“Unknown,” Gannon said, “but we will find out.”
Sidra said, “Yes, we will find out.” There was something—in her voice, in the steel gray of her eyes—that was frightening.
The healer stepped away from the tall warrior woman. “You look like calm death, warrior.”
“Can you keep him alive until we return?”
“I will keep him alive, but be swift. There will come a point from which no one can bring him back.”
Sidra nodded. “Keep him alive, healer. He’s important to me.”
“That I knew when I saw your face, warrior.”
Sidra looked away from the healer’s wise face. She was uncomfortable that anyone could read her so easily. “Come, Gannon.” She was through the door and on the stairs before Gannon had time to move. He jogged to catch up with her. “Where do we begin?”
“Malhari.”
Malhari was a big, beefy man. The muscle of his mercenary days had run to softness but not to fat. He was still a formidable man. His black hair was close cropped, framing a nearly perfect roundness of face. His right arm ended abruptly a span above the wrist. A metal-studded leather sheath hid his stump. It had given the tavern its name: The One-Armed Man. His dark eyes caught them as they came down the stairs; no words were needed. He called one of the bar-lads over to pour drinks and motioned them into his office—small, neat, and orderly, the way Malhari had run campaigns years ago.
He eased his big frame into a chair and motioned them to sit. They remained standing. “What has happened to your bard, Sidra?”
“A death curse. He has only hours to live.”
Malhari’s eyes went wide. His fingers curved over the metal studs as another man might drum his fingers. “Why come to me?”
“Where in Selewin do you go for a death curse?”
“I go nowhere for such things. Curse-makers are unlucky, Sidra. You know that.”
She sat down across from him, hands spread on her legs. Gannon remained standing like a guard at her back. Sidra said, “You did not pay for that splendid house in the hills from this small inn. You are the person in Selewin to come to for information, for a price. Tell me what I need to know, Malhari. Do it for friendship or money; I don’t care which.”
“If I am what you say I am, and if I had your information, how much would it be worth to you?”
Sidra’s eyes narrowed, as if from pain. “Not friendship, then, but money.”
“You cannot spend friendship on a cold winter’s night.”
“I think you would be surprised what you can do with friendship, Malhari.” She did not wait for the puzzled look on his face to pass but threw a leather pouch on the desk. “Gold, Malhari, twenty-five pieces.”
“And,” he said.
Sidra hesitated.
“You would quibble over the life of your friend?”
Sidra pounded her fist into his desk twice—violent, painful, but it helped the anger. It kept her from drawing steel and slitting his throat. Her voice came low and soft, the whisper of steel through silk. “That is three times your usual pay.”
“This is a seller’s market, Sidra. Supply and demand.”
“Our friendship is no more, Malhari.”
“I know.”
“If Milon dies because of this delay, I will kill you.”
“You will try,” he said.
Sidra leaned toward him, and suddenly Malhari was staring at six inches of steel. The knife caressed his throat with no pain or blood, yet. He did not try to move, though he had several secreted blades of his own. He knew better than to try.
Sidra’s words came careful and neat, soft and angry. “You have grown soft, Malhari. In the old days, I could not have taken you without your at least clearing a blade of your own. I will kill you if I want to.”
He said nothing but felt the blade dig into his throat as he swallowed. “You have paid a fair price. The one you seek is Bardolf Lordson. I saw one of Bardolf’s lackeys talk to your bard tonight. Bardolf is powerful enough to have done the spell.”
Gannon cursed. “When we worked for Duke Haydon, I detected magic on Bardolf. I thought that it was not quite enough to warrant training as an herb-witch. But a curse-maker! It suits him.”
Sidra nodded. Bardolf had thought to bed a warrior. Sidra had broken his arm for the insult. Neither she nor Bardolf mentioned the incident to Duke Haydon.
“He is Duke Haydon’s favorite son, bastard or not. We cannot kill him after he has cured Milon. I will not risk everything we have worked for in one act of vengeance. If Milon dies, things are different. But our true purpose is to save the bard, not to get revenge.”
Gannon said, “Agreed. We save the minstrel. If the curse-maker just happens to perish,” he smiled, “well, that is an added bonus.”
Sidra smiled. “Even a duke’s son can have an accident.”
She bent close to Malhari’s face. “Tell me where he is.”
“You wish more information from me, Sidra? I am a businessman.”
“You are a fool,” Gannon said.
The blade tip bit into Malhari’s neck. Blood trickled down his throat. Sidra said nothing.
The innkeeper’s breath caught in his throat. “For you, Sidra. Bardolf has a house on Silk Street.” He stared into her eyes and saw death. “Take the money, Sidra. I give you this information freely.”
She smiled then. “No, Malhari. If it was a gift, then the bonds of friendship would constrain me. This way it is only money, and I owe you nothing.”
He tried not to swallow around the point of the knife. “I don’t want you to sell this information to anyone else,” Sidra said.
Malhari was having trouble talking. “I give you my word, I will not.”
“Your word means nothing. Gannon, if you please.”
“With great pleasure.” The sorcerer smiled. There was something of fearful anticipation in that smile.
Sidra stepped back from the man, quick and careful.
“Please, Sidra, I would not tell. I swear to you.”
Gannon made a broad sweeping gesture, hands upraised to the ceiling, and brought his hands down in a fast clap, pointed at the man.
Where Malhari had sat there was a large black tomcat missing one front paw. It yowled once and fell silent. Sidra had never seen horror on a cat’s face, but she saw it now.
Gannon said, “It is a permanent shapechange, Malhari, unless I remove it.” He knelt, eye level with the cat. “It is almost a curse, but not quite.”
The big cat just stared at them, yellow eyes dazed.
Sidra said, “Come, we haven’t much time.”
Precious minutes had passed before they stood in an alley that spilled into Silk Street. They were in a wealthy part of town. It was well known that Bardolf was the duke’s favorite son, and the grand house showed it. The wealthy could afford magical guardians, things that normal steel could not touch. Sidra’s long sword was such ordinary steel. The short sword was not.
Sidra unsnapped the locks on the hilt, and the short sword sprang to her hand, rising of its own accord. The sword said, “Ah, free.” Without moving, it gave the impression of catlike stretching.
“I may have work for you tonight,” Sidra told it.
The sword hissed, “Name me.”
“You who were Blood-Letter when the world was new. You who were Wound-Maker in the hands of a king. You who were Soul-Piercer and took the life of a hero. You who were Blood-Hunger and ate your way through an army. I name thee blade mine, I name thee Leech.” For every name the sword had taken, the legend had ended with the blood blade slaying its wielder.
The sword chortled, “I am Leech, Leech. I am the bloodsucker.” The sword’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Feed me.”
Sidra pressed the naked steel against her bare forearm.
The sword felt like any steel against her flesh. Gannon assured her that, once activated, Leech gave off an aura of evil. “Feed gently, Leech, for we have much work to do.”
There was always the chance that Leech would take too much and kill her. It had happened to others, great heroes. But the sword bit once into her arm. Blood poured in a sharp painful wash down her skin. The blade said, “Sacrifice made, contract assured.”
Sidra ignored the wound. It would heal in a moment or two to join the dozens of shallow white scars that crisscrossed her hands and arms. She did not bother to clean the blade. All blood was absorbed cleanly. It truly did feed.