Chapter 1
"She looks like the kinda girl a cow'd thank for milkin' it." Wall-eyed Roger hocked a brown glob at her feet and nudged his brother hard in the ribs. "Should we cut her outta them leathers before or after we gut her?"
Chum honked a laugh. "Don't matter as long as she's still warm."
Greasy, small, and gin-boiled, the brothers didn't have a full set of teeth between them, but they had managed to "harass"--rape, murder, and rob-- enough travelers on the Queens Road for the Merchants Guild to post a bounty.
"You'd think, between a dozen dead bandits and highwaymen, we'd eventually meet one not dead-pig stupid." Blue shrugged thick shoulders toward her partner. A blonde braid snaked down her back like a fat rope. "Not sure why we bother anymore."
"Good enough coin in killin the unsavory." Larch said, ruined voice crunching like gravel. He shrugged and shouldered his crossbow.
"Fair enough." Blue really didn't mind the work.
Just the monotony.
She jerked her coat of plate straight-- though it was still too damned hot to wear, even at the autumnal equinox-- and hefted her axe.
Roger laughed, "Whatcha gonna do wit that. Pick me teeth?"
"Hmm?" Blue cocked it back and feigned inspection. It really wasn't much of an axe, just a hand-sized lump of iron and an oaken haft. "Aye."
She flicked her wrist. The axe buried itself in Roger's face with a meaty thunk.
Like splitting a harvest pumpkin.
He flailed at the handle for a moment, wonky eye wide and glassy, and fell back into the pine needles.
To her left, Larch's crossbow thrummed.
A shivering bolt blossomed in Chum's throat. Blood bubbled around the shaft.
Blue yanked the matching axe from her belt left-handed. Two long strides crossed the camp. Though calling a dead firepit and a scabby lean-to a full camp was too generous. They'd only half-hidden the damn thing a dozen yards into the orange woods. She nudged the bandit with the worn toe of her boot, and, when he flopped, twisted the right-hand axe free of Roger's forehead.
A couple years ago, the spout of gore and blood might have bothered her.
Narrow at the hip and long at the leg, skin the color of pearwood, Larch leaned over Chum. "They live?"
"Well, one is." Blue wiped the axe mostly clean on Roger's shirt.
Larch settled his cloak like crow wings. "Good. Worth more breathin'."
Long hair maybe a few shades darker than his skin, and tinged with red, curtained his face. A good face, narrow and fox-like with heavy brows and a straight thin nose, and eyes, bottle green and glittering.
Pretty as the innkeepers' daughters he liked so much.
"Let's get them to the magistrate." Prettier than Blue, too. An aquiline nose stuck out too sharply from her oval face, but her eyes were cornflower blue and her smile curved like a bow.
"Not carrying either." Larch wrinkled that elegant nose. "Smell'd never come out."
In the end, they had to load the bandits in their own donkey cart to make it back to town, but Rivers Bend's magistrate paid them three gold ten in bounty and another two for the donkey and cart. More than enough for a bath, two rooms at the Gilded Duck, hot food, and most importantly, ale sufficient for people of their significant stature.
The Gilded Duck was twin to every other pub Blue'd ever set foot in: public room downstairs, rented rooms up, ale of some regional variety, and hot food of some seasonal variety.
Tucked into the back corner of the bustling common room, feet propped on the stone hearth, Blue'd imbibed just enough to grin when Larch pulled his fat-bellied lute into his lap. She eyebrowed at the bar wenches. "Raven-haired or honey?"
"Honey." He strummed a couple tuneless notes and tightened the strings. "Raven's a maid. Too much work."
"Think so?" Blue leaned back, chair creaking. The raven hair'd wench met her gaze and glanced away quickly, dark skin dewy with the heat from the cookfire backlighting her in smokey reds. Blue was warm and full, freshly washed hair dampening the shoulder of a laundered tunic. And nothing felt as lonely as comfort after weeks of discomfort.
She asked, "Want me to sing? 'The Golden Skein?'"
"'Nut Brown Maid,' first." Larch swept sharp eyes across the blonde-haired young woman, who flicked workworn fingers in his direction. The public house bustled with round orchard owners and muddy-booted plowman, but Larch was a handsome stranger with the jingle of gold about his belt and easily found a "mild-eyed Mary" in every pub.
A Midlander to her bones, Blue found the whole love song bloody ridiculous.
Ridiculous but a quick way under those dun muslin skirts
. These Flatlanders could never resist a love song.
"Aye, alright." Blue downed her beer and motioned for another before standing up.
Larch's whistle sliced through the ale-scented chatter. Long, quick fingers picking the melody into the sudden silence.
"Horo, my nut brown maiden / Hiri, my nut brown maiden." Her voice was clear and rich and in key, though not as lovely as Larch's had been, before a jealous wretch--in another nearly identical little town--ruptured his throat with a stave. "Horo, ro maiden / For she's the maid for me."
The patrons of the Gilded Duck picked up the chorus, stomping and clapping along with Larch's nimble playing.
Bloody Flatlanders
. "The light grace of thy going / The witchcraft of thy smile."
Raven-hair drifted into eyesight, tray heavy with mugs propped on a narrow hip. She stepped lightly through the crowded common room, experience keeping her well clear of groping hands, and delivered fresh pints to their little table. Honey gold eyes scraped Blue from crown to boots before thick fringed lashes lowered shyly as the barmaid retreated again. Genuine or artificial, the combination of boldness and modesty had lust throbbing in Blue's pelvis.
The song ended to applause and a scattering of copper coins at their feet. Larch picked idly with one hand while he and Blue drank in silent competition. Larch came up for air first with a rusty, harsh laugh. They ran through "Golden Skein" and "The Ballad of Amethyst Darling" before the honey-hair'd lass pulled Larch from the hearth and lead him up the rickety steps into the dark.
Blue finished her beer and Larch's while she gathered the fair evening's wage from the sticky floor and table. Enough to pay for another night in River Bend, unless word of other work came from the Adventure's Guild in Westerport.
Without a war, trade dispute, or major diplomatic incident, adventuring work amounted to little more than bounties and bodyguards.
Nearly as monotonous as farming and twice as uncomfortable
.
Before retiring upstairs to her rented room, Blue glanced toward the bar, but the dark beauty had vanished with the bulk of the crowd. If her bed felt too empty, she supposed that Larch would hardly mind if she joined him. He liked an audience, and she didn't mind watching.
But her room was comfortable and clean, and the magistrate had gifted her a fine mead, so Blue shed her boots and belts and trousers and, with bottle uncorked, unfurled a nearly blank letter on the lopsided table.
Beneath "Dearest Daisy," she managed to scrawl, "Weather too bloody hot and work too bloody to warrant mention" before the candle flickered too low and yellow to continue.
