice, Aralorn reflected as she shifted forms, was that they were everywhere and never looked out of place. A mouse was the first shape she’d ever managed—and she’d since worked hard on a dozen different varieties and their nearest kin. Shrew, vole, field mouse, she could manage any of them. The medium-sized northern-type mouse was just the right mouse to look perfectly at home as she scampered into the cave.

  Two men stood by a large pile of goods that ranged from swords to flour, but consisted mainly of tarps and furs. The scent of fear drifted clearly to her rodent-sharp nose from the more massive (at least in bulk) man as he cowered away from the other. He bore the ornate facial tattooing of the merchant’s guild of Hernal, a larger city of Ynstrah, a country that lay several weeks’ travel to the south on the west side of the Anthran Alliance. He was wearing nothing but a nightshirt.