She asked Gannon, "What kind of warding is on the front door?"
He concentrated a moment, staring at the door, and then said, "Fire, powerful enough to kill whatever touches it."
Sidra gave a low hiss. "I thought death wards had to be marked as such?"
"By law they do."
"Can you get us past it?"
"Yes, but stay well back while I'm testing it."
Sidra knew what would happen if he failed to negate the warding. He would die, and he didn't want to risk her life as well. But Gannon had risked himself before, as had they all.
Sidra nodded, and Gannon walked alone into the street. He pressed his hands wide and moved them toward the door. Leech began to hum a drum roll. "Brrrrrm, brrrrm."
"Hush."
The sword did not stop but only hissed an accompaniment as the sorcerer touched the door. Gannon's back bowed outward, and the sword hissed a crescendo. Sidra slapped the sword's sheath, and it made a muffled sound and fell silent.
Gannon was walking toward them, cape pulled close about him. The door looked just the same to Sidra. A sorcerous ward was always invisible until you tripped it, unless you had eyes that could see magic.
The sorcerer stepped into the alley, and Sidra said, "Let me see your hands."
He hesitated only a moment, then drew them from inside his cloak. The palms were scorched and hung heavy with huge watery blisters.
Sidra drew a hissing breath. "Gannon, can you go on like that?"
He shrugged and grimaced. "There will be many sorceries I cannot do with injured hands. I can still levitate and teleport, but not much else."
"Our luck is low tonight." She touched his shoulder. "It is up to you, Gannon. I cannot ask you to go on."
"No one asked me to come."
She nodded. It was his choice, and she would not tell him to stay behind.
The door looked ordinary enough except for the sign next to it that read, "Warning. WARDINGS in place. Please ring bell." A brass bell hung from a bracket by the door, its cord swinging uneasily in the night wind.
Sidra knelt beside the door and touched the rough wood. No fire, no warding--Gannon had done his job. The lock was cheap and easily picked. All that money on a sorcerous ward, then skimping on the lock itself. Bardolf wasn't spending his money wisely.
She reached for Leech, and it leapt to her hand. Shield held close, she pushed open the door. They had just stepped into the inky blackness when Gannon said, "Someone teleports nearby."
There was no time for stealth. If they hoped to trace the teleport, they had to find the point of departure quickly. Gannon said, "This way." Against all caution, she let the wizard lead in a mad flight up the broad stairs. Two dim lanterns threw pools of shadow and light on the steps. She glimpsed her own reflection in half a dozen gilt-edged mirrors. Glass and gold were both rare and costly. Bardolf was well off indeed.
Light spilled from a room at the end of a long hallway. Dark rooms with closed doors led up to that one shining door. Sidra pushed past Gannon so she could enter the room first.
It was a bedroom. Silks and pillows were strewn over the carpet like a child's toys, used and carelessly forgotten. A huge candelabra hung from the ceiling, and it sparkled like pure gold. A sobbing woman knelt on the carpet. Her raven-black hair was thrown over her face, and she curled naked near a pile of clothing.
Gannon strode to the middle of the room and picked up a now-blank scroll. He sniffed it as if he were a hound on the scent of a fox and said, "I have it."
There was no time, and Sidra stood beside the sorcerer. As the woman glanced up, Sidra had a glimpse of a lovely pale face that was bruised and battered.
The world spun and Sidra caught her breath. They faced outward, back to back. Sidra crouched, sword and shield ready. Then she recognized the throne room of Duke Haydon. Bardolf had run home to his daddy. Someone shouted orders, and the room was suddenly full of the red and silver of Duke Haydon's guards. Sidra wondered if they would have time to explain before someone died.
It was the head of the guards, Jevik, who recognized them and called, "Hold!" He strode forward through his men and stood before Sidra. He sheathed his sword, and she did likewise. Leech complained about missing such a lovely sight.
Jevik only blinked. He had fought beside her and tasted the sword's humor before. "Why are you here like this, Sidra?"
"It is a long story, Jevik. But we give chase to an outlaw."
"What sort of outlaw?"
"One who would kill a bard."
"Did this bard give up his safe conduct?"
"He never had the chance. He was attacked in his room, alone."
Jevik waved the guards back and said, "And how did you trace this outlaw here?"
"Gannon traced a teleport."
"Come, we will talk to the duke," Jevik said.
The guards had formed a wary but respectful line to either side of the newcomers. Lord Haydon himself sat upon his throne. His beard was still as full and gray as before. He did not shave because it was court fashion to be smooth-faced. And he did not waste sorcery on looking younger than his years. He smiled a greeting at them and extended his hands.
"Sidra Ironfist, you who saved my castle and all that I own." She bowed and took his hands. He touched hands with Gannon and saw the sorcerer wince. The duke drew a sharp breath when he saw Gannon's hands. "Go with one of the guards and use my own healer."
Sidra did not like the idea of Gannon being separated from her. He looked at her a moment, smiled, and followed a guard from the room. He was right, of course. When a noble offers you hospitality, you do not refuse it.
"Now, Sidra, tell me what has brought you here so unexpectedly."
She told the story quietly, leaving out only the name of the curse-maker.
Haydon's eyes were a glittering icy blue when she finished. "It is against all civilized laws to harm a bard. How are we to hear of the great deeds of heroes if bards are not safe in battle?" He asked her then, "And do you have a name for this outlaw?"
"Yes, my lord. It is Bardolf the Curse-Maker."
He opened his mouth, then closed it. An angry flush crept up his neck. "These are grave accusations, Sidra. If you leave now and say no more of this, I will let it pass."
"It pains me to have to bring you such news, Duke Haydon, but it is the truth. I swear it."
He took a deep breath that shook with rage and perhaps a touch of apprehension. Sidra wondered if others had come before her and told tales of evil against Bardolf. If so, they had been bullied into silence. Sidra would not be bullied. She did not want to believe that Haydon would simply kill her out of hand, but if that was the case, she would not die easily.
At last the duke said, "You will persist in this lie against my son?"
"It is not a lie, my lord."
"Jevik, have my son sent to me now." The guardsman half-ran from the room.
Gannon was back with his newly healed hands before Bardolf was escorted in.
Bardolf strode in just ahead of Jevik. He was short, with the soft lines of a man who has never done physical labor.
His sensual pouting mouth was set in a confident smile. He was dressed all in brown silk worked with black pearls. When he saw Sidra and Gannon, his smile vanished. Jevik led him in front of the duke, then stepped back, leaving Sidra, Gannon, and Bardolf in a semicircle around the throne.
Bardolf greeted his father first and then very correctly turned to Sidra and Gannon. "Sidra Ironfist and Gannon the Sorcerer. How good to see you again." He stared up at his father, eyes unreadable. "Father, what is this all about?"
Haydon sat very still upon his throne and kept his face blank. He was a noble and knew how to hide his emotions. He told his son of the accusations. Confusion, then anger crossed Bardolf's face. Sidra would almost have believed the act herself. Some people had a true talent for lying.
"Would you convict me of such a vile crime on the word of an information peddler?"
The Duke smiled. "No, B
ardolf, not on that alone. I want you to take an oath for me."
"Of course, Father."
"Swear by the birds of Loth and the hounds of Verm that you did not harm Milon Songsmith."
"I have never taken such an evil oath!"
"It is only evil if you have something to fear. Swear, Bardolf, swear to it."
"If you insist."
"I do."
"I swear by the birds of...I swear." He stared up at his father, a sort of pleading look upon his face.
Haydon's noble mask slipped, showing pain in his eyes.
"Swear." His voice held a note of begging.
"I cannot, Father."
"If you are innocent, the oath means nothing. You are guilty, then."
"I cannot take the oath you ask. Perhaps another to Mother Gia."
Haydon looked down at the floor and drew a deep breath. He seemed suddenly older than he had a moment before. "Only the oath to Loth and Verm is binding enough for this. Will you swear?"
"No, Father."
The duke's face seemed to crumble. The tears that threatened in his eyes were chased away by anger. The same anger he had been willing to use against Sidra, to protect his child, now turned against his son. "Why, Bardolf? Have I not shared my wealth with you?"
"Yes, Father."
"Then why?" He stood and walked the few steps to stand before his son--the son who could still look him in the eye and lie, even now.
Bardolf said, "You gave me crumbs from your table, Father. I wanted my own table. My own money. My own lands."
"I have given you all that and more."
Bardolf shook his head. "They are mine until I anger you. Then you take them away as a punishment, as if they were sweets and I were a child."
"There are honest ways to make money!"
"Not enough money."
"Not enough, not enough!" Haydon raised a hand as if to strike him. Bardolf cringed, throwing up a hand. The duke stepped back. Sidra watched the man gain control of himself. It was a painful thing to see. When he spoke again, his voice was soft and controlled. "Do you know the penalty in Meltaan for killing a bard?"
"Yes."
"You will be executed, and your blood money will do you no good."
"Father, even if I cured the bard and gave back the money, my client would see me dead."
"Who, who will see you dead? Who ordered such a vile deed?"
"I cannot say. As your son, I beg that you do not ask me again."
Duke Haydon said, "No! No son of mine would do such a thing." A soundless tear trailed down his face; his voice remained firm, but he cried.
Sidra looked away.
Bardolf's face showed fear. "Father?"
Haydon turned to Sidra. "Do with him as you see fit. Let all here be witness. Bardolf Lordson is no son of mine." Tears flowed in silver streaks down Haydon's cheeks. Everyone in the room was pretending not to see. Bardolf knelt before the lord, touching the hem of Haydon's robe. A tear trailed down his face. "Father, please. If I cure the bard, I will be killed."
Duke Haydon jerked his robe free of the man and left the room. All but two guards left with him. Sidra had wanted to call after the duke, but what could she say? "Thank you, Duke Haydon, for being just and law abiding"? The man had just signed the death warrant of his favorite son. "Thank you" did not even come close to covering that.
Bardolf stood slowly, rubbing his eyes. Sidra and Gannon moved to stand beside him. Bardolf tensed to run and found himself entangled in a spell. He could not move his arms or legs. Sidra said, "Nicely done, Gannon."
The sorcerer shrugged. "Healed hands do wonders for a person's magic."
Sidra stepped near him and asked, "Do you know what a blood blade is, Bardolf?"
The younger man's eyes flared wide, showing white. She could see the pulse in his neck jump.
Gannon hissed near his face, "Answer the question."
"Yes," he whispered.
Sidra said, "What is it?"
"An evil sword that can suck a man's soul." All the color had drained from his face.
She leaned against the cool marble throne and asked, "Have you heard the song 'Blade Quest'?"
Bardolf whispered, "Yes."
"I think Milon captured the essence of a blood blade in that song: dark, hungry, evil." Leech chuckled.
Sidra drew the sword. It gleamed in the torchlight. She said, "Leech, I want you to meet Bardolf the Curse-Maker."
The sword hissed, "Fresh blood, yumm."
Sweat beaded on Bardolf's face, but his words were brave. "You can't feed me to that thing."
"I think I can." She bent close to him, the naked blade quivering near his neck. She held it two-handed, not trusting it. She spoke low and close to his frightened eyes.
"The duke, your father, has decreed that I can do anything I want to you. Up to and including taking your soul."
"No, please."
"Gannon." Gannon unlaced Bardolf's sleeve and began to roll it upward. The skin was pale.
Leech crooned, "Blood, fresh blood, new blood."
The man struggled until sweat dripped down his face, but he could not move. Only his head was free to thrash from side to side.
"Please, please don't let it touch me."
"Tell us who hired you, agree to cure the bard, and you will live."
"I won't live. He'll kill me. Or have me killed."
"But he is not here, and I am. I'll kill you now."
Bardolf shook his head and closed his eyes. "Please, he'll kill me."
Leech hovered over the flesh and said, "Blood." Bardolf opened his eyes and watched the blade come closer to his arm. "No!" The point bit into his flesh and he screamed. Blood spurted out from a cut artery. Leech chortled in a rain of blood. Bardolf cried, "Lord Isham! Lord Isham hired me!"
Sidra didn't remove the sword but watched it lapping his blood.
"Get it away! Get it away!"
"Why would Lord Isham want Milon Songsmith dead?"
Bardolf swallowed, closing his eyes against the sight of the sword in his arm. He looked as if he might faint. When he finally spoke, his voice was as pale as his skin. "The song that Milon wrote about him. Lord Isham took insult."
Sidra asked, "'Lord Isham and the Goose Girl'?"
"Yes. Now, please, get that thing away from me."
Sidra drew Leech back from the wound, but it did not want to come. She fought the sword two-handed as it struggled and cursed. "Not enough, not enough. Fresh blood, not enough."
The sword was quivering, fighting against her, and she could not sheath it. Gannon said, "Sidra." He bared his arm.
She said, "No."
Leech stopped shrieking and began to wheedle, "Just a little more, a taste, fresh taste."
It was a very unhealthy habit to disappoint a blood blade.
Sidra held the blade carefully and said, "Gannon, I would not ask this."
"You did not ask. Do it. I have often been curious."
She laid the blade tip against his arm, and it bit deep into muscle. The wizard winced but stared as the blade wiggled in the wound like a nursing calf.
Sidra pulled Leech free of the wound, and the sword said, "Ah, good, yumm." Gannon ignored the sword and stared curiously at his wound as the edges knit together. Soon there was nothing but a whitish scar.
She sheathed the short sword and turned to Bardolf. "Are you willing to cure the bard now?"
Bardolf nodded weakly. "Anything you want. Just keep that sword away from me."
Leech chuckled.
Gannon stood on one side of him and Sidra on the other. Then Gannon released the spell hold, and Bardolf nearly fell. With Gannon steadying him against the dizziness, they teleported to the inn.
The three appeared in front of Milon's bed. His skin was gray, his eyes sunken and black-smudged. If he was breathing at all, Sidra could not tell it. The healer gasped.
Sidra's heart felt like lead in her chest. "Are we too late?"
The healer shook her head. "There is ti
me."
Sidra pushed Bardolf forward against the bed. "Cure him or the blood blade will taste your soul."
Bardolf half-fell to his knees beside the bed. He laid a hand on Milon's forehead and over his heart. The curse-maker's face went blank. It was the tranquility Sidra was accustomed to seeing on a healer's face. She found it strange for a curse-doer.
Milon took a deep, shuddering breath, then his chest rose and fell. Bardolf stood up, looking relieved. Gannon forced him to stand back from the bed.
The healer touched the bard's forehead. "The fever has broken; he sleeps. With a few days' rest, he will be well."
Sidra asked Gannon, "Can you take that one to the jail?"
"I think I can manage." Gannon placed a hand on Bardolf's forehead and spoke one strange syllable. The curse-maker's eyes went blank, and he followed obediently as Gannon moved to the door. He turned back and asked, "What of our feline friend?"
"Do as you think best."
Gannon smiled, a broad cheerful smile. "I will attend to it with pleasure." He left with Bardolf following behind.
Sidra knelt by the bed and smoothed the sweat-darkened hair from Milon's forehead. The healer moved a short distance away, giving them privacy. Sidra whispered to the bard, "I did not let you die."
Leech was singing softly in its sheath. The words came up faint and hollow. "Lord Isham went a-riding, a-riding, a-riding. On his great bay stallion he went riding over his land. First he met a milkmaid, a milkmaid..."
Sidra asked, "Leech, have you ever tasted the blood of a province lord?"
The sword stopped in midsong and whispered, "Never, but I hear they're quite tasty."
"We will be visiting Lord Isham."
Leech asked, "When?"
"Very soon." Sidra fought the urge to smile. One should never smile when contemplating another's death. The sword giggled, and Sidra found herself laughing with it. She saw the healer make the sign against evil. Sidra sighed. Evil had many faces. Some were just more obvious than others. She brushed her lips on Milon's forehead and whispered, "Very soon." She made it sound like a promise.
GEESE
This is the only story that I ever wrote through pure inspiration. My first apartment in the St. Louis area was on the edge of a lake. It had Canada geese on it. I took the trash out one night with the sunset spread across the sky and the geese settling down for the night. I stood there in the coming darkness, watching the geese, and the first line of the story came into my head. By the time I got back inside to the computer, the first paragraph was in my head. All I had to do was sit down and type fast enough to write the story. It was amazing, this rush of ideas, character, a whole story from beginning to end. I have never had this happen again. I've had moments of inspiration, but never so complete.